The man bowed and withdrew.

The next advanced and said, “Auch.”

“How many?”

“Three hundred and fifty.”

“Cahors;” and he gave him his piece.

“Narbonne,” said the third.

“How many?”

“Eight hundred.”

“Cahors;” and he gave him his piece.

“Montauban,” said the fourth.

“How many?”

“Six hundred.”—­“Cahors.”

Each one in this way pronounced a name and a number, and received a piece of gold, and to each Henri replied, “Cahors.”

This over, there were no pieces left in the purse.

“That is all, sire,” said Chicot.

“Yes; I have finished.”

“Sire, am I permitted to be curious?”

“Why not?  Curiosity is natural.”

“What did these beggars say, and what did you reply?”

Henri smiled.

“Indeed,” continued Chicot, “all is mysterious here.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes; I have never seen alms given in that way.”

“It is the custom at Nerac.”

“A singular one, sire.”

“No, nothing is more simple; each of those men came from a different city.”

“Well, sire?”

“Well, that I may not always give to the same, they each tell me the name of their town, so that I can distribute my benefits equally among all the unfortunates in my kingdom.”

“Yes, sire; but why did you answer ’Cahors’?”

“Ah!” cried Henri, with a most natural air of surprise, “did I say ’Cahors’?”

“Yes, sire.”

“You think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

“It must have been because we had been talking so much about it.  I wish for it so much that I must have spoken of it without meaning to do so.”

“Hum!” said Chicot, suspiciously, “and then there was something else.”

“What! something else?”

“A number that each one pronounced, and which, added together, made more than eight thousand.”

“Ah! as to that, Chicot, I did not understand it myself; unless, as the beggars are divided into corporations, they each named the number of members, which seems to me probable.”

“Sire, sire!”

“Come and sup, my friend, nothing enlightens the mind like eating and drinking.  Let us go to table, and you shall see that if my pistoles are cut, my bottles are full.”

Then, passing his arm familiarly through Chicot’s, the king went back to his room, where supper was served.  Passing by the queen’s room, he glanced at it, and saw no light.

“Page,” said he, “is not her majesty at home?”

“Her majesty is gone to see Mademoiselle de Montmorency, who is ill.”

“Ah! poor Fosseuse!” said Henri:  “it is true, the queen has such a good heart.  Come to supper, Chicot.”

CHAPTER L.

The true mistress of the king of Navarre.