The Galerie de Cerfs, into which Carnavalet took us, was all that remained in the modern Chateau of the old hunting-lodge and fortress of the Kings of France, and, despite the trophies of the chase and tapestries that hung to its walls, it still retained the grim and forbidding aspect of the past. It was used as an ante-room, not only to the King's apartments but to the council chamber, and was crowded when we entered. Placing us near a pillar Carnavalet bade us wait until he returned, and threading his way through the press passed through a door at the extreme end of the gallery that led to the private apartments of the King. Many and curious were the glances cast at us as we stood there, dust-begrimed and travel-stained; and a number of those whom we had put off in the early morning swarmed round us again with their endless questions, which we were hard pressed to parry. Almost beside us was another door, opening into the council chamber, and interest seemed to be divided between us and what was passing there. It was clear that something of importance was in the air, for secretaries came out and went in with quick, rapid steps, and bundles of documents under their arms, and every now and again a messenger would hurry forth, and we could hear the clattering of his horse's hoofs as he galloped away. De Lorges, the captain of the Archer Guard, joined us just as one of the express riders hurried past. "I wager a hundred pistoles against a flask of Joue that means an end of the Spanish peace," he said, with a laugh, and rubbing his hands together. "I am sick of these rusting times. They say that Coligny has attacked Douai already. Ah! here he comes!" He turned as he spoke towards the entrance of the gallery, and at once the subdued hum of voices stilled to silence, and the crowd of gaily clad courtiers parted, making way with low bows for someone who had just entered. For a second I thought it was the King himself; but a look showed me not the King but the stern figure of the Constable of France. Montmorenci walked up the gallery, glancing to the right and left of him from under his bushy white brows, now and then returning a salutation. He was in complete mail, all except his helmet, which was borne by a page behind him, and his sinister appearance accorded well with his terrible fame. He was of middle height, with broad and prominent shoulders, and hair as white as snow. His face, tanned to a dark brown by constant exposure, was stern, and yet sad, with fierce, bloodshot eyes set far back in his head, and the grimness of his countenance was enhanced by the two projecting teeth which stuck out from his lower jaw like a boar's tusks. He came forward slowly, bearing himself with princely dignity, and when he got near to us he stopped, and addressing Lorgnac, whom he knew, inquired: "From Douai?" "No, monseigneur; from Paris."