foresaw the power that is in you, and that will make you great some day.
Your genius, which I read upon your broad forehead, in your ardent
glance and your passionate gestures, would impose grave duties on her
who should bear your name. I was ready to undertake them. Happiness had
for me the solemnity of a divine mission. I would not have been your
wife, Benvenuto, I would have been your friend, your sister, your
mother. Your noble existence belongs to all mankind, I know, and I would
have assumed no other right than that of diverting you in your ennui, of
uplifting you in your moments of depression. You would have been free,
my friend, always and everywhere. Alas! I had long since become
accustomed to your lamentable absences from home, to all the exactions
of your impulsive nature, to all the whims of your tempest-loving heart.
Every powerful temperament has pressing needs. The longer the eagle has
soared aloft, the longer he is obliged to rest on earth. But when you
had torn yourself free from the feverish dreams of your genius, I would
have found once more at the awakening my sublime Benvenuto, whom I love
so dearly, and who would have belonged to me alone! I would never have
reproached you for the hours of neglect, for they would have contained
no insult for me. For my own part, knowing you to be jealous, as is
every noble heart, jealous as the God of Holy Writ, I would have
remained in seclusion when you were away, in the solitude which I love,
awaiting your return and praying for you.
"'Such would my life have been.
"'But when I saw that you abandoned me, I bowed submissively to God's
will and yours, closed my eyes, and placed my fate in the hands of duty.
My father ordered me to enter into a marriage which would save him from
dishonor, and I obeyed. My husband has been harsh, stern, pitiless; he
has not been content with my docile submission, but demanded a love
beyond my power to give, and punished me brutally for my involuntary
sadness. I resigned myself to endure everything. I have been, I trust, a
pure and dignified spouse, but always very sad at heart, Benvenuto. God
has rewarded me, however, even in this world, by giving me a son. My
child's kisses have for four years past prevented me from feeling
insults, blows, and last of all poverty! for my husband ruined himself
trying to gain too much, and he died last month from chagrin at his
ruin. May God forgive him as I do!
"'I shall be dead myself within the hour, dead from the effects of my
accumulated suffering, and I bequeath my son to you, Benvenuto.
"'Perhaps all is for the best. Who can say if my womanly weakness would
have been equal to the task I would have undertaken with you. He, my
Ascanio,--he is like me,--will be a stronger and more submissive
companion for you; he will love you better, if not more dearly. I am not
jealous of him.
"'Do for my child what I would have done for you.
"'Adieu, my friend. I loved you and I love you still, and I tell you
without shame or remorse, at the very doors of eternity, for my love was
holy. Adieu! be great, and I shall be happy: raise your eyes sometimes
to heaven that I may see you.
"'Your STEFANA.'"
"Now, Colombe and Ascanio, will you have confidence in me, and are you
ready to do what I advise?"
The young people replied with a single exclamation.
V
DOMICILIARY VISITS
On the day following that on which this story was told in the garden of
the Petit-Nesle, by the moon's pale light, Benvenuto's studio wore its
accustomed aspect. The master was working at the gold salt dish, the
material for which he had so valiantly defended against the four bravos,
who strove to take it from him, and his life with it. Ascanio was
chiselling Madame d'Etampes's lily; Jacques Aubry, reclining lazily on a
lounging-chair, was putting question after question to Cellini, who paid
no attention to him, and imposed upon the inquisitive student the
necessity of framing his own replies. Pagolo was gazing at Catherine,
who was busy with some woman's work. Hermann and the others were filing,
welding, chiselling, and Scozzone's joyous singing furnished the element
of cheerfulness in this tranquil, busy scene.
The Petit-Nesle was by no means so tranquil, for Colombe had
disappeared.
There all was excitement and apprehension; they were seeking her
everywhere, and calling her name. Dame Perrine was shrieking at the top
of her voice, and the provost, who had been sent for in hot haste, was
trying to lay hold upon something, in the midst of the good woman's
lamentations, which might put him on the track of the absent one, who
was in all probability a fugitive.
"Look you, Dame Perrine; do you say that you last saw her a few moments
after I went away last night?" demanded the provost.
"Alas! yes, messire. Jésus Dieu! what a misfortune! The poor, dear
child seemed a bit cast down as she went to take off all her beautiful
court fixings. She put on a simple white dress--saints in Paradise, have
pity on us!--and then she said to me, 'Dame Perrine, it's a lovely
evening, and I will go and take a turn or two in my path.' It might have
been about seven o'clock. Madame here," added Perrine, pointing to
Pulchérie, the woman who had been installed as her assistant or
superior,--"Madame here had already gone to her room, doubtless to work
at those lovely dresses which she makes so well, and I was at work
sewing in the room below. I don't know how long I remained there,--it is
possible that after a while my poor tired eyes closed in spite of me,
and that I lost myself a moment."
"As usual," interposed Pulchérie sharply.
"At all events," continued Dame Perrine, not deigning to reply to this
insidious slander, "about ten o'clock I left my chair and went to the
garden to see if Colombe had not forgotten herself. I called and found
no one: I supposed then that she had gone to her own room and to bed
without disturbing me, as the dear child has done a thousand times.
Merciful Heaven! who would have thought--Ah! Messire le Prévôt, I can
safely say that she followed no lover, but some ravisher. I reared her
in the way--"
"And this morning," the provost broke in impatiently, "this morning?"
"This morning when I found that she didn't come down--Holy Virgin help
us!"
"To the devil with your litanies!" cried Messire d'Estourville. "Say
what you have to say simply and without all these jeremiads. This
morning?"
"Ah! Monsieur le Prévôt, you can't prevent my weeping until she is
found. This morning, messire, being alarmed at not seeing her (she is
always so early!) I knocked at her door to wake her, and, as she did not
answer, I opened the door. No one. The bed was not even rumpled,
messire. With that I called and cried, and lost my head, and you want me
not to weep!"
"Dame Perrine," said the provost sternly; "have you admitted any one
here during my absence?"
"I admit any one! the idea!" rejoined the governess with every
indication of stupefaction, feeling a little conscience-stricken in that
regard. "Didn't you forbid me, messire? Since when, pray, have I
allowed myself to disobey your orders? Admit some one? Oh yes, of
course!"
"This Benvenuto, for instance, who had the assurance to deem my daughter
so fair; has he never tried to buy you?"
"Good lack! he would have been more likely to try to fly to the moon. I
would have received him prettily, I promise you."
"I am to understand, then, that you have never admitted a man, a young
man, to the Petit-Nesle?"
"A young man! Merciful Heaven! a young man! Why not the devil himself?"
"Pray who is the handsome boy," said Pulchérie, "who has knocked at the
door at least ten times since I have been here, and in whose face I have
shut the door as often?"
"A handsome boy? Your sight must be poor, my dear, unless it was Comte
d'Orbec. Ah, bon Dieu! I know: you may mean Ascanio. You know Ascanio,
Messire? the young fellow who saved your life. Yes, I did give him my
shoe-buckles to repair. But he, that apprentice! Wear glasses, my love!
May these walls and pavements speak, if they ever saw him here!"
"Enough," interposed the provost severely. "If you have betrayed my
confidence, Dame Perrine, I swear that you shall pay me for it! I am
going now to this Benvenuto; God knows how the clown will receive me,
but go I must."
Contrary to his expectation Benvenuto received the provost with perfect
civility. In the face of his cool and easy manner and his good humor,
Messire d'Estourville did not dare mention his suspicions. But he said
that his daughter, having been unnecessarily alarmed the evening before,
had fled in her panic terror like a mad girl; that it was possible that
she might have taken refuge in the Grand-Nesle without Benvenuto's
knowledge,--or else that she might have fainted somewhere in the grounds
as she was passing through. In short, he lied in the most bungling way
imaginable.
But Cellini courteously accepted all his fables and all his excuses;
indeed, he was so obliging as to appear to notice nothing out of the
way. He did more, he sympathized with the provost with all his heart,
declaring that he would be happy to assist in restoring his daughter to
a father who had always hedged her around with such touching affection.
To hear him, one might suppose the fugitive was very much in the wrong,
and could not too soon return to so pleasant a home and so loving a
parent. Moreover, to prove the sincerity of his interest in Messire
d'Estourville's affliction, he placed himself at his disposal to assist
him in his search in the Grand-Nesle and elsewhere.
The provost, half convinced, and the more deeply affected by these
eulogiums, in that he knew in his heart that he did not deserve them,
began a careful search of his former property, of which he knew all the
ins and outs. There was not a door that he did not open, not a wardrobe
nor a chest into which he did not peer, as if by inadvertence. Having
inspected every nook and corner of the hotel itself, he went into the
garden, and searched the arsenal, foundry, stables and cellar,
scrutinizing everything most rigorously. Benvenuto, faithful to his
first offer, accompanied him throughout his investigations, and assisted
him to the utmost of his ability, offering him all the keys, and calling
his attention to this or that corridor or closet which the provost
overlooked. He advised him to leave one of his people on guard in each
spot as he left it, lest the fugitive should evade him by stealing from
place to place.
Having continued his perquisitions for two hours to no purpose, Messire
d'Estourville, feeling sure that he had omitted nothing, and overwhelmed
by his host's politeness, left the Grand-Nesle, with profuse thanks and
apologies to its master.
"Whenever it suits your pleasure to return," said the goldsmith, "and if
you desire to renew your investigations here, my house is open to you at
all times, as when it was your own. Indeed it is your right, messire;
did we not sign a treaty whereby we agreed to live on neighborly terms?"
The provost thanked Benvenuto, and as he knew not how to return his
courtesy, he loudly praised, as he went away, the colossal statue of
Mars, which the artist was at work upon, as we have said. Benvenuto led
him around it, and complacently called his attention to its amazing
proportions; it was more than sixty feet high and nearly twenty in
circumference at its base.
Messire d'Estourville withdrew much dejected. As he had failed to find
his daughter in the precincts of the Grand-Nesle, he was convinced that
she had found shelter somewhere in the city. But even at that time the
city was sufficiently large to make his own task as chief officer of the
police an embarrassing one. Then, too, there was this question to be
solved. Had she been kidnapped, or had she fled? Was she the victim of
some other person's violence, or had she yielded to her own impulse?
There was nothing to set at rest his uncertainty upon this point. He
hoped that in the first event she would succeed in escaping, and in the
second would return of her own volition. He therefore waited with what
patience he could muster, none the less questioning Dame Perrine twenty
times a day, who passed her time calling upon the saints in paradise,
and swearing by all the gods that she had admitted no one; and indeed
she was no more suspicious than Messire d'Estourville himself of
Ascanio.
That day and the next passed without news. The provost thereupon put all
his agents in the field: a thing he had hitherto omitted to do, in order
that the unfortunate occurrence, in which his reputation was so deeply
interested, might not be noised abroad. To be sure he simply gave them
Colombe's description, without giving them her name, and their
investigations were made upon an entirely different pretext from the
real one. But although he resorted to all his secret sources of
information, all their searching was without result.
Surely he had never been an affectionate or gentle father, but if he was
not in despair, he was in a bad temper, and his pride suffered if his
heart did not. He thought indignantly of the fine match which the little
fool would perhaps miss by reason of this escapade, and with furious
rage of the witticisms and sarcasms with which his misadventure would be
greeted at court.
He had to make up his mind at last to confide his woful tale to Comte
d'Orbec. Colombe's _fiancé_ was grieved by the news, in the same way as
a merchant is grieved who learns that part of his cargo has been
jettisoned, and not otherwise. He was a philosopher, was the dear count,
and promised his worthy friend that, if the affair did not make too much
noise, the marriage should come off none the less; and, as he was a man
who knew how to strike when the iron was hot, he seized the opportunity
to whisper to the provost a few words as to the plans of Madame
d'Etampes regarding Colombe.
The provost was dazzled at the honor which might be in store for him:
his anger redoubled, and he cursed the ungrateful girl who was ruining
her own chances of such a noble destiny. We spare our readers the
details of the conversation between the two old courtiers to which this
avowal of Comte d'Orbec led; we will say simply that grief and hope were
combined therein in a curiously touching way. As misfortune brings men
together, the prospective father-in-law and son-in-law parted more
closely united than ever, and without making up their minds to renounce
the brilliant prospects of which they had caught a glimpse.
They agreed to keep the occurrence secret from everybody; but the
Duchesse d'Etampes was too intimate a friend, and too deeply interested
as an accomplice, not to be let into their confidence. It was a wise
move on their part, for she took the thing much more to heart than the
father and husband had done, and, as we know, she was better qualified
than any other to give the provost information and direct his search.
She knew of Ascanio's love for Colombe, and she had herself forced him,
so to speak, to listen to the whole conspiracy. The young man, realizing
that a blow was to be aimed at the honor of his beloved, had perhaps
resolved upon some desperate act. But Ascanio had himself told her that
Colombe did not love him, and not loving him she would be unlikely to
lend herself to such a design. Now the Duchesse d'Etampes knew him upon
whom her suspicion first fell sufficiently well to be sure that he would
never have the courage to defy his mistress's scorn and her resistance;
and yet, despite all her reasoning, and although in her eyes all the
probabilities pointed to Ascanio's innocence, her jealous instinct told
her that Colombe must be sought at the Hôtel de Nesle, and that they
must make sure of Ascanio before everything.
But, on the other hand, Madame d'Etampes could not tell her friends the
source of that conviction, for she must in that case confess her love
for Ascanio, and that, in the imprudence of her passion, she had made
known to him all her designs upon Colombe. She simply said to them that
she would be very much mistaken if Benvenuto were not the culprit,
Ascanio his accomplice, and the Grand-Nesle the place of concealment. To
no purpose did the provost argue with her, and swear that he had
inspected and searched every corner, she would not yield her point,
saying that she had her reasons for the faith that was in her, and she
was so obstinate in her opinion that she ended by arousing suspicion in
the mind of Messire d'Estourville, who was certain nevertheless that he
had made a thorough search.
"However," said the duchess, "I will send for Ascanio, I will see him
and question him myself, never fear."
"O madame! you are too kind," said the provost.
"And you too stupid," muttered the duchess between her teeth. She
dismissed them, and set about reflecting upon the method she should
adopt to induce the young man to come to her; but before she had decided
upon any, Ascanio was announced; it was as if he had anticipated her
wish.
He was cold and calm. The gaze with which Madame d'Etampes received him
was so piercing that you would have said she wished to read to the very
bottom of his heart; but Ascanio did not seem to notice it.
"Madame," said he, as he saluted her, "I have come to show you your
lily, which is almost finished; almost nothing is lacking to complete it
save the two hundred thousand crown dewdrop you promised to furnish me."
"Very well! and your Colombe?" was the only reply vouchsafed by Madame
d'Etampes.
"If you mean Mademoiselle d'Estourville, madame," rejoined Ascanio
gravely, "I will beg you on my knees not to pronounce her name again
before me. Yes, madame, I most humbly and earnestly implore you that
this subject may never be mentioned between us, in pity's name!"
"Aha! spite!" said the duchess, who did not remove her penetrating gaze
from Ascanio's face for an instant.
"Whatever the feeling which influences me, madame, and though I were to
be disgraced in your eyes, I shall venture to decline hereafter to talk
with you upon this subject. I have sworn a solemn oath that everything
connected with that memory shall be dead and buried in my heart."
"Am I mistaken?" thought the duchess; "and has Ascanio no part in this
transaction? Can it be that the child has followed some other adorer,
voluntarily or perforce, and, although lost to my ambitious schemes, has
served the interests of my passion by her flight?"
Having indulged in these reflections beneath her breath, she continued,
aloud:--
"Ascanio, you beg me not to speak of her again, but you will at least
allow me to speak of yourself. You see that in obedience to your
entreaty I do not insist, but who knows if this second subject will not
be even more disagreeable to you than the first? Who knows--"
"Forgive me for interrupting you, madame," said the young man, "but your
kindness in granting me the favor I ask emboldens me to ask another.
Although of noble birth, I am simply a poor, obscure youth, reared in
the gloom of a goldsmith's workshop, and from that artistic cloister I
am suddenly transported to a brilliant sphere, involved in the destiny
of empires, and, weak creature that I am, having powerful noblemen for
enemies, and a king for rival. And such a king, madame! François I.,
one of the most powerful princes in Christendom! I have suddenly found
myself elbow to elbow with the most illustrious names of the age. I have
loved hopelessly, I have been honored with a love I could not return!
And with whose love? Great God! yours, madame, one of the loveliest and
noblest women on earth! All this has sown confusion within me and
without; it has bewildered and crushed me, madame.
"I am as terrified as a dwarf awaking to find himself among giants: I
haven't an idea in its place, not a feeling which I can explain. I feel
lost among all these terrible animosities, all these implacable
passions, all these soaring ambitions. Madame, give me time to breathe,
I conjure you; permit the poor shipwrecked wretch to collect his
thoughts, the convalescent to recover his strength. Time, I hope, will
restore order in my mind and my life. Time, madame, give me time, and in
pity's name see in me to-day only the artist who comes to ask if his
lily is to your taste."
The duchess stared at Ascanio in doubt and amazement; she had not
supposed that this young man, this child, was capable of speaking in
this grave, stern, poetic fashion; she felt morally constrained to obey
him, and confined her conversation to the lily, praising and advising
Ascanio, and promising to do her utmost to send him very soon the large
diamond to complete his work. Ascanio thanked her, and took his leave
with every mark of gratitude and respect.
"Can that be Ascanio?" said Madame d'Etampes to herself, when he had
gone; "he seems ten years older. What gives him this almost imposing
gravity? Is it suffering? is it happiness? Is he sincere, in short, or
acting under the influence of that accursed Benvenuto? Is he playing a
part with the talent of a consummate artist, or is he simply following
his own nature?"
Anne was perplexed. The strange vertigo which gradually overpowered all
those who contended with Benvenuto Cellini began to steal over her,
despite her strength of mind. She set spies upon Ascanio, who followed
him on the rare occasions when he left the studio, but that step led to
no result. At last she sent for the provost and Comte d'Orbec, and
advised them, as another would have ordered, to make a second and
unexpected domiciliary visit to the Grand-Nesle.
They followed her advice; but although surprised at his work, Benvenuto
received them even more cordially than he received the provost alone on
the former occasion. One would have said, so courteous and expansive was
he, that their presence implied no suspicions that were insulting to
him. He told Comte d'Orbec good-humoredly of the ambush that he fell
into as he left his house with his golden burden a few days before,--on
the same day, he observed, on which Mademoiselle d'Estourville
disappeared. This time as before he offered to accompany his visitors
through the château, and to assist the provost in recovering his
authority as a father, whose sacred duties he understood so well. He was
very happy that he happened to be at home to do honor to his guests, for
he was to start that same day within two hours for Romorantin, having
been named by François I., in his condescension, as one of the artists
who were to go to meet the Emperor.
For events in the world of politics had moved on as rapidly as those of
our humble narrative. Charles V., emboldened by his rival's public
promise, and by the secret undertaking of Madame d'Etampes, was within
a few day's journey of Paris. A deputation had been selected to go out
to receive him, and D'Orbec and the provost found Cellini in travelling
costume.
"If he leaves Paris with the rest of the escort," D'Orbec whispered to
the provost, "in all probability he didn't carry off Colombe, and we
have no business here."
"I told you so before we came," retorted the provost.
However, they decided to go through with their perquisition, and set
about it with painstaking minuteness. Benvenuto accompanied them at
first, but as he saw that their investigations were likely to be very
prolonged, he asked their permission to leave them, and return to the
studio to give some orders to his workmen, as he was to take his leave
very soon, and desired to find the preparations for casting his Jupiter
finished at his return.
He did in fact return to the studio, and distributed the work among his
men, bidding them obey Ascanio as if he were himself. He then said a few
words in Italian in Ascanio's ear, bade them all adieu, and prepared to
take his departure. A horse all saddled, and held by little Jehan,
awaited him in the outer courtyard.
At that moment Scozzone went up to Benvenuto and took him aside.
"Do you know, master," she said with a sober face, "that your departure
leaves me in a very difficult position?"
"How so, my child?"
"Pagolo is becoming fonder of me all the time."
"Ah! is it so?"
"And he is forever talking to me about his love."
"What do you reply?"
"Dame! as you bade me, master. I say that I will see, and that perhaps
it may be arranged."
"Very well."
"How is it very well? You don't understand, Benvenuto, that he takes
everything that I say to him most seriously, and that I may be entering
into a real engagement with him. It's a fortnight since you laid down a
rule of conduct for me to adopt, is it not?"
"Yes, I think so; I hardly remember."