Towards the middle of the night Henri III. was awoke by an unaccustomed noise in the palace. It was oaths, blows on the wall, rapid steps in the galleries, and, amidst all, these words continually sounding, “What will the king say?”
Henri sat up and called Chicot, who was asleep on the couch.
Chicot opened one eye.
“Ah, you were wrong to call me, Henri,” said he; “I was dreaming that you had a son.”
“But listen.”
“To what? You say enough follies to me by day, without breaking in on my nights.”
“But do you not hear?”
“Oh, oh! I do hear cries.”
“Do you hear, ‘What will the king say?’”
“It is one of two things—either your dog Narcissus is ill, or the Huguenots are taking their revenge for St. Bartholomew.”