"Remark one thing, Chicot, that a great man from the ranks of the people is complete; we gentlemen, you see, inherit in our blood certain vices and virtues. Thus, the Valois are cunning and subtle, brave, but idle; the Lorraines are ambitious, greedy, and intriguing; the Bourbons are sensual, without ideas, force, or will. Look at Henri: when Nature, on the contrary, draws a great man from among the people, like Gorenflot, he is complete."
"You think so?"
"Yes; learned, modest, cunning, and brave, you could make of him what you liked—minister, general, or pope."
"Pray stop, sire. If the brave man heard you he would burst his skin, for, in spite of what you say, Dom Modeste is very vain."
"You are jealous, Chicot."
"I! Heaven forbid! Jealous!"
"I am but just; noble blood does not blind me. 'Stemmata quid faciunt?'"
"Bravo! and you say, then, Henri, that you were nearly assassinated?"
"Yes."
"By whom?"