II.

When the clerk went upstairs, again, he heard voices in the back room.

Felix and Marie were in consultation. The girl was a different being

this morning. The fire and fury of the night had sunk to a still

misery: and even to her it seemed over dangerous to stay in the house

and confront the rage of the mob. Mayenne might not after all return

yet: and in that case the Sixteen would assuredly wreak their spite on

all, however young or helpless, who might have had to do with the

removal of the body. "You must seek shelter with some friend," Felix

proposed, "before the city is astir. I can go to the University. I

shall be safe there."

"Could you not take us with you?" Marie suggested meekly.

He shook his head, his face flushing. It was hard to confess that he

had power to destroy, but none to protect. "You had better go to

Nicholas Toussaint's," he said. "He will take you in, though he will

have nothing to do with me."

Marie assented with a sigh, and rose to make ready. Some few valuables

were hidden or secured, some clothes taken; and then the little party

of four passed out into the street, leaving but one solemn tenant in

their home. The cold light of a November morning gave to the lane an

air even in accustomed eyes of squalor and misery. The kennel running

down the middle was choked with nastiness, while here and there the

upper stories leaned forward so far as to obscure the light.

The fugitives regarded these things little after the first shivering

glance, but hurried on their road; Felix with his sword, and Adrian

with his club marching on either side of the girls. A skulking dog got

out of their way. The song of a belated reveller made them shrink

under an arch. But they fell in with nothing more formidable until

they came to the high wooden gates of the courtyard in front of

Nicholas Toussaint's house.

To arouse him or his servants, however, without disturbing the

neighborhood was another matter. There was no bell; only a heavy iron

clapper. Adrian tried this cautiously, with little hope of being

heard. But to his joy the hollow sound had scarcely ceased when

footsteps were heard crossing the court, and a small trap in one of

the gates was opened. An elderly man with high cheek bones and curly

gray hair looked out. His eyes lighting on the girls lost their

harshness. "Marie Portail!" he exclaimed. "Ah! poor thing, I pity you.

I have heard all. I only returned to the city last night or I should

have been with you. And Adrian?"

"We have come," said the young man respectfully, "to beg shelter for

Mistress Marie and her sister. It is no longer safe for them to remain

in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec."

"I can well believe it," cried Toussaint vigorously. "I do not know

where we are safe nowadays. But there," he added in a different tone,

"no doubt the Sixteen are acting for the best."

"You will take them in then?" said Adrian, with gratitude.

But to his astonishment the citizen shook his head, while an awkward

embarrassment twisted his features. "It is impossible!" he said

reluctantly.

Adrian doubted if he had heard aright. Nicholas Toussaint was known

for a bold man; one whom the Sixteen disliked, and even suspected of

Huguenot leanings, but had not yet dared to attack. He was a dealer in

Norman horses, and this both led him to employ many men, reckless

daring fellows, and made him in some degree necessary to the army.

Adrian had never doubted that he would shelter the daughter of his old

friend; and his surprise on receiving this rebuff was extreme.

"But, Monsieur Toussaint--" he urged--and his face reddened with

generous warmth as he stood forward. "My master is dead! Foully

murdered! He lies who says otherwise, though he be of the Sixteen! My

mistress has few friends now to protect her, and those of small power.

Will you send her and the child from your door?"

"Hush, Adrian," cried the girl, lifting her head proudly, yet laying

her hand on the clerk's sleeve with a tender touch of acknowledgment

that brought the blood in redoubled force to his cheeks. "Do not press

our friend overmuch. If he will not take us in from the streets, be

sure he has some good reason to offer."

But Toussaint was dumb. Shame--a shame augmented tenfold by the

clerk's fearlessness--was so clearly written on his face, that Adrian

uttered none of the reproaches which hung on his lips. It was Felix

who came forward, and said contemptuously, "So you have grown

strangely cautious of a sudden, M. Toussaint?"

"Ha! I thought you were there, or thereabouts!" replied the

horse-dealer, regaining his composure at once, and eyeing him with

strong disfavor.

"But Felix and I," interposed Adrian eagerly, "will fend for

ourselves."

Toussaint shook his head. "It is impossible," he said surlily.

"Then hear me!" cried Felix with excitement. "You do not deceive me.

It is not because of your daughter that you have forbidden me the

house, and will not now protect my sister! It is because we shall

learn too much. You have those under your roof, whom the crows shall

pick yet! You, I will spare for Madeline's sake; but your spies I will

string up, every one of them by----" and he swore a frightful oath

such as the Romanists used.

Toussaint's face betrayed both fear and anger. For an instant he

seemed to hesitate. Then exclaiming "Begone, parricide! You would have

killed your own father!" he slammed the trap-door, and was heard

retreating up the yard with a clatter, which sufficiently indicated

his uneasiness.

The four looked at one another. Daylight had fully come. The noise of

the altercation had drawn more than one sleepy face to neighboring

casements. In a short time the streets would be alive with people, and

even a delay of a few minutes might bring immediate danger. They

thought of this; and moved away slowly and reluctantly, Susanne

clinging to Adrian's arm, while Felix strode ahead scowling. When they

had placed, however, a hundred yards or so between themselves and

Toussaint's gates, they stopped, a chill sense of desolation upon most

of them. Whither were they to go? Felix urged curtly that they should

seek other friends. But Marie declined. If Nicholas Toussaint dared

not take them in, no other of their friends would. She had given up

hope, poor girl, and longed only to get back to their home, and the

still form, which it now seemed to her she should never have deserted.

They were standing discussing this when a cry caused them to turn. A

girl was running hatless along the street towards them; a girl tall

and plump of figure in a dark blue robe, with a creamy slightly

freckled face, a glory of wavy golden hair about it, and great gray

eyes that could laugh and cry at once, even as they were doing now.

"Oh, Marie," she exclaimed taking her in her arms; "my poor little

one! Come back! You are to come back at once!" Then disengaging

herself, with a blushing cheek and more reserve she allowed Felix to

embrace her. But though that young gentleman made full use of his

permission, his face did not clear. "Your father has just turned my

sister from his door, as he turned me a month ago," he said bitterly.

Poor girl, she quailed; looking at him with a tender upward glance

meant for him only. "Hush!" she begged him. "Do not speak so of him.

And he has sent to fetch them back again. He says he cannot keep them

himself, but if they will come in and rest he will see them safely

disposed of later. Will not that do?"

"Excellently, Miss Madeline," cried Adrian gratefully. "And we thank

your father a thousand times."

"Nay but--" she said slyly--"that permission does not extend to you,"

"What matter?" he said stoutly.

"What matter if Marie be safe you mean," she replied demurely. "Well,

I would I had so gallant a--clerk," with a glance at her own handsome

lover. "But come, my father is waiting at the gate for us." Yet

notwithstanding that she urged haste, she and Felix were the last to

turn. When she at length ran after the others her cheeks betrayed her.

"I can see what you have been doing, girl," her father cried angrily,

meeting her just within the door. "For shame, hussy! Go to your room,

and take your friends with you." And he aimed a light blow at her,

which she easily evaded.

"They will need breakfast," she persisted bravely. She had seen her

lover, and though the interview might have had its drawbacks--best

known to herself--she cared little for a blow in comparison with that.

"They will take it in your room," he retorted. "Come, pack, girl! I

will talk to you presently," he added, with meaning.

The Portails drew her away. To them her room was a haven of rest,

where they felt safe, and could pour out their grief, and let her pity

and indignation soothe them. The horror of the last twenty-four hours

fell from them. They seemed to themselves to be outcasts no longer.

In the afternoon Toussaint reappeared. "On with your hoods," he cried

briskly, his good humor re-established. "I and half a dozen stout lads

will see you to a place where you can lie snug for a week."

Marie asked timidly about her father's funeral. "I will see to it,

little one," he answered. "I will let the curate of St. Germain know.

He will do what is seemly--if the mob let him," he added to himself.

"But father," cried Madeline, "where are you going to take them?"

"To Philip Boyer's."

"What!" cried the girl in much surprise. "His house is small and

Philip and his wife are old and feeble."

"True," answered Portail. "But his hutch is under the Duchess's roof.

There is a touch of _our great man_ about Madame. Mayenne the crowd

neither overmuch love, nor much fear. He will die in his bed. But with

his sister it is a word and a blow. And the Sixteen will not touch

aught that is under her roof."

The Duchess de Montpensier was the sister of Henry Duke of Guise,

Henry the Scarred, _Our great man_, as the Parisians loved to call

him. He had been assassinated in the antechamber of Henry of Valois

just a twelvemonth before this time; and she had become the soul of

the League, having more of the headstrong nature which had made him

popular, than had either of his brothers, Mayenne or D'Aumale.

"I see," said Madeline, kissing the girls, "you are right, father."

"Impertinent baggage!" he cried. "To your prayers and your needle. And

see that while we are away you keep close, and do not venture into the

courtyard."

She was not a nervous girl, but the bare, roomy house seemed lonely

after the party had set out. She wandered to the kitchen where the two

old women-servants were preparing, with the aid of a turnspit, the

early supper; and learned here that only old Simon, the lame ostler,

was left in the stables, which stood on either side of the courtyard.

This was not reassuring news: the more as Madeline knew her father

might not return for another hour. She took refuge at last in the long

eating-room on the first floor; which ran the full depth of the house,

and had one window looking to the back as well as several facing the

courtyard. Here she opened the door of the stove, and let the cheery

glow play about her.

But presently she grew tired of this, and moved to the rearward

window. It looked upon a narrow lane, and a dead wall. Still, there

was a chance of seeing some one pass, some stranger; whereas the

windows which looked on the empty courtyard were no windows at all--to

Madeline.

The girl had not long looked out before her pale complexion, which the

fire had scarcely warmed, grew hot. She started, and looked into the

room behind her nervously: then looked out again. She had seen

standing in a nook of the wall opposite her, a figure she knew well.

It was that of her lover, and he seemed to be watching the house.

Timidly she waved her hand to him, and he, after looking up and down

the lane, advanced to the window. He could do this safely, for it was

the only window in the Toussaints' house which looked that way.

"Are you alone?" he asked softly, looking up at her.

She nodded.

"And my sisters?" he continued.

"Have gone to Philip Boyer's. He lives in one of the cottages on the

left of the Duchess's yard."

"Ah! And you? Where is your father, Madeline?" he murmured.

"He has gone to take them. I am quite alone; and two minutes ago I was

melancholy," she added, with a smile that should have made him happy.

"I want to talk to you," he replied gravely. "May I get up if I can,

Madeline?"

She shook her head, which of course meant no. And she said, "It is

impossible." But she still smiled.

There was a pipe which ran up the wall a couple of feet or so on one

side of the casement. Before she well understood his purpose, or that

he was in earnest he had gripped this and was halfway up to the

window.

"Oh, do take care," she cried. "Do not come, Felix. My father will be

so angry!" Woman-like she repented now, when it was too late. But

still he came on, and when his hand was stretched out to grasp the

sill, all her fear was only lest he should fall. She seized his wrist,

and helped him in. Then she drew back. "You should not have done it,

Felix," she said severely.

"But I wanted to see you so much, Madeline," he urged, "and the

glimpse I had of you this morning was nothing."

"Well then, you may come to the stove and warm yourself, sir. Oh! how

cold your poor hands are, my boy! But you must not stay."

But stolen moments are sweet and apt to be long drawn out. She had a

great deal to say, and he had a great deal, it seemed, to ask--so much

to ask indeed, that gradually a dim sense that he was thinking of

other things than herself--of her father and the ways of the house,

and what guests they had, came over her.

It chilled her to the heart. She drew away from him, and said,

suddenly, "Oh, Felix!" and looked at him.

Nothing more. But he understood her and colored; and tried to ask, but

asked awkwardly, "What is the matter, dearest?"

"I know what you are thinking of," she said with grave sorrow, "Oh! it

is too bad! It is base of you, cruel! You would use even me whom you

love to ruin my friends!"

"Hush!" he answered, letting his gloomy passion have vent for the

moment, "they are not your friends, Madeline. See what they have done

for me. It is they, or the troubles they have set on foot, that have

killed my father!" And he swore solemnly--carried away by his mistaken

resentment--never again to spare a Huguenot save her father and one

other.

She trembled and tried to close her ears. Her father had told her a

hundred times that she could not be happy with a husband divided from

her by a gulf so impassable. She had said to him that it was too late.

She knew it. She had given Felix her heart and she was a woman. She

could not take it back, though she knew that nothing but unhappiness

could come of it.

"God forgive you!" she moaned in that moment of strained insight; and

sank in her chair as though she would weep.

He fell on his knees by her with a hundred words of endearment, for he

had conquered himself again. And she let him soothe her. She had never

loved him more than now, when she knew the price she must pay for him.

She closed her eyes--for the moment--to that terrible future, and he

was holding her in his arms, when without warning a heavy footstep

rang on the stairs by the door.

They sprang apart. If even then he had had presence of mind, he might

have reached the window. But he hesitated, looking in her startled

eyes. "Is it your father?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "He cannot have returned. We should have heard the

gates opened. There is no one in the house," she murmured faintly.

But still the footsteps came on: and stopped at the door. Felix looked

round in despair. Close beside him, and just behind the stove was the

door of a closet. He took two strides, and before he or she had

thought of the consequences, was within it. Softly he drew the door to

again; and she sank terrified on a chair, as the door of the room

opened.

He who came in was a man of thirty-five, a stranger to her. A man with

a projecting chin. His keen gray eyes wore at the moment of his

entrance an impatient expression, but when he caught sight of her,

this passed away. He came across the floor smiling. "Pardon me," he

said--but said it as if no pardon were needed, "I found the stables

insupportably dull. I set out on a voyage of discovery. I have found

my America!" And he bowed in a style which puzzled the frightened

girl.

"You want to see my father?"' she said tremulously. "He----"

"Has gone to the Duchess's. I know it. And very ill-natured it was of

him to leave me in the stable, instead of intrusting me to your care,

mistress. La Noue," he continued, "is in the stable still, asleep on a

bundle of hay, and a pretty commotion there will be when he finds I

have stolen away!"

Laughing with an easy carelessness that struck the citizen's daughter

with fresh astonishment, the stranger drew up the big armchair, which

was commonly held sacred to M. Toussaint's use, and threw himself into

it; lazily disposing his booted feet in the glow which poured from the

stove, and looking across at his companion with open and somewhat bold

admiration in his eyes. At another time she might have been offended:

or she might not. Women are variable. Now her fears lest Felix should

be discovered dulled her apprehension.

Yet the name of La Noue had caught her ear. She knew it well, as all

France and the Low Countries knew it in those days, for the name of

the boldest and staunchest warrior on the Huguenot side.

"La Noue?" she murmured, misty suspicions beginning to take form in

her mind.

"Yes, pretty one," replied he laughing. "La Noue and no other. Does

Bras-de-fer pass for an ogre here in Paris that you tremble so at his

name? Let me----"

But whatever the proposition he was going to offer, it came to

nothing. The dull clash of the gates outside warned both of them that

Nicholas Toussaint and his party had returned. A moment later a hasty

tread sounded on the stairs; and an elderly man wearing a cloak burst

in upon them.

His eyes swept the room while his hand still held the door, and it was

clear that what he saw did not please him. He came forward stiffly,

his brows knitted. But he said nothing; seeming uncertain and

embarrassed.

"See!" the first comer said, looking quietly up at him, but not

offering to move. "Now what do you think of your ogre? And by the

rood, he looks fierce enough to eat babes! There, old friend," he

continued speaking to the elder man in a different tone, "spare your

lecture. This is Toussaint's daughter, and as staunch I will warrant

as her father."

The old noble--he had but one arm she saw--still looked at her with

disfavor. "Girls have sweethearts, sire," he said shrewdly.

For a moment the room seemed to go round with her. Though something

more of reproach and playful defence passed between the two men, she

did not hear it. The consciousness that her lover was listening to

every word and that from this moment La Noue's life was in his hands,

numbed her brain. She sat helpless, hardly aware that half a dozen men

were entering, her father one of them. When a lamp was called for--it

was growing dark--she did not stir: and Toussaint, not seeing her,

fetched it himself.

But by the time he came back she had partly recovered herself. She

noted that he locked the door carefully behind him. When the lamp was

set on the table, and its light fell on the harsh features of the men,

a ray passed between them, and struck her pale face. Her father saw

her.

"By heaven!" he cried furiously. "What does the wench here?" No one

answered; but all turned and looked at her where she cowered back

against the stove. "Go, girl!" Toussaint cried, beside himself with

passion. "Begone! and presently I will----"

"Nay, stop!" interposed La Noue. "Your daughter knows too much. We

cannot let her go thus."

"Knows too much? How?" and the citizen tossed his head like a bull

balked in his charge.

"His majesty----"

"Nay, let his majesty speak for himself--for once," said the man with

the gray eyes--and even in her terror and confusion Madeline saw that

all turned to him with a single movement. "Mistress Toussaint did but

chat with La Noue and myself, during her father's absence. But she

knows us; or one of us. If any be to blame it is I. Let her stay. I

will answer for her fidelity."

"Nay, but she is a woman, sire," some one objected.

"Ay, she is, good Poulain," and he turned to the speaker with a

singularly bright smile. "So we are safe, for there is no woman in

France would betray Henry of Bourbon!"

A laugh went round. Some one mentioned the Duchess.

"True!" said Henry, for Henry it was, he whom the Leaguers called the

Bearnais and the Politiques the King of Navarre, but whom later

generations have crowned as the first of French kings--Henry the

Great. "True! I had forgotten her. I must beware of her gold scissors.

We have two crowns already, and want not another of her making. But

come, let us to business without ceremony. Be seated, gentlemen; and

while we consider whether our plans hold good, Mistress Toussaint--"

he paused to look kindly at the terrified girl--"will play the sentry

for us."

Madeline's presence within a few feet of their council-board was soon

forgotten by the eager men sitting about it. And in a sense she forgot

them. She heard, it is true, their hopes and plans, the chief a scheme

to surprise Paris by introducing men hidden in carts piled with hay.

She heard how Henry and La Noue had entered, and who had brought them

in, and how it was proposed to smuggle them out again; and many

details of men and means and horses; who were loyal and who

disaffected, and who might be bought over, and at what price. She even

took note of the manner of each speaker as he leaned forward, and

brought his face within the circle of light, marking who were known to

her before, substantial citizens these, constant at mass and market,

and who were strangers; men fiercer-looking, thinner, haughtier, more

restless, with the stamp of constant peril at the corners of their

eyes, and swords some inches longer than their neighbors'.

She saw and heard this and reasoned dully on it. But all the time her

mind was paralyzed by a dreadful sense of some great evil awaiting

her, something with which she must presently come face to face, though

her faculties had not grasped it yet. Men's lives! Ah, yes, men's

lives! The girl had been bred in secret as a Huguenot. She had been

taught to revere the great men of the religion, and not the weakness

of the cause, not even her lover's influence had sapped her loyalty to

it.

Presently there was a stir about the table. The men rose. "Then that

arrangement meets your views, sire," said La Noue.

"Perfectly. I sleep to-night at my good friend Mazeau's," the king

answered, "and leave to-morrow about noon by St. Martin's gate. Yes,

let that stand."

He did not see--none of them saw--how the girl in the shadow by the

stove started; nor did they mark how the last trace of color fled from

her cheeks. Madeline was face to face with her fate, and knew that her

own hand must work it out. The men were separating. Henry bade

farewell to one and another, until only three or four beside Toussaint

and La Noue remained with him. Then he prepared himself to go, and

girt on his sword, talking earnestly the while. Still engaged in low

converse with one of the strangers, he walked slowly lighted by his

host to the door, forgetting to take leave of the girl. In another

minute he and they would have disappeared in the passage, when a

hoarse cry escaped from Madeline's lips.

It was little more than a gasp, but it was enough for men whose nerves

were strained. All--at the moment they had their backs to her, their

faces to the king--turned swiftly. "Ha!" cried Henry at once, "I had

forgotten my manners. I was leaving my most faithful sentry without a

word of thanks, or a keepsake by which to remember Henry of France."

She had risen, and was supporting herself--but she swayed as she

stood--by the arm of the chair. Never had her lover been so dear to

her. As the king approached, the light fell on her face, on her

agonized eyes, and he stopped short. "Toussaint!" he cried sharply.

"Your daughter is ill. Look at her!" But it was noticeable that he

laid his hand on his sword.

"Stay!" she cried, the word ringing shrilly through the room. "You are

betrayed! There is some one--there--who has heard--all! Oh, sire,

mercy! mercy!"

As the last words passed the girl's writhing lips she clutched at her

throat: seemed to fight a moment for breath: then with a stifled

shriek fell senseless to the ground.

A second's silence. Then a whistling sound as half a dozen swords were

snatched from the scabbards. The veteran La Noue sprang to the door:

others ran to the windows and stood before them. Only Henry--after a

swift glance at Toussaint, who pale and astonished, leaned over his

daughter--stood still, his fingers on his hilt. Another second of

suspense, and before any one spoke, the cupboard door swung open, and

Felix Portail, pale to the lips, stood before them.

"What do you here?" cried Henry, restraining by a gesture those who

would have flung themselves upon the spy.

"I came to see her," Felix said. He was quite calm, but a perspiration

cold as death stood on his brow, and his distended eyes wandered from

one to another. "You surprised me. Toussaint knows that I was her

sweetheart," he murmured.

"Ay, wretched man, to see her! And for what else?" replied Henry, his

eyes, as a rule, so kindly, bent on the other in a gaze fixed and

relentless.

A sudden visible quiver--as it were the agony of death--shot through

Portail's frame. He opened his mouth, but for a while no sound came.

His eyes sought the nearest sword with horrid intentness. He gasped,

"Kill me at once, before she--before----"

He never finished the sentence. With an oath the nearest Huguenot

lunged at his breast, and fell back, foiled by a blow from the King's

hand. "Back!" cried Henry, his eyes flashing as another sprang

forward, and would have done the work. "Will you trench on the King's

justice in his presence? Sheath your swords, all save the Sieur de la

Noue, and the gentlemen who guard the windows!"

"He must die!" cried several voices, as the men still pressed forward

viciously.

"Think, sire! Think what you do," cried La Noue himself, warning in

his voice. "He has the life of every man here in his hand? And they

are your men, risking all for the cause."

"True," replied Henry, smiling; "but I ask no man to run a risk I will

not take myself."

A murmur of dissatisfaction burst forth. Several drew their swords

again. "I have a wife and child!" cried one recklessly, bringing his

point to the thrust. "He dies!"

"He does not die!" exclaimed the King, his voice so ringing through

the room that all fell back once more; fell back not so much because

it was the King who spoke as in obedience to the voice which two

months before had rallied the flying squadrons at Arques, and years

before had rung out hour after hour and day after day above the long

street fight of Cahors. "He does not die!" repeated Henry, looking

from one to another, with his chin thrust out, "I say it. I! And there

are no traitors here!"

"Your majesty," said La Noue after a moment's pause, "commands our

lives."

"Thanks, Francis," Henry replied instantly changing his tone. "And now

hear me, gentlemen. Think you that it was a light thing in this girl

to give up her lover? She might have let us go to our doom, and we

none the wiser! Would you take her gift and make her no requital? That

were not royal. And now for you, sir"--he turned to Felix who was

leaning half-fainting against the wall--"hearken to me. You shall go

free. I, who this morning played the son to your dead father, give you

your life for your sweetheart's sake. For her sake be true. You shall

go out alive and safe into the streets of Paris, which five minutes

ago you little thought to see again. Go! And if you please, betray

us, and be damned! Only remember that if you give up your king and

these gentlemen who have trusted you, your name shall go down the

centuries--and stand for treachery!"

He spoke the last words with such scorn that a murmur of applause

broke out even among those stern men. He took instant advantage of it.

"Now go!" he said hurriedly. "You can take the girl there with you.

She has but fainted. A kiss will bring her to life. Go, and be

silent."

The man took up his burden and went, trembling; still unable to speak.

But no hand was now raised to stop him.

When he had disappeared La Noue turned to the king. "You will not now

sleep at Mazeau's, sire?"

Henry rubbed his chin. "Yes; let the plan stand," he answered. "If he

betray one, he shall betray all."

"But this is madness," urged La Noue.

The king shook his head, and smiling clapped the veteran on the

shoulder. "Not so," he said. "The man is no traitor: I say it. And you

have never met with a longer head than Henry's."

"Never," assented La Noue bluntly, "save when there is a woman in it!"

The curtain falls. The men have lived and are dead. La Noue, the

Huguenot Bayard, now exist only in a dusty memoir and a page of

Motley. Madame de Montpensier is forgotten; all of her, save her

golden scissors. Mayenne, D'Aumale, a verse preserves their names.

Only Henry--the "good king" as generations of French peasants called

him--remains a living figure: his strength and weakness, his sins and

virtues, as well known, as thoroughly appreciated by thousands now as

in the days of his life.

Therefore we cannot hope to learn much of the fortunes of people so

insignificant--save for that moment when the fate of a nation hung on

their breath--as the Portails and Toussaints. We do know that Felix

proved worthy. For though the attack on Paris on the ninth of

November, 1589, failed, it did not fail through treachery. And we know

that he married Madeline, and that Adrian won Marie: but no more.

Unless certain Portals now living in the north of Ireland, whose

ancestors came over at the time of the Revocation of the Edict of

Nantes, are their descendants. And certainly it is curious that in

this family the eldest son invariably bears the name of Henry, and the

second of Felix.