“No, remain.”

Chicot stopped.

“Cahors taken!” continued Henri.

“Yes, and very well done, too.”

“Then he has generals and engineers?”

“No, he is too poor for that; he could not pay them; he does it all himself.”

“He fight!” said Henri, disdainfully.

“I do not say that he rushes into it with enthusiasm; no, he resembles those people who try the water before they bathe; he just dips the ends of his fingers with a little shudder, which augurs badly, then his breast; all this takes him about ten minutes, and then he rushes into action, and through fire, like a salamander.”

“Diable!”

“And I assure you, Henri, the fire was hot there.”

The king rose and walked up and down the room.

“Here is a misfortune for me,” cried he; “they will laugh at it:  they will sing about it.  Mordieu! it is lucky I thought of sending the promised aid to Antwerp; Antwerp will compensate for Cahors; the north will blot out the south.”

“Amen!” said Chicot, plunging his hands into the king’s sweetmeat-box to finish his desert.

At this moment the door opened, and the usher announced “M. le Comte du Bouchage.”

“Ah!” cried Henri, “I told you so; here are news.  Enter, comte, enter.”

The usher opened the door, and Henri du Bouchage entered slowly and bent a knee to the king.

“Still pale and sad,” said the king.  “Come, friend, take a holiday air for a little while, and do not tell me good news with a doleful face:  speak quickly, Du Bouchage, for I want to hear.  You come from Flanders?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And quickly?”

“As quickly, sire, as a man can ride.”

“You are welcome.  And now, what of Antwerp?”

“Antwerp belongs to the Prince of Orange.”

“To the Prince of Orange!”

“Yes, to William.”

“But did not my brother attack Antwerp?”

“Yes, sire; but now he is traveling to Chateau-Thierry.”

“He has left the army?”

“Sire, there is no longer an army.”

“Oh!” cried the king, sinking back in his armchair, “but Joyeuse—­”

“Sire, my brother, after having done wonders with his sailors, after having conducted the whole of the retreat, rallied the few men who escaped the disaster, and sent me home with an escort for M. le Duc d’Anjou.”

“A defeat!” murmured the king.

But all at once, with a strange look.

“Then Flanders is lost to my brother?”

“Absolutely, sire.”

“Without hope?”

“I fear so, sire.”

The clouds gradually cleared from the king’s brow.

“That poor Francois,” said he, smiling; “he is unlucky in his search for a crown.  He missed that of Navarre, he has stretched out his hand for that of England, and has touched that of Flanders; I would wager, Du Bouchage, that he will never reign, although he desires it so much.  And how many prisoners were taken?”