The repast was joyous.  Henri seemed no longer to have any weight either on his heart or his mind, and he was an excellent companion.  As for Chicot, he dissembled the uneasiness he had felt since the coming of the Spanish ambassador and the scene with the mendicants.  He endeavored to drink little and keep cool, to observe everything; but this Henri would not allow.  However, Chicot had a head of iron, and as for Henri, he said he could drink these wines of the country like milk.

“I envy you,” said Chicot to the king; “your court is delightful, and your life pleasant.”

“If my wife were here, Chicot, I would not say what I am about to say, but in her absence I will tell you that the best part of my life is that which you do not see.”

“Ah! sire, they tell, indeed, fine tales of you.”

Henri leaned back in his chair to laugh.  “They say I reign more over my female than my male subjects, do they not?” said he.

“Yes, sire, and it astonishes me.”

“Why so?”

“Because, sire, you have much of that restless spirit which makes great kings.”

“Ah, Chicot! you are wrong; I am lazy, and the proof of it is in my life.  If I have a love to choose, I take the nearest; if a wine, the bottle close to my hand.  To your health, Chicot.”

“Sire, you do me honor,” said Chicot, emptying his glass.

“Thus,” continued the king, “what quarrels in my household!”

“Yes, I understand; all the ladies-in-waiting adore you, sire.”

“They are my neighbors, Chicot.”

“Then, sire, it might result from this, that if you lived at St. Denis instead of Nerac, the king might not live very tranquilly.”

“The king! what do you say, Chicot?  Do you think I am a Guise?  I wish for Cahors, it is true, because it is near to me.”

“Ventre de biche, sire, this ambition for things within the reach of your hand resembles much that of Caesar Borgia, who gathered together a kingdom, city by city; saying that Italy was an artichoke to be eaten leaf by leaf.”

“This Caesar Borgia was not a bad politician, it seems to me, compere.”

“No, but he was a very dangerous neighbor and a bad brother.”

“Ah! would you compare me to the son of a pope—­I, a Huguenot chief?”

“Sire, I compare you to no one.”

“Why not?”

“I believe he would be wrong who should liken you to any other than yourself.  You are ambitious, sire.”

“Here is a man determined to make me want something,” cried Henri.

“God forbid, sire; I desire with all my heart, on the contrary, that your majesty should want nothing.”

“Nothing calls you back to Paris, does it, Chicot?”

“No, sire.”

“Then you will pass some days with me?”

“If your majesty does me the honor to wish for my company, I ask no better than to give you a week.”

“So be it; in a week you will know me like a brother.  Drink, Chicot.”