ars to all parts of the world, and know no better
than that? Come, rest in peace, and I will return to my solitude."

"Where is it?"

"In the cemetery of the Grands-Innocens, great prince."

Henri looked at him in astonishment again.

"Ah! you did not expect that," said Chicot. "Well, till to-morrow, when
I or my messenger will come--"

"How shall I know your messenger when he arrives?"

"He will say he comes from the shade." And Chicot disappeared so rapidly
as almost to reawaken the king's fears as to whether he were a shade or
not.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SERENADE.

From the Louvre Chicot had not far to go to his home. He went to the
bank of the Seine and got into a little boat which he had left there.

"It is strange," thought he, as he rowed and looked at the
still-lighted window of the king's room, "that after so many years,
Henri is still the same. Others have risen or fallen, while he has
gained some wrinkles, and that is all. He has the same weak, yet
elevated mind--still fantastical and poetical--still the same
egotistical being, always asking for more than one has to give him,
friendship from the indifferent, love from the friendly, devotion from
the loving, and more sad than any one in his kingdom. By-the-by, he did
not speak of giving me any money for my journey; that proves at least
that he thinks me a friend." And he laughed quietly.

He soon arrived at the opposite bank, where he fastened his boat. On
entering the Rue des Augustins, he was struck by the sound of
instruments and voices in the street at that late hour.

"Is there a wedding here?" thought he, "I have not long to sleep, and
now this will keep me awake."

As he advanced, he saw a dozen flambeaux carried by pages, while thirty
musicians were playing on different instruments. The band was stationed
before a house, that Chicot, with surprise, recognized as his own. He
remained for an instant stupefied, and then said to himself, "There must
be some mistake; all this noise cannot be for me. Unless, indeed, some
unknown princess has suddenly fallen in love with me."

This supposition, flattering as it was, did not appear to convince
Chicot, and he turned toward the house facing his, but it showed no
signs of life.

"They must sleep soundly, there," said he; "such a noise is enough to
wake the dead."

"Pardon me, my friend," said he, addressing himself to a torch-bearer,
"but can you tell me, if you please, who all this music