The king rose and walked up and down the room.
"Here is a misfortune for me," cried he; "they will laugh at it: they will sing about it. Mordieu! it is lucky I thought of sending the promised aid to Antwerp; Antwerp will compensate for Cahors; the north will blot out the south."
"Amen!" said Chicot, plunging his hands into the king's sweetmeat-box to finish his desert.
At this moment the door opened, and the usher announced "M. le Comte du Bouchage."
"Ah!" cried Henri, "I told you so; here are news. Enter, comte, enter."
The usher opened the door, and Henri du Bouchage entered slowly and bent a knee to the king.
"Still pale and sad," said the king. "Come, friend, take a holiday air for a little while, and do not tell me good news with a doleful face: speak quickly, Du Bouchage, for I want to hear. You come from Flanders?"
"Yes, sire."
"And quickly?"
"As quickly, sire, as a man can ride."