At breakfast, next morning, my attention was attracted by a silver medal which the maitre d'hôtel wore suspended from his neck by a little steel chain. It proved to be one of those struck at Rome by order of Pope Gregory XIII., to eternise the infamous massacre of St. Bartholomew; and as the existence of such a memorial is but little known in my native country, I may as well describe it.
It bore the destroying angel, his right hand armed with a sword; his left arm bearing a cross; below him were several figures with their throats cut, and around was this motto:
'Hugonetorwn strages, 1572.'
'Were you engaged in that scene of blood?' I asked, with a lowering brow.
'Yes, monsieur, in some manner, I was.'
'But that was sixty-three years ago.'
'Well, M. l'Abbé, I am just sixty-three years old.'
'And you were engaged in a massacre when a year old—what a blood thirsty young imp you must have been!'
'Monsieur, I was born on the very day of the massacre. Listen to me. There was a fleuriste in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec: does Monsieur happen to know the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, at Paris?'
'Perfectly.'