Henri felt wounded at this cold question.
"No, monseigneur, he lives," replied he.
"Ah! so much the better," said the duke, with his icy smile. "What! our brave Joyeuse lives! Where is he, that I may embrace him?"
"He is not here, monseigneur."
"Ah! wounded?"
"No, monseigneur, he is safe and sound."
"But a fugitive like me, wandering, famished, and ashamed. Alas! the proverb is right—'For glory, the sword; after the sword, blood; after blood, tears.'"
"Monseigneur, I am happy to tell your highness that my brother has been happy enough to save three thousand men, with whom he occupies a large village about seven leagues from here, and I am acting as scout for him."
The duke grew pale.
"Three thousand men! he has saved three thousand men! he is a perfect Xenophon, and it is very lucky for me that my brother sent him to me. It is not the Valois who can take for their motto 'Hilariter.'"