"Nothing, sire," said St. Luc.

"Nevertheless, M. Bussy," said Chicot; "it was unpardonable."

"Sire, I was preoccupied."

"With your pages, monsieur," said Chicot; "you ruin yourself in
pages, and, par la mordieu, it is infringing our prerogatives."

"How so? I beg your majesty to explain."

"Cloth of gold for them, while you a gentleman, a colonel, a
Clermont, almost a prince, wear simple black velvet."

"Sire," said Bussy, turning towards the kings' minions, "as we
live in a time when lackeys dress like princes, I think it good
taste for princes to dress like lackeys."

And he returned to the young men in their splendid dress the
impertinent smiles which they had bestowed on him a little before.
They grew pale with fury, and seemed only to wait the king's
permission to fall upon Bussy.

"Is it for me and mine that you say that?" asked Chicot, speaking
like the king.

Three friends of Bussy's now drew near to him. These were Charles
d'Antragues, Francois, Vicomte de Ribeirac, and Livarot. Seeing
all this, St. Luc guessed that Bussy was sent by Monsieur to
provoke a quarrel. He trembled more than ever, for he feared