“Monseigneur, I conclude that each king has his accident, and that you are the inevitable accident of Henri III., particularly if you are chief of the League.” “Then I am to accept?” “Oh! I beg you to do so.” “And you?” “Oh! be easy; my men are ready, and to-night Paris will be curious.” “What are they going to do in Paris to-night?” asked Henri. “Oh! how foolish you are, my friend; to-night they sign the League publicly.” “It is well,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “till this evening then.” “Yes, till this evening,” said Henri. “How!” said Chicot, “you will not risk going into the streets to-night?” “Yes, I shall.” “You are wrong, Henri; remember the accidents.” “Oh! I shall be well accompanied; will you come with me?” “What! do you take me for a Huguenot? I shall go and sign the League ten times. However, Henri, you have a great advantage over your predecessors, in being warned, for you know your brother, do you not?” “Yes, and, mordieu! before long he shall find it out.” CHAPTER XI. THE EVENING OF THE LEAGUE. Paris presented a fine sight, as through its then narrow streets thousands of people pressed towards the same point, for at eight o’clock in the evening, M. le Duc de Guise was to receive the signatures of the bourgeois to the League. A crowd of citizens, dressed in their best clothes, as for a fête, but fully armed, directed their steps towards the churches. What added to the noise and confusion was that large numbers of women, disdaining to stay at home on such a great day, had followed their husbands, and many had brought with them a whole batch of children. It was in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec that the crowd was the thickest. The streets were literally choked, and the crowd pressed tumultuously towards a bright light suspended below the sign of the Belle Etoile. On the threshold a man, with a cotton cap on his head and a naked sword in one hand and a register in the other, was crying out, “Come come, brave Catholics, enter the hotel of the Belle Etoile, where you will find good wine; come, to-night the good will be separated from the bad, and to-morrow morning the wheat will be known from the tares; come, gentlemen, you who can write, come and sign;--you who cannot write, come and tell your names to me, La Hurière; vive la messe!” A tall man elbowed his way through the crowd, and in letters half an inch high, wrote his name, ‘Chicot.’ Then, turning to La Hurière, he asked if he had not another register to sign. La Hurière did not understand raillery, and answered angrily. Chicot retorted, and a quarrel seemed approaching, when Chicot, feeling some one touch his arm, turned, and saw the king disguised as a simple bourgeois, and accompanied by Quelus and Maugiron, also disguised, and carrying an arquebuse on their shoulders. “What!” cried the king, “good Catholics disputing among themselves; par la mordieu, it is a bad example.”