Bussy went straight to the sleeping-room of the king. There were in it two beds of velvet and satin, pictures, relics, perfumed sachets from the East, and a collection of beautiful swords. Bussy knew the king was not there, as his brother had asked to see him, but he knew that there was next to it a little room which was occupied in turn by all the king’s favorites, and which he now expected to find occupied by St. Luc, whom the king in his great affection had carried off from his wife. Bussy knocked at the antechamber common to the two rooms. The captain of the guards opened. “M. de Bussy!” cried he. “Yes, myself, dear M. de Nancey; the king wishes to speak to M. de St. Luc.” “Very well, tell M. de St. Luc the king wants him.” “What is he doing?” “He is with Chicot, waiting for the king’s return from his brother.” “Will you permit my page to wait here?” “Willingly, monsieur.” “Enter, Jean,” said Bussy, and he pointed to the embrasure of a window, where she went to hide herself. St. Luc entered, and M. de Nancey retired. “What does the king want now?” cried St. Luc, angrily; “ah! it is you, M. de Bussy.” “I, and before everything, let me thank you for the service you rendered me.” “Ah! it was quite natural; I could not bear to see a brave gentleman assassinated: I thought you killed.” “It did not want much to do it, but I got off with a wound, which I think I repaid with interest to Schomberg and D’Epernon. As for Quelus, he may thank the bones of his head: they are the hardest I ever knew.” “Ah! tell me about it, it will amuse me a little.” “I have no time now, I come for something else. You are ennuyé----” “To death.” “And a prisoner?” “Completely. The king pretends no one can amuse him but me. He is very good, for since yesterday I have made more grimaces than his ape, and been more rude than his jester.” “Well, it is my turn to render you a service: can I do it?” “Yes, go to the Marshal de Brissac’s, and reassure my poor little wife, who must be very uneasy, and must think my conduct very strange.” “What shall I say to her?” “Morbleu! tell her what you see; that I am a prisoner, and that the king talks to me of friendship like Cicero, who wrote on it; and of virtue like Socrates, who practised it. It is in vain I tell him I am ungrateful for the first, and incredulous as to the last: he only repeats it over again.” “Is that all I can do for you?” “Ah, mon Dieu! I fear so.” “Then it is done.” “How so?” “I guessed all this, and told your wife so.” “And what did she say?” “At first she would not believe; but I trust now,” continued he, glancing towards the window, “she will yield to evidence. Ask me something more difficult.” “Then, bring here the griffin of Signor Astolfo, and let me mount en croupe, and go to my wife.” “A more simple thing would be to take the griffin to your wife and bring her here.” “Here!” “Yes, here.” “To the Louvre, that would be droll.”