“Corboeuf! he had enough to do on his own account.”
“How so?”
“I left him in the hands of a dyer whose wife’s cap he had pulled off, and who, with his five or six apprentices, seemed likely to make him pass an unpleasant quarter of an hour.”
“Par la mordieu! and where did you leave my poor Schomberg? I will go myself to his aid. They may say,” continued he, looking at Maugiron and Quelus, “that my friends abandon me, but they shall never say that I abandon them.”
“Thanks, sire,” said a voice behind Henri; “thanks, but here I am; I extricated myself without assistance; but, mein Gott! it was not without trouble.”
“It is Schomberg’s voice,” cried all, “but where the devil is he?”
“Here I am,” cried the voice; and indeed, in the corner of the room they saw something that looked not like a man but a shadow.
“Schomberg,” cried the king, “where do you come from, and why are you that color?”
Indeed, Schomberg from head to foot was of a most beautiful blue.
“Der Teufel!” cried he, “the wretches! It is not wonderful that the people ran after me.”