“They will not sleep to-morrow, sire.”

CHAPTER XIV.

The shade of Chicot.

The king, as we have said, was never deceived as to the character of his friends; he knew perfectly well that D’Epernon was working for his own advantage, but as he expected to have had to give and receive nothing in return, whereas he had got forty-five guards, he had thought it a good idea.  Besides, it was a novelty, which was a thing that a poor king of France could not always get, and especially Henri III., who, when he had gone through his processions, counted his dogs, and uttered his usual number of sighs, had nothing left to do.  Therefore he became more and more pleased with the idea as he returned to his room.

“These men are doubtless brave, and will be perhaps very devoted,” thought he; “and forty-five swords always ready to leap from their scabbards are a grand thing.”

This thought brought to his mind the other devoted swords that he regretted so bitterly.  He became sad again, and inquired for Joyeuse.  They replied that he had not returned.

“Then call my valets-de-chambre.”

When he was in bed, they asked if his reader should attend, for Henri was subject to long fits of wakefulness, and was often read to sleep.

“No,” replied the king, “I want no one; only if M. de Joyeuse returns, bring him to me.”

“If he returns late, sire?”

“Alas! he is always late; but whatever be the hour, bring him here.”

The servants extinguished the candles and lighted a lamp of essences, which gave a pale blue flame, that the king liked.  Henri was tired, and soon slept, but not for long; he awoke, thinking he heard a noise in the room.

“Joyeuse,” he asked; “is it you?”

No one replied.  The light burned dim, and only threw faint circles on the ceiling of carved oak.

“Alone, still!” murmured the king.  “Mon Dieu!  I am alone all my life, as I shall be after death.”

“‘Alone after death’; that is not certain,” said a powerful voice near the bed.

The king started up and looked round him in terror.  “I know that voice,” cried he.

“Ah! that is lucky,” replied the voice.

“It is like the voice of Chicot.”

“You burn, Henri:  you burn.”

Then the king, getting half out of bed, saw a man sitting in the very chair which he had pointed out to D’Epernon.

“Heaven protect me!” cried he; “it is the shade of Chicot.”

“Ah! my poor Henriquet, are you still so foolish?”

“What do you mean?”

“That shades cannot speak, having no body, and consequently no tongue.”

“Then you are Chicot, himself?” cried the king, joyfully.

“Do not be too sure.”

“Then you are not dead, my poor Chicot?”

“On the contrary; I am dead.”