“You are mad.” “Why so?” “You will make oceans of blood flow. The standard of revolt will soon be raised; and you will arm against you a host who never would rise for François.” “But if I do not revenge myself they will think I am afraid.” “Did any one ever think I was afraid? Besides, it was not the Angevins.” “Who was it then? it must have been my brother’s friends.” “Your brother has no friends.” “But who was it then?” “Your enemy.” “What enemy?” “O! my son, you know you have never had but one; yours, mine, your brother Charles’s; always the same.” “Henri of Navarre, you mean?” “Yes, Henri of Navarre.” “He is not at Paris.” “Do you know who is at Paris, and who is not? No, you are all deaf and blind.” “Can it have been he?” “My son, at every disappointment you meet with, at every misfortune that happens to you of which the author is unknown, do not seek or conjecture; it is useless. Cry out, it is Henri of Navarre, and you will be sure to be right. Strike on the side where he is, and you will be sure to strike right. Oh! that man, that man; he is the sword suspended over the head of the Valois.” “Then you think I should countermand my orders about the Angevins?” “At once, without losing an instant. Hasten; perhaps you are already too late.” Henry flew out of the Louvre to find his friends, but found only Chicot drawing figures in the sand with a stone. CHAPTER LXII. HOW, AS CHICOT AND THE QUEEN MOTHER WERE AGREED, THE KING BEGAN TO AGREE WITH THEM. “Is this how you defend your king?” cried Henri. “Yes, it is my manner, and I think it is a good one.” “Good, indeed!” “I maintain it, and I will prove it.” “I am curious to hear this proof.” “It is easy; but first, we have committed a great folly.” “How so?” cried Henri, struck by the agreement between Chicot and his mother. “Yes,” replied Chicot, “your friends are crying through the city, ‘Death to the Angevins!’ and now that I reflect, it was never proved that they had anything to do with the affair. And your friends, crying thus through the city, will raise that nice little civil war of which MM. de Guise have so much need, and which they did not succeed in raising for themselves. Besides which, your friends may get killed, which would not displease me, I confess, but which would afflict you, or else they will chase all the Angevins from the city, which will please M. d’Anjou enormously.” “Do you think things are so bad?” “Yes, if not worse.” “But all this does not explain what you do here, sitting on a stone.” “I am tracing a plan of all the provinces that your brother will raise against you, and the number of men each will furnish to the revolt.” “Chicot, Chicot, you are a bird of bad augury.” “The owl sings at night, my son, it is his hour. Now it is dark, Henri, so dark that one might take the day for the night, and I sing what you ought to hear. Look!” “At what?”