The king looked at all this with a troubled curiosity.  “Well,” said he, “who are these people?”

“People who sleep to-night, but will not do so to-morrow night.”

“Why not?”

“That your majesty may sleep in peace.”

“Explain yourself.  Are these your friends?”

“Chosen by me, sire; intrepid guards, who will not quit your majesty, and who, gentlemen all, will be able to go whereever your majesty goes, and will let no one approach you.”

“And you thought of this, D’Epernon?”

“I, alone, sire.”

“We shall be laughed at.”

“No, we shall be feared.”

“But they will ruin me?”

“How can a king be ruined?”

“I cannot pay my Swiss!”

“Look at these men, sire; do you think they would be very expensive to keep?”

“But they could not always live like this, they would be stifled.  And look at their doublets!”

“Oh!  I confess they are not all very sumptuously clothed, but if they had been born dukes and peers—­”

“Yes, I understand; they would have cost me more?”—­“Just so.”

“Well, how much will they cost?  That will, perhaps, decide me, for, in truth, D’Epernon, they do not look very inviting.”

“Sire, I know they are rather thin and burned by our southern sun, but I was so when I came to Paris.  They will fatten and whiten like me.”

“How they snore!”

“Sire, you must not judge them to-night; they have supped well.”

“Stay, there is one speaking in his sleep; let us listen.”

Indeed, one of the gentlemen called out, “If you are a woman, fly!”

The king approached him softly.  “Ah! ah!” said he, “he is a gallant.”

“What do you think of him, sire?”

“His face pleases me, and he has white hands and a well-kept beard.”

[Illustration:  “His face pleases me, and he has white hands and A well-kept beard.”]

“It is Ernanton de Carmainges, a fine fellow, who is capable of much.”

“He has left behind him some love, I suppose, poor fellow.  But what a queer figure his next neighbor is.”

“Ah! that is M. de Chalabre.  If he ruins your majesty, it will not be without enriching himself, I answer for it.”

“And that one, with such a somber air; he does not seem as though he dreamed of love.”

“What number, sire?”

“Number 12.”

“M. de St. Maline, a brave fellow, with a heart of bronze.”

“Well, Lavalette, you have had a good idea.”

“I should think so.  Imagine the effect that will be produced by these new watch-dogs, who will follow you like your shadow.”

“Yes, yes; but they cannot follow me in this guise.”

“Now we return to the money.  But about this, also, I have an idea.”