The Sydney Library Edition
THE ROMANCES
OF
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
ASCANIO
PARTS I. AND II.
Volume XI.
[Illustration 01]
[Illustration 02]
THE ROMANCES OF
ALEXANDRE DUMAS
Volume XI.
ASCANIO
_PART FIRST_
NEW YORK
GEORGE D. SPROUL
Publisher
1898
_Copyright, 1896_,
By Little, Brown, and Company.
University Press:
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
"Never perhaps," says Miss Pardoe (in the Preface to the "Court and
Reign of Francis I."), "did the reign of any European sovereign present
so many and such varying phases. A contest for empire, a captive
monarch, a female regency, and a religious war; the poisoned bowl and
the burning pile alike doing their work of death amid scenes of
uncalculating splendor and unbridled dissipation; the atrocities of
bigotry and intolerance, blent with the most unblushing licentiousness
and the most undisguised profligacy;--such are the materials offered to
the student by the times of Francis I."
The period thus characterized is that in which the scene of the present
romance is laid, and although the plot is mainly concerned with the
fortunes of others than subjects of the _Roi Chevalier_, we are treated
to a succession of vivid pictures of life and manners at the French
court and in the French capital.
The author depicts the king rather as he appeared to the world before
what has been called the "legend of the Roi Chevalier,"--that is to say,
the long prevailing idea that François I. was the most chivalrous
monarch who ever sat upon a European throne,--had been modified by the
independent researches of those who have not feared to go behind the
writings of the old and well tutored chroniclers whose works have formed
the basis of most modern histories,--chroniclers who seem to have been
guided by Cardinal Richelieu's famous remark to an aspiring historian,
apropos of certain animadversions upon the character of Louis XI., that
"it is treason to discuss the actions of a king who has been dead only
two centuries."
The result of these researches is thus summed up by Miss Pardoe in the
same Preface:--
"The glorious day of Marignano saw the rising, and that of Pavia the
setting, of his fame as a soldier; so true it is that the prowess of the
man was shamed by that of the boy. The early and unregretted death of
one of his neglected queens, and the heart-broken endurance of the
other, contrasted with the unbounded influence of his first favorite and
the insolent arrogance of his second, will sufficiently demonstrate his
character as a husband. His open and illegal oppression of an overtaxed
and suffering people to satisfy the cravings of an extortionate and
licentious court, will suffice to disclose his value as a monarch; while
the reckless indifference with which he falsified his political pledges,
abandoned his allies in their extremity in order to further his own
interests, and sacrificed the welfare of his kingdom and the safety of
his armies to his own puerile vanity, will complete a picture by no
means calculated to elicit one regret that his reign was not prolonged."
Victor Hugo dared to puncture the "legend," when, in the play of "Le Roi
s'Amuse," he represented the "knightly king" as being enticed to a low
water-side hovel by the charms of a girl of the street; but even the
government of the Citizen King, Louis-Philippe, could not brook such an
attack upon the "divinity that doth hedge a king," and, after the first
performance in 1832, the strong hand of the censorship was laid upon the
play, and fifty years elapsed before it again saw the light upon the
stage.
The first titular favorite of King François, the Comtesse de
Châteaubriand, whose character was in every respect diametrically
opposed to that of her successor, was an object of dislike and dread to
Louise de Savoie, the king's mother, because of her unbounded influence
over François. When he returned to France, after his captivity in Spain
following upon his defeat at Pavia, his passion for Madame de
Châteaubriand was found to have increased rather than diminished. In
looking about for some means to kill this passion, and in that way put
an end to the influence of the favorite, Louise de Savoie was not
obliged to go beyond the lovely and licentious circle of her own maids
of honor. She found in Anne de Pisseleu, Mademoiselle d'Heilly, that
combination of loveliness, youth, frailty, and forwardness which she
required for her purpose, and so arranged her first presentation to the
king that the desired effect was produced almost immediately. It was not
long before a suitably complaisant husband was found for the new
divinity, in the person of the Duc d'Etampes, and she had soon entirely
supplanted Madame de Châteaubriand, driven her from court, and entered
upon a period of queenly power and magnificence, which was to endure
with little change or diminution for full twenty years, and until the
death of her royal lover and slave in 1547.
"His excessive passion for the artful favorite blinded him to her
vices," says Miss Pardoe. "Already had she taught him that her love was
to be retained only by an entire devotion; and even while he suffered
her to become the arbiter of his own actions, she betrayed him with a
recklessness as bold as it was degrading. Nothing, moreover, could
satisfy her rapacity; and while distress, which amounted almost to
famine, oppressed the lower classes of the citizens, she greedily seized
upon every opportunity of enriching herself and aggrandizing her
family."[1]
The following passage from the same interesting and painstaking work, if
compared with the episode in "Ascanio" of Madame d'Etampes's designs
upon Colombe, will serve to illustrate the extreme fidelity to
historical truth, even in what may seem to be minor matters, which so
amply justifies the title of "Historical Romances" as applied to this
and many other of Dumas's works:--
"We pass over, for obvious reasons, the minor influences, each perhaps
insignificant in itself, but in the aggregate fearfully mischievous,
which were exercised by the fair and frail maids of honor, each, or
nearly each, being in her turn the 'Cynthia of the minute,' and more
than one of whom owed her temporary favor to the Duchesse d'Etampes
herself, whose secret intrigues and undisguised ambition absorbed more
of her time than could have been left at her disposal, had she not
provided the inconstant but exacting monarch with some new object of
interest; and the tact with which she selected these facile beauties was
not one of the least of her talents. Never, upon any occasion, did she
direct the attention of the king to a woman whose intellect might have
secured, after the spell of her beauty had ceased to attract him. The
young and the lovely were her victims only when their youth and their
loveliness were their sole attractions. She was ever ready to supply her
royal lover with a new mistress, but never with a friend, a companion,
or a counsellor; and then, as she had rightly foreseen, the French
Sardanapalus soon became sated by the mere prettiness of his female
satellites, and returned to his allegiance to herself, weaned, and more
her slave than ever."[2]
A curious parallel in this regard may be noted between the course of the
Duchesse d'Etampes and the similar one pursued by Madame de Pompadour,
two centuries later, to maintain her power over the prematurely aged
Louis XV. The policy of this "minister in petticoats" was embodied in
the institution of the famous, or infamous, Parc-aux-Cerfs.
The request of the Emperor Charles V. to be allowed to pass through
France on his way to chastise the rebellious people of Ghent, and the
conflicting emotions to which it gave rise at the French court, have
been much discussed by historians. It seems to have been the case that
the Connétable Anne de Montmorency--then in the prime of life, and whom
readers of the "Two Dianas" will remember in his old age as the loser of
the battle of Saint-Laurent, and the favored rival of King Henri II. in
the affections of Diane de Poitiers--was the only one of the king's
advisers who opposed requiring Charles to give sureties of his peaceable
intentions, and to declare in writing that he traversed France only upon
sufferance. The constable's advice was adopted, notwithstanding the
opposition of Madame d'Etampes, who strongly urged the king to take
revenge for his own imprisonment at Madrid by improving the opportunity
to inflict the same treatment upon his life-long rival and adversary.
The incident of Triboulet, the jester, and the tablets upon which he
inscribed the names of the greatest fools in the world, is historical.
The anecdote of the presentation of the diamond ring by the Emperor to
the favorite is told by Miss Pardoe substantially as by Dumas, but it is
rejected by most historians of the time. There is no question, however,
that the duchess was so alarmed by the condition of the king's health,
which was prematurely impaired by his dissolute life, and so
apprehensive of her own fate when he should be succeeded by the Dauphin
Henri, then a willing slave to the charms of her bitter enemy, Diane de
Poitiers, that she exerted herself to the utmost to win the affection of
the young Duc d'Orléans, and to procure some sort of an independent
government for him. All her plans in that direction were defeated by
that prince's death of the plague in 1545.
The dazzling and voluptuous Diane de Poitiers, mistress of two kings of
France, the beautiful and accomplished, but cruel and treacherous
Catherine de Medicis, wife of one and mother of three, are familiar
historical characters, with whom Dumas has dealt more fully in others of
his works.
The learned and accomplished author of the "Heptameron," Marguerite de
Valois, Queen of Navarre and sister of François I., of whom we obtain a
fleeting glimpse or two, is in many respects the most attractive
personality of the time. It is a cause for deep regret, however, that
her great affection for her brother did not lead her to exert her
undoubted influence over him to a better end.
As we pass from the king and his immediate circle, to glance for a
moment at the other characters, with whom and with certain passages in
their lives the romance before us is mainly concerned, we venture to
quote once more the same author so copiously quoted heretofore:--
"One merit must, however, be conceded to Anne de Pisseleu; and as
throughout her whole career we have been unable to trace any other good
quality which she possessed, it cannot be passed over in silence.
Educated highly for the period, she loved study for its own sake, and
afforded protection to men of letters; although it must be admitted
that, wherever her passions or vanity were brought into play, she
abandoned them and their interests without hesitation or scruple.
Nevertheless it is certain that she co-operated, not only willingly, but
even zealously, with the king, in attracting to the court of France all
the distinguished talent of Europe."[3]
The favorite's passions and vanity were brought into play in the ease of
Benvenuto Cellini, and she certainly abandoned him and his interests
without hesitation or scruple.
The principal source whence our knowledge of this extraordinary man is
drawn, is his own Autobiography, which has been several times translated
into English, most recently by that eminent author and critic, the late
John Addington Symonds.
The following extracts from the translator's scholarly Introduction will
serve a useful purpose in that they will show that the picture drawn of
him by Dumas is in no sense exaggerated, and that he really possessed
the extraordinary characteristics attributed to him in the following
pages, and which would seem almost incredible without some confirmatory
evidence:--
"A book which the great Goethe thought worthy of translating into German
with the pen of 'Faust' and 'Wilhelm Meister,' a book which Auguste
Comte placed upon his very limited list for the perusal of reformed
humanity, is one with which we have the right to be occupied, not once
or twice, but over and over again.
* * * * * * * * *
"No one was less introspective than this child of the Italian
Renaissance. No one was less occupied with thoughts about thinking or
with the presentation of psychological experience. Vain, ostentatious,
self-laudatory, and self-engrossed as Cellini was, he never stopped to
analyze himself. . . . The word 'confessions' could not have escaped his
lips; a _Journal Intime_ would have been incomprehensible to his fierce,
virile spirit. His Autobiography is the record of action and passion.
Suffering, enjoying, enduring, working with restless activity; hating,
loving, hovering from place to place as impulse moves him; the man
presents himself dramatically by his deeds and spoken words, never by
his ponderings or meditative broodings.
"In addition to these solid merits, his life, as Horace Walpole put it,
is 'more amusing than any novel.' We have a real man to deal with,--a
man so realistically brought before us that we seem to hear him speak
and see him move; a man, moreover, whose eminently characteristic works
of art in a great measure still survive among us. Yet the adventures of
this potent human actuality will bear comparison with those of Gil Bias,
or the Comte de Monte Cristo, or Quentin Durward, or Les Trois
Mousquetaires, for their variety and pungent interest.
* * * * * * * * *
"But what was the man himself? It is just this question which I have
half promised to answer, implying that, as a translator, I have some
special right to speak upon the subject.
"Well, then: I seem to know Cellini first of all as a man possessed by
intense, absorbing egotism; violent, arrogant, self-assertive,
passionate; conscious of great gifts for art, physical courage, and
personal address. . . . To be self-reliant in all circumstances; to
scheme and strike, if need be, in support of his opinion or his right;
to take the law into his own hands for the redress of injury or
insult;--this appeared to him the simple duty of an honorable man. . . .
He possessed the temperament of a born artist, blent in almost equal
proportions with that of a born bravo. Throughout the whole of his
tumultuous career these two strains contended in his nature for mastery.
Upon the verge of fifty-six, when a man's blood has generally cooled, we
find that he was released from prison on bail, and bound over to keep
the peace for a year with some enemy whose life was probably in danger;
and when I come to speak about his homicides, it will be obvious that he
enjoyed killing live men quite as much as casting bronze statues.
* * * * * * * * *
"He consistently poses as an injured man, whom malevolent scoundrels and
malignant stars conspired to persecute. Nor does he do this with any bad
faith. His belief in himself remained firm as adamant, and he candidly
conceived that he was under the special providence of a merciful and
loving God, who appreciated his high and virtuous qualities."
Bearing in mind that all the seemingly fabulous anecdotes related of
Cellini, or put into his own mouth, by Dumas, are actually told by
himself in his Autobiography, the conclusions of Mr. Symonds as to the
artist's veracity cannot fail to be interesting:--
"Among Cellini's faults I do not reckon either baseness or lying. He was
not a rogue, and he meant to be veracious. This contradicts the
commonplace and superficial view of his character so flatly that I must
support my opinion at some length. Of course I shall not deny that a
fellow endowed with such overweening self-conceit, when he comes to
write about himself, will set down much which cannot be taken entirely
on trust. . . . Men of his stamp are certain to exaggerate their own
merits, and to pass lightly over things not favorable to the ideal they
present. But this is very different from lying; and of calculated
mendacity Cellini stands almost universally accused. I believe that view
to be mistaken."
Passing from general considerations to particular instances of Cellini's
alleged falsehoods, the learned translator proceeds to discuss at some
length many of the miraculous experiences and remarkable statements of
Cellini, which are to be found in these volumes. For example, the
founding of Florence by an imaginary ancestor of his own, named Fiorino
da Cellino, a captain in the army of Julius Cæsar; and his claim that
he shot the Constable of Bourbon from the ramparts of Rome in 1527, as
to which Mr. Symonds says: "Bourbon had been shot dead in the assault of
Rome upon that foggy morning, and Cellini had certainly discharged his
arquebuse from the ramparts. . . . If it were possible to put his
thoughts about this event into a syllogism, it would run as follows:
'Somebody shot Bourbon; I shot somebody; being what I am, I am inclined
to think the somebody I shot was Bourbon."
It would be a much simpler task to make a list of the fictitious
characters and incidents in "Ascanio," than to enumerate those whose
existence or occurrence is well authenticated. Colombe and her governess
are apparently creations of the novelist's brain, and the same is true
of Hermann, little Jehan, Jacques Aubry and his light o' love. The
Provost of Paris was Jean d'Estouteville, not Robert d'Estourville; but
he was actually in possession of the Petit-Nesle, which was the abode
granted to Benvenuto by a deed which is still extant, as are the letters
of naturalization bestowed upon him. The trouble experienced by Cellini
in obtaining possession of the Petit-Nesle is considerably overdrawn,
and it does not appear that Ascanio was ever imprisoned. Ascanio's
character throughout is represented in a different light from that in
which it appears in the Autobiography, although he is there said to be
"a lad of marvellous talents, and, moreover, so fair of person that
every one who once set eyes on him seemed bound to love him beyond
measure." Benvenuto had much trouble with him, and used continually to
beat him; and he was very wroth when he found that his apprentice had
been using the head of the mammoth statue of Mars as a trysting place,
where he was accustomed to meet a frail damsel of his acquaintance.
Benvenuto tells the story of the injury to the hand of Raffaello del
Moro's daughter, and of his own share in her cure; but the element of
romance is altogether wanting in his own narrative of the relations
between himself and that "very beautiful" young woman.
Catherine and Scozzone (Scorzone) were two women, not one, both models
and ephemeral mistresses of the artist. The episode of the amours of
Pagolo and Catherine is a very much softened version of an almost
unreadable passage in the memoirs. Of the episode itself, as told by
Cellini, Mr. Symonds says that it is one over which his biographers
would willingly draw the veil.
It is impossible to imagine a more natural consequence of Benvenuto's
peculiar temperament than his absolute failure to make himself _persona
grata_ to the arrogant, self-seeking mistress of the King of France.
François was oftentimes hard put to it to reconcile his admiration for
the work of the artist with his desire to please the favorite; but in
presence of one of his masterpieces the former sentiment generally
carried the day,--notably on the occasion of the exhibition of the
Jupiter at Fontainebleau, in competition with the antique statues
brought from Rome by Primaticcio. After describing the scene in the
gallery substantially as it is described in the novel, Cellini says:
"The king departed sooner than he would otherwise have done," (on
account of the rage of the duchess,) "calling aloud, however, to
encourage me, 'I have brought from Italy the greatest man who ever
lived, endowed with all the talents.'"
A passage in Mr. Symonds's Introduction to the Life, too long to be
quoted here, shows that Benvenuto left France somewhat under a cloud,
and followed by suspicions of dishonest dealing, which have never been
quite satisfactorily cleared away.
Enough has been said to show that in this book, as always in his
historical romances, Dumas has substantially rewritten a chapter of
history,--for the visit of Benvenuto Cellini to Paris has been deemed
worthy of notice at considerable length by more than one grave
chronicler; and he has again demonstrated his very exceptional power of
interweaving history and fiction in such a way as to make each embellish
the other.
[Footnote 1: The Court and Reign of Francis I., King of France, Vol. II.
Chap. XI.]
[Footnote 2: Miss Pardoe, Vol. III. Chap. I.]
[Footnote 3: Miss Pardoe. Vol. II. Chap XI.]
LIST OF CHARACTERS
Period, 1540.
FRANÇOIS I., King of France.
ELEANORA, his queen, sister to Charles V.
THE DAUPHIN, afterwards Henri II.
CHARLES D'ORLÉANS, the king's second son.
THE DAUPHINE, Catherine de Medicis.
THE EMPEROR CHARLES V.
THE KING OF NAVARRE.
MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, Queen of Navarre.
ANNE DE PISSELEU, Duchesse d'Etampes, favorite of François I.
DIANE DE POITIERS.
BENVENUTO CELLINI, a Florentine artist.
ASCANIO, his pupil.
MESSIRE ROBERT D'ESTOURVILLE, Provost of Paris.
COLOMBE, his daughter.
COMTE D'ORBEC, the king's treasurer.
VICOMTE DE MARMAGNE, a suitor for Colombe's hand.
THE DUKE OF MEDINA-SIDONIA, ambassador of Charles V.
MONSIEUR DE MONTBRION, governor of Charles d'Orléans.
CONSTABLE ANNE DE MONTMORENCY,}
CHANCELLOR POYET,}
CARDINAL DE TOURNON,}
MESSIRE ANTOINE LE MAÇON,}
COMTE DE LA FAYE,} of the French Court.
MARQUIS DES PRÉS,}
MELIN DE SAINT-GELAIS,}
M. DE TERMES,}
HENRI D'ESTIENNE,}
PIETRO STROZZI, a Florentine refugee.
TRIBOULET, the king's jester.
FRANÇOIS RABELAIS.
CLEMENT MAROT.
PAGOLO,}
JEHAN,}
assistants of Cellini.
SIMON-LE-GAUCHER,}
HERMANN,}
SCOZZONE, Cellini's model.
RUPERTA, servant to Cellini.
DAME PERRINE, Colombo's governess.
PULCHERIA, her assistant.
MASTER JACQUES, Messire d'Estourville's gardener.
ISABEAU, attendant of Madame d'Etampes.
ANDRÉ, physician to Madame d'Etampes.
JACQUES AUBRY, a student, attaching himself to the service of
Cellini.
GERVAISE-PERRETTE POPINOT, a grisette.
FRANCESCO PRIMATICCIO, a painter, friend to Cellini.
GUIDO, a Florentine physician,
FERRANTE,}
FRACASSO,}
bravos employed by Vicomte de Marmagne.
PROCOPE,}
MALEDENT,}
THE LIEUTENANT CRIMINAL OF THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE.
MARC-BONIFACE GRIMOINEAU, his clerk.
ETIENNE RAYMOND, a prisoner at the Châtelet.
A PRIEST AT THE CHÂTELET.
POPE CLEMENT VII.
MASTER GEORGIO, governor of the Castle of San Angelo.
MONSEIGNEUR DE MONTLUC, French ambassador at Rome.
POMPEO, a goldsmith at Rome.
RAPHAEL DEL MORO, a Florentine goldsmith.
STEFANA, his daughter.
GISMONDO GADDI, a confrère of Del Moro.
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. The Street and the Studio
II. A Goldsmith of the Sixteenth Century
III. Dædalus
IV. Scozzone
V. Genius and Royalty
VI. To What Use A Duenna May Be Put
VII. A Lover and a Friend
VIII. Preparations for Attack and Defence
IX. Thrust and Parry
X. Of the Advantage of Fortified Towns
XI. Owls, Magpies, and Nightingales
XII. The King's Queen
XIII. Souvent Femme Varie
XIV. Wherein it is proven that Sorrow is
the Groundwork of the Life of Man
XV. Wherein it appears that Joy is nothing
more than Sorrow in another Form
XVI. A Court
XVII. Love as Passion
XVIII. Love as a Dream
XIX. Love as an Idea
ILLUSTRATIONS
Francis I
_Drawn by E. van Mughen._
Francis I. visits Benvenuto Cellini.
"Ascanio, beside himself with joy, fell on his
knees."
"'Your Majesty is losing your ring,' said
Anne."
"All the workmen joined in a cry of admiration."
ASCANIO
I
THE STREET AND THE STUDIO
Time, four o'clock in the afternoon of the tenth day of July in the year
of grace 1540. Place, the entrance to the church Des Grands Augustins,
within the precincts of the University, by the receptacle for holy water
near the door.
A tall, handsome youth, olive-skinned, with long waving locks and great
black eyes, simply but elegantly clad, his only weapon a little dagger
with a hilt of marvellous workmanship, was standing there, and,
doubtless from motives of pure piety and humility, had not stirred from
the spot throughout the vespers service. With head bowed in an attitude
of devout contemplation, he was murmuring beneath his breath I know not
what words,--his prayers let us hope,--for he spoke so low that none but
himself and God could hear what he might say. As the service drew near
its close, however, he raised his voice slightly, and they who stood
nearest him could hear these half-audible words:--
"How wretchedly these French monks drone out their psalms! Could they
not sing more melodiously before her, whose ear should be accustomed to
angels' voices? Ah! this is well; the vespers are at an end at last. Mon
Dieu! mon Dieu! grant that I be more fortunate to-day than on last
Sunday, and that she do at least raise her eyes to my face!"
This last prayer was most artful, in very truth; for if she to whom it
was addressed should chance to raise her eyes to the suppliant's face,
she would see the most adorable youthful head that she had ever seen in
dreams, while reading the eleven mythological tales which were so
fashionable at the time, by virtue of the charming couplets of Master
Clement Marot, and which told of the loves of Psyche and the death of
Narcissus. Indeed, beneath his simple sober-hued costume, the youth whom
we have introduced to our readers was remarkably handsome, and wore an
air of unmistakable refinement: moreover, his smile was infinitely sweet
and attractive, and his glance, which dared not yet be bold, was as
ardent and impassioned as ever flashed from the great speaking eyes of
eighteen years.
Meanwhile, upon hearing the movement of many chairs announcing the end
of the service, our lover,--for the reader will have discovered from the
few words he has uttered that he is entitled to be so described,--our
lover, I say, drew aside a little, and watched the congregation pass
silently forth,--a congregation composed of staid church-wardens,
respectable matrons past their giddy days, and prepossessing damsels.
But for none of these had the youth come thither, for his glance did not
brighten, nor did he step impulsively forward, until he saw approach a
maiden dressed in white, and attended by a duenna,--a duenna of high
station, be it understood,--who seemed accustomed to the ways of
society, a duenna not unyouthful nor unattractive, and by no means
savage in appearance. When the two ladies approached the basin of holy
water, our youth took some of the liquid and gallantly offered it to
them.
The duenna bestowed the most gracious of smiles and most grateful of
courtesies upon him, and even touched his fingers as she took the cup,
which, to his great chagrin, she herself handed to her companion; but
the latter, notwithstanding the fervent prayer whereof she had been the
object a few moments before, kept her eyes constantly upon the
ground,--a sure proof that she knew the comely youth was there,--so that
the comely youth, when she had passed, stamped upon the flags,
muttering, "Alas! again she did not see me." An equally sure proof that
the comely youth was, as we have said, no more than eighteen years old.
But after the first burst of vexation, our unknown hastened down the
steps of the church, and, seeing that the absent-minded beauty, having
lowered her veil and taken her attendant's arm, had turned to the right,
hastened to take the same direction, observing that his own home chanced
to lie that way. The maiden followed the quay as far as Pont
Saint-Michel, and crossed Pont Saint-Michel; still it was our hero's
road. She next passed through Rue de la Barillerie, and crossed Pont au
Change; and as she was still pursuing our hero's road, our hero followed
her like her shadow.
Every pretty girl's shadow is a lover.
But alas! when she reached the Grand Châtelet, the lovely star, whereof
our unknown had made himself the satellite, was suddenly eclipsed: the
wicket of the royal prison opened the instant that the duenna knocked,
and closed again behind them.
The young man was taken aback for a moment; but as he was a very decided
fellow when there was no pretty girl at hand to weaken his resolution,
he very soon made up his mind what course to pursue.
A sergeant, pike on shoulder, was walking sedately back and forth before
the door of the Châtelet. Our youthful unknown followed the example of
the worthy sentinel, and, having walked on a short distance to avoid
observation, but not so far as to lose sight of the door, he heroically
began his amorous sentry-go.
If the reader has ever done sentry duty in the course of his life, he
must have noticed that one of the surest means of making the time pass
quickly is to commune with one's self. Our hero doubtless was accustomed
to such duty, for he had hardly begun his promenade when he addressed
the following monologue to himself:--
"Assuredly it cannot be that she lives in yonder prison. This morning
after mass, and these last two Sundays when I dared not follow her save
with my eyes,--dullard that I was!--she turned not to the right upon the
quay, but to the left, toward the Porte de Nesle, and the
Pré-aux-Cleres. What the devil brings her to the Châtelet? What can it
be? To see a prisoner, perhaps, her brother 't is most like. Poor girl!
she must suffer cruelly, for doubtless she is as sweet and kind as she
is lovely. Pardieu! I'm sorely tempted to accost her, ask her frankly
who it is, and offer my services. If it be her brother, I'll tell the
patron the whole story, and ask his advice. When one has escaped from
the Castle of San Angelo, as he has, one has a shrewd idea of the best
way to get out of prison. There's no more to be said: I'll save her
brother. After I have rendered him such a service, he'll be my friend
for life and death. Of course he'll ask me then what he can do for me
when I have done so much for him. Then I'll confess that I love his
sister. He'll present me to her, and then we'll see if she won't raise
her eyes."
Once launched upon such a course, we need not say how a lover's thoughts
flow on unchecked. Thus it was that our youth was vastly amazed to hear
the clock strike four, and see the sentinel relieved.
The new sergeant began his promenade, and the young man resumed his. His
method of passing time had succeeded too well for him not to continue to
make use of it; so he resumed his discourse upon a theme no less
fruitful of ideas than the other:--
"How lovely she is! how graceful every movement! how modest her bearing!
how classic the outline of her features! There is in the whole world no
other than Leonardo da Vinci or the divine Raphael, worthy to reproduce
the image of that chaste and spotless being; nor would they prove equal
to the task, save at the very zenith of their talent. O mon Dieu! why am
not I a painter, rather than a sculptor, worker in enamel, or goldsmith?
First of all, were I a painter, there'd be no need that I should have
her before my eyes to make her portrait. I should never cease to see her
great blue eyes, her beautiful blonde tresses, her pearly skin and
slender form. Were I a painter, I should paint her face in every
picture, as Sanzio did with Fornarina, and Andrea del Sarto with
Lucrezia. And what a contrast betwixt her and Fornarina! in sooth,
neither the one nor the other is worthy to unloose her shoe laces. In
the first place, Fornarina--"
The youth was not at the end of his comparisons, which were, as the
reader will imagine, uniformly to the advantage of his inamorata, when
the hour struck.
The second sentinel was relieved.
"Six o'clock! 'T is strange how the time flies!" muttered the youth,
"and if it flies thus quickly while I wait for her, how should it be if
I were by her side! Ah! by her side I should lose count of time; I
should be in paradise. If I were by her side, I should but look at her,
and so the hours and days and months would pass. What a blissful life
that would be, mon Dieu!" and the young man lost himself in an ecstatic
reverie; for his mistress, though absent, seemed to pass in person
before his eyes,--the eyes of a true artist.
The third sentinel was relieved.
Eight o'clock struck on all the parish churches, and the shades of night
began to fall, for all authorities are in accord that the twilight hour
in July three hundred years ago was in the neighborhood of eight
o'clock, as now; but what is perhaps more astonishing than that is the
fabulous perseverance of a sixteenth century lover. All passions were
ardent in those days, and vigorous young hearts no more stopped short in
love than in art or war.
However, the patience of the young artist--for he has let us into the
secret of his profession--was rewarded at last, when he saw the
ponderous door of the Châtelet open for the twentieth time, but this
time to give passage to her for whom he was waiting. The same chaperon
was still at her side, and furthermore, two archers of the provost's
guard followed ten paces behind her, as escort.
They retraced the steps they had taken four hours earlier, to wit the
Pont au Change, Rue de la Barillerie, Pont Saint-Michel, and the quays;
but they kept on by the Grands Augustins, and some three hundred yards
beyond paused before a huge door in a recess in the wall, beside which
was another smaller door for the servants' use. The duenna knocked at
the great door, which was opened by the porter. The two archers, after
saluting their charge with the utmost respect, returned to the
Châtelet, and our artist found himself standing for the second time
outside a closed door.
He would probably have remained there until morning, for he was fairly
embarked on the fourth series of his dreams; but chance willed that a
passer by, who had imbibed something too freely, collided violently with
him.
"Hola there, friend!" said the new arrival, "by your leave, are you a
man or a post? If so be you're a post, you're within your rights and I
respect you; but if you be a man, stand back, and let me pass."
"Pray pardon me," rejoined the distraught youth, "but I am a stranger in
this good city of Paris, and--"
"Oh! that's another matter; the Frenchman is always hospitable, and I
ask your pardon; you're a stranger, good. As you have told me who you
are, it's only fair that I should tell you who I am. I am a student, and
my name is--"
"Excuse me," interposed the young artist, "but before I know who you
are, I would be very glad to know where I am."
"Porte de Nesle, my dear friend; this is the Hôtel de Nesle," said the
student, with a glance at the great door from which the stranger had not
once removed his eyes.
"Very good; and to reach Rue Saint-Martin, where I live, which direction
must I take?" said our lovelorn youth, for the sake of saying something,
and hoping thus to be rid of his companion.
"Rue Saint-Martin, do you say? Come with me, I'm going that way, and at
Pont Saint-Michel I'll show you how you must go. As I was saying, I am a
student, I am returning from the Pré-aux-Clercs, and my name is--"
"Do you know to whom the Hôtel de Nesle belongs?" asked the young
stranger.
"Marry! I rather think I know my University! The Hôtel de Nesle, young
man, belongs to our lord, the king, and is at this moment in the hands
of Robert d'Estourville, Provost of Paris."
"How say you! that the Provost of Paris lives there?"
"By no means did I tell you that the Provost of Paris lives there, my
son: the Provost of Paris lives at the Grand Châtelet."
"Ah, yes! at the Grand Châtelet! Then that's the explanation. But how
happens it that the provost lives at the Grand Châtelet, and yet the
king leaves the Hôtel de Nesle in his possession?"
"'T is thus. The king, you see, had given the Hôtel de Nesle to our
bailli, a most venerable man, who stood guard over the privileges of the
University, and tried all suits against it in most paternal fashion:
superb functions his! Unhappily our excellent bailli was so just--so
just--to us, that his office was abolished two years since, upon the
pretext that he used to sleep when hearing causes, as if _bailli_ were
not derived from _bâiller_ (to yawn). His office being thus suppressed,
the duty of protecting the interests of the University was intrusted to
the Provost of Paris. A fine protector, on my word! as if we could not
quite as well protect ourselves! How, our said provost--dost thou follow
me, my child?--our said provost, who is most rapacious, opined that,
since he succeeded to the bailli's office, he ought at the same time to
inherit his possessions, and so he quietly laid hold of the Grand and
Petit-Nesle, thanks to the patronage of Madame d'Etampes."
"And yet, you say, he does not occupy it."
"Not he, the villain. I think, however, that the old Cassandre lodges a
daughter there, or niece, a lovely child called Colombe or Colombine, or
some such name, and keeps her under lock and key in a corner of the
Petit Nesle."
"Ah! is it so?" exclaimed the artist, hardly able to breathe, for it was
the first time that he had heard his mistress's name; "this usurpation
seems to me a shocking abuse. What! this vast hotel to shelter one young
girl with her duenna!"
"Whence comest thou, O stranger, not to know that nothing comes to pass
more naturally than this abuse,--that we poor clerks should live six
together in a wretched garret, while a great nobleman casts this immense
property with its gardens, lawns, and tennis-court to the dogs!"
"Ah! there is a tennis-court!"
"Magnificent, my son! magnificent!"
"But this Hôtel de Nesle, you say, is actually the property of King
François I."
"To be sure: but what would you have King François I. do with this
property of his?"
"Why, give it to others, as the provost doesn't occupy it."
"Very good: then go and ask it of him for yourself."
"Why not? Tell me, does the game of tennis please your fancy?"
"I fairly dote on it."
"In that case I invite you to a game with me next Sunday."
"Where, pray?"
"At the Hôtel de Nesle."
"Gramercy! my lord grand master of the royal châteaux! 'T is meet that
you should know my name at least--"
But as the young stranger knew all that he cared to know, and as the
rest probably interested him but little, he heard not a word of his new
friend's story, as he proceeded to tell him in detail that his name was
Jacques Aubry, that he was a scrivener at the University, and was now
returning from the Pré-aux-Clercs, where he had had an assignation with
his tailor's wife; that she, detained no doubt by her wrathful spouse,
did not appear; that he had consoled himself for Simonne's absence by
drinking good Suresne; and, lastly, that he proposed to withdraw his
custom from the discourteous Master Snip, who compelled him to wear
himself out with waiting, and to get tipsy which was altogether opposed
to all his habits.
When the two young men reached Rue de la Harpe, Jacques Aubry pointed
out to our unknown the road he was to follow, which he knew even better
than his informant: they then made an appointment for the following
Sunday at noon at the Porte de Nesle, and parted, one singing, the other
dreaming.
He who dreamed had abundant food for dreaming, for he had learned more
during that one evening than in the three weeks preceding.
He had learned that the maiden to whom he had given his heart, lived at
the Petit-Nesle, that she was the daughter of Messire Robert
d'Estourville, Provost of Paris, and that her name was Colombe. As will
be seen, he had not wasted his day.
Still dreaming he turned into Rue Saint-Martin, and stopped before a
handsome house, over the door of which were carved the arms of the
Cardinal of Ferrara. He knocked three times.
"Who's there?" demanded a fresh, resonant young voice from within, after
an interval of a few seconds.
"I, Dame Catherine," replied the unknown.
"Who are you?"
"Ascanio."
"Ah! at last!"
The door opened, and Ascanio entered.
A charming girl of some eighteen to twenty years, rather dark, rather
small, very quick of movement, and admirably well shaped withal,
welcomed him with transports of joy.
"Here's the deserter! here he is!" she cried, and ran, or rather bounded
on before, to announce him, extinguishing the lamp she carried, and
leaving open the street door, which Ascanio, less giddy-pated than she,
was careful to secure.
The young man, although Dame Catherine's precipitation left him in
darkness, walked with assured step across a courtyard of considerable
size, in which every tile was surrounded by a border of rank weeds, the
whole dominated by a sombre mass of tall buildings of somewhat severe
aspect. It was the frowning and humid dwelling-place of a cardinal,
although its master had not for a long time dwelt therein.
Ascanio sprang lightly up a flight of moss-grown steps, and entered a
vast hall, the only room in the house that was lighted,--a sort of
conventual refectory, ordinarily dark and gloomy and untenanted, but
which for two months past had been filled with light and life and music.
For two months past, in truth, this cold colossal cell had been instinct
with bustling, laughing, good-humored life; for two months past, ten
work-benches, two anvils, and an improvised forge had seemed to lessen
the size of the vast room; sketches, models, benches laden with pincers,
hammers, and files, sheaves of swords with chased hilts of marvellous
workmanship, and carved open-work blades, helmets, cuirasses, and
bucklers, gold-embossed, whereon the loves of the gods and goddesses
were portrayed in relief, as if to turn the mind away from the purpose
for which they were destined to be used, had covered the grayish walls.
The sun had freely found its way in through the wide open windows, and
the air had been filled with the songs of joyous, active workers.
A cardinal's refectory had become a goldsmith's workshop.
However, during this evening of July 10, 1540, the sanctity of the
Sabbath had temporarily restored to the newly enlivened apartment the
tranquillity in which it had lain dormant for a century. But a table,
upon which the remains of an excellent supper lay about in confusion,
lighted by a lamp which one would take to have been stolen from the
ruins of Pompeii, of so chaste and delicate a form was it, proved that,
if the temporary occupants of the cardinal's mansion did sometimes enjoy
repose, they were in no wise addicted to fasting.
When Ascanio entered there were four persons in the workshop.
These four persons were an old maid-servant, who was removing the dishes
from the table, Catherine, who was relighting the lamp, a young man
sketching in a corner, and waiting for the lamp which Catherine had
taken from before him in order to continue his work, and the master,
standing with folded arms, and leaning against the forge.
The last would inevitably have been the first to be observed by any one
entering the workshop.
Indeed, there was an indescribable impression of life and power which
emanated from this remarkable personage, and attracted the attention
even of those who would have chosen to withhold it. He was a tall,
spare, powerful man of some forty years; but it would have needed the
chisel of Michel-Angelo or the pencil of Ribeira to trace the outline of
that clear-cut profile, to reproduce that sparkling olive complexion, to
depict that bold, almost kingly expression. His lofty forehead towered
above eyebrows quick to frown; his straight-forward piercing glance
flashed at times with a light that was almost sublime; his frank,
good-humored smile, albeit somewhat satirical, fascinated and awed you
at the same time; he was accustomed to stroke his black beard and
moustache with his hand, which was not precisely small, but nervous,
supple, with long fingers and great strength, but withal slender and
aristocratic; lastly, in his way of looking at you, speaking, turning
his head, in all his quick, expressive, but not intemperate gestures,
even in the careless attitude in which he was standing when Ascanio
entered, his strength made itself felt; the lion in repose was none the
less the lion.
Catherine and the apprentice working in the corner formed a most
striking contrast to each other. The latter, a sombre, taciturn fellow,
with a narrow forehead already furrowed with wrinkles, half shut eyes,
and compressed lips; she as blithe as a bird and blooming as a flower,
with the most mischievous of eyes always to be seen beneath her restless
eyelids, and the whitest of teeth within her mouth, constantly half
opened with a smile. The apprentice, buried in his corner, was slow and
languid in his movements, as if economizing his strength; Catherine was
here and there, going and coming, never remaining one second in one
spot, so did her youthful active organization overflow with life and
spirits, and feel the need of constant movement in default of
excitement.
Thus she was the fairy of the household, a very skylark by virtue of
her vivacity, and her clear, piercing note, beginning life with such a
joyous disregard of every thing beyond the moment as to fully justify
the surname of _Scozzone_ which the master had given her; an Italian
word which signified then, and still signifies, something very like
_casse-cou_ (break-neck). And yet, with all her childish ways, Scozzone
was so instinct with witchery and charm that she was the life and soul
of the household; when she sang all the others were silent; when she
laughed they laughed with her; when she ordered they obeyed without a
word,--albeit she was not ordinarily exacting in her caprice; and then
she was so frankly and innocently happy, that she diffused an atmosphere
of good humor wherever she went, and it made others glad to see her
gladness.
Her story was an old, old story, to which we may perhaps recur: an
orphan, born of the people, she was abandoned in her infancy, but God
protected her. Destined to afford pleasure to everybody, she met a man
to whom she afforded pure happiness.
Having introduced these new characters, we now resume the thread of our
narrative where we let it drop.
"Aha! whence comest thou, gadabout?" said the master to Ascanio.
"Whence do I come? I come from gadding about for you, master."
"Since morning?"
"Since morning."
"Say rather that thou hast been in quest of adventure?"
"What manner of adventure should I have been in quest of, master?"
murmured Ascanio.
"How can I know, pray?"
"Well, well! and if it were so, where's the harm?" interposed Scozzone.
"Indeed, he's a pretty boy enough to have adventures run after him, even
though he run not after adventures."
"Scozzone!" said the master with a frown.
"Come, come! don't you be jealous of him, too, poor, dear boy!" And she
raised Ascanio's chin with her hand. "Ah, well! it only needed that.
But, Jesu! how pale you are! Does it happen that you haven't supped,
monsieur vagabond?"
"Faith, no," cried Ascanio; "I forgot it."
"Oho! in that case I take sides with the master; he forgot that he had
not supped, so he must be in love. Ruperta! Ruperta! bring supper for
Messire Ascanio at once."
The servant produced several dishes of appetizing relics of the evening
meal, which our hero pounced upon with an appetite by no means unnatural
after his prolonged exercise in the open air.
Scozzone and the master watched him, smiling the while, one with
sisterly affection, the other with a father's love. The young man at
work in the corner had raised his head when Ascanio entered; but as soon
as Scozzone replaced in front of him the lamp she had taken when she
rail to open the door, he bent his head over his work once more.
"I was saying, master, that it was for you I have been running about all
day," resumed Ascanio, noticing the mischievous expression of the master
and Scozzone, and desiring to lead the conversation to some other
subject than his love affairs.
"How hast thou run about all day for me? Let us hear."
"Did you not say yesterday that the light was very bad here, and that
you must have another studio?"
"Even so."
"Well, I have found one for you."
"Dost thou hear, Pagolo?" said the master, turning to the young man in
the corner.
"What did you say, master?" he asked, raising his head a second time.
"Come, lay aside thy work a moment, and listen to this. He has found a
workshop: dost thou hear?"
"Pardon, master, but I can hear very well from here what my friend
Ascanio may say. I would like to complete this study; it seems to me
that it is well, when one has piously fulfilled the duties of a
Christian on the Sabbath day, to employ one's leisure in some profitable
exercise: to work is to pray."