“Where is it?”

“In the cemetery of the Grands-Innocens, great prince.”

Henri looked at him in astonishment again.

“Ah! you did not expect that,” said Chicot.  “Well, till to-morrow, when I or my messenger will come—­”

“How shall I know your messenger when he arrives?”

“He will say he comes from the shade.”  And Chicot disappeared so rapidly as almost to reawaken the king’s fears as to whether he were a shade or not.

CHAPTER XVI.

The serenade.

From the Louvre Chicot had not far to go to his home.  He went to the bank of the Seine and got into a little boat which he had left there.

“It is strange,” thought he, as he rowed and looked at the still-lighted window of the king’s room, “that after so many years, Henri is still the same.  Others have risen or fallen, while he has gained some wrinkles, and that is all.  He has the same weak, yet elevated mind—­still fantastical and poetical—­still the same egotistical being, always asking for more than one has to give him, friendship from the indifferent, love from the friendly, devotion from the loving, and more sad than any one in his kingdom.  By-the-by, he did not speak of giving me any money for my journey; that proves at least that he thinks me a friend.”  And he laughed quietly.

He soon arrived at the opposite bank, where he fastened his boat.  On entering the Rue des Augustins, he was struck by the sound of instruments and voices in the street at that late hour.

“Is there a wedding here?” thought he, “I have not long to sleep, and now this will keep me awake.”

As he advanced, he saw a dozen flambeaux carried by pages, while thirty musicians were playing on different instruments.  The band was stationed before a house, that Chicot, with surprise, recognized as his own.  He remained for an instant stupefied, and then said to himself, “There must be some mistake; all this noise cannot be for me.  Unless, indeed, some unknown princess has suddenly fallen in love with me.”

This supposition, flattering as it was, did not appear to convince Chicot, and he turned toward the house facing his, but it showed no signs of life.

“They must sleep soundly, there,” said he; “such a noise is enough to wake the dead.”

“Pardon me, my friend,” said he, addressing himself to a torch-bearer, “but can you tell me, if you please, who all this music is for?”

“For the bourgeois who lives there.” replied he, pointing out to Chicot his own house.

“Decidedly it is for me!” thought he.  “Whom do you belong to?” he asked.

“To the bourgeois who lives there.”

“Ah! they not only come for me, but they belong to me—­still better.  Well! we shall see,” and piercing through the crowd, he opened his door, went upstairs, and appeared at his balcony, in which he placed a chair and sat down.