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Updated: June 4, 2025
Borromée flung out his arms, letting his sword fall to the ground; his eyes became fixed and injected with blood, his mouth opened wide, his lips were stained with a red-colored foam, his head fell on his shoulder with a sigh, which sounded like a death-rattle; then his limbs refused their support, and his body as it sunk forward enlarged the aperture of the wound, but could not free itself from the partition, supported as it was by Chicot's terrible wrist, so that the miserable wretch, like a gigantic insect, remained fastened to the wall, which his feet kicked convulsively.
This last precaution, however, was useless; the approach of death had been rapid and certain, and had already paralyzed the dying man's limbs. His legs gave way beneath him, he fell into Chicot's arms, and then rolled heavily on the floor. The shock of his fall made a stream of blood flow from his wound, with which the last remains of life ebbed away.
He had a pistol in each hand, and cried again to Chicot, "Stoop! morbleu, stoop!" Chicot obeyed. One pistol was fired, and a man rolled at Chicot's feet; then the second, and another man fell. "Now we are two to two," cried Chicot; "generous young man, you take one, here is mine," and he rushed on the masked man, who defended himself as if used to arms.
Then, passing his arm familiarly through Chicot's, the king went back to his room, where supper was served. Passing by the queen's room, he glanced at it, and saw no light. "Her majesty is gone to see Mademoiselle de Montmorency, who is ill." "Ah! poor Fosseuse!" said Henri: "it is true, the queen has such a good heart. Come to supper, Chicot." The repast was joyous.
I have seen more than that; pass me one of your bottles, and I will tell you what I have seen." Borromée hastened to comply with Chicot's desire. "Let me hear," said he. "Firstly, I have seen M. de Mayenne wounded." "Bah!" "No wonder, he was on my route. And then I have seen the taking of Cahors." "How? the taking of Cahors?" "Certainly.
Chicot was not a miser; quite the contrary, indeed: he had very frequently thrown gold about broadcast, thereby allowing the ideal to triumph over the material, which is the philosophy of every man who is of any value; but no sooner had the mind momentarily ceased to exercise its influence over matter in other words, whenever money was no longer needed, nor sacrifice requisite whenever, in a word, the senses temporarily regained their influence over Chicot's mind, and whenever his mind allowed the body to live and to take enjoyment, gold, that principal, that unceasing, that eternal source of animal delights, reassumed its value in our philosopher's eyes, and no one knew better than he did into how many delicious particles that inestimable totality which people call a crown is subdivided.
At last Chicot called out, "Here is the thrust," and as he spoke, he thrust his rapier half through his throat. David did not reply, but fell at Chicot's feet, pouring out a mouthful of blood. But by a natural movement he tried to drag himself towards his bed, so as to defend his secret to the last. "Ah!" cried Chicot, "I thought you cunning, but I see you are a fool.
"Yes, Chicot, unworthy servant of the king, who wishes he had the hundred arms of Briareus for this occasion." And he redoubled his blows with such violence, that the sufferer, making a tremendous effort, pushed himself through, and fell torn and bleeding into the arms of his friends. Chicot's last blow fell into empty space. He turned, and saw that the true Gorenflot had fainted with terror.
Chicot's eyes followed the messenger, and saw the color spread over his cheeks as he stooped to pick up the letter he had let fall. But Henri saw nothing, he opened his own letter and read, while the messenger watched him closely. "Ah! M. Borromée," thought Chicot, "so you are a captain, are you?" "Good," said the king, after reading the duke's letter with evident satisfaction.
"I will, if he come," Rochefoucauld answered, shuffling the cards. "If not 'tis Chicot's business, and he should attend to it. I'm tired, and shall to bed." "He will come," Tavannes answered, and moved, as if to go on. Then he paused for a last word. "He will come," he muttered, stooping and speaking under his breath, his eyes on the other's face. "But play him lightly. He is in an ugly mood.
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