away, and the mob was cowed at last by the exemplary punishment of a coster-monger, who was hanged from the window of a house he had just plundered. A report from the Provost of the Trades to the king shows the condition of the capital in the winter of 1571: “After curfew, there is much stabbing in the streets. A great number of dead bodies have been fished up at St. Cloud, or found on the river-bank near Chaillot.... In consequence of this hugonotry, trade is almost dead, manufacturers are frightened away by our divisions, and cross the mountains to settle in Italy. The Catholics want to have an end of it.... Would your majesty but reflect; your crown is endangered, Paris alone can save it.” But Charles knew the Parisians well, and desired to have his crown upheld by trustier supporters than the unruly populace of the capital. Before the end of the year, Coligny paid another visit to Blois, when the war in Flanders and the marriage of the Prince of Bearn became once more the chief subjects of deliberation. It is not necessary to trace the proceedings day by day. The admiral’s arguments were very cogent, but the most pressing matter was the marriage. On this subject Coligny wrote to the Queen of Navarre, praying her not to oppose a union wherein the Reformed would have the advantage. “It will be,” he said, “a seal of friendship with the king; and the greatest mistake you can fall into will be to show suspicion.” The king too was very earnest in the matter. “I have made up my mind,” he said to one of Joan’s agents, “to give my sister to my good brother Henry; for by this means I hope to marry the two religions.” When it was again objected that the proposal could hardly be regarded as sincere, so long as the Guises continued about the court: “They are my subjects,” Charles replied, “and I will make them conform to my behests.” Catherine wrote to the Queen of Navarre: “I pray you gratify the extreme desire we have to see you among us. You will be loved and honored as you deserve to be.” Biron was the bearer of this letter, and Joan gave way at last. In the month of February she started for Blois, and, traveling slowly, reached that city early in March.[502] The king gave her a hearty welcome, calling her “his dear good aunt, his best beloved, his darling,” and so on, just as he had been wont to do in earlier days. He kept by her side, and was so demonstrative in his marks of affection, that, according to the gossiping chronicler, “every one was astonished.” In the evening, after Joan had retired, Charles turned to Catherine laughing, and said: “Now, mother, confess that I play my little part well.”--“Yes, you play it well enough, but you must keep it up.”--“Trust me for that,” said the king; “you shall see how I will lead them on.”[503] Many of these stories are nothing but idle street gossip, and some of them, in which we may include the one before us, were invented in after years to support the theory of a long-premeditated plot.