efeat!" murmured the king.

But all at once, with a strange look.

"Then Flanders is lost to my brother?"

"Absolutely, sire."

"Without hope?"

"I fear so, sire."

The clouds gradually cleared from the king's brow.

"That poor Francois," said he, smiling; "he is unlucky in his search for
a crown. He missed that of Navarre, he has stretched out his hand for
that of England, and has touched that of Flanders; I would wager, Du
Bouchage, that he will never reign, although he desires it so much. And
how many prisoners were taken?"

"About two thousand."

"How many killed?"

"At least as many; and among them M. de St. Aignan."

"What! poor St. Aignan dead!"

"Drowned."

"Drowned! Did you throw yourselves into the Scheldt?"

"No, the Scheldt threw itself upon us."

The comte then gave the king a description of the battle, and of the
inundations. Henri listened silently. When the recital was over, he
rose, and kneeling down on his prie-Dieu, said some prayers, and then
returned with a perfectly calm face.

"Well," said he, "I trust I bear things like a king; and you, comte,
since your brother is saved, like mine, thank God, and smile a little."

"Sire, I am at your orders."

"What do you ask as payment for your services, Du Bouchage?"

"Sire, I have rendered no service."

"I dispute that; but at least your brother has."--"Immense, sire."

"He has saved the army, you say, or rather, its remnants?"

"There is not a man left who does not say that he owes his life to my
brother."

"Well! Du Bouchage, my will is to extend my benefits to both, and I only
imitate in that Him who made you both rich, brave, and handsome;
besides, I should imitate those great politicians who always rewarded
the bearers of bad news."

"Oh!" said Chicot, "I have known men hung for bringing bad news."

"That is possible," said the king; "but remember the senate that thanked
Varron."

"You cite republicans, Valois; misfortune makes you humble."

"Come, Du Bouchage, what will you have--what would you like?"

"Since your majesty does me the honor to speak to me so kindly, I will
dare to profit by your goodness. I am tired of life, sire, and yet have
a repugnance to shortening it myself, for God forbids it, and all the
subterfuges that a man of honor employs in such a case are mortal sins.
To get one's self killed in battle or to let one's self die of hunger
are only different forms of suicide. I renounce the idea, therefor