come back very downcast with a carrot for his cabbage. It was this house of Maitre Pantin, it will be remembered, that had been recommended to me as a lodging by Palin, who told me of the owner's occupation, and when I demurred on account of my religious convictions, the Huguenot pointed out that I had to do things in Paris which required a safe retreat, and that he could vouch for the honesty and discretion of Pantin. I admitted that his arguments were reasonable, and resolved to take advantage of his recommendation. We rode into Paris by the St. Germain's gate, and I was immediately struck by the aspect of gloom that the city wore. Most of the shops were indeed open, but there appeared to be no business doing, and instead of men hurrying backwards and forwards, the streets were filled with groups of people evidently engaged in discussing some affair of the utmost moment. Every third or fourth man wore a black scarf over his right arm, and the bells of the churches were tolling dismally for the dead. From St. Germain des Pres, from St. Severin, from the airy spire of Ste. Chapelle, they called out mournfully, and above them all, drowning the distant voices of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, St. Jacques de la Boucherie, St. Antoine, and others less known to fame, pealed out the solemn notes of the Bourdon of Notre Dame. Near the Pre-aux-clercs, hundreds of long-robed students were assembled, and the windows of many of the great houses, including the Logis de Nevers, were hung with black. It was strange to see Paris, always so bright and gay, with this solemn air upon it. No notice was taken of us as we rode on, the knots of people merely moving aside to let us pass, and answering Jacques' cheerful 'good-day 'with a silent inclination of the head or a chill indifference. '_Pardieu_, monsieur,' exclaimed Jacques, as we turned up the Rue de la Harpe, hard by the Hotel de Cluny, 'one would think the King himself were dead, these gentry pull such long faces.' My servant's chance observation sent a sudden shock through me. What if Henry was dead! What if I had got only one thread of the plot that was weaving at Anet? I did not answer Jacques; but observing a Capuchin priest advancing in my direction, I reined in Couronne, and giving him the day, asked what it was that had befallen the city. He looked up at me in a slight surprise, and then, observing my travel-stained appearance, replied: 'I see you are a stranger, sir; but have you not heard the news--it should have gone far by this?' 'I have not, as you see--but what is it? Surely the King is not dead?' 'God forbid,' he answered, 'no, not the King; but she who in a few weeks would have been Queen of France.' 'The Duchesse de Beaufort?' 'Exactly.' 'I knew that; but you don't mean to say that the city is in mourning for the mistress of the King?'