And Chicot, swelling out his cheeks, and putting his hand to his side, imitated the king to the life. “What does he say about Bussy?” asked the king, when St. Luc returned. St. Luc was about to reply, when the crowd opening, showed to him six pages, dressed in cloth of gold, covered with chains, and bearing on their breasts the arms of their masters, sparkling in jewels. Behind them came a young man, handsome and proud; who walked with his head raised and a haughty look, and whose simple dress of black velvet contrasted with the splendor of his pages. This was Bussy d’Amboise. Maugiron, Schomberg, and Quelus had drawn near to the king. “See,” said Maugiron, “here is the servant, but where is the master? Are you also in disgrace with him, St. Luc?” “Why should he follow Bussy?” said Quelus. “Do you not remember that when his majesty did M. de Bussy the honor to ask him if he wished to belong to him, he replied that, being of the House of Clermont, he followed no one, and belonged to himself.” The king frowned. “Yes,” said Maugiron, “whatever you say, he serves the Duc d’Anjou.” “Then it is because the duke is greater than the king.” No observation could have been more annoying to the king than this, for he detested the Duc d’Anjou. Thus, although he did not answer, he grew pale. “Come, come, gentlemen,” said St. Luc, trembling, “a little charity for my guests, if you please; do not spoil my wedding day.” “Yes,” said the king, in a mocking tone; “do not spoil St. Luc’s wedding-day.” “Oh!” said Schomberg, “is Bussy allied to the Brissacs?--since St. Luc defends him.” “He is neither my friend nor relation, but he is my guest,” said St. Luc. The king gave an angry look. “Besides,” he hastened to add, “I do not defend him the least in the world.” Bussy approached gravely behind his pages to salute the king, when Chicot cried: “Oh, la! Bussy d’Amboise, Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy, do you not see the true Henri, do you not know the true king from the false? He to whom you are going is Chicot, my jester, at whom I so often laugh.” Bussy continued his way, and was about to bow before the king, when he said: “Do you not hear, M. de Bussy, you are called?” and, amidst shouts of laughter from his minions, he turned his back to the young captain. Bussy reddened with anger, but he affected to take the king’s remark seriously, and turning round towards Chicot: “Ah! pardon, sire,” said he, “there are kings who resemble jesters so much, that you will excuse me, I hope, for having taken a jester for a king.” “Hein,” murmured Henri, “what does he say?” “Nothing, sire,” said St. Luc. “Nevertheless, M. Bussy,” said Chicot; “it was unpardonable.” “Sire, I was preoccupied.” “With your pages, monsieur,” said Chicot; “you ruin yourself in pages, and, par la mordieu, it is infringing our prerogatives.” “How so? I beg your majesty to explain.”