“I will be with the Queen-Mother at her rising,” said Sancerre, “and you, gentlemen, must see the Prince early to-morrow and arrange all. There must be no delays now. In case of accidents, you had better keep this signet for the present,” and he handed the ring to Marcilly. We left Sancerre at his house, and, the hour being late, pushed on at a round pace homeward. In a few minutes we were again in the Martroi, now to all appearance totally deserted, except by the watchmen keeping guard over the scaffoldings and wooden galleries that filled the square. Here and there they had lit fires, and were huddled around them, for the winter wind blew chill, though the night was clear as crystal and the moon was out. On the far side of the square, behind the huge scaffoldings, which almost hid the houses beyond them from view, there seemed to be a wakeful and merry party around the night fire, which splattered up redly there, casting its light on the tracery of the crossed beams and network of galleries above it. Some one was singing, but we could not catch the words of the song, though the chorus came to us distinctly: Bon jour! Ma Margoton! Bon jour! Belle mignonne! The cheery refrain jarred on our ears, coming as it did from almost under the spot where Condé was to die--where, if the plans of the Guise succeeded, not only would Condé die, but with him, as we thought, our France--the France that we loved so well. We were now almost opposite Cipierre’s house, where the wooden galleries in the square were but partly finished. It was here, as we slackened pace to approach the gates, that we saw a man, mounted on a white horse, emerge from the shadow of the scaffolding and come half out into the moonlight. Something in his air and manner made me feel that I knew him, and then a small, dark figure slipped from the saddle behind him and ran toward us. It was Majolais, as I live! “_Blitzen!_” swore one of the reiters, as he drew his sword and attempted to make a cut at the dwarf; but I struck the blade up, saying: “A friend! A friend! Here, Majolais!” The next moment the imp was at my side, and, thrusting a packet into my hand, was off again like a flash. “Stay! Stay!” called out both Cipierre and Marcilly, but the dwarf only laughed--that cackling, tongueless laugh of his--and sprang behind the saddle of the white horse, while its rider, turning its head on the instant, went off at a gallop. “Come back!” shouted Cipierre, and an answer came to us through the moonlight: “_Bon coq, Coqueville!_” And then we heard him going ding-dong down the deserted streets. CHAPTER XVII “LE PETIT HOMME TANT JOLI”