“Ah! yes—­’no news are good news.’  I do not trust to proverbs, and above all to that one.  You have no news from Navarre, then?”

“None—­a proof that there is nothing to tell.”

“And from Flanders?”

“Nothing.”

“A proof that they are fighting.  And from Paris?”

“Nothing.”

“A proof that they are plotting.”

“But, Crillon, I believe I am going to have a child, for the queen dreamed so last night.”

“Well!  I am happy to hear that your majesty is hungry this morning.  Adieu, sire.”

“Go, my good Crillon.”

“Harnibleu! sire, since your majesty is so hungry, you ought to invite me to breakfast with you.”

“Why so, Crillon?”

“Because they say your majesty lives on air, and the air of the times is very bad.  Now I should have been happy to be able to say, ’These are all pure calumnies; the king eats like every one else.’”

“No, Crillon, no; let me believe as they do.  I do not wish to eat like a simple mortal.  Remember this, Crillon—­a king ought always to remain poetical, and only show himself in a noble position.  Thus, for example, do you remember Alexander?”

“What Alexander?”

“Alexander Magnus.  Ah! you do not know Latin, I remember.  Well, King Alexander loved to bathe before his soldiers, because he was so well made, handsome and plump that they compared him to Apollo and even to Antinous.”

“Oh! oh! sire, you would be devilishly in the wrong to bathe before yours, for you are very thin, my poor king.”

“Brave Crillon, go,” said Henry, striking him on the shoulder; “you are an excellent fellow, and do not flatter me; you are no courtier, my old friend.”

“That is why you do not invite me to breakfast,” replied Crillon, laughing good-humoredly, and taking his leave quite contentedly, for the tap on the shoulder consoled him for not getting the breakfast.

When he was gone, the breakfast was laid at once.  The maitre d’hotel had surpassed himself.

A certain partridge soup, with a puree of truffles and chestnuts, attracted the king’s attention, after he had eaten some fine oysters.  Thus the ordinary broth, that faithful old friend of the king’s, implored vainly from its golden basin; it attracted no attention.  The king began to attack the partridge soup, and was at his fourth mouthful, when a light step near him made the floor creak, and a well-known voice behind him said sharply,

“A plate!”

The king turned.  “Chicot!” cried he.

“Himself.”

And Chicot, falling at once into his old habits, sat down in a chair, took a plate and a fork, and began on the oysters, picking out the finest, without saying a word.

“You here! you returned!” cried Henri.

“Hush!” said Chicot, with his mouth full; and he drew the soup toward him.

“Stop, Chicot! that is my dish.”