eloquence in the bud, and threw him to the floor, as pale and terrified
as he had been boastful and rash a moment before.
It was a strange picture: Pagolo on his knees, bent double, with
colorless cheeks, and deadly terror depicted on his features; Scozzone,
half risen from her chair, motionless and dumfounded, like a statue of
Astonishment; and lastly, Benvenuto standing with folded arms, a sword
in its sheath in one hand, a naked sword in the other, with an
expression in which irony and menace struggled for the mastery.
There was a moment of awful silence, Pagolo and Scozzone being equally
abashed beneath the master's frown.
"Treachery!" muttered Pagolo, "treachery!"
"Yes, treachery on your part, wretch!" retorted Cellini.
"You asked to see him, Pagolo," said Scozzone; "here he is."
"Yes, here he is," said the apprentice, ashamed to be thus treated
before the woman he was so anxious to please; "but he is armed, and I
have no weapon."
"I have brought you one," said Cellini, stepping back, and throwing down
the sword he held in his left hand at Pagolo's feet.
Pagolo looked at the sword, but made no movement.
"Come," said Cellini, "pick up the sword and stand up yourself. I am
waiting."
"A duel?" muttered the apprentice, whose teeth were chattering with
terror; "am I able to fight a duel on equal terms with you?"
"Very well," said Cellini, passing his weapon from one hand to the
other, "I will fight with my left hand, and that will make us equal."
"I fight with you, my benefactor?--you, to whom I owe everything? Never!
never!"
A smile of profound contempt overspread Benvenuto's face, while Scozzone
recoiled without seeking to conceal the disgust which showed itself in
her expression.
"You should have remembered my benefactions before stealing from me the
woman I intrusted to your honor and Ascanio's," said Benvenuto. "Your
memory has come back to you too late. On guard, Pagolo! on guard!"
"No! no!" murmured the coward, falling back upon his knees.
"As you refuse to fight like an honest man," said Benvenuto, "I propose
to punish you as a scoundrel."
He replaced his sword in its sheath, drew his dagger, and walked slowly
toward the apprentice without the slightest indication either of anger
or compassion upon his impassive features.
Scozzone rushed between them with a shriek; but Benvenuto, without
violence, with a motion of his arm as irresistible as that of a bronze
statue endowed with life, put her aside, and the poor girl fell back
half dead upon her chair. Benvenuto walked on toward Pagolo, who receded
as far as the wall. There the master overtook him, and said, putting his
dagger to his throat,--
"Commend your soul to God: you have five minutes to live."
"Mercy!" cried Pagolo in an inarticulate voice; "do not kill me! mercy!
mercy!"
"What!" said Cellini, "you know me, and, knowing me, seduced the woman
who belonged to me. I know all, I have discovered everything, and you
hope that I will spare you! You are laughing at me, Pagolo, you are
laughing at me."
Benvenuto himself laughed aloud as he spoke; but it was a strident,
terrible laugh, which made the apprentice shudder to his marrow.
"Master! master!" cried Pagolo, as he felt the point of the dagger
pricking his throat; "it was she, not I: yes, she led me into it."
"Treachery, cowardice, and slander! I will make a group of those three
monsters some day," said Benvenuto, "and it will be a hideous thing to
see. She led you into it, you reptile! Do you forget that I was here and
heard all that you said?"
"O Benvenuto," murmured Catherine, "you know that he lies when he says
that, do you not?"
"Yes, yes," said Benvenuto, "I know that he lies when he says that, as
he lied when he said that he was ready to marry you; but never fear, he
shall be punished for the double lie."
"Yes, punish me," cried Pagolo, "but be merciful: punish me, but do not
kill me."
"You lied when you said that she led you into it?"
"Yes, I lied; yes, I am the guilty one. I loved her madly; and you know,
master, what love will lead a man to do."
"You lied when you said that you were ready to marry her?"
"No, no, master; then I didn't lie."
"So you really love Scozzone?"
"Oh, yes, indeed I love her!" replied Pagolo, realizing that the only
way of lessening his guilt in Cellini's eyes was to attribute his crime
to the violence of his passion; "yes, I love her."
"And you say again that you were not lying when you proposed to marry
her?"
"I was not lying, master."
"You would have made her your wife?"
"If she had not belonged to you, yes."
"Very well, then, take her: I give her to you."
"What do you say? You are joking, are you not?"
"No, I never spoke more seriously: look at me if you doubt it."
Pagolo glanced furtively at Cellini, and saw plainly in his face that
the judge might at any moment give place to the executioner; he bowed
his head, therefore, with a groan.
"Take that ring from your finger, Pagolo, and put it on Catherine's."
Pagolo passively obeyed the first portion of the order, and Benvenuto
motioned to Scozzone to draw near. She obeyed.
"Put out your hand, Scozzone," continued Benvenuto.
Again she obeyed.
"Now do the rest."
Pagolo placed the ring upon Scozzone's finger.
"Now," said Benvenuto, "that the betrothal is duly accomplished, we will
pass to the marriage."
"Marriage!" muttered Pagolo; "we can't be married in this way; we must
have notaries and a priest."
"We must have a contract," rejoined Benvenuto, producing the one
prepared under his orders. "Here is one all ready, in which the names
only need to be inserted."
He placed the contract upon a table, took up a pen and handed it to
Pagolo.
"Sign, Pagolo," said he, "sign."
"Ah! I have fallen into a trap," muttered the apprentice.
"Eh? what's that?" exclaimed Benvenuto, without raising his voice, but
imparting to it an ominous accent. "A trap? Where is the trap in this?
Did I urge you to come to Scozzone's room? Did I advise you to tell her
that you wished to make her your wife? Very good! make her your wife,
Pagolo, and when you are her husband our _rôles_ will be changed; if I
come to her room, it will be your turn to threaten, and mine to be
afraid."
"Oh, that would be too absurd!" cried Catherine, passing from extreme
terror to hysterical gayety, and laughing aloud at the idea which the
master's words evoked.
Somewhat reassured by the turn Cellini's threats had taken, and by
Catherine's peals of laughter, Pagolo began to look at matters a little
more reasonably. It became plain to him that Cellini wished to frighten
him into a marriage for which he felt but little inclination: he
considered, therefore, that would be rather too tragic a
termination of the comedy, and that he might perhaps, with a little
resolution, make a better bargain.
"Yes," he muttered, translating Scozzone's gayety into words, "yes, it
would be very amusing, I agree, but unfortunately it cannot be."
"What! it cannot be!" cried Benvenuto, as amazed as a lion might be to
find a fox demurring to his will.
"No, it cannot be," Pagolo repeated; "I prefer to die: kill me!"
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Cellini was upon him. Pagolo
saw the dagger gleaming in the air, and threw himself to one side, so
swiftly and successfully that the blow which was intended for him simply
grazed his shoulder, and the blade, impelled by the goldsmith's powerful
hand, penetrated the wainscoting to the depth of several inches.
"I consent," cried Pagolo. "Mercy! Cellini, I consent; I am ready to do
anything." And while the master was withdrawing the dagger, which had
come in contact with the wall behind the wainscoting, he ran to the
table where the contract lay, seized the pen, and wrote his name. The
whole affair had taken place so rapidly that Scozzone had no time to
take part in it.
"Thanks, Pagolo," said she, wiping away the tears which terror had
brought to her eyes, and at the same time repressing an inclination to
smile; "thanks, dear Pagolo, for the honor you consent to confer upon
me; but it's better that we should understand each other thoroughly now,
so listen to me. Just now you would have none of me, and now I will have
none of you. I don't say this to mortify you, Pagolo, but I do not love
you, and I desire to remain as I am."
"In that case," said Benvenuto, with the utmost coolness, "if you won't
have him, Scozzone, he must die."
"Why," cried Catherine, "it is I who refuse him."
"He must die," rejoined Benvenuto; "it shall not be said that a man
insulted me, and went unpunished. Are you ready, Pagolo?"
"Catherine," cried the apprentice, "Catherine, in Heaven's name take
pity on me! Catherine, I love you! Catherine, I will love you always!
Sign, Catherine! Catherine be my wife, I beg you on my knees!"
"Come, Scozzone, decide quickly," said Cellini.
"Oh!" said Catherine, pouting, "tell me, master, don't you think you are
rather hard on me, who have loved you so dearly, and who have dreamed of
something so different? But," cried the fickle child, passing suddenly
from melancholy to merriment once more, "Mon Dieu! Cellini, see what a
piteous face poor Pagolo is making! Oh, for Heaven's sake, put aside
that lugubrious expression, Pagolo, or I will never consent to take you
for my husband! Really, you are too absurd!"
"Save me first, Catherine," said Pagolo; "then we will laugh, if you
choose."
"Oh well! my poor boy, if you really and truly wish it--"
"Yes, indeed I do!"
"You know what I have been, you know what I am?"
"Yes, I know."
"You are not deceived in me?"
"No."
"You will not regret it?"
"No! no!"
"Then give me your hand. It's very ridiculous, and I hardly expected it;
but, no matter, I am your wife."
She took the pen and signed, as a dutiful wife should do, below her
husband's signature.
"Thanks, Catherine, thanks!" cried Pagolo; "you will see how happy I
will make you."
"If he is false to that promise," said Benvenuto, "write to me,
Scozzone, and wherever I may be I will come in person to remind him of
it."
As he spoke, Cellini slowly pushed his dagger back into its sheath,
keeping his eyes fixed upon the apprentice; then he took the contract,
folded it neatly, and put it in his pocket, and said to Pagolo, with the
withering sarcasm which was characteristic of him:--
"Now, friend Pagolo, although you and Scozzone are duly married
according to the laws of men, you are not in God's sight, and the Church
will not sanctify your union until to-morrow. Until then your presence
here would be in contravention of all laws, divine and human. Good
night, Pagolo."
Pagolo turned pale as death; but as Benvenuto pointed imperatively to
the door, he backed out of the room.
"No one but you, Cellini, would ever have had such an idea as that,"
said Catherine, laughing as if she would die. "Hark ye, my poor Pagolo,"
she said, as he opened the door, "I let you go because the law requires
it; but never fear, Pagolo, I swear by the Blessed Virgin, that when you
are my husband no man, not even Benvenuto himself, will find me anything
but a virtuous wife.
"O Cellini!" she added, gayly, when the door was closed, "you give me a
husband, but relieve me of his presence for to-day. It is so much time
gained: you owed me this reparation."
XXI
RESUMPTION OF HOSTILITIES
Three days after the scene we have described, a scene of quite another
sort was in preparation at the Louvre.
Monday, the day appointed for signing the contract, had arrived. It was
eleven o'clock in the morning when Benvenuto left the Hôtel de Nesle,
went straight to the Louvre, and with anxious heart but firm step
ascended the grand staircase.
In the reception-room, into which he was first ushered, he found the
provost and D'Orbec, who were conferring with a notary in the corner.
Colombe, pale and motionless as a statue, was seated on the other side
of the room, staring into vacancy. They had evidently moved away from
her so that she could not hear, and the poor child had remained where
they placed her.
Cellini passed in front of her, and let these words fall upon her bowed
head:--
"Have courage: I am here."
Colombe recognized his voice, and raised her head with a cry of joy; but
before she had time to question her protector, he had already entered
the adjoining room.
An usher drew aside a tapestry portière, and the goldsmith passed into
the king's cabinet.
Nothing less than these words of cheer would have availed to revive
Colombo's courage: the poor child believed that she was abandoned, and
consequently lost. Messire d'Estourville had dragged her thither, half
dead, despite her faith in God and in Benvenuto. As they were setting
out, she was conscious of such a feeling of despair at her heart, that
she implored Madame d'Etampes to allow her to enter a convent, promising
to renounce Ascanio provided that she might be spared Comte d'Orbec. But
the duchess wanted no half victory; in order that her purpose might be
attained, it was essential that Ascanio should believe in the treachery
of his beloved, and so she sternly refused to listen to poor Colombe's
prayers. Thereupon, Colombe summoned all her courage, remembering that
Benvenuto bade her be strong and brave, even at the altar's foot, and
with occasional sinkings of the heart allowed herself to be taken to the
Louvre, where the king was to sign the contract at noon.
There again her strength failed her for a moment; for but three chances
now remained, to touch the king's heart with her prayers, to see
Benvenuto arrive, or to die of grief.
Benvenuto had come; Benvenuto had told her to hope, and Colombe's
courage revived once more.
On entering the king's cabinet, Cellini found Madame d'Etampes alone: it
was all that he desired; he would have solicited the honor of seeing her
had she not been there.
The duchess was thoughtful in her hour of triumph, and yet, with the
fatal letter burned--burned by herself--she was fully convinced that she
had nothing to fear. But although she was reassured as to her power, she
contemplated with dismay the perils that threatened her love. It was
always thus with the duchess: when the anxiety attendant upon her
ambition was at rest, the ardent passions of her heart devoured her. Her
dream, in which pride and passion were mingled, was to make Ascanio
great while making him happy. But she knew now that Ascanio, although of
noble origin, (for the Gaddis, to which family he belonged, were
patricians of long standing at Florence,) aspired to no other glory than
that of being a great artist.
If his hopes were ever fixed upon anything, it was some beautifully
shaped vase, or ewer, or statue; if he ever longed for diamonds or
pearls, it was so that he might make of them, by setting them in chased
gold, lovelier flowers than those which heaven waters with its dew.
Titles and honors were nothing to him if they did not flow from his own
talent, and were not the guerdon of his personal renown; what part could
such a useless dreamer play in the active, agitated life of the duchess?
In the first storm the delicate plant would be destroyed, with the
flowers which it already bore and the fruit of which it gave promise. It
might be that he would allow himself to be drawn into the schemes of his
royal mistress through discouragement or through indifference; but in
that case, a pale and melancholy shadow, he would live only in his
memories of the past. Ascanio, in fine, appeared to the Duchesse
d'Etampes, as he really was, an exquisite, fascinating personality, so
long as he remained in a pure, untroubled atmosphere; he was an adorable
child, who would never become a man. He could devote himself to
sentiments, but never to ideas; born to enjoy the outpourings of a
mutual affection, he would inevitably go down in the first terrific
onset of the struggle for supremacy and power. He was the man needed to
satisfy Madame d'Etampes's passion, but not to keep pace with her in her
ambitious schemes.
Such was the tenor of her reflections when Benvenuto entered: the clouds
of her thought hovering about her darkened her brow.
The two adversaries eyed each other narrowly: the same satirical smile
appeared upon their lips at the same time; the glances they exchanged
were twin brothers, and indicated that they were equally prepared for
the struggle, and that 'the struggle would be a desperate one.
"Well and good! he is a rough fighter," thought Anne, "whom it will be a
pleasure to overcome, a foeman worthy of my steel. But to-day there are,
in truth, too many chances against him, and there will be no great glory
in overthrowing him."
"Beyond question, Madame d'Etampes," said Benvenuto to himself, "you are
a masterful woman, and more than one contest with a strong man has given
me less trouble than this I have entered upon with you. You may be sure,
therefore, that, while fighting courteously, I shall none the less fight
with all the weapons at my disposal."
There was a moment's silence while the combatants delivered themselves
of these brief monologues aside. The duchess was the first to break the
silence.
"You are punctual, Master Cellini," said she. "His Majesty is to sign
Comte d'Orbec's contract at noon, and it is now only a quarter past
eleven. Permit me to make his Majesty's excuses: he is not behindhand,
but you are beforehand."
"I am very happy, madame, that I arrived too early, as my impatience
procures me the honor of a _tête-à-tête_ with you,--an honor I should
have requested most urgently, had not chance, to which I return my
thanks, anticipated my wishes."
"Good lack, Benvenuto!" said the duchess; "does defeat incline you to
flattery?"
"Not my own defeat, madame, but that of other persons. I have always
considered it peculiarly meritorious to pay my court to one in disgrace;
and here is the proof of it, madame."
As he spoke, Benvenuto drew from beneath his cloak Ascanio's golden
lily, which he had completed that morning. The duchess exclaimed with
wonder and delight. Never had her eyes beheld such a marvellous jewel,
never did one of the flowers found in the enchanted gardens of the
"Thousand and One Nights" so dazzle the eyes of peri or fairy.
"Ah!" cried the duchess, putting forth her hand to take the flower, "you
promised me, Benvenuto, but I confess that I did not rely upon your
promise."
"Why should you not rely upon it, madame?" laughed Benvenuto. "You
insult me."
"Oh! if you had promised to perform a revengeful, instead of a gallant
act, I should have been much more certain that you would redeem your
promise punctually."
"Who told you that I did not promise both?" retorted Benvenuto, drawing
back his hand, so that the lily was still in his control.
"I do not understand you," said the duchess.
"Do you not think," said Benvenuto, pointing to the diamond shimmering
in the heart of the flower--the diamond which she owed to the corrupting
munificence of Charles V.--"that when mounted in the guise of a dewdrop,
the earnest given to bind a certain bargain which is to set off the
Duchy of Milan from France has a fine effect?"
"You speak in enigmas, my dear goldsmith; unfortunately the king will
soon be here, and I haven't time to guess them."
"I will tell you the answer, then. It is an old proverb, _Verba, volant,
scripta manent_, which, being interpreted, means, 'What is written is
written.'"
"Ah! that's where you are in error, my dear goldsmith; what is written
is burned: so do not think to frighten me as you would a child, and give
me the lily which belongs to me."
"One instant, madame; I ought to warn you that while it is a magic
talisman in my hands, it will lose all its virtue in yours. My work is
even more valuable than you think. Where the multitude sees only a
jewel, we artists sometimes conceal an idea. Do you wish me to show you
this idea, madame? Nothing is easier: look, all that is necessary is to
press this invisible spring. The stalk opens, as you see, and in the
heart of the flower we find, not a gnawing worm, as in some natural
flowers and some false hearts, but something similar, worse it may
be,--the dishonor of the Duchesse d'Etampes, written with her own hand
and signed by her."
As he spoke, Benvenuto pressed the spring, opened the stalk, and took
out the letter. He slowly unfolded it, and showed it, open, to the
duchess, pale with wrath, and stricken dumb with dismay.
"You hardly expected this, did you, madame?" said Benvenuto, coolly,
folding the letter once more, and replacing it in the lily. "If you knew
my ways, madame, you would be less surprised. A year ago I concealed a
ladder in a statuette; a month ago I concealed a maiden in a statue.
What was there that I could hide away in a flower to-day? A bit of
paper, that was all, and that is what I have done."
"But that letter," cried the duchess, "that infernal letter I burned
with my own hands: I saw the flame and touched the ashes!"
"Did you read the letter you burned?"
"No! no! madwoman that I was, I did not read it!"
"That is too bad, for you would be convinced now that the letter of a
grisette will make as much flame and ashes as the letter of a duchess."
"Why, then, Ascanio, the dastard, deceived me!"
"Oh madame! pray pause! Do not suspect that pure and innocent child,
who, even if he had deceived you, would have done no more than turn
against you the weapons you used against him. Oh no, no! he did not
deceive you; he would not purchase his own life or Colombe's by deceit!
No, he was himself deceived."
"By whom? Pray tell me that."
"By a mere boy, a student, the same who wounded your trusty retainer,
Vicomte de Marmagne; by one Jacques Aubry, in short, whom it is likely
that the Vicomte de Marmagne has mentioned to you."
"Yes," murmured the duchess, "yes, Marmagne did tell me that this
student, this Jacques Aubry, was seeking to gain access to Ascanio in
order to secure that letter."
"And it was after that you paid Ascanio a visit. But students are
active, you know, and ours had already anticipated you. As you left the
Hôtel d'Etampes, he was creeping into his friend's cell, and as you
entered it, he went out."
"But I didn't see him; I saw nobody."
"One doesn't think to look everywhere; if you had done so, you would, in
due course, have raised a certain mat, and under that mat would have
found a hole communicating with the adjoining cell."
"But Ascanio, Ascanio?"
"When you entered he was asleep, was he not?"
"Yes."
"Very good! during his sleep, Aubry, to whom he had refused to give the
letter, took it from his coat pocket, and put a letter of his own in its
place. You were misled by the envelope, and thought that you were
burning a note from Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes. Not so, madame; you
burned an epistle penned by Mademoiselle Gervaise-Perrette Popinot."
"But this Aubry, who wounded Marmagne, this clown, who almost murdered a
nobleman, will pay dear for his insolence; he is in prison and condemned
to death."
"He is free, madame, and owes his freedom in great measure to you."
"How so?"
"Why, who but he was the poor prisoner whose pardon you joined me in
urging upon King François?"
"Oh insane fool that I was!" muttered the duchess, biting her lips till
the blood ran. She looked Benvenuto squarely in the eye for a moment,
then continued, in a panting voice,--
"On what condition will you give me that letter?"
"I think I have allowed you to guess, madame."
"I am not skilled in guessing: tell me."
"You must ask the king to bestow Colombe's hand upon Ascanio."
"Go to!" rejoined Anne with a forced laugh; "you little know the
Duchesse d'Etampes, Master Goldsmith, if you fancy that my love will
yield to threats."
"You did not reflect before answering me, madame."
"I stand by my answer, however."
"Kindly permit me to sit down unceremoniously, madame, and to talk
plainly with you a moment," said Benvenuto, with the dignified
familiarity peculiar to superior men. "I am only an humble sculptor, and
you are a great duchess; but let me tell you that, notwithstanding the
distance which separates us, we were made to understand each other. Do
not assume those queenly airs: they will have no effect. It is not my
purpose to insult you, but to enlighten you, and your haughty manner is
out of place because your pride is not at stake."
"You are a strange man, upon my word," said Anne, laughing in spite of
herself. "Say on, I am listening."