The following day a religious minim of the House of Chaillot came to inform me of the state of affairs.  The Baron de Monclar, of the body-guards of the King, had taken sanctuary in their monastery, after having killed, in lawful duel, beneath the outer walls of the Bois du Boulogne, the imprudent young man who, the night before, at the play, had exposed me to the censure of the public.  M. de Monclar was quite prepared for the inflexible severity of the King, as well as for the uselessness of my efforts.  He only begged me to procure him a disguise of a common sort, so that he might immediately embark from the neighbourhood of Gainville or Bordeaux, and make for England or Spain; every moment was precious.

The sad position in which M. de Monclar had put himself in my behalf filled me with sorrow.  I gave a long sigh, and dried my first tears.  I racked my sick and agitated head for the reply I ought to make to the good monk, and, to my great astonishment, my mind, ordinarily so prompt and active, suggested and offered me no suitable plan.  This indecision, perhaps, rendered the worthy ambassador impatient and humiliated me; when, to end it, I made up my mind to request that M. de Monclar be secretly transferred from the House of Chaillot to my dwelling, where I should have time and all possible facilities to take concert with him as to the best means of action.

Suddenly raising my eyes to the monk of Chaillot, I surprised in his a ferocious look of expectation.  This horrible discovery unnerved me,—­I gave a cry of terror; all my lackeys rushed in.  I ordered the traitor to be seized and precipitated from the height of my balcony into the gardens.  His arms were already bound ruthlessly, and my people were lifting him to throw him down, when he eluded their grasp, threw himself at my feet, and confessed that his disguise was assumed with the intent to discover the sanctuary of the Baron de Monclar, the assassin of his beloved brother.  “It is asserted, madame,” added this man, rising, “that the Baron is confided to the Minim Fathers of Chaillot.  I imagined that you were informed of it, and that by this means my family would succeed in reaching him.”

“If he has killed the nobody who yesterday insulted me so unjustly,” I said then to this villain who was ready for death, “he has done a virtuous act, but one which I condemn.  I condemn it because of the law of the Prince, which is formal, and because of the dire peril into which he has run; for that my heart could almost praise and thank him.  I was ignorant of his offence; I am ignorant of his place of refuge.  Whoever you may be,—­the agent of a family in mourning, or of a magistrate who forgets what is due to me,—­leave my house before my wrath is rekindled.  Depart, and never forget what one gains by putting on the livery of deceit in order to surprise and betray innocence.”

My people conducted this unworthy man to the outer gate, and refused to satisfy some prayers which he addressed to them to be released from his disagreeable bonds.  The public, with its usual inconsequence, followed the monk with hooting, without troubling as to whether it were abusing a vile spy or a man of worth.