On this hint the whole party adjourned to the eating-room. Gabrielle carefully avoided the Don and kept close to Bellegarde, who looked the picture of misery. Her sisters clung to her, Chicot was bursting with ill-suppressed laughter, and the Don was fully occupied in endeavouring to place himself beside Gabrielle, on whom his eyes were again intently fixed. At table, spite of Bellegarde’s manœuvres, he contrived to place himself beside her. He eat and drank voraciously; perpetually proposed toasts in Gabrielle’s honour, and confused her to such a degree, that she heartily repented having invited him to remain, particularly as the annoyance of Bellegarde did not escape her. In this state of general misunderstanding, the merry Chicot again came to the rescue.
“Let us drink to the health of the King of France and Navarre!” cried he. “Come, Don Juan, forget your politics and join us: here’s prosperity and success to our gallant Henry—long may he live!”
“This is a toast we must drink standing and in chorus,” said Bellegarde, rising.
The Spaniard smiled.
“But why,” observed Gabrielle, “does Don Juan bear arms against the King of France if he is his partisan?”
“Fair lady, your remark is just,” replied the Don, “but the fortune of war drives a soldier into many accidents; however, I only wish all France was as much the King’s friend as I am.”
Chicot now took up a lute which lay near, tried the strings, and in a somewhat cracked voice sang the following song, wagging his head and winking at the Spaniard as he did so:—
“Vive Henri Quatre,
Vive ce roi vaillant;
Ce diable à quatre,
A le triple talent
De boire et de battre
Et d’être vert galant.”
“Long live the King! Vive Henri Quatre!” was drunk, with all the honours, in a chorus of applause. The Spaniard wiped a tear from his eye, and sat down without speaking.