“Fear nothing, monseigneur,” said Henri de Guise; “our chapel is deaf, and its doors are well closed.”
“My brothers,” said the Comte de Monsoreau, “his highness wishes to address a few words to the assembly.”
“Yes, yes!” cried they.
“Gentlemen,” began he, in a voice so trembling that at first they could hardly distinguish his words, “I believe that God, who often seems insensible and deaf to the things of this world, keeps, on the contrary, His piercing eyes constantly on us, and only remains thus careless in appearance in order to remedy, by some great blow, the disorders caused by the foolish ambitions of men. I also have kept my eyes, if not on the world, at least on France. What have I seen there? The holy religion of Christ shaken to its foundation by those who sap all belief, under the pretext of drawing nearer to God, and my soul has been full of grief. In the midst of this grief, I heard that several noble and pious gentlemen, friends of our old faith, were trying to strengthen the tottering altar. I threw my eyes around me, and saw on one side the heretics, from whom I recoiled with horror; on the other side the elect, and I am come to throw myself into their arms. My brothers, here I am.”
The applause and bravos resounded through the chapel. Then the cardinal, turning to the duke, said:
“You are amongst us of your own free will?”
“Of my free will, monsieur.”
“Who instructed you in the holy mystery?”
“My friend, the Comte de Monsoreau, a man zealous for religion.”
“Then,” said the Duc de Guise, “as your highness has joined us, have the goodness to tell us what you intend to do for the league.”