“What, sire?” cried the queen, in alarm.

“Reassure yourself, madame, I perceived an entire priory of good monks, who presented arms to me with acclamations.”

Every one laughed, and the king continued: 

“Yes, you are right to laugh; I have in France more than ten thousand monks, of whom I can make, if necessary, ten thousand musketeers; then I will create a Grand-Master of the Tonsured Musketeers, and give the place to you, cardinal.”

“Sire, I accept.”

The ladies now, according to etiquette, rose, and, bowing to the king, retired.  The queen followed with her ladies of honor.  The queen-mother remained:  the king’s gayety was a mystery that she wished to fathom.

“Cardinal,” said the king, “what has become of your brother, Du Bouchage?”

“I do not know, sire.”

“How! you do not know?”

“No; I never see him, now.”

A grave, sad voice from the end of the room said, “Here I am, sire.”

“Ah! it is he,” cried Henri.  “Approach, comte; approach.”

The young man obeyed.

“Mon Dieu!” cried the king, “he is no longer a man, but a shade.”

“Sire, he works hard,” said the cardinal, stupefied himself at the change in his brother during the last week.  He was as pale as wax, and looked thin and wan.

“Come here, young man,” said the king.  “Thanks, cardinal, for your quotation from Plutarch; in a similar case I shall apply to you again.”

The cardinal saw that Henri wished to be left alone with his brother, and took his leave.

There only remained the queen-mother, D’Epernon, and Du Bouchage.  The king beckoned to the latter, and said: 

“Why do you hide thus behind the ladies; do you not know it gives me pleasure to see you?”

“Your kind words do me honor, sire,” said the young man, bowing.

“Then how is it that we never see you here now?”

“If your majesty has not seen me, it is because you have not deigned to cast an eye on the corner of the room.  I am here every day regularly; I never have failed, and never will, as long as I can stand upright:  it is a sacred duty to me.”

“And is it that that makes you so sad?”

“Oh! your majesty cannot think so?”

“No, for you and your brother love me, and I love you.  Apropos, do you know that poor Anne has written to me from Dieppe?”

“I did not, sire.”

“Yes; but you know he did not like going?”

“He confided to me his regrets at leaving Paris.”

“Yes; but do you know what he said?  That there existed a man who would have regretted Paris much more; and that if I gave you this order you would die.”

“Perhaps, sire.”

“He said yet more, for your brother talks fast when he is not sulky; he said that if I had given such an order you would have disobeyed it.”

“Your majesty was right to place my death before my disobedience; it would have been a greater grief to me to disobey than to die, and yet I should have disobeyed.”