“Sit down, Joyeuse, my child,” said he; “how late you are.”

  “Your majesty is very good,” answered Joyeuse, approaching the bed, on which he sat down.

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE DIFFICULTY OF FINDING A GOOD AMBASSADOR.

  Chicot was hidden in his great chair, and Joyeuse was half lying on the foot of the bed in which the king was bolstered up, when the conversation commenced.

  “Well, Joyeuse,” said Henri, “have you well wandered about the town?”

  “Yes, sire,” replied the duke, carelessly.

  “How quickly you disappeared from the Place de Greve.”

  “Sire, to speak frankly, I do not like to see men suffer.”

  “Tender heart.”

  “No; egotistical heart, rather; then sufferings act on my nerves.”

  “You know what passed?”

  “Ma foi! no.”

  “Salcede denied all.”

  “Ah!”

  “You bear it very indifferently, Joyeuse.”

  “I confess I do not attach much importance to it; besides, I was certain he would deny everything.”

  “But since he confessed before the judges — ”

  “All the more reason that he should deny it afterward. The confession put the Guises on their guard, and they were at work while your majesty remained quiet.”

  “What! you foresee such things, and do not warn me?”

  “I am not a minister, to talk politics.”

  “Well, Joyeuse, I want your brother.”

  “He, like myself, is at your majesty’s service.”

  “Then I may count on him?”

  “Doubtless.”

  “I wish to send him on a little mission.”

  “Out of Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, it is impossible.”

  “How so?”

  “Du Bouchage cannot go away just now.”

  The king looked astonished. “What do you mean?” said he.

  “Sire,” said Joyeuse quietly, “it is the simplest thing possible. Du Bouchage is in love, but he had carried on his negotiations badly, and everything was going wrong; the poor boy was growing thinner and thinner.”

  “Indeed,” said the king, “I have remarked it.”

  “And he had become sad, mordieu! as if he had lived in your majesty’s court.”

  A kind of grunt, proceeding from the corner of the room interrupted Joyeuse, who looked round astonished.

  “It is nothing, Joyeuse,” said the king, laughing, “only a dog asleep on the footstool. You say, then, that Du Bouchage grew sad? — ”

  “Sad as death, sire. It seems he has met with some woman of an extraordinary disposition. However, one sometimes succeeds as well with this sort of women as with others, if you only set the right way to work.”

  “You would not have been embarrassed, libertine!”

  “You understand, sire, that no sooner had he made me his confidant, than I undertook to save him.”

  “So that — ”

  “So that already the cure commences.”

  “What, is he less in love?”

  “No; but he has more hope of making her so. For the future, instead of sighing with the lady, we mean to amuse her in every possible way. To-night I stationed thirty Italian musicians under her balcony.”

  “Ah! ma foi! music would not have amused me when I was in love with Madame de Conde.”

  “No; but you were in love, sire; and she is as cold as an icicle.”

  “And you think music will melt her?”

  “Diable! I do not say that she will come at once and throw herself into the arms of Du Bouchage, but she will be pleased at all this being done for herself alone. If she do not care for this, we shall have plays, enchantments, poetry — in fact, all the pleasures of the earth, so that, even if we do not bring gayety back to her, I hope we shall to Du Bouchage.”

  “Well, I hope so; but since it would be so trying to him to leave Paris, I hope you are not also, like him, the slave of some passion?”

  “I never was more free, sire.”

  “Oh! I thought you were in love with a beautiful lady?”

  “Yes, sire, so I was; but imagine that this evening, after having given my lesson to Du Bouchage, I went to see her, with my head full of his love story, and, believing myself almost as much in love as he, I found a trembling frightened woman, and thinking I had disturbed her somehow, I tried to reassure her, but it was useless. I interrogated her, but she did not reply. I tried to embrace her, and she turned her head away. I grew angry, and we quarreled: and she told me she should never be at home to me any more.”‘

  “Poor Joyeuse; what did you do?”

  “Pardieu, sire! I took my hat and cloak, bowed, and went out, without once looking back.”

  “Bravo, Joyeuse; it was courageous.”

  “The more so, sire, that I thought I heard her sigh.”

  “But you will return?”

  “No, I am proud.”

  “Well, my friend, this rupture is for your good.”

  “Perhaps so, sire; but I shall probably be horribly ennuyé for a week, having nothing to do. It may perhaps amuse me, however, as it is something new, and I think it distingué.”

  “Certainly it is, I have made it so,” said the king. “However, I will occupy you with something.”

  “Something lazy, I hope?”

  A second noise came from the chair; one might have thought the dog was laughing at the words of Joyeuse.

  “What am I to do, sire?” continued Joyeuse.

  “Get on your boots.”

  “Oh! that is against all my ideas.”

  “Get on horseback.”

  “On horseback! impossible.”

  “And why?”

  “Because I am an admiral, and admirals have nothing to do with horses.”

  “Well, then, admiral, if it be not your place to mount a horse, it is so at all events to go on board ship. So you will start at once for Rouen, where you will find your admiral’s ship, and make ready to sail immediately for Antwerp.”

  “For Antwerp!” cried Joyeuse, in a tone as despairing as though he had received an order for Canton or Valparaiso.

  “I said so,” replied the king, in a cold and haughty tone, “and there is no need to repeat it.”

  Joyeuse, without making the least further resistance, fastened his cloak and took his hat.

  “What a trouble I have to make myself obeyed,” continued Henri. “Ventrebleu! if I forget sometimes that I am the master, others might remember it.”

  Joyeuse bowed stifly, and said, “Your orders, sire?”

  The king began to melt. “Go,” said he, “to Rouen, where I wish you to embark, unless you prefer going by land to Brussels.”

  Joyeuse did not answer, but only bowed.

  “Do you prefer the land route, duke?” asked Henri.

  “I have no preference when I have an order to execute, sire.”

  “There, now you are sulky. Ah! kings have no friends.”

  “Those who give orders can only expect to find servants.”

  “Monsieur,” replied the king, angry again, “you will go then to Rouen; you will go on board your ship, and will take the garrisons of Caudebec, Harfleur, and Dieppe, which I will replace afterward. You will put them on board six transports, and place them at the service of my brother, who expects aid from me.”

  “My commission, if you please, sire.”

  “And since when have you been unable to act by virtue of your rank as admiral?”

  “I only obey, sire; and, as much as possible, avoid responsibility.”

  “Well, then, M. le Duc, you will receive the commission at your hotel before you depart.”

  “And when will that be?”

  “In an hour.”

  Joyeuse bowed and turned to the door. The king’s heart misgave him. “What!” cried he, “not even the courtesy of an adieu? You are not polite, but that is a common reproach to naval people.”

  “Pardon me, sire, but I am a still worse courtier than I am a seaman;” and shutting the door violently, he went out.

  “See how those love me, for whom I have done so much,” cried the king; “ungrateful Joyeuse!”

  “Well, are you going to recall him?” said Chicot, advancing. “Because, for once in your life, you have been firm, you repent it.”

  “Ah! so you think it very agreeable to go to sea in the month of October? I should like to see you do it.”

  “You are quite welcome to do so; my greatest desire just now is to travel.”

  “Then if I wish to send you somewhere you will not object to go?”

  “Not only I do not object, but I request it.”

  “On a mission?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you go to Navarre?”

  “I would go to the devil.”

  “You are joking.”

  “No; since my death I joke no more.”

  “But you refused just now to quit Paris.”

  “I was wrong, and I repent. I will go to Navarre, if you will send me.”

  “Doubtless; I wish it.”

  “I wait your orders, gracious prince,” said Chicot, assuming the same attitude as Joyeuse.

  “But you do not know if the mission will suit you. I have certain projects of embroiling Margot with her husband.”

  “Divide to reign was the A B C of politics one hundred years ago.”

  “Then you have no repugnance?”

  “It does not concern me; do as you wish. I am ambassador, that is all; and as long as I am inviolable, that is all I care for.”

  “But now you must know what to say to my brother-in-law.”

  “I say anything! Certainly not.”

  “Not?”

  “I will go where you like, but I will say nothing.”

  “Then you refuse?”

  “I refuse to give a message, but I will take a letter.”

  “Well, I will give you a letter.”

  “Give it me, then.”

  “What! you do not think such a letter can be written at once. It must be well weighed and considered.”

  “Well, then, think over it. I will come or send for it early to-morrow.”

  “Why not sleep here?”

  “Here?”

  “Yes, in your chair.”

  “I sleep no more at the Louvre.”

  “But you must know my intentions concerning Margot and her husband. My letter will make a noise, and they will question you; you must be able to reply.”

  “Mon Dieu!” said Chicot, shrugging his shoulders, “how obtuse you are, great king. Do you think I am going to carry a letter a hundred and fifty leagues without knowing what is in it? Be easy, the first halt I make I shall open your letter and read it. What! have you sent ambassadors for ten years to all parts of the world, and know no better than that? Come, rest in peace, and I will return to my solitude.”

  “Where is it?”

  “In the cemetery of the Grands-Innocens, great prince.”

  Henri looked at him in astonishment again.

  “Ah! you did not expect that,” said Chicot. “Well, till to-morrow, when I or my messenger will come — ”

  “How shall I know your messenger when he arrives?”

  “He will say he comes from the shade.” And Chicot disappeared so rapidly as almost to reawaken the king’s fears as to whether he were a shade or not.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE SERENADE.

  From the Louvre Chicot had not far to go to his home. He went to the bank of the Seine and got into a little boat which he had left there.

  “It is strange,” thought he, as he rowed and looked at the still-lighted window of the king’s room, “that after so many years, Henri is still the same. Others have risen or fallen, while he has gained some wrinkles, and that is all. He has the same weak, yet elevated mind — still fantastical and poetical — still the same egotistical being, always asking for more than one has to give him, friendship from the indifferent, love from the friendly, devotion from the loving, and more sad than any one in his kingdom. By-the-by, he did not speak of giving me any money for my journey; that proves at least that he thinks me a friend.” And he laughed quietly.

  He soon arrived at the opposite bank, where he fastened his boat. On entering the Rue des Augustins, he was struck by the sound of instruments and voices in the street at that late hour.

  “Is there a wedding here?” thought he, “I have not long to sleep, and now this will keep me awake.”

  As he advanced, he saw a dozen flambeaux carried by pages, while thirty musicians were playing on different instruments. The band was stationed before a house, that Chicot, with surprise, recognized as his own. He remained for an instant stupefied, and then said to himself, “There must be some mistake; all this noise cannot be for me. Unless, indeed, some unknown princess has suddenly fallen in love with me.”

  This supposition, flattering as it was, did not appear to convince Chicot, and he turned toward the house facing his, but it showed no signs of life.

  “They must sleep soundly, there,” said he; “such a noise is enough to wake the dead.”

  “Pardon me, my friend,” said he, addressing himself to a torch-bearer, “but can you tell me, if you please, who all this music is for?”

  “For the bourgeois who lives there.” replied he, pointing out to Chicot his own house.

  “Decidedly it is for me!” thought he. “Whom do you belong to?” he asked.

  “To the bourgeois who lives there.”

  “Ah! they not only come for me, but they belong to me — still better. Well! we shall see,” and piercing through the crowd, he opened his door, went upstairs, and appeared at his balcony, in which he placed a chair and sat down.

  “Gentlemen,” said he, “are you sure there is no mistake? is all this really for me?”

  “Are you M. Robert Briquet?”

  “Himself.”

  “Then we are at your service, monsieur,” said the leader of the band, giving the sign to recommence.

  “Certainly it is unintelligible,” thought Chicot. He looked around; all the inhabitants of the street were at their windows, excepting those of the opposite house, which, as we have said, remained dark and quiet. But on glancing downward, he saw a man wrapped in a dark cloak, and who wore a black hat with a red feather, leaning against the portico of his own door, and looking earnestly at the opposite house.

  The leader of the band just then quitted his post and spoke softly to this man, and Chicot instantly guessed that here lay all the interest of the scene. Soon after, a gentleman on horseback, followed by two squires, appeared at the corner of the street, and pushed his way through the crowd, while the music stopped.

  “M. de Joyeuse,” murmured Chicot, who recognized him at once.

  The cavalier approached the gentleman under the balcony.

  “Well! Henri,” said he, “what news?”

  “Nothing, brother.” — ”Nothing?”

  “No; she has not even appeared.”

  “They have not made noise enough.”

  “They have roused all the neighborhood.”

  “They did not cry as I told them, that it was all in honor of this bourgeois.”

  “They cried it so loud, that there he is, sitting in his balcony, listening.”

  “And she has not appeared?”

  “Neither she, nor any one.”

  “The idea was ingenious, however, for she might, like the rest of the people, have profited by the music given to her neighbor.”

  “Ah! you do not know her, brother.”

  “Yes, I do; or at all events I know women, and as she is but a woman, we will not despair.”

  “Ah! you say that in a discouraged tone, brother.”

  “Not at all; only give the bourgeois his serenade every night.”

  “But she will go away.”

  “Not if you do not speak to her, or seem to be doing it on her account, and remain concealed. Has the bourgeois spoken?”

  “Yes, and he is now speaking again.”

  “Hold your tongue up there and go in,” cried Joyeuse, out of humor. “Diable! you have had your serenade, so keep quiet.”

  “My serenade! that is just what I want to know the meaning of; to whom is it addressed?”

  “To your daughter.”

  “I have none.” — ”To your wife, then.”

  “Thank God, I am not married.”

  “Then to yourself, and if you do not go in — ” cried Joyeuse, advancing with a menacing air.

  “Ventre de biche! but if the music be for me — ”

  “Old fool!” growled Joyeuse. “If you do not go in and hide your ugly face they shall break their instruments over your head.”

  “Let the man alone, brother,” said Henri, “the fact is, he must be very much astonished.”

  “Oh! but if we get up a quarrel, perhaps she will look to see what is the matter; we will burn his house down, if necessary.”

  “No, for pity’s sake, brother, do not let us force her attention; we are beaten, and must submit.”

  Chicot, who heard all, was mentally preparing the means of defense, but Joyeuse yielded to his brother’s request, and dismissed the pages and musicians.

  Then he said to his brother, “I am in despair; all conspires against us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have no longer time to aid you.”

  “I see now that you are in traveling dress; I did not remark it before.”

  “I set off to-night for Antwerp, by desire of the king.”

  “When did he give you the order?”

  “This evening.”

  “Mon Dieu!”

  “Come with me, I entreat.”

  “Do you order me, brother?” said Henri, turning pale at the thought.

  “No; I only beg you.”

  “Thank you, brother. If I were forced to give up passing my nights under this window.”

  “Well?”

  “I should die.”

  “You are mad.”

  “My heart is here, brother; my life is here.”

  Joyeuse crossed his arms with a mixture of anger and pity. “If our father,” he said, “begged you to let yourself be attended by Miron, who is at once a philosopher and a doctor?”