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Chicot the Jester
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The king and Chicot entered the room, which we already know.
“Ah ça! Henri,” said Chicot, “I am the favorite to-night. Am I handsomer than that Cupid, Quelus?”
“Silence, Chicot, and you, gentlemen of the toilette, go out.”
They obeyed, and the king and Chicot were left alone.
“Why do you send them away?” asked Chicot, “they have not greased us yet. Are you going to grease me with your own royal hand? It would be an act of humility.”
“Let us pray,” said Henri.
“Thank you, that is not amusing. If that be what you called me here for, I prefer to return to the bad company I have left. Adieu, my son. Good night.”
“Stay,” said the king.
“Oh! this is tyranny. You are a despot, a Phalaris, a Dionysius. All day you have made me tear the shoulders of my friends with cow-hide, and now we are to begin again. Do not let us do it, Henri, when there’s but two, every blow tells.”
“Hold your tongue, miserable chatterer, and think of repentance.”
“I repent! And of what? Of being jester to a monk. Confiteor – I repent, mea culpa, it is a great sin.”
“No sacrilege, wretch.”
“Ah! I would rather he shut up in a cage with lions and apes, than with a mad king. Adieu, I am going.”
The king locked the door.
“Henri, you look sinister; if you do not let me go, I will cry, I will call, I will break the window, I will kick down the door.”
“Chicot,” said the king, in a melancholy tone, “you abuse my sadness.”
“Ah! I understand, you are afraid to be alone. Tyrants always are so. Take my long sword, and let me take the scabbard to my room.”
At the word “afraid,” Henri shuddered, and he looked nervously around, and seemed so agitated and grew so pale, that Chicot began to think him really ill, and said, —
“Come, my son, what is the matter, tell your troubles to your friend Chicot.”
The king looked at him and said, “Yes, you are my friend, my only friend.”
“There is,” said Chicot, “the abbey of Valency vacant.”
“Listen, Chicot, you are discreet.”
“There is also that of Pithiviers, where they make such good pies.”
“In spite of your buffooneries, you are a brave man.”
“Then do not give me an abbey, give me a regiment.”
“And even a wise one.”
“Then do not give me a regiment, make me a counselor; but no, when I think of it, I should prefer a regiment, for I should be always forced to be of the king’s opinion.”
“Hold your tongue, Chicot, the terrible hour approaches.”
“Ah! you are beginning again.”
“You will hear.”
“Hear what?”
“Wait, and the event will show you. Chicot, you are brave!”
“I boast of it, but I do not wish to try. Call your captain of the guard, your Swiss, and let me go away from this invisible danger.”
“Chicot, I command you to stay.”
“On my word, a nice master. I am afraid, I tell you. Help!”
“Well, drôle, if I must, I will tell you all.”
“Ah!” cried Chicot, drawing his sword, “once warned, I do not care; tell, my son, tell. Is it a crocodile? my sword is sharp, for I use it every week to cut my corns.” And Chicot sat down in the armchair with his drawn sword between his legs.
“Last night,” said Henri, “I slept – ”
“And I also,” said Chicot.
“Suddenly a breath swept over my face.”
“It was the dog, who was hungry, and who licked your cream.”
“I half woke, and felt my beard bristle with terror under my mask.”
“Ah! you make me tremble deliciously.”
“Then,” continued the king, in a trembling voice, “then a voice sounded through the room, with a doleful vibration.”
“The voice of the crocodile! I have read in Marco Polo, that the crocodile has a voice like the crying of children; but be easy, my son, for if it comes, we will kill it.”
“‘Listen! miserable sinner,’ said the voice – ”
“Oh! it spoke; then it was not a crocodile.”
“‘Miserable sinner,’ said the voice, ‘I am the angel of God.’”
“The angel of God!”
“Ah! Chicot, it was a frightful voice.”
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