“And the king?”

“He heard it, and applauded.”

“I must add,” said the officer, “that they do something else than hear mass at the palace; they give good dinners—­and the promenades!  I do not believe in any place in France there are more mustaches shown than in the promenades at Nerac.”

Chicot knew Queen Marguerite well, and he knew that if she was blind to these love affairs, it was when she had some motive for placing a bandage over her eyes.

“Ventre de biche!” said he, “these alleys of cypresses, and 3,000 feet of shade, make me feel uncomfortable.  I am coming from Paris to tell the truth at Nerac, where they have such deep shade, that women do not see their husbands walking with other women.  Corbiou! they will be ready to kill me for troubling so many charming promenades.  Happily I know the king is a philosopher, and I trust in that.  Besides, I am an ambassador, and sacred.”

Chicot entered Nerac in the evening, just at the time of the promenades which occupied the king so much.  Chicot could see the simplicity of the royal manners by the ease with which he obtained an audience.  A valet opened the door of a rustic-looking apartment bordered with flowers, above which was the king’s antechamber and sitting-room.  An officer or page ran to find the king, wherever he might be when any one wished for an audience, and he always came at the first invitation.  Chicot was pleased with this; he judged the king to be open and candid, and he thought so still more when he saw the king coming up a winding walk bordered with laurels and roses, an old hat on his head, and dressed in a dark green doublet and gray boots, and with a cup and ball in his hand.  He looked gay and happy, as though care never came near him.

“Who wants me?” said he to the page.

“A man who looks to me half courtier, half soldier.”

Chicot heard these words, and advanced.

“It is I, sire.”

“What!  M. Chicot in Navarre!  Ventre St. Gris! welcome, dear M. Chicot!”

“A thousand thanks, sire.”

“Quite well?  Ah, parbleu! we will drink together, I am quite delighted.  Chicot, sit down there.”  And he pointed to a grass bank.

“Oh no, sire!”

“Have you come 200 leagues for me to leave you standing?  No, no; sit down; one cannot talk standing.”

“But, sire, respect—­”

“Respect! here in Navarre!  You are mad, my poor Chicot.”

“No, sire, I am not mad, but I am an ambassador.”

A slight frown contracted Henri’s brow, but disappeared at once.

“Ambassador, from whom?”

“From Henri III.  I come from Paris and the Louvre, sire.”

“Oh! that is different.  Come with me,” said the king, rising, with a sigh.

“Page, take wine up to my room.  Come, Chicot, I will conduct you.”

Chicot followed the king, thinking, “How disagreeable! to come and trouble this honest man in his peace and his ignorance.  Bah! he will be philosophical.”