By the side of the king, though a little in the rear, the Prince de
Conde, M. Dangeau, and twenty other courtiers, followed by their people
and their baggage, closed this veritably triumphant march. The pomp was
of a military character.

Some of the courtiers - the elder ones, for instance - wore traveling
dresses; but all the rest were clothed in warlike panoply. Many wore the
gorget and buff coat of the times of Henry IV. and Louis XIII.

When the king passed before him, the unknown, who had leant forward over
the balcony to obtain a better view, and who had concealed his face by
leaning on his arm, felt his heart swell and overflow with a bitter
jealousy.

The noise of the trumpets excited him - the popular acclamations deafened
him: for a moment he allowed his reason to be absorbed in this flood of
lights, tumult, and brilliant images.

"He is a king!" murmured he, in an accent of despair.

Then, before he had recovered from his sombre reverie, all the noise, all
the splendor, had passed away. At the angle of the street there remained
nothing beneath the stranger but a few hoarse, discordant voices,
shouting at intervals "_Vive le Roi!_"

There remained likewise the six candles held by the inhabitants of the
hostelry _des Medici_; that is to say, two for Cropole, two for Pittrino,
and one for each scullion. Cropole never ceased repeating, "How
good-looking the king is! How strongly he resembles his illustrious
father!"