received a wound in the shoulder, and fatigue, some mental shock, or
hunger, it may be, caused a momentary faintness, from which he has
completely recovered, as you see, by the use of cordials. He is fully
restored now, and may safely be taken home in a litter."
"Very good," said the duchess, handing a purse to Master André, who
bowed low and went out.
"Where am I?" said Ascanio, seeking to collect his thoughts.
"You are with me, at my home, Ascanio," the duchess replied.
"At your home, madame? Ah! yes, I recognize you; you are Madame
d'Etampes, and I remember too--Where is Benvenuto? Where is my master?"
"Do not stir, Ascanio; your master is safe, never fear. He is dining
peaceably at home at the present moment."
"But how does it happen that he left me here?"
"You lost consciousness, and he trusted you to my care."
"And you assure me, madame, that he is in no danger; that he went from
here unharmed?"
"I tell you again, I promise you, Ascanio, that he has never been less
exposed to danger than at this moment. Ungrateful boy, when I, Duchesse
d'Etampes, am watching over him and caring for him with the tender
solicitude of a sister, to persist in speaking of his master!"
"O madame, I pray you pardon me, and accept my thanks!" said Ascanio.
"Indeed, it's high time!" rejoined the duchess, shaking her pretty head
with a sly smile.
Thereupon she began to speak, giving to every word a tender intonation,
and to the simplest phrases the subtlest of meanings, asking every
question greedily and at the same time with respect, and listening to
every reply as if her destiny depended upon it. She was humble, soft and
caressing as a cat, quick to grasp every cue, like a consummate actress,
leading Ascanio gently back to the subject if he wandered from it, and
giving him all the credit for ideas which she evolved and cunningly led
up to; seeming to distrust herself, and listening to him as if he were
an oracle; exerting to the utmost the cultivated, charming intellect
which, as we have said, caused her to be called the loveliest of
blue-stockings and the most learned of beauties. In short, this
interview became in her hands the most cajoling flattery, and the
cleverest of seductions. As the youth for the third or fourth time made
ready to take his leave, she said, still detaining him:--
"You speak, Ascanio, with so much eloquence and fire of your goldsmith's
art, that it is a perfect revelation to me, and henceforth I shall see
the conception of a master where I have hitherto seen only an ornament.
In your opinion Benvenuto is the great master of the art?"
"Madame, he has surpassed the divine Michel-Angelo himself."
"I am pleased to hear it. You lessen the ill will I bear him on account
of his rude behavior to me.
"Oh! you must not mind his roughness, madame. His brusque manner
conceals a most ardent and devoted heart; but Benvenuto is at the same
time the most impatient and fiery of men. He thought that you were
making him wait in mere sport, and the insult--"
"Say the mischief," rejoined the duchess with the simulated confusion of
a spoiled child. "It is the truth that I was not dressed when your
master arrived, and I simply prolonged my toilet a little. It was wrong,
very wrong. You see that I confess my sins to you freely. I knew not
that you were with him," she added eagerly.
"True, madame, but Cellini, who is not very sagacious, I admit, and
whose confidence has been sadly abused, deems you to be--I may say it to
you who are so gracious and kind--very wicked and very terrible, and he
thought that he detected an insult in what was nothing more than child's
play."
"Do you think so?" queried the duchess, unable wholly to repress a
mocking smile.
"Oh, forgive him, madame! he is noble-hearted and generous, and if he
knew you as you are, believe me, he would ask your pardon for his error
on his knees."
"Say no more, I pray you! Do you think to make me love him now? I bear
him a grudge, I tell you, and, to begin with, I propose to raise up a
rival."
"That will be difficult, madame."
"No, Ascanio, for you, his pupil, shall be the rival. Allow me, at
least, if I must do homage to this great genius who detests me, to do it
indirectly. Say, will you, of whose charming inventive talent Cellini
himself boasts, refuse to place your talent at my service? And since you
do not share your master's prejudices against my person, will you not
prove it to me by consenting to assist in embellishing it?"
"Madame, all that I am and all the power I have is at your service. You
are so kind to me, you have inquired with so much interest concerning my
past and my hopes for the future, that I am henceforth devoted to you
heart and soul."
"Child, I have done nothing yet, and I ask nothing from you at present
except a little of your talent. Tell me, have you not seen some jewel of
surpassing beauty in your dreams? I have superb pearls; into what
marvellous creation would you like to transform them, my pretty wizard?
Shall I confide to you an idea of my own? A moment since, as you lay in
yonder room with pale cheeks and head thrown back, I fancied that I saw
a beautiful lily whose stalk was bending in the wind. Make me a lily of
pearls and silver to wear in my corsage," said the enchantress, placing
her hand upon her heart.
"Ah! madame, such kindness--"
"Ascanio, do you care to repay my kindness, as you call it? Promise me
that you will take me for your confidante, your friend, that you will
hide nothing from me of your acts, your plans, your sorrows, for I see
that you are unhappy. Promise to come to me when you stand in need of
help or counsel."
"Why, madame, you bestow one favor more upon me, rather than ask a proof
of my gratitude."
"However that may be, you promise?"
"Alas! I would have given you the promise yesterday, madame; for
yesterday I might have thought that I might some day need your help or
counsel; but to-day it is in no one's power to help me."
"Who knows?"
"I know, madame."
"Ah me! Ascanio, you are unhappy, you are unhappy, you cannot deceive
me."
Ascanio sadly shook his head.
"You are disingenuous with a friend, Ascanio; 't is not well done of
you," the duchess continued, taking the young man's hand, and softly
pressing it.
"My master must be anxious, madame, and I am afraid that my presence
discommodes you. I feel quite well again. Allow me to withdraw."
"How eager you are to leave me! Wait at least until a litter is prepared
for you. Do not resist; it is the doctor's order, and my own."
Anne called a servant, and gave him the necessary orders, then bade
Isabeau bring her pearls and some of her jewels, which she handed to
Ascanio.
"How I restore your freedom," she said; "but when you are fully restored
to health, my lily will be the first thing you give your mind to, will
it not? Meanwhile, think upon it, I beg you, and as soon as you have
finished your design come and show it to me."
"Yes, Madame la Duchesse."
"And do you not wish me to think upon how I can be of service to you,
and to do whatever you wish, since you are doing for me what I wish?
Come, Ascanio, come, my child, and tell me what you sigh for? For at
your age one seeks in vain to still the heating of his heart, turn his
eyes away, and close his lips,--one always sighs for something. Do you
deem me to be so devoid of power and influence that you disdain to make
me your confidante?"
"I know, madame," rejoined Ascanio, "that you enjoy all the power which
you deserve. But no human power will avail to help me in my present
plight."
"Tell me all the same," said the duchess; "I insist!" Then, with
fascinating coquetry, softening her voice and her expression, she added,
"I beseech you!"
"Alas! alas! madame," cried Ascanio, as his grief overflowed. "Alas!
since you speak so kindly to me, and since my departure will cover my
shame and tears, I will do, not as I should have done yesterday, address
a prayer to the duchess, but make a confidante of the woman. Yesterday I
would have said, 'I love Colombe, and I am happy!' To-day I will say,
'Colombe does not love me, and there is nothing left for me to do but to
die!' Adieu, madame, and pity me!"
Ascanio hurriedly kissed Madame d'Etampes's hand, as she stood mute and
motionless, and vanished.
"A rival! a rival!" said Anne, as if awaking from a dream; "but she does
not love him, and he shall love me, for I will have it so! Oh yes! I
swear that he shall love me, and that I will kill Benvenuto!"
[Footnote 5:
Standing alone beside my window,
One morning as the day was breaking,
I saw at my left hand Aurora
To Phœbus pointing out his daily road;
And on the other hand my sweetheart combing
Her golden locks; I saw her beaming eyes
That shone so lovingly upon me,
That I was fain to cry aloud:
"Immortal Gods! return to your abodes celestial,
Her loveliness doth put yours to the blush."]
[Footnote 6: "Je dis beau, c'est bon que je devrais dire."]
XIV
WHEREIN IT IS PROVEN THAT SORROW IS THE
GROUNDWORK OF THE LIFE OF MAN
We ask pardon for the bitter misanthropy of this title. It is the fact
that the present chapter will exhibit scarcely any other coherent
principle than sorrow, and therein will resemble life. The reflection is
not new, as a celebrated character in comic opera would say, but it is
consoling, in that it will perhaps he accepted as an apology by the
reader, whom we are about to lead, even as Virgil led Dante, from
despair to despair.
No offence is intended either to the reader or to Virgil.
Our friends, in very truth, at the moment at which we have now arrived,
mere all, beginning with Benvenuto and ending with Jacques Aubry,
plunged in melancholy, and we are about to see them gradually engulfed
in the dark rising tide of sorrow.
We left Benvenuto exceedingly anxious concerning Ascanio's condition. On
his return to the Grand-Nesle, he thought but little of the wrath of
Madame d'Etampes, I promise you. His sole preoccupation was his dear
invalid. So it was that his joy knew no hounds when the door opened to
give admission to a litter, and Ascanio, leaping lightly to the ground,
grasped his hand, and assured him that he was no worse than in the
morning. But Benvenuto's brow quickly grew dark at the apprentice's
first words, and he listened with an expression of peculiar
dissatisfaction while the younger man said:--
"Master, I propose to show you that you have done a wrong for which you
must make amends, and I am sure that you will thank me instead of
hearing me ill will for it. You are mistaken with relation to Madame
d'Etampes; she neither despises nor hates you; on the contrary, she
honors and admires you, and you must agree that you were very rude in
your treatment of her,--a woman and a duchess. Master, Madame d'Etampes
is not only as beautiful as a goddess, she is as kind as an angel,
modest and enthusiastic, simple-minded and noble, and at heart her
disposition is lovely. What you deemed insulting insolence this morning
was nothing more than childish mischief. I implore you, for your own
sake--you surely would not be unjust--as well as for mine, whom she made
welcome and cared for with such touching kindness, not to persist in
your insulting contempt for her. I will answer for it that you will have
no difficulty in persuading her--But you do not answer me, dear master.
You shake your head. Can it be that I have wounded you?"
"Hark ye, my child," rejoined Benvenuto gravely. "I have often told you
that in my view there is but one thing in the world forever beautiful,
forever young, forever fruitful, and that is art divine. And yet, I
think, I hope, I know, that in certain tender hearts love also counts
for much,--a deep and noble sentiment, which may make happy a whole
life; but it is very rare. For what is love in most cases? A fancy of a
day, a joyous intimacy, in which both parties are deceived, and very
often in the best of faith. I make sport of this love, as it is called,
Ascanio, with great freedom as you know; I laugh at its high-flown
pretensions and its stilted language. I do not slander it. To say truth,
it rather pleases me; it has _in petto_ all the joy, all the sweetness,
all the jealousy of a serious passion, but its wounds are not mortal.
Comedy or tragedy, after a certain time one hardly remembers it save as
a sort of theatrical performance. And then, Ascanio, while women are
charming creatures, to my mind all save a very few do not deserve and do
not understand anything more than this passing fancy. To give them more,
one must be a dupe or an imprudent fool. Take Scozzone, for example: if
she should enter my heart, she would be terrified at what she saw
therein; I leave her at the threshold, and she sings and dances, she is
light of heart and happy. Moreover, Ascanio, these ever changing
alliances have a less durable basis, which however is all-sufficient for
the artist,--the worship of form, and the adoration of pure beauty. That
is their serious side, and it is on account of that I say no ill of
them, although I laugh at them. But, Ascanio, mark this: there are other
passions which do not make me laugh, but make me tremble,--terrible,
insensate passions, as impossible as things we see in dreams."
"Mon Dieu!" thought Ascanio, "can he have learned aught of my mad
passion for Colombe?"
"They afford neither pleasure nor happiness," continued Cellini, "and
yet they take possession of one's whole being; they are vampires which
slowly drink your whole existence, which devour your heart little by
little; they hold you in a deathly embrace, and you cannot extricate
yourself. Ascanio, Ascanio, beware of such a passion. 'T is clear that
they are mere chimeras, and that they can in no way profit one, and yet
men who know this well plunge into them body and soul, and abandon their
lives to them almost with joy."
"He has that in his mind! he knows all!" said Ascanio to himself.
"My dear son," pursued Benvenuto, "if there still is time, break these
bonds which would hold you fast forever; you will bear the mark of them,
but try at least to save your life."
"Who told you that I love her, in God's name?" demanded the apprentice.
"If you do not love her, God be praised!" exclaimed Benvenuto, thinking
that Ascanio denied the impeachment, when he simply asked a question.
"Beware at all events, for I saw this morning that she loves you."
"This morning! Of whom are you speaking? What do you mean?"
"Of whom am I speaking? of Madame d'Etampes."
"Madame d'Etampes!" echoed the bewildered apprentice. "Why, master you
are wrong, it's not possible. You say that you saw that Madame d'Etampes
loves me?"
"Ascanio, I am forty years old; I have lived, and I know whereof I
speak. By her manner of looking at you, by the favorable opinion which
she has succeeded in leading you to form of her, I would dare swear that
she loves you; and from the enthusiasm with which you defended her just
now I was much afraid that you had fallen in love with her as well. In
that case, dear Ascanio, you would be lost: her love, hot enough to
consume your whole being, when it left you, would leave you with no
illusion, no faith, no hope, and you would have no other resource but to
love others as you had been loved yourself, and to carry to other hearts
the havoc that had been wrought in your own."
"Master," said Ascanio, "I do not know whether Ha dame d'Etampes loves
me, but I am perfectly sure that I do not love Madame d'Etampes."
Benvenuto was no more than half convinced by Ascanio's apparent
sincerity, for he thought that he might be deceived as to his own
feelings. He said nothing more on the subject, and in the days which
followed often gazed at the apprentice with a sad face.
It should be said, however, that he did not seem to be troubled
exclusively on Ascanio's account. He gave every indication of being
tormented by some personal distress. He lost his frank, joyous manner,
and no longer indulged in his original pranks of former days. He always
secluded himself during the forenoon in his room over the foundry, and
had given explicit orders that he should not be disturbed there. The
rest of the day he worked at the gigantic statue of Mars with his
accustomed ardor, but without talking about it with his accustomed
effusiveness. Especially in Ascanio's presence did he seem gloomy,
embarrassed, and almost shamefaced. He seemed to avoid his dear pupil as
if he were his creditor or his judge. In short, it was easy to see that
some great sorrow or some great passion had found its way into that
manly heart, and was laying it waste.
Ascanio was hardly more happy; he was persuaded, as he had said to
Madame d'Etampes, that Colombe did not love him. Comte d'Orbec, whom he
knew only by name, was, in his jealous thoughts, a young and attractive
nobleman, and Messire d'Estourville's daughter, the happy betrothed of a
well favored, nobly born lover, had never for an instant thought of an
obscure artist. Even if he had retained the vague and fleeting hope
which never deserts a heart overflowing with love, he had himself
destroyed his last chance if Madame d'Etampes was really in love with
him, by disclosing to her the name of her rival. This proposed marriage,
which she might perhaps have prevented, she would now do everything in
her power to hasten forward; and poor Colombe would feel the full force
of her hatred. Yes, Benvenuto was right; that woman's love was in very
truth a terrible and deadly thing; but Colombe's love would surely be
the sublime, celestial sentiment of which the master had first spoken,
and alas! that immeasurable blessing was destined for another!
Ascanio was in despair; he had believed in Madame d'Etampes's
friendship, and now it seemed that this deceitful friendship was a
dangerous passion; he had hoped for Colombe's love, and it seemed that
her supposititious passion was nothing more than indifferent friendship.
He felt that he almost hated both these women, who had so falsified his
dreams in that each of them regarded him as he would have liked to be
regarded by the other.
Entirely absorbed by a feeling of hopeless discouragement, he did not
once think of the lily ordered by Madame d'Etampes, and in his jealous
anger he would not repeat his visit to the Petit-Nesle, despite the
entreaties and reproaches of Ruperta, whose innumerable questions he
left unanswered. Sometimes, however, he repented of the resolution he
made on the first day, which was assuredly cruel to none but himself. He
longed to see Colombe, to demand an explanation. But of what? Of his own
extravagant visions! However, he would see her, he would think in his
softer moments; he would confess his love to her as a crime, and she was
so tender-hearted that perhaps she would comfort him as if it were, a
misfortune. But how explain his absence, how excuse himself in the
maiden's eyes?
Ascanio allowed the days to pass in innocent, sorrowful reflections, and
did not dare to take any decided step.
Colombe awaited Ascanio's coming with mingled terror and joy on the day
following that on which Dame Perrine floored the apprentice with her
direful revelation; but in vain did she count the hours and the minutes,
in vain did Dame Perrine keep her ears on the alert. Ascanio, who had
recovered in good time from his swoon, and might have availed himself of
Colombe's gracious permission, did not come, attended by Ruperta, and
give the preconcerted signal at the door in the wall of the Petit-Nesle.
What did it mean?
It meant that Ascanio was ill, dying perhaps, at all events too ill to
come. At least that was what Colombe thought; she passed the whole
evening kneeling at her prie-Dieu, weeping and praying, and when she
ceased to pray she found that she continued to weep. That discovery
terrified her. The anxiety which oppressed her heart was a revelation to
her. Indeed, there was sufficient cause for alarm, for in less than a
month Ascanio had taken possession of her thoughts to such a degree as
to make her forget her God, her father, and her misery.
But there was room in her mind for nothing now but this: Ascanio was
suffering within two steps of her; he would die before she could see
him. It was no time to reason, but to weep and weep. If he should be
saved, she would reflect.
The next day it was still worse. Perrine watched for Ruperta, and as
soon as she saw her leave the house rushed out to go to market for news
far more than for supplies. Now Ascanio was no longer seriously ill; he
had simply refused to go to the Petit-Nesle, without replying to Dame
Ruperta's eager questions otherwise than by obstinately keeping silent.
The two gossips were reduced to conjectures: such a thing was entirely
incomprehensible to them.
Colombe, however, did not seek long for the explanation; she said to
herself at once:--
"He knows all: he has learned that in three months I shall be Comte
d'Orbec's wife, and he has no wish to see me again."
Her first impulse was to be grateful to her lover for his anger, and to
smile. Let him explain this secret joy who can; we are simply the
historian. But soon, upon reflection, she took it ill of Ascanio that he
was able to believe that she was not in despair at the thought of such
a union.
"So he despises me," she said to herself.
All these impulses, indignant or affectionate, were very dangerous: they
laid bare the heart which before knew not itself. Colombe said to
herself aloud, that she did not desire to see Ascanio; but she
whispered, that she awaited his coming to justify herself. She suffered
in her timorous conscience; she suffered in her misapprehended love.
It was not the only passion which Ascanio did not understand. There was
another more powerful, more impatient to make itself known, and which
dreamed darkly of happiness, as hatred dreams of vengeance.
Madame d'Etampes did not believe, did not choose to believe, in
Ascanio's profound passion for Colombe.
"A child who has no conception of what he really wants," she said to
herself, "who falls in love with the first pretty girl he sees, who has
come in collision with the high and mighty airs of an empty-headed
little fool, and whose pride takes offence at the least obstacle. Oh!
when he realizes what true love is, ardent, clinging love,--when he knows
that I, Duchesse d'Etampes, whose caprice rules a kingdom, love
him!--Ah! but he must know it!"
The Vicomte de Marmagne and the Provost of Paris suffered in their
hatred, as Anne and Colombe suffered in their love. They harbored mortal
enmity to Benvenuto,--Marmagne especially. Benvenuto had caused him to
be despised and humiliated by a woman; Benvenuto constrained him to be
brave, for before the scene at the Hôtel d'Etampes the viscount might
have had him poniarded by his people on the street, but now he must
needs go and beard him in his own house, and Marmagne shuddered with
dismay at the prospect. We do not readily pardon those who force us to
realize that we are cowards.
Thus all were suffering, even Scozzone. Scozzone the madcap laughed and
sang no more, and her eyes were often red with weeping. Benvenuto did
not love her. Benvenuto was always cold, and sometimes spoke sharply to
her.
Scozzone had for a long time had a fixed idea, which had become a
monomania with her. She was determined to become Benvenuto's wife. When
she first went to him, expecting to serve him as a plaything, and he
treated her with all the consideration due a wife, and not as a mere
light o' love, the poor child was greatly exalted by such unlocked for
respect and honor, and at the same time she felt profoundly grateful to
her benefactor, and unaffectedly proud to find herself so highly
esteemed. Afterward, not at Benvenuto's command, but in response to his
entreaty, she gladly consented to serve him as model, and by dint of
seeing her own form and features so often reproduced, and so often
admired, in bronze, in silver, and in gold, she had simply attributed
half of the goldsmith's success to herself; for the lovely outlines,
which were so loudly praised, belonged to her much more than to the
master. She blushed with pleasure when Benvenuto was complimented upon
the purity of the lines of this or that figure; she complacently
persuaded herself that she was indispensable to her lover's renown, and
had become a part of his glory, even as she had become a part of his
heart.