It was in a small cabinet in the princely chateau of Fontainebleau, some eight days after the grand entertainment at the Louvre which we have before mentioned, that Henry the Second of France was seated, conversing with one of his most trusted servants and most faithful friends, the well-known Marechal de Vieilleville. The cabinet, the ceiling of which was of dark black oak, carved and ornamented with small stars of gold, was hung with rich but very ancient tapestry, still beautiful, though the colours had faded in the passing of years. The dark green which formed the principal hue was no longer enlivened by the gorgeous red and yellow draperies which had once ornamented the principal figures, and a dim and melancholy hue pervaded the room, to which the fact of the light passing through some leafy trees without did not a little contribute. It was not, however, the peculiar colouring of the hangings, nor the light passing through the green trees, that gave an unusual paleness to the countenance of the king, as, laying down the pen with which he had been writing, he gazed up in the face of Vieilleville, "What is it you tell me, marechal?" he said. "Dead? Crushed under one of the towers of the castle? The very best and most promising soldier France could produce! The dear friend of Brissac--lauded even by Montmorency! Heaven and earth! Did you say he was returned, this Lord of Masseran? Send for him instantly. Let a messenger be despatched to the capital at once. By my crown, if I thought that he had any hand in this, I would have his head off in the court before tomorrow's sun set. Send off a messenger for him, I say!" "Sire, he is even now in the palace," replied the marechal. "It was seeing him pass along the court, in order to crave an audience, that made me intrude upon your majesty just now. I heard this sad business last night by a letter from Brissac; but I would not tell your majesty, lest it should spoil your rest after so bustling a day." "What, you are one of those, Vieilleville, are you," said the king, with a slight smile, "who can believe that the death of a faithful subject may chase slumber from even a royal pillow? However, these despatches must be written. Leave me for an hour, and then bring hither this Lord of Masseran. Keep a good eye upon him, for he is as deceitful as a cat: but he shall find that I am not to be trifled with." "I will venture to beseech you, sire," said the statesman, "in all that you do with this man, to recollect that he is himself a sovereign prince; for, were you to forget it, the example might be dangerous."