“Ah! I would rather he shut up in a cage with lions and apes, than with a mad king. Adieu, I am going.”
The king locked the door.
“Henri, you look sinister; if you do not let me go, I will cry, I will call, I will break the window, I will kick down the door.”
“Chicot,” said the king, in a melancholy tone, “you abuse my sadness.”
“Ah! I understand, you are afraid to be alone. Tyrants always are so. Take my long sword, and let me take the scabbard to my room.”
At the word “afraid,” Henri shuddered, and he looked nervously around, and seemed so agitated and grew so pale, that Chicot began to think him really ill, and said,—
“Come, my son, what is the matter, tell your troubles to your friend Chicot.”
The king looked at him and said, “Yes, you are my friend, my only friend.”
“There is,” said Chicot, “the abbey of Valency vacant.”
“Listen, Chicot, you are discreet.”