“Henceforth, for some time, all that will change.”
“Ah, ah! are you a necromancer, M. Chicot?”
“Sometimes; come, take courage, and come in with me.”
They entered together; one went towards the apartments of the Duc d’Anjou, and the other to those of the king.
Henri was just awake, and had rung, and a crowd of valets and friends had rushed in; already the chicken broth and the spiced wine were served, when Chicot entered, and without saying a word, sat down to eat and drink.
“Par la mordieu!” cried the king, delighted, although he affected anger; “it is that knave of a Chicot, that fugitive, that vagabond!”
“What is the matter, my son?” said Chicot, placing himself on the immense seat, embroidered with fleur-de-lis, on which the king was seated.
“Here is my misfortune returned,” said Henri; “for three weeks I have been so tranquil.”
“Bah! you always grumble. One would think you were one of your own subjects. Let me hear, Henriquet, how you have governed this kingdom in my absence.”
“Chicot!”