venerable nobility!" said the duchess, with a laugh. "Do you know of
many among our oldest families who descend from a lieutenant of Julius
Cæsar, and who have the three _fleurs-de-lis_ and the _lambel_ of the
house of Anjou in their crest? 'T is not the king who honors the
sculptor by speaking to him, messieurs, as you see; the sculptor, on the
other hand, confers honor upon the king by condescending to address
him."
"François I. and Cellini were in fact conversing at that moment with
the familiarity to which the great ones of earth had accustomed the
chosen artist of Heaven.
"Well, Benvenuto," the king was saying, "how do we come on with our
Jupiter?"
"I am preparing to cast it, Sire."
"And when will that great work be performed?"
"Immediately upon my return to Paris, Sire."
"Take our best foundrymen, Cellini, and omit nothing to make the
operation successful. If you need money, you know that I am ready."
"I know that you are the greatest, the noblest, and the most generous
king on earth, Sire," replied Benvenuto; "but thanks to the salary which
your Majesty orders paid to me, I am rich. As to the operation
concerning which you are somewhat anxious, Sire, I will, with your
gracious permission, rely upon my own resources to prepare and execute
it. I distrust all your French foundrymen, not that they are unskilful,
but because I am afraid that their national pride will make them
disinclined to place their skill at the service of an artist from beyond
the Alps. And I confess, Sire, that I attach too much importance to the
success of my Jupiter to allow any other than myself to lay hand to it."
"Bravo, Cellini, bravo!" cried the king; "spoken like a true artist."
"Moreover," added Benvenuto, "I wish to be entitled to remind your
Majesty of the promise you made me."
"That is right, my trusty friend. If we are content with it, we are to
grant you a boon. We have not forgotten. Indeed, if we should forget, we
bound ourselves in the presence of witnesses. Is it not so, Montmorency?
and Poyet? Our constable and our chancellor will remind us of our
plighted word."
"Ah! your Majesty cannot conceive how precious that word has become to
me since the day it was given."
"Very well! it shall be kept, Monsieur. But the doors are open. To
table, messieurs, to table!"
François thereupon joined the Emperor, and the two together walked at
the head of the procession formed by the illustrious guests. Both wings
of the folding doors being thrown open, the two sovereigns entered side
by side and took places facing each other, Charles between Eleanora and
Madame d'Etampes, François between Catherine de Medicis and Marguerite
de Navarre.
The banquet was exquisite and the guests in the best of spirits.
François was in his element, and enjoyed himself in kingly fashion, but
laughed like a serf at all the tales told him by Marguerite de Navarre.
Charles overwhelmed Madame d'Etampes with compliments and attentions.
The others talked of art and politics, and so the time passed.
[Illustration 06]
At dessert, as was customary, the pages brought water for the guests to
wash their hands. Thereupon Madame d'Etampes took the ewer and basin
intended for Charles V. from the hands of the servitor, while Marguerite
did the same for François, poured water from the ewer into the basin,
and, kneeling upon one knee, according to the Spanish etiquette,
presented the basin to the Emperor. He dipped the ends of his fingers,
gazing at his noble and beautiful attendant the while, and laughingly
dropped the superb ring, of which we have spoken, into the water.
"Your Majesty is losing your ring," said Anne, dipping her own taper
fingers into the water, and daintily picking up the jewel, which she
handed to the Emperor.
"Keep the ring, madame," the Emperor replied, in a low voice; "the hands
in which it now is are too noble and too beautiful for me to take it
from them again. It is to bind the bargain for the Duchy of Milan," he
added, in a still lower tone.
The duchess smiled and said no more. The pebble had fallen at her feet,
but the pebble was worth a million.
As they returned from the _salle-à-manger_ to the salon, and passed
thence to the ball-room, Madame d'Etampes stopped Benvenuto, who was
brought near to her by the press.
"Messire Cellini," said she, handing him the ring which constituted a
pledge of the alliance between the Emperor and herself, "here is a
diamond which you will hand, if you please, to your pupil Ascanio, for
the crown of my lily; it is the dew drop I promised him."
"And it has fallen from Aurora's fingers in very truth, madame,"
rejoined the artist with a mocking smile and affected gallantry.
He glanced at the ring, and started back in surprise, for he recognized
the diamond he had long ago set for Pope Clement VII. and had himself
carried to the sublime Emperor on the sovereign Pontiff's behalf.
To induce Charles V. to divest himself of such a priceless jewel,
especially in favor of a woman, there must necessarily be some secret
understanding, some occult treaty, between himself and the recipient.
While Charles continues to pass his days and nights at Fontainebleau, in
the alternations of distrust and confidence, we have endeavored to
describe, while he schemes, intrigues, burrows underground, promises,
retracts, and promises anew, let us cast a glance upon the Grand-Nesle,
and see if anything of interest is occurring among those of its
occupants who have remained there.
VII
THE GHOSTLY MONK
The whole colony was in a state of intense excitement. The ghost of the
monk, the unsubstantial guest of the convent, upon the ruins of which
Amaury's palace was built, had returned within three or four days. Dame
Perrine had seen him walking around at night in the gardens of the
Grand-Nesle, clad in his long white frock, and treading so lightly that
he left no footprints on the ground, and made no noise.
How happened it that Dame Perrine, whose domicile was the Petit-Nesle,
had seen the ghostly visitor walking in the garden of the Grand-Nesle at
three o'clock in the morning? We cannot tell except by committing a very
grave indiscretion, but we are historians first of all, and our readers
are entitled to know the most secret details of the lives of the
characters we have brought upon the stage, especially when those details
are calculated to throw a bright light upon the sequel of our narrative.
Dame Perrine, by virtue of Colombe's disappearance, by the retirement of
Pulchérie, for whose presence there was no further pretext, and by the
departure of the provost, was left absolute mistress of the Petit-Nesle;
for the gardener Raimbault and his assistants were, for economical
reasons, engaged in Messire d'Estourville's service during the day only.
Dame Perrine found herself, therefore, queen of the Petit-Nesle, but at
the same time a solitary queen, so that she nearly died of ennui during
the day, and of fear at night.
It occurred to her that there was a remedy for this unfortunate
condition of affairs, during the day at least; her friendly relations
with Dame Ruperta opened the doors of the Grand-Nesle to her. She asked
permission to visit her neighbors, and it was most cordially granted.
But upon availing herself of this permission Dame Perrine was naturally
brought in contact with her neighbors of the other sex. Dame Perrine was
a buxom creature of thirty-six years, who confessed to twenty-nine of
them. Plump and rosy still, and always prepossessing, her coming was
quite an event in the studio, where ten or twelve worthy fellows were
forging, cutting, filing, hammering, chiselling,--good livers all, fond
of play on Sundays, of wine on Sundays and holidays, and of the fair sex
all the time. Three of our old acquaintances, after three or four days
had passed, were all brought down with the same arrow.
They were little Jehan, Simon-le-Gaucher, and Hermann the German.
Ascanio, Jacques Aubry, and Pagolo escaped the charm, having their minds
on other things.
The other comrades may well have felt some sparks of this Greek fire,
but they realized their inferior position, no doubt, and poured the
water of their humility upon the first sparks before they became a
conflagration.
Little Jehan loved after the manner of Cherubino, that is to say, he was
in love with loving. Dame Perrine, as the reader will readily
understand, had too much common sense to respond to such an _ignis
fatuus_ as that.
Simon-le-Gaucher could offer more reliable future prospects, and his
flame promised to be more enduring, but Dame Perrine was a very
superstitious person. She had seen Simon cross himself with his left
hand, and she reflected that it would be necessary for him to sign the
marriage contract with his left hand. Dame Perrine was convinced that
the sign of the cross executed with the left hand was calculated to
destroy rather than to save a soul, and in like manner no one could have
persuaded her that a marriage contract signed with the left hand could
have any other result than an unhappy menage. She therefore, but without
disclosing the reasons for her repugnance, received Simon-le-Gaucher's
first advances in a way to make him renounce all hope.
Hermann remained. Ah, Hermann! that was a different matter.
Hermann Was no coxcomb, like little Jehan, nor a man with the seal of
Nature's displeasure upon him, like left-handed Simon; in Hermann's
personality there was something honest and outspoken which appealed to
Dame Perrine's heart. Moreover, Hermann, instead of having a left hand
for the right and vice versa, made use of either or both so
energetically that he seemed to have two right hands. He was a
magnificent man too, according to all vulgar ideas. Dame Perrine
therefore had fixed her choice upon Hermann.
But, as we know, Hermann was as innocent as Celadon. The result was that
Dame Perrine's first broadsides, the pouting and sighs and sidelong
glances, were utterly powerless against the naïve timidity of the
honest German. He contented himself with staring at Dame Perrine out of
his great round eyes; but, like the blind men of the Gospel, "eyes had
he, but he saw not," or if he did see, he saw the buxom governess as a
whole simply, without noting details. Dame Perrine repeatedly proposed
that they should go for a walk on the Quai des Augustins, or in the
gardens of the Grand--or Petit-Nesle, and on every occasion she selected
Hermann for her cavalier. This made Hermann very happy internally. His
great Teutonic heart beat five or six extra pulsations a minute when
Dame Perrine was hanging upon his arm; but either because he found some
difficulty in pronouncing the French language, or because it gave him
greater pleasure to hear the object of his secret thoughts talk, Dame
Perrine could rarely extract anything more from him than these two
sacramental phrases, "Ponchour, matemoizelle," and "Atieu,
matemoizelle," which Hermann generally pronounced at an interval of two
hours; the first when Dame Perrine took his arm, the second when she let
it go. Now, although this title of Mademoiselle was immensely flattering
to Dame Perrine, and although there was something very agreeable in
talking two hours without fear of interruption, she would have been glad
to have her monologue broken in upon by an occasional interjection which
might give her some idea of the progress she was making in the heart of
her mute attendant.
Her progress, however, was none the less real for not being expressed in
words or by play of feature; the fire was kindled in the honest German's
heart, and, being fanned every day by Dame Perrine's presence, became a
veritable volcano. Hermann began at last to be conscious of the
preference Dame Perrine accorded him, and he was only waiting until he
was a little more certain of it to declare himself. Dame Perrine
understood his hesitation. One evening, as he parted from her at the
door of the Petit-Nesle, she saw that he was so agitated that she
thought it would be a real kindness on her part to press his hand.
Hermann, transported with delight, responded by a similar demonstration;
but to his great amazement Dame Perrine gave a piercing shriek. In his
delirious bliss, Hermann did not measure his pressure. He thought that
the tighter he squeezed her hand, the more accurate idea he would convey
of the violence of his passion; and he very nearly crushed the poor
governess's fingers.
Hermann was thunderstruck by her shriek; but Dame Perrine, fearing to
discourage him just as he had summoned up courage to make his first
advance, forced herself to smile, and said, as she separated her
fingers, which were almost glued together for the moment:--
"It's nothing, nothing, dear Monsieur Hermann; it's nothing, absolutely
nothing."
"Tausend pardons, Matemoizelle Perrine," said the German, "but I lofe
you sehr viel, and I haf pressed your hant as I lofe you! Tausend
pardons!"
"There's no need, Monsieur Hermann, there's no need. Your love is an
honorable love, I trust, which a woman need not blush to win."
"O Tieu! O Tieu!" cried Hermann, "indeed, my lofe is honorable,
Matemoizelle Perrine; put I haf not yet tared to speak to you of it; put
since die wort haf escaped me, I lofe you, I lofe you, I lofe you sehr
viel, Matemoizelle Perrine."
"And I, Monsieur Hermann," said Dame Perrine mincingly, "think I can
say, for I believe you to be a gallant youth, incapable of compromising
a poor woman, that--Mon Dieu! how shall I say it?"
"Oh say it! say it!" cried Hermann.
"Well! that--ah, it is wrong of me to confess it!"
"Nein, nein! it is not wrong. Say it! say it!"
"Very well. I confess that I am not indifferent to your passion."
"Sacrement!" cried the German, beside himself with joy.
Now one evening when, after a promenade, the Juliet of the Petit-Nesle
had escorted her Romeo to the door of the Grand-Nesle, she espied as she
was returning alone through the garden door, the white spectre we have
mentioned, which, in the opinion of the worthy governess, could be no
other than that of the monk. It is needless to say that Dame Perrine
entered the house half dead with fear, and barricaded herself in her
room.
The next morning the whole studio was acquainted with the story of the
nocturnal apparition. Dame Perrine, however, contented herself with
relating the simple fact without going into details. The ghostly monk
had appeared. That was the whole of it. It was useless to question her,
for she would say nothing more.
All that day the ghostly monk was the engrossing subject of conversation
at the Grand-Nesle. Some believed in the appearance of the phantom,
others laughed at it. It was noticed that Ascanio was the leader of the
sceptics, the others being little Jehan, Simon-le-Gaucher, and Jacques
Aubry. The faction of the believers included Dame Ruperta, Scozzone,
Pagolo, and Hermann.
In the evening they all assembled in the second courtyard of the
Petit-Nesle. Dame Perrine, when questioned in the morning as to the
origin of the legend of the ghostly monk, requested that she might have
the day to refresh her memory, and when night came she announced that
she was ready to relate the awful story. Dame Perrine was as knowing in
the matter of stage effects as a modern dramatist, and she knew that a
ghost story loses all its effect if told in the sunlight, while, on the
other hand, that effect is doubled if it is told in the dark.
Her audience consisted of Hermann, who sat at her right, Dame Ruperta,
who sat at her left, Pagolo and Scozzone, who sat side by side, and
Jacques Aubry, who lay on the grass between his two friends, little
Jehan and Simon-le-Gaucher. Ascanio had declared that he held such old
women's tales in utter contempt, and would not even listen to them.
"Unt zo, Matemoizelle Perrine," said Hermann after a moment of silence,
while each one arranged his posture so as to listen at ease, "unt zo you
are going to tell us the story of the monk's ghost?"
"Yes," said Dame Perrine, "yes; but I ought to warn you that it's a
terrible story, and perhaps not a very comfortable one to listen to at
this hour; but as we are all devout persons, although there may be some
sceptics among us on the subject of ghosts, and as Monsieur Hermann is
strong enough to put Satan himself to flight if he should make his
appearance, I will venture to tell you the story."
"Pardon, pardon, Matemoizelle Perrine, put if Satan comes I must tell
you not to count on me; I will fight mit men, ja, all you choose, put
not mit der Teufel."
"Never mind! I will fight him if he comes, Dame Perrine," said Jacques
Aubry. "Go on, and don't be afraid."
"Is there a charcoal-purner in your story, Matemoizelle Perrine?"
queried Hermann.
"A charcoal-burner? No, Monsieur Hermann."
"All right; it's all the same."
"Why a charcoal-burner?"
"Because in all the Cherman stories there is a charcoal-purner. Put
never mind, it must be a fine story all the same. Go on, Matemoizelle
Perrine."
"You must know, then," began Dame Perrine, "that there was formerly on
this spot where we now sit, and before the Hôtel de Nesle was built, a
community of monks, composed of the handsomest men ever seen, the
shortest of whom was as tall as Monsieur Hermann."
"Peste! what a community that must have been!" cried Jacques Aubry.
"Be quiet, babbler!" said Scozzone.
"Yes, be quiet, pappler!" echoed Hermann.
"I'll be quiet, I'll be quiet," said the student; "go on, Dame Perrine."
"The prior, whose name was Enguerrand, was a particularly fine specimen.
They all had glossy black beards, with black and gleaming eyes; but the
prior had the blackest beard and the brightest eyes of all. Moreover the
worthy brethren were devout and austere in their devotion to an
unparalleled degree, and their voices were so melodious and sweet that
people came from leagues around simply to hear them sing the vesper
service. At least so I have been told."
"Oh the poor monks!" said Ruperta.
"It's extremely interesting," said Jacques Aubry.
"Es ist sehr wunderbar," said Hermann.
"One day," pursued Dame Perrine, flattered by the marks of appreciation
evoked by her narrative, "a handsome young man was brought before the
prior, who requested to be admitted to the convent as a novice; he had
no beard as yet, but he had large eyes as black as ebony, and long dark
hair with a glossy shimmer like jet, so that he was admitted without
hesitation. He said that his name was Antonio, and requested to be
attached to the personal service of the prior, a request which was
granted without hesitation. I spoke of voices just now, but Antonio's
was the fresh and melodious voice _par excellence_. Everybody who heard
him sing on the following Sunday was carried away by it, and yet there
was a something in the voice which distressed even while it fascinated
you, a quality which aroused worldly rather than celestial ideas in the
hearts of those who listened to it; but all the monks were so pure of
heart that none but strangers experienced this singular emotion, and Don
Enguerrand, who was utterly unconscious of anything of the sort, was so
enchanted with Antonio's voice that he appointed him thenceforth to sing
the responses in the anthems alone, alternately with the organ.
"The conduct of the young novice was most exemplary, and he waited upon
the prior with incredible zeal and earnestness. The only thing for which
he could possibly be reproved was his constant fits of distraction from
his devotions; always and everywhere his glowing eyes were fastened upon
the prior.
"'What are you looking at, Antonio?' Don Enguerrand would say to him.
"'I am looking at you, my father,' would be the reply.
"'Look at your prayer-book, Antonio. Now what are you looking at?'
"'You, my father.'
"'Antonio, look at the image of the Virgin. What are you looking at
now?'
"'You, my father.'
"'Antonio, look at the crucifix which we adore.'
"Don Enguerrand began to notice, after a time, upon searching his
conscience, that since Antonio's reception into the community he had
been more troubled than formerly by evil thoughts. Never before had he
sinned more than seven times a day, which, as we all know, is the
reckoning of the saints,--sometimes even he had examined his conduct for
the day without being able to find more than five or six sins, an
extraordinary thing. But now the total of his daily peccadillos mounted
as high as ten, twelve, or even fifteen. He would try to make up for it
on the following day; he would pray and fast and scourge himself, would
the worthy man. Ah! but the farther he went, the greater became the
reckoning, until at last it reached a full score. Poor Don Enguerrand
knew not which way to turn; he felt that he was damned in spite of all
he could do, and he noticed--an observation which might have comforted
another, but which increased his consternation--that his most austere
monks were under the same strange, incredible, incomprehensible
influence; so that their confession, which formerly lasted twenty
minutes, half an hour, or an hour at most, now occupied several hours.
"About this time, an occurrence which had been creating a great stir in
the province for a month past at last became known at the convent. The
lord of a castle near by had lost his daughter Antonia. Antonia had
disappeared one fine evening exactly as my poor Colombe has disappeared.
But there is this difference: I am sure that Colombe is an angel, while
it seems that Antonia was possessed of the devil. The poor father had
sought the fugitive high and low, just as Monsieur le Prévôt has
sought Colombe. Only the convent remained to be visited, and as he knew
that the evil spirit, the better to elude search, sometimes conceals
himself in monasteries, he sent his chaplain to Don Enguerrand to ask
permission to make search in his. The prior assented, with the best
possible grace. Perhaps, he thought, he might by means of this visit
discover something concerning the magic influence which had been
weighing upon him and his brethren for a month past. But no! the search
had no result whatever, and the nobleman was about to retire more
despairing than ever, when all the monks passed in procession before him
and Don Enguerrand, on their way to the chapel for the evening service.
He looked at them mechanically, one after another, until the last one
passed, when he cried out:--
"'God in heaven! that is Antonia! that is my daughter!'
"Antonia, for it was she, became as pale as a lily.
"'What are you doing in this sacred garb?' continued the father.
"'What am I doing, father?' said Antonia; 'I am loving Don Enguerrand
with all my heart.'
"'Leave this convent instantly, wretched girl!' cried her father.
"'I will go out only as a corpse, father,' replied Antonia.
"Thereupon, despite her father's outcries, she darted into the chapel on
the heels of the monks, and took her place in her accustomed stall. The
prior stood as if turned to stone. The furious nobleman would have
pursued his daughter, but Don Enguerrand begged him not to profane the
holy place by such a scandalous scene, and to wait until the service was
at an end. The father consented, and followed Don Enguerrand into the
chapel.
"The anthem was about to be chanted, and the majestic prelude upon the
organ was like the voice of God. A wonderfully beautiful strain, but
instinct with bitter irony, and awful to bear, responded to the sublime
tones of the instrument; it was Antonia's voice, and every listening
heart shuddered. The organ took up the chant, calm, grave, impressive,
and seemed as if it were seeking to drown with its divine magnificence
the bitter strains which insulted it from the stalls. Again, as if in
acceptance of the challenge, Antonia's voice arose more wildly
despairing, more impious, than before. Everybody awaited in speechless
dismay the result of this awful dialogue, this alternation of blasphemy
and prayer, this strange conflict between God and Satan, and it was amid
the most intense and agonizing silence that the celestial music burst
forth like a peal of thunder, when the blasphemous strain died away, and
poured out upon the heads of the listeners, all bowed save one, the
torrents of its wrath. It was something like the dread voice which the
guilty will hear on the judgment day. Antonia tried to keep up the
contest, but her song this time was nothing more than a shrill,
heart-rending cry, like the laugh fit the damned, and she fell pale and
stiff upon the pavement of the chapel. When they raised her, she was
dead."
"Jésus Maria!" cried Dame Ruperta.
"Poor Antonia!" said Hermann innocently.