below the surface.  Henri of Navarre was to him an enigma, although an unsolved one.  But to know that he was an enigma was to have found out much.  Chicot knew more than others, by knowing, like the old Grecian sage, that he knew nothing.  Therefore, where most people would have gone to speak freely, and with their hearts on their lips, Chicot felt that he must proceed cautiously and with carefully-guarded words.  All this was impressed on his mind by his natural penetration, and also by the aspect of the country through which he was passing.  Once within the limits of the little principality of Navarre, a country whose poverty was proverbial in France, Chicot, to his great astonishment, ceased to see the impress of that misery which showed itself in every house and on every face in the finest provinces of that fertile France which he had just left.  The woodcutter who passed along, with his arm leaning on the yoke of his favorite ox, the girl with short petticoats and quiet steps, carrying water on her head, the old man humming a song of his youthful days, the tame bird who warbled in his cage, or pecked at his plentiful supply of food, the brown, thin, but healthy children playing about the roads, all said in a language clear and intelligible to Chicot, “See, we are happy here.”

Often he heard the sound of heavy wheels, and then saw coming along the wagon of the vintages, full of casks and of children with red faces.  Sometimes an arquebuse from behind a hedge, or vines, or fig-trees, made him tremble for fear of an ambush, but it always turned out to be a hunter, followed by his great dogs, traversing the plain, plentiful in hares, to reach the mountain, equally full of partridges and heathcocks.  Although the season was advanced, and Chicot had left Paris full of fog and hoar-frost, it was here warm and fine.  The great trees, which had not yet entirely lost their leaves, which, indeed, in the south they never lose entirely, threw deep shadows from their reddening tops.

The Bearnais peasants, their caps over one ear, rode about on the little cheap horses of the country, which seem indefatigable, go twenty leagues at a stretch, and, never combed, never covered, give themselves a shake at the end of their journey, and go to graze on the first tuft of heath, their only and sufficing repast.

“Ventre de biche!” said Chicot; “I have never seen Gascony so rich.  I confess the letter weighs on my mind, although I have translated it into Latin.  However, I have never heard that Henriot, as Charles IX. called him, knew Latin; so I will give him a free French translation.”

Chicot inquired, and was told that the king was at Nerac.  He turned to the left to reach this place, and found the road full of people returning from the market at Condom.  He learned, for Chicot, careful in answering the questions of others, was a great questioner himself, that the king of Navarre led a very joyous life, and was always changing from one love to another.