CHAPTER LXXIX.

The two companions.

Chicot, at this announcement, sat down and turned his back to the door; but the first words pronounced by the duke’s messenger made him start.  He opened his eyes.  The messenger could see nothing but the eye of Chicot peering from behind the chair, while Chicot could see him altogether.

“You come from Lorraine?” asked the king of the new comer, who had a fine and warlike appearance.

“Not so, sire; I come from Soissons, where M. le Duc, who has been a month in that city, gave me this letter to deliver to your majesty.”

The messenger then opened his buff coat, which was fastened by silver clasps, and drew from a leather pouch lined with silk not one letter, but two; for they had stuck together by the wax, and as the captain advanced to give the king one letter, the other fell on the carpet.  Chicot’s eyes followed the messenger, and saw the color spread over his cheeks as he stooped to pick up the letter he had let fall.  But Henri saw nothing, he opened his own letter and read, while the messenger watched him closely.

“Ah!  M. Borromee,” thought Chicot, “so you are a captain, are you?”

“Good,” said the king, after reading the duke’s letter with evident satisfaction.  “Go, captain, and tell M. de Guise that I am grateful for his offer.”

“Your majesty will not honor me with a written answer?”

“No, I shall see the duke in a month or six weeks, and can thank him myself.”

The captain bowed and went out.

“You see, Chicot,” then said the king, “that M. de Guise is free from all machinations.  This brave duke has learned the Navarre business, and he fears that the Huguenots will raise up their heads, for he has also ascertained that the Germans are about to send re-enforcements to Henri.  Now, guess what he is about to do.”

As Chicot did not reply, Henri went on.

“Well! he offers me the army that he has just raised in Lorraine to watch Flanders, and says that in six weeks it will be at my command, with its general.  What do you say to that, Chicot?”

No answer.

“Really, my dear Chicot,” continued the king, “you are as absurdly obstinate as a Spanish mule; and if I happen to convince you of some error, you sulk; yes, sulk.”

Not a sound came to contradict Henri in this frank opinion of his friend.  Now silence displeased Henri more than contradiction.

“I believe,” said he, “that the fellow has had the impertinence to go to sleep.  Chicot!” continued he, advancing to the armchair; “reply when your king speaks.”

But Chicot did not reply, for he was not there; and Henri found the armchair empty.

He looked all round the room, but Chicot was not to be seen.  The king gave a superstitious shudder; it sometimes came into his mind that Chicot was a supernatural being—­a diabolic incarnation, of a good kind, it was true, but still diabolical.