"I should think so. Imagine the effect that will be produced by these new watch-dogs, who will follow you like your shadow."
"Yes, yes; but they cannot follow me in this guise."
"Now we return to the money. But about this, also, I have an idea."
"D'Epernon!"
"My zeal for your majesty doubles my imagination."
"Well, let us hear it."
"If it depended upon me, each of these gentlemen should find by his bed a purse containing 1,000 crowns, as payment for the first six months."
"One thousand crowns for six months! 6,000 livres a year! You are mad, duke; an entire regiment would not cost that."
"You forget, sire, that it is necessary they should be well dressed. Each will have to take from his 1,000 crowns enough for arms and equipments. Set down 1,500 livres to effect this in a manner to do you honor, and there would remain 4,500 livres for the first year. Then for subsequent years you could give 3,000 livres."
"That is more reasonable."
"Then your majesty accepts?"
"There is only one difficulty, duke."
"What is it?"
"Want of money."
"Sire, I have found a method. Six months ago a tax was levied on shooting and fishing."
"Well?"
"The first payment produced 65,000 crowns, which have not yet been disposed of."
"I destined it for the war, duke."
"The first interest of the kingdom is the safety of the king."
"Well; there still would remain 20,000 crowns for the army."
"Pardon, sire, but I had disposed of them, also."
"Ah!"
"Yes, sire; your majesty had promised me money."
"Ah! and you give me a guard to obtain it."
"Oh! sire. But look at them; will they not have a good effect?"
"Yes, when dressed, they will not look bad. Well, so be it."
"Well, then, sire, I have a favor to ask."
"I should be astonished if you had not."
"Your majesty is bitter to-day."
"Oh! I only mean, that having rendered me a service, you have the right to ask for a return."
"Well, sire, it is an appointment."
"Why, you are already colonel-general of infantry, more would crush you."
"In your majesty's service, I am a Samson."
"What is it, then?"
"I desire the command of these forty-five gentlemen."
"What! you wish to march at their head?"
"No; I should have a deputy; only I desire that they should know me as their head."
"Well, you shall have it. But who is to be your deputy?"
"M. de Loignac, sire."
"Ah! that is well."
"He pleases your majesty?"
"Perfectly."
"Then it is decided?"
"Yes; let it be as you wish."
"Then I will go at once to the treasurer, and get my forty-five purses."
"To-night?"
"They are to find them to-morrow, when they wake."
"Good; then I will return."
"Content, sire?"
"Tolerably."
"Well guarded, at all events."
"By men who sleep."
"They will not sleep to-morrow, sire."
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SHADE OF CHICOT
The king, as we have said, was never deceived as to the character of his friends; he knew perfectly well that D'Epernon was working for his own advantage, but as he expected to have had to give and receive nothing in return, whereas he had got forty-five guards, he had thought it a good idea. Besides, it was a novelty, which was a thing that a poor king of France could not always get, and especially Henri III., who, when he had gone through his processions, counted his dogs, and uttered his usual number of sighs, had nothing left to do. Therefore he became more and more pleased with the idea as he returned to his room.
"These men are doubtless brave, and will be perhaps very devoted," thought he; "and forty-five swords always ready to leap from their scabbards are a grand thing."
This thought brought to his mind the other devoted swords that he regretted so bitterly. He became sad again, and inquired for Joyeuse. They replied that he had not returned.
"Then call my valets-de-chambre."
When he was in bed, they asked if his reader should attend, for Henri was subject to long fits of wakefulness, and was often read to sleep.
"No," replied the king, "I want no one; only if M. de Joyeuse returns, bring him to me."
"If he returns late, sire?"
"Alas! he is always late; but whatever be the hour, bring him here."
The servants extinguished the candles and lighted a lamp of essences, which gave a pale blue flame, that the king liked. Henri was tired, and soon slept, but not for long; he awoke, thinking he heard a noise in the room.
"Joyeuse," he asked; "is it you?"
No one replied. The light burned dim, and only threw faint circles on the ceiling of carved oak.
"Alone, still!" murmured the king. "Mon Dieu! I am alone all my life, as I shall be after death."
"'Alone after death'; that is not certain," said a powerful voice near the bed.
The king started up and looked round him in terror. "I know that voice," cried he.
"Ah! that is lucky," replied the voice.
"It is like the voice of Chicot."
"You burn, Henri: you burn."
Then the king, getting half out of bed, saw a man sitting in the very chair which he had pointed out to D'Epernon.
"Heaven protect me!" cried he; "it is the shade of Chicot."
"Ah! my poor Henriquet, are you still so foolish?"
"What do you mean?"
"That shades cannot speak, having no body, and consequently no tongue."
"Then you are Chicot, himself?" cried the king, joyfully.
"Do not be too sure."
"Then you are not dead, my poor Chicot?"
"On the contrary; I am dead."
"Chicot, my only friend."
"You, at least, are not changed."
"But you, Chicot, are you changed?"
"I hope so."
"Chicot, my friend, why did you leave me?"
"Because I am dead."
"You said just now that you were not dead."
"Dead to some – alive to others."
"And to me?" – "Dead."
"Why dead to me?"
"It is easy to comprehend that you are not the master here."
"How?"
"You can do nothing for those who serve you."
"Chicot!"
"Do not be angry, or I shall be so, also."
"Speak then, my friend," said the