LITMIR.BIZ

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may kill me in the same way.”

      Now as Maître La Hurière, an innkeeper by profession, was only accidentally a soldier, this reflection determined him to retreat and seek shelter in the corner of the Rue de Braque, far enough away to cause him some difficulty in finding with a certain certainty, especially at night, the line which a bullet from his arquebuse would take in reaching De Mouy.

      De Mouy cast a glance around him, and advanced cautiously like a man preparing to fight a duel; but seeing nothing, he exclaimed:

      “Why, it appears, my worthy informant, that you have forgotten your arquebuse at my door! Here I am. What do you want with me?”

      “Aha!” said Coconnas to himself; “he is certainly a brave fellow!”

      “Well,” continued De Mouy, “friends or enemies, whichever you are, do you not see I am waiting?”

      La Hurière kept silence, Maurevel made no reply, and the three Swiss remained in covert.

      Coconnas waited an instant; then, seeing that no one took part in the conversation begun by La Hurière and continued by De Mouy, he left his station, and advancing into the middle of the street, took off his hat and said:

      “Sir, we are not here for an assassination, as you seem to suppose, but for a duel. I am here with one of your enemies, who was desirous of meeting you to end gallantly an old controversy. Eh, by Heaven! come forward, Monsieur de Maurevel, instead of turning your back. The gentleman accepts.”

      “Maurevel!” cried De Mouy; “Maurevel, the assassin of my father! Maurevel, the king’s assassin! Ah, by Heaven! Yes, I accept.”

      And taking aim at Maurevel, who was about to knock at the Hôtel de Guise to request a reinforcement, he sent a bullet through his hat.

      At the noise of the report and Maurevel’s shouts, the guard which had escorted the Duchesse de Nevers came out, accompanied by three or four gentlemen, followed by their pages, and approached the house of young De Mouy’s mistress.

      A second pistol-shot, fired into the midst of the troop, killed the soldier next to Maurevel; after which De Mouy, finding himself weaponless, or at least with useless weapons, for his pistols had been fired and his adversaries were beyond the reach of his sword, took shelter behind the balcony gallery.

      Meantime here and there windows began to be thrown open in the neighborhood, and according to the pacific or bellicose dispositions of their inhabitants, were barricaded or bristled with muskets and arquebuses.

      “Help! my worthy Mercandon,” shouted De Mouy, beckoning to an elderly man who, from a window which had just been thrown open in front of the Hôtel de Guise, was trying to make out the cause of the confusion.

      “Is it you who call, Sire de Mouy?” cried the old man: “are they attacking you?”

      “Me — you — all the Protestants; and wait — there is the proof!”

      That moment De Mouy had seen La Hurière aim his arquebuse at him; it was fired; but the young man had time to stoop, and the ball broke a window above his head.

      “Mercandon!” exclaimed Coconnas, who, in his delight at sight of this fray, had forgotten his creditor, but was reminded of him by De Mouy’s apostrophe; “Mercandon, Rue du Chaume — that is it! Ah, he lives there! Good! Each of us will settle accounts with our man.”

      And, while the people from the Hôtel de Guise were breaking in the doors of De Mouy’s house, and Maurevel, with a torch in his hand, was trying to set it on fire — while now that the doors were once broken, there was a fearful struggle with a single antagonist who at each rapier-thrust brought down his foe — Coconnas tried, by the help of a paving-stone, to break in Mercandon’s door, and the latter, unmoved by this solitary effort, was doing his best with his arquebuse out of his window.

      And now all this dark and deserted quarter was lighted up, as if by open day — peopled like the interior of an ant-hive; for from the Hôtel de Montmorency six or eight Huguenot gentlemen, with their servants and friends, had just made a furious charge, and, supported by the firing from the windows, were beginning to repulse Maurevel’s and the De Guises’ force, who at length were driven back to the place whence they had come.

      Coconnas, who had not yet succeeded in smashing Mercandon’s door, though he was working at it with all his might, was caught in this sudden retreat. Placing his back to the wall, and grasping his sword firmly, he began not only to defend himself, but to attack his assailants, with cries so terrible that they were heard above all the uproar. He struck right and left, hitting friends and enemies, until a wide space was cleared around him. As his rapier made a hole in some breast, and the warm blood spurted over his hands and face, he, with dilated eye, expanded nostrils, and clinched teeth, regained the ground lost, and again approached the beleaguered house.

      De Mouy, after a terrible combat in the staircase and hall, had finally come out of the burning house like a true hero. In the midst of all the struggle he had not ceased to cry, “Here, Maurevel! — Maurevel, where are you?” insulting him by the most opprobrious epithets.

      He at length appeared in the street, supporting on one arm his mistress, half naked and nearly fainting, and holding a poniard between his teeth. His sword, flaming by the sweeping action he gave it, traced circles of white or red, according as the moon glittered on the blade or a flambeau glared on its blood-stained brightness.

      Maurevel had fled. La Hurière, driven back by De Mouy as far as Coconnas, who did not recognize him, and received him at sword’s point, was begging for mercy on both sides. At this moment Mercandon perceived him, and knew him, by his white scarf, to be one of the murderers. He fired. La Hurière shrieked, threw up his arms, dropped his arquebuse, and, after having vainly attempted to reach the wall, in order to support himself, fell with his face flat on the earth.

      De Mouy took advantage of this circumstance, turned down the Rue de Paradis, and disappeared.

      Such had been the resistance of the Huguenots that the De Guise party, quite repulsed, had retired into their hôtel, fearing to be besieged and taken in their own habitation.

      Coconnas who, intoxicated with blood and tumult, had reached that degree of excitement when, with the men of the south more especially, courage changes into madness, had not seen or heard anything, and noticed only that there was not such a roar in his ears, and that his hands and face were a little dryer than they had been. Dropping the point of his sword, he saw near him a man lying face downward in a red stream, and around him burning houses.

      It was a very short truce, for just as he was approaching this man, whom he recognized as La Hurière, the door of the house he had in vain tried to burst in, opened, and old Mercandon, followed by his son and two nephews, rushed upon him.

      “Here he is! here he is!” cried they all, with one voice.

      Coconnas was in the middle of the street, and fearing to be surrounded by these four men who assailed him at once, sprang backward with the agility of one of the chamois which he had so often hunted in his native mountains, and in an instant found himself with his back against the wall of the Hôtel de Guise. Once at ease as to not being surprised from behind he put himself in a posture of defence, and said, jestingly:

      “Aha, father Mercandon, don’t you know me?”

      “Wretch!” cried the old Huguenot, “I know you well; you are engaged against me — me, your father’s friend and companion.”

      “And his creditor, are you not?”

      “Yes; his creditor, as you say.”

      “Well, then,” said Coconnas, “I have come to settle our accounts.”

      “Seize him, bind him!” said Mercandon to the young men who accompanied him, and who at his bidding rushed toward the Piedmontese.

      “One moment! one moment!” said Coconnas, laughing, “to seize a man you must have a writ, and you have forgotten to secure one from the provost.”

      And

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