hopes, had the unfortunate result of causing the poor children to feel a
dangerous sense of security. Youth is incapable of moderate feelings: it
leaps at one bound from despair to the fullest confidence; in its eyes
the sky is always black with tempests or resplendently clear. Being
rendered doubly confident by the provost's absence and Cellini's letter,
they neglected their precautions, and thought more of their love and
less of prudence. Colombe was not so guarded in her movements, and Dame
Perrine saw her, but luckily mistook her for the monk's ghost. Ascanio
lighted the lamp without drawing the curtains, and the light was seen by
Dame Ruperta. The tales of the two gossips taken in conjunction aroused
the curiosity of Jacques Aubry, and the indiscreet student, like Horace
in the "École des Femmes," revealed everything to the very person to
whom he should have revealed absolutely nothing. We know the result of
his disclosures.
Let us now return to the Hôtel d'Etampes.
When Marmagne was asked how he had stumbled upon his valuable discovery,
he assumed an air of mystery and refused to tell. The truth was too
simple, and did not reflect sufficient credit upon his penetration; he
preferred to let it be understood that he had arrived at the magnificent
results which aroused their wonder by dint of strategy and perseverance.
The duchess was radiant; she went and came, and plied the viscount with
questions. So they had her at last, the little rebel who had terrified
them all! Madame d'Etampes determined to go in person to the Hôtel de
Nesle to make sure of her friend's good fortune. Moreover, after what
had happened after the flight, or rather the abduction, of Colombe, the
girl must not be left at the Petit-Nesle. The duchess would take charge
of her: she would take her to the Hôtel d'Etampes, and would keep a
closer watch upon her than duenna and _fiancé_ together had done; she
would keep watch upon her as a rival, so that Colombe would surely be
well guarded.
The duchess ordered her litter.
"The affair has been kept very secret," said she to the provost. "You,
D'Orbec, are not the man to worry about a childish escapade of this
sort? I don't see, then, what is to prevent the marriage from taking
place, and our plans from being carried out."
"On the same conditions, of course, duchess?" said D'Orbec.
"To be sure, on the same conditions, my dear count. As to Benvenuto,"
continued the duchess, "who is guilty, either as principal or accessory,
of an infamous abduction,--never fear, dear viscount, we will avenge
you, while avenging ourselves."
"But I understand, madame," rejoined Marmagne, "that, the king in his
artistic enthusiasm had made him a solemn promise, in case the statue of
his Jupiter should be cast successfully, so that he will simply have to
breathe a wish to see his wish gratified."
"Never fear, that's just where I will watch," rejoined the duchess; "I
will prepare a surprise for him on that day that will be a surprise
indeed. So rely upon me, and let me manage everything."
That was in truth the best thing they could do: not for a long while had
the duchess seemed so eager, so animated, so charming. Her joy
overflowed in spite of her. She sent the provost away in hot haste to
summon his archers, and erelong that functionary, accompanied by D'Orbec
and Marmagne, and preceded by a number of subordinates, arrived at the
door of the Hôtel de Nesle, followed at a short distance by Madame
d'Etampes, who waited upon the quay, trembling with impatience, and
constantly thrusting her head out of the litter.
It was the dinner hour of the workmen, and Ascanio, Pagolo, little
Jehan, and the women were the only occupants of the Grand-Nesle at the
moment. Benvenuto was not expected until the evening of the following
day, or the morning of the day following that. Ascanio, who received the
visitors, supposed that it was a third domiciliary visit, and, as he had
very positive orders from the master on that subject, he offered no
resistance, but welcomed them, on the other hand, most courteously.
The provost, his friends and his retainers, went straight to the
foundry.
"Open this door for us," said D'Estourville to Ascanio.
The young man's heart was oppressed with a terrible presentiment.
However he might be mistaken, and as the least hesitation might awaken
suspicion, he handed the provost the key without moving a muscle.
"Take that long ladder," said the provost to his archers.
They obeyed, and under Messire d'Estourville's guidance marched straight
to the statue. There the provost himself put the ladder in place, and
prepared to ascend, but Ascanio, pale with terror and wrath placed his
foot on the first round.
"What is your purpose, messieurs?" he cried; "this statue is the
master's masterpiece. It has been placed in my charge, and the first man
who lays hand upon it for any purpose whatsoever is a dead man, I warn
you!"
He drew from his belt a keen-edged, slender dagger, of such marvellous
temper that it would cut through a gold crown at a single blow.
The provost gave a signal and his archers advanced upon Ascanio pike in
hand. He made a desperate resistance and wounded two men; but he could
do nothing alone against eight, leaving the provost, Marmagne, and
D'Orbec out of the reckoning. He was forced to yield to superior
numbers: he was thrown down, bound and gagged, and the provost started
up the ladder, followed by two sergeants for fear of a surprise.
Colombe had heard and seen everything; her father found her in a swoon,
for when she saw Ascanio fall she believed him to be dead.
Aroused to anger rather than anxiety by this sight, the provost threw
Colombe roughly over his broad shoulders, and descended the ladder. The
whole party then returned to the quay, the archers escorting Ascanio, at
whom D'Orbec gazed most earnestly. Pagolo saw his comrade pass and did
not stir. Little Jehan had disappeared. Scozzone alone, understanding
nothing of what had taken place, tried to bar the door, crying,--
"What means this violence, messieurs? Why are you taking Ascanio away?
Who is this woman?"
But at that moment the veil which covered Colombe's face fell off, and
Scozzone recognized the model for the statue of Hebe.
Thereupon she stood aside, pale with jealousy, and allowed the provost
and his people, as well as their prisoners, to pass without another
word.
"What does this mean, and why have you abused this boy so?" demanded
Madame d'Etampes, when she saw Ascanio bound, and pale and covered with
blood. "Unbind him! unbind him!"
"Madame," said the provost, "this same boy resisted us desperately; he
wounded two of my men; he is his master's accomplice without doubt, and
it seems to me advisable to take him to some safe place."
"And furthermore," said D'Orbec in an undertone to the duchess, "he so
strongly resembles the Italian page I saw at your reception, and who was
present throughout our conversation, that, if he were not dressed
differently, and if I had not heard him speak the language which you
assured me the page could not understand, upon my honor, Madame la
Duchesse, I would swear it was he!"
"You are right. Monsieur le Prévôt," said Madame d'Etampes hastily,
thinking better of the order she had given to set Ascanio at liberty;
"you are right, this young man may be dangerous. Make sure of his
person."
"To the Châtelet with the prisoner," said the provost.
"And we," said the duchess, at whose side Colombe, still unconscious,
had been placed,--"we, messieurs, will return to the Hôtel d'Etampes!"
A moment later the hoof-beats of a galloping horse rang out upon the
pavement. It was little Jehan, riding off at full speed to tell Cellini
what had taken place at the Hôtel de Nesle.
Ascanio, meanwhile, was committed to the Châtelet without having seen
the duchess, and in ignorance of the part played by her in the event
which destroyed his hopes.
X
THE RIVALS
Madame d'Etampes, who had been so desirous to see Colombe at close
quarters ever since she had first heard of her, had her heart's desire
at last: the poor child lay there before her in a swoon.
The jealous duchess did not once cease to gaze at her throughout the
whole journey to the Hôtel d'Etampes. Her eyes, blazing with anger when
she saw how beautiful she was, scrutinized each of her charms, analyzed
each feature, and passed in review one after another all the elements
which went to make up the perfect beauty of the pale-cheeked girl who
was at last in her power and under her hand. The two women, who were
inspired with the same passion and disputing possession of the same
heart, were face to face at last. One all-powerful and malevolent, the
other weak, but beloved; one with her splendor, the other with her
youth; one with her passion, the other with her innocence. Separated by
so many obstacles, they had finally come roughly in contact, and the
duchess's velvet robe brushed against Colombe's simple white gown.
Though Colombe was in a swoon, Anne was not the least pale of the two.
Doubtless her mute contemplation of her companion's loveliness caused
her pride to despair, and destroyed her hopes; for while, in her own
despite, she murmured, "They told me truly, she is lovely, very lovely!"
her hand, which held Colombe's, pressed it so convulsively that the
young girl was brought to her senses by the pain, and opened her great
eyes, saying,--
"Oh, madame, you hurt me!"
As soon as the duchess saw that Colombe's eyes were open, she let her
hand fall. But the consciousness of pain preceded the return of the
faculty of thought. For some seconds after she uttered the words, she
continued to gaze wonderingly at the duchess, as if she could not
collect her thoughts.
"Who are you, madame," she said at last, "and whither are you taking
me?" Then she suddenly drew away from her, crying,--
"Ah! you are the Duchesse d'Etampes. I remember, I remember!"
"Hush!" returned Anne imperiously. "Hush! Soon we shall be alone, and
you can wonder and cry out at your ease."
These words were accompanied by a stern, haughty glance; but it was a
sense of her own dignity, and not the glance, which imposed silence upon
Colombe. She said not another word until they reached the Hôtel
d'Etampes, where, at a sign from the duchess, she followed her to her
oratory.
When the rivals were at last alone and face to face, they eyed each
other for one or two minutes without speaking, but with very different
expressions. Colombe was calm, for her trust in Providence and in
Benvenuto sustained her. Anne was furious at her calmness, but although
her fury was clearly evidenced by the contortion of her features, she
did not give expression to it, for she relied upon her imperious will,
and her unbounded power to crush the feeble creature before her. She was
the first to break the silence.
"Well, my young friend," she said, in a tone which left no doubt as to
the bitterness of the thought, although the words were soft, "you are
restored to your father, at last. It is well, but allow me first of all
to compliment you upon your courage; you are--bold for your age, my
child."
"I have God on my side, madame," rejoined Colombe simply.
"What god do you refer to, mademoiselle? Oh, the god Mars, of course!"
returned the duchess with one of those impertinent winks which she so
often had occasion to resort to at court.
"I know but one God, madame; the Eternal God, merciful and protecting,
who teaches charity in prosperity, and humility in grandeur. Woe to them
who know not the God of whom I speak, for there will come a day when He
will not know them."
"Very good, mademoiselle, very good!" said the duchess. "The situation
is admirably adapted for a moral lecture, and I would congratulate you
upon your happy choice of a subject if I did not prefer to think that
you are trying to excuse your wantonness by impudence."
"In truth, madame," replied Colombe, without bitterness, but with a
slight shrug of the shoulders, "I do not seek to excuse myself to you,
because I am as yet ignorant of any right on your part to accuse me.
When my father chooses to question me, I shall reply with respect and
sorrow. If he reproves me I will try to justify myself; but until then,
Madame la Duchesse, permit me to hold my peace."
"I understand that my voice annoys you, and you would prefer, would you
not, to remain alone with your thoughts and think at leisure of the man
you love?"
"No noise, however annoying it may be, can prevent me from thinking of
him, madame, especially when he is unhappy."
"You dare confess that you love him?"
"That is the difference between us, madame; you love him, and dare not
confess it."
"Impudent hussy!" cried the duchess, "upon my word I believe she defies
me."
"Alas! no," replied Colombe softly, "I do not defy you, I reply, simply
because you force me to reply. Leave me alone with my thoughts, and I
will leave you alone with your schemes."
"Very good! since you drive me to it, child, since you imagine that you
are strong enough to contend with me, since you confess your love, I
will confess mine; but at the same time I will confess my hatred. Yes,
I love Ascanio, and I hate you! After all, why should I dissemble with
you, the only person to whom I may say whatever I choose? for you are
the only one who, whatever you say, will not be believed. Yes, I love
Ascanio."
"In that case I pity you, madame," rejoined Colombe softly, "for Ascanio
loves me."
"Yes, it is true, Ascanio does love you; but by seduction if I can, by
falsehood if I must, by a crime if it becomes necessary, I will steal
his love away from you, mark that! I am Anne d'Heilly, Duchesse
d'Etampes!"
"Ascanio, madame, will love the one who loves him best."
"In God's name hear her!" cried the duchess, exasperated by such sublime
confidence. "Would not one think that her love is unique, and that no
other love can be compared to it?"
"I do not say that, madame. For the reason that I love, I know that
other hearts may love as I do, but I doubt if yours is one of them."
"What would you do for him? Come, let us see, you who boast of this love
of yours which mine can never equal. What have you sacrificed for him
thus far? an obscure life and wearisome solitude?"
"No, madame, but my peace of mind."
"You have given him preference over what? Comte d'Orbec's absurd love?"
"No, madame, but my filial obedience."
"What have you to give him? Can you make him rich, powerful, feared?"
"No, madame, but I hope to make him happy."
"Ah!" exclaimed the duchess; "it's a very different matter with me, and
I do much more for him: I sacrifice a king's affection; I lay wealth,
titles, and honors at his feet; I bring him a kingdom to govern."
"Yes," said Colombe with a smile, "it's true that your love gives him
everything that is not love."
"Enough, enough of this insulting comparison!" cried the duchess
violently, feeling that she was losing ground step by step.
Thereupon ensued a momentary pause, during which Colombe seemed to feel
no embarrassment, while Madame d'Etampes succeeded in concealing hers
only by revealing her anger. However, her features gradually relaxed,
her faee assumed a milder expression, lightened by a gleam of real or
feigned benevolence. She was the first to reopen the conflict which she
did not propose should end otherwise than in a triumph.
"Let us see, Colombe," said she in a tone that was almost affectionate,
"if some one should bid you sacrifice your life for him, what would you
do?"
"Ah! I would give it to him blissfully!"
"And so would I!" cried the duchess with an accent which proved the
violence of her passion, if not the sincerity of the sacrifice.
"But your honor," she continued, "would you sacrifice that as well as
your life?"
"If by my honor you mean my reputation, yes; if by my honor you mean my
virtue, no."
"What! you do not belong to him? is he not your lover?"
"He is my _fiancé_, madame; that is all."
"Oh, she doesn't love him!" rejoined the duchess, "she doesn't love
him! She prefers her honor, a mere empty word, to him."
"If some one were to say to you, madame," retorted Colombe, angered in
spite of her sweet disposition, "if some one were to say to you,
'Renounce for his sake your titles and your grandeur; abandon the king
for him,--not in secret, that would be too easy,--but publicly.' If some
one were to say to you, 'Anne d'Heilly, Duchesse d'Etampes, leave your
palace, your luxurious surroundings, and your courtiers for his humble
artist's studio'?"
"I would refuse in his own interest," replied the duchess, as if it were
impossible to say what was false beneath the profound, penetrating gaze
of her rival.
"You would refuse?"
"Yes."
"Ah! she doesn't love him!" cried Colombe; "she prefers honors, mere
chimeras, to him."
"But when I tell you that I wish to retain my position for his sake,"
returned the duchess, exasperated anew by this fresh triumph of her
rival,--"when I tell you that I wish to retain my honors so that he may
share them? All men care for them sooner or later."
"Yes," replied Colombe, smiling; "but Ascanio is not one of them."
"Hush!" cried Anne, stamping her foot in passion.
Thus had the cunning and powerful duchess signally failed to gain the
upper hand over a mere girl, whom she expected to intimidate simply by
raising her voice. To her questions, angry or satirical, Colombe had
made answer with a modest tranquillity which disconcerted her. She
realized that the blind impulsion of her hatred had led her astray, so
she changed her tactics. To tell the truth, she had not reckoned upon
the possession of so much beauty or so much wit by her rival, and,
finding that she could not bend her, she determined to take her by
surprise.
Colombe as we have seen, was not alarmed by the double explosion of
Madame d'Etampes's wrath, but simply took refuge in cold and dignified
silence. The duchess, however, following out the new plan she had
adopted, now approached her with her most fascinating smile, and took
her affectionately by the hand.
"Forgive me, my child," she said, "but I fear I lost my temper; you must
not bear me ill will for it; you have the advantage of me in so many
ways, that it's natural that I should be jealous. Alas! you, no doubt,
like everybody else, consider me a wicked woman. But, in truth, my
destiny is at fault, not I. Forgive me, therefore; because we both
happen to love Ascanio is no reason why we should hate each other. And
then he loves you alone, so 't is your duty to be indulgent. Let us be
sisters, what say you? Let us talk frankly together, and I will try to
efface from your mind the unfortunate impression which my foolish anger
may have left there."
"Madame!" said Colombe, with reserve, and withdrawing her hand with an
instinctive movement of repulsion; but she added at once, "Speak, I am
listening."
"Oh," said Madame d'Etampes playfully, and as if she understood
perfectly her companion's reserve, "have no fear, little savage, I do
not ask for your friendship without a guaranty. In order that you may
know what manner of woman I am, that you may know me as I know myself, I
propose to tell you in two words the story of my life. My heart has
little to do with my story, and we poor women, who are called great
ladies, are so often slandered! Ah! envy does very wrong to speak ill of
us when we are fitter subjects for compassion. For instance, what is
your judgment of me, my child? Be frank. You look upon me as a lost
woman, do you not?"
Colombe made a gesture indicative of the embarrassment she felt at the
idea of replying to such a question.
"But if I am a lost woman, is it my fault? You in your happiness,
Colombe, must not be too hard upon those who have suffered,--you who
have lived hitherto in innocent solitude, and do not know what it is to
be reared upon ambitious dreams: for they who are destined to that
torture, like victims decked out with flowers, see only the bright side
of life. There is no question of love, simply of pleading. So it was
that from my earliest youth my thoughts were all bent upon fascinating
the king; the beauty which God gives to woman to be exchanged for true
love, I was forced to exchange for a title; they made of my charms a
snare. Tell me now, Colombe, what could be the fate of a poor child,
taken in hand before she has learned to know the difference between good
and evil, and who is told, 'The good is evil, the evil is good'? And so,
you see, although others despair of me, I do not despair of myself.
Perhaps God will forgive me, for no one stood beside me to tell me of
him. What was there for me to do, alone as I was, and weak and
defenceless? Craft and deceit have made up my whole life from that time
on. And yet I was not made to play such a hideous rôle; the proof is
that I love Ascanio, and that when I found that I loved him I was happy
and ashamed at the same time. Now tell me, my pure, darling child, do
you understand me?"
"Yes." innocently replied Colombe, deceived by this false good faith,
this lie masquerading in the guise of truth.
"Then you will have pity on me," cried the duchess; "you will let me
love Ascanio from a distance, all by myself, hopelessly; and in that way
I shall not be your rival, for he will not care for me; and, in return,
I, who know the world and its snares, its pitfalls and deceit, will take
the place of the mother you have lost. I will guide you, I will save
you. Now you see that you can trust me, for you save my life. A child in
whose heart the passions of a woman were sown, that in brief is my past.
My present you see for yourself; it is the shame of being the declared
mistress of a king. My future is my love for Ascanio,--not his for me,
because, as you have said, and as I have very often told myself, Ascanio
will never love me; but for the very reason that love will remain
pure it will purify me. Now it is your turn, to speak, to open your
heart, to tell me everything. Tell me your story, dear girl."
"My story, madame, is very brief and very simple," said Colombe; "it may
all be summed up in three loves. I have loved, I love, and I shall
love,--God, my father, and Ascanio. But in the past my love for Ascanio,
whom I had not then met, was a dream; at present it is a cause of
suffering; in the future, it is a hope."
"Very good," said the duchess, restraining her jealousy, and forcing
back her tears; "but do not half confide in me, Colombe. What do you
mean to do now? How can you, poor child, contend with two such powerful
wills as your father's and Comte d'Orbec's? To say nothing of the king's
having seen you and fallen in love with you."
"O mon Dieu!" murmured Colombe.
"But as this passion on the king's part was the work of the Duchesse
d'Etampes, your rival, your friend, Anne d'Heilly will deliver you from
it. So we won't disturb ourselves about the king: but your father and
the count must be reckoned with. Their ambition is less easy to balk
than the commonplace fancy of the king."
"Oh, do not be half kind!" cried Colombe; "save me from the others as
well as from the king."
"I know but one way," said Madame d'Etampes, seeming to reflect.
"What is that?"
"You will take fright, and refuse to adopt it."
"Oh, if only courage is required, tell me what it is."
"Come here, and listen to me," said the duchess, affectionately drawing
Colombe to a seat upon a stool beside her arm-chair, and passing her arm
around her waist. "Don't be alarmed, I beg, at the first words I say."
"Is it very terrifying?" Colombe asked.