Henri returned, which was a signal for the flagellation to recommence. In ten minutes the queen arrived, with her sack on her shoulders. Then tapers were distributed to all the court, and barefooted, through the snow, all the courtiers and fine ladies went to Montmartre, shivering. At five o’clock the promenade was over, the convents had received rich presents, the feet of all the court were swollen, and the backs of the courtiers sore. There had been tears, cries, prayers, incense, and psalms. Everyone had suffered, without knowing why the king, who danced the night before, scourged himself to-day. As for Chicot, he had escaped at the Porte Montmartre, and, with Brother Gorenflot, had entered a public-house, where he had eaten and drank. Then he had rejoined the procession and returned to the Louvre. In the evening the king, fatigued with his fast and his exercise, ordered himself a light supper, had his shoulders washed, and then went to visit St. Luc. “Ah!” cried he, “God has done well to render life so bitter.” “Why so, sire?” “Because then man, instead of fearing death, longs for it.” “Speak for yourself, sire, I do not long for it at all.” “Listen, St. Luc, will you follow my example?” “If I think it a good one.” “I will leave my throne, and you your wife, and we will enter a cloister. I will call myself Brother Henri----” “Pardon, sire, if you do not care for your crown, of which you are tired, I care very much for my wife, whom I know so little. Therefore I refuse.” “Oh! you are better.” “Infinitely better, sire; I feel quite joyous, and disposed for happiness and pleasure.” “Poor St. Luc!” cried the king, clasping his hands. “You should have asked me yesterday, sire, then I was ill and cross. I would have thrown myself into a well for a trifle. But this evening it is quite a different thing. I have passed a good night and a charming day. Mordieu, vive la joie!” “You swear, St. Luc.” “Did I, sire? but I think you swear sometimes.” “I have sworn, St. Luc, but I shall swear no more.” “I cannot say that; I will not swear more than I can help, and God is merciful.” “You think he will pardon me?” “Oh! I speak for myself, not for you, sire. You have sinned as a king, I as a private man, and we shall, I trust, be differently judged.” The king sighed. “St. Luc,” said he, “will you pass the night in my room?” “Why, what should we do?” “We will light all the lamps, I will go to bed, and you shall read prayers to me.” “No, thank you, sire.” “You will not?” “On no account.” “You abandon me, St. Luc!” “No, I will stay with your majesty, if you will send for music and ladies, and have a dance.” “Oh, St. Luc, St. Luc!” “I am wild to-night, sire, I want to dance and drink.” “St. Luc,” said the king, solemnly, “do you ever dream?” “Often, sire.” “You believe in dreams?” “With reason.” “How so?” “Dreams console for the reality. Last night I had a charming dream.” “What was it?” “I dreamed that my wife----”