secret inspiration, that hidden divinity, which every creator evokes,
and which makes him a creator. Because Benvenuto copied her graceful
attitudes, she believed in good faith that he owed everything to her,
and little by little she took courage to hope that, after raising the
courtesan to the rank of mistress, he would raise the mistress to the
rank of wife.
As dissimulation was altogether foreign to her character, she had avowed
her ambition in very precise terms. Cellini listened to her gravely, and
replied,--
"This requires consideration."
The fact was that he would have preferred to return to the Castle of San
Angelo at the risk of breaking his leg a second time in making his
escape. Not that he despised his dear Scozzone; he loved her dearly, and
sometimes a little jealously, as we have seen, but he adored art before
everything, and his true and lawful wife was sculpture first of all.
Furthermore, when he should be married, would not the husband depress
the spirits of the gay Bohemian? Would not the _pater-familias_
interfere with the freedom of the sculptor? And, again, if he must marry
all his models, he would commit bigamy a hundred times over.
"When I cease to love Scozzone, and to need her as a model," he said to
himself, "I will find some worthy fellow for her, too short-sighted to
look back into the past and to divine the future, who will see nothing
but a lovely woman and the marriage portion I will give her. Thus I will
satisfy her mania for wearing the name of wife, bourgeois fashion." For
Benvenuto was convinced that Scozzone's desire was simply to have a
husband, and that it mattered little to her who the husband might be.
Meanwhile, he left the ambitious damsel to take what comfort she could
in her fancies. But since their installation at the Grand-Nesle, her
eyes had been opened, and she realized that she was not so necessary to
Cellini's life and work as she thought, for she could no longer with her
gayety dispel the cloud of melancholy which overhung his brow, and he
had begun to model a Hebe in wax for which she was not asked to pose. At
last, the poor child--_horribile dictu_!--had essayed to play the
coquette with Ascanio in Cellini's presence, and there had been not the
slightest drawing together of the eyebrows to bear witness to the
master's jealous wrath. Must she then bid farewell to all her blissful
dreams, and become once more a poor, humiliated creature?
As to Pagolo, if any one cares to sound the depths of his heart, we
venture to say that he had never been more gloomy and taciturn than of
late.
It may be imagined that the hilarious student, Jacques Aubry, had
escaped this contagious depression of spirits. Not at all; he had his
own cause for rejoining. Simonne, after waiting a long while for him on
the Sunday of the siege of Nesle, returned to the conjugal mansion in a
rage, and had since stubbornly refused to meet the impertinent embryo
lawyer upon any pretext whatsoever. He, in revenge, had withdrawn his
custom from his capricious charmer's husband, but that disgusting
tradesman evinced at the news no other sentiment than the keenest
satisfaction; for although Jacques Aubry wore out his clothes quickly
and recklessly--always excepting the pockets--we must add that his
guiding economical maxim was never to pay for them. When Simonne's
influence was no longer exerted as a counterpoise to the absence of
money, the selfish tailor concluded that the honor of dressing Jacques
Aubry did not compensate him for the loss he suffered by dressing him
for nothing.
Thus our poor friend found himself at one and the same time bereft of
his love and cut short in his supply of clothing. Luckily, as we have
seen, he was not the man to wither away in melancholy. He soon fell in
with a charming little consolation named Gervaise. But Gervaise was
bristling all over with principles of all sorts, which to his mind were
most absurd. She eluded him again and again, and he wore his heart out
in devising means to bring the flirt to her senses. He almost lost the
power to eat and drink, especially as his infamous landlord, who was own
cousin to his infamous tailor, refused to give him credit.
Thus all whose names have figured prominently in these pages were sorely
ill at ease,--from the king, who was very anxious to know whether
Charles V. would or would not conclude to pass through France, to Dame
Perrine and Dame Ruperta, who were much put out at their inability to
continue their gossip. If our readers, like Jupiter of old, had the
wearisome privilege of listening to all the complaints and all the
wishes of mankind, they would hear a plaintive chorus something like
this:--
Jacques Aubry: "If Gervaise would only cease to laugh in my face!"
Scozzone: "If Benvenuto would only have one pang of jealousy!"
Pagolo: "If Scozzone could only bring herself to detest the master!"
Marmagne: "If I might have the good fortune to surprise Cellini alone!"
Madame d'Etampes: "If Ascanio only knew how I love him!"
Colombe: "If I could see him for one moment,--long enough to justify
myself!"
Ascanio: "If she would only explain!"
Benvenuto: "If I dared confess my agony to Ascanio!"
All: "Alas! alas! alas!"
XV
WHEREIN IT APPEARS THAT JOY IS NOTHING MORE
THAN SORROW IN ANOTHER FORM
All these longings were to be gratified before the end of the week. But
their gratification was destined to leave those who had formed them more
unhappy and more melancholy than ever. Such is the universal law; every
joy contains the germ of sorrow.
In the first place Gervaise ceased to laugh in Jacques Aubry's face; a
change most ardently desired by the student, as the reader will
remember. Jacques Aubry had discovered the golden fetters which were to
bind the damsel to his chariot. They consisted in a lovely ring carved
by Benvenuto himself, and representing two clasped hands.
It should be said that, since the day of the siege, Jacques Aubry had
conceived a warm friendship for the outspoken and energetic nature of
the Florentine artist. He did not interrupt him when he was
speaking,--an unheard of thing! He kept his eyes fixed upon him and
listened to him with respect, which was more than he had ever consented
to do for his professors. He admired his work with an enthusiasm which,
if not very enlightened, was at least very warm and sincere. On the
other hand, his loyalty, his courage, and his jovial disposition
attracted Cellini. He was just strong enough at tennis to make a good
fight, but to lose in the end. He was his match at table, within a
bottle. In short he and the goldsmith had become the best friends in the
world, and Cellini, generous because his wealth was inexhaustible, had
one day forced him to accept this little ring, which was carved with
such marvellous skill that, in default of the apple, it would have
tempted Eve, and sown discord between Peleus and Thetis.
On the morrow of the day when the ring passed from Jacques Aubry's hands
to those of Gervaise, Gervaise resumed a serious demeanor, and the
student hoped that she was his. Poor fool! on the contrary, he was hers.
Scozzone succeeded, as she desired, in kindling a spark of jealousy in
Benvenuto's heart. This is how it came about.
One evening, when her wiles and coquetries had as usual failed to arouse
the master from his imperturbable gravity, she assumed a solemn
expression herself.
"Benvenuto," said she, "it seems to me, do you know, as if you had
forgotten your promise to me."
"What promise is that, my dear child?" rejoined Benvenuto, apparently
seeking an explanation of her reproach from the ceiling.
"Haven't you promised a hundred times to marry me?"
"I don't remember it."
"You don't remember it?"
"No; I should say that my only reply was, 'This requires
consideration.'"
"Well! have you considered it?"
"Yes."
"With what result?"
"That I am still too young to be anything else than your lover,
Scozzone. We will speak of it again later."
"And I am no longer foolish enough, monsieur, to be content with so
vague a promise as that, and to wait for you forever."
"Do as you please, little one, and if you are in so great a hurry, go
ahead."
"But what prejudice have you against marriage, after all? Why need it
make any change in your life? You will have made a poor girl, who loves
you, happy, that's all."
"What change will it make in my life, Scozzone?" said Benvenuto gravely.
"You see yonder candle, whose pale flame but feebly lights this great
room where we are: I place an extinguisher over it, and now it is quite
dark. Marriage would do the same to my life. Light the candle again,
Scozzone: I detest the darkness."
"I understand," cried Scozzone volubly, bursting into tears, "you bear
too illustrious a name to give to a poor girl, a nobody, who has given
you her heart and her life, all that she had to give, and is ready to
suffer everything for you, who lives only in your life, who loves only
you--"
"I know it, Scozzone, and I assure you that I am as grateful as
possible."
"Who has gladly done her best to enliven your solitude, who, knowing
your jealous disposition, never looks at the cavalcades of handsome
archers and sergeants, who has always closed her ears to the soft words
which she has not failed to hear, nevertheless, even here."
"Even here?" rejoined Benvenuto.
"Yes, here, even here, do you understand?"
"Scozzone," cried Benvenuto, "it's not one of my comrades, I trust, who
has dared so to insult his master!"
"He would marry me if I would let him," continued Scozzone, attributing
Cellini's wrath to a rejuvenescence of his love for her.
"Scozzone, tell me the insolent varlet's name. It's not Ascanio, I
hope."
"There is a man who has said to me more than a hundred times,
'Catherine, the master abuses you; he will never marry you, sweet and
pretty as you are; he is too proud for that. Oh! if he loved you as I
love you, or if you would love me as you love him!'"
"Give me his name, the traitor's name!" cried Benvenuto.
"But I simply would not listen to him," continued Scozzone, enchanted at
the success of her stratagem; "on the contrary, all his soft words were
wasted, and I threatened to tell you all if he kept on. I loved only
you. I was blind, and the gallant got nothing by his fine speeches and
his languishing looks. Oh, put on your indifferent air, and pretend not
to believe me! it is all true, none the less."
"I do not believe you, Scozzone," said Benvenuto, who saw that, if he
desired to know his rival's name, he must employ a very different method
from any he had hitherto attempted.
"What, you don't believe me?"
"No."
"You think that I am lying?"
"I think that you are mistaken."
"In your opinion, then, it's not possible for any one to love me?"
"I don't say that."
"But you think it?"
Benvenuto smiled, for he saw that he had found a way to make Catherine
speak.
"But there is some one who loves me, and that's the truth," continued
Scozzone.
Benvenuto made another gesture indicating incredulity.
"He loves me more than you ever loved me, more than you ever will love
me, monsieur, do you understand?"
Benvenuto began to laugh heartily.
"I am very curious to know who this gallant Médor is," he said.
"His name is not Médor," retorted Catherine.
"What then,--madis?"
"Nor Amadis. His name is--"
"Galaor?"
"His name is Pagolo, if you must know."
"Aha! so it's Monsieur Pagolo!" muttered Cellini.
"Yes, it's Monsieur Pagolo," rejoined Scozzone, wounded by the
contemptuous tone in which Cellini uttered his rival's name,--"a boy of
good family, sedate, quiet, devout, and who would make a most excellent
husband."
"Is that your opinion, Scozzone?"
"Yes, it is my opinion."
"And yet you have never given him any hope?"
"I have never listened to him. Oh! I was a great fool! But after this--"
"You are right, Scozzone; you should listen to him, and reply to him."
"How so? What's that you say?"
"I bid you listen when he speaks to you of love, and not turn him away.
I will attend to the rest."
"But--"
"But, never fear, I have my plan."
"_À la bonne heure._ But I hope you don't propose to punish him very
severely, poor devil; he acts as if he were confessing his sins when he
says, 'I love you.' Play him a trick, if you choose, but not with your
sword. I ask mercy for him."
"You will be content with my vengeance, Scozzone, for it will turn to
your advantage."
"In what way?"
"It will help to gratify one of your fondest desires."
"What do you mean, Benvenuto?"
"That is my secret."
"Oh, if you knew what an absurd figure he cuts when he tries to be
tender!" said the volatile creature, incapable of remaining sad five
minutes in succession. "And so, naughty man, you are still interested to
know whether any one is paying court to your giddy girl? You do still
love poor Scozzone a little?"
"Yes. But do not fail to follow the instructions I give you in regard to
Pagolo to the letter."
"Oh, don't be afraid! I can play a part as well as another. It won't be
long before he will say to me, 'Catherine, are you still cruel?' and I
will reply, 'What! again, Monsieur Pagolo?' But in a not very indignant
tone, you understand,--encouraging rather. When he sees that I am no
longer harsh, he will think he's conquered the world. But what shall you
do to him, Benvenuto? When shall you begin to take your revenge upon
him? Will it be long drawn out, and very amusing? Shall we laugh?"
"Yes, we shall laugh," Benvenuto replied.
"And you will always love me?"
Benvenuto imprinted an assenting kiss upon her forehead,--the best of
all answers, since it answers for everything without answering for
anything.
Poor Scozzone did not suspect that Cellini's kiss was the beginning of
his vengeance.
The Vicomte de Marmagne's wish that he might find Benvenuto alone was
also gratified. This is how it came about.
Spurred on by the provost's anger, goaded by the memory of Madame
d'Etampes's disdain, and influenced above all by his inordinate avarice,
the viscount, having resolved to attack the lion in his den with the aid
of his two sbirri, selected for his enterprise Saint Eloy's day, when
the studio was likely to be deserted, as it was a holiday in the
goldsmith's guild. He was proceeding along the quay, with his head high,
and his heart beating fast, his two bravos walking ten steps behind him.
"Well, well!" said a voice at his side: "here's a fine young gentleman
on amorous conquest bent, with his valorous bearing for the lady, and
his two sbirri for the husband."
Marmagne turned, thinking that some one of his friends was speaking to
him, but he saw only a stranger who was going in the same direction as
himself, but whom in his absorption he had failed to observe.
"I'll wager that I have guessed the truth, my fair sir," continued the
stranger. "I will bet my purse against yours, without knowing what it
contains, that you are out on some such errand. Oh, tell me nothing!
it's one's duty to be circumspect in love. My own name is Jacques Aubry;
my profession, student; and I am on my way at present to an appointment
with my sweetheart, Gervaise Philipot, a pretty girl, but, between
ourselves, of appalling virtue, which suffered shipwreck, however, upon
a certain ring. To be sure the ring was a jewel, and a jewel of
marvellous workmanship, nothing less than one of Benvenuto Cellini's
own!"
Until then the Vicomte de Marmagne had hardly listened to the
confidences of his loquacious interlocutor, and had been careful not to
reply. But his interest was aroused by the name of Benvenuto Cellini.
"One of Benvenuto Cellini's carvings! The devil! That's a royal gift for
a student to make!"
"Oh! pray understand, my dear baron--Are you baron, count, or viscount?"
"Viscount," said Marmagne, biting his lips at the impertinent
familiarity with which the student assumed to address him, but anxious
to find out if he could not procure some valuable information from him.
"Pray understand, my dear viscount, that I did not buy it. No, although
I'm an artist in my way, I don't put my money into such trifles.
Benvenuto himself gave it to me in acknowledgment of my lending him a
hand last Sunday to take the Grand-Nesle from the provost."
"Then you are Cellini's friend?" Marmagne inquired.
"His most intimate friend, viscount, and I glory in it. Between
ourselves it's a friendship for life and death. Doubtless you also know
him?"
"Yes."
"You are very fortunate. A sublime genius, is he not, my dear fellow?
Pardon me: I say, 'my dear fellow,' but it's simply my way of speaking;
besides I think that I am nobly born, too,--at least my mother used to
tell my father so whenever he beat her. However, I am, as I told you,
the admirer, the confidant, the brother of the great Benvenuto Cellini,
and consequently a friend to his friends, and a foe to his foes; for my
sublime goldsmith doesn't lack foes. In the first place Madame
d'Etampes, secondly, the Provost of Paris, the old villain, and thirdly,
a certain Vicomte de Marmagne, a great, lanky creature, whom you perhaps
know, and who proposes, so they say, to take possession of the
Grand-Nesle. Pardieu! he'll have a warm reception!"
"Benvenuto has heard of his claim, has he?" queried Marmagne, beginning
to take a very decided interest in the student's conversation.
"He has been warned; but--Hold! I must, not tell you, so that the
aforesaid Marmagne may receive the chastisement he deserves."
"From what you say I judge that Benvenuto is on his guard?"
"On his guard? why, Benvenuto is always on his guard. He has come within
an ace of being assassinated, I don't know how many times; but, thank
God, he has always come safely out of it!"
"What do you mean by on his guard?"
"Oh! I don't mean that he has a garrison, as that old poltroon of a
provost had; no, no, quite the contrary. Indeed, he is entirely alone at
this moment as all the fellows have gone to Vanvres for a holiday. I was
to go myself, and play a game of tennis with him, dear Benvenuto.
Unluckily Gervaise's convenience conflicted with the great artist's, and
naturally, as you will agree, I gave the preference to Gervaise."
"In that case I will take your place with Benvenuto," said Marmagne.
"Do so; it will be a meritorious action on your part; go, my dear
viscount, and say to Benvenuto from me that he will see me this evening.
Three knocks, rather loud, is the signal, you know. He adopted that
precaution on account of that great oaf of a Marmagne, who is likely, so
he imagines, to try to play him some scurvy trick. Do you know this
Vicomte de Marmagne?"
"No."
"Ah! so much the worse! You might have described him to me."
"What for?"
"So that I might suggest a little game with clubs to him, if I should
fall in with him. I don't know why it is, but although I never saw him,
do you know I particularly detest your Marmagne, my dear fellow, and if
he ever falls in my way, I propose to pummel him in fine shape. But
pardon me: here we are at the Augustins, and I am compelled to leave
you. By the way, what is your name, my friend?"
The viscount walked away as if he did not hear the question.
"Aha!" said Jacques Aubry, "it seems that we prefer to remain _incog_;
that's the purest chivalry, or I don't know myself. As you please, my
dear viscount, as you please."
And Jacques Aubry thrust his hands in his pockets and strutted down Rue
de Battoir, at the end of which Gervaise lived, whistling a student's
song.
The Vicomte de Marmagne continued his journey toward the Grand-Nesle.
Benvenuto was in fact alone, as Jacques Aubry had said; Ascanio had
wandered away, I know not where, to dream; Catherine had gone with
Ruperta to visit one of her friends, and all the workmen and apprentices
were holiday making at Vanvres.
The master was in the garden working at the clay model of his gigantic
statue of Mars, whose colossal head could see the Louvre over the roof's
of the Grand-Nesle, when little Jehan, who was on guard at the door for
the day, deceived by Marmagne's manner of knocking, took him for a
friend, and admitted him with his two sbirri.
If Benvenuto did not, like Titian, work with his coat of mail upon his
back, he did, like Salvator Rosa, work with his sword at his side, and
his carbine within reach of his hand. Marmagne therefore quickly
discovered that life had gained very little by surprising him; he had
simply surprised an armed man.
The viscount did not even try to dissemble his bravado born of
poltroonery; and when Cellini, in an imperative tone which called for an
immediate reply, demanded why he had come upon his premises,--
"I have no business with you," was his answer; "I am the Vicomte de
Marmagne; I am the king's secretary, and here is an order from his
Majesty," he added, holding a paper above his head, "which allots a
portion of the Grand-Nesle to me; I am here to make provision for
arranging to my taste that portion of the hotel which is allotted to me,
and which I shall occupy henceforth."
With that, Marmagne, still followed by his two sbirri, stalked toward
the door of the château.
Benvenuto seized his carbine, which was, as we have said, within his
reach, and with one bound stood in front of the door on the stoop.
"Halt where you are!" he cried in a terrible voice, stretching out his
right arm in Marmagne's direction; "one step more, and you're a dead
man!"
The viscount at once stopped short, although after these preliminaries
we might perhaps have anticipated a desperate conflict.
But there are men to whom is given the power to strike terror to other
men's hearts. There is an indescribable something in their look, their
gestures, their attitude, as in the look, the gestures, and the attitude
of the lion. The air about them is instinct with awe; their power is
felt afar off. When they stamp upon the ground, clench their fists, knit
their brows, or inflate their nostrils, the boldest hesitate to attack
them. A wild beast, whose young are attacked, has but to bristle up and
breathe noisily to make the assailant tremble. The men of whom we speak
are living dangers. Valiant hearts recognize their like in them, and go
straight forward to meet them, despite their secret emotion. But the
weak, the timid, the cowardly, recoil at sight of them.
Now Marmagne, as the reader has discovered, was not a valiant heart, and
Benvenuto had all the appearance of a living danger.
And so when the viscount heard the redoubtable goldsmith's voice, and
observed the imperial gesture of the arm extended toward him, he
realized that death for himself and his two sbirri lay dormant in the
carbine, the sword, and the dagger with which he was armed.
Furthermore, little Jehan, seeing that his master was threatened, had
armed himself with a pike.
Marmagne felt that his game was up, and that he would be only too
fortunate if he could extricate himself safe and sound from the wasps'
nest he had stumbled upon.
"It's all right! it's all right! Messire Goldsmith," he said. "All that
we wanted was to know whether you were or were not disposed to obey his
Majesty's orders. You scoff at them, and refuse to abide by them! Very
good! We shall apply to some one who will find a way to compel their
execution. But do not hope that we shall do ourselves the honor of
bargaining with you. _Bonsoir_!"
"_Bonsoir_!" said Benvenuto, with his hearty laugh. "Jehan, show these
gentlemen out."
The viscount and his two sbirri shamefacedly retreated from the
Grand-Nesle, cowed by one man, and shown out by a mere boy.
Such was the lamentable result of the fulfilment of the viscount's wish:
"If only I could find Benvenuto alone!"
As he had been even more cruelly treated by fate in the matter of his
desires than Jacques Aubry and Scozzone, who did not even yet detect the
irony of destiny, our valorous viscount was furious.
"Madame d'Etampes was right," he said to himself, "and I am fain to
follow the advice she gave me; I must break my sword and sharpen my
dagger. This devil of a man is just what he is said to be, very
intolerant, and not at all agreeable. I saw it written plainly enough in
his eyes, that if I took another step I was a dead man; but in every
lost cause there is a possibility of revenge. Look well to yourself,
Master Benvenuto! look well to yourself!"