As for the king, he gave constant lessons in fencing to his friends, teaching them new thrusts, and, above all, exercising D’Epernon, to whom fate had given so skilful an adversary, that he was visibly preoccupied by it. Any one walking in the streets of Paris at certain hours, might have met the strange monks, of whom our first chapters furnished some description, and who resembled troopers more than monks. Then, to complete the picture, we must add that the Hôtel de Guise had become at once mysterious and turbulent, the most peopled within and the most deserted without that can be imagined; that meetings were held every night in the great hall, and with all the blinds and windows hermetically closed, and that these meetings were preceded by dinners, to which none but men were invited, and which were presided over by Madame de Montpensier. Of all these meetings, however, important though they were, the police suspected nothing. On the morning of the great day, the weather was superb, and the flowers which filled the streets sent their perfumes through the air. Chicot, who for the last fortnight had slept in the king’s room, woke him early; no one had yet entered the royal chamber. “Oh, Chicot!” cried the king, “you have woke me from one of the sweetest dreams I ever had in my life.” “What was it, my son?” “I dreamed that Quelus had run Antragues through the body, and was swimming in the blood of his adversary. Let us go and pray that my dream may be realized. Call, Chicot, call.” “What do you want?” “My hair-cloth and my scourge.” “Would you not prefer a good breakfast?” “Pagan, would you go to hear mass on the Fête Dieu with a full stomach?” “Even so.” “Call, Chicot.” “Patience; it is scarcely eight o’clock, and you will have plenty of time to scourge yourself. Let us talk first. Converse with your friend; you will not repent it, Valois, on the faith of a Chicot.” “Well, talk; but be quick.” “How shall we divide our day, my son?” “Into three parts.” “In honor of the Trinity; very well, let me hear these three parts.” “First, mass at St. Germain l’Auxerrois.” “Well?” “Return to the Louvre, for a collation.” “Very good.” “Then, a procession of penitents through the streets, stopping at the principal convente of Paris, beginning at the Jacobine and finishing at St. Geneviève, where I have promised the prior to stay till to-morrow in the cell of a saint, who will pray for the success of our arms.” “I know him.” “The saint?” “Yes, perfectly.” “So much the better; you shall accompany me, and we will pray together.” “Yes; make yourself easy.” “Then dress yourself, and come.” “Wait a little.” “What for?” “I have more to ask.” “Be quick, then, for time passes.” “What is the court to do?” “Follow me.” “And your brother?” “Will accompany me.” “Your guard?” “The French guard wait for me at the Louvre, and the Swiss at the door of the Abbey.” “That will do; now I know all.” “Then I may call?” “Yes.”