cloak, and, being refused the lodging he
sought, went out again into the street.
Wandering along the Rue St. Honoré, he
came to the region of the Butte (hill)
of St. Roch, where a number of low
suburban taverns were clustered, and, knocking
at the door of the Three Pigeons, he
obtained admittance. Here he remained till
the morning of the fourteenth of May, when,
hearing of the king's intended visit to the
Arsenal, he planted himself in the narrowest
part of the Rue St. Honoré, close to the Rue
de la Ferronerie, and mounting one of the
large stone-posts that stood against the wall,
perpetrated the crime which the Jesuits had
so long instigated.

Roadside inns were scarcely safe places
when scenes such as that which is related by
the Duke de Saint-Simon, were enacted in
them: The Vatteville family, says the
historian, is one of rank in Franche Comté.
That member of it of whom I have to speak
became a Carthusian monk at an early age,
and after making his profession, was ordained
a priest. He was a man of ability, but of a
licentious, impatient disposition, and he soon
repented the choice he had made. He
resolved to fly from it, and succeeded by
degrees in providing himself with a secular
dress, with money, pistols, and a horse. But
the superior of the order, opening the
door of Vatteville's cell with a master-key,
found him in his disguise, standing on a
ladder, about to effect his escape. The
Prior called out to the monk to descend,
on which Vatteville coolly turned round and,
drawing out a pistol, shot his superior dead
on the spot. He scaled the convent-walls, and
was seen there no more. He chose the most
unfrequented roads; and, on the second day
after the murder, halted at a lonely inn,
where, having dismounted, he called the
host and demanded, what he had in the
house to eat?

The man replied:—"A leg of mutton and
a capon."

"Good," said the unfrocked monk, "put
them both on the spit."

The host remonstrated, saying they were
too much for one person's dinner; to
which Vatteville angrily replied, that he
meant to pay for what he ordered, that he
had appetite enough for two such dinners,
and that it would be just as well to make no
objections. The terrified host submitted.
While the traveller's enormous meal was
roasting before the fire, another horseman
arrived, who also called for dinner. The
host, pointing to the spit, told the
newcomer there was nothing but what he saw
there:

"Very well," said the stranger, "a part of
that will do for me, and I will pay my share."
The host shook his head and told him why
he did not dare to give him any. On this,
the stranger went up-stairs to the room
where Vatteville was, and civilly requested
to dine with him, paying, of course,
his proportion. He met with a churlish
refusal. High words arose, and Vatteville put
an end to the dispute by shooting the traveller
as he had shot the Prior. The house
was at once in an uproar; but Vatteville
quietly went down-stairs, ordered the dinner
to be served, ate it up to the last fragments,
paid his reckoning, and then mounted his
horse and rode off. He found France too
hot to hold him, succeeded in escaping from
the country, reached the frontiers of Turkey,
and there, assuming the turban, finished his
career in the military service of the Sultan.

These tavern quarrels were the commonest
occurrences. Through one of them the
celebrated Marshal Fabert nearly lost his life.
In the month of March sixteen hundred
and forty-one, a period fertile in the most
scandalous duels, when the life of a man
was accounted of no more value than that
of a dog, the marshal was travelling post, and
stopped to rest his horses at Clermont in
the Beauvoisis. About two o'clock in the
morning, the Count de Rantzau, nephew
of the marshal of the same name, and a
captain of cavalry, named Laquenay, entered
Fabert's bed-chamber, and began to dance
about the room and make a great disturbance.
Fabert, awakened by the noise, called out
to them from his bed: "Gentlemen, you
must be aware of the customs of these
houses; this room is mine, there are others
in the hotel, and I beg of you to select one
of them for your amusements."

"Sir," replied Rantzau, "you may go to
sleep if you can. For my part, I mean to stay
where I am and do just as I please."

Fabert, irritated at this insolent reply,
jumped out of bed; and barefooted and
undressed as he was, seized his sword to
drive out the intruders. Rantzau and Laquenay
both drew at the same moment, and
got the marshal between them in such a
position, that he could not strike at one
without being wounded by the other. A
bloody combat then took place, and the
people of the hotel, alarmed by the noise,
rushed up-stairs and disarmed Laquenay, who
stood near the door. At the same moment,
Fabert, though pierced by fourteen wounds,
rushed upon Rantzau, and seizing him round
the body, threw him on the floor, and holding
the point of his sword to his throat, cried
out:

"Tell me your name, you scoundrel, or I
will kill you on the spot."

Receiving no answer, he was about to
execute his threat, when the host exclaimed:

"I know him, Monsieur de Fabert; his
name is Rantzau."

On hearing this, the young count was in
despair. "What have I done?" he cried;
"better for me that I had been dead!"

But Marshal Fabert was as generous as
he was brave. "Make haste and begone,
young man," he said; "and endeavour to