“Poor boy!” said the king.  “I think he will make a good preacher; will he not, Chicot?”

Chicot did not reply.  Du Bouchage continued: 

“You see, sire, that it is with my own family that the struggle will take place, and with my relations that I shall meet with the greatest opposition.  My brother, the cardinal, at once so good and so worldly, will find a thousand reasons to persuade me against it.  At Rome your majesty is all-powerful; you have asked me what I wish for, and promised to grant it; my wish is this, obtain from Rome an authority that my novitiate be dispensed with.”

The king rose smiling, and taking the comte’s hand, said—­

“I will do what you ask, my son.  You wish to serve God, and you are right; he is a better master than I am.  You have my promise, dear comte.”

“Your majesty overwhelms me with joy,” cried the young man, kissing Henri’s hand as though he had made him duke, peer, or marshal of France.  “Then it is settled?”

“On my word as a king and a gentleman.”

Something like a smile passed over the lips of Du Bouchage; he bowed respectfully to the king and took leave.

“What a happy young man,” said Henri.

“Oh!” said Chicot, “you need not envy him; he is not more doleful than yourself.”

“But, Chicot, he is going to give himself up to religion.”

“And who the devil prevents you from doing the same?  I know a cardinal who will give all necessary aid, and he has more interest at Rome than you have; do you not know him?  I mean the Cardinal de Guise.”

“Chicot!”

“And if the tonsure disquiets you, for it is rather a delicate operation, the prettiest hands and the prettiest scissors—­golden scissors, ma foi!—­will give you this precious symbol, which would raise to three the number of the crowns you have worn, and will justify the device, ‘Manet ultima coelo.’”

“Pretty hands, do you say?”

“Yes, do you mean to abuse the hands of Madame de Montpensier?  How severe you are upon your subjects.”

The king frowned, and passed over his eyes a hand as white as those spoken of, but more trembling.

“Well!” said Chicot, “let us leave that, for I see that the conversation does not please you, and let us return to subjects that interest me personally.”

The king made a gesture, half indifferent, half approving.

“Have you heard, Henri,” continued Chicot, “whether those Joyeuses carried off any woman?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Have they burned anything?”

“What?”

“How should I know what a great lord burns to amuse himself; the house of some poor devil, perhaps.”

“Are you mad, Chicot?  Burn a house for amusement in my city of Paris!”

“Oh! why not?”

“Chicot!”

“Then they have done nothing that you know of?”

“Ma foi, no.”