“You lie, assassin!” cried St. Luc. “Bussy, full of wounds, his hands cut to pieces, a ball through his shoulder, and hanging suspended on the iron trellis-work, might have inspired pity in his most cruel enemies; they would have succored him. But you, the murderer of La Mole and of Coconnas, you killed Bussy, as you have killed, one after another, all your friends. You killed Bussy, not because he was the king’s enemy, but because he was the confidant of your secrets. Ah! Monsoreau knew well your reason for this crime.” “Cordieu!” cried Crillon, “why am I not king?” “They insult me before you, brother,” said the duke, pale with terror. “Leave us, Crillon,” said the king. The officer obeyed. “Justice, sire, justice!” cried St. Luc again. “Sire,” said the duke, “will you punish me for having served your majesty’s friends this morning?” “And I,” cried St. Luc, “I say that the cause which you espouse is accursed, and will be pursued by the anger of God. Sire, when your brother protects our friends, woe to them.” The king shuddered. Then they heard hasty steps and voices, followed by a deep silence; and then, as if a voice from heaven came to confirm St. Luc’s words, three blows were struck slowly and solemnly on the door by the vigorous arm of Crillon. Henri turned deadly pale. “Conquered,” cried he; “my poor friends!” “What did I tell you, sire?” cried St. Luc. “See how murder succeeds.” But the king saw nothing, heard nothing; he buried his face in his hands, and murmured. “Oh! my poor friends; who will tell me about them?” “I, sire,” said Chicot.--“Well!” cried Henri. “Two are dead, and the third is dying.” “Which is the third?”--“Quelus.” “Where is he?”--“At the Hôtel Boissy.” The king said no more, but rushed from the room. St. Luc had taken Diana home to his wife, and this had kept him from appearing sooner at the Louvre. Jeanne passed three days and nights watching her through the most frightful delirium. On the fourth day, Jeaune, overcome by fatigue, went to take a little rest: two hours after, when she returned, Diana was gone. Quelus died at the Hôtel Boissy, in the king’s arms, after lingering for thirty days. Henri was inconsolable. He raised three magnificent tombs for his friends, on which their effigies were sculptured, life-size, in marble. He had innumerable masses said for them, and prayed for their souls himself night and morning. For three months Chicot never left his master. In September, Chicot received the following letter, dated from the Priory of Beaume: