“You still think of your wife?” “More than ever, sire; well, I dreamed that she, with her charming face--for she is pretty, sire----” “So was Eve, who ruined us all.” “Well, my wife had procured wings and the form of a bird, and so, braving locks and bolts, she passed over the walls of the Louvre, and came to my window, crying, ‘Open, St. Luc, open, my husband.’” “And you opened?” “I should think so.” “Worldly.” “As you please, sire.” “Then you woke?” “No, indeed, the dream was too charming; and I hope to-night to dream again; therefore I refuse your majesty’s obliging offer. If I sit up, let me at least have something to pay me for losing my dream. If your majesty will do as I said----” “Enough, St. Luc. I trust Heaven will send you a dream to-night which will lead you to repentance.” “I doubt it, sire, and I advise you to send away this libertine St. Luc, who is resolved not to amend.” “No, no, I hope, before to-morrow, grace will have touched you as it has me. Good night, I will pray for you.” CHAPTER VIII. HOW THE KING WAS AFRAID OF BEING AFRAID. When the king left St. Luc, he found the court, according to his orders, in the great gallery. Then he gave D’O, D’Epernon and Schomberg an order to retire into the provinces, threatened Quelus and Maugiron to punish them if they quarreled anymore with Bussy, to whom he gave his hand to kiss, and then embraced his brother François. As for the queen, he was prodigal in politeness to her. When the usual time for retiring approached, the king seemed trying to retard it. At last ten o’clock struck. “Come with me, Chicot,” then said he, “good night, gentlemen.” “Good night, gentlemen,” said Chicot, “we are going to bed. I want my barber, my hairdresser, my valet de chambre, and, above all, my cream.” “No,” said the king, “I want none of them to-night; Lent is going to begin.” “I regret the cream,” said Chicot. The king and Chicot entered the room, which we already know. “Ah ça! Henri,” said Chicot, “I am the favorite to-night. Am I handsomer than that Cupid, Quelus?” “Silence, Chicot, and you, gentlemen of the toilette, go out.” They obeyed, and the king and Chicot were left alone. “Why do you send them away?” asked Chicot, “they have not greased us yet. Are you going to grease me with your own royal hand? It would be an act of humility.” “Let us pray,” said Henri. “Thank you, that is not amusing. If that be what you called me here for, I prefer to return to the bad company I have left. Adieu, my son. Good night.” “Stay,” said the king. “Oh! this is tyranny. You are a despot, a Phalaris, a Dionysius. All day you have made me tear the shoulders of my friends with cow-hide, and now we are to begin again. Do not let us do it, Henri, when there’s but two, every blow tells.” “Hold your tongue, miserable chatterer, and think of repentance.” “I repent! And of what? Of being jester to a monk. Confiteor--I repent, mea culpa, it is a great sin.” “No sacrilege, wretch.”