“Chicot, my only friend.”

“You, at least, are not changed.”

“But you, Chicot, are you changed?”

“I hope so.”

“Chicot, my friend, why did you leave me?”

“Because I am dead.”

“You said just now that you were not dead.”

“Dead to some—­alive to others.”

“And to me?”—­“Dead.”

“Why dead to me?”

“It is easy to comprehend that you are not the master here.”

“How?”

“You can do nothing for those who serve you.”

“Chicot!”

“Do not be angry, or I shall be so, also.”

“Speak then, my friend,” said the king, fearful that Chicot would vanish.

“Well, I had a little affair to settle with M. de Mayenne, you remember?”

“Perfectly.”

“I settled it; I beat this valiant captain without mercy.  He sought for me to hang me; and you, whom I thought would protect me, abandoned me, and made peace with him.  Then I declared myself dead and buried by the aid of my friend Gorenflot, so that M. de Mayenne has ceased to search for me.”

“What a frightful courage you had, Chicot; did you not know the grief your death would cause me?”

“I have never lived so tranquilly as since the world thought me dead.”

“Chicot, my head turns; you frighten me—­I know not what to think.”

“Well! settle something.”

“I think that you are dead and—­”

“Then I lie; you are polite.”

“You commence by concealing some things from me; but presently, like the orators of antiquity, you will tell me terrible truths.”

“Oh! as to that, I do not say no.  Prepare, poor king!”

“If you are not a shade, how could you come unnoticed into my room, through the guarded corridors?” And Henri, abandoning himself to new terrors, threw himself down in the bed and covered up his head.

“Come, come,” cried Chicot; “you have only to touch me to be convinced.”

“But how did you come?”

“Why, I have still the key that you gave me, and which I hung round my neck to enrage your gentlemen, and with this I entered.”

“By the secret door, then?”

“Certainly.”

“And why to-day more than yesterday?”

“Ah! that you shall hear.”

Henri, sitting up again, said like a child, “Do not tell me anything disagreeable, Chicot; I am so glad to see you again.”

“I will tell the truth; so much the worse if it be disagreeable.”

“But your fear of Mayenne is not serious?”

“Very serious, on the contrary.  You understand that M. de Mayenne gave me fifty blows with a stirrup leather, in return for which I gave him one hundred with the sheath of my sword.  No doubt he thinks, therefore, that he still owes me fifty, so that I should not have come to you now, however great your need, had I not known him to be at Soissons.”