at ease, but his blood was still boiling, and his hands were trembling
with fever. His thoughts, excited by the annoyance and irritation and
insults to which he had been subjected, burst forth at last in full
freedom, after their long restraint. Space and time no longer existed
for the mind which they overflowed, and as Benvenuto strode along toward
his home he saw in a sort of luminous dream Del Moro's house, Stefana,
the Castle of San Angelo, and Colombe's garden. At the same time, he
felt that his strength became more than human, and he seemed to be
living in another world.
He was still laboring under this intense exaltation of feeling when he
entered the Hôtel de Nesle. All the apprentices were awaiting his
return, in accordance with his commands.
"How for the casting of the Jupiter, my children!" he cried from the
doorway, and darted into the studio.
"Good morning, master," said Jacques Aubry, who had come in behind
Cellini, singing joyously as his wont was. "You neither saw nor heard
me, did you? For five minutes I have been following you along the quay,
calling you; you walked so fast that I am quite out of breath. In God's
name, what's the matter with you all? You are as sober as judges."
"To the casting!" continued Benvenuto, without answering Aubry, although
he had seen him out of the corner of his eye, and listened to him with
one ear. "To the casting! Everything depends upon that. Merciful God,
shall we be successful? Ah! my friend," he continued, abruptly,
addressing Aubry,--"ah, my dear Jacques, what sad news awaited me on my
return, and what a cruel advantage they took of my absence!"
"What is the matter, master?" cried Aubry, really disturbed by Cellini's
excitement and the dejection of the apprentices.
"Above all things, boys, throw in plenty of dry spruce. You know that I
have been laying in a stock of it for six months. The matter, my good
Jacques, is that Ascanio is under lock and key at the Châtelet; and
that Colombe, the provost's daughter, that lovely girl whom Ascanio
loves, as you know, is in the hands of the Duchesse d'Etampes, her
enemy: they found her in the statue of Mars where I had hidden her. But
we will rescue them. Well, well, where are you going, Hermann? the
wood's in the yard, not in the cellar."
"Ascanio arrested!" cried Aubry; "Colombe carried off!"
"Yes, yes, some villanous spy must have watched them, poor children, and
surprised a secret which I had kept even from you, dear Jacques. But if
I discover the knave!--To the casting, boys, to the casting!--That isn't
all. The king refuses to see me, whom he called his friend. So much for
the friendship of men: to be sure kings are not men, but kings. The
result was that I went to the Louvre to no purpose; I could not get
speech of him. Ah! but my statue shall speak for me. Prepare the mould,
my friends, and let us not lose a moment. That woman insulting poor
Colombe! that infamous provost jeering at me! that jailer torturing
Ascanio! Oh, I have had some fearful visions to-day, dear Jacques! I
would give ten years of my life to the man who could gain admission to
the prisoner, speak to him, and learn the secret by means of which I may
subdue that arrogant duchess: for Ascanio knows a secret which possesses
that power, Jacques, and refused to divulge it to me, noble heart! But
no matter: have no fear for thy child, Stefana; I will defend him to my
latest breath, and I will save him! Yes, I will save him! Ah! where is
the vile traitor who betrayed us, that I may strangle him with my own
hands! Let me live but three days, Stefana, for it seems to me that the
fire which consumes me is burning my life away. Oh if I should die
before my Jupiter is finished! To the casting, children! to the
casting!"
At Benvenuto's first words Jacques Aubry became pale as death, for he
suspected that he was the cause of it all. As the master proceeded, his
suspicion was changed to certainty. Thereupon some plan doubtless
suggested itself to him, for he stole silently away while Cellini
hurried away to the foundry, followed by his workmen, and shouting like
a madman,--
"To the casting, children! to the casting!"
XII
OF THE DIFFICULTY WHICH AN HONEST MAN EXPERIENCES
IN PROCURING HIS OWN COMMITTAL
TO PRISON
Poor Jacques Aubry was in a frame of mind bordering on despair when he
left the Grand-Nesle; there could be no doubt that it was he who,
involuntarily to be sure, had betrayed Ascanio's secret. But who was the
man who had betrayed him? Surely not that gallant nobleman whose name he
did not know: ah, no! he was a gentleman. It must have been that knave
of a Henriot, unless it was Robin, or Chariot, or Guillaume. To tell the
truth, poor Aubry rather lost himself in his conjectures; for the fact
was that he had intrusted the secret to a dozen or more intimate
friends, among whom it was no easy matter to find the culprit. But no
matter! the first, the real traitor was himself, Jacques Aubry,--the
infamous spy so roundly denounced by Benvenuto was himself. Instead of
locking away in his heart his friend's secret which he had surprised, he
had spread it broadcast in a score of places, and had brought disaster
upon his brother Ascanio with his infernal tongue. Jacques tore his
hair; Jacques beat himself with his fists; Jacques heaped mortal insults
upon himself, and could find no invectives sufficiently bitter to
qualify his conduct as it deserved.
His remorse became so keen, and threw him into such a state of
exasperation with himself, that, for the first time in his life perhaps,
Jacques Aubry indulged in reflection. After all, when his head should be
bald, his chest black and blue, and his conscience torn to rags, Ascanio
would be no nearer freedom. At any cost, he must repair the evil he had
done, instead of wasting his time in despairing.
Honest Jacques had retained these words of Benvenuto: "I would give ten
years of my life to the man who would gain admission to the prisoner,
speak to him, and learn the secret by means of which I may subdue that
arrogant duchess." And, as we have said, he began to reflect, contrary
to his wont. The result of his reflections was that he must gain
admission to the Châtelet. Once there, he would find a way to reach
Ascanio.
But Benvenuto had sought in vain to gain admission as a visitor; and
surely Jacques Aubry could never be so audacious as to think of
attempting a thing in which the master had failed. However, although it
might be impossible to effect an entrance as a visitor, it certainly
should be much easier, at least so the student thought, to be admitted
as a prisoner. He determined, therefore, to enter the Châtelet in that
character; then, when he had seen Ascanio, and Ascanio had told him all,
so that he had no further business at the Châtelet, he would take his
leave, rich in the possession of the precious secret, and would go to
Benvenuto, not to demand the ten years of his life that he offered, but
to confess his crime, and implore forgiveness.
Delighted with the fecundity of his imagination, and proud of his
unexampled devotion, he bent his steps toward the Châtelet.
"Let us see," he ruminated, as he walked with deliberate step toward the
prison where all his hopes were centred,--"let us see, in order to avoid
any more idiotic mistakes, how matters stand,--no easy task, considering
that the whole business seems to me as tangled as Gervaise's skein when
she gives it to me to hold, and I try to kiss her. Let's begin at the
beginning. Ascanio loved Colombe, the provost's daughter: so far, so
good. As the provost proposed to marry her to Comte d'Orbec, Ascanio
carried her off: very good. Not knowing what to do with the sweet child
when he had abducted her, he hid her in the head of the statue of Mars:
best of all. Faith, it was a wonderfully ingenious hiding place, and
nothing less than a beast--but let us pass over that: I shall find
myself again later. Thereupon it would seem that the provost, acting
upon my information, got his daughter into his clutches once more, and
imprisoned Ascanio. Triple brute that I am! But here is where the skein
begins to be tangled. What interest has the Duchesse d'Etampes in all
this? She detests Colombe, whom everybody else loves. Why? Ah! I know.
I remember certain jocose remarks of the apprentices, Ascanio's
embarrassment when the duchess was mentioned,--Madame d'Etampes has her
eye on Ascanio, and naturally abominates her rival. Jacques, my friend,
you are a miserable wretch, but you are a clever dog all the same. Ah,
yes! but now how does it happen that Ascanio has in his hands the means
of ruining the duchess? Why does the king appear at intervals in the
affair, with one Stefana? Why did Benvenuto constantly invoke Jupiter,
rather a heathenish invocation for a Catholic? Deuce take me if I can
see through all that. But it isn't absolutely necessary that I should
understand. Light is to be found in Ascanio's cell; therefore the most
essential thing is to get myself cast into the cell with him. I will
manage the rest afterward."
As he thus communed with himself he reached his destination, and struck
a violent blow upon the great door of the Châtelet. The wicket opened,
and a harsh voice demanded to know his business: it was the jailer's.
"I wish for a cell in your prison," replied Aubry in a hollow voice.
"A cell!" exclaimed the astonished jailer.
"Yes, a cell: the blackest and deepest; even that will be better than I
deserve."
"Why so?"
"Because I am a great criminal."
"What crime have you committed?"
"Ah! indeed, what crime have I committed?" Jacques asked himself, for he
had not thought of preparing a crime suited to the occasion. As a
fertile, lively imagination was not his most prominent characteristic,
notwithstanding the compliments he had addressed to himself just before,
he repeated, stupidly,--
"What crime?"
"Yes, what crime?"
"Guess," said Jacques. "This fellow ought to know more about crimes than
I do," he added to himself, "so I will let him give me a list, and then
make my selection."
"Have you murdered anybody?" asked the jailer.
"Great God! what do you take me for, my friend?" cried the student,
whose conscience rose in revolt at the thought of being taken for a
murderer.
"Have you stolen anything?" continued the jailer.
"Stolen? the idea!"
"What in Heaven's name have you done then?" cried the jailer testily.
"To give yourself up as a criminal isn't all that is necessary: you
must say what crime you've committed."
"But I tell you that I'm a villain, a vile wretch, and that I deserve
the wheel or the gallows!"
"The crime? the crime?" the jailer repeated.
"The crime? Well! I have betrayed my friend."
"That's no crime," said the jailer. "Good night." And he closed the
wicket.
"That's not a crime, you say? that's not a crime? What is it then,
pray?"
And Jacques grasped the knocker with both hands, and knocked with all
his strength.
"What's the matter? what's the matter?" said a different voice from
within the Châtelet.
"It's a madman, who wants to be admitted into the prison," replied the
jailer.
"If he's a madman, his place is not at the Châtelet, but at the
asylum."
"At the asylum!" cried Aubry, scampering away as fast as his legs would
carry him, "at the asylum! Peste! that's not what I want. I want to get
into the Châtelet, not the asylum! Besides, paupers and beggars are
sent to the asylum, and not people who have twenty Paris sous in their
pocket as I have. The asylum! Why, that wretched jailer claims that to
betray one's friend is no crime! So it seems that, in order to have the
honor of being committed to prison one must have murdered or stolen. But
now I think of it,--why might I not have led some young girl astray?
There's nothing dishonorable about that. Very good, but what girl?
Gervaise?"
Despite his preoccupation, the student roared with laughter.
"But, after all," he said, "though it isn't so, it might have been.
Good! good! I have discovered my crime: I seduced Gervaise!"
On the instant he set off for the young working-girl's home, ran up the
sixty stairs which led to her lodgings, and burst into the room where
the lovely grisette in a coquettish _négligé_ was ironing her linen.
"Ah!" exclaimed Gervaise, with a fascinating little shriek; "ah!
monsieur, you frightened me!"
"Gervaise, my dear Gervaise," cried Aubry, rushing toward her with open
arms: "you must save my life, my child."
"One moment, one moment," said Gervaise, using the hot flat-iron as a
shield; "what do you want, master gadabout? for three days I haven't
seen you."
"I have done wrong, Gervaise, I am an unfortunate wretch. But a sure
proof that I love you is that I run to you in my distress. I repeat it,
Gervaise, you must save my life."
"Yes. I understand, you have been getting tipsy in some wine shop, and
have had a dispute with some one. The archers are after you to put you
in prison, and you come to poor Gervaise to give you shelter. Go to
prison, monsieur, go to prison, and leave me in peace."
"That is just what I ask and all I ask, my little Gervaise,--to go to
prison. But the villains refuse to commit me."
"O mon Dieu! Jacques," said the young woman compassionately, "have you
gone mad?"
"There you are! they say that I am mad, and propose to send me to the
asylum, while the Châtelet is where I want to go."
"You want to go to the Châtelet? What for, Aubry? The Châtelet's a
frightful prison; they say that when one gets in there, it's impossible
to say when one will come out."
"I must get in there, however, I must!" cried the student. "There is no
other way to save him."
"To save whom?"
"Ascanio."
"Ascanio? what, that handsome young fellow, your Benvenuto's pupil?"
"Himself, Gervaise. He is in the Châtelet, and he's there by my fault."
"Great God!"
"So that I must join him there," said Jacques, "and save him."
"Why is he in the Châtelet?"
"Because he loved the provost's daughter, and seduced her."
"Poor boy! Why, do they imprison men for that?"
"Yes, Gervaise. How you see it was like this: he had her in hiding. I
discovered the hiding place, and, like an idiot, like an infamous
villain, I told the whole story to everybody."
"Except me!" cried Gervaise. "That was just like you!"
"Didn't I tell it to you, Gervaise?"
"You didn't mention it. You're a great babbler with others, but not
with me. When you come here it's to kiss me, to drink, or to
sleep,--never to talk. Understand, monsieur, that a woman loves to
talk."
"Well, what are we doing at this moment, my little Gervaise?" said
Jacques. "We are talking, I should say."
"Yes, because you need me."
"It is true that you could do me a great service."
"What is it?"
"You could say that I seduced you."
"Why, of course you seduced me, you wretch."
"I!" cried Jacques in amazement. "I seduced you, Gervaise?"
"Alas! yes, that is the word: seduced, monsieur, shamelessly seduced by
your fine words, by your false promises."
"By my fine words and false promises?"
"Yes. Didn't you tell me I was the prettiest girl in the whole quarter
of Saint-Germain des Prés?"
"I tell you that now."
"Didn't you say that, if I didn't love you, you should die of love?"
"Do you think I said that? It's strange I don't remember it."
"While, on the contrary, if I did love you, you would marry me."
"Gervaise, I didn't say that. Never!"
"You did say it, monsieur."
"Never, never, never, Gervaise. My father made me take an oath like
Hannibal's to Hamilcar."
"What was that?"
"He made me swear to die a bachelor, like himself."
"Oh!" cried Gervaise, summoning tears to the assistance of her words
with a woman's marvellous power of weeping to order, "oh! you're like
all the rest. Promises cost nothing, and when the poor girl is seduced
they forget what they promised. I will take my turn at swearing now, and
swear that I will never be caught again."
"And you will do well, Gervaise," said the student.
"When one thinks," cried the grisette, "that there are laws for robbers
and cut-purses, and none for the scoundrels who ruin poor girls!"
"But there are, Gervaise."
"There are?"
"Why, of course. Didn't I tell you that they sent poor Ascanio to the
Châtelet for seducing Colombe."
"They did well, too," said Gervaise, to whom the loss of her honor had
never presented itself so forcibly until she was fully convinced that
Jacques Aubry was determined not to give her his name by way of
compensation. "Yes, they did well, and I wish you were in the Châtelet
with him!"
"Mon Dieu! that's all I ask," cried the student; "and as I told you, my
little Gervaise, I rely upon you to put me there."
"You rely upon me."
"Yes."
"Make sport of me, ingrate!"
"I'm not making sport of you, Gervaise. I say that if you had the
courage--"
"To do what?"
"Accuse me before the judge."
"Of what?"
"Of having seduced you; but you would never dare."
"What's that? I wouldn't dare," cried Gervaise in an injured tone,--"I
wouldn't dare to tell the truth!"
"Consider that you would have to make oath to it, Gervaise."
"I'll do it."
"You will make oath that I seduced you?"
"Yes, yes,--a hundred times yes!"
"Then all goes well," said the student joyfully. "I confess I was
afraid: an oath is a serious matter."
"I'll take my oath to it this instant, and send you to the Châtelet,
monsieur."
"Good!"
"And you will find your Ascanio there."
"Splendid!"
"And you will have all the time you need to do penance together."
"It's all that I ask."
"Where is the lieutenant criminal?"
"At the Palais de Justice."
"I will go there at once."
"Let us go together, Gervaise."
"Yes, together. In that way the punishment will follow at once."
"Take my arm, Gervaise."
"Come, monsieur."
They set off toward the Palais de Justice at the same gait at which they
were accustomed to repair on Sundays to the Pré-aux-Clercs or the Butte
Montmartre.
As they drew near the Temple of Themis, as Jacques Aubry poetically
called the edifice in question, Gervaise's pace slackened perceptibly.
When they reached the foot of the staircase, she had some difficulty in
ascending; and finally, at the door of the lieutenant criminal's
sanctum, her legs failed her altogether, and the student felt her whole
weight hanging upon his arm.
"Well, Gervaise," said he, "is your courage giving out?"
"No," said Gervaise, "but a lieutenant criminal is an appalling
creature."
"Pardieu! he's a man like other men!"
"True, but one must tell him things--"
"Very well; tell them."
"But I must swear."
"Then swear."
"Jacques," said Gervaise, "are you quite sure that you seduced me?"
"Am I sure of it!" said Jacques. "Pardieu! Besides, didn't you just
insist upon it yourself that I did?"
"Yes, that is true; but, strangely enough, I don't seem to see things
now in just the same light that I did a short time ago."
"Come, come," said Jacques, "you are weakening already: I knew you
would."
"Jacques, my dear," cried Gervaise, "take me back to the house."
"Gervaise, Gervaise," said the student, "this isn't what you promised
me."
"Jacques, I will never reproach you again, or say a word about it. I
loved you because you took my fancy, that's all."
"Alas!" said the student, "this is what I feared; but it's too late."
"How too late?"
"You came here to accuse me, and accuse me you must."
"Never, Jacques, never: you didn't seduce me, Jacques; I was a flirt."
"Nonsense!" cried the student.
"Besides," added Gervaise, lowering her eyes, "one can be seduced but
once."
"What do you mean?"
"The first time one loves."
"Hoity-toity! and you made me believe that you had never loved!"
"Jacques, take me back to the house."
"Oh indeed I won't!" said Jacques, exasperated by her refusal, and by
the reason she gave for it. "No! no! no!"
And he knocked at the magistrate's door.
"What are you doing?" cried Gervaise.
"You see! I am knocking."
"Come in!" cried a nasal voice.
"I will not go in," exclaimed Gervaise, doing her utmost to release her
arm from the student's. "I will not go in!"
"Come in," said the same voice a second time, a little more
emphatically.
"Jacques, I will shriek, I will call for help," said Gervaise.
"Come in, I say!" said the voice a third time, nearer at hand, and at
the same moment the door opened.
"Well! what do you want?" said a tall thin man dressed in black, the
mere sight of whom made Gervaise tremble from head to foot.
"Mademoiselle here," said Aubry, "has come to enter complaint against a
knave who has seduced her."
With that he pushed Gervaise into the black, filthy closet, which served
as an anteroom to the lieutenant criminal's office. The door closed
behind her as if by a spring.
Gervaise gave a feeble shriek, half terror, half surprise, and sat down,
or rather fell, upon a stool which stood against the wall.
Jacques Aubry, meanwhile, lest she should call him back, or run after
him, hurried away through corridors known only to law students and
advocates, until he reached the courtyard of Sainte-Chapelle; thence he
tranquilly pursued his way to Pont Saint-Michel, which it was absolutely
certain that Gervaise must cross.
Half an hour later she appeared.
"Well!" said he, running to meet her, "what happened?"
"Alas!" said Gervaise, "you made me tell a monstrous lie; but I hope God
will forgive me for it in view of my good intention."
"I'll take it upon myself," said Aubry. "Tell me what happened."
"Do you fancy that I know?" said Gervaise. "I was so ashamed that I
hardly remember what it was all about. All I know is that the lieutenant
criminal questioned me, and that I answered his questions sometimes yes,
sometimes no: but I am not sure that I answered as I should."
"Wretched girl!" cried Aubry, "I believe it will turn out that she
accused herself of seducing me."
"Oh, no! I don't think I went as far as that."
"At least they have my address, haven't they, so that they can summon
me?"
"Yes," murmured Gervaise, "I gave it to them."
"It's all right then," said Aubry, "and now let us hope that God will do
the rest."
Having escorted Gervaise to her abode and comforted her as best he could
for the false testimony she had been compelled to give, Jacques Aubry
returned home, overflowing with faith in Providence.
In fact, whether Providence took a hand in it, or chance did it all,
Jacques Aubry received the next morning a summons to appear before the
lieutenant criminal that same day.
This summons fulfilled Aubry's dearest hopes, and yet a court of justice
is so redoubtable a place that he felt a shiver run through his veins as
he read it. But we hasten to say that the certainty of seeing Ascanio
again, and the longing to save the friend upon whom he had brought
disaster, soon put an end to this demonstration of weakness on our
student's part.
The summons fixed the hour of noon, and it was only nine o'clock: so he
called upon Gervaise, whom he found no less agitated than on the
previous day.
"Well?" said she, inquiringly.
"Well!" repeated Jacques triumphantly, exhibiting the paper covered with
hieroglyphics which he held in his hand. "Here it is."
"For what hour?"
"Noon. That's all I was able to read."
"Then you don't know what you're accused of?"
"Why, of seducing you, my little Gervaise, I presume."
"You won't forget that you yourself insisted upon my doing it?"
"Why no; I am ready to give you a certificate that you utterly refused
to do it."
"Then you bear me no ill will for obeying you."
"On the contrary, I couldn't be more grateful to you."
"Whatever happens?"
"Whatever happens."
"If I did say all that, it was because I was obliged to."
"Of course."
"And if, in my confusion, I said more than I meant to say, you will
forgive me?"
"Not only will I forgive you, my dear, my divine Gervaise, but I do
forgive you now in advance."
"Ah!" said Gervaise, with a sigh; "ah! bad boy, with such words as those
you turned my head!"
From which it is easy to see that Gervaise had really been seduced.
At a quarter before twelve Jacques Aubry remembered that his summons
bade him appear at twelve. He took leave of Gervaise, and as he had a
long distance to go he ran all the way. Twelve o'clock was striking as
he knocked at the lieutenant criminal's door.
"Come in!" cried the same nasal voice.
He was not called upon to repeat the invitation, for Jacques Aubry, with
a smile on his lips, his nose in the air, and his cap over his ear, at
once stood in the tall black-coated man's presence.
"What is your name?" asked the tall man.
"Jacques Aubry," replied the student.
"What are you?"
"Law student."
"What have you been doing?"
"Seducing girls."
"Aha! you're the man against whom a complaint was lodged yesterday
by--by--"