"An affair that is like to place me on the road to Montfaucon," I said a little bitterly. "On the contrary," replied De Lorgnac, "rather, perhaps, on the road to better things." "Hearken not unto him!" said Le Brusquet; "he is for ever looking out for recruits for his guard. Blaise de Lorgnac is as insatiable a stirrer of the porridge of the times as I; only I use a longer ladle, as beseems a person of my wisdom. As for you, _mon ami_ Blaise,--you throw your lures in vain! Know you that Monsieur Broussel is a philosopher, who has found contentment in--fifty ecus a year, did you not say, monsieur?" And, reaching for his lute, he ran his fingers over the strings and began to sing: "Mes amis, la terre est a moi. J'ai de quoi Vivre en roi Si l'eclat me tente. Les honneurs me sont devolus J'ai cinquante ecus, J'ai cinquante ecus, J'ai cinquante ecus de." "_Mille tonnerres_! Stop! Do you want to bring half the Louvre here to listen?" And De Lorgnac placed his hand over the singer's mouth, and took the lute from him. "Enough!" said Le Brusquet; "you have banished the inspiration. I sing no more. And as for you, Monsieur Blaise, take yourself off with that long sword of yours. It frightens the ape, and I have that to say which is for M. Broussel's ear alone." "_Au revoir_!" said Lorgnac, but as he reached the door he turned to me. "Your Pierrebon is safe and sound in the Rue Tire Boudin. He has received orders not to stir forth. In the matter of the horses--you must let that be my care." And without waiting for reply he went away. "I know not how to thank M. de Lorgnac or you----" I began, but Le Brusquet cut in: "As yet the thanks are due from me, and Lorgnac is helping me to pay my debts. And now listen, _mon ami_. One half the world consists of fools who give advice, and the other half of idiots who refuse to benefit by it; let me for once see an exception to the rule." "I hardly follow you." "I will explain. Between us there is this difference. In the search for happiness that every man makes I remained in the world, and you left it and turned philosopher. The result is that I am fairly satisfied with life, whereas you are sick of it in your heart. Yet, until this disaster came to you, you tried to play the happy man with your lute, your 'Plutarch's Lives,' and your hermit's cell of a house. Is it not so?" I made no answer, and he continued: "Last night, for some reason of your own--perhaps because you still clung to your belief in your own way of life--you refused a chance; that chance has gone; but another is left, and it remains for you to take it or not." "What is left?" "What is left is this. Last night you refused the sauce of a prince of the blood; to-day will you refuse the soup of a Queen?" "Of a Queen!"