“Corbleu!” cried Gorenflot, “I hated you before, Valois, but now I despise you! Sign, or you shall perish by my hand!” “Have patience,” said the king; “let me pray to my divine Master for resignation.” “He wishes to reflect again,” said Gorenflot. “Give him till midnight,” said the cardinal. “Thanks, charitable Christian!” cried the king: “His brain is weak,” said the duke; “we serve France by dethroning him.” “I shall have great pleasure in clipping him!” said the duchess. Suddenly a noise was heard outside, and soon they distinguished blows struck on the door of the abbey, and Mayenne went to see what it was. “My brothers,” said he, “there is a troop of armed men outside.” “They have come to seek him,” said the duchess. “The more reason that he should sign quickly.” “Sign, Valois, sign!” roared Gorenflot. “You gave me till midnight,” said the king, piteously. “Ah! you hoped to be rescued.” “He shall die if he does not sign!” cried the duchess. Gorenflot offered him the pen. The noise outside redoubled. “A new troop!” cried a monk; “they are surrounding the abbey!” “The Swiss,” cried Foulon, “are advancing on the right!” “Well, we will defend ourselves; with such a hostage in our hands, we need not surrender.” “He has signed!” cried Gorenflot, tearing the paper from Henri, who buried his face in his hands. “Then you are king!” cried the cardinal to the duke; “take the precious paper.” The king overturned the little lamp which alone lighted the scene, but the duke already held the parchment. “What shall we do?” said a monk. “Here is Crillon, with his guards, threatening to break in the doors!” “In the king’s name!” cried the powerful voice of Crillon. “There is no king!” cried Gorenflot through the window. “Who says that?” cried Crillon. “I! I!” “Break in the doors, Monsieur Crillon!” said, from outside, a voice which made the hair of all the monks, real and pretended, stand on end. “Yes, sire,” replied Crillon, giving a tremendous blow with a hatchet on the door. “What do you want?” said the prior, going to the window. “Ah! it is you, M. Foulon,” replied the same voice, “I want my jester, who is in one of your cells. I want Chicot, I am ennuyé at the Louvre.” “And I have been much amused, my son,” said Chicot, throwing off his hood, and pushing his way through the crowd of monks, who recoiled, with a cry of terror. At this moment the Duc de Guise, advancing to a lamp, read the signature obtained with so much labor. It was “Chicot I.” “Chicot!” cried he; “thousand devils!” “Let us fly!” said the cardinal, “we are lost.” “Ah!” cried Chicot, turning to Gorenflot, who was nearly fainting, and he began to strike him with the cord he had round his waist. CHAPTER LXXXIX. INTEREST AND CAPITAL.