in which sadness and artistic gratification were mingled.
"Messire Antoine Le Maçon," he said to the king's secretary, who stood
beside him, "I ought to and will send my Jupiter back instantly; the
disciple will not attempt to contend with the masters; the child will
not attempt to contend with his parents; my pride and my modesty alike
forbid!"
"Benvenuto," replied the secretary, "take the advice of a sincere
friend,--if you do that, you are lost. I tell you this between
ourselves, that your enemies hope to discourage you, and then to allege
your discouragement as a proof of your lack of skill. It will be useless
for me to make excuses for you to the king. His Majesty, who is
impatient to see your work, would refuse to listen, and, with Madame
d'Etampes continually urging him to do it, would withdraw his favor from
you forever. She anticipates that result, and I fear it. It's with the
living, not with the dead, Benvenuto, that you have to contend."
"You are right, messire," the goldsmith rejoined, "and I understand you
perfectly. Thank you for reminding me that I have no right to have any
self-esteem here."
"That's all right, Benvenuto. But let me give you one more bit of
advice. Madame d'Etampes is too fascinating to-day not to have some
perfidious scheme in her head: she took the king and the Emperor off for
a ride in the forest with irresistible playfulness and charm; I am
afraid for your sake that she will find a way to keep them there until
dark."
"Do you think it?" cried Benvenuto, turning pale. "Why, if she succeeds
in doing that, I am lost; for my statue would then have to be exhibited
by artificial light, which would deprive it of half its merit."
"Let us hope that I am mistaken," said Le Maçon, "and see what comes to
pass."
Cellini waited in painful suspense. He placed his Jupiter in as
favorable a light as possible, but he did not conceal from himself the
fact that its effect would be comparatively slight by twilight, and that
after nightfall it would be positively bad. The duchess's hatred had
reckoned no less accurately than the artist's skill; she anticipated in
1541 a trick of the critics of the nineteenth century.
Benvenuto watched the sun sink toward the horizon with despair at his
heart, and listened eagerly to every sound without the château. Except
for the servants the vast structure was deserted.
Three o'clock struck; thenceforth the purpose of Madame d'Etampes could
not be mistaken, and her success was beyond question. Benvenuto fell
upon a chair, utterly crushed. All was lost: his renown first of all.
That feverish struggle, in which he had been so near succumbing, and
which he had already forgotten because he had thought that it made his
triumph sure, would have no other result than to put him to shame. He
gazed sorrowfully at his statue, around which the shadows of night were
already beginning to fall, and whose lines began to appear less pure.
Suddenly an inspiration came to him; he sprang to his feet, called
little Jehan, whom he had brought with him, and rushed hastily from the
gallery. Nothing had yet occurred to suggest the king's return.
Benvenuto hurried to a cabinet-maker in the town, and with his
assistance and that of his workmen made, in less than an hour, a stand
of light-colored oak, with four rollers, which turned in every
direction, like casters.
He trembled now lest the king should return too soon: but at five
o'clock the work was completed, night had fallen, and the crowned heads
had not returned to the château. Madame d'Etampes, wherever she was,
was in a fair way to triumph.
In a very short time Benvenuto had the statue in place upon the almost
invisible stand. Jupiter held in his left hand the sphere representing
the world, and in his right, a little above his head, the thunderbolt,
which he seemed to be on the point of launching into space: amid the
tongues of the thunderbolt the goldsmith concealed a lamp.
These preparations were hardly completed when a flourish of trumpets
announced the return of the king and the Emperor. Benvenuto lighted the
lamp, stationed little Jehan behind the statue, by which he was entirely
concealed, and awaited the king's coming, not without trepidation,
evidenced by the violent beating of his heart.
Ten minutes later the folding doors were thrown wide open, and François
I. appeared, leading Charles V. by the hand.
The Dauphin, Dauphine, the King of Navarre, and the whole court followed
the two monarchs; the provost, his daughter, and D'Orbec were among the
last. Colombe was pale and dejected, but as soon as she espied Cellini,
she raised her head, and a smile of sublime confidence appeared upon her
lips and lighted up her face.
Cellini met her glance with one which seemed to say, "Have no fear;
whatever happens, do not despair, for I am watching over you."
As the door opened, little Jehan, at a signal from his master, gave the
statue a slight push, so that it moved softly forward upon its smoothly
rolling stand, and, leaving the antique statues behind, went to meet the
king, so to speak, as if it were alive. Every eye was at once turned in
its direction. The soft light of the lamp falling from above produced an
effect much more agreeable than daylight.
Madame d'Etampes bit her lips.
"Methinks, Sire," said she, "that the flattery is a little overdone, and
that it was for the king of earth to go to meet the king of heaven."
The king smiled, but it was easy to see that the flattery did not offend
him; as his wont was, he forgot the artist for his art, saved the statue
half the journey by walking to meet it, and examined it for a long time
in silence. Charles V., who was by nature an astute politician rather
than a great artist, although he did one day, in a moment of good humor,
pick up Titian's pencil,--Charles V. and the courtiers, who were not
entitled to an opinion, waited respectfully to hear that of François
before pronouncing their own.
There was a moment of silent suspense, during which Benvenuto and the
duchess exchanged a glance of bitter hatred.
Suddenly the king cried,--
"It is beautiful! it is very beautiful! and I confess that my
expectations are surpassed."
Thereupon every one overflowed in compliments and extravagant praise,
the Emperor first of all.
"If one could conquer artists like cities," said he to the king, "I
would declare war on you instantly, to win this one, my cousin."
"But, after all," interrupted Madame d'Etampes, in a rage, "we do not
even look at the beautiful antique statues a little farther on, which
have somewhat more merit, perhaps, than our modern gewgaws."
The king thereupon walked toward the antique statues, which were lighted
from below by the torches, so that the upper portions were in shadow;
they were beyond question much less effective than the Jupiter.
"Phidias is sublime," said the king, "but there may be a Phidias in the
age of François I. and Charles V., as there was in the age of
Pericles."
"Oh, we must see it by daylight," said Anne, bitterly; "to appear to be
is not to be: an artificial light is not art. And what is that veil? is
it to conceal some defect, Master Cellini, tell us frankly?"
She referred to a very light drapery thrown over the statue to give it
more majesty.
Thus far Benvenuto had remained beside his statue, silent, and
apparently as cold as it; but at the duchess's words, he smiled
disdainfully, shot lightning from his black eyes, and, with the sublime
audacity of a heathen artist, snatched the veil away with his powerful
hand.
He expected that the duchess would burst forth with renewed fury.
But by an incredible exertion of her will power, she smiled with ominous
affability, and graciously held out her hand to Cellini, who was amazed
beyond measure by this sudden change of tactics.
"I was wrong," she said aloud, in the tone of a spoiled child; "you are
a great sculptor, Cellini; forgive my critical remarks; give me your
hand, and let us be friends henceforth. What say you?"
She added in an undertone, with extreme volubility: "Think well of what
you are about to ask, Cellini. Let it not be the marriage of Colombe and
Ascanio, or I swear that Colombe, Ascanio, and yourself, all three, are
undone forever!"
"And suppose I request something else, madame," said Benvenuto, in the
same tone; "will you second my request?"
"Yes," said she, eagerly; "and I swear that, whatever it may be, the
king will grant it."
"I have no need to request the king's sanction to the marriage of
Colombe and Ascanio, for you will request it yourself, madame."
The duchess smiled disdainfully.
"What are you whispering there?" said François.
"Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes," Benvenuto replied, "was obliging enough
to remind me that your Majesty had promised to grant me a boon in case
you were content with my work."
"And the promise was made in my presence, Sire," said the constable,
coming forward; "in my presence and Chancelier Poyet's. Indeed, you bade
my colleague and myself remind you--"
"True, constable," interposed the king, good-humoredly; "true, if I
failed to remember myself; but I remember famously, on my word! So your
intervention, while it is perfectly agreeable to me, is quite useless.
I promised Benvenuto to grant whatever boon he might ask when his
Jupiter was cast. Was not that it, constable? Have I a good memory,
chancellor? It is for you to speak, Master Cellini: I am at your
service; but I beg you to think less of your own merit, which is
immense, than of our power, which is limited; we make no reservations,
saving our crown and our mistress."
"Very good, Sire," said Cellini, "since your Majesty is so well disposed
toward your unworthy servitor, I will ask for the pardon of a poor
student, who fell into a dispute upon the Quai du Châtelet with the
Vicomte de Marmagne, and in self-defence passed his sword through the
viscount's body."
Every one marvelled at the moderation of his request, and Madame
d'Etampes most of all; she gazed at Benvenuto with an air of
stupefaction, and as if she thought that she could not have heard
aright.
"By Mahomet's belly!" exclaimed François, "you do well to invoke my
right of pardon in that matter, for I heard the chancellor himself say
yesterday that it was a hanging affair."
"Oh, Sire!" cried the duchess, "I intended to speak to you myself
concerning that young man. I have had news of Marmagne, who is
improving, and who sent word to me that he sought the quarrel, and the
student--What is the student's name, Master Benvenuto?"
"Jacques Aubry, Madame la Duchesse."
"And the student," continued Madame d'Etampes, hurriedly, "was in no
wise in the wrong; and so, Sire, instead of rebuking Benvenuto, or
cavilling at him, grant his request promptly, lest he repent of having
been of modest."
"Very well," said François; "what you desire shall be done, master; and
as he gives twice who gives quickly,--so says the proverb,--let the
order to set this young man at liberty be despatched to-night. Do you
hear, my dear chancellor?"
"Yes, Sire; and your Majesty shall be obeyed."
"As to yourself, Master Benvenuto," said François, "come to me on
Monday at the Louvre, and we will adjust certain matters of detail in
which you are interested, and which have been somewhat neglected of late
by my treasurer."
"But your Majesty knows that admission to the Louvre--"
"Very good! very good! the person who gave the order can rescind it. It
was a war measure, and as you now have none but friends at court,
everything will be re-established upon a peace footing."
"As your Majesty is in a granting mood," said the duchess, "I pray you
to grant a trifling request which I prefer, although I did not make the
Jupiter."
"No," said Benvenuto in an undertone, "but you have often acted the part
of Danaë."
"What is your request?" said François, who did not hear Benvenuto's
epigram. "Say on, Madame la Duchesse, and be sure that the solemnity of
the occasion can add nothing to my desire to be agreeable to you."
"Very well, Sire; your Majesty might well confer upon Messire
d'Estourville the great honor of signing on Monday next the marriage
contract of my young friend, Mademoiselle d'Estourville, with Comte
d'Orbec."
"Why, I should be conferring no favor upon you by so doing," rejoined
the king, "but I should afford myself a very great pleasure, and should
still remain your debtor, I swear."
"So it is agreed, Sire, for Monday?" asked the duchess.
"For Monday," said the king.
"Madame la Duchesse," said Benvenuto, under his breath, "do you not
regret that the beautiful lily you ordered Ascanio to execute is not
finished, that you might wear it upon such an occasion?"
"Of course I regret it," was the reply; "but it's impossible, for
Ascanio is in prison."
"Very true, but I am free; I will finish it and bring it to Madame la
Duchesse."
"Oh! upon my honor! if you do that I will say--"
"You will say what, madame?"
"I will say that you are a delightful man."
She gave her hand to Benvenuto, who gallantly imprinted a kiss upon it,
after asking the king's permission with a glance.
At that moment a slight shriek was heard.
"What is that?" the king asked.
"Sire, I ask your Majesty's pardon," said the provost, "but my daughter
is ill."
"Poor child!" murmured Benvenuto; "she thinks that I have abandoned
her."
XX
A PRUDENT MARRIAGE
Benvenuto would have returned to Paris the same evening, but the king
was so persistent that he could not avoid remaining at the château
until the following morning.
With the rapidity of conception and promptness of decision which were
characteristic of him, he determined to arrange for the next day the
_dénouement_ of a transaction which he began long before. It was a
collateral matter which he wished to have off his hands altogether
before devoting himself entirely to Ascanio and Colombe.
He remained at the château to supper on that evening and until after
breakfast on the Friday, and not until noon did he set out on his return
journey, accompanied by little Jehan, after taking leave of the king and
Madame d'Etampes.
Both were well mounted, and yet, contrary to his wont, Cellini did not
urge his horse. It was evident that he did not wish to enter Paris
before a certain hour, and it was seven o'clock in the evening when he
alighted at Rue de la Harpe.
Furthermore, instead of betaking himself at once to the Hôtel de Nesle,
he called upon one of his friends named Guido, a physician from
Florence; and when he had made sure that his friend was at home, and
could conveniently entertain him at supper, he ordered little Jehan to
return alone, to say that he had remained at Fontainebleau and would not
return until the next day, and to be ready to open the door when he
should knock. Little Jehan at once set out for the Hôtel de Nesle,
promising to abide by his instructions.
The supper was served,--but before they took their places at the table
Cellini asked his host if he did not know some honest and skilful notary
whom he could send for to prepare a contract that could not be assailed.
He recommended his son-in-law, who was immediately summoned.
He arrived as they were finishing their supper, some half-hour later.
Benvenuto at once left the table, closeted himself with him, and bade
him draw up a marriage contract leaving the names in blank. When they
had read and re-read the contract, as drawn up, to make sure that there
was no flaw in it, Benvenuto paid him handsomely, put the contract in
his pocket, borrowed from his friend a second sword of just the length
of his own, put it under his cloak, and, as it had become quite dark,
started for the Hôtel de Nesle.
When he reached his destination, he knocked once; but though he knocked
very gently, the door immediately opened. Little Jehan was at his post.
Cellini questioned him: the workmen were at supper and did not expect
him until the morrow. He bade the child maintain the most absolute
silence as to his arrival, then crept up to Catherine's room, to which
he had retained a key, entered softly, closed the door, concealed
himself behind the hangings, and waited.
After a short time, he heard a light footstep on the staircase. The door
opened a second time, and Scozzone entered, lamp in hand; she took the
key from the outside, locked the door, placed the lamp on the
chimneypiece, and sat down in a large arm-chair, so placed that
Benvenuto could see her face.
To his vast astonishment, that face, formerly so open and joyous and
animated, was sad and thoughtful. The fact was that poor Scozzone was in
the throes of something very like remorse.
We have seen her when she was happy and thoughtless: then Benvenuto
loved her. So long as she was conscious of that love, or rather of that
kindly feeling in her lover's heart, so long as the hope of becoming the
sculptor's wife some day was present like a golden cloud in all her
dreams, so long she maintained herself at the level of her
anticipations, and made atonement for her past by her love. But as soon
as she discovered that she had been deceived by appearances, and that
what she had mistaken for passion on Cellini's part was at most a mere
whim, she descended the ladder of hope round by round. Benvenuto's
smile, which had made that faded heart blossom anew, was taken from her,
and the heart lost its freshness once more.
With her childish light-heartedness her childish purity had gradually
vanished; her old nature, powerfully assisted by ennui, gently recovered
the upper hand. A newly painted wall keeps its colors in the sun and
loses them in the rain: Scozzone, abandoned by Cellini for some unknown
mistress, was no longer held to him save by a remnant of her pride.
Pagolo had long paid court to her: she spoke to Cellini of his love,
thinking that his jealousy would be aroused. Her expectation was not
realized: Cellini, instead of losing his temper, began to laugh, and,
instead of forbidding her to see Pagolo, actually ordered her to receive
him. Thereafter she felt that she was entirely lost; thereafter she
abandoned her life to chance with her former indifference, and let it
blow about in the wind of circumstances like a poor, fallen withered
leaf.
Then it was that Pagolo triumphed over her indifference. After all was
said, Pagolo was young; Pagolo, aside from his hypocritical expression,
was a handsome youth; Pagolo was in love, and was forever repeating to
her that he loved her, while Benvenuto had long since ceased to tell her
so. The words, "I love you," are the language of the heart, and the
heart always feels the need of speaking that language more or less
ardently with some one.
Thus, in a moment of idleness, of anger, perhaps of illusion, Scozzone
had told Pagolo that she loved him; she had told him so without really
loving him; she had told him so with Cellini's image in her heart and
his name upon her lips.
Then it immediately occurred to her that the day might come when
Cellini, weary of his mysterious, unavailing passion, would return to
her, and, if he found her constant, notwithstanding his express orders,
would reward her devotion, not by marriage, for the poor girl had lost
her last illusion in that regard, but by some remnant of esteem and
compassion which she might take for a resurrection of his former love.
It was such thoughts as these which made Scozzone sad and thoughtful,
and caused her to feel remorse.
In the midst of her silent reverie, she started and raised her head. She
heard a light step on the stairway, and the next moment a key was
rapidly turned in the lock, and the door opened.
"How did you come in? Who gave you that key, Pagolo?" she cried, rising
from her chair. "There are only two keys to that door,--one is in my
possession and the other in Cellini's."
"Ah! my dear Catherine," laughed Pagolo, "you're a capricious creature:
sometimes you open your door to a fellow, and again you keep it closed;
and when one attempts to enter by force, even though you have given him
a right to do it, you threaten to call for help. So you see I had to
resort to stratagem."
"Oh yes! tell me that you stole the key from Cellini, without his
knowledge; tell me that he doesn't know you have it, for if he gave it
to you I should die of shame and chagrin."
"Set your mind at rest, my lovely Catherine," said Pagolo, locking the
door, and sitting down near the girl, whom he forced to a seat beside
him. "No, Benvenuto doesn't love you, it is true: but he's like those
misers who have a treasure of which they make no use themselves, but
which they won't allow anybody else to touch. No, I made the key myself.
He who can do great things can do small things. Tell me if I love you,
Catherine, when my hands, which are accustomed to making pearls and
diamonds bloom on golden stalks, consented to shape an ignoble piece of
iron. It is true, wicked one, that the ignoble piece of iron was a key,
and that the key unlocked the door of paradise."
With that, Pagolo would have taken Catherine's hand, but, to the vast
amazement of Cellini, who did not lose a word or a gesture of this
scene, Catherine repulsed him.
"Well, well," said Pagolo, "is this whim likely to last long, pray?"
"Look you, Pagolo," said Catherine, in a melancholy tone, which went to
Cellini's heart; "I know that when a woman has once yielded she has no
right to draw back afterward; but if the man for whom she has been so
weak has a generous heart,--when she says to him that she was acting in
good faith at the time, because she had lost her reason, but that she
was mistaken,--it is that man's duty, believe me, not to take an unfair
advantage of her momentary error. Well, Pagolo, I tell you this: I
yielded to you, and yet I did not love you; I loved another, and that
other Cellini. Despise me you may,--indeed you ought,--but torment me no
more, Pagolo."
"Good!" exclaimed Pagolo, "good! you arrange the matter marvellously
well, upon my word! After the time you compelled me to wait for the
favor with which you now reproach me, you think that I will release you
from a definite engagement which you entered into of your own free will?
No, no! And when I think that you are doing all this for Benvenuto, for
a man who is twice your age or mine, for a man who doesn't love you,
for a man who despises you, for a man who treats you as a courtesan!"
"Stop, Pagolo, stop!" cried Scozzone, blushing with shame and jealousy
and rage. "Benvenuto doesn't love me any more, that is true; but he did
love me once, and he esteems me still."
"Very good! Why doesn't he marry you, as he promised to do?"
"Promised? Never. No, Benvenuto never promised to make me his wife; for
if he had promised, he would have done it. I aspired to mount so high as
that: the aspiration led me to hope that it might be so; and when the
hope had once taken shape in my heart, I could not confine it there, it
overflowed, and I boasted of a mere hope as if it were a reality. No,
Pagolo, no," continued Catherine, letting her hand fall into the
apprentice's with a sad smile,--"no, Benvenuto never promised me aught."
"Then, see how ungrateful you are, Scozzone!" cried Pagolo, seizing her
hand, and mistaking what was simply a mark of dejection for a return to
him; "you repulse me, who have promised you and offered you all that
Benvenuto, by your own admission, never promised or offered you, while I
am convinced that if he were standing there--he who betrayed you--you
would freely make to him the confession you so bitterly regret having
made to me, who love you so dearly."
"Oh if he were here!" cried Scozzone, "if he were here, Pagolo, you
would remember that you betrayed him through hatred, while I betrayed
him because I loved him, and you would sink into the ground!"
"Why so?" demanded Pagolo, bold as a lion because he believed Benvenuto
to be far away; "why so, if you please? Hasn't every man the right to
win a woman's love when that woman doesn't belong to another? If he were
here, I would say to him: 'You abandoned Catherine,--poor Catherine, who
loved you so well. She was in despair at first, until she fell in with a
kind-hearted, worthy fellow, who appreciated her at her true worth, who
loved her, and who promised her what you would never promise her,--to
make her his wife. He has inherited your rights, and that woman belongs
to him.' Tell me, Catherine, what reply your Cellini could make to
that?"
"None at all," said a stern, manly voice behind the enthusiastic
Pagolo,--"absolutely none at all."