“Truly! where did it take place?”

“You mean, where was it to have taken place?”

“Yes.”

“At Bel-Esbat.”

“Near the convent of our friend Gorenflot?”

“Just so.”

“And how did he behave under the circumstances?”

“Wonderfully, as usual.  Chicot, I do not know if he had heard any rumor; but instead of snoring in bed, he was up in his balcony, while all his convent kept the road.”

“And he did nothing else?”

“Who?”

“Dom Modeste.”

“He blessed me with a majesty peculiar to himself, Chicot.”

“And his monks?”

“They cried ‘Vive le Roi!’ tremendously.”

“And were they not armed?”

“They were completely armed, which was a wonderful piece of thoughtfulness on the part of the worthy prior; and yet this man has said nothing, and asked for nothing.  He did not come the next day, like D’Epernon, to search my pockets, crying, ’Sire, something for having saved the king.’”

“Oh! as for that, he is incapable of it; besides, his hands would not go into your pockets.”

“Chicot, no jests about Dom Modeste; he is one of the greatest men of my reign; and I declare that on the first opportunity I will give him a bishopric.”

“And you will do well, my king.”

“Remark one thing, Chicot, that a great man from the ranks of the people is complete; we gentlemen, you see, inherit in our blood certain vices and virtues.  Thus, the Valois are cunning and subtle, brave, but idle; the Lorraines are ambitious, greedy, and intriguing; the Bourbons are sensual, without ideas, force, or will.  Look at Henri:  when Nature, on the contrary, draws a great man from among the people, like Gorenflot, he is complete.”

“You think so?”

“Yes; learned, modest, cunning, and brave, you could make of him what you liked—­minister, general, or pope.”

“Pray stop, sire.  If the brave man heard you he would burst his skin, for, in spite of what you say, Dom Modeste is very vain.”

“You are jealous, Chicot.”

“I!  Heaven forbid!  Jealous!”

“I am but just; noble blood does not blind me.  ‘Stemmata quid faciunt?’”

“Bravo! and you say, then, Henri, that you were nearly assassinated?”

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“By the League, mordieu!”

“How does the League get on?”

“Just the same.”

“Which means that it grows daily.”

“Oh! political bodies never live which grow big too young.  They are like children, Chicot.”

“Then you are content, my son?”

“Nearly so.”

“You are happy?”

“Yes, Chicot, and I am very glad to see you return.”

“‘Habemus consulem facetum,’ as Cato said.”

“You bring good news, do you not?”

“I should think so.”

“You keep me in suspense.”