the words of a splenetic contemporary--"she had been a dead she-goat."
Paris howled with rage when it learned the murders of Blois, and the
sixteen quarters became more furious than ever against the Valois. Some
wild talk there was of democracy and republicanism after the manner of
Switzerland, and of dividing France into cantons--and there was an
earnest desire on the part of every grandee, every general, every soldier
of fortune, to carve out a portion of French territory with his sword,
and to appropriate it for himself and his heirs. Disintegration was
making rapid progress, and the epoch of the last Valois seemed mare dark
and barbarous than the times of the degenerate Carlovingians had been.
The letter-writer of the Escorial, who had earnestly warned his faithful
Mucio, week after week, that dangers were impending over him, and that
"some trick would be played upon him," should he venture into the royal
presence, now acquiesced in his assassination, and placidly busied
himself with fresh combinations and newer tools.

Baked, hunted, scorned by all beside, the luckless Henry now threw
himself into the arms of the Bearnese--the man who could and would have
protected him long before, had the King been capable of understanding
their relative positions and his own true interests. Could the Valois
have conceived the thought of religious toleration, his throne even then
might have been safe. But he preferred playing the game of the priests
and bigots, who execrated his name and were bent upon his destruction.
At last, at Plessis les Tours, the Bearnese, in his shabby old chamois
jacket and his well-dinted cuirass took the silken Henry in his arms, and
the two--the hero and the fribble--swearing eternal friendship, proceeded
to besiege Paris. A few weeks later, the dagger of Jacques Clement put
an end for ever to, the line of Valois. Luckless Henry III. slept with
his forefathers, and Henry of Bourbon and Navarre proclaimed himself King
of France. Catharine and her four sons had all past away at last, and it