"Henri saluted the people gravely; then, turning to the young men, he said, 'Anne, lean against the tapestry; it may last a long time.'...

"Henri, in anger, gave the sign. It was repeated, the cords were refastened, four men jumped on the horses, which, urged by violent blows, started off in opposite directions. A horrible cracking and a terrible cry was heard. The blood was seen to spout from the limbs of the unhappy man, whose face was no longer that of a man, but of a demon.

"'Ah, heaven!' he cried; 'I will speak, I will tell all. Ah! cursed duch--'

"The voice had been heard above everything, but suddenly it ceased.

"'Stop, stop,' cried Catherine, 'let him speak.'

"But it was too late; the head of Salcede fell helplessly on one side, he glanced once more to where he had seen the page, and then expired."

Near the Hotel de Ville is "Le Chatelet," a name familiar enough to travellers about Paris. It is an omnibus centre, a station on the new "Metropolitan," and its name has been given to one of the most modern theatres of Paris.

Dumas, in "Le Collier de la Reine," makes but little use of the old Prison du Grand Chatelet, but he does not ignore it altogether, which seems to point to the fact that he has neglected very few historic buildings, or, for that matter, incidents of Paris in mediaeval times, in compiling the famous D'Artagnan and Valois romances.

The Place du Chatelet is one of the most celebrated and historic open spots of Paris. The old prison was on the site of an old Caesarian forum.

The prison was destroyed in 1806, but its history for seven centuries was one of the most dramatic.

One may search for Planchet's shop, the "Pilon d'Or," of which Dumas writes in "The Vicomte de Bragelonne," in the Rue des Lombards of to-day, but he will not find it, though there are a dozen _boutiques_ in the little street which joins the present Rue St. Denis with the present Boulevard Sebastopol, which to all intents and purposes might as well have been the abode of D'Artagnan's old servitor.

The Rue des Lombards, like Lombard Street in London, took its names from the original money-changers, who gathered here in great numbers in the twelfth century. Planchet's little shop was devoted to the sale of green groceries, with, presumably, a sprinkling of other attendant garnishings for the table.

To-day, the most notable of the shops here, of a similar character, is the famous _magasin de confiserie_, "Au Fidele Berger," for which Guilbert, the author of "Jeune Malade," made the original verses for the wrappers which covered the products of the house. A contemporary of the poet has said that the "_enveloppe etait moins bonne que la marchandaise_."

The reader may judge for himself. This is one of the verses:

"Le soleil peut s'eteindre et le ciel s'obscurcir, J'ai vu ma Marita, je n'ai plus qu'a mourir."

Every lover of Dumas' romances, and all who feel as though at one time or another they had been blessed with an intimate acquaintance with that "King of Cavaliers,"--D'Artagnan,--will have a fondness for the old narrow ways in the Rue d'Arbre Sec, which remains to-day much as it always was.

It runs from the Quai de l'Hotel de Ville,--once the unsavoury Quai de la Greve,--toward Les Halles; and throughout its length, which is not very great, it has that crazy, tumble-down appearance which comes, sooner or later, to most narrow thoroughfares of mediaeval times.

It is not so very picturesque nor so very tumble-down, it is simply wobbly. It is not, nor ever was, a pretentious thoroughfare, and, in short, is distinctly commonplace; but there is a little house, on the right-hand side, near the river, which will be famous as long as it stands, as the intimate scene of much of the minor action of "Marguerite de Valois," "Chicot the Jester," and others of the series.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HoTEL DES MOUSQUETAIRES, RUE D'ARBRE SEC]

This _maison_ is rather better off than most of its neighbours, with its white-fronted lower stories, its little balcony over the Cremerie, which now occupies the ground-floor, and its escutcheon--a blazing sun--midway in its facade.

Moreover it is still a lodging-house,--an humble hotel if you like,--at any rate something more than a mere house which offers "_logement a pied_." Indeed its enterprising proprietor has erected a staring blue and white enamel sign which advertises his house:

HoTEL DES MOUSQUETAIRES

There is, perhaps, no harm in all this, as it would seem beyond all question to have some justification for its name, and it is above all something more tangible than the sites of many homes and haunts which may to-day be occupied with a modern _magasin_, _a tous genres_, or a great tourist caravanserai.

This house bears the name of "Hotel des Mousquetaires," as if it were really a lineal descendant of the "Hotel de la Belle Etoile," of which Dumas writes.

Probably it is not the same, and if it is, there is, likely enough, no significance between its present name and its former glory save that of perspicacity on the part of the present patron.

From the romance one learns how Catherine de Medici sought to obtain that compromising note which was in possession of Orthon, the page. Dumas says of this horror-chamber of the Louvre:

"Catherine now reached a second door, which, revolving on its hinges, admitted to the depths of the _oubliette_, where--crushed, bleeding, and mutilated, by a fall of more than one hundred feet--lay the still palpitating form of poor Orthon; while, on the other side of the wall forming the barrier of this dreadful spot, the waters of the Seine were heard to ripple by, brought by a species of subterraneous filtration to the foot of the staircase.

"Having reached the damp and unwholesome abyss, which, during her reign, had witnessed numerous similar scenes to that now enacted, Catherine proceeded to search the corpse, eagerly drew forth the desired billet, ascertained by the lantern that it was the one she sought, then, pushing the mangled body from her, she pressed a spring, the bottom of the _oubliette_ sank down, and the corpse, borne by its own weight, disappeared toward the river.

"Closing the door after her, she reascended; and, returning to her closet, read the paper poor Orthon had so valiantly defended. It was conceived in these words:

"'This evening at ten o'clock, Rue de l'Arbre-Sec, Hotel de la Belle Etoile. Should you come, no reply is requisite; if otherwise, send word back, _No_, by the bearer.

"'DE MOUY DE SAINT-PHALE.'

"At eight o'clock Henri of Navarre took two of his gentlemen, went out by the Porte St. Honore, entered again by the Tour de Bois, crossed the Seine at the ferry of the Nesle, mounted the Rue St. Jacques, and there dismissed them, as if he were going to an amorous rendezvous. At the corner of the Rue des Mathurins he found a man on horseback, wrapped in a large cloak; he approached him.

"'Mantes!' said the man.

"'Pau!' replied the king.

"The horseman instantly dismounted. Henri wrapped himself in his splashed mantle, sprang on his steed, rode down the Rue de la Harpe, crossed the Pont St. Michel, pa.s.sed the Rue Barthelemy, crossed the river again on the Pont au Meunier, descended the quais, reached the Rue de l'Arbre-Sec, and knocked at Maitre la Huriere's."

The route is easily traced to-day, and at the end of it is the Hotel des Mousquetaires, so it will not take much imagination to revivify the incident which Dumas conceived, though one may not get there that "good wine of Artois" which the innkeeper, La Huriere, served to Henri.

The circ.u.mstance is recounted in "Marguerite de Valois," as follows:

"'La Huriere, here is a gentleman wants you.'

"La Huriere advanced, and looked at Henri; and, as his large cloak did not inspire him with very great veneration:

"'Who are you?' asked he.

"'Eh, _sang Dieu_!' returned Henri, pointing to La Mole. 'I am, as the gentleman told you, a Gascon gentleman come to court.'

"'What do you want?'

"'A room and supper.'

"'I do not let a room to any one, unless he has a lackey.'

"'Oh, but I will pay you a rose n.o.ble for your room and supper.'

"'You are very generous, worthy sir,' said La Huriere, with some distrust.

"'No; but expecting to sup here, I invited a friend of mine to meet me.

Have you any good wine of Artois?'

"'I have as good as the King of Navarre drinks.'