“Dear sister—­The expedition from Anvers has succeeded for
     everybody, but has failed as far as we are concerned.  You will be
     told that the Duc d’Anjou is dead; do not believe it—­he is alive.

     “He lives, you understand, and that is the whole question.

     “There is a complete dynasty in those words; those two words
     separate the house of Lorraine from the throne of France better
     than the deepest abyss could do.

“Do not, however, make yourself too uneasy about that.  I have discovered that two persons whom I thought were dead are still living, and there is a great chance of death for the prince while those two persons are alive.

     “Think then only of Paris; it will be time enough for the League to
     act six weeks hence.  Let our Leaguers know that the moment is
     approaching, and let them hold themselves in readiness.

“The army is on foot; we number twelve thousand sure men, all well equipped; I shall enter France with it, under the pretext of engaging the German Huguenots, who are going to assist Henri de Navarre.  I shall defeat the Huguenots, and having entered France as a friend, I shall act as a master.”

“Oh, oh!” cried Chicot.

“Did I hurt you, dear Monsieur Chicot?” said Bonhomet, discontinuing his frictions.

“Yes, my good fellow.”

“I will rub more softly; don’t be afraid.”

Chicot continued: 

     “P.S.—­I entirely approve of your plan with regard to the
     Forty-five; only allow me to say, dear sister, that you will be
     conferring a greater honor on those fellows than they deserve.”

“Ah! diable!” murmured Chicot, “this is getting obscure.”

And he read it again.

     “I entirely approve of your plan with regard to the Forty-five.”

“What plan?” Chicot asked himself.

     “Only allow me to say, dear sister, that you will be conferring a
     greater honor on those fellows than they deserve.”

“What honor?”

Chicot resumed:—­

     “Than they deserve.

     “Your affectionate brother.

     “H.  De Lorraine.”

“At all events,” said Chicot, “everything is clear, except the postscript.  Very good, We will look after the postscript, then.”

“Dear Monsieur Chicot,” Bonhomet ventured to observe, seeing that Chicot had finished writing, if not thinking, “Dear Monsieur Chicot, you have not told me what I am to do with this corpse.”—­“That is a very simple affair.”

“For you, who are full of imagination, it may be, but for me?”

“Well! suppose, for instance, that that unfortunate captain had been quarreling with the Swiss guards or the Reiters, and he had been brought to your house wounded, would you have refused to receive him?”