“ ‘Never mind,’ said the Queen. ‘Please God, no danger will come to her; but she must go to bed at once in order to raise no suspicions.’ But Claude still disputed with her, although I did not hear their words. The Queen again turned to me angrily and commanded me to go. My sister, continuing her sobs, bade me ‘good-night.’ I dared ask no questions. So, cold and trembling, without the least idea of what was the matter, I went to my rooms and to my closet, where I prayed to God to save me from I knew not what. The King, my husband, who had not come to bed, sent word to me to do so.” (They occupied the same room, she tells us, but separate beds.) “I could not close my eyes all night,” she adds; “thinking of my sister’s agitation, and sure that something dreadful was coming. Before daylight my husband got up. He came to my bed-side, kissed me, and said that he was going to play a game of rackets before the King was awake. He said he would have justice in the matter of the attempt on the Admiral’s life. Then he left the room. I, seeing the daylight, and overcome by sleep, told my nurse to shut the door, that I might rest longer.” This took place on Saturday evening, the 23d of August, being the eve of St. Bartholomew. CHAPTER XX. ST. BARTHOLOMEW. A signal sounded from the belfry of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois. It was answered by the great bell of the Palace of Justice on the opposite bank of the Seine. Catherine and her two sons, Charles IX. and the Duc d’Anjou, had risen long before daylight. Catherine dared not leave Charles to himself. He was suddenly grown nervous and irresolute. He might yet countermand everything. Within a small closet over the gate of the Louvre, facing the quays, the mother and her two sons stood huddled together. Charles was tallest of the three. The window was open; it was still dark; the streets were empty; not a sound was heard save the crashing of the bells. They listened to the wild clamour without; but not a word was spoken. Catherine felt Charles tremble. She clutched him tightly, and, dreading to hear the echo of her own voice, she whispered in his ear, “My son, God has given your enemies into your hands. Let them not escape you.” “_Mort de Dieu_, mother, do you take me for a coward?” whispered back Charles, still trembling. Suddenly a shot was fired on the Quays. The three conspirators started as if the weapon had been levelled against themselves.