live, alas! at a time and in a society where such fascinating innocence
is but a danger the more, for it places you, without means of defence,
at the mercy of your enemies, whom you cannot fight with the weapons
they use to attack you. So make an effort, descend from the heights to
which your dreams have transported you, to the lower level of reality.
You said just now that you would sacrifice your reputation for Ascanio.
I do not ask so much as that, but simply that you sacrifice the
appearance of fidelity to him. It is pure madness for you, alone and
helpless, to struggle against your destiny: for you, the daughter of a
gentleman, to dream of marriage with a goldsmith's apprentice! Come,
trust the advice of a sincere friend; do not resist them, but let them
have their way: remain at heart the spotless fiancé, the wife of
Ascanio, and give your hand to Comte d'Orbec. His ambitious schemes
require that you should bear his name; but once you are Comtesse
d'Orbec, you can easily overturn his detestable schemes, for you have
only to raise your voice and complain. Whereas now, who would take your
part in the contest? No one: even I cannot assist you against the
legitimate authority of a father, while, if it were a question of
foiling your husband's combinations, you would soon see me at work.
Reflect upon what I say. To remain your own mistress, obey; to become
independent, pretend to abandon your liberty. Strong in the thought that
Ascanio is your lawful husband, and that union with any other is mere
sacrilege, you may do what your heart bids you, and your conscience will
be at rest, while the world, in whose eyes appearances will be
preserved, will take your part."
"Madame! madame!" murmured Colombe, rising and straightening herself
against the duchess's arm, as she sought to detain her, "I am not sure
that I understand you aright, but it seems to me that you are advising
me to do an infamous thing!"
"What do you say?" cried the duchess.
"I say that virtue is not so subtle as all that, madame; I say that your
sophistries make me blush for you; I say that beneath the cloak of
friendship with which you conceal your hatred, I see the net you have
spread for me. You wish to dishonor me in Ascanio's eyes, do you not,
because you know that Ascanio will never love or will cease to love the
woman he despises?"
"Well, yes!" said the duchess, bursting forth at last; "I am weary of
wearing a mask. Ah! you will not fall into the net I have spread, you
say? Very good, then you will fall into the abyss I will push you into.
Hear this: Whether you will or no, you shall marry D'Orbec!"
"In that case the force put upon me will be my excuse, and by yielding,
if I do yield, I shall not have profaned my heart's religion."
"Pray, do you mean to resist?"
"By every means in the power of a poor girl. I warn you that I will say
No! to the end. You may put my hand in that man's, I will say No! You
may drag me before the altar, I will say No! You may force me to kneel
at the priest's feet, and to the priest's face I will say No!"
"What matters it? Ascanio will believe that you have consented to the
marriage that is forced upon you."
"For that reason I hope I may not have to submit to it, madame."
"Upon whom do you rely to come to your assistance?"
"Upon God above, and upon a man on earth."
"But the man is a prisoner."
"The man is free, madame."
"Why, who is the man, I pray to know?"
"Benvenuto Cellini."
The duchess ground her teeth when she heard the name of the man she
considered her deadliest foe. But as she was on the point of repeating
the name, accompanied by some terrible imprecation, a page raised the
portière and announced the king.
At that announcement she darted from the room to meet François I. with
a smile upon her lips, and led him to her own apartments, motioning to
her people to keep watch upon Colombe.
XI
BENVENUTO AT BAY
An hour after the imprisonment of Ascanio and the abduction of Colombe,
Benvenuto Cellini rode along the Quai des Augustins at a footpace. He
had just parted from the king and the court, whom he had amused
throughout the journey by innumerable tales, told as he only could tell
them, mingled with anecdotes of his own adventures. But when he was once
more alone he became thoughtful and abstracted; the frivolous talker
gave place to the profound dreamer. While his hand shook the rein, his
brain was busily at work; he dreamed of the casting of his Jupiter, upon
which depended his dear Ascanio's happiness as well as his artistic
fame; the bronze was fermenting in his brain before being melted in the
furnace. Outwardly he was calm.
When he reached the door of the Hôtel de Nesle he stopped for a moment,
amazed not to hear the sound of hammering; the blackened walls of the
château were mute and gloomy, as if no living thing were within. Twice
the master rapped without obtaining a reply; at the third summons
Scozzone opened the door.
"Ah, there you are, master!" she cried when she saw that it was
Benvenuto. "Alas! why did you not return two hours earlier?"
"What has happened, in God's name?" demanded Cellini.
"The provost, Comte d'Orbec, and the Duchesse d'Etampes have been here."
"Well?"
"They made a search."
"And then?"
"They found Colombe in the head of the statue of Mars."
"Impossible!"
"The Duchesse d'Etampes carried Colombe home with her, and the provost
ordered Ascanio to be taken to the Châtelet."
"Ah! we have been betrayed!" cried Benvenuto striking his hand against
his forehead and stamping upon the ground. As his first thought on every
occasion was of vengeance, he left his horse to find his own way to the
stable, and darted into the studio.
"Come hither, all of you," he cried,--"all!"
Thereupon each one had to undergo an examination in due form, but they
were all equally ignorant, not only of Colombe's hiding place, but of
the means by which her enemies had succeeded in discovering it. There
was not a single one, including Pagolo, upon whom the master's suspicion
fell first of all, who did not exculpate himself in a way that left no
doubt in Benvenuto's mind. It is needless to say that he did not for an
instant suspect Hermann, and Simon-le-Gaucher for no more than an
instant.
When he became convinced that he could learn nothing in that direction,
Benvenuto, with the rapidity of decision which was usual with him, made
up his mind what course to pursue; and having made sure that his sword
was at his side and that his dagger moved easily in its sheath, he
ordered everybody to remain at home in order to be at hand in case of
need. He then left the studio, and hurried across the courtyard into the
street.
His features, his gait, and his every movement, bore the stamp of
intense excitement. A thousand thoughts, a thousand schemes, a thousand
painful reflections, were jostling one another confusedly in his head.
Ascanio failed him at the moment when his presence was most essential,
for all his apprentices, with the most intelligent of them all at their
head, were none too many for the casting of his Jupiter. Colombe was
abducted; and Colombe in the midst of her foes might lose heart. The
serene, sublime confidence which served the poor child as a bulwark
against evil thoughts and perverse designs would perhaps grow weaker, or
abandon her altogether, in such a maze of plots and threats. With all
the rest, he remembered that one day he had spoken to Ascanio of the
possibility of some cruel vengeance on the part of the Duchesse
d'Etampes, whereupon Ascanio replied with a smile,--
"She will not dare to ruin me, for with a word I could ruin her."
Benvenuto sought to learn the secret, but Ascanio would make no other
reply to his questions than this:--
"To-day it would be treachery, master. Wait until the day comes when it
will be only a legitimate means of defence."
Benvenuto understood the delicacy which closed his mouth, and waited.
How it was necessary that he should see Ascanio, and his first endeavors
should be directed to that end.
With Benvenuto the wish led at once to the decision necessarily to
gratify it. He had hardly said to himself that he must see Ascanio,
before he was knocking at the door of the Châtelet. The wicket opened,
and one of the provost's people asked Cellini who he was. Another man
was standing behind him in the shadow.
"My name is Benvenuto Cellini," replied the goldsmith.
"What do you wish?"
"To see a prisoner who is confined herein."
"What is his name?"
"Ascanio."
"Ascanio is in secret and can see no one."
"Why is he in secret?"
"Because he is charged with a crime punishable with death."
"An additional reason why I should see him," cried Benvenuto.
"Your logic is most extraordinary, Signor Cellini," said the man who was
standing in the background, in a jeering tone, "and doesn't pass
current at the Châtelet."
"Who laughs when I proffer a request? Who jeers when I implore a favor?"
cried Benvenuto.
"I," said the voice,--"I, Robert d'Estourville, Provost of Paris. To
each his turn, Signor Cellini. Every contest consists of a game and
revenge. You won the first bout, and the second is mine. You illegally
took my property, I legally take your apprentice. You refused to return
the one to me, so never fear, I will not return the other to you. You
are gallant and enterprising; you have an army of devoted retainers.
Come on, my stormer of citadels! Come on, my scaler of walls! Come on,
my burster in of doors! Come and take the Châtelet! I am waiting for
you."
With that the wicket was closed.
Benvenuto, with a roar, darted at the massive iron door, but could make
no impression upon it with the united efforts of his feet and hands.
"Come on, my friend, come on, strike, strike!" cried the provost from
the other side of the door; "you will only succeed in making a noise,
and if you make too much, beware the watch, beware the archers! Ah! the
Châtelet isn't like the Hôtel de Nesle, you'll find; it belongs to
our lord the king, and we shall see if you are more powerful in France
than the king."
Benvenuto cast his eyes about and saw upon the quay an uprooted
mile-stone which two ordinary men would have found difficulty in
lifting. He walked to where it lay picked it up and put it on his
shoulder as easily as a child could do the same with a pebble. He had
taken but a step or two, however, when he reflected that, when the door
was broken in, he should find the guard waiting for him, and the result
would be that he should himself be imprisoned,--imprisoned when
Ascanio's liberty was dependent upon his own. He therefore dropped the
stone, which was driven some inches into the ground by its own weight.
Doubtless the provost was watching him from some invisible loophole, for
he heard a burst of laughter.
Benvenuto hurried away at full speed, lest he should yield to the desire
to dash his head against the accursed door.
He went directly to the Hôtel d'Etampes.
All was not lost, if, failing to see Ascanio, he could see Colombe.
Perhaps Ascanio, in the overflowing of his heart, had confided to his
beloved the secret he had refused to confide to his master.
All went well at first. The gateway of the mansion was open; he crossed
the courtyard and entered the reception-room, where stood a tall footman
with lace on all the seams of his livery,--a sort of colossus four feet
wide and six high.
"Who are you?" he demanded, eying the goldsmith from head to foot.
At another time Benvenuto would have answered his insolent stare by one
of his customary violent outbursts, but it was essential that he should
see Colombe. Ascanio's welfare was at stake: so he restrained himself.
"I am Benvenuto Cellini, the Florentine goldsmith," he replied.
"What do you wish?"
"To see Mademoiselle Colombe."
"Mademoiselle Colombe is not visible."
"Why is she not visible?"
"Because her father, Messire d'Estourville, Provost of Paris, gave her
in charge to Madame d'Etampes, and requested her to keep an eye upon
her."
"But I am a friend."
"An additional reason for suspecting you."
"I tell you that I must see her," said Benvenuto, beginning to get warm.
"And I tell you that you shall not see her," retorted the servant.
"Is Madame d'Etampes visible?"
"No more than Mademoiselle Colombe."
"Not even to me, her jeweller?"
"Less to you than to any other person."
"Do you mean that orders have been given not to admit me?"
"Just so," replied the servant; "you have put your finger on the spot."
"Do you know that I am a strange man, my friend," said Benvenuto, with
the terrible laugh which ordinarily preceded his outbursts of wrath;
"and that the place I am forbidden to enter is the place I am accustomed
to enter?"
"How will you do it, eh? You amuse me."
"When there is a door, and a blackguard like you in front of it, for
instance--"
"Well?" said the valet.
"Well!" retorted Benvenuto, suiting the action to the word, "I overturn
the blackguard, and break in the door."
And with a blow of his fist he laid the valet sprawling on the floor,
and burst in the door with a blow of his foot.
"Help!" cried the servant; "help!"
But the poor devil's cry of distress was not needed; as Benvenuto passed
into the reception-room he found himself confronted by six others,
evidently stationed there to receive him. He at once divined that Madame
d'Etampes had been informed of his return, and had taken measures
accordingly.
Under any other circumstances, armed as he was with dagger and sword,
Benvenuto would have fallen upon them, and would probably have given a
good account of himself, but such an act of violence in the abode of the
king's mistress might have deplorable results. For the second time,
contrary to his custom, common sense carried the day over wrath, and,
being certain that he could at all events have audience of the king, to
whose presence, as we know, he had the privilege of being admitted at
any hour, he replaced his sword, already half drawn, in its scabbard,
retraced his steps, pausing at every movement in his rear, like a lion
in retreat, walked slowly across the courtyard, and bent his steps
toward the Louvre.
Benvenuto once more assumed a calm demeanor, and walked with measured
step, but his tranquillity was only apparent. Great drops of
perspiration were rolling down his cheeks, and his wrath was rising
mountain high within his breast, his superhuman efforts to master it
making him suffer the more. Indeed, nothing could be more utterly
antipathetic to his impulsive nature than delay, than the wretched
obstacle of a closed door, or the vulgar insolence of a lackey. Strong
men who command their thoughts are never so near despair as when they
come in collision with some material obstacle and struggle to no purpose
to surmount it. Benvenuto would have given ten years of his life to have
some man jostle him, and as he walked along he raised his head from time
to time and gazed threateningly at those who passed, as if he would
say:--
"Isn't there some unfortunate wretch among you who is tired of life? If
so, let him apply to me, I'm his man!"
A quarter of an hour later he reached the Louvre and went at once to the
apartment set apart for the pages, requesting immediate speech of his
Majesty. It was his purpose to tell François the whole story, and make
an appeal to his loyalty, and, if he could not obtain Ascanio's release,
to solicit permission to see him. As he came through the streets he
considered what language he would use to the king, and as he had some
pretensions to eloquence he was well content with the little speech he
had prepared. The excitement, the terrible news he had learned so
suddenly, the insults heaped upon him, the obstacles he could not
overcome, all these had combined to set the blood on fire in the
irascible artist's veins: his temples throbbed, his heart beat quickly,
his hands shook. He did not himself know the extent of the feverish
agitation which multiplied the energy of his body and his heart. A whole
day is sometimes concentrated in one minute.
In such a frame of mind was Benvenuto when he appealed to a page for
admission to the king's apartments.
"The king is not visible," was the young man's reply.
"Do you not recognize me?" asked Benvenuto in surprise.
"Perfectly."
"I am Benvenuto Cellini, and his Majesty is always visible to me."
"It is precisely because you are Benvenuto Cellini," returned the page,
"that you cannot enter."
Benvenuto was thunderstruck.
"Ah! is it you, M. de Termes?" continued the page, addressing a courtier
who arrived just behind the goldsmith. "Pass in, pass in, Comte de la
Paye; pass in, Marquis des Prés."
"And what of me! what of me, pray?" cried Benvenuto, turning white with
anger.
"You? The king, when he returned ten minutes since, said, 'If that
insolent Florentine makes his appearance, let him know that I do not
choose to receive him, and advise him to be submissive unless he desires
to make a comparison between the Castle of San Angelo and the
Châtelet."
"Help me, patience! Oh help me!" muttered Benvenuto in a hollow voice:
"Vrai Dieu! I am not accustomed to being made to wait by kings. The
Vatican's no less a place than the Louvre, and Leo X. is no less great a
man than François I., and yet I was not kept waiting at the door of the
Vatican, nor at that of Leo X. But I understand; it's like this: the
king was with Madame d'Etampes,--yes, the king has just come from his
mistress and has been put on his guard by her against me. Yes, that's
the way it is: patience for Ascanio! patience for Colombe!"
Notwithstanding his praiseworthy resolution to be patient, however,
Benvenuto was obliged to lean against a pillar for support: his heart
was swollen to bursting, and his legs trembled under him. This last
insult not only wounded him in his pride, but in his friendship. His
soul was filled with bitterness and despair, and his clenched hands, his
frown, and his tightly closed lips bore witness to the violence of his
suffering.
However, in a moment or two he recovered himself, tossed back the hair
which was falling over his brow, and left the palace with firm and
resolute step. All who were present watched him with something very like
respect as he walked away.
Benvenuto's apparent tranquillity was due to the marvellous power he
possessed over himself, for he was in reality more confused and
desperate than a stag at bay. He wandered through the streets for some
time, heedless as to where he might be, hearing nothing but the buzzing
of the blood in his ears, and vaguely wondering, as one does in
intoxication, whether he was awake or asleep. It was the third time he
had been shown the door within an hour. It was the third time that doors
had been shut in his face,--in his face, Benvenuto's, the favorite of
princes, popes, and kings, before whom all doors were thrown open to
their fullest extent when his footsteps were heard approaching! And yet,
notwithstanding this threefold affront, he had not the right to give way
to his anger; he must dissemble, and hide his humiliation until he had
rescued Colombe and Ascanio. The throng through which he passed,
thoughtless or full of business, seemed to him to read upon his brow the
story of the repeated insults he had undergone. It was perhaps the only
moment in his whole life when his great heart lost faith in itself. But
after ten or fifteen minutes of this aimless, blind wandering, his will
reasserted itself, and he raised his head: his depression left him, and
the fever returned.
"Go to!" he cried aloud, to such a degree did his mind dominate his
body; "go to! in vain do they crowd the man, they cannot throw down the
artist! Come, sculptor, and make them repent of their base deeds when
they admire thy handiwork! Come, Jupiter, and prove that thou art still,
not the king of the gods alone, but the master of mankind!"
As he spoke, Benvenuto, acting upon an impulse stronger than himself,
bent his step toward the Tournelles, that former royal residence, where
the old constable, Anne de Montmorency, still dwelt.
The effervescent artist was required to await his turn for an hour
before he was admitted to the presence of the warrior minister of
François I., who was besieged by a mob of courtiers and petitioners. At
last he was introduced.
Anne de Montmorency was a man of great height, little if any bent by
age, cold, stiff, and spare, with a piercing glance and an abrupt manner
of speaking; he was forever scolding, and no one ever saw him in good
humor. He would have looked upon it as a humiliation to be surprised
with a laugh upon his face. How had this morose old man succeeded in
making himself agreeable to the amiable and gracious prince, who then
governed France? It is something that can be explained in no other way
than by the law of contrasts. François I. had a way of sending away
satisfied those whose petitions he refused; the constable, on the other
hand, arranged matters in such a way that those whom he gratified went
away in a rage. He was only moderately endowed in the way of genius, but
he won the king's confidence by his military inflexibility and his
dictatorial gravity.
When Benvenuto entered, Montmorency was, as usual, striding back and
forth in his apartment. He nodded in response to the goldsmith's
salutation; then paused in his walk, and, fixing his piercing gaze upon
him, inquired,--
"Who are you?"
"Benvenuto Cellini."
"Your profession?
"Goldsmith to the king," replied the artist, wondering to find that his
first reply did not make the second question unnecessary.
"Ah! yes, yes," growled the constable. "I recognize you. Well, what do
you want, what have you to ask, my friend? That I give you an order? If
you have counted on that, your time is thrown away, I give you warning.
Upon my word, I have no patience with this mania for art which is raging
so everywhere to-day. One would say it was an epidemic that has attacked
every one except myself. No, sculpture doesn't interest me in the very
least, Master Goldsmith, do you hear? So apply to others, and good
night."
Benvenuto made a gesture, but before he could speak, the constable
continued:--
"Mon Dieu! don't let that discourage you. You will find plenty of
courtiers who like to ape the king, and noodles who pose as
connoisseurs. As for me, hark ye? I stick to my trade, which is to wage
war, and I tell you frankly that I much prefer a good, healthy
peasant-woman, who gives me a child, that is to say, a soldier, every
ten months, than a wretched sculptor, who wastes his time turning out a
crowd of men of bronze who are good for nothing but to raise the price
of cannon."
"Monseigneur," said Benvenuto, who had listened to this long heretical
harangue with a degree of patience which amazed himself, "I am not here
to speak upon artistic subjects, but upon a matter of honor."
"Ah! that's a different matter. What do you desire of me? Tell me
quickly."
"Do you remember, monseigneur, that his Majesty once said to me in your
presence that, on the day when I should bring him the statue of Jupiter
cast in bronze, he would grant whatever favor I might ask, and that he
bade you, monseigneur, and Chancelier Poyet remind him of his promise in
the event of his forgetting it?"
"I remember. What then?"
"The moment is at hand, monseigneur, when I shall implore you to provide
a memory for the king. Will you do it?"
"Is that what you come here to ask me, monsieur?" cried the constable;
"have you intruded upon me to beg me to do something I am bound to do?"
"Monseigneur!"
"You're an impertinent fellow, Master Goldsmith. Understand that the
Connétable Anne de Montmorency does not need to be reminded to be an
honorable man. The king bade me remember for him, and that is a
precaution he might well take more frequently, with all due respect; I
shall do as he bade me, even though the reminder be annoying to him.
Adieu, Master Cellini, and make room for others."
With that the constable turned his back on Benvenuto, and gave the
signal for another petitioner to be introduced.
Benvenuto saluted the constable, whose somewhat brutal frankness was not
displeasing to him, and took his leave. Still agitated, and impelled by
the same feverish excitement and the same burning thoughts, he betook
himself to the abode of Chancelier Poyet, near Porte Saint-Antoine, only
a short distance away.
Chancelier Poyet formed a most striking and complete contrast, moral and
physical, to Anne de Montmorency, who was always crabbed and always
incased in armor from head to foot. He was polished, shrewd, crafty,
buried in his furs, lost, so to speak, in the ermine. Naught could be
seen of him save a bald head surrounded by a grizzly fringe of hair,
intelligent, restless eyes, thin lips, and a white hand. He was quite as
honest perhaps as the constable, but much less outspoken.
There again Benvenuto was forced to wait for half an hour. But his
friends would not have recognized him; he had accustomed himself to
waiting.
"Monseigneur," he said, when he was at last ushered into the
chancellor's presence, "I have come to remind you of a promise the king
made me in your presence, and constituted you not only the witness
thereof but the guarantor."
"I know what you refer to, Messire Benvenuto," said Poyet, "and I am
ready, if you wish, to bring his Majesty's promise to his mind; but it
is my duty to inform you that, from a legal standpoint, you have no
claim upon him, for an undertaking indefinite in form, and left to your
discretion, cannot be enforced before the courts, and never affords a
cause of action; wherefore, if the king satisfies your demand, he will
do so purely as a matter of generosity and good faith."
"That is as I understand it, monseigneur," said Benvenuto, "and I simply
have to request you when the occasion arises to fulfil the duty his
Majesty intrusted to you, leaving the rest to his good will."
"Very well," said Poyet, "I am at your service, my dear monsieur, to
that extent."