“Let him scold, ma mie, and never mind him; I think he would be ill if he did not.”
“But, at least, ventre St. Gris, as you say, get into the litter, and say your sweet things to madame; you will run less risk of being recognized there than in the open street.”
“You are right, Agrippa. Give me a place, ma mie, if you permit me to sit by your side.”
“Permit, sire; I desire it ardently,” replied the lady.
“Sire!” murmured Chicot, who, carried away by an impulse, tried to raise his head, and knocked it against the stone wall. Meanwhile the happy lover profited by the permission given, and seated himself in the litter.
“Oh! how happy I am,” he cried, without attending in the least to the impatience of his friend—“ventre St. Gris, this is a good day. Here are my good Parisians, who execrate me with all their souls, and would kill me if they could, working to smooth my way to the throne, and I have in my arms the woman I love. Where are we, D’Aubigné? when I am king, I will erect here a statue to the genius of the Béarnais.”
“The Béarn——” began Chicot, but he stopped, for he had given his head a second bump.
“We are in the Rue de la Ferronnerie, sire,” said D’Aubigné, “and it does not smell nice.”
“Get in then, Agrippa, and we will go on.”
“Ma foi, no, I will follow behind; I should annoy you, and, what is worse, you would annoy me.”