“I will come and visit you in the night, St. Luc.” “Pray do not, sire, you will only disturb me,” and saluting the king, he went away. Chicot had already disappeared, and there only remained with the king the valets, who covered his face with a mask of fine cloth, plastered with the perfumed cream, in which were holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth; a cap of silk and silver fixed it on the forehead and ears. They next covered his arms with sleeves made of wadded silk, and then presented him with kid gloves, also greased inside. These mysteries of the royal toilet finished, they presented to him his soup in a golden cup. Then Henri said a prayer, a short one that night, and went to bed. When settled there, he ordered them to carry away the flowers, which were beginning to make the air sickly, and to open the window for a moment. Then the valet closed the doors and curtains, and called in Narcissus, the king’s favorite dog, who, jumping on the bed, settled himself at once on the king’s feet. The valet next put out the wax-lights, lowered the lamp, and went out softly. Already, more tranquil and nonchalant than the lazy monks of his kingdom in their fat abbeys, the King of France no longer remembered that there was a France.--He slept. Every noise was hushed, and one might have heard a bat fly in the somber corridors of the Louvre. CHAPTER VII. HOW, WITHOUT ANY ONE KNOWING WHY, THE KING WAS CONVERTED BEFORE THE NEXT DAY. Three hours passed thus. Suddenly, a terrible cry was heard, which came from the king’s room. All the lights in his room were out, and no sound was to be heard except this strange call of the king’s. For it was he who had cried. Soon was heard the noise of furniture falling, porcelain breaking, steps running about the room, and the barking of dogs-mingled with new cries. Almost instantly lights burned, swords shone in the galleries, and the heavy steps of the Guards were heard. “To arms!” cried all, “the king calls.” And the captain of the guard, the colonel of the Swiss, and some attendants, rushed into the king’s room with flambeaux. Near an overturned chair, broken cups, and disordered bed, stood Henri, looking terrified and grotesque in his night-dress. His right hand was extended, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and his left held his sword, which he had seized mechanically. He appeared dumb through terror, and all the spectators, not daring to break the silence, waited with the utmost anxiety. Then appeared, half dressed and wrapped in a large cloak, the young queen, Louise de Lorraine, blonde and gentle, who led the life of a saint upon earth, and who had been awakened by her husband’s cries. “Sire,” cried she, also trembling, “what is the matter? Mon Dieu! I heard your cries, and I came.” “It--it is nothing,” said the king, without moving his eyes, which seemed to be looking up the air for some form invisible to all but him. “But your majesty cried out; is your majesty suffering?” asked the queen.