to the burghers of Paris, permitting them also to buy baronial estates and call their wives by the fine name of demoiselle, but not by that of madame) wore neither gold chains nor silk, but always a good doublet with large tarnished silver buttons, cloth gaiters mounting to the knee, and leather shoes with clasps.  His shirt, of fine linen, showed, according to the fashion of the time, in great puffs between his half-opened jacket and his breeches.  Though his large and handsome face received the full light of the lamp standing on the table, Christophe had no conception of the thoughts which lay buried beneath the rich and florid Dutch skin of the old man; but he understood well enough the advantage he himself had expected to obtain from his affection for pretty Babette Lallier.  So Christophe, with the air of a man who had come to a decision, smiled bitterly as he heard of the invitation to his promised bride.

When the Burgundian cook and the apprentices had departed on their several errands, old Lecamus looked at his wife with a glance which showed the firmness and resolution of his character.

“You will not be satisfied till you have got that boy hanged with your damned tongue,” he said, in a stern voice.

“I would rather see him hanged and saved than living and a Huguenot,” she answered, gloomily.  “To think that a child whom I carried nine months in my womb should be a bad Catholic, and be doomed to hell for all eternity!”

She began to weep.

“Old silly,” said the furrier; “let him live, if only to convert him.  You said, before the apprentices, a word which may set fire to our house, and roast us all, like fleas in a straw bed.”

The mother crossed herself, and sat down silently.

“Now, then, you,” said the old man, with a judicial glance at his son, “explain to me what you were doing on the river with—­come closer, that I may speak to you,” he added, grasping his son by the arm, and drawing him to him—­“with the Prince de Conde,” he whispered.  Christophe trembled.  “Do you suppose the court furrier does not know every face that frequents the palace?  Think you I am ignorant of what is going on?  Monseigneur the Grand Master has been giving orders to send troops to Amboise.  Withdrawing troops from Paris to send them to Amboise when the king is at Blois, and making them march through Chartres and Vendome, instead of going by Orleans—­isn’t the meaning of that clear enough?  There’ll be troubles.  If the queens want their surcoats, they must send for them.  The Prince de Conde has perhaps made up his mind to kill Messieurs de Guise; who, on their side, expect to rid themselves of him.  The prince will use the Huguenots to protect himself.  Why should the son of a furrier get himself into that fray?  When you are married, and when you are councillor to the Parliament, you will be as prudent as your father.  Before belonging to the new religion, the son of a furrier ought to wait until the rest of