The Duc d’Anjou followed in his ordinary dress, accompanied by his Angevins. Next came the principal courtiers, and then the bourgeois. It was one o’clock when they left the Louvre. Crillon and the French guards were about to follow, but the king signed to them to remain. It was near six in the evening before they arrived before the old abbey, where they saw the prior and the monks drawn up on the threshold to wait for his majesty. The Duc d’Anjou, a little before, had pleaded great fatigue, and had asked leave to retire to his hotel, which had been granted to him. His gentlemen had retired with him, as if to proclaim that they followed the duke and not the king, besides which, they did not wish to fatigue themselves before the morrow. At the door of the abbey the king dismissed his four favorites, that they also might take some repose. The archbishop also, who had eaten nothing since morning, was dropping with fatigue, so the king took pity on him and on the other priests and dismissed them all. Then, turning to the prior, Joseph Foulon, “Here I am, my father,” said he; “I come, sinner as I am, to seek repose in your solitude.” The prior bowed, and the royal penitent mounted the steps of the abbey, striking his breast at each step, and the door was immediately closed behind him. “We will first,” said the prior, “conduct your majesty into the crypt, which we have ornamented in our best manner to do honor to the King of heaven and earth.” No sooner had the king passed through the somber arcade, lined with monks, and turned the corner which led to the chapel, than twenty hoods were thrown into the air, and eyes were seen brilliant with joy and triumph. Certainly, they were not monkish or peaceful faces displayed, but bristling mustaches and embrowned skins, many scarred by wounds, and by the side of the proudest of all, who displayed the most celebrated scar, stood a woman covered with a frock, and looking triumphant and happy. This woman, shaking a pair of golden scissors which hung by her side, cried: “Ah! my brothers, at last we have the Valois!” “Ma foi, sister, I believe so.” “Not yet,” murmured the cardinal. “How so?” “Shall we have enough bourgeois guards to make head against Crillon and his guards?” “We have better than bourgeois guards; and, believe me, there will not be a musket-shot exchanged.” “How so?” said the duchess. “I should have liked a little disturbance.” “Well, sister, you will be deprived of it. When the king is taken he will cry out, but no one will answer; then, by persuasion or by violence, but without showing ourselves, we shall make him sign his abdication. The news will soon spread through the city, and dispose in our favor both the bourgeois and the troops.” “The plan is good, and cannot fail,” said the duchess. “It is rather brutal,” said the Duc de Guise; “besides which, the king will refuse to sign the abdication. He is brave, and will rather die.” “Let him die, then.”