"Yes; it is immortal music. A choir-boy, you said; and pardon me, but, mon Dieu, I heard you laugh as I was searching for my book. You have a fine gift that way, and there is little to laugh at nowadays in France."
"Monsieur will excuse me; I am so made that I laugh at everything and at nothing. I believe I do laugh in my sleep. And just now I laughed because—because—"
"Well, why did you laugh?"
François glanced at the questioner. Something authoritative in his ways made it seem needful to answer, and what this or any man thought of him he cared little—perhaps because in his world opinions went for nothing. And still he hesitated a moment.
"Well?" There was a note of strong surprise in the voice, as if the owner felt it to be unusual that a query he put should not evoke instant reply.
"I laughed because I was cheated."
"Charming, that! May I ask how? But perhaps—"
"No," said François; "if it amuse monsieur, why should I care?" He calmly related his adventure.
The gentleman threw himself back on the seat in an ecstasy of amusement. He was out of humor with the time and with his own world, and bored by the incessant politics of the day; here was a pleasant diversion.
"By St. Denis! my friend, you are like the great Chicot that was fool to King Henry of merry memory."