"Chicot, my friend," said Henri, endeavoring to make out by one of his keen glances if Chicot were really drunk or pretending, "the best thing you can do is to go to bed." "Yes, sire; good-night." "Good-evening, Chicot." "Yes, sire, you are right; the best thing Chicot can do is to go to bed." And he lay down on the floor. Henri glanced toward the door, and then, approaching him, said, "You are so drunk, my poor Chicot, that you have taken my floor for your bed." "Chicot does not mind little things." "But I expect some one." "For supper; yes, let us sup--" And Chicot made a fruitless effort to rise. "Ventre St. Gris! how quickly you get drunk. But go along, mordieu! she is getting impatient." "She, who?" "The lady I expect." "A lady; why did you not say, Henriquet? Ah! pardon, I thought I was speaking--to the king of France. He has spoiled me, that good Henriquet. Ah! I will go." "You are a gentleman, Chicot. Now go quickly." "Adieu, sire; a good night to you." "Adieu! and sleep well. You will find the page in the gallery, who will show you your room." Chicot went out; but, after taking a few steps, returned just in time to see Henri let in--not a woman, but a man. Chicot put his eye to the large keyhole. The man took off his hat, and Chicot saw the noble but severe face of Duplessis-Mornay, the rigid and vigilant counselor of Henri of Navarre. "Ah!" thought Chicot, "this will annoy our lover more than I did." But Henri's face showed only joy; and after locking the door, he sat down eagerly to examine some maps, plans, and letters, which his minister had brought him. The king then began to write and to mark the maps. "Oh! this is the way Henri of Navarre makes love," thought Chicot. At this moment he heard steps behind him, and fearful of being surprised, he turned hastily away, and, seeing the page, asked for his room. "Come with me, if you please, monsieur," said D'Aubiac, "and I will conduct you." Chicot began to understand the king of Navarre. Therefore, instead of going to sleep, he sat somber and thoughtful on his bed, while the moon shed its silver light over stream and meadows. "Henri is a real king, and he conspires," thought Chicot. "All this palace, park, town--the whole province--is a focus of conspiracy. All the women make love, but it is political love; and all the men live in the hope of a future. Henri is clever, his talent borders on genius, and he is in communication with Spain, the land of deceit. Who knows if even his noble answer to the ambassador was not a farce, and if he did not warn the ambassador of it by some sign unknown to me? Henri has spies; those beggars were nothing more nor less than gentlemen in disguise. Those pieces of gold, so artistically cut, were pledges of recognition--rallying signs.