"Because, sire, you have much of that restless spirit which makes great kings."
"Ah, Chicot! you are wrong; I am lazy, and the proof of it is in my life. If I have a love to choose, I take the nearest; if a wine, the bottle close to my hand. To your health, Chicot."
"Sire, you do me honor," said Chicot, emptying his glass.
"Thus," continued the king, "what quarrels in my household!"
"Yes, I understand; all the ladies-in-waiting adore you, sire."
"They are my neighbors, Chicot."
"Then, sire, it might result from this, that if you lived at St. Denis instead of Nerac, the king might not live very tranquilly."
"The king! what do you say, Chicot? Do you think I am a Guise? I wish for Cahors, it is true, because it is near to me."
"Ventre de biche, sire, this ambition for things within the reach of your hand resembles much that of Cæsar Borgia, who gathered together a kingdom, city by city; saying that Italy was an artichoke to be eaten leaf by leaf."
"This Cæsar Borgia was not a bad politician, it seems to me, compere."