"And you are so bold as that! You know it, and you will risk it?"
"Yes, father."
"Why, the Devil's in it!" cried the old man, hugging his son, "we may understand each other; you are your father's son.—My boy, you will be a credit to the family, and your old father may be plain with you, I see.—But do not be more of a Huguenot than the Messieurs de Coligny; and do not draw your sword. You are to be a man of the pen; stick to your part as a sucking lawyer.—Well, tell me no more till you have succeeded. If I hear nothing of you for four days after you reach Blois, that silence will tell me that you are in danger. Then the old man will follow to save the young one. I have not sold furs for thirty years without knowing the seamy side of a Court robe. I can find means of opening doors."
Christophe stared with amazement at hearing his father speak thus; but he feared some parental snare, and held his tongue.
Then he said:
"Very well, make up the account; write a letter to the Queen. I must be off this moment, or dreadful things will happen."
"Be off? But how?"
"I will buy a horse.—Write, for God's sake!"
"Here! Mother! Give your boy some money," the furrier called out to his wife.
She came in, flew to her chest, and gave a purse to Christophe, who excitedly kissed her.