My purse, fortunately, was not yet empty, for it was necessary to don a mourning suit in order to show respect to the memory of the late queen.

“We must show ourselves as fine as those popinjays of Anjou’s,” said Felix.  “Fine feathers make fine birds in the eyes of the populace, and we must let them see that Huguenot gentlemen are a match for those of the king.”

It was early morning of July 8, 1572, when about a dozen of us, all splendidly, though sombrely attired, rode out from the courtyard of the Hotel Coligny, and, passing quickly through the empty streets, proceeded to meet the princely cavalcade.

Henry’s retinue formed a striking and impressive spectacle.  He was attended by young Conde, the Cardinal of Bourbon, and our own beloved chief.  Behind them rode eight hundred gallant gentlemen, all in mourning, the majority of whom had proved their zeal and devotion to the Cause on more than one battle-field.  We saluted the chiefs, and took our places in the procession.

“I think even the Parisians will admit we do not make a very sorry show,” remarked Felix as we rode along.

At the gates of St. Jacques we were met by Monseigneur at the head of fifteen hundred gorgeously attired horsemen.  He greeted our leaders with elaborate ceremony, but, as far as I could judge, with little goodwill, and Catholics and Huguenots mingled together, forming one imposing body.  Young Conde and his brother, the Marquis, rode between Guise and the Chevalier d’Angouleme; Henry himself was placed between the king’s brothers, Anjou and Alencon.

The streets were packed with dense crowds of citizens; every balcony was filled, and fair ladies sat watching from the open windows.  Here and there men shouted lustily for Monseigneur, but for Henry of Navarre there was no word of kindly welcome; we proceeded amidst a cold and chilling silence.

“This may be a royal welcome,” laughed one of my neighbours, “’tis anything but a friendly one.  Faith, I am beginning to think already that we shall have as much need of our swords in Paris as ever we had at Arnay-le-Duc.”

“Bah!” cried Felix; “who wants the plaudits of a mob?  These people are but puppets, and the strings are pulled by the priests.”

“The citizens are hardly reconciled yet to the new order of things,” remarked one of Monseigneur’s gentlemen; “but the strangeness will soon wear off, and you will be as welcome in Paris as in Rochelle.  It is not strange that at present Anjou is their favourite; you must give them time.”

The speaker may have been right, but the hostile attitude with which the citizens met us became stronger, when, having escorted the princes to the palace, we broke up into small groups and rode towards our various dwellings.

The sullen silence gave place to angry murmurs, and even to open threats, especially when we passed the crosses and images at the corners of the streets without raising our hats.