He went to the king, who was taking his breakfast in bed, with Chicot sitting by his side.

“Good-day! good-day!” said the king to Joyeuse.  “I am very glad to see you, Anne; I was afraid you would lie in bed all day, you indolent fellow.  How is my brother?”

“Alas! sire, I do not know; I am come to speak to you about mine.”

“Which one?”—­“Henri.”

“Does he still wish to become a monk?”

“More so than ever.”

“And will he take the vows?”

“Yes, sire.”

“He is quite right, too.”

“How so, sire?”

“Because men go straight to heaven that way.”

“Oh!” said Chicot to the king, “men go much faster still by the way your brother is taking.”

“Will your majesty permit me to ask a question?”

“Twenty, Joyeuse, twenty.  I am as melancholy as I can possibly be at Chateau-Thierry, and your questions will distract my attention a little.”

“You know all the religious houses in the kingdom, sire, I believe?”

“As well as I do a coat of arms.”

“Is there one which goes by the name of Les Hospitalieres, sire?”

“It is a very small, highly distinguished, excessively strict, and severe order, composed of twenty ladies, canonesses of Saint Joseph.”

“Do they take the vows there?”

“Yes, as a matter of favor, and upon a presentation from the queen.”

“Should I be indiscreet if I were to ask your majesty where this order is situated?”

“Not at all; it is situated in the Rue de Chevet Saint-Laudry, in the Cite, behind Le Cloitre Notre-Dame.”

“At Paris?”—­“Yes.”

“Thank you, sire.”

“But what the devil do you ask me that for?  Has your brother changed his mind, and, instead of turning a Capuchin friar, does he now wish to become one of the Hospitalieres?”

“No, sire, I should not think he would be so mad, after what your majesty has done me the honor to tell me; but I suspect he has had his head turned by some one belonging to that order, and I should consequently like to discover who this person is, and speak to her.”

“Par la mordieu!” said the king, with a self-satisfied expression, “some seven years ago I knew the superior of that convent, who was an exceedingly beautiful woman.”

“Well, sire, it may perhaps be the very one.”

“I cannot say; since that time, I too, Joyeuse, have assumed religious vows myself, or nearly so, indeed.”

“Sire,” said Joyeuse, “I entreat you to give me, at any rate, a letter to this lady, and my leave of absence for a couple of days.”

“You are going to leave me!” exclaimed the king; “to leave me all alone here?”—­“Oh! ungrateful king,” said Chicot, shrugging his shoulders, “am I not here?”

“My letter, if you please, sire,” said Joyeuse.  The king sighed, but wrote it notwithstanding.

“But you cannot have anything to do at Paris?” said Henri, handing the note to Joyeuse.