length of Rue Gilles-le-Gueux, which was at a later date sentimentally
christened Rue Gît-le-Cœur. The principal entrance was upon Rue de
l'Hirondelle. François I. had presented it to his mistress to induce
her to become the wife of Jacques Desbrosses, Comte de Penthièvre, as
he had given the dukedom of Etampes and the government of Bretagne to
Jacques Desbrosses, Comte de Penthièvre, to induce him to marry his
mistress.
The king had spared no pains to render his gift worthy of the lovely
Anne d'Heilly. He had caused the old edifice to be refurbished and made
over according to the latest style.
Upon its frowning façade the delicate flowers of the Renaissance sprang
into life by magic, like so many thoughts of love. It was evident from
the zeal displayed by the king in the decoration of this princely abode,
that he anticipated passing almost as much of his time there as the
duchess herself. The apartments were furnished with royal magnificence,
and the whole establishment was upon the footing of that of a real
queen, much more extensive and luxurious, indeed, than that of the
chaste and kindly Eleanora, sister of Charles V. and the lawful wife of
François I., who was a personage of so little importance in the world,
as well as at the French court.
If we are so indiscreet as to make our way into the duchess's sleeping
apartment early in the morning, we shall find her half reclining upon a
couch, her charming head supported by one of her lovely hands, and
passing the other carelessly through her chestnut locks, which shone
with a golden light. Her bare feet seem even smaller and whiter than
they really are in her wide black velvet slippers, and her floating,
_négligée_ morning gown lends an irresistible charm to the coquette's
fascinations.
The king is in the room, standing by a window, but he is not looking at
his duchess. He is tapping his fingers rhythmically against the glass,
and seems to be deep in meditation. He is thinking, no doubt, of the
momentous question of Charles V.'s journey through France.
"Pray what are you doing there, Sire, with your back turned?" the
duchess finally asks, petulantly.
"Making verses for you, my love, and they are finished at last, I
believe."
"Oh, repeat them to me quickly, I pray you, my gallant crowned poet!"
"That I will," the king replies, with the confidence of a laurel-crowned
rhymer. "Listen:--
'Étant seul et auprès d'une fenêtre,
Par un matin comme le jour peignait,
Je regardais Aurore à main senestre,
Qui à Phœbus le chemin enseignait,
Et d'autre part ma mie qui peignait
Son chef doré, et vis ses luisans yeux,
Dont un jeta un trait si gracieux,
Qu'à haute voix je fus contraint de dire;
Dieux immortels! rentrez dedans vos cieux,
Car la beauté de ceste vous empire!'"[5]
"Oh, the lovely verses!" says the duchess, clapping her hands. "Look at
Aurora to your heart's content: henceforth I'll not be jealous of her,
since to her I owe such charming verses. Say them to me once again, I
beg."
François obligingly repeated his flattering lines, for his own benefit
as well as hers, but this time Anne said nothing.
"What is the matter, my fair siren?" said François, who expected a
second compliment.
"The matter is, Sire, that I am considering whether I will say to you
again even more emphatically what I said last evening: a poet has even
less pretext than a knightly king for allowing his mistress to be
insulted, for she is at the same time his mistress and his Muse."
"Again, naughty one!" rejoined the king with an impatient gesture: "an
insult indeed, bon Dieu! Your wrath is implacable, in good sooth, my
nymph of nymphs, when it leads you to neglect my verses."
"Monseigneur, I hate as warmly as I love."
"And yet suppose I were to beg you to lay aside your animosity to
Benvenuto,--a great fool, who knows not what he says, who talks just as
he fights, heedless of consequences, and who had not, I swear, the
slightest purpose to wound you. You know, moreover, that clemency's the
attribute of goddesses, dear goddess mine, so pray forgive the simpleton
for love of me!"
"Simpleton, indeed!" muttered Anne.
"Oh, a sublime simpleton, I grant you!" said François: "I saw him
yesterday, and he promised to do marvellous things. He is a man, I
verily believe, who has no rival in his art, and will hereafter shed as
much lustre on my reign as Andrea del Sarto, Titian, and Leonardo da
Vinci. You know how I love my artists, dearest duchess, so be
complaisant and indulgent to him, I beg you. Mon Dieu! an April shower,
a woman's caprice, and an artist's whim have more of fascination than of
ennui for me. Come, come, do you, whom I do love so dearly, pardon at my
bidding."
"I am your servant, Sire, and I will obey you."
"Thanks. In return for this favor accorded by the woman's kindly heart,
you may demand such gift as pleases you that lies within the prince's
power to bestow. But, alas! 't is growing late, and I must leave you.
The council meets again to-day. 'T is an insufferable bore! Ah! my good
brother Charles makes the king's trade most irksome to me. With him
cunning replaces chivalry, the pen the sword; and 't is a burning shame.
Upon my soul, I think we need new words to be devised for all this
science and erudition of government. Adieu! my poor beloved. I will do
my best to be adroit and clever. You are very fortunate, my dear, for
you have only to remain beautiful, and Heaven has made that an easy task
for you. Adieu! nay, do not rise, my page is waiting for me in the
antechamber. _Au revoir_, and think of me."
"As always, Sire."
François waved a last farewell to her with his hand, raised the
hangings, and went out, leaving the fair duchess alone; and she, true to
her promise, began at once, if we must say it, to think of other things.
Madame d'Etampes was of an impulsive, active, ambitious nature. Having
eagerly sought and gallantly won the king's love, it was not long before
that love ceased to satisfy her restless spirit, and she began to suffer
from ennui. Neither Admiral Biron, nor the Comte de Longueval, whom she
loved for some time, nor Diane de Poitiers, whom she always hated,
furnished a sufficient amount of excitement for her needs; but within a
week the void in her heart had been measurably filled, and she had begun
to live again, thanks to a new hate and a new love. She hated Cellini
and loved Ascanio, and she was thinking of one or the other while her
women were completing her toilet.
When she was fully dressed except as to her headgear, the Provost of
Paris and the Vicomte de Marmagne were announced.
They were among the most devoted partisans of the duchess in the warfare
which existed at court between the Dauphin's mistress, Diane de
Poitiers, and herself. One is naturally glad to see one's friends when
thinking of one's enemies, and the manner of Madame d'Etampes was
infinitely gracious as she gave the scowling provost and the smiling
viscount her hand to kiss.
"Messire le Prévôt," she began, in a tone in which unfeigned wrath was
blended with compassion that contained no suggestion of offence, "we
have been informed of the infamous treatment you have received from this
Italian clown,--you, our best friend,--and we are extremely indignant."
"Madame," replied D'Estourville, neatly turning his misfortune into an
occasion for flattery, "I should have been ashamed if one of my years
and character had been spared by the villain who was not deterred by
your beauty and charm."
"Oh!" said Anne, "I think only of you; as to the insult to me
personally, the king, who is really too indulgent to these insolent
foreigners, has begged me to forget it, and I have done so."
"In that case, madame, the request we have to make will doubtless be but
ill received, and we ask your permission to withdraw without stating
it."
"What, Messire d'Estourville! am I not at your service at all times, and
whatever may happen? Speak! speak! or I shall lose my temper with so
distrustful a friend."
"Very well, madame, this is what we have to say. I had believed that I
might dispose of this grant of lodgings which I owe to your munificence
in favor of the Vicomte de Marmagne, and naturally we cast our eyes upon
the Hôtel de Nesle, which has fallen into such bad hands."
"Aha!" said the duchess. "You interest me immensely."
"The viscount, madame, accepted my suggestion in the first place with
the utmost enthusiasm; but now, upon reflection, he hesitates, and
thinks with terror of the redoubtable Benvenuto."
"Pardon me, my good friend," the viscount interposed,--"pardon me, you
explain the matter very ill. I am not afraid of Benvenuto, but of the
anger of the king. I have no fear of being killed by the Italian clown,
to use madame's words,--no, no! What I fear, so to speak, is that I may
kill him, and that some ill may come to me for having deprived our lord
and master of a servitor by whom he seems to set great store."
"I ventured to hope, madame, that, in case of need, your protection
would not fail him."
"It has never yet failed my friends," said the duchess; "and,
furthermore, have you not on your side a better friend than I,--justice?
Are you not acting in accordance with the king's will?"
"His Majesty," Marmagne replied, "did not himself designate the Hôtel
de Nesle as the abode of any other than Benvenuto, and our choice, under
those circumstances, would seem very much like revenge,--there's no
denying it. And then, suppose that I kill this Cellini, as I can promise
to do, for I shall have two sure men with me?"
"Oh! mon Dieu!" exclaimed the duchess, showing her white teeth as she
smiled, "the king's protection extends to living men, but I fancy that
he takes but little thought to avenge the dead, and when his admiration
for art is deprived of this particular subject, he will remember naught
save his affection for me, I trust. The man insulted me publicly and
outrageously, Marmagne! do you forget it?"
"But, madame," rejoined the prudent viscount, "be very sure that you
know all you will have to defend."
"Oh, you are perfectly clear, viscount."
"Nay, madame, if you will permit me, I do not wish to leave you in
ignorance upon any point. It may be that force will fail to effect our
purpose with this devil of a man. In that event, we shall have recourse
to stratagem; if he escapes my bravos in his Hôtel in broad daylight,
they will meet him again some night by accident in a lonely street,
and--they have daggers, madame, as well as swords."
"I understand," said the duchess, nor did she turn a shade paler while
listening to this little scheme of assassination.
"Well, madame?"
"Well, viscount, I see that you are a man of precautions, and that it's
not well to be numbered among your enemies, deuce take me!"
"But touching the affair itself, madame?"
"'T is serious, in very truth, and is perhaps worth reflecting upon; but
what was I saying? Every one knows, the king himself included, that this
man has wounded me grievously in my pride. I hate him as bitterly as I
hate my husband or Madame Diane, and i' faith I think that I can promise
you--What is it, Isabeau? why do you interrupt us?"
The duchess's last words were addressed to one of her women, who entered
hurriedly in a state of intense excitement.
"Mon Dieu! madame," said she, "I ask madame's pardon, but the Florentine
artist, Benvenuto Cellini, is below with the loveliest little golden
vase you can imagine. He said very courteously that he has come to
present it to your ladyship, and he requests the favor of speaking with
you a moment."
"Aha!" exclaimed the duchess, with an expression of gratified pride;
"what reply did you make to him, Isabeau?"
"That madame was not dressed, and that I would go and inform her of his
presence."
"Very good. It would seem," the duchess added, turning to the dismayed
provost, "that our enemy sees the error of his ways, and begins to
realize who we are, and what we can do. All the same, he will not come
off so cheaply as he thinks, and I don't propose to accept his excuses
all in a moment. He must be made to feel the enormity of his offence and
the weight of our indignation a little more sensibly. Say to him,
Isabeau, that you have informed me, and that I bid him wait."
Isabeau went out.
"I was saying, Vicomte de Marmagne," resumed the duchess, with a
perceptible softening in her tone, "that what you were speaking of is a
very serious matter, and that I could hardly promise to give my
countenance to what is, after all, nothing less than ambuscade and
murder."
"But the insult was so pronounced!" the provost ventured, to say.
"The reparation will be no less so, I trust, messire. This famous pride,
which has resisted the will of sovereigns, is yonder in my antechamber
awaiting the good pleasure of a woman, and two hours of this purgatory
will, in all conscience, sufficiently atone for an impertinent word. We
must not be altogether pitiless, provost. Forgive him, as I shall
forgive him two hours hence. Ought my influence over you to be less than
the king's over me?"
"Kindly permit us to take leave now, madame," said the provost, bowing,
"for I prefer not to make a promise to my real sovereign which I could
not keep."
"Take your leave! oh no!" said the duchess, who was determined to have
witnesses of her triumph. "I intend, Messire le Prévôt, that you shall
be present at the humiliation of your enemy, and thus we shall both be
avenged by the same stroke. I devote the next two hours to you and the
viscount; nay, do not thank me. They say that you are marrying your
daughter to Comte d'Orbec, I believe?--a beautiful _parti_, in sooth.
Fine, I should have said, not beautiful.[6] Pray, sit you down, messire!
Do you know that my consent is needful for this marriage, and you've not
asked it yet, but I will give it you. D'Orbec is as devoted to me as
yourself. I hope that we are at last to see your lovely child, and have
her for our own, and that her husband will not be so ill advised as not
to bring her to court. What is her name, messire?"
"Colombe, madame."
"A sweet, pretty name. 'T is said that one's name has an influence upon
one's destiny: if it be so, the poor child should have a tender heart,
and be foredoomed to suffer. Well, Isabeau, what is it now?"
"Nothing, madame; he said that he would wait."
"Ah, yes! 't is well. I had forgotten him already. Yes, yes, messire, I
say again, keep your eye on Colombe; the count's a husband of the same
sort as mine, as ambitious as the Duc d'Etampes is avaricious, and quite
capable of exchanging his wife for some duchy. And then you must be
beware of me as well, especially if she's as pretty as she's said to be!
You will present her to me, will you not, messire? 'T will be no more
than fair, so that I may be prepared to defend myself."
The duchess, exultant in anticipation of her triumph, ran on thus for a
long while with apparent unconcern, although her impatient joy could be
discerned in her every movement.
"Well, well," she said at last, "another half-hour and the two hours
will have passed; then we will release poor Benvenuto from his agony.
Put yourselves in his place; he must suffer terribly, for he is little
wonted to this sort of sentry-go. To him the Louvre is always open, and
the king always visible. In truth, I pity him, although he well deserves
it. He must be gnashing his teeth, must be not? And then to be unable to
give vent to his anger. Ha! ha! ha! I shall have many a hearty laugh
over this. But what is that I hear? Bon Dieu! all that shouting and
uproar!"
"May it not be that the soul of the damned is wearying of Purgatory?"
suggested the provost, with renewed hope.
"I propose to go and see," said the duchess, turning pale. "Come with
me, my masters, come."
Benvenuto, persuaded by the arguments we have heard to make his peace
with the all-powerful favorite, on the day following his conversation
with Primaticcio took the little golden vase as a peace-offering, and
repaired to the Hôtel d'Etampes, with Ascanio leaning on his arm, still
very weak and very pale after a night of suffering. In the first place,
the footmen refused to announce him at so early an hour, and he lost a
good half-hour parleying with them. He had already begun to lose his
temper, when Isabeau at last made her appearance, and consented to
announce him to her mistress. She returned to say to Benvenuto that the
duchess was dressing, and he must wait a short time. He took patience,
therefore, and sat himself down upon a stool beside Ascanio, who was
considerably overdone, by the walk, in conjunction with his fever and
his painful thoughts.
An hour passed. Benvenuto began to count the minutes. "After all," he
thought, "the toilette of a duchess is the most important function of
the day, and I don't propose to lose the benefit of the step I have
taken for a quarter of an hour more or less."
Nevertheless, in the face of this philosophical reflection, he began to
count the seconds.
Meanwhile Ascanio turned paler and paler; he was determined to say
nothing to his master of his sufferings, and had accompanied him without
a word; but he had eaten nothing that morning, and, although he refused
to acknowledge it, he felt that his strength was failing him.
Benvenuto could not remain seated, but began to stalk up and down the
room.
A quarter of an hour passed.
"Are you suffering, my child?" he asked.
"No, master, indeed I'm not: you are the one who is suffering. Be
patient, I beg you, for she cannot be long now."
At that moment Isabeau appeared again.
"Your mistress is very slow," said Benvenuto.
The mischievous girl went to the window, and looked at the clock in the
courtyard.
"Why, you have waited only an hour and a half," she said; "why do you
complain, pray?"
As Cellini frowned, she laughed in his face, and tripped away.
Benvenuto, by a violent effort, subdued his wrath once more. But in
order to do it he was obliged to resume his seat, and sat with folded
arms, silent and stem. He seemed calm; but his wrath was fermenting
silently. Two servants stood like statues at the door, observing him
with a serious expression, which seemed to him derisory.
The clock struck the quarter. Benvenuto glanced at Ascanio, and saw that
he was paler than ever, and almost ready to faint.
"Ah ça!" he cried, throwing his self-restraint to the winds, "so this
is done designedly! I chose to believe what I was told, and wait
good-naturedly: but if an insult is intended--and I am so little wonted
to them, that the thought did not occur to me--if an insult is intended,
I am not the man to allow myself to be insulted, even by a woman, and I
go. Come, Ascanio."
As he spoke, Benvenuto, raising in his powerful hand the unhospitable
stool, on which the duchess in her wrath had humiliated him for two
mortal hours without his knowledge, let it fall to the floor and
shattered it. The valets made a movement toward him, but he half drew
his dagger and they stopped. Ascanio, terrified for his master, essayed
to rise, but his excitement had exhausted what remained of his strength,
and he fell to the floor unconscious. Benvenuto at first did not see
him.
At that moment the duchess appeared in the doorway, pale and trembling
with wrath.
"Yes, I go," Benvenuto repeated in a voice of thunder, perfectly well
aware of her presence, but addressing the valets: "do you tell the woman
that I take my present with me to give to somebody, I know not whom, who'll
be more worthy of it than herself. Tell her that, if she took me for
one of her valets, like yourselves, she made a sad mistake, and that we
artists do not sell our loyalty and homage as she sells her love! And
now make way for me! Follow me, Ascanio!"
As he spoke, he turned toward his beloved pupil, and saw that his eyes
were closed, and that his head had fallen back against the wall.
"Ascanio!" he cried, "Ascanio, my child, fainting, perhaps dying! O
Ascanio, my beloved! and 't is this woman again--" And Benvenuto turned
with a threatening gesture to Madame d'Etampes, at the same time
starting to carry Ascanio away in his arms.
The duchess meanwhile, transfixed with rage and terror, had not moved or
spoken. But when she saw Ascanio with his head thrown back, and his long
hair dishevelled, as white as marble, and so beautiful in his pallor,
she rushed to him in obedience to an irresistible impulse, and fell on
her knees opposite Benvenuto, seizing one of Ascanio's hands in her own.
"Why, the child is dying! If you take him away, monsieur, you will kill
him. He may need immediate attention. Jerome, run and fetch Master
André. I do not mean that he shall go from here in this condition, do
you understand? You may go or stay, as you please, but leave him."
Benvenuto cast a penetrating glance at the duchess, and one of deep
anxiety at Ascanio. He realized that there could be no danger in leaving
his cherished pupil in the care of Madame d'Etampes, while there might
be very serious danger in removing him without proper precaution. His
mind was soon made up, as always, for swift and inexorable decision was
one of Cellini's most striking good or had qualities.
"You will answer for him, madame?" he said.
"Oh, with my life!" cried the duchess.
He softly kissed his apprentice on the forehead, and, wrapping his cloak
about him, stalked proudly from the room, with his hand upon his dagger,
not without exchanging a glance of hatred and disdain with the duchess.
As for the two men, he did not deign to look at them.
Anne followed her enemy so long as she could see him with eyes blazing
with wrath; then, with an entire change of expression, her eyes rested
sadly and anxiously upon the comely invalid; love took the place of
anger, the tigress became a gazelle once more.
"Master André," she said to her physician, who entered hurriedly, "save
him; he is wounded and dying."
"It is nothing," said Master André, "a mere passing weakness."
He poured upon Ascanio's lips a few drops of a cordial which he always
carried about him.
"He is coming to himself," cried the duchess, "he moved. Now, master, he
must be kept quiet, must he not? Take him into yonder room," she said to
the valets, "and lay him upon a couch.--But, hark ye," she added,
lowering her voice, so that none but they could hear: "if one word
escapes you as to what you have seen and heard, your neck shall pay for
your tongue. Go."
The trembling lackeys bowed, and, gently lifting Ascanio, bore him away.
Remaining alone with the provost and the Vicomte de Marmagne, prudent
and passive spectators of the outrage upon her, Madame d'Etampes eyed
them both, especially the latter, with a scornful glance, but she
speedily repressed the inclination to express her contempt in words.
"I was saying, viscount," she began in a bitter tone, but calmly, "I was
saying that the thing you proposed was very serious; but I did not
reflect sufficiently upon it. I have sufficient power, I think, to
permit me to strike down a traitor, even as I should have sufficient, if
need were, to deal with indiscreet friends. The king would condescend to
punish him this time, I trust; but I choose to avenge myself. Punishment
would make the insult public; vengeance will bury it. You have been cool
and clever enough, messieurs, to postpone my vengeance, in order not to
compromise its success, and I congratulate you upon it. Be shrewd enough
now, I conjure you, not to let it escape you, and do not compel me to
have recourse to others than yourselves. Vicomte de Marmagne, it is
necessary to speak plainly to you. I guarantee you equal impunity with
the executioner; but if you care for my advice, I advise you and your
sbirri to lay aside the sword, and trust to the dagger. Say nothing, but
act, and that promptly; that is the most satisfactory response. Adieu,
messieurs."
With these words, uttered in a short, abrupt tone, the duchess extended
her hand as if to point out the door to the two noblemen. They bowed
awkwardly, too confused to find words in which to frame an excuse, and
left the room.
"Oh, to think that I am only a woman, and am obliged to resort to such
dastards!" exclaimed Anne, looking after them while her lips curled
disdainfully. "Oh how I despise them all, royal lover, venal husband,
valet in silken doublet, valet in livery,--all save a single one whom in
my own despite I admire, and another whom I delight to love!"
She entered the room to which the interesting invalid had been carried.
As she approached the couch Ascanio opened his eyes.