“'What is this? Will no one tell?' cried the king, as a frown of dark omen shadowed his angry features.
“'Your Majesty has lost a brave, an honest, and a faithful follower, Sire,' said Monsieur de Coulanges. 'Arnoud de Gency is no more.'
“'Why, I saw him this instant,' said the king. 'He asked me some favor for his boy.'
“'True, Sire,' replied De Coulanges, mournfully. But he checked himself in time, for already the well-known and dreaded expression of passion had mounted to the king's face.
“'Dismiss the chasse, gentlemen,' said he, in a low thick voice. 'And do you, Monsieur de Verneuil, attend me.'
“The cortege was soon scattered; and the Marquis de Verneuil followed the king with an expression where fear and dread were not to be mistaken.
“Monsieur de Verneuil did indeed seem an altered man when he appeared among his friends that evening. Whatever the king had said to him assuredly had worked its due effect; for all his raillery was gone, and even the veriest trifler of the party might have dared an encounter with wits which then were subdued and broken.
“Next morning, however, the sun shone out brilliantly. The king was in high spirits; the game abounded; and his Majesty with his own hand brought down eight pheasants. The Marquis de Verneuil could hit nothing; for although the best marksman of the day, his hand shook and his sight failed him, and the king won fifty louis from him before they reached Saint-Germain.
“Never was there a happier day nor followed by a pleasanter evening. The king supped in Madame de la Vallière's apartment; the private band played the most delicious airs during the repast; and when at length the party retired to rest, not one bright dream was clouded by the memory of Arnoud de Gency.
“Here, now, were I merely recounting an anecdote, I should stop,” said the chevalier; “but must continue a little longer, though all the romance of my story is over. The Marquis de Verneuil was a good hater: even poor De Gency's fate did not move him, and he actually did do what he had only threatened in mockery,—he sent the orphan child to be a turnspit in the royal kitchen. Of course he changed his name,—the title of an old and honored family would soon have betrayed the foul deed,—and the boy was called Jacotot, after the chef himself. The king inquired no further on the subject; Arnoud's name recalled too unpleasant a topic for the lips of a courtier ever to mention; and the whole circumstance was soon entirely forgotten.