“Good.”
“But you will not?”
“Certainly not, I will stay here.”
“You will not go to sleep?”
“Oh, that I cannot promise; sleep is like fear, my son, a thing independent of will.”
“You will try, at least?”
“Be easy; I will pinch myself. Besides, the voice would wake me.”
“Do not joke about the voice.”
“Well, well, go to bed.”
The king sighed, looked round anxiously, and glided tremblingly into bed. Then Chicot established him in his chair, arranging round him the pillows and cushions.