CHAPTER XVI.
THE SERENADE.
From the Louvre Chicot had not far to go to his home.

He went to the bank of the Seine and got into a little boat which he had left there.
"It is strange," thought he, as he rowed and looked at the still-lighted window of the king's room, "that after so many years, Henri is still the same.

Others have risen or fallen, while he has gained some wrinkles, and that is all.

He has the same weak, yet elevated mind--still fantastical and poetical--still the same egotistical being, always asking for more than one has to give him, friendship from the indifferent, love from the friendly, devotion from the loving, and more sad than any one in his kingdom.

By-the-by, he did not speak of giving me any money for my journey; that proves at least that he thinks me a friend." And he laughed quietly.
He soon arrived at the opposite bank, where he fastened his boat.