“About two thousand.”

“How many killed?”

“At least as many; and among them M. de St. Aignan.”

“What! poor St. Aignan dead!”

“Drowned.”

“Drowned!  Did you throw yourselves into the Scheldt?”

“No, the Scheldt threw itself upon us.”

The comte then gave the king a description of the battle, and of the inundations.  Henri listened silently.  When the recital was over, he rose, and kneeling down on his prie-Dieu, said some prayers, and then returned with a perfectly calm face.

“Well,” said he, “I trust I bear things like a king; and you, comte, since your brother is saved, like mine, thank God, and smile a little.”

“Sire, I am at your orders.”

“What do you ask as payment for your services, Du Bouchage?”

“Sire, I have rendered no service.”

“I dispute that; but at least your brother has.”—­“Immense, sire.”

“He has saved the army, you say, or rather, its remnants?”

“There is not a man left who does not say that he owes his life to my brother.”

“Well!  Du Bouchage, my will is to extend my benefits to both, and I only imitate in that Him who made you both rich, brave, and handsome; besides, I should imitate those great politicians who always rewarded the bearers of bad news.”

“Oh!” said Chicot, “I have known men hung for bringing bad news.”

“That is possible,” said the king; “but remember the senate that thanked Varron.”

“You cite republicans, Valois; misfortune makes you humble.”

“Come, Du Bouchage, what will you have—­what would you like?”

“Since your majesty does me the honor to speak to me so kindly, I will dare to profit by your goodness.  I am tired of life, sire, and yet have a repugnance to shortening it myself, for God forbids it, and all the subterfuges that a man of honor employs in such a case are mortal sins.  To get one’s self killed in battle or to let one’s self die of hunger are only different forms of suicide.  I renounce the idea, therefore, of dying before the term which God has fixed for my life, and yet the world fatigues me, and I must leave it.”

“My friend!” said the king.

Chicot looked with interest at the young man, so beautiful, so brave, so rich, and yet speaking in this desponding tone.

“Sire,” continued the comte, “everything that has happened to me for some time has strengthened my resolution.  I wish to throw myself into the arms of God, who is the sovereign consoler of the afflicted, as he is of the happy.  Deign then, sire, to facilitate my entrance into a religious life, for my heart is sad unto death.”

The king was moved at this doleful request.

“Ah!  I understand,” said he; “you wish to become a monk, but you fear the probation.”

“I do not fear the austerities, sire, but the time they leave one in indecision.  It is not to soften my life, nor to spare my body any physical suffering, or my mind any moral privation, but it is to pass at once from this world to the grating which separates me from it, and which one generally attains so slowly.”