To-night, as he assisted me to undress, it wore an expression of
supreme woe.

"Monseigneur is going into Languedoc?" he inquired sorrowfully.
He always called me his "seigneur," as did the other of my servants
born at Bardelys.

"Knave, you have been listening," said I.

"But, monseigneur," he explained, "when Monsieur le Comte de
Chatellerault laid his wager--"

"And have I not told you, Ganymede, that when you chance to be among
my friends you should hear nothing but the words addressed to you,
see nothing but the glasses that need replenishing? But, there! We
are going into Languedoc. What of it?"

"They say that war may break out at any moment," he groaned; "that
Monsieur le Duc de Montmorency is receiving reenforcements from
Spain, and that he intends to uphold the standard of Monsieur and
the rights of the province against the encroachments of His
Eminence the Cardinal."

"So! We are becoming politicians, eh, Ganymede? And how shall
all this concern us? Had you listened more attentively, you had
learnt that we go to Languedoc to seek a wife, and not to concern
ourselves with Cardinals and Dukes. Now let me sleep ere the sun
rises."