Jean de Châteaumorant a banner, and a richer than any of the others except the Duke of Bourbon. Alas! ’tis sad to think that all that has been, and that nothing of it now remains!”

The two young people were not listening to the worthy dowager. Phœbus had returned to lean over the back of his lady-love’s chair— a charming post which revealed to his libertine glance so many exquisite things, and enabled him to divine so many more that, ravished by that satin-shimmering skin, he said to himself, “How can one love any but a blonde?”

Neither spoke. The girl lifted to him, from time to time, a glance full of tenderness and devotion, and their locks mingled in a ray of the vernal sunshine.

“Phœbus,” said Fleur-de-Lys suddenly, in a half-whisper, “we are to marry in three months— swear to me that you have never loved any woman but myself.”

“I swear it, fairest angel!” returned Phœbus; and his passionate glance combined with the sincere tone of his voice to convince Fleur-de-Lys of the truth of his assertion. And, who knows, perhaps he believed it himself at the moment.

Meanwhile the good mother, rejoiced to see the two young people in such perfect accord, had left the apartment to attend to some domestic matter. Phœbus was aware of the fact, and this solitude á deux so emboldened the enterprising captain that some strange ideas began to arise in his mind. Fleur-de- Lys loved him— he was betrothed to her— she was alone with him— his old inclination for her had revived— not perhaps in all its primitive freshness, but certainly in all its ardour— after all, it was no great crime to cut a little of one’s own corn in the blade. I know not if these thoughts passed distinctly through his mind; but at any rate, Fleur-de-Lys suddenly took alarm at the expression of his countenance. She looked about her and discovered that her mother was gone.

“Heavens!” said she, blushing and uneasy, “I am very hot.”

“I think, indeed,” replied Phœbus, “that it cannot be far from noon. The sun is oppressive— the best remedy is to draw the curtain.”

“No, no!” cried the girl; “on the contrary, it is air I need.”

And like the doe which scents the hounds, she started up, ran to the window, flung it wide, and took refuge on the balcony. Phœbus, not overpleased, followed her.

The Place de Parvis of Notre-Dame, upon which, as the reader is aware, the balcony looked down, presented at that moment a sinister and unusual appearance, which forthwith changed the nature of the timid damoiselle’s alarm.

An immense crowd, extending into all the adjacent streets, filled the whole square. The breast-high wall surrounding the Parvis itself would not have sufficed alone to keep it clear; but it was lined by a close hedge of sergeants of the town-guard and arquebusiers, culverin in hand. Thanks to this grove of pikes and arquebuses the Parvis was empty. The entrance to it was guarded by a body of the bishop’s halberdiers. The great doors of the church were closed, forming a strong contrast to the innumerable windows round the Place, which, open up to the very gables, showed hundreds of heads piled one above another like the cannon-balls in an artillery ground. The prevailing aspect of this multitude was gray, dirty, repulsive. The spectacle they were awaiting was evidently one that has the distinction of calling forth all that is most bestial and unclean in the populace— impossible to imagine anything more repulsive than the sounds which arose from this seething mass of yellow caps and frowzy heads, and there were fewer shouts than shrill bursts of laughter— more women than men.

From time to time some strident voice pierced the general hum.