Produced by Robert J. Hall
CHICOT THE JESTER
Abridged translation of “La dame de Monsoreau”
By Alexandre Dumas
CHAPTER I.
THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC.
On the evening of a Sunday, in the year 1578, a splendid fête was
given in the magnificent hotel just built opposite the Louvre,
on the other side of the water, by the family of Montmorency, who,
allied to the royalty of France, held themselves equal to princes.
This fête was to celebrate the wedding of François d’Epinay de
St. Luc, a great friend and favorite of the king, Henri III.,
with Jeanne de Crossé-Brissac, daughter of the marshal of that
name.
The banquet had taken place at the Louvre, and the king, who had
been with much difficulty induced to consent to the marriage, had
appeared at it with a severe and grave countenance. His costume
was in harmony with his face; he wore that suit of deep chestnut,
in which Clouet described him at the wedding of Joyeuse; and
this kind of royal specter, solemn and majestic, had chilled
all the spectators, but above all the young bride, at whom he
cast many angry glances. The reason of all this was known to
everyone, but was one of those court secrets of which no one likes
to speak.
Scarcely was the repast finished, when the king had risen abruptly,
thereby forcing everyone to do the same. Then St. Luc approached
him, and said: “Sire, will your majesty do me the honor to accept
the fête, which I wish to give to you this evening at the Hôtel
Montmorency?” This was said in an imploring tone, but Henri,
with a voice betraying both vexation and anger, had replied:
“Yes, monsieur, we will go, although you certainly do not merit
this proof of friendship on our part.”
Then Madame de St. Luc had humbly thanked the king, but he turned
his back without replying.
“Is the king angry with you?” asked the young wife of her husband.
“I will explain it to you after, mon amie, when this anger shall
have passed away.”
“And will it pass away?”
“It must.”
Mademoiselle de Brissac was not yet sufficiently Madame de St.
Luc to insist further; therefore she repressed her curiosity,
promising herself to satisfy it at a more favorable time.
They were, therefore, expecting St. Luc at the Hôtel Montmorency,
at the moment in which our story commences. St. Luc had invited
all the king’s friends and all his own; the princes and their
favorites, particularly those of the Duc d’Anjou. He was always
in opposition to the king, but in a hidden manner, pushing forward
those of his friends whom the example of La Mole and Coconnas
had not cured. Of course, his favorites and those of the king
lived in a state of antagonism, which brought on rencontres two
or three times a month, in which it was rare that some one was
not killed or badly wounded.
As for Catherine, she was at the height of her wishes; her favorite
son was on the throne, and she reigned through him, while she
pretended to care no more for the things of this world. St. Luc,
very uneasy at the absence of all the royal family, tried to
reassure his father-in-law, who was much distressed at this menacing
absence. Convinced, like all the world, of the friendship of
Henri for St. Luc, he had believed he was assuring the royal
favor, and now this looked like a disgrace. St. Luc tried hard
to inspire in them a security which he did not feel himself;
and his friends, Maugiron, Schomberg, and Quelus, clothed in
their most magnificent dresses, stiff in their splendid doublets,
with enormous frills, added to his annoyance by their ironical
lamentations.
“Eh! mon Dieu! my poor friend,” said Jacques de Levis, Comte
de Quelus, “I believe now that you are done for. The king is
angry that you would not take his advice, and M. d’Anjou because
you laughed at his nose.”
“No, Quelus, the king does not come, because he has made a pilgrimage
to the monks of the Bois de Vincennes; and the Duc d’Anjou is
absent, because he is in love with some woman whom I have forgotten
to invite.”
“But,” said Maugiron, “did you see the king’s face at dinner?
And as for the duke, if he could not come, his gentlemen might.
There is not one here, not even Bussy.”
“Oh! gentlemen,” said the Duc de Brissac, in a despairing tone,
“it looks like a complete disgrace. Mon Dieu! how can our house,
always so devoted to his majesty, have displeased him?”
The young men received this speech with bursts of laughter, which
did not tend to soothe the marquis. The young bride was also
wondering how St. Luc could have displeased the king. All at once
one of the doors opened and the king was announced.
“Ah!” cried the marshal, “now I fear nothing; if the Duc d’Anjou
would but come, my satisfaction would be complete.”
“And I,” murmured St. Luc; “I have more fear of the king present
than absent, for I fear he comes to play me some spiteful tricks.”
But, nevertheless, he ran to meet the king, who had quitted at last
his somber costume, and advanced resplendent in satin, feathers,
and jewels. But at the instant he entered another door opened
just opposite, and a second Henri III., clothed exactly like
the first, appeared, so that the courtiers, who had run to meet
the first, turned round at once to look at the second.
Henri III. saw the movement, and exclaimed:
“What is the matter, gentlemen?”
A burst of laughter was the reply. The king, not naturally patient,
and less so that day than usual, frowned; but St. Luc approached,
and said:
“Sire, it is Chicot, your jester, who is dressed exactly like
your majesty, and is giving his hand to the ladies to kiss.”
Henri laughed. Chicot enjoyed at his court a liberty similar
to that enjoyed thirty years before by Triboulet at the court
of François I., and forty years after by Longely at the court
of Louis XIII. Chicot was not an ordinary jester. Before being
Chicot he had been “De Chicot.” He was a Gascon gentleman, who,
ill-treated by M. de Mayenne on account of a rivalry in a love
affair, in which Chicot had been victorious, had taken refuge
at court, and prayed the king for his protection by telling him
the truth.
“Eh, M. Chicot,” said Henri, “two kings at a time are too much.”
“Then,” replied he, “let me continue to be one, and you play Duc
d’Anjou; perhaps you will be taken for him, and learn something
of his doings.”
“So,” said Henri, looking round him, “Anjou is not here.”
“The more reason for you to replace him. It is settled, I am
Henri, and you are François. I will play the king, while you dance
and amuse yourself a little, poor king.”
“You are right, Chicot, I will dance.”
“Decidedly,” thought De Brissac, “I was wrong to think the king
angry; he is in an excellent humor.”
Meanwhile St. Luc had approached his wife. She was not a beauty,
but she had fine black eyes, white teeth, and a dazzling complexion.
“Monsieur,” said she to her husband, “why did they say that the
king was angry with me; he has done nothing but smile on me ever
since he came?”
“You did not say so after dinner, dear Jeanne, for his look then
frightened you.”
“His majesty was, doubtless, out of humor then, but now--”
“Now, it is far worse; he smiles with closed lips. I would rather
he showed me his teeth. Jeanne, my poor child, he is preparing
for us some disagreeable surprise. Oh I do not look at me so
tenderly, I beg; turn your back to me. Here is Maugiron coming;
converse with him, and be amiable to him.”
“That is a strange recommendation, monsieur.”
But St. Luc left his wife full of astonishment, and went to pay
his court to Chicot, who was playing his part with a most laughable
majesty.
The king danced, but seemed never to lose sight of St. Luc. Sometimes
he called him to repeat to him some pleasantry, which, whether
droll or not, made St. Luc laugh heartily. Sometimes he offered
him out of his comfit box sweetmeats and candied fruits, which
St. Luc found excellent. If he disappeared for an instant, the
king sent for him, and seemed not happy if he was out of his
sight. All at once a voice rose above all the tumult.
“Oh!” said Henri, “I think I hear the voice of Chicot; do you
hear, St. Luc?--the king is angry.”
“Yes, sire, it sounds as though he were quarreling with some one.”
“Go and see what it is, and come back and tell me.”
As St. Luc approached he heard Chicot crying:
“I have made sumptuary laws, but if they are not enough I will
make more; at least they shall be numerous, if they are not good.
By the horn of Beelzebub, six pages, M. de Bussy, are too much.”
And Chicot, swelling out his cheeks, and putting his hand to his
side, imitated the king to the life.
“What does he say about Bussy?” asked the king, when St. Luc
returned. St. Luc was about to reply, when the crowd opening,
showed to him six pages, dressed in cloth of gold, covered with
chains, and bearing on their breasts the arms of their masters,
sparkling in jewels. Behind them came a young man, handsome and
proud; who walked with his head raised and a haughty look, and
whose simple dress of black velvet contrasted with the splendor
of his pages. This was Bussy d’Amboise. Maugiron, Schomberg,
and Quelus had drawn near to the king.
“See,” said Maugiron, “here is the servant, but where is the master?
Are you also in disgrace with him, St. Luc?”
“Why should he follow Bussy?” said Quelus.
“Do you not remember that when his majesty did M. de Bussy the
honor to ask him if he wished to belong to him, he replied that,
being of the House of Clermont, he followed no one, and belonged
to himself.”
The king frowned.
“Yes,” said Maugiron, “whatever you say, he serves the Duc d’Anjou.”
“Then it is because the duke is greater than the king.”
No observation could have been more annoying to the king than
this, for he detested the Duc d’Anjou. Thus, although he did
not answer, he grew pale.
“Come, come, gentlemen,” said St. Luc, trembling, “a little charity
for my guests, if you please; do not spoil my wedding day.”
“Yes,” said the king, in a mocking tone; “do not spoil St. Luc’s
wedding-day.”
“Oh!” said Schomberg, “is Bussy allied to the Brissacs?--since
St. Luc defends him.”
“He is neither my friend nor relation, but he is my guest,” said
St. Luc. The king gave an angry look. “Besides,” he hastened
to add, “I do not defend him the least in the world.”
Bussy approached gravely behind his pages to salute the king,
when Chicot cried:
“Oh, la! Bussy d’Amboise, Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy,
do you not see the true Henri, do you not know the true king
from the false? He to whom you are going is Chicot, my jester,
at whom I so often laugh.”
Bussy continued his way, and was about to bow before the king,
when he said:
“Do you not hear, M. de Bussy, you are called?” and, amidst shouts
of laughter from his minions, he turned his back to the young
captain. Bussy reddened with anger, but he affected to take the
king’s remark seriously, and turning round towards Chicot:
“Ah! pardon, sire,” said he, “there are kings who resemble jesters
so much, that you will excuse me, I hope, for having taken a
jester for a king.”
“Hein,” murmured Henri, “what does he say?”
“Nothing, sire,” said St. Luc.
“Nevertheless, M. Bussy,” said Chicot; “it was unpardonable.”
“Sire, I was preoccupied.”
“With your pages, monsieur,” said Chicot; “you ruin yourself in
pages, and, par la mordieu, it is infringing our prerogatives.”
“How so? I beg your majesty to explain.”
“Cloth of gold for them, while you a gentleman, a colonel, a
Clermont, almost a prince, wear simple black velvet.”
“Sire,” said Bussy, turning towards the kings’ minions, “as we
live in a time when lackeys dress like princes, I think it good
taste for princes to dress like lackeys.”
And he returned to the young men in their splendid dress the
impertinent smiles which they had bestowed on him a little before.
They grew pale with fury, and seemed only to wait the king’s
permission to fall upon Bussy.
“Is it for me and mine that you say that?” asked Chicot, speaking
like the king.
Three friends of Bussy’s now drew near to him. These were Charles
d’Antragues, François, Vicomte de Ribeirac, and Livarot. Seeing
all this, St. Luc guessed that Bussy was sent by Monsieur to
provoke a quarrel. He trembled more than ever, for he feared
the combatants were about to take his house for a battle-field.
He ran to Quelus, who already had his hand on his sword, and
said, “In Heaven’s name be moderate.”
“Parbleu, he attacks you as well as us.”
“Quelus, think of the Duc d’Anjou, who supports Bussy; you do
not suppose I fear Bussy himself?”
“Eh! Mordieu, what need we fear; we belong to the king. If we
get into peril for him he will help us.”
“You, yes; but me,” said St. Luc, piteously.
“Ah dame, why do you marry, knowing how jealous the king is in
his friendships?”
“Good,” thought St. Luc, “everyone for himself; and as I wish
to live tranquil during the first fortnight of my marriage, I
will make friends with M. Bussy.” And he advanced towards him.
After his impertinent speech, Bussy had looked round the room to
see if any one would take notice of it. Seeing St. Luc approach,
he thought he had found what he sought.
“Monsieur,” said he, “is it to what I said just now, that I owe
the honor of the conversation you appear to desire?”
“Of what you have just said, I heard nothing. No, I saw you,
and wished to salute you, and thank you for the honor you have
done me by your presence here.”
Bussy, who knew the courage of St. Luc, understood at once that
he considered the duties of a host paramount, and answered him
politely.
Henri, who had seen the movement said, “Oh, oh! I fear there is
mischief there; I cannot have St. Luc killed. Go and see, Quelus;
no, you are too rash--you, Maugiron.”
But St. Luc did not let him approach Bussy, but came to meet him
and returned with him to the king.
“What have you been saying to that coxcomb?” asked the king.
“I, sire?”
“Yes, you.”
“I said, good evening.”
“Oh! was that all?”
St. Luc saw he was wrong. “I said, good evening; adding, that
I would have the honor of saying good morning to-morrow.”
“Ah! I suspected it.”
“Will your majesty keep my secret?” said St. Luc.
“Oh! parbleu, if you could get rid of him without injury to
yourself----”
The minions exchanged a rapid glance, which Henri III. seemed
not to notice.
“For,” continued he, “his insolence is too much.”
“Yes, yes,” said St. Luc, “but some day he will find his master.”
“Oh!” said the king, “he manages the sword well. Why does he not
get bit by some dog?” And he threw a spiteful glance on Bussy,
who was walking about, laughing at all the king’s friends.
“Corbleu!” cried Chicot, “do not be so rude to my friends, M.
Bussy, for I draw the sword, though I am a king, as well as if
I was a common man.”
“If he continue such pleasantries, I will chastise Chicot, sire,”
said Maugiron.
“No, no, Maugiron, Chicot is a gentleman. Besides, it is not
he who most deserves punishment, for it is not he who is most
insolent.”
This time there was no mistaking, and Quelus made signs to D’O
and D’Epernon, who had been in a different part of the room,
and had not heard what was going on. “Gentlemen,” said Quelus,
“come to the council; you, St. Luc, go and finish making your
peace with the king.”
St. Luc approached the king, while the others drew back into a
window.
“Well,” said D’Epernon, “what do you want? I was making love,
and I warn you, if your recital be not interesting I shall be
very angry.”
“I wish to tell you that after the ball I set off for the chase.”
“For what chase?”
“That of the wild boar.”
“What possesses you to go, in this cold, to be killed in some
thicket?”
“Never mind, I am going.”
“Alone?”
“No, with Maugiron and Schomberg. We hunt for the king.”
“Ah! yes, I understand,” said Maugiron and Schomberg.
“The king wishes a boar’s head for breakfast to-morrow.”
“With the neck dressed à l’Italienne,” said Maugiron, alluding
to the turn-down collar which Bussy wore in opposition to their
ruffs.
“Ah, ah,” said D’Epernon, “I understand.”
“What is it?” asked D’O, “for I do not.”
“Ah! look round you.”
“Well!”
“Did any one laugh at us here?”
“Yes, Bussy.”
“Well, that is the wild boar the king wants.”
“You think the king----”
“He asks for it.”
“Well, then, so be it. But how do we hunt?”
“In ambush; it is the surest.”
Bussy remarked the conference, and, not doubting that they were
talking of him, approached, with his friends.
“Look, Antragues, look, Ribeirac,” said he, “how they are grouped;
it is quite touching; it might be Euryale and Nisus, Damon and
Pythias, Castor and----. But where is Pollux?”
“Pollux is married, so that Castor is left alone.”
“What can they be doing?”
“I bet they are inventing some new starch.”
“No, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “we are talking of the chase.”
“Really, Signor Cupid,” said Bussy; “it is very cold for that.
It will chap your skin.”
“Monsieur,” replied Maugiron, politely, “we have warm gloves,
and doublets lined with fur.”
“Ah! that reassures me,” said Bussy; “do you go soon?”
“To-night, perhaps.”
“In that case I must warn the king; what will he say to-morrow,
if he finds his friends have caught cold?”
“Do not give yourself that trouble, monsieur,” said Quelus, “his
majesty knows it.”
“Do you hunt larks?” asked Bussy, with an impertinent air.
“No, monsieur, we hunt the boar. We want a head. Will you hunt
with us, M. Bussy?”
“No, really, I cannot. To-morrow I must go to the Duc d’Anjou
for the reception of M. de Monsoreau, to whom monseigneur has
just given the place of chief huntsman.”
“But, to-night?”
“Ah! To-night, I have a rendezvous in a mysterious house of the
Faubourg St. Antoine.”
“Ah! ah!” said D’Epernon, “is the Queen Margot here, incognito,
M. de Bussy?”
“No, it is some one else.”
“Who expects you in the Faubourg St. Antoine?”
“Just so, indeed I will ask your advice, M. de Quelus.”
“Do so, although I am not a lawyer, I give very good advice.”
“They say the streets of Paris are unsafe, and that is a lonely
place. Which way do you counsel me to take?”
“Why, I advise you to take the ferry-boat at the Pré-aux-Clercs,
get out at the corner, and follow the quay until you arrive at
the great Châtelet, and then go through the Rue de la Tixanderie,
until you reach the faubourg. Once at the corner of the Rue St.
Antoine, if you pass the Hôtel des Tournelles without accident,
it is probable you will arrive safe and sound at your mysterious
house.”
“Thanks for your route, M. de Quelus, I shall be sure to follow
it.” And saluting the five friends, he went away.
As Bussy was crossing the last saloon where Madame de St. Luc
was, her husband made a sign to her. She understood at once,
and going up, stopped him.
“Oh! M. de Bussy,” said she, “everyone is talking of a sonnet
you have made.”
“Against the king, madame?”
“No, in honor of the queen; do tell it to me.”
“Willingly, madame,” and, offering his arm to her, he went off,
repeating it.
During this time, St. Luc drew softly near his friends, and heard
Quelus say:
“The animal will not be difficult to follow; thus then, at the
corner of the Hôtel des Tournelles, opposite the Hôtel St. Pol.”
“With each a lackey?” asked D’Epernon.
“No, no, Nogaret, let us be alone, and keep our own secret, and
do our own work. I hate him, but he is too much a gentleman for
a lackey to touch.”
“Shall we go out all six together?”
“All five if you please,” said St. Luc.
“Ah! it is true, we forgot your wife.”
They heard the king’s voice calling St. Luc.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “the king calls me. Good sport, au revoir.”
And he left them, but instead of going straight to the king, he
ran to where Bussy stood with his wife.
“Ah! monsieur, how hurried you seem,” said Bussy. “Are you going
also to join the chase; it would be a proof of your courage,
but not of your gallantry.”
“Monsieur, I was seeking you.”
“Really.”
“And I was afraid you were gone. Dear Jeanne, tell your father
to try and stop the king, whilst I say a few words tête-à-tête
to M. Bussy.” Jeanne went.
“I wish to say to you, monsieur,” continued St. Luc, “that if
you have any rendezvous to-night, you would do well to put it
off, for the streets are not safe, and, above all, to avoid the
Hôtel des Tournelles, where there is a place where several men
could hide. This is what I wished to say; I know you fear nothing,
but reflect.”
At this moment they heard Chicot’s voice crying, “St. Luc, St.
Luc, do not hide yourself, I am waiting for you to return to
the Louvre.”
“Here I am, sire,” cried St. Luc, rushing forward. Near Chicot
stood the king, to whom one page was giving his ermine mantle,
and another a velvet mask lined with satin.
“Sire,” said St. Luc, “I will have the honor of lighting your
majesties to your litters.”
“No,” said Henri, “Chicot goes one way, and I another. My friends
are good-for-nothings, who have run away and left me to return
alone to the Louvre. I had counted on them, and you cannot let
me go alone. You are a grave married man, and must take me back
to the queen. Come, my friend, my litter is large enough for two.”
Madame de St. Luc, who had heard this, tried to speak, and to
tell her father that the king was carrying away her husband, but
he, placing his fingers on his month, motioned her to be silent.
“I am ready, sire,” said he, “to follow you.”
When the king took leave, the others followed, and Jeanne was
left alone. She entered her room, and knelt down before the image
of a saint to pray, then sat down to wait for her husband’s return.
M. de Brissac sent six men to the Louvre to attend him back. But
two hours after one of them returned, saying, that the Louvre
was closed and that before closing, the captain of the watch
had said, “It is useless to wait longer, no one will leave the
Louvre to-night; his majesty is in bed.”
The marshal carried this news to his daughter.
CHAPTER II.
HOW IT IS NOT ALWAYS HE WHO OPENS THE DOOR, WHO ENTERS THE HOUSE.
The Porte St. Antoine was a kind of vault in stone, similar to
our present Porte St. Denis, only it was attached by its left
side to buildings adjacent to the Bastile. The space at the right,
between the gate and the Hôtel des Tournelles, was large and
dark, little frequented by day, and quite solitary at night,
for all passers-by took the side next to the fortress, so as
to be in some degree under the protection of the sentinel. Of
course, winter nights were still more feared than summer ones.
That on which the events which we have recounted, and are about
to recount took place, was cold and black. Before the gate on
the side of the city, was no house, but only high walls, those
of the church of St. Paul, and of the Hôtel des Tournelles. At
the end of this wall was the niche of which St. Luc had spoken
to Bussy. No lamps lighted this part of Paris at that epoch.
In the nights when the moon charged herself with the lighting
of the earth, the Bastile rose somber and majestic against the
starry blue of the skies, but on dark nights, there seemed only a
thickening of the shadows where it stood. On the night in question,
a practised eye might have detected in the angle of the wall of
the Tournelles several black shades, which moved enough to show
that they belonged to poor devils of human bodies, who seemed
to find it difficult to preserve their natural warmth as they.
stood there. The sentinel from the Bastile; who could not see
them on account of the darkness, could not hear them either,
for they talked almost in whispers. However, the conversation
did not want interest.
“This Bussy was right,” said one; “it is a night such as we had
at Warsaw, when Henri was King of Poland, and if this continues
we shall freeze.”
“Come, Maugiron, you complain like a woman,” replied another:
“it is not warm, I confess; but draw your mantle over your eyes,
and put your hands in your pockets, and you will not feel it.”
“Really, Schomberg,” said a third, “it is easy to see you are
German. As for me, my lips bleed, and my mustachios are stiff
with ice.”
“It is my hands,” said a fourth; “on my honor, I would not swear
I had any.”
“You should have taken your mamma’s muff, poor Quelus,” said
Schomberg.
“Eh! mon Dieu, have patience,” said a fifth voice; “you will soon
be complaining you are hot.”
“I see some one coming through the Rue St. Paul,” said Quelus.
“It cannot be him; he named another route.”
“Might he not have suspected something, and changed it?”
“You do not know Bussy; where he said he should go, he would go,
if he knew that Satan himself were barring his passage.”
“However, here are two men coming.”
“Ma foi! yes.”
“Let us charge,” said Schomberg.
“One moment,” said D’Epernon; “do not let us kill good bourgeois,
or poor women. Hold! they stop.”
In fact, they had stopped, and looked as if undecided. “Oh, can
they have seen us?”
“We can hardly see ourselves!”
“See, they turn to the left; they stop before a house they are
seeking--they are trying to enter; they will escape us!”
“But it is not him, for he was going to the Faubourg St. Antoine.”
“Oh! how do you know he told you right?”
At this supposition they all rushed out, sword in hand, towards
the gentlemen.
One of the men had just introduced a key into the lock; the door
had yielded and was about to open, when the noise of their assailants
made them turn.
“What is this? Can it be against us, Aurilly?” said one.
“Ah, monseigneur,” said the other, who had opened the door, “it
looks like it. Will you name yourself, or keep incognito?”
“Armed men--an ambush!”
“Some jealous lover; I said the lady was too beautiful not to
be watched.”
“Let us enter quickly, Aurilly; we are safer within doors.”
“Yes, monseigneur, if there are not enemies within; but how do
you know----”
He had not time to finish. The young men rushed up; Quelus and
Maugiron made for the door to prevent their entering, while
Schomberg, D’O, and D’Epernon prepared to attack in front. But
he who had been called monseigneur turned towards Quelus, who
was in front, and crossing his arms proudly, said:
“You attack a son of France, M. Quelus!”
Quelus drew back, trembling, and thunderstruck.
“Monseigneur le Duc d’Anjou!” he cried.
“The Duc d’Anjou!” repeated the others.
“Well, gentlemen,” cried the duke.
“Monseigneur,” stammered D’Epernon, “it was a joke; forgive us.”
“Monseigneur,” said D’O, “we did not dream of meeting your highness
here!”
“A joke!” said the duke; “you have an odd manner of joking, M.
d’Epernon. Since it was not intended for me, whom did your jest
menace?”
“Monseigneur,” said Schomberg; “we saw St. Luc quit the Hôtel
Montmorency and come this way; it seemed strange to us, and we
wished to see what took him out on his wedding night.”
“M. de St. Luc--you took me for him?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“M. de St. Luc is a head taller then I am.”
“It is true, monseigneur; but he is just the height of M. Aurilly.”
“And seeing a man put a key in a lock, we took him for the
principal,” added D’O.
“Monseigneur cannot suppose that we had the shadow of an ill-will
towards him, even to disturb his pleasures?”
As he listened, the duke, by a skilful movement, had, little
by little, quitted the door, followed by Aurilly, and was now
at some distance off.
“My pleasures!” said he, angrily; “what makes you think I was
seeking pleasure?”
“Ah, monseigneur, in any case pardon us, and let us retire,” said
Quelus.
“It is well; adieu, gentlemen; but first listen. I was going
to consult the Jew Manasses, who reads the future; he lives,
as you know, in Rue de la Tournelle. In passing, Aurilly saw
you and took you for the watch, and we, therefore, tried to hide
ourselves in a doorway. And now you know what to believe and
say; it is needless to add, that I do not wish to be followed,”
and he turned away.
“Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “I am sure these men have bad
intentions; it is near midnight, and this is a lonely quarter;
let us return home, I beg.”
“No, no; let us profit by their departure.”
“Your highness is deceived; they have not gone, but have returned
to their retreat: look in the angle of the Hôtel des Tournelles.”
François looked, and saw that Aurilly was right; it was evident
that they waited for something, perhaps to see if the duke were
really going to the Jew.
“Well, Monseigneur,” continued Aurilly, “do you not think it will
be more prudent to go home?”
“Mordieu! yet it is annoying to give up.”
“Yes; but it can be put off. I told your highness that the house
is taken for a year; we know the lady lodges on the first story.
We have gained her maid, and have a key which opens the door:
you may wait safely.”
“You are sure that the door yielded?”
“Yes, at the third key I tried.”
“Are you sure you shut it again?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
Aurilly did not feel sure, as he said, but he did not choose to
admit it.
“Well, I will go; I shall return some other time.” And the duke
went away, promising to payoff the gentlemen for their interruption.
They had hardly disappeared, when the five companions saw approach
a cavalier wrapped in a large cloak. The steps of his horse resounded
on the frozen ground, and they went slowly and with precaution,
for it was slippery.
“This time,” said Quelus, “it is he.”
“Impossible,” said Maugiron.
“Why?”
“Because he is alone, and we left him with Livarot, Antragues,
and Ribeirac, who would not have let him run such a risk.”
“It is he, however; do you not recognize his insolent way of carrying
his head?”
“Then,” said D’O, “it is a snare.”
“In any case, it is he; and so to arms!”
It was, indeed, Bussy, who came carelessly down the Rue St. Antoine,
and followed the route given him by Quelus; he had, as we have
seen, received the warning of St. Luc, and, in spite of it, had
parted from his friends at the Hôtel Montmorency. It was one of
those bravadoes delighted in by the valiant colonel, who said
of himself, “I am but a simple gentleman, but I bear in my breast
the heart of an emperor; and when I read in Plutarch the exploits
of the ancient Romans, I think there is not one that I could
not imitate.” And besides, he thought that St. Luc, who was not
ordinarily one of his friends, merely wished to get him laughed at
for his precautions; and Bussy feared ridicule more than danger.
He had, even in the eyes of his enemies, earned a reputation for
courage, which could only be sustained by the rashest adventures.
Therefore, alone, and armed only with a sword and poniard, he
advanced towards the house where waited for him no person, but
simply a letter, which the Queen of Navarre sent him every month
on the same day, and which he, according to his promise to the
beautiful Marguerite, went to fetch himself, alone, and at night.
When he arrived at the Rue St. Catherine, his active eye discerned
in the shade the forms of his adversaries. He counted them: “Three,
four, five,” said he, “without counting the lackeys, who are
doubtless within call. They think much of me, it seems; all these
for one man. That brave St. Luc did not deceive me; and were his
even the first sword to pierce me I would cry, ‘Thanks for your
warning, friend.’” So saying, he continued to advance, only his
arm held his sword under his cloak, of which he had unfastened
the clasp.
It was then that Quelus cried, “To arms.”
“Ah, gentlemen,” said Bussy, “it appears you wish to kill me:
I am the wild boar you had to hunt. Well, gentlemen, the wild
boar will rip up a few of you; I swear it to you, and I never
break my word.”
“Possibly,” said Schomberg; “but it is not right, M. Bussy d’Amboise,
that you should be on horseback and we on foot.” And as he spoke,
the arm of the young man, covered with white satin, which glistened
in the moonlight, came from under his cloak, and Bussy felt his
horse give way under him. Schomberg had, with an address peculiar
to himself, pierced the horse’s leg with a kind of cutlass, of
which the blade was heavier than the handle and which had remained
in the wound. The animal gave a shrill cry and fell on his knees.
Bussy, always ready, jumped at once to the ground, sword in hand.
“Ah!” cried he, “my favorite horse, you shall pay for this.”
And as Schomberg approached incautiously, Bussy gave him a blow
which broke his thigh. Schomberg uttered a cry.
“Well!” said Bussy, “have I kept my word? one already. It was
the wrist of Bussy, and not his horse’s leg, you should have cut.”
In an instant, while Schomberg bound up his thigh with his
handkerchief, Bussy presented the point of his long sword to his
four other assailants, disdaining to cry for help, but retreating
gradually, not to fly, but to gain a wall, against which to support
himself, and prevent his being attacked behind, making all the
while constant thrusts, and feeling sometimes that soft resistance
of the flesh which showed that his blows had taken effect. Once
he slipped for an instant. That instant sufficed for Quelus to
give him a wound in the side.
“Touched,” cried Quelus.
“Yes, in the doublet,” said Bussy, who would not even acknowledge
his hurt. And rushing on Quelus, with a vigorous effort, he made
his sword fly from his hand. But he could not pursue his advantage,
for D’O, D’Epernon, and Maugiron attacked him, with fresh fury.
Schomberg had bound his wound, and Quelus picked up his sword.
Bussy made a bound backwards, and reached the wall. There he
stopped, strong as Achilles, and smiling at the tempest of blows
which rained around him. All at once he felt a cloud pass over his
eyes. He had forgotten his wound, but these symptoms of fainting
recalled it to him.
“Ah, you falter!” cried Quelus.
“Judge of it!” cried Bussy. And with the hilt of his sword he
struck him on the temple. Quelus fell under the blow. Then
furious--wild, he rushed forward, uttering a terrible cry. D’O
and D’Epernon drew back, Maugiron was raising Quelus, when Bussy
broke his sword with his foot, and wounded the right arm of
D’Epernon. For a moment he was conqueror, but Quelus recovered
himself, and four swords flashed again. Bussy felt himself lost.
He gathered all his strength to retreat once more step by step.
Already the perspiration was cold on his brow, and the ringing in
his ears and the cloud over his eyes warned him that his strength
was giving way. He sought for the wall with his left hand; to his
astonishment, it yielded. It was a door not quite closed. Then
he regained hope and strength for a last effort. For a second his
blows were rapid and violent. Then he let himself glide inside
the door, and pushed it to with a violent blow. It shut, and Bussy
was saved. He heard the furious blows of his enemies on the door,
their cries of rage, and wrathful imprecations. Then, the ground
seemed to fail under his feet, and the walls to move. He made a
few steps forward, and fell on the steps of a staircase. He knew
no more, but seemed to descend into the silence and obscurity
of the tomb.
CHAPTER III.
HOW IT IS SOMETIMES DIFFICULT TO DISTINGUISH A DREAM FROM THE
REALITY.
Bussy had had time, before falling, to pass his handkerchief
under his shirt, and to buckle the belt of his sword over it,
so as to make a kind of bandage to the open wound whence the
blood flowed, but he had already lost blood enough to make him
faint. However, during his fainting fit, this is what Bussy saw,
or thought he saw. He found himself in a room with furniture of
carved wood, with a tapestry of figures, and a painted ceiling.
These figures, in all possible attitudes, holding flowers, carrying
arms, seemed to him to be stepping from the walls. Between the
two windows a portrait of a lady was hung. He, fixed to his bed,
lay regarding all this. All at once the lady of the portrait
seemed to move, and an adorable creature, clothed in a long white
robe, with fair hair falling over her shoulders, and with eyes
black as jet, with long lashes, and with a skin under which he
seemed to see the blood circulate, advanced toward the bed. This
woman was so beautiful, that Bussy made a violent effort to rise
and throw himself at her feet. But he seemed to be confined in
there by bonds like those which keep the dead body in the tomb,
while the soul mounts to the skies. This forced him to look at
the bed on which he was lying, and it seemed to him one of those
magnificent beds sculptured in the reign of Francis I., to which
were suspended hangings of white damask, embroidered in gold.
At the sight of this woman, the people of the wall and ceiling
ceased to occupy his attention; she was all to him, and he looked
to see if she had left a vacancy in the frame. But suddenly she
disappeared; and an opaque body interposed itself between her
and Bussy, moving slowly, and stretching its arms out as though
it were playing blindman’s buff. Bussy felt in such a passion at
this, that, had he been able, he would certainly have attacked
this importunate vision; but as he made a vain effort, the newcomer
spoke:
“Well,” said he, “have I arrived at last?”
“Yes, monsieur,” said a voice so sweet that it thrilled through
Bussy, “and now you may take off your bandage.” Bussy made an
effort to see if the sweet voice belonged to the lady of the
portrait, but it was useless. He only saw the pleasant face of a
young man, who had just, as he was told, taken off his bandage,
and was looking curiously about him.
“To the devil with this man,” thought Bussy, and he tried to speak,
but fruitlessly.
“Ah, I understand now,” said the young man, approaching the bed;
“you are wounded, are you not, my dear sir? Well, we will try
to cure you.”
“Is the wound mortal?” asked the sweet voice again, with a sad
accent, which brought tears into the eyes of Bussy.
“I do not know yet, I am going to see; meanwhile, he has fainted.”
This was all Bussy heard, he seemed to feel a red-hot iron in
his side, and then lost all consciousness. Afterwards, it was
impossible for Bussy to fix the duration of this insensibility.
When he woke, a cold wind blew over his face, and harsh voices
sounded in his ears; he opened his eyes to see if it were the
people of the tapestry speaking, and hoping to see the lady again,
looked round him. But there was neither tapestry nor ceiling
visible, and the portrait had also disappeared. He saw at his
right only a man with a white apron spotted with blood; at his
left, a monk, who was raising his head; and before him, an old
woman mumbling her prayers. His wondering eyes next rested on
a mass of stone before him, in which he recognized the Temple,
and above that, the cold white sky, slightly tinted by the rising
sun. He was in the street.
“Ah, thank you, good people,” said he, “for the trouble you have
taken in bringing me here. I wanted air, but you might have given
it to me by opening the window, and I should have been better
on my bed of white damask and gold than on the bare ground. But
never mind, there is in my pocket, unless you have paid yourselves,
which would have been prudent, some twenty golden crowns; take,
my friends, take.”
“But, my good gentleman,” said the butcher, “we did not bring
you here, but found you here as we passed.”
“Ah, diable! and the young doctor, was he here?”
The bystanders looked at each other.
“It is the remains of delirium,” said the monk. Then, turning to
Bussy, “I think you would do well to confess,” said he, “there
was no doctor, poor young man; you were here alone, and as cold
as death.”
Bussy then remembered having received a sword stroke, glided his
hand under his doublet, and felt his handkerchief in the same
place, fixed over his wound by his sword-belt.
“It is singular,” said he.
Already profiting by his permission, the lookers-on were dividing
his purse.
“Now, my friends,” said he, “will you take me to my hôtel?”
“Ah, certainly,” said the old woman, “poor dear young man, the
butcher is strong, and then he has his horse, on which you can
ride.”
“Yes, my gentleman, my horse and I are at your service.”
“Nevertheless, my son,” said the monk, “I think you would do well
to confess.”
“What are you called?” asked Bussy.
“Brother Gorenflot.”
“Well Brother Gorenflot, I trust my hour has not yet arrived
and as I am cold, I wish to get quickly home and warm myself.”
“What is your hotel called?”
“Hôtel de Bussy.”
“How!” cried all, “you belong to M. de Bussy?”
“I am M. de Bussy himself.”
“Bussy,” cried the butcher, “the brave Bussy, the scourge of the
minions!” And raising him, he was quickly carried home, whilst
the monk went away, murmuring, “If it was that Bussy, I do not
wonder he would not confess!”
When he got home, Bussy sent for his usual doctor, who found the
wound not dangerous.
“Tell me,” said Bussy, “has it not been already dressed?”
“Ma foi,” said the doctor, “I am not sure.”
“And was it serious enough to make me delirious?”
“Certainly.”
“Ah!” thought Bussy, “was that tapestry, that frescoed ceiling,
that bed, the portrait between the windows, the beautiful blonde
woman with black eyes, the doctor blindfolded, was this all delirium?
Is nothing true but my combat? Where did I fight? Ah, yes, I
remember; near the Bastile, by the Rue St. Paul. I leaned against
a door, and it opened; I shut it--and then I remember no more.
Have I dreamed or not? And my horse! My horse must have been
found dead on the place. Doctor, pray call some one.”
The doctor called a valet. Bussy inquired, and heard that the
animal, bleeding and mutilated, had dragged itself to the door
of the hotel, and had been found there.
“It must have been a dream,” thought he again: “how should a
portrait come down from the wall and talk to a doctor with a
bandage on his eyes? I am a fool; and yet when I remember she
was so charming,” and he began to describe her beauties, till
he cried out, “It is impossible it should have been a dream;
and yet I found myself in the street, and a monk kneeling by
me. Doctor,” said he, “shall I have to keep the house a fortnight
again for this scratch, as I did for the last?”
“We shall see; can you walk?”
“I seem to have quicksilver in my legs.”
“Try.”
Bussy jumped out of bed, and walked quickly round his room.
“That will do,” said the doctor, “provided that you do not go
on horseback, or walk ten miles the first day.”
“Capital! you are a doctor; however, I have seen another to-night.
Yes, I saw him, and if ever I meet him, I should know him.”
“I advise you not to seek for him, monsieur; one has always a
little fever after a sword wound; you should know that, who have
had a dozen.”
“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried Bussy, struck with a new idea, “did my
dream begin outside the door instead of inside? Was there no
more a staircase and a passage, than there was a bed with white
and gold damask, and a portrait? Perhaps those wretches, thinking
me dead, carried me to the Temple, to divert suspicion, should
any one have seen them hiding. Certainly, it must be so, and
I have dreamed the rest. Mon Dieu! if they have procured for
me this dream which torments me so, I swear to make an end of
them all.”
“My dear seigneur,” said the doctor, “if you wish to get well,
you must not agitate yourself thus.”
“Except St. Luc,” continued Bussy, without attending; “he acted
as a friend, and my first visit shall be to him.”
“Not before five this evening.”
“If you wish it; but, I assure you, it is not going out and seeing
people which will make me ill, but staying quietly at home.”
“Well, it is possible; you are always a singular patient; act
as you please, only I recommend you not to get another wound
before this one is healed.”
Bussy promised to do his best to avoid it, and, after dressing,
called for his litter to take him to the Hôtel Montmorency.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW MADAME DE ST. LUC HAD PASSED THE NIGHT.
Louis de Clermont, commonly called Bussy d’Amboise, was a perfect
gentleman, and a very handsome man. Kings and princes had sought
for his friendship; queens and princesses had lavished on him
their sweetest smiles. He had succeeded La Mole in the affections
of Queen Marguerite, who had committed for him so many follies,
that even her husband, insensible so long, was moved at them;
and the Duke François would never have pardoned him, had it not
gained over Bussy to his interests, and once again he sacrificed
all to his ambition. But in the midst of all his successes of
war, ambition, and intrigue, he had remained insensible; and
he who had never known fear, had never either known love.
When the servants of M. de St. Luc saw Bussy enter, they ran to
tell M. de Brissac.
“Is M. de St. Luc at home?” asked Bussy.
“No, monsieur.”
“Where shall I find him?”
“I do not know, monsieur. We are all very anxious about him, for
he has not returned since yesterday.”
“Nonsense.”
“It is true, monsieur.”
“But Madame de St. Luc?”
“Oh, she is here.”
“Tell her I shall be charmed if she will allow me to pay my respects
to her.”
Five minutes after, the messenger returned, saying Madame de St.
Luc would be glad to see M. de Bussy.
When Bussy entered the room, Jeanne ran to meet him. She was
very pale, and her jet black hair made her look more so; her
eyes were red from her sleepless night, and there were traces
of tears on her cheeks.
“You are welcome, M. de Bussy,” said she, “in spite of the fears
your presence awakens.”
“What do you mean, madame? how can I cause you fear?”
“Ah! there was a meeting last night between you and M. de St.
Luc? confess it.”
“Between me and St. Luc!”
“Yes, he sent me away to speak to you; you belong to the Duc
d’Anjou, he to the king. You have quarrelled--do not hide it
from me. You must understand my anxiety. He went with the king,
it is true--but afterwards?”
“Madame, this is marvelous. I expected you to ask after my wound----”
“He wounded you; he did fight, then?”
“No, madame; not with me at least; it was not he who wounded
me. Indeed, he did all he could to save me. Did he not tell you
so?”
“How could he tell me? I have not seen him.”
“You have not seen him? Then your porter spoke the truth.”
“I have not seen him since eleven last night.”
“But where can he be?”
“I should rather ask you.”
“Oh, pardieu, tell me about it, it is very droll.”
The poor woman looked at him with astonishment.
“No, it is very sad, I mean. I have lost much blood, and scarcely
know what I am saying. Tell me this lamentable story, madame.”
Jeanne told all she knew; how the king had carried him off, the
shutting of the doors of the Louvre, and the message of the guards.
“Ah! very well, I understand,” said Bussy.
“How! you understand.”
“Yes; his majesty took him to the Louvre and once there he could
not come out again.”
“And why not?”
“Ah! that is a state secret.”
“But my father went to the Louvre, and I also, and the guards
said they did not know what we meant.”
“All the more reason that he should be there.”
“You think so?”
“I am sure of it, and if you wish to be so also----”
“How?”
“By seeing.”
“Can I?”
“Certainly.”
“But if I go there, they win send me away, as they did before.”
“Would you like to go in?”
“But if he is not there?”
“I tell you he is there. Come; but they will not let in the wife
of St. Luc.”
“You laugh at me, and it is very cruel in my distress.”
“No, dear lady, listen. You are young, you are tall, and have
black eyes; you are like my youngest page, who looked so well
in the cloth of gold yesterday.”
“Ah I what folly, M. Bussy,” cried Jeanne, blushing.
“I have no other method but this. If you wish to see St. Luc----”
“Oh! I would give all the world to see him.”
“Well, I promise that you shall without giving anything.”
“Oh, but----”
“I told you how.”
“Well, I will do it; shall I send for the dress?”
“No, I will send you a new one I have at home; then you must join
me this evening at the Rue St. Honoré. and we will go together to
the Louvre.” Jeanne began to laugh, and gave her hand to Bussy.
“Pardon my suspicions,” said she.
“Willingly,” and taking leave he went home to prepare.
Bussy and Madame de St. Luc met at the appointed time; Jeanne
looked beautiful in her disguise. At the end of the Rue St.
Germain-l’Auxerrois they met a large party in which Bussy recognized
the Duc d’Anjou and his train.
“Ah,” said he, “we will make a triumphal entry into the Louvre.”
“Eh! monseigneur,” cried he to the duke.
The prince turned. “You, Bussy!” cried he joyfully, “I heard you
were badly wounded, and I was going to your hotel.”
“Ma foi, monseigneur, if I am not dead, it is thanks to no one
but myself. You get me into nice situations; that ball at St.
Luc’s was a regular snare, and they have nearly drained all the
blood out of my body.”
“They shall pay for it, Bussy; they shall pay dearly.”
“Yes, you say so,” said Bussy, with his usual liberty, “and you
will smile on the first you meet.”
“Well! accompany me to the Louvre, and you shall see.”
“What shall I see, monseigneur?”
“How I will speak to my brother.”
“You promise me reparation?”
“I promise you shall be content. You hesitate still, I believe.”
“Monseigneur, I know you so well.”
“Come, I tell you.”
“This is good for you,” whispered Bussy to Jeanne. “There will
be a quarrel between the brothers, and meanwhile you can find
St. Luc.”
“Well,” said he to the prince, “I follow you; if I am insulted,
at least I can always revenge myself.”
And he took his place near the duke, while his page kept close
to him.
“Revenge yourself; no, Bussy,” said the prince, “I charge myself
with it. I know your assassins,” added he, in a low tone.
“What! your highness has taken the trouble to inquire?”
“I saw them.”
“How so?” cried Bussy, astonished.
“Oh! I had business myself at the Porte St. Antoine. They barely
missed killing me in your place. Ah! I did not know it was you
they were waiting for, or else----”
“Well?”
“Had you this new page with you?” asked the prince, without finishing
his sentence.
“No, I was alone, and you?”
“I had Aurilly with me; and why were you alone?”
“Because I wish to preserve my name of the brave Bussy.”
“And they wounded you?”
“I do not wish to give them the pleasure of knowing it, but I
had a severe wound in the side.”
“Ah! the wretches; Aurilly said he was sure they were bent on
mischief.”
“How! you saw the ambush, you were with Aurilly, who uses his
sword as well as his lute, you thought they had bad intentions,
and you did not watch to give aid?”
“I did not know who they were waiting for.”
“Mort diable! when you saw the king’s friends, you might have
known it was against some friends of yours. Now, as there is
hardly any one but myself who has courage to be your friend, you
might have guessed that it was I.”
“Oh! perhaps you are right, my dear Bussy, but I did not think
of all that.”
When they entered, “Remember your promise,” said Bussy, “I have
some one to speak to.”
“You leave me, Bussy?”
“Yes, I must, but if I hear a great noise I will come to you,
so speak loud.”
Then Bussy, followed by Jeanne, took a secret staircase, traversed
two or three corridors, and arrived at an antechamber.
“Wait here for me,” said he to Jeanne.
“Ah, mon Dieu! you leave me alone.”
“I must, to provide for your entrance.”
CHAPTER V.
HOW MADAME DE ST. LUC PASSED THE SECOND NIGHT OF HER MARRIAGE.
Bussy went straight to the sleeping-room of the king. There were
in it two beds of velvet and satin, pictures, relics, perfumed
sachets from the East, and a collection of beautiful swords.
Bussy knew the king was not there, as his brother had asked to
see him, but he knew that there was next to it a little room
which was occupied in turn by all the king’s favorites, and which
he now expected to find occupied by St. Luc, whom the king in his
great affection had carried off from his wife. Bussy knocked
at the antechamber common to the two rooms. The captain of the
guards opened.
“M. de Bussy!” cried he.
“Yes, myself, dear M. de Nancey; the king wishes to speak to M.
de St. Luc.”
“Very well, tell M. de St. Luc the king wants him.”
“What is he doing?”
“He is with Chicot, waiting for the king’s return from his brother.”
“Will you permit my page to wait here?”
“Willingly, monsieur.”
“Enter, Jean,” said Bussy, and he pointed to the embrasure of
a window, where she went to hide herself. St. Luc entered, and
M. de Nancey retired.
“What does the king want now?” cried St. Luc, angrily; “ah! it
is you, M. de Bussy.”
“I, and before everything, let me thank you for the service you
rendered me.”
“Ah! it was quite natural; I could not bear to see a brave gentleman
assassinated: I thought you killed.”
“It did not want much to do it, but I got off with a wound, which
I think I repaid with interest to Schomberg and D’Epernon. As
for Quelus, he may thank the bones of his head: they are the
hardest I ever knew.”
“Ah! tell me about it, it will amuse me a little.”
“I have no time now, I come for something else. You are ennuyé----”
“To death.”
“And a prisoner?”
“Completely. The king pretends no one can amuse him but me. He
is very good, for since yesterday I have made more grimaces than
his ape, and been more rude than his jester.”
“Well, it is my turn to render you a service: can I do it?”
“Yes, go to the Marshal de Brissac’s, and reassure my poor little
wife, who must be very uneasy, and must think my conduct very
strange.”
“What shall I say to her?”
“Morbleu! tell her what you see; that I am a prisoner, and that
the king talks to me of friendship like Cicero, who wrote on it;
and of virtue like Socrates, who practised it. It is in vain
I tell him I am ungrateful for the first, and incredulous as
to the last: he only repeats it over again.”
“Is that all I can do for you?”
“Ah, mon Dieu! I fear so.”
“Then it is done.”
“How so?”
“I guessed all this, and told your wife so.”
“And what did she say?”
“At first she would not believe; but I trust now,” continued
he, glancing towards the window, “she will yield to evidence.
Ask me something more difficult.”
“Then, bring here the griffin of Signor Astolfo, and let me mount
en croupe, and go to my wife.”
“A more simple thing would be to take the griffin to your wife
and bring her here.”
“Here!”
“Yes, here.”
“To the Louvre, that would be droll.”
“I should think so. Then you would be ennuyé no longer?”
“Ma foi! no, but if this goes on much longer, I believe I shall
kill myself.”
“Well! shall I give you my page?”
“To me?”
“Yes, he is a wonderful lad.”
“Thank you, but I detest pages.”
“Bah! try him.”
“Bussy, you mock me.”
“Let me leave him.”
“No.”
“I tell you, you will like him.”
“No, no, a hundred times, no.”
“Hola, page, come here.”
Jeanne came forward, blushing.
“Oh!” cried St. Luc, recognizing her, in astonishment.
“Well! shall I send him away?”
“No, no. Ah Bussy, I owe you an eternal friendship.”
“Take care, you cannot be heard, but you can be seen.”
“It is true,” said St. Luc, retreating from his wife. Indeed,
M. de Nancey was beginning to wonder what was going on, when
a great noise was heard from the gallery.
“Ah! mon Dieu!” cried M. de Nancey, “there is the king quarreling
with some one.”
“I really think so,” replied Bussy, affecting inquietude; “can
it be with the Duc d’Anjou, who came with me?”
The captain of the guard went off in the direction of the gallery.
“Have I not managed well?” said Bussy to St. Luc.
“What is it?”
“M. d’Anjou and the king are quarrelling; I must go to them. You
profit by the time to place in safety the page I have brought
you; is it possible?”
“Oh, yes; luckily I declared I was ill and must keep my room.”
“In that case, adieu, madame, and remember me in your prayers.”
And Bussy went off to the gallery, where the king, red with fury,
swore to the duke, who was pale with anger, that in the scene
of the preceding night Bussy was the aggressor.
“I affirm to you, sire,” cried the duke, “that D’Epernon, Schomberg
and Quelus were waiting for him at the Hôtel des Tournelles.”
“Who told you so?”
“I saw them with my own eyes.”
“In that darkness! The night was pitch dark.”
“I knew their voices.”
“They spoke to you?”
“They did more, they took me for Bussy, and attacked me.”
“You?”
“Yes, I.”
“And what were you doing there?”
“What does that matter to you?”
“I wish to know; I am curious to-day.”
“I was going to Manasses.”
“A Jew?”
“You go to Ruggieri, a poisoner.”
“I go where I like: I am the king. Besides, as I said, Bussy was
the aggressor.”
“Where?”
“At St. Luc’s ball.”
“Bussy provoked five men? No, no, he is brave, but he is not mad.”
“Par la mordieu! I tell you I heard him. Besides, he has wounded
Schomberg in the thigh, D’Epernon in the arm, and half killed
Quelus.”
“Ah! really I did not know; I compliment him on it.”
“I will make example of this brawler.”
“And I, whom your friends attack, in his person and in my own,
will know if I am your brother, and if----”
At this moment Bussy, dressed in pale-green satin, entered the
room.
“Sire!” said he, “receive my humble respects.”
“Pardieu! here he is,” cried Henri.
“Your majesty, it seems, was doing me the honor of speaking of
me.”
“Yes, and I am glad to see that, in spite of what they told me,
your look shows good health.”
“Sire, blood drawn improves the complexion, so mine ought to be
good this morning.”
“Well, since they have wounded you, complain, and I will do you
justice.”
“I complain of nothing, sire.”
Henri looked astonished. “What did you say?” said he to the duke.
“I said that Bussy had received a wound in his side.”
“Is it true, Bussy?”
“The first prince of the blood would not lie, sire.”
“And yet you do not complain?”
“I shall never complain, sire, until they cut off my right-hand,
and prevent my revenging myself, and then I will try to do it
with the left.”
“Insolent,” murmured Henri.
“Sire,” said the duke, “do justice; we ask no better. Order an
inquiry, name judges, and let it be proved who prepared the ambush
and the intended murder.”
Henri reddened. “No,” said he, “I prefer this time to be ignorant
where the wrong lies, and to pardon everyone. I wish these enemies
to make peace, and I am sorry that Schomberg and D’Epernon are
kept at home by their wounds. Say, M. d’Anjou, which do you call
the most forward to fight of all my friends, as you say you saw
them?”
“Sire, it was Quelus.”
“Ma foi! yes,” said Quelus, “his highness is right.”
“Then,” said Henri, “let MM. Bussy and Quelus make peace in the
name of all.”
“Oh! Oh!” said Quelus, “what does that mean, sire?”
“It means that you are to embrace here, before me.” Quelus frowned.
“Ah, signor,” cried Bussy, imitating a pantaloon, “will you not
do me this favor?”
Even the king laughed. Then, approaching Quelus, Bussy threw his
arms round his neck, saying, “The king wishes it.”
“I hope it engages us to nothing,” whispered Quelus.
“Be easy,” answered Bussy, “we will meet soon.”
Quelus drew back in a rage, and Bussy, making a pirouette, went
out of the gallery.
CHAPTER VI.
LE PETIT COUCHER OF HENRI III.
After this scene, beginning in tragedy and ending in comedy,
the king, still angry, went to his room, followed by Chicot, who
asked for his supper.
“I am not hungry,” said the king.
“It is possible, but I am.”
The king did not seem to hear. He unclasped his cloak, took off
his cap, and, advancing to the passage which led to St. Luc’s
room, said to Chicot, “Wait here for me till I return.”
“Oh! do not be in a hurry,” said Chicot. No sooner was the king
gone, than Chicot opened the door and called “Hola!”
A valet came. “The king has changed his mind,” said Chicot, “he
wishes a good supper here for himself and St. Luc, above all,
plenty of wine, and despatch.”
The valet went to execute the orders, which he believed to be
the king’s. Henri meanwhile had passed into St. Luc’s room. He
found him in bed, having prayers read to him by an old servant
who had followed him to the Louvre, and shared his captivity.
In a corner, on an armchair, his head buried in his hands, slept
the page.
“Who is that young man?” asked the king.
“Did not your majesty authorize me to send for a page.”
“Yes, doubtless.”
“Well, I have profited by it.”
“Oh!”
“Does your majesty repent of having allowed me this little
indulgence?”
“No, no, on the contrary, amuse yourself, my son. How are you?”
“Sire, I have a fever.”
“Really, your face is red; let me feel your pulse, I am half a
doctor.”
St. Luc held out his hand with visible ill-humor.
“Oh!” said the king, “intermittent--agitated.”
“Yes, sire, I am very ill.”
“I will send you my doctor.”
“Thank you, sire, but I hate Miron.”
“I will watch you myself. You shall have a bed in my room, and
we will talk all night.”
“Oh!” cried St Luc, “you see me ill, and you want to keep me from
sleeping. That is a singular way to treat your patient, doctor.”
“But you cannot be left alone, suffering as you are.”
“Sire, I have my page, Jean.”
“But he sleeps.”
“That is what I like best, then he will not disturb me.”
“Well, come and assist at my going to bed.”
“Then I shall be free to come back to bed?”
“Perfectly.”
“Well, so be it. But I shall make a bad courtier, I assure you;
I am dying with sleep.”
“You shall yawn at your ease.”
“Sire, if your majesty will leave me, I will be with you in five
minutes.”
“Well, then, five minutes, but no longer.”
As soon as the door was shut, the page jumped up. “Ah! St. Luc,”
cried she, “you are going to leave me again. Mon Dieu! I shall
die of fright here, if they discover me.”
“My dear Jeanne, Gaspard here will protect you.”
“Had I not better go back?”
“If you really wish it, Jeanne,” said St. Luc, sadly, “you shall.
But if you are as good as you are beautiful, if you have any
feeling in your heart for me, you will wait here a little. I
shall suffer so much from my head and nerves that the king will
not long keep so sad a companion.”
“Go, then,” said Jeanne, “and I will wait.”
“My dear Jeanne, you are adorable. Trust me to returns as soon
as possible, Besides, I have an idea, which I will tell you when
I return.”
“An idea which will restore your liberty?”
“I hope so.”
“Then go,”
“Gaspard,” said St. Luc, “prevent any one from entering here,
and in a quarter of an hour lock the door, and bring me the key
to the king’s room. Then go home, and tell them not to be uneasy
about Madame la Comtesse, and come back to-morrow.”
Then St. Luc kissed his wife’s hand, and went to the king, who
was already growing impatient. Jeanne, alone and trembling, hid
behind the curtains of the bed. When St. Luc entered he found
the king amidst a perfect carpet of flowers, of which the stalks
had been cut off-roses, jasmine, violets, and wall-flowers, in
spite of the severe weather, formed an odorous carpet for Henry
III. The chamber, of which the roof was painted, had in it two
beds, one of which was so large as to occupy a third of the room.
It was hung with gold and silk tapestry, representing mythological
figures and the windows had curtains to match. From the center
of the ceiling hung, suspended by a golden chain, a silver gilt
lamp, in which burned a perfumed oil. At the side of the bed was
a golden satyr, holding in his hand a candelabrum, containing
four rose-color wax candles, also perfumed.
The king, with his naked feet resting on the flowers, was seated
on a chair of ebony inlaid with gold; he had on his knees seven
or eight young spaniels, who were licking his bands. Two servants
were curling his hair, his mustachios, and beard, a third was
covering his face with a kind of cream, which had a most delightful
scent.
“Here,” cried Chicot, “the grease and the combs, I will try them
too.”
“Chicot,” said Henri, “your skin is too dry, and will use too
much cream, and your beard is so hard, it will break my combs.
Well, my son,” said he, turning to St. Luc, “how is your head?”
St. Luc put his hand to his head and groaned.
“Imagine!” continued Henri, “I have seen Bussy d’Amboise.”
“Bussy!” cried St. Luc, trembling.
“Yes, those fools! five of them attacked him, and let him escape.
If you had been there, St. Luc----”
“I should probably have been like the others.”
“Oh! no, I wager you are as good as Bussy. We will try to-morrow.”
“Sire, I am too ill for anything.”
Henri, hearing a singular noise, turned round, and saw Chicot
eating up all the supper that had been brought for two.
“What the devil are you doing, M. Chicot?” cried Henri.
“Taking my cream internally, since you will not allow me to do
it outwardly.”
“Go and fetch my captain of the guards,” said Henri.
“What for?” asked Chicot, emptying a porcelain cup of chocolate.
“To pass his sword through your body.”
“Ah! let him come, we shall see!” cried Chicot, putting himself
in such a comical attitude of defense that every one laughed.
“But I am hungry,” cried the king; “and the wretch has eaten up
all the supper.”
“You are capricious, Henri; I offered you supper and you refused.
However, your bouillon is left; I am no longer hungry, and I am
going to bed.”
“And I also,” said St. Luc, “for I can stand no longer.”
“Stay, St. Luc,” said the king, “take these,” and he offered him
a handful of little dogs.
“What for?”
“To sleep with you; they will take your illness from you.”
“Thanks, sire,” said St. Luc, putting them back in their basket,
“but I have no confidence in your receipt.”
“I will come and visit you in the night, St. Luc.”
“Pray do not, sire, you will only disturb me,” and saluting the
king, he went away. Chicot had already disappeared, and there
only remained with the king the valets, who covered his face
with a mask of fine cloth, plastered with the perfumed cream,
in which were holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth; a cap of silk
and silver fixed it on the forehead and ears. They next covered
his arms with sleeves made of wadded silk, and then presented
him with kid gloves, also greased inside.
These mysteries of the royal toilet finished, they presented to
him his soup in a golden cup. Then Henri said a prayer, a short
one that night, and went to bed.
When settled there, he ordered them to carry away the flowers,
which were beginning to make the air sickly, and to open the
window for a moment. Then the valet closed the doors and curtains,
and called in Narcissus, the king’s favorite dog, who, jumping on
the bed, settled himself at once on the king’s feet. The valet
next put out the wax-lights, lowered the lamp, and went out softly.
Already, more tranquil and nonchalant than the lazy monks of
his kingdom in their fat abbeys, the King of France no longer
remembered that there was a France.--He slept.
Every noise was hushed, and one might have heard a bat fly in
the somber corridors of the Louvre.
CHAPTER VII.
HOW, WITHOUT ANY ONE KNOWING WHY, THE KING WAS CONVERTED BEFORE
THE NEXT DAY.
Three hours passed thus.
Suddenly, a terrible cry was heard, which came from the king’s
room.
All the lights in his room were out, and no sound was to be heard
except this strange call of the king’s. For it was he who had
cried.
Soon was heard the noise of furniture falling, porcelain breaking,
steps running about the room, and the barking of dogs-mingled
with new cries. Almost instantly lights burned, swords shone
in the galleries, and the heavy steps of the Guards were heard.
“To arms!” cried all, “the king calls.”
And the captain of the guard, the colonel of the Swiss, and some
attendants, rushed into the king’s room with flambeaux.
Near an overturned chair, broken cups, and disordered bed, stood
Henri, looking terrified and grotesque in his night-dress. His
right hand was extended, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and
his left held his sword, which he had seized mechanically.
He appeared dumb through terror, and all the spectators, not daring
to break the silence, waited with the utmost anxiety.
Then appeared, half dressed and wrapped in a large cloak, the
young queen, Louise de Lorraine, blonde and gentle, who led the
life of a saint upon earth, and who had been awakened by her
husband’s cries.
“Sire,” cried she, also trembling, “what is the matter? Mon Dieu!
I heard your cries, and I came.”
“It--it is nothing,” said the king, without moving his eyes,
which seemed to be looking up the air for some form invisible
to all but him.
“But your majesty cried out; is your majesty suffering?” asked
the queen.
Terror was so visibly painted on the king’s countenance, that
it began to gain on the others.
“Oh, sire!” cried the queen again, “in Heaven’s name do not leave
us in this suspense. Will you have a doctor?”
“A doctor, no,” cried Henri, in the same tone, “the body is not
ill, it is the mind; no doctor--a confessor.”
Everyone looked round; nowhere was there to be seen any traces
of what had so terrified the king. However, a confessor was sent
for; Joseph Foulon, superior of the convent of St. Généviève,
was torn from his bed, to come to the king. With the confessor,
the tumult ceased, and silence was reestablished; everyone
conjectured and wondered--the king was confessing.
The next day the king rose early, and began to read prayers then
he ordered all his friends to be sent for. They sent to St. Luc,
but he was more suffering than ever. His sleep, or rather his
lethargy, had been so profound, that he alone had heard nothing
of the tumult in the night, although he slept so near. He begged
to be left in bed. At this deplorable recital, Henri crossed
himself, and sent him a doctor.
Then he ordered that all the scourges from the convent should
be brought to him, and, going to his friends, distributed them,
ordering them to scourge each other as hard as they could.
D’Epernon said that as his right arm was in a sling, and he could
not return the blows he received, he ought to be exempt, but the
king replied that that would only make it the more acceptable
to God.
He himself set the example. He took off his doublet, waistcoat,
and shirt, and struck himself like a martyr. Chicot tried to
laugh, as usual, but was warned by a terrible look, that this
was not the right time, and he was forced to take a scourge like
the others.
All at once the king left the room, telling them to wait for him.
Immediately the blows ceased, only Chicot continued to strike
D’O, whom he hated, and D’O returned it as well as he could. It
was a duel with whips.
The king went to the queen, gave her a pearl necklace worth 25,000
crowns, and kissed her, which he had not done for a year. Then
he asked her to put off her royal ornaments and put on a sack.
Louise, always good, consented, but asked why her husband gave
her a necklace, and yet made such a request.
“For my sins,” replied he.
The queen said no more, for she knew, better than any one, how
many he had to repent of.
Henri returned, which was a signal for the flagellation to
recommence. In ten minutes the queen arrived, with her sack on
her shoulders. Then tapers were distributed to all the court, and
barefooted, through the snow, all the courtiers and fine ladies
went to Montmartre, shivering. At five o’clock the promenade was
over, the convents had received rich presents, the feet of all
the court were swollen, and the backs of the courtiers sore. There
had been tears, cries, prayers, incense, and psalms. Everyone
had suffered, without knowing why the king, who danced the night
before, scourged himself to-day. As for Chicot, he had escaped at
the Porte Montmartre, and, with Brother Gorenflot, had entered a
public-house, where he had eaten and drank. Then he had rejoined
the procession and returned to the Louvre.
In the evening the king, fatigued with his fast and his exercise,
ordered himself a light supper, had his shoulders washed, and
then went to visit St. Luc.
“Ah!” cried he, “God has done well to render life so bitter.”
“Why so, sire?”
“Because then man, instead of fearing death, longs for it.”
“Speak for yourself, sire, I do not long for it at all.”
“Listen, St. Luc, will you follow my example?”
“If I think it a good one.”
“I will leave my throne, and you your wife, and we will enter
a cloister. I will call myself Brother Henri----”
“Pardon, sire, if you do not care for your crown, of which you
are tired, I care very much for my wife, whom I know so little.
Therefore I refuse.”
“Oh! you are better.”
“Infinitely better, sire; I feel quite joyous, and disposed for
happiness and pleasure.”
“Poor St. Luc!” cried the king, clasping his hands.
“You should have asked me yesterday, sire, then I was ill and
cross. I would have thrown myself into a well for a trifle. But
this evening it is quite a different thing. I have passed a good
night and a charming day. Mordieu, vive la joie!”
“You swear, St. Luc.”
“Did I, sire? but I think you swear sometimes.”
“I have sworn, St. Luc, but I shall swear no more.”
“I cannot say that; I will not swear more than I can help, and
God is merciful.”
“You think he will pardon me?”
“Oh! I speak for myself, not for you, sire. You have sinned as a
king, I as a private man, and we shall, I trust, be differently
judged.”
The king sighed. “St. Luc,” said he, “will you pass the night
in my room?”
“Why, what should we do?”
“We will light all the lamps, I will go to bed, and you shall
read prayers to me.”
“No, thank you, sire.”
“You will not?”
“On no account.”
“You abandon me, St. Luc!”
“No, I will stay with your majesty, if you will send for music
and ladies, and have a dance.”
“Oh, St. Luc, St. Luc!”
“I am wild to-night, sire, I want to dance and drink.”
“St. Luc,” said the king, solemnly, “do you ever dream?”
“Often, sire.”
“You believe in dreams?”
“With reason.”
“How so?”
“Dreams console for the reality. Last night I had a charming dream.”
“What was it?”
“I dreamed that my wife----”
“You still think of your wife?”
“More than ever, sire; well, I dreamed that she, with her charming
face--for she is pretty, sire----”
“So was Eve, who ruined us all.”
“Well, my wife had procured wings and the form of a bird, and
so, braving locks and bolts, she passed over the walls of the
Louvre, and came to my window, crying, ‘Open, St. Luc, open,
my husband.’”
“And you opened?”
“I should think so.”
“Worldly.”
“As you please, sire.”
“Then you woke?”
“No, indeed, the dream was too charming; and I hope to-night to
dream again; therefore I refuse your majesty’s obliging offer.
If I sit up, let me at least have something to pay me for losing
my dream. If your majesty will do as I said----”
“Enough, St. Luc. I trust Heaven will send you a dream to-night
which will lead you to repentance.”
“I doubt it, sire, and I advise you to send away this libertine
St. Luc, who is resolved not to amend.”
“No, no, I hope, before to-morrow, grace will have touched you
as it has me. Good night, I will pray for you.”
CHAPTER VIII.
HOW THE KING WAS AFRAID OF BEING AFRAID.
When the king left St. Luc, he found the court, according to
his orders, in the great gallery. Then he gave D’O, D’Epernon
and Schomberg an order to retire into the provinces, threatened
Quelus and Maugiron to punish them if they quarreled anymore
with Bussy, to whom he gave his hand to kiss, and then embraced
his brother François.
As for the queen, he was prodigal in politeness to her.
When the usual time for retiring approached, the king seemed trying
to retard it. At last ten o’clock struck.
“Come with me, Chicot,” then said he, “good night, gentlemen.”
“Good night, gentlemen,” said Chicot, “we are going to bed. I
want my barber, my hairdresser, my valet de chambre, and, above
all, my cream.”
“No,” said the king, “I want none of them to-night; Lent is going
to begin.”
“I regret the cream,” said Chicot.
The king and Chicot entered the room, which we already know.
“Ah ça! Henri,” said Chicot, “I am the favorite to-night. Am I
handsomer than that Cupid, Quelus?”
“Silence, Chicot, and you, gentlemen of the toilette, go out.”
They obeyed, and the king and Chicot were left alone.
“Why do you send them away?” asked Chicot, “they have not greased
us yet. Are you going to grease me with your own royal hand? It
would be an act of humility.”
“Let us pray,” said Henri.
“Thank you, that is not amusing. If that be what you called me
here for, I prefer to return to the bad company I have left.
Adieu, my son. Good night.”
“Stay,” said the king.
“Oh! this is tyranny. You are a despot, a Phalaris, a Dionysius.
All day you have made me tear the shoulders of my friends with
cow-hide, and now we are to begin again. Do not let us do it,
Henri, when there’s but two, every blow tells.”
“Hold your tongue, miserable chatterer, and think of repentance.”
“I repent! And of what? Of being jester to a monk. Confiteor--I
repent, mea culpa, it is a great sin.”
“No sacrilege, wretch.”
“Ah! I would rather he shut up in a cage with lions and apes,
than with a mad king. Adieu, I am going.”
The king locked the door.
“Henri, you look sinister; if you do not let me go, I will cry,
I will call, I will break the window, I will kick down the door.”
“Chicot,” said the king, in a melancholy tone, “you abuse my
sadness.”
“Ah! I understand, you are afraid to be alone. Tyrants always
are so. Take my long sword, and let me take the scabbard to my
room.”
At the word “afraid,” Henri shuddered, and he looked nervously
around, and seemed so agitated and grew so pale, that Chicot
began to think him really ill, and said,--
“Come, my son, what is the matter, tell your troubles to your
friend Chicot.”
The king looked at him and said, “Yes, you are my friend, my only
friend.”
“There is,” said Chicot, “the abbey of Valency vacant.”
“Listen, Chicot, you are discreet.”
“There is also that of Pithiviers, where they make such good pies.”
“In spite of your buffooneries, you are a brave man.”
“Then do not give me an abbey, give me a regiment.”
“And even a wise one.”
“Then do not give me a regiment, make me a counselor; but no,
when I think of it, I should prefer a regiment, for I should
be always forced to be of the king’s opinion.”
“Hold your tongue, Chicot, the terrible hour approaches.”
“Ah! you are beginning again.”
“You will hear.”
“Hear what?”
“Wait, and the event will show you. Chicot, you are brave!”
“I boast of it, but I do not wish to try. Call your captain of
the guard, your Swiss, and let me go away from this invisible
danger.”
“Chicot, I command you to stay.”
“On my word, a nice master. I am afraid, I tell you. Help!”
“Well, drôle, if I must, I will tell you all.”
“Ah!” cried Chicot, drawing his sword, “once warned, I do not
care; tell, my son, tell. Is it a crocodile? my sword is sharp,
for I use it every week to cut my corns.” And Chicot sat down
in the armchair with his drawn sword between his legs.
“Last night,” said Henri, “I slept----”
“And I also,” said Chicot.
“Suddenly a breath swept over my face.”
“It was the dog, who was hungry, and who licked your cream.”
“I half woke, and felt my beard bristle with terror under my mask.”
“Ah! you make me tremble deliciously.”
“Then,” continued the king, in a trembling voice, “then a voice
sounded through the room, with a doleful vibration.”
“The voice of the crocodile! I have read in Marco Polo, that
the crocodile has a voice like the crying of children; but be
easy, my son, for if it comes, we will kill it.”
“‘Listen! miserable sinner,’ said the voice----”
“Oh! it spoke; then it was not a crocodile.”
“‘Miserable sinner,’ said the voice, ‘I am the angel of God.’”
“The angel of God!”
“Ah! Chicot, it was a frightful voice.”
“Was it like the sound of a trumpet?”
“‘Are you there?’ continued the voice, ‘do you hear, hardened
sinner; are you determined to persevere in your iniquities?’”
“Ah, really; he said very much the same as other people, it seems
to me.”
“Then, Chicot, followed many other reproaches, which I assure
you were most painful.”
“But tell me what he said, that I may see if he was well informed?”
“Impious! do you doubt?”
“I? all that astonishes me is, that he waited so long to reproach
you. So, my son, you were dreadfully afraid?”
“Oh, yes, the marrow seemed to dry in my bones.”
“It is quite natural; on my word, I do not know what I should
have done in your place. And then you called?”
“Yes.”
“And they came?”
“Yes.”
“And there was no one here?”
“No one.”
“It is frightful.”
“So frightful, that I sent for my confessor.”
“And he came?”
“Immediately.”
“Now, be frank, my son; tell the truth for once. What did he
think of your revelation?”
“He shuddered.”
“I should think so.”
“He ordered me to repent, as the voice told me.”
“Very well. There can be no harm in repenting. But what did he
think of the vision?”
“That it was a miracle, and that I must think of it seriously.
Therefore, this morning----”
“What have you done?”
“I gave 100,000 livres to the Jesuits.”
“Very well.”
“And scourged myself and my friends.”
“Perfect! but after?”
“Well, what do you think of it, Chicot? It is not to the jester
I speak, but to the man of sense, to my friend.”
“Ah, sire, I think your majesty had the nightmare.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, it was a dream, which will not be renewed, unless your majesty
thinks too much about it.”
“A dream? No, Chicot, I was awake, my eyes were open.”
“I sleep like that.”
“Yes, but then you do not see, and I saw the moon shining through
my windows, and its light on the amethyst in the hilt of my sword,
which lay in that chair where you are.”
“And the lamp?”
“Had gone out.”
“A dream, my son.”
“Why do you not believe, Chicot? It is said that God speaks to
kings, when He wishes to effect some change on the earth.”
“Yes, he speaks, but so low that they never hear Him.”
“Well, do you know why I made you stay?--that you might hear as
well as I.”
“No one would believe me if I said I heard it.”
“My friend, it is a secret which I confide to your known fidelity.”
“Well, I accept. Perhaps it will also speak to me.”
“Well, what must I do?”
“Go to bed, my son.”
“But----”
“Do you think that sitting up will keep it away?”
“Well, then, you remain.”
“I said so.”
“Well, then, I will go to bed.”
“Good.”
“But you will not?”
“Certainly not, I will stay here.”
“You will not go to sleep?”
“Oh, that I cannot promise; sleep is like fear, my son, a thing
independent of will.”
“You will try, at least?”
“Be easy; I will pinch myself. Besides, the voice would wake me.”
“Do not joke about the voice.”
“Well, well, go to bed.”
The king sighed, looked round anxiously, and glided tremblingly
into bed. Then Chicot established him in his chair, arranging
round him the pillows and cushions.
“How do you feel, sire?” said he.
“Pretty well; and you?”
“Very well; good night, Henri.”
“Good night, Chicot; do not go to sleep.”
“Of course not,” said Chicot, yawning fit to break his jaws.
And they both closed their eyes, the king to pretend to sleep,
Chicot to sleep really.
CHAPTER IX.
HOW THE ANGEL MADE A MISTAKE AND SPOKE TO CHICOT, THINKING IT
WAS THE KING.
The king and Chicot remained thus for some time. All at once the
king jumped up in his bed. Chicot woke at the noise.
“What is it?” asked he in a low voice.
“The breath on my face.”
As he spoke, one of the wax lights went out, then the other,
and the rest followed. Then the lamp also went out, and the room
was lighted only by the rays of the moon. At the same moment
they heard a hollow voice, saying, apparently from the end of
the room,--
“Hardened sinner, art thou there?”
“Yes,” said Henri, with chattering teeth.
“Oh!” thought Chicot, “that is a very hoarse voice to come from
heaven; nevertheless, it is dreadful.”
“Do you hear?” asked the voice.
“Yes, and I am bowed down to the earth.”
“Do you believe you obeyed me by all the exterior mummeries which
you performed yesterday, without your heart being touched?”
“Very well said,” thought Chicot. He approached the king softly.
“Do you believe now?” asked the king, with clasped hands.
“Wait.”
“What for?”
“Hush! leave your bed quietly, and let me get in.”
“Why?”
“That the anger of the Lord may fall first on me.”
“Do you think He will spare me for that?”
“Let us try,” and he pushed the king gently out and got into his
place.
“Now, go to my chair, and leave all to me.”
Henri obeyed; he began to understand.
“You do not reply,” said the voice; “you are hardened in sin.”
“Oh! pardon! pardon!” cried Chicot, imitating the king’s voice.
Then he whispered to Henri, “It is droll that the angel does
not know me.”
“What can it mean?”
“Wait.”
“Wretch!” said the voice.
“Yes, I confess,” said Chicot; “I am a hardened sinner, a dreadful
sinner.”
“Then acknowledge your crimes, and repent.”
“I acknowledge to have been a great traitor to my cousin Condé,
whose wife I seduced.”
“Oh! hush,” said the king, “that is so long ago.”
“I acknowledge,” continued Chicot, “to have been a great rogue
to the Poles, who chose me for king, and whom I abandoned one
night, carrying away the crown jewels. I repent of this.”
“Ah!” whispered Henri again: “that is all forgotten.”
“Hush! let me speak.”
“Go on,” said the voice.
“I acknowledge having stolen the crown from my brother D’Alençon,
to whom it belonged of right, as I had formerly renounced it on
accepting the crown of Poland.”
“Knave!” said the king.
“Go on,” said the voice.
“I acknowledge having joined my mother, to chase from France
my brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, after having destroyed
all his friends.”
“Ah!” whispered the king, angrily.
“Sire, do not let us offend God, by trying to hide what He knows
as well as we do.”
“Leave politics,” said the voice.
“Ah!” cried Chicot, with a doleful voice, “is it my private life
I am to speak of?”
“Yes.”
“I acknowledge, then, that I am effeminate, idle, and hypocritical.”
“It is true.”
“I have ill-treated my wife--such a worthy woman.”
“One ought to love one’s wife as one’s self, and prefer her to
all things,” said the voice, angrily.
“Ah!” cried Chicot, “then I have sinned deeply.”
“And you have made others sin by your example.”
“It is true.”
“Especially that poor St. Luc; and if you do not send him home
to-morrow to his wife, there will be no pardon for you.”
“Ah!” said Chicot to the king, “the voice seems to be friendly
to the house of Cossé.”
“And you must make him a duke, to recompense him for his forced
stay.”
“Peste!” said Chicot; “the angel is much interested for M. de
St. Luc.”
“Oh!” cried the king, without listening, “this voice from on high
will kill me.”
“Voice from the side, you mean,” said Chicot.
“How! a voice from the side?”
“Yes; can you not hear that the voice comes from that wall,
Henri?--the angel lodges in the Louvre.”
“Blasphemer!”
“Why, it is honorable for you; but you do not seem to recognize
it. Go and visit him; he is only separated from you by that
partition.”
A ray of the moon falling on Chicot’s face, showed it to the
king so laughing and amused, that he said, “What! you dare to
laugh?”
“Yes, and so will you in a minute. Be reasonable, and do as I
tell you. Go and see if the angel be not in the next room.”
“But if he speak again?”
“Well, I am here to answer. He is vastly credulous. For the last
quarter of an hour I have been talking, and he has not recognized
me. It is not clever!”
Henri frowned. “I begin to believe you are right, Chicot,” said
he.
“Go, then.”
Henri opened softly the door which led into the corridor. He
had scarcely entered it, when he heard the voice redoubling its
reproaches, and Chicot replying.
“Yes,” said the voice, “you are as inconstant as a woman, as soft
as a Sybarite, as irreligious as a heathen.”
“Oh!” whined Chicot, “is it my fault if I have such a soft skin--such
white hands--such a changeable mind? But from to-day I will alter--I
will wear coarse linen----”
However, as Henri advanced, he found that Chicot’s voice grew
fainter, and the other louder, and that it seemed to come from
St. Luc’s room, in which he could see a light. He stooped down
and peeped through the keyhole, and immediately grew pale with
anger.
“Par la mordieu!” murmured he, “is it possible that they have
dared to play such a trick?”
This is what he saw through the keyhole. St. Luc, in a dressing-gown,
was roaring through a tube the words which he had found so dreadful,
and beside him, leaning on his shoulder, was a lady in white, who
every now and then took the tube from him, and called through
something herself, while stifled bursts of laughter accompanied
each sentence of Chicot’s, who continued to answer in a doleful
tone.
“Jeanne de Cossé in St. Luc’s room! A hole in the wall! such
a trick on me! Oh! they shall pay dearly for it!”. And with a
vigorous kick he burst open the door.
Jeanne rushed behind the curtains to hide herself, while St.
Luc, his face full of terror, fell on his knees before the king,
who was pale with rage.
“Ah!” cried Chicot, from the bed, “Ah! mercy!--Holy Virgin! I
am dying!”
Henri, seizing, in a transport of rage, the trumpet from the
hands of St. Luc, raised it as if to strike. But St. Luc jumped
up and cried--
“Sire, I am a gentleman; you have no right to strike me!”
Henri dashed the trumpet violently on the ground. Some one picked
it up; it was Chicot, who, hearing the noise, judged that his
presence was necessary as a mediator. He ran to the curtain,
and, drawing out poor Jeanne, all trembling--
“Oh!” said he, “Adam and Eve after the Fall. You send them away,
Henri, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“Then I will be the exterminating angel.”
And throwing himself between, the king and St. Luc, and waving
the trumpet over the heads of the guilty couple, said--
“This is my Paradise, which you have lost by your disobedience;
I forbid you to return to it.”
Then he whispered to St. Luc, who had his arm round his wife--
“If you have a good horse, kill it, but be twenty leagues from
here before to-morrow.”
CHAPTER X.
HOW BUSSY WENT TO SEEK FOR THE REALITY OF HIS DREAM.
When Bussy returned home again, he was still thinking of his dream.
“Morbleu!” said he, “it is impossible that a dream should have left
such a vivid impression on my mind. I see it all so clearly;--the
bed, the lady, the doctor. I must seek for it--surely I can find
it again.” Then Bussy, after having the bandage of his wound
resettled by a valet, put on high boots, took his sword, wrapped
himself in his cloak, and set off for the same place where he had
been nearly murdered the night before, and nearly at the same
hour.
He went in a litter to the Rue Roi-de-Sicile, then got out, and
told his servants to wait for him. It was about nine in the evening,
the curfew had sounded, and Paris was deserted. Bussy arrived
at the Bastile, then he sought for the place where his horse
had fallen, and thought he had found it; he next endeavored to
repeat his movements of the night before, retreated to the wall,
and examined every door to find the corner against which he had
leaned, but all the doors seemed alike.
“Pardieu!” said he, “if I were to knock at each of these doors
question all the lodgers, spend a thousand crowns to make valets
and old women speak, I might learn what I want to know. There
are fifty houses; it would take me at least five nights.”
As he spoke, he perceived a small and trembling light approaching.
This light advanced slowly, and irregularly, stopping occasionally,
moving on again, and going first to the right, then to the left,
then, for a minute, coming straight on, and again diverging.
Bussy leaned against a door, and waited. The light continued
to advance, and soon he could see a black figure, which, as it
advanced, took the form of a man, holding a lantern in his left
hand. He appeared to Bussy to belong to the honorable fraternity
of drunkards, for nothing else seemed to explain the eccentric
movements of the lantern. At last he slipped over a piece of
ice, and fell. Bussy was about to come forward and offer his
assistance, but the man and the lantern were quickly up again,
and advanced directly towards him, when he saw, to his great
surprise, that the man had a bandage over his eyes. “Well!” thought
he, “it is a strange thing to play at blind man’s buff with a
lantern in your hand. Am I beginning to dream again? And, good
heavens! he is talking to himself. If he be not drunk or mad,
he is a mathematician.”
This last surmise was suggested by the words that Bussy heard.
“488, 489, 490,” murmured the man, “it must be near here.” And
then he raised his bandage, and finding himself in front of a
house, examined it attentively.
“No, it is not this,” he said. Then, putting back his bandage,
he recommenced his walk and his calculations. “491, 492, 493,
494; I must be close.” And he raised his bandage again, and,
approaching the door next to that against which Bussy was standing,
began again to examine.
“Hum!” said he, “it might, but all these doors are so alike.”
“The same reflection I have just made,” thought Bussy.
However, the mathematician now advanced to the next door, and
going up to it, found himself face to face with Bussy.
“Oh!” cried he, stepping back.
“Oh!” cried Bussy.
“It is not possible.”
“Yes; but it is extraordinary. You are the doctor?”
“And you the gentleman?”
“Just so.”
“Mon Dieu! how strange.”
“The doctor,” continued Bussy, “who yesterday dressed a wound
for a gentleman?”
“Yes, in the right side.”
“Exactly so. You had a gentle, light, and skilful hand.”
“Ah, sir, I did not expect to find you here.”
“But what were you looking for?”
“The house.”
“Then you do not know it?”
“How should I? They brought me here with my eyes bandaged.”
“Then you really came here?”
“Either to this house or the next.”
“Then I did not dream?”
“Dream?”
“I confess I feared it was all a dream.”
“Ah! I fancied there was some mystery.”
“A mystery which you must help me to unravel.”
“Willingly.”
“What is your name?”
“Monsieur, to such a question I ought, perhaps, to reply by looking
fierce, and saying, ‘Yours, monsieur, if you please; but you have
a long sword, and I only a lancet; you seem to me a gentleman,
and I cannot appear so to you, for I am wet and dirty. Therefore,
I reply frankly: I am called Rémy-le-Haudouin.”
“Very well, monsieur; I thank you. I am Louis de Clermont, Comte
de Bussy.”
“Bussy d’Amboise! the hero Bussy!” cried the young doctor, joyfully.
“What, monsieur, you are that famous Bussy----?”
“I am Bussy,” replied he. “And now, wet and dirty as you are,
will you satisfy my curiosity?”
“The fact is,” said the young man, “that I shall be obliged,
like Epaminondas the Theban, to stay two days at home, for I
have but one doublet and trousers. But, pardon, you did me the
honor to question me, I think?”
“Yes, monsieur, I asked you how you came to this house?”
“M. le Comte, this is how it happened; I lodge in the Rue
Beauheillis, 502 steps from here. I am a poor surgeon, not unskilful,
I hope.”
“I can answer for that.”
“And who has studied much, but without any patients. Seven or
eight days ago, a man having received behind the Arsenal a stab
with a knife, I sewed up the wound, and cured him. This made for
me some reputation in the neighborhood, to which I attribute
the happiness of having been last night awoke by a pretty voice.”
“A woman’s?”
“Yes, but, rustic as I am, I knew it to be the voice of a servant.
I know them well.”
“And what did you do?”
“I rose and opened my door, but scarcely had I done so, when two
little hands, not very soft, but not very hard, put a bandage
over my eyes, without saying anything.”
“‘Oh!’ she said, ‘come, do not try to see where you are going,
be discreet, here is your recompense;’ and she placed in my hand
a purse.”
“Ah! and what did you say?”
“That I was ready to follow my charming conductress. I did not
know if she were charming or not, but I thought that the epithet,
even if exaggerated, could do no harm.”
“And you asked no more?”
“I had often read these kinds of histories in books, and I had
remarked that they always turned out well for the doctor. Therefore
I followed, and I counted 498 paces.”
“Good; then this must be the door.”
“It cannot be far off, at all events, unless she led me by some
detour, which I half suspect.”
“But did she pronounce no name?”
“None.”
“But you remarked something?”
“All that one could with one’s fingers, a door with nails, then
a passage, and then a staircase----”
“On the left?”
“Yes; and I counted the steps. Then I think we came to a corridor,
for they opened three doors.”
“Well?”
“Then I heard another voice, and that belonged to the mistress,
I am sure; it was sweet and gentle.”
“Yes, yes, it was hers.”
“Good, it was hers.”
“I am sure of it.”
“Then they pushed me into the room where you were, and told me
to take off my bandage, when I saw you----”
“Where was I?”
“On a bed.”
“A bed of white and gold damask?”
“Yes.”
“In a room hung with tapestry?”
“Just so.”
“And a painted ceiling?”
“Yes, and between two windows----”
“A portrait?”
“Yes.”
“Representing a woman about nineteen?”
“Yes.”
“Blonde, and beautiful as an angel?”
“More beautiful.”
“Bravo! what did you do then?”
“I dressed your wound.”
“And, ma foi! very well.”
“As well as I could.”
“Admirably! this morning it was nearly well.”
“It is thanks to a balm I have composed, and which appears to
me sovereign, for many times, not knowing who to practise upon,
I have made wounds on myself, and they were always well in two
or three days.”
“My dear M. Rémy, you are a charming doctor. Well, afterwards?”
“You fainted again. The voice asked me how you were.”
“From whence?”
“From a room at the side.”
“So you did not see her?”
“No.”
“And you replied?”
“That the wound was not dangerous, and in twenty-four hours would
be well.”
“She seemed pleased?”
“Charmed; for she cried, ‘I am very glad of that.’”
“My dear M. Rémy, I will make your fortune. Well?”
“That was all; I had no more to do; and the voice said, ‘M.
Rémy----’”
“She knew your name?”
“Yes; ‘M. Rémy,’ said she, ‘be a man of honor to the last; do not
compromise a poor woman carried away by an excess of humanity.
Take your bandage, and let them take you straight home.’”
“You promised?”
“I gave my word.”
“And you kept it?”
“As you see, for I am seeking now.”
“You are an honest man, and here is my hand,” cried Bussy.
“Monsieur, it will be an eternal glory for me to have touched
the hand of Bussy d’Amboise. However, I have a scruple. There
were ten pistoles in the purse.”
“Well?”
“It is too much for a man who charges five sous for his visits,
when he does not give them gratis, and I was seeking the house----”
“To return the purse?”
“Just so.”
“My dear M. Rémy, it is too much delicacy; you have earned the
money well, and may surely keep it.”
“You think so?” said Rémy, well pleased.
“But I also am in your debt; indeed, it was I who ought to have
paid you, and not the lady. Come, give me your confidence. What
do you do in Paris?”
“What do I do? I do nothing; but I would if I had a connection.”
“Well, that is just right; I will give you a patient. Will you
have me? I am famous practise; for there is scarcely a day when
I do not deface God’s noblest work for others, or they for me.
Will you undertake the care of all the holes I make in the skin
of others or others in mine?”
“Ah, M. le Comte! this honor.”
“No; you are just the man I want. You shall come and live with
me; you shall have your own rooms, and your own servants; accept,
or you will really annoy me.”
“M. le Comte, I am so overjoyed, I cannot express it. I will work--I
will make a connection----”
“But, no, I tell you, I keep you for myself and my friends. Now,
do you remember anything more?”
“Nothing.”
“Ah, well! help me to find out, if it be possible.”
“I will.”
“And you, who are a man of observation, how do you account for
it, that after being doctored by you, I found myself by the Temple,
close to the ditch.”
“You!”
“Yes, I. Did you help to take me there?”
“Certainly not, and I should have opposed it if they had consulted
me; for the cold might have done you much harm.”
“Then I can tell nothing. Will you search a little more with me?”
“I will if you wish it; but I much fear it will be useless for
all these houses are alike.”
“Well, we must come again by day.”
“Yes; but then we shall be seen.”
“Then we must inquire.”
“We will, monseigneur.”
“And we shall unravel the mystery. Be sure, Rémy, now there are
two of us to work.”
CHAPTER XI.
M. BRYAN DE MONSOREAU.
It was more than joy, it was almost delirium, which agitated
Bussy when he had acquired the certainty that the lady of his
dream was a reality, and had, in fact, given him that generous
hospitality of which he had preserved the vague remembrance in
his heart. He would not let the young doctor go, but, dirty as
he was, made him get into the litter with him; he feared that if
he lost sight of him, he too would vanish like a dream. He would
have liked to talk all night of the unknown lady, and explain
to Rémy how superior she was even to her portrait; but Rémy,
beginning his functions at once, insisted that he should go to
bed: fatigue and pain gave the same counsel and these united
powers carried the point.
The next day, on awaking, he found Rémy at his bedside. The young
man could hardly believe in his good fortune, and wanted to see
Bussy again to be sure of it.
“Well!” said he, “how are you, M. le Comte?”
“Quite well, my dear Esculapius; and you, are you satisfied?”
“So satisfied, my generous protector, that I would not change
places with the king. But I now must see the wound.”
“Look.” And Bussy turned round for the young surgeon to take
off the bandage. All looked well; the wound was nearly closed.
Bussy, quite happy, had slept well, and sleep and happiness had
aided the doctor.
“Well,” said Bussy, “what do you say?”
“I dare not tell you that you are nearly well, for fear you should
send me back to the Rue Beauheillis, five hundred paces from
the famous house.”
“Which we will find, will we not, Rémy?”
“I should think so.”
“Well, my friend, look on yourself as one of the house, and to-day,
while you move your things, let me go to the fête of the installation
of the new chief huntsman.”
“Ah! you want to commit follies already.”
“No, I promise to be very reasonable.”
“But you must ride.”
“It is necessary.”
“Have you a horse with an easy pace?
“I have four to choose from.”
“Well, take for to-day the one you would choose for the lady of
the portrait you know.”
“Know! Ah, Rémy, you have found the way to my heart forever; I
feared you would prevent me from going to this chase, or rather
this imitation of one, and all the ladies of the Court, and many
from the City, will be admitted to it. Now, Rémy, this lady may be
there. She certainly is not a simple bourgeoise--those tapestries,
that bed, so much luxury as well as good taste, show a woman of
quality, or, at least, a rich one. If I were to meet her there!”
“All is possible,” replied Rémy, philosophically.
“Except to find the house,” sighed Bussy. “Or to penetrate when
we have found it.”
“Oh! I have a method.”
“What is it?”
“Get another sword wound.”
“Good; that gives me the hope that you will keep me.”
“Be easy, I feel as if I had known you for twenty years, and could
not do without you.”
The handsome face of the young doctor grew radiant with joy.
“Well, then,” said he, “it is decided; you go to the chase to
look for the lady, and I go to look for the house.”
“It will be curious if we each succeed.”
There had been a great chase commanded in the Bois de Vincennes,
for M. de Monsoreau to enter on his functions of chief huntsman.
Most people had believed, from the scene of the day before, that
the king would not attend, and much astonishment was expressed
when it was announced that he had set off with his brother and
all the court. The rendezvous was at the Point St. Louis. It was
thus they named a cross-road where the martyr king used to sit
under an oak-tree and administer justice. Everyone was therefore
assembled here at nine o’clock, when the new officer, object of
the general curiosity, unknown as he was to almost everyone,
appeared on a magnificent black horse. All eyes turned towards
him.
He was a man about thirty-five, tall, marked by the smallpox,
and with a disagreeable expression. Dressed in a jacket of green
cloth braided with silver, with a silver shoulder belt, on which
the king’s arms were embroidered in gold; on his head a cap with
a long plume; in his left hand a spear, and in his right the
éstortuaire [Footnote: The éstortuaire was a stick, which the
chief huntsman presented to the king, to put aside the branches
of the trees when he was going at full gallop.] destined for
the king, M. de Monsoreau might look like a terrible warrior,
but not certainly like a handsome cavalier.
“Fie! what an ugly figure you have brought us, monseigneur,”
said Bussy, to the Duc d’Anjou, “are these the sort of gentlemen
that your favor seeks for out of the provinces? Certainly, one
could hardly find such in Paris, which is nevertheless as well
stocked with ugliness. They say that your highness made a great
point of the king’s appointing this man.”
“M. de Monsoreau has served me well, and I recompense him,” replied
the duke.
“Well said, monseigneur, it is rare for princes to be grateful;
but if that be all, I also have served you well, and should wear
the embroidered jacket more gracefully, I trust, than M. de
Monsoreau. He has a red beard, I see also, which is an additional
beauty.”
“I never knew that a man must be an Apollo, or Antinous, to fill
an office at court.”
“You never heard it; astonishing!”
“I consult the heart and not the face--the services rendered and
promised.”
“Your highness will say I am very envious; but I search, and
uselessly, I confess, to discover what service this Monsoreau
can have rendered you.”
“You are too curious, Bussy,” said the duke, angrily.
“Just like princes,” cried Bussy, with his ordinary freedom,
“they ask you everything; but if you ask a question in return,
you are too curious.”
“Well! go and ask M. de Monsoreau, himself.”
“Ah! you are right. He is but a simple gentleman, and if he do
not reply, I shall know what to say.”
“What?”
“Tell him he is impertinent.” And, turning from the prince, Bussy
approached M. de Monsoreau, who was in the midst of the circle.
Bussy approached, gay and smiling, and his hat in his hand.
“Pardon, monsieur, but you seem all alone. Is it that the favor
which you enjoy has already made you enemies?”
“I do not know, monsieur, but it is probable. But, may I ask,
to what I owe the honor that you do me in invading my solitude?”
“Ma foi, to the great admiration that M. le Duc d’Anjou has inspired
in me for you.”
“How so?”
“By recounting to me the exploit for which you were made chief
huntsman.”
M. de Monsoreau grew so frightfully pale, that the marks in his
face looked like black spots on his yellow skin; at the same
time he looked at Bussy in a manner that portended a violent
storm. Bussy saw that he had done wrong; but he was not a man
to draw back; on the contrary, he was one of those who generally
repair an indiscretion by an impertinence.
“You say, monsieur,” said Monsoreau, “that the Duke recounted
to you my last exploit?”
“Yes, monsieur, but I should much like to hear the story from
your own lips.”
M. de Monsoreau clasped his dagger tighter in his hand, as though
he longed to attack Bussy.
“Ma foi, monsieur,” said he, “I was quite disposed to grant your
request, and recognize your courtesy, but unfortunately here
is the king arriving, so we must leave it for another time.”
Indeed, the king, mounted on his favorite Spanish horse, advanced
rapidly towards them. He loved handsome faces, and was therefore
little pleased with that of M. de Monsoreau. However, he accepted,
with a good grace, the éstortuaire which he presented to him,
kneeling, according to custom. As soon as the king was armed,
the chase commenced.
Bussy watched narrowly everyone that passed, looking for the
original of the portrait, but in vain; there were pretty, even
beautiful and charming women, but not the charming creature whom
he sought for. He was reduced to conversation, and the company
of his ordinary friends. Antragues, always laughing and talking,
was a great amusement.
“We have a frightful chief huntsman,” said he to Bussy, “do you
not think so?”
“I find him horrible; what a family it must be if his children
are like him. Do you know his wife?”
“He is not married.”
“How do you know?”
“From Madame de Vendron, who finds him very handsome, and would
willingly make him her fourth husband. See how she keeps near
him.”
“What property has he?”
“Oh! a great deal in Anjou.”
“Then he is rich?”
“They say so, but that is all; he is not of very good birth. But
see, there is M. le Duc d’Anjou calling to you.”
“Ah! ma foi, he must wait. I am curious about this man. I find
him singular, I hardly know why. And such an odd name.”
“Oh! it comes from Mons Soricis; Livarot knows all about that.--Here,
Livarot; this Monsoreau----”
“Well.”
“Tell us what you know about him----”
“Willingly. Firstly, I am afraid of him.”
“Good, that is what you think; now tell us what you know.”
“Listen. I was going home one night----”
“It begins in a terrible manner.”
“Pray let me finish. It was about six months ago, I was returning
from my uncle D’Entragues, through the wood of Méridor, when
all at once I heard a frightful cry, and I saw pass, with an
empty saddle, a white horse, rushing through the wood. I rode
on, and at the end of a long avenue, darkened by the approaching
shades of night, I saw a man on a black horse; he seemed to fly.
Then I heard again the same cry, and I distinguished before him
on the saddle a woman, on whose mouth he had his hand. I had a
gun in my hand--you know I aim well, and I should have killed
him, but my gun missed fire.”
“Well?”
“I asked a woodcutter who this gentleman on the black horse was,
and he said, ‘M. de Monsoreau.’”
“Well,” said Antragues, “it is not so uncommon to carry away a
woman, is it, Bussy?”
“No; but, at least, one might let them cry out.”
“And who was the woman?”
“That I do not know; but he has a bad reputation,”
“Do you know anything else about him?”
“No; but he is much feared by his tenantry. However, he is a
good hunter, and will fill his post better than St. Luc would
have done, for whom it was first destined.”
“Do you know where St. Luc is?”
“No; is he still the king’s prisoner?”
“Not at all; he set off at one o’clock this morning to visit his
country house with his wife.”
“Banished?”
“It looks like it.”
“Impossible!”
“True as the gospel; Marshal de Brissac told me so this morning.”
“Well! it has served M. de Monsoreau----”
“Ah! I know now.”
“Know what?”
“The service that he rendered to the duke.”
“Who? St. Luc?”
“No; Monsoreau.”
“Really.”
“Yes, you shall see; come with me,” and Bussy, followed by Livarot
and Antragues, galloped after the Duc d’Anjou.
“Ah, monseigneur,” said he, “what a precious man M. de Monsoreau
is.”
“Ah! really; then you spoke to him?”
“Certainly.”
“And asked him what he had done for me?”
“Certainly; that was all I spoke to him for.”
“And what did he say?”
“He courteously confessed that he was your purveyor.”
“Of game?”
“No; of women.”
“What do you mean, Bussy?” cried the duke angrily.
“I mean, monseigneur, that he carries away women for you on his
great black horse, and that as they are ignorant of the honor
reserved for them, he puts his hand on their mouths to prevent
their crying out.”
The duke frowned, and ground his teeth with anger, grew pale,
and galloped on so fast, that Bussy and his, companions were
left in the rear.
“Ah! ah! it seems that the joke is a good one,” said Antragues.
“And so much the better, that everyone does not seem to find it
a joke,” said Bussy.
A moment after, they heard the duke’s voice calling Bussy. He
went, and found the duke laughing.
“Oh!” said he, “it appears that what I said was droll.”
“I am not laughing at what you said.”
“So much the worse; I should have liked to have made a prince
laugh, who hardly ever does so.”
“I laugh at your inventing a false story to find out the true
one.”
“No, I told you the truth.”
“Well, then, as we are alone, tell me your little history. Where
did it happen?”
“In the wood of Méridor.”
The duke grew pale again, but did not speak.
“Decidedly,” thought Bussy, “the duke is mixed up with that story.
Pardieu! monseigneur,” said he, “as M. de Monsoreau seems to
have found the method of pleasing you so well, teach it to me.”
“Pardieu! yes, Bussy, I will tell you how. Listen; I met, by
chance, at church, a charming woman, and as some features of
her face, which I only saw through a veil, recalled to me a lady
whom I had much loved, I followed her, and found out where she
lived. I have gained over her servant, and have a key of the
house.”
“Well, monseigneur, all seems to go well for you.”
“But they say she is a great prude, although free, young, and
beautiful.”
“Ah! you are romancing.”
“Well, you are brave, and love me?”
“I have my days.”
“For being brave?”
“No, for loving you.”
“Well, is this one of the days?”
“I will try and make it one, if I can serve your highness.”
“Well, I want you to do for me what most people do for themselves.”
“Make love to her, to find out if she be a prude?”
“No, find out if she has a lover. I want you to lay in wait and
discover who the man is that visits her.”
“There is a man then?”
“I fear so.”
“Lover, or husband?”
“That is what I want to know.”
“And you want me to find out?”
“If you will do me that great favor----”
“You will make me the next chief huntsman.”
“I have never yet done anything for you.”
“Oh! you have discovered that at last.”
“Well, do you consent?”
“To watch the lady?”
“Yes.”
“Monseigneur, I confess I do not like the commission.”
“You offered to do me a service, and you draw back already!”
“Because you want me to be a spy.”
“I ask you as a friend.”
“Monseigneur, this is a sort of thing that every man must do for
himself, even if he be a prince.”
“Then you refuse?”
“Ma foi! yes.”
The duke frowned. “Well, I will go myself,” said he, “and if I am
killed or wounded, I shall say that I begged my friend Bussy to.
undertake the task, and that for the first time he was prudent.”
“Monseigneur, you said to me the other night, ‘Bussy, I hate
all those minions of the king’s who are always laughing at and
insulting us; go to this wedding of St. Luc’s, pick a quarrel
and try to get rid of them.’ I went; they were five and I was
alone. I defied them all; they laid wait for me, attacked me
all together, and killed my horse, yet I wounded three of them.
To-day you ask me to wrong a woman. Pardon, monseigneur, but that
is past the service which a prince should exact from a gallant
man, and I refuse.”
“So be it; I will do my work myself, or with Aurilly, as I have
done already.”
“Oh!” said Bussy, with a sudden thought.
“What?”
“Were you engaged on it the night when you saw the ambush laid
for me?”
“Just so.”
“Then your beautiful unknown lives near the Bastile.”
“Opposite the Rue St. Catherine. It is a dangerous place, as you
know.”
“Has your highness been there since?”
“Yesterday.”
“And you saw?”
“A man spying all about and who at last stopped at her door.”
“Was he alone?”
“Yes, at first. Afterwards he was joined by another, with a lantern
in his hand.”
“Ah!”
“Then they began to talk together, and at last, tired of waiting,
I went away. And before I venture into the house where I might
be killed----”
“You would like one of your friends to try it.”
“They would not have my enemies, nor run the same risk; and then
they might report to me----”
“In your place I would give up this woman.”
“No, she is too beautiful.”
“You said you hardly saw her.”
“I saw her enough to distinguish splendid blonde hair, magnificent
eyes, and such a complexion!”
“Ah! ah!”
“You understand! one does not easily renounce such a woman.”
“No, I feel for you.”
“You jest.”
“No, on my word, and the proof is, that if you will give me my
instructions, I will watch this evening.”
“You retract your decision?”
“There is no one but the pope infallible; now tell me what I am
to do.”
“You will have to hide a little way off, and if a man enter, follow
him to find out who he is?”
“But if, in entering, he close the door behind him?”
“I told you I had a key.”
“Ah! true; then there is only one more thing to fear, that I should
follow a wrong man to a wrong door.”
“You cannot mistake; this door is the door of an alley, and at
the end of the alley there is a staircase; mount twelve steps,
and you will be in a corridor.”
“How do you know all this, if you have never been in?”
“Did I not tell you I had gained over the servant? She told me
all.”
“Mon Dieu! how convenient it is to be a prince. I should have
had to find out all for myself, which would have taken me an
enormous time, and I might have failed after all.”
“Then you consent?”
“Can I refuse your highness? But will you come with me to show
me the house?”
“Useless; as we return from the chase, we will make a detour,
and pass through the Porte St. Antoine, and I will point it out
to you.”
“Very well, and what am I to do to the man if he comes?”
“Only follow him till you learn who he is. I leave to you your
mode of action. And not a word to any one.”
“No, on my honor.”
“And you will go alone?”
“Quite.”
“Well, then, it is settled; I show you the door on our way home;
then you come with me, and I give you the key.” Bussy and the
prince then rejoined the rest. The king was charmed with the
manner in which M. de Monsoreau had conducted the chase.
“Monseigneur,” then said M. de Monsoreau to the duke,
“I owe my place and these compliments to you.”
“But you know that you must go to-night to Fontainebleau, where
the king will hunt to-morrow and the day after.”
“I know, monseigneur; I am prepared to start to-night.”
“Ah, M. de Monsoreau, there is no more rest for you,” said Bussy,
“you wished to be chief huntsman, and you are so, and now you will
have at least fifty nights’ rest less than other men. Luckily
you are not married.”
At this joke, Monsoreau’s face was covered once more with that
hideous paleness which gave to him so sinister an aspect.
CHAPTER XII.
HOW BUSSY FOUND BOTH THE PORTRAIT AND THE ORIGINAL.
The chase terminated about four o’clock in the evening, and at
five all the court returned to Paris. As they passed by the Bastile,
the duke said to Bussy, “Look to the right, at that little wooden
house with a statue of the Virgin before it; well, count four
houses from that. It is the fifth you have to go to, just fronting
the Rue St. Catherine.”
“I see it; and look! at the sound of the trumpets announcing the
king, all the windows are filled with gazers.”
“Except the one I show you, where the curtains remain closed.”
“But there is a corner lifted,” said Bussy, with a beating heart.
“Yes, but we can see nothing. The lady is well guarded. However,
that is the house.”
When Bussy returned, he said to Rémy, “Have you discovered the
house?”
“No, monseigneur.”
“Well, I believe I have been more lucky.”
“How so, monsieur, have you been seeking?”
“I passed through the street.”
“And you recognized the house?”
“Providence, my dear friend, has mysterious ways.”
“Then you are sure?”
“Not sure, but I hope.”
“And when shall I know if you are right?”
“To-morrow morning.”
“Meanwhile, do you want me?”
“No, my dear Rémy.”
“Shall I not follow you?”
“Impossible.”
“Be prudent, monseigneur.”
“Ah! the recommendation is useless, my prudence is well known.”
Bussy dined like a man who does not know when he will sup, then,
at eight o’clock, choosing the best of his swords, and attaching,
in spite of the king’s orders, a pair of pistols to his belt,
went in his litter to the corner of the Rue St. Paul.
He easily recognized the house again, and then, wrapped in his
cloak, hid at the corner of the street, determined to wait for
two hours, and at the end of that time, if no one came, to act
for himself. He had scarcely been there ten minutes, when he
saw two cavaliers coming. One of them dismounted, gave his horse
to the other, who was probably a lackey, and who went away with
the horses, and advanced towards the house pointed out to Bussy,
and, after glancing round to see if he were observed, opened
the door and went in. Bussy waited two or three minutes, and
then followed him. He advanced slowly and softly, found the
staircase, and went up. In the corridor he stopped, for he heard
a voice say, “Gertrude, tell your mistress that it is I, and
that I must come in.”
This was said in an imperious tone, and, a minute after, Bussy
heard a woman’s voice say:
“Pass into the drawing-room, Monsieur, and madame will come to
you.”
Then he heard the sound of a door shutting. He made a few steps
silently, and extending his hand, felt a door; he went in, found
a second in which was a key; he turned it, and entered the room
tremblingly. The room in which he found himself was dark, except
from the light shining from another. By this he could see two
windows, hung with tapestry, which sent a thrill of joy through
the young man’s heart. On the ceiling he could faintly see the
mythological figures; he extended his hand, and felt the sculptured
bed. There was no more doubt, he was in the room where he had
awakened the night of his wound.
Bussy hid behind the bed-curtains to listen. He heard in the
adjoining room the impatient step of the unknown; from time to
time he stopped, murmuring between his teeth, “Will she come?”
Presently a door opened, and the rustling of a silk dress struck
on Bussy’s ear. Then he heard a woman’s voice, expressive at
once of fear and disdain, saying:
“Here I am, monsieur, what do you want now?”
“Madame,” replied the man, “I have the honor of telling you that,
forced to set off to-morrow morning for Fontainebleau, I come
to pass the night with you.”
“Do you bring me news of my father?”
“Madame, listen to me----”
“Monsieur, you know what we agreed yesterday, when I consented
to become your wife, that, before all things, either my father
should come to Paris, or I should go to him.”
“Madame, as soon as I return from Fontainebleau, I give you my
word of honor, but meanwhile----”
“Oh! monsieur, do not close the door, it is useless; I will not
pass a single night under the same roof with you until you bring
me my father.” And the lady, who spoke, thus, whistled through a
silver whistle, which was then the manner of calling servants.
Immediately the door opened, and a young, vigorous-looking girl
entered. As she went in, she left the door open, which threw
a strong light into the room where Bussy was hid, and between
the two windows he saw the portrait. Bussy now crept noiselessly
along to where he could peep into the room. However carefully he
moved, the floor creaked. At the noise the lady turned, she was
the original of the portrait. The man, seeing her turn, turned
also; it was M. de Monsoreau.
“Ah!” thought Bussy, “the white horse, the woman carried away,
there is some terrible history.”
Bussy, as we have said, could see them both; she, standing up,
pale and disdainful. He, not pale, but livid, agitated his foot
impatiently.
“Madame,” said he, at last, “do not hope to continue with me
this character of a persecuted woman; you are at Paris, in my
house, and, still more, you are Comtesse de Monsoreau, that is
to say, my Wife.
“If I am your wife, why refuse to conduct me to my father? Why
continue to hide me from the eyes of the world?”
“You have forgotten the Duc d’Anjou, madame.”
“You assured me that, once your wife, I should have no more to
fear from him.”
“That is to say----”
“You promised me that.”
“But still, madame, I must take precautions.”
“Well, monsieur, when you have taken them, return to me.”
“Diana,” said the count, who was growing visibly angry, “Diana,
do not make a jest of this sacred tie.”
“Act so, monsieur, that I can have confidence in the husband,
and I will respect the marriage.”
“Oh! this is too much!” cried the count. “I am in my own house,
you are my wife, and this night you shall be mine.”
Bussy put his hand on his sword-hilt, and made a step forward,
but Diana did not give him time to appear.
“Stay,” said she, drawing a poignard from her belt, “here is
my answer.” And rushing into the room where Bussy was, she shut
the door and locked it, while Monsoreau exhausted himself in
menaces and in blows on the door.
“If you break this door you will find me dead on the threshold.”
“And be easy, madame, you shall be revenged,” said Bussy.
Diana was about to utter a cry, but her fear of her husband was
strong enough to restrain her. She remained pale and trembling,
but mute.
M. de Monsoreau struck violently with his foot, but convinced
that Diana would execute her menace, went out of the drawing-room,
shutting the door violently behind him. Then they heard him going
down the stairs.
“But you, monsieur,” said Diana, turning to Bussy, “who are you,
and how came you here?”
“Madame,” said Bussy, opening the door, and kneeling before her,
“I am the man whose life you preserved. You cannot think that I
come to your house with any bad designs.” As the light streamed
in, Diana recognized him at once.
“Ah! you here, monsieur,” cried she, clasping her hands, “you
were here--you heard all?”
“Alas! yes, madame.”
“But who are you? your name, monsieur?”
“Madame, I am Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy.”
“Bussy! you are the brave Bussy!” cried Diana, filling with joy
the heart of the young man. “Ah! Gertrude!” cried she, turning
to her servant, who, hearing her mistress talking to some one,
had entered in terror, “Gertrude, I have no more to fear, for
from this time I place myself under the safeguard of the most
noble and loyal gentleman in France.” Then holding out her hand
to Bussy.
“Rise, monsieur,” said she, “I know who you are, now you must
know who I am.”
CHAPTER XIII.
WHO DIANA WAS.
Bussy rose, bewildered at his own happiness, and entered with
Diana into the room which M. de Monsoreau had just quitted. He
looked at Diana with astonishment and admiration; he had not
dared to hope that the woman whom he had sought for, would equal
the woman of his dream, and now the reality surpassed all that
he had taken for a caprice of his imagination. Diana was about
nineteen, that is to say in the first éclât of that youth and
beauty which gives the purest coloring to the flower, the finest
flavor to the fruit. There was no mistaking the looks of Bussy;
Diana felt herself admired. At last she broke the silence.
“Monsieur,” said she, “you have told me who you are, but not how
you came here.”
“Madame, the cause of my presence here will come naturally out
of the recital you have been good enough to promise me; I am
sure of it, from some words of your conversation with M. de
Monsoreau.”
“I will tell you all, monsieur; your name has been sufficient
to inspire me with full confidence, for I have always heard of
it as of that of a man of honor, loyalty, and courage.”
Bussy bowed, and Diana went on.
“I am the daughter of the Baron de Méridor--that is to say, the
only heiress of one of the noblest and oldest names in Anjou.”
“There was,” said Bussy, “a Baron de Méridor, who, although he
could have saved himself, came voluntarily and gave up his sword
at the battle of Pavia, when he heard that the king was a prisoner,
and begged to accompany Francis to Madrid, partook his captivity,
and only quitted him to come to France and negotiate his ransom.”
“It was my father, monsieur, and if ever you enter the great
hall of the Château de Méridor you will see, given in memory of
this devotion, the portrait of Francis I., painted by Leonardo
da Vinci.”
“Ah!” said Bussy, “in those times kings knew how to recompense
their followers.”
“On his return from Spain my father married. His two first children,
sons, died. This was a great grief to the Baron de Méridor. When
the king died, my father quitted the court, and shut himself
with his wife in the Château de Méridor. It was there that I was
born, ten years after the death of my brothers.
“Then all the love of the baron was concentrated on the child
of his old age; his love for me was idolatry. Three years after
my birth I lost my mother, and, too young to feel my loss, my
smiles helped to console my father. As I was all to him, so was
he also all to me. I attained my sixteenth year without dreaming
of any other world than that of my sheep, my peacocks, my swans,
and my doves, without imagining that this life would change,
or wishing that it should.
“The castle of Méridor was surrounded by vast forests, belonging
to the Duc d’Anjou; they were filled with deer and stags, whom
no one thought of tormenting, and who had grown quite familiar
to me; some of them would even come when I called them, and one,
a doe, my favorite Daphne, my poor Daphne, would come and eat
out of my hand.
“One spring I had missed her for a month, and was ready to weep
for her as for a friend, when she reappeared with two little
fawns. At first they were afraid of me, but seeing their mother
caress me, they soon learned to do the same.
“About this time we heard that the Duc d’Anjou had sent a governor
into the province, and that he was called the Comte de Monsoreau.
A week passed, during which everyone spoke of the new governor.
One morning the woods resounded with the sound of the horn, and
the barking of dogs. I ran to the park, and arrived just in time
to see Daphne, followed by her two fawns, pass like lightning,
pursued by a pack of hounds. An instant after, mounted on a black
horse, M. de Monsoreau flew past me.
“I cried out and implored pity for my poor protegee, but he did
not hear me. Then I ran after him, hoping to meet either the
count or some of his suite and determined to implore them to stop
this chase, which pierced my heart. I ran for some time without
knowing where, for I had lost sight of both dogs and hunters.
“Soon I could not even hear them, so I sat down at the foot of
a tree, and began to cry. I had been there about a quarter of
an hour, when I heard the chase again. The noise came nearer and
nearer, and, darting forward, I saw my poor Daphne again; she
had but one fawn with her now, the other had given way through
fatigue. She herself was growing visibly tired, and the distance
between her and the hounds was less than when I saw her first.
“As before, I exerted myself in vain to make myself heard. M. de
Monsoreau saw nothing but the animal he was chasing; he passed
more quickly that ever, with his horn to his mouth, which he
was sounding loudly. Behind him two or three hunters animated
the dogs with horn and voice. All passed me like a tempest, and
disappeared in the forest. I was in despair, but I ran on once
more and followed a path which I knew led to the castle of Beaugé.
belonging to the Duc d’Anjou, and which was about six miles from
the castle of Méridor. It was not till I arrived there that I
remembered that I was alone, and far from home.
“I confess that a vague terror seized me, and that then only I
thought of the imprudence and folly of my conduct. I followed
the border of the lake, intending to ask the gardener (who, when
I had come there with my father, had often given me bouquets) to
take me home, when all at once I heard the sound of the chase
again. I remained motionless, listening, and I forgot all else.
Nearly at the same moment the doe reappeared, coming out of the
wood on the other side of the lake, but pursued so closely that
she must be taken immediately. She was alone, her second fawn
had fallen, but the sight of the water seemed to reanimate her,
and she plunged in as if she would have come to me. At first
she swam rapidly, and I looked at her with tears in my eyes,
and almost as breathless as herself; insensibly her strength
failed her, while the dogs seemed to grow more and more earnest
in their pursuit. Soon some of them reached her, and, stopped
by their bites, she ceased to advance. At this moment, M. de
Monsoreau appeared at the border of the lake, and jumped off
his horse. Then I collected all my strength to cry for pity,
with clasped hands. It seemed to me that he saw me, and I cried
again. He heard me, for he looked at me; then he ran towards
a boat, entered it, and advanced rapidly towards the animal,
who was fighting among the dogs. I did not doubt that, moved
by my voice, he was hastening to bring her succor, when all at
once I saw him draw his hunting knife, and plunge it into the
neck of the poor animal. The blood flowed out, reddening the
water at the lake, while the poor doe uttered a doleful cry,
beat the water with her feet, reared up, and then fell back dead.
“I uttered a cry almost as doleful as hers, and fell fainting
on the bank. When I came to myself again, I was in bed, in a
room of the château of Beaugé, and my father, who had been sent
for, standing by me. As it was nothing but over-excitement, the
next morning I was able to return home; although I suffered for
three or four days. Then my father told me, that M. de Monsoreau,
who had seen me, when I was carried to the castle, had come to
ask after me; he had been much grieved when he heard that he had
been the involuntary cause of my accident and begged to present
his excuses to me, saying, that he could not be happy until he
had his pardon from my own lips.
“It would have been ridiculous to refuse to see him, so, in spite
of my repugnance, I granted his request. He came the next day;
I felt that my behavior must have seemed strange, and I excused
it on the ground of my affection for Daphne. The count swore
twenty times, that had he known I had any interest in his victim,
he would have spared her with pleasure; but his protestations
did not convince me, nor remove the unfavorable impression I
had formed of him. When he took leave, he asked my father’s
permission to come again. He had been born in Spain and educated
at Madrid, and it was an attraction for my father to talk over
the place where he had been so long a prisoner. Besides, the
count was of good family, deputy-governor of the province, and
a favorite, it was said, of the Due d’Anjou; my father had no
motive for refusing his request, and it was granted. Alas! from
this moment ceased, if not my happiness, at least my tranquillity.
I soon perceived the impression I had made on the count; he began
to come every day, and was full of attentions to my father, who
showed the pleasure he took in his conversation, which was certainly
that of a clever man.
“One morning my father entered my room with an air graver than
usual, but still evidently joyful. ‘My child,’ said he, ‘you
always have said you did not wish to leave me.’
“‘Oh! my father,’ cried I, ‘it is my dearest wish.’
“‘Well, my Diana,’ continued he, embracing me, ‘it only depends
now on yourself to have your wish realized.’ I guessed what he
was about to say, and grew dreadfully pale.
“‘Diana, my child, what is the matter?’ cried he.
“‘M. de Monsoreau, is it not?’ stammered I. ‘Well?’ said he,
astonished. ‘Oh! never, my father, if you have any pity for your
daughter, never----’
“‘Diana, my love,’ said he, ‘it is not pity I have for you, but
idolatry; you know it; take a week to reflect, and if then----’
“‘Oh! no, no,’ cried I, ‘it is useless; not a day, not a minute!
No, no, no!’ and I burst into tears. My father adored me, and he
took me in his arms, and gave me his word that he would speak
to me no more of this marriage.
“Indeed, a month passed, during which I neither heard of nor
saw M. de Monsoreau. One morning we received an invitation to a
grand fête which M. de Monsoreau was to give to the Duc d’Anjou,
who was about to visit the province whose name he bore. To this
was added a personal invitation from the prince, who had seen
my father at court. My first impulse was to beg my father to
refuse, but he feared to offend the prince, so we went. M. de
Monsoreau received us as though nothing had passed, and behaved
to me exactly as he did to the other ladies.
“Not so the duke. As soon as he saw me, he fixed his eyes on
me, and scarcely ever removed them. I felt ill at ease under
these looks, and begged my father to go home early. Three days
after M. de Monsoreau came to Méridor; I saw him from the windows,
and shut myself up in my own room. When he was gone, my father
said nothing to me, but I thought he looked gloomy.
“Four days passed thus, when, as I was returning from a walk,
the servants told me that M. de Monsoreau was with my father, who
had asked for me several times, and had desired to be immediately
informed of my return. Indeed, no sooner had I entered my room,
than my father came to me.
“‘My child,’ said he, ‘a motive which I cannot explain to you,
forces me to separate myself from you for some days. Do not question
me, but be sure that it is an urgent one, since it determines
me to be a week, a fortnight, perhaps a month, without seeing
you.’ I trembled, I knew not why, but I fancied that the visits
of M. de Monsoreau boded me no good.
“‘Where am I to go, my father?’ asked I.
“‘To the château of Lude, to my sister, where you will be hidden
from all eyes. You will go by night.’ ‘And do you not accompany
me?’ ‘No, I must stay here, to ward off suspicion; even the servants
must not know where you are going.’ ‘But then, who will take me
there?’ ‘Two men whom I can trust.’ ‘Oh! mon Dieu! father,’ I
cried. The baron embraced me. ‘It is necessary, my child,’ said
he.
“I knew my father’s love for me so well that I said no more,
only I asked that Gertrude, my nurse, should accompany me. My
father quitted me, telling me to get ready.
“At eight o’clock (it was dark and cold, for it was the middle
of winter) my father came for me. We descended quietly, crossed
the garden, when he opened himself a little door leading to the
forest, and there we found a litter waiting, and two men; my
father spoke to them, then I got in, and Gertrude with me.
“My father embraced me once more, and we set off. I was ignorant
what danger menaced me, and forced me to quit the castle of Méridor.
I did not dare to question my conductors, whom I did not know. We
went along quietly, and the motion of the litter at last sent
me to sleep, when I was awoke by Gertrude, who, seizing my arm,
cried out, ‘Oh, mademoiselle, was is the matter?’
“I passed my head through the curtains. We were surrounded by six
masked cavaliers, and our men, who had tried to defend me, were
disarmed. He who appeared the chief of the masked men approached
me, and said; ‘Reassure yourself, mademoiselle, no harm will be
done to you, but you must follow us.’
“‘Where?’ I asked. ‘To a place,’ he replied, ‘where, far from
having anything to complain of, you will be treated like a queen.’
‘Oh! my father! my father!’ I cried. ‘Listen, mademoiselle,’
said Gertrude, ‘I know the environs, and I am strong; we may be
able to escape.’
“‘You must do as you will with us, gentlemen,’ said I, ‘we are
but two poor women, and cannot defend ourselves.’ One of the men
then took the place of our conductor, and changed the direction
of our litter.”
Here Diana stopped a moment, as if overcome with emotion.
“Oh, continue, madame, continue,” cried Bussy.
It was impossible for Diana not to see the interest she inspired
in the young man; it was shown in his voice, his gestures, his
looks. She smiled, and went on.
“We continued our journey for about three hours, then the litter
stopped. I heard a door open, we went on, and I fancied we were
crossing a drawbridge. I was not wrong, for, on looking out of
the litter, I saw that we were in the courtyard of a castle.
What castle was it? We did not know. Often, during the route,
we had tried to discover where we were, but seemed to be in an
endless forest. The door of our litter was opened, and the same
man who had spoken to us before asked us to alight. I obeyed
in silence. Two men from the castle had come to meet us with
torches; they conducted us into a bedroom richly decorated, where
a collation waited for us on a table sumptuously laid out.
“‘You are at home here, madame,’ said the same man, ‘and the
room for your servant is adjoining. When you wish for anything,
you have but to strike with the knocker on this door, and some
one, who will be constantly in the antechamber, will wait on
you.’ This apparent attention showed that we were guarded. Then
the man bowed and went out, and we heard him lock the door behind
him.
“Gertrude and I were alone. She was about to speak, but I signed
her to be silent, for perhaps some one was listening. The door
of the room which had been shown us as Gertrude’s was open, and
we went in to examine it. It was evidently the dressing-room to
mine, and was also locked. We were prisoners. Gertrude approached
me, and said in a low tone: ‘Did demoiselle remark that we only
mounted five steps after leaving the court?’ ‘Yes,’ said I.
‘Therefore we are on the ground floor.’ ‘Doubtless.’ ‘So that----’
said she, pointing to the window. ‘Yes, if they are not barred.’
‘And if mademoiselle had courage.’ ‘Oh! yes, I have.’
“Gertrude then took a light, and approached the window. It opened
easily, and was not barred; but we soon discovered the cause
of this seeming negligence on the part of our captors. A lake
lay below us, and we were guarded by ten feet of water better
than by bolts and bars. But in looking out I discovered where we
were. We were in the château of Beaugé, where they had brought
me on the death of my poor Daphné. This castle belonged to the
Duc d’Anjou, and a sudden light was thrown upon our capture.
We shut the window again, and I threw myself, dressed, on my
bed, while Gertrude slept in a chair by my side. Twenty times
during the night I woke, a prey to sudden terror; but nothing
justified it, excepting the place where I found myself, for all
seemed asleep in the castle, and no noise but the cry of the
birds interrupted the silence of the night. Day appeared, but
only to confirm my conviction that flight was impossible without
external aid; and how could that reach us? About nine they came to
take away the supper and bring breakfast. Gertrude questioned the
servants, but they did not reply. Our morning passed in fruitless
plans for escape, and yet we could see a boat fastened to the
shore, with its oars in it. Could we only have reached that,
we might have been safe.
“They brought us our dinner in the same way, put it down, and
left us. In breaking my bread I found in it a little note. I
opened it eagerly, and read, ‘A friend watches over you. To-morrow
you shall have news of him and of your father.’ You can imagine
my joy. The rest of the day passed in waiting and hoping. The
second night passed as quietly as the first; then came the hour
of breakfast, waited for impatiently, for I hoped to find another
note. I was not wrong, it was as follows:--‘The person who had you
carried off will arrive at the castle of Beaugé at ten o’clock
this evening; but at nine, the friend who watches over you will
be under your windows with a letter from your father, which will
command the confidence you, perhaps, might not otherwise give.
Burn this letter.
“I read and re-read this letter, then burned it as I was desired.
The writing was unknown to me, and I did not know from whom it
could have come. We lost ourselves in conjectures, and a hundred
times during the morning we went to the window to see if we could
see any one on the shores of the lake, but all was solitary.
An hour after dinner, some one knocked at our door, and then
entered. It was the man who had spoken to us before. I recognized
his voice; he presented a letter to me.
“‘Whom do you come from?’ asked I. ‘Will mademoiselle take the
trouble to read, and she will see.’ ‘But I will not read this
letter without knowing whom it comes from.’ ‘Mademoiselle can
do as she pleases; my business is only to leave the letter,’
and putting it down, he went away. ‘What shall I do?’ asked I
of Gertrude. ‘Read the letter, mademoiselle; it is better to
know what to expect.’ I opened and read.”
Diana, at this moment, rose, opened a desk, and from a portfolio
drew out the letter. Bussy glanced at the address and read, “To
the beautiful Diana de Méridor.”
Then looking at Diana, he said--
“It is the Duc d’Anjou’s writing.”
“Ah!” replied she, with a sigh, “then he did not deceive me.”
Then, as Bussy hesitated to open the letter--
“Read,” said she, “chance has initiated you into the most secret
history of my life, and I wish to keep nothing from you.”
Bussy obeyed and read--
“An unhappy prince, whom your divine beauty has struck to the
heart, will come at ten o’clock to-night to apologize for his
conduct towards you--conduct which he himself feels has no other
excuse than the invincible love he entertains for you.
“FRANÇOIS.”
“Then this letter was really from the duke?” asked Diana.
“Alas! yes; it is his writing and his seal.”
Diana sighed. “Can he be less guilty than I thought?” said she.
“Who, the prince?”
“No, M. de Monsoreau.”
“Continue, madame, and we will judge the prince and the count.”
“This letter, which I had then no idea of not believing genuine,
rendered still more precious to me the intervention of the unknown
friend who offered me aid in the name of my father; I had no
hope but in him. Night arrived soon, for it was in the month
of January, and we had still four or five hours to wait for the
appointed time. It was a fine frosty night; the heavens were
brilliant with stars, and the crescent moon lighted the country
with its silver beams. We had no means of knowing the time, but
we sat anxiously watching at Gertrude’s window. At last we saw
figures moving among the trees, and then distinctly heard the
neighing of a horse.
“It is our friends,’ said Gertrude. ‘Or the prince,’ replied I.
‘The prince would not hide himself.’ This reflection reassured
me. A man now advanced alone: it seemed to us that he quitted
another group who were left under the shade of the trees. As he
advanced, my eyes made violent efforts to pierce the obscurity,
and I thought I recognized first the tall figure, then the features,
of M. de Monsoreau. I now feared almost as much the help as the
danger. I remained mute, and drew back from the window. Arrived at
the wall, he secured his boat, and I saw his head at our window.
I could not repress a cry.
“‘Ah, pardon,’ said he, ‘but I thought you expected me.’ ‘I expected
some one, monsieur, but I did not know it was you.’ A bitter smile
passed over his face. ‘Who else,’ said he, ‘except her father,
watches over the honor of Diana de Méridor?’ ‘You told me, monsieur,
in your letter, that you came in my father’s name.’ ‘Yes,
mademoiselle, and lest you should doubt it, here is a note from
the baron,’ and he gave me a paper. I read--
“‘MY DEAR DIANA,--M. de Monsoreau can alone extricate you from
your dangerous position, and this danger is immense. Trust, then,
to him as to the best friend that Heaven can send to us. I will
tell you later what from the bottom of my heart I wish you to
do to acquit the debt we shall contract towards him.
“‘Your father, who begs you to believe him, and to have pity on
him, and on yourself,
“‘BARON DE MÉRIDOR.’
“I knew nothing against M. de Monsoreau; my dislike to him was
rather from instinct than reason. I had only to reproach him
with the death of a doe, a very light crime for a hunter. I then
turned towards him. ‘Well?’ said he. ‘Monsieur, I have read my
father’s letter, it tells me you will take me from hence, but
it does not tell me where you will take me.’ ‘Where the baron
waits for you.’ ‘And where is that?’ ‘In the castle of Méridor.’
‘Then I shall see my father?’ ‘In two hours.’
“‘Ah I monsieur, if you speak truly----’ I stopped. The count
waited for the end of my sentence. ‘Count on my gratitude,’ said
I in a trembling tone, for I knew what he might expect from my
gratitude. ‘Then, mademoiselle,’ said he, ‘you are ready to
follow me?’ I looked at Gertrude. ‘Reflect that each minute that
passes is most precious,’ said he, ‘I am nearly half an hour
behind time now; it will soon be ten o’clock, and then the prince
will be here.’ ‘Alas! yes.’ ‘Once he comes, I can do nothing for
you but risk without hope that life which I now risk to save
you.’ ‘Why did not my father come?’ I asked. ‘Your father is
watched. They know every step he takes.’ ‘But you----’ ‘Oh! I am
different; I am the prince’s friend and confidant.’ ‘Then if
you are his friend----’ ‘Yes, I betray him for you; it is true,
as I told you just now, I am risking my life to save you.’ This
seemed so true, that although I still felt repugnance, I could
not express it. ‘I wait,’ said the count, ‘and stay; if you still
doubt, look there.’ I looked, and saw on the opposite shore a
body of cavaliers advancing. ‘It is the duke and his suite,’
said he, ‘in five minutes it will be too late.’
“I tried to rise, but my limbs failed me. Gertrude raised me
in her arms and gave me to the count. I shuddered at his touch,
but he held me fast and placed me in the boat. Gertrude followed
without aid. Then I noticed that my veil had come off, and was
floating on the water. I thought they would track us by it, and
I cried, ‘My veil; catch my veil.’ The count looked at it and
said, ‘No, no, better leave it.’ And seizing the oars, he rowed
with all his strength. We had just reached the bank when we saw
the windows of my room lighted up. ‘Did I deceive you? Was it
time?’ said M. de Monsoreau. ‘Oh I yes, yes,’ cried I, ‘you are
really my saviour.’
“The lights seemed to be moving about from one room to the other.
We heard voices, and a man entered who approached the open window,
looked out, saw the floating veil, and uttered a cry. ‘You see I
did well to leave the veil,’ said the count, ‘the prince believes
that to escape him you threw yourself into the lake.’ I trembled
at the man who had so instantaneously conceived this idea.”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE TREATY.
There was a moment’s silence. Diana seemed almost overcome. Bussy
was already vowing eternal vengeance against her enemies. She
went on:
“Scarcely had we touched the shore, when seven or eight men ran
to us. They were the count’s people, and I thought I recognized
among them the two men who had escorted me when I left Méridor.
A squire held two horses, a black one for the count and a white
one for me. The count helped me to mount, and then jumped on
his own horse. Gertrude mounted en croupe behind one of the men,
and we set off at full gallop. The count held the bridle of my
horse. I said to him that I was a sufficiently good horsewoman to
dispense with this, but he replied that the horse was inclined to
run away. When we had gone about ten minutes, I heard Gertrude’s
voice calling to me, and turning, I saw that four of the men
were taking her by a different path from that which we were
following. ‘Gertrude,’ cried I, ‘why does she not come with me?’
‘It is an indispensable precaution,’ said the count; ‘if we are
pursued we must leave two tracks, and they must be able to say
in two places that they have seen a woman carried away by men.
There is then a chance that M. d’Anjou may take a wrong road,
and go after your servant instead of you.’ Although specious,
this reply did not satisfy me, but what could I do? Besides,
the path which the count was following was the one which led
to the Château de Méridor. In a quarter of an hour, at the rate
at which we are going, we should have been at the castle, when
all at once, when we came to a cross road which I knew well,
the count, instead of following the road to the castle, turned
to the left, and took a road which led away from it. I cried
out, and in spite of our rapid pace had already my hand on the
pommel in order to jump off, when the count, seizing me round
the waist, drew me off my horse, and placed me on the saddle
before him. This action was so rapid that I had only time to
utter a cry. M. de Monsoreau put his hand on my mouth, and said,
‘Mademoiselle, I swear to you, on my honor, that I only act by
your father’s orders, as I will prove to you at the first halt
we make. If this proof appears to you insufficient, you shall
then be free.’ ‘But, monsieur,’ cried I, pushing away his hand,
‘you told me you were taking me to my father!’ ‘Yes, I told you
so, because I saw that you hesitated to follow me, and a moment’s
more hesitation would have ruined us both, as you know. Now, do
you wish to kill your father? Will you march straight to your
dishonor? If so, I will take you to Méridor.’ ‘You spoke of a
proof that you acted in the name of my father.’ ‘Here it is,’
said the baron, giving me a letter, ‘keep it, and read it at the
first stoppage. If, when you have read it, you wish to return
to Méridor, you are free; but if you have any respect for your
father’s wishes you will not.’ ‘Then, monsieur,’ I replied, ‘let
us reach quickly our stopping-place, for I wish to know if you
speak the truth.’ ‘Remember, you follow me freely.’ ‘Yes, as freely
as a young girl can who sees herself placed between her father’s
death and her own dishonor on the one hand, and on the other
the obligation to trust herself to the word of a man whom she
hardly knows.’ ‘Never mind, I follow you freely, monsieur, as
you shall see if you will give me my horse again.’ The count
called to one of his men to dismount and give me his horse. ‘The
white mare cannot be far,’ said he to the man; ‘seek her in the
forest and call her, she will come like a dog to her name or
to a whistle; you can rejoin us at La Châtre.’ I shuddered in
spite of myself. La Châtre was ten leagues from Méridor, on the
road to Paris. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘I accompany you, but at La
Châtre we make our conditions.’ ‘Mademoiselle, at La Châtre you
shall give me your orders.’ At daybreak we arrived at La Châtre,
but instead of entering the village we went by across-road to
a lonely house. I stopped. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘Mademoiselle,’ said the count, ‘I appeal to yourself. Can we,
in flying from a prince next in power to the king, stop in an
ordinary village inn, where the first person would denounce us?’
‘Well,’ said I, ‘go on.’ We resumed our way. We were expected,
for a man had ridden on before to announce our arrival. A good
fire burned in a decent room, and a bed was prepared. ‘This is
your room,’ said the count, ‘I will await your orders.’ He went
out and left me alone. My first thought was for my letter. Here
it is, M. de Bussy; read.”
Bussy took the letter and read:
“MY BELOVED DIANA--As I do not doubt that, yielding to my prayer,
you have followed the Comte de Monsoreau, he must have told you
that you had the misfortune to please M. le Duc d’Anjou, and
that it was this prince who had you forcibly carried away and
taken to the castle of Beaugé; judge by this violence of what the
prince is capable, and with what you were menaced. Your dishonor
I could not survive; but there is a means of escape--that of
marrying our noble friend. Once Countess of Monsoreau, the count
would protect his wife. My desire is, then, my darling daughter,
that this marriage should take place as soon as possible, and
if you consent, I give you my paternal benediction, and pray
God to bestow upon you every treasure of happiness.
“Your father, who does not order, but entreats,
“BARON DE MÉRIDOR.”
“Alas!” said Bussy, “if this letter be from your father, it is
but too positive.”
“I do not doubt its being from him, and yet I read it three times
before deciding. At last I called the count. He entered at once;
I had the letter in my hand. ‘Well, have you read it?’ said he.
‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Do you still doubt my devotion and respect?’
‘This letter imposes belief on me, monsieur; but in case I yield
to my father’s wishes, what do you propose to do?’ ‘To take you
to Paris, mademoiselle; that is the easiest place to hide you.’
‘And my father?’ ‘As soon as there is no longer danger of
compromising you, you know he will come to you wherever you are.’
‘Well, monsieur, I am ready to accept your protection on the
conditions you impose.’
“‘I impose nothing, mademoiselle,’ answered he, ‘I simply offer
you a method of safety.’ ‘Well, I will accept this safety on
three conditions.’ ‘Speak, mademoiselle.’ ‘The first is, that
Gertrude shall return to me.’ She is here. ‘The second is, that
we travel separately to Paris.’ ‘I was about to propose it to
you.’ ‘And the third is, that our marriage, unless I myself
acknowledge some urgent necessity for it, shall only take place
in presence of my father.’ ‘It is my earnest desire; I count
on his benediction to draw upon us that of heaven.’
“I was in despair. I had hoped for some opposition to my wishes.
‘Now, mademoiselle,’ said he, ‘allow me to give you some advice.’
‘I listen, monsieur.’ ‘Only to travel by night.’ ‘Agreed.’ ‘To let
me choose the route, and the places where you should stop. All
my precautions will be taken with the sole aim of escaping the
Duc d’Anjou.’ ‘I have no objection to make, monsieur.’ ‘Lastly,
at Paris, to occupy the lodging I shall prepare for you, however
simple and out of the way it may be.’ ‘I only ask to live hidden,
monsieur, the more out of the way, the better it will suit me.’
‘Then, as we are agreed on all points, mademoiselle, it only
remains for me to present to you my humble respects, and to send
to you your femme de chambre.’ ‘On my side! monsieur, be sure
that if you keep all your promises, I will keep mine.’ ‘That is
all I ask,’ said the count, ‘and the promise makes me the happiest
of men.’
“With these words, he bowed and went out. Five minutes after,
Gertrude entered. The joy of this good girl was great; she had
believed herself separated from me forever. I told her all that
had passed. As I finished, we heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs.
I ran to the window; it was M. de Monsoreau going away. He had
fulfilled two articles of the treaty. We passed all the day in
that little house, served by our hostess; in the evening the
chief of our escort appeared, and asked me if I were ready. I
said yes, and five minutes after, we set off. At the door I found
my white mare. We traveled all night, and stopped at daybreak.
I calculated we had gone about thirty-five miles, but my horse
had a very easy pace, and on leaving the house a fur cloak had
been thrown over me to protect me from the cold. It took us seven
days to reach Paris in this manner, and I saw nothing of the
count. We entered the city at night, and the first object I saw,
after passing through the gate, was an immense monastery; then
we crossed the river, and in ten minutes we were in the Place de
la Bastile. Then a man who seemed to be waiting for us, advanced
and said, ‘It is here.’ The chief of our escort jumped off his
horse, and presented me his hand to dismount also. A door was
open, and the staircase lighted by a lamp. ‘Madame,’ said the man
to me, ‘you are now at home. At this door finishes the mission
I received; may I flatter myself I have fulfilled it according
to your wishes?’ ‘Yes, monsieur,’ said I, ‘I have only thanks
to give you. Offer them in my name to all your men; I would wish
to reward them in a better manner, but I possess nothing.’ ‘Do
not be uneasy about that, madame,’ said he, ‘they are largely
recompensed.’
“Then the little troop went away, and we went up the stairs of
our house, and found ourselves in a corridor. Three doors were
open; we entered the middle one, and found ourselves in the room
where we now stand. On opening the door of my bedroom, to my
great astonishment I found my own portrait there. It was one
which had hung at Méridor, and the count had doubtless begged
it of my father. I trembled at this new proof that my father
regarded me already as his wife.
“Nothing was wanting in the room; a fire burned in the grate, and
a supper was ready in the sitting-room. I saw with satisfaction
that it was laid for one only, and yet when Gertrude said, ‘Well,
mademoiselle, you see the count keeps his promises.’--‘Alas!
yes,’ replied I with a sigh, for I should have preferred that
by breaking his word he should have given me an excuse to break
mine. After supper, we examined the house, but found no one in
it. The next day Gertrude went out, and from her I learned that
we were at the end of the Rue St. Antoine, near the Bastile. That
evening, as we were sitting down to supper, some one knocked.
I grew pale.
“‘If it be the count?’ asked Gertrude. ‘You must open to him;
he has kept his promises, and I must keep mine.’ A moment after
he entered. ‘Well, madame,’ said he, ‘have I kept my word?’
‘Yes, monsieur, and I thank you for it.’ ‘Then you will receive
me?’ said he, with an ironical smile. ‘Enter, monsieur,’ said I,
‘have you any news?’ ‘Of what, madame?’ ‘Of my father, firstly?’
‘I have not been to Méridor and have not seen the baron.’ ‘Then
of Beaugé, and the Duc d’Anjou?’ ‘I have been to Beaugé, and
have spoken to the duke.’ ‘What does he say?’ ‘He appears to
doubt.’ ‘Of what?’ ‘Of your death.’ ‘But you confirmed it?’ ‘I
did all I could.’ ‘Where is the duke?’ I then asked. ‘He returned
to Paris yesterday. One does not like to stay in a place where
one has the death of a woman to reproach one’s self with.’ ‘Have
you seen him in Paris?’ ‘I have just left him.’ ‘Did he speak of
me?’ ‘I did not give him time; I spoke incessantly of a promise
which he made to me.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘He promised me as a reward
for services rendered to him, to make, me chief huntsman.’ ‘Ah,
yes,’ said I, thinking of my poor Daphné ‘you are a terrible hunter,
I know.’ ‘It is not for, that reason I obtain it, but the duke
dare not be ungrateful to me.’
“‘Can I write to my father?’ said I. ‘Doubtless; but your letters
may be intercepted.’ ‘Am I forbidden to go out?’ ‘Nothing is
forbidden; but I beg to point out to you that you may be followed.’
‘At least I must go on Sunday to mass.’ ‘It would be better not;
but if you do, I advise you to go to St. Catherine.’ ‘Where is
that?’ ‘Just opposite you.’ There was a silence. Then I said, ‘When
shall I see you again, monsieur?’ ‘When I have your permission
to come.’ ‘Do you need it?’ ‘Certainly, as yet I am a stranger
to you.’ ‘Monsieur,’ said I, half frightened at this unnatural
submission, ‘you can return when you like, or when you think
you have anything important to communicate.’
“‘Thanks, madame,’ said he, ‘I will use your permission, but
not abuse it. I know you do not love me, and I will not abuse
a situation which forces you to receive me. You will, I trust,
gradually become accustomed to the thought, and be willing, when
the moment shall arrive, to become my wife.’ ‘Monsieur,’ said
I, ‘I appreciate your delicacy and frankness. I will use the
same frankness. I had a prejudice against you, which I trust
that time will cure.’ ‘Permit me,’ said he, ‘to partake this
anticipation and live in the hopes of that happy moment.’ Then
bowing respectfully, he went out.”
CHAPTER XV.
THE MARRIAGE.
“A strange man,” said Bussy.
“Yes, is he not, monsieur? When he was gone I felt sadder and more
frightened than ever. This icy respect, this ironical obedience,
this repressed passion, which now and then showed itself in his
voice, frightened me more than a will firmly expressed, and which
I could have opposed, would have done. The next day was Sunday;
I had never in my life missed divine service, so I took a thick
veil and went to St. Catherine’s, followed by Gertrude, and no
one seemed to remark us.
“The next day the count came to announce to me that the duke
had fulfilled his promise, and had obtained for him the place
of chief huntsman, which had been promised to M. de St. Luc.
A week passed thus: the count came twice to see me, and always
preserved the same cold and submissive manner. The next Sunday I
went again to the church. Imprudently, in the midst of my prayers,
I raised my veil. I was praying earnestly for my father, when
Gertrude touched me on the arm. I raised my head, and saw with
terror M. le Duc d’Anjou leaning against the column, and looking
earnestly at me. A man stood by him.”
“It was Aurilly,” said Bussy.
“Yes, that was the name that Gertrude told me afterwards. I drew
my veil quickly over my face, but it was too late: he had seen
me, and if he had not recognized me, at least my resemblance to
her whom he believed dead had struck him. Uneasy, I left the
church, but found him standing at the door and he offered to
me the holy water as I passed. I feigned not to see him, and
went on. We soon discovered that we were followed. Had I known
anything of Paris, I would have attempted to lead them wrong,
but I knew no more of it than from the church to the house, nor
did I know any one of whom I could ask a quarter of an hour’s
hospitality; not a friend, and only one protector, whom I feared
more than an enemy.”
“Oh! mon Dieu!” cried Bussy, “why did not Heaven, or chance, throw
me sooner in your path?”
Diana thanked the young man with a look.
“But pray go on,” said Bussy, “I interrupt you, and yet I am dying
to hear more.”
“That evening M. de Monsoreau came. I did not know whether to
tell him of what had happened, but he began, ‘You asked me if
you could go to mass, and I told you you were free, but that it
would be better not to do so. You would not believe me: you went
this morning to St. Catherine’s, and by a fatality the prince
was there and saw you.’ ‘It is true, monsieur; but I do not know
if he recognized me.’ ‘Your face struck him; your resemblance to
the woman he regrets appeared to him extraordinary, he followed
you home, and made inquiries, but learned nothing, for no one
knew anything.’ ‘Mon Dieu!’ cried I. ‘The duke is persevering,’
said he. ‘Oh! he will forget me, I hope.’
“‘No one forgets you who has once seen you,’ said he. ‘I did
all I could to forget you, and I have not succeeded.’ And the
first passionate look that I had seen flashed from the eyes of
the count. I was more terrified by it than I had been by the
sight of the prince. I remained mute. ‘What will you do?’ asked
the count. ‘Can I not change my abode--go to the other end of
Paris, or, better still, return to Anjou?’ ‘It will be useless;
the duke is a terrible bloodhound, and now he is on your track,
he will follow you wherever you go till he finds you.’ ‘Oh! mon
Dieu! you frighten me.’ ‘I tell you the simple truth.’ ‘Then
what do you advise me to do?’ ‘Alas!’ said he, with a bitter
irony. ‘I am a man of poor imagination. I had formed a plan,
but it does not suit you; I can find no other.’ ‘But the danger
is perhaps less pressing than you imagine.’
“‘The future will show us, madame,’ said the count, rising. ‘I
can but add that the Comtesse de Monsoreau would have the less to
fear from the prince, as my new post places me under the direct
protection of the court.’ I only replied by a sigh. He smiled
bitterly, and as he went down-stairs I heard him giving vent to
oaths. The next day, when Gertrude went out, she was accosted by
a young man whom she recognized as the one who had accompanied the
prince, but she remained obstinately silent to all his questions.
This meeting inspired me with profound terror; I feared that
M. de Monsoreau would not come, and that they would invade the
house in his absence. I sent for him, he came at once. I told
him all about the young man, whom I described.
“‘It was Aurilly;’ he said, ‘and what did Gertrude answer?’ ‘She
did not answer at all.’ ‘She was wrong,’ said he. ‘Why?’ ‘We
must gain time.’ ‘Time?’ ‘Yes, I am now dependent on the Duc
d’Anjou; in a fortnight, in a week perhaps, he will be in my
power. We must deceive him to get him to wait.’ ‘Mon Dieu!’
‘Certainly; hope will make him patient. A complete refusal will
push him to extremities.’ ‘Monsieur, write to my father; he will
throw himself at the feet of the king. He will have pity on an
old man.’ ‘That is according to the king’s humor, and whether
he be for the time friendly or hostile to the duke. Besides,
it would take six days for a messenger to reach your father,
and six days for him to come here. In twelve days, if we do not
stop him, the duke will have done all he can do.’
“‘And how to stop him?’ I cried. A smile passed over the lips of
M. de Monsoreau at this first appeal to his protection. ‘Madame,’
said he, ‘will you permit me to pass two or three hours in your
room? I may be seen going out, and would rather wait till dark.’
I signed him to sit down. We conversed; he was clever and had
traveled much, and at the end of the time I understood, better
than I had ever done before, the influence he had obtained over
my father. When it grew dark, he rose and took leave. Gertrude
and I then approached the window, and could distinctly see two
men examining the house. The next day, Gertrude, when she went
out, found the same young man in the same place. He spoke to
her again, and this time she answered him. On the following day
she told him that I was the widow of a counselor, who, being
poor, lived in retirement. He tried to learn more, but could
extract nothing further from her. The next day, Aurilly, who
seemed to doubt her story, spoke of Anjou, of Beaugé, and Méridor.
Gertrude declared these names to be perfectly unknown to her.
Then he avowed that he came from the Duc d’Anjou, who had seen
and fallen in love with me; then came magnificent offers for
both of us, for her, if she would introduce the prince into my
house, and for me, if I would receive him.
“Every evening M. de Monsoreau came, to hear what was going on,
and remained from eight o’clock to midnight, and it was evident
that his anxiety was great. On Saturday evening he arrived pale
and agitated.
“‘You must promise to receive the duke on Tuesday or Wednesday,’
said he. ‘Promise! and why?’ ‘Because he has made up his mind to
come in, and he is just now on the best terms with the king; we
have nothing to expect from him.’ ‘But before then will anything
happen to help me?’ ‘I hope so. I expect from day to day the
event which is to place the duke in my power. But tomorrow I
must leave you, and must go to Monsoreau.’ ‘Must you?’ cried I
with a mixture of joy and terror. ‘Yes, I have there a rendezvous
which is indispensable to bring about the event of which I speak.’
‘But if you fail, what are we to do?’ ‘What can I do against
a prince, if I have no right to protect you, but yield to bad
fortune?’
“‘Oh! my father! my father!’ cried I. The count looked at me.
‘What have you to reproach me with?’ said he. ‘Nothing, on the
contrary.’ ‘Have I not been a devoted friend, and as respectful
as a brother?’ ‘You have behaved throughout like a gallant man.’
‘Had I not your promise?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Have I once recalled it to
you?’ ‘No.’ ‘And yet you prefer to be the mistress of the duke,
to being my wife?’ ‘I do not say so, monsieur.’ ‘Then decide.’ ‘I
have decided.’ ‘To be Countess of Monsoreau?’ ‘Rather than mistress
of the duke.’ ‘The alternative is flattering. But, meanwhile,
let Gertrude gain time until Tuesday.’ The next day Gertrude
went out, but did not meet Aurilly. We felt more frightened at
his absence than we had done at his presence. Night came, and
we were full of terror. We were alone and feeble, and for the
first time I felt my injustice to the count.”
“Oh! madame!” cried Bussy, “do not be in a hurry to think so,
his conduct conceals some mystery, I believe.”
“All was quiet,” continued Diana, “until eleven o’clock. Then
five men came out of the Rue St Antoine, and hid themselves by
the Hôtel des Tournelles. We began to tremble; were they there
for us? However, they remained quiet, and a quarter of an hour
passed; then we saw two other men approach. By the moonlight
Gertrude recognized Aurilly. ‘Alas! mademoiselle; it is they,’
cried she. ‘Yes,’ cried I, trembling, ‘and the five others are
to help them.’ ‘But they must force the door,’ said Gertrude,
‘perhaps the neighbors will come and help us.’ ‘Oh! no, they
do not know us, and they will not fight against the duke. Alas!
Gertrude, I fear we have no real defender but the count.’ ‘Well!
then, why do you always refuse to marry him?’ I sighed.”
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MARRIAGE.
“The two men approached the window. We gently opened it a little
way, and heard one say, ‘Are you sure it is here?’ ‘Yes, monseigneur,
quite sure,’ said the other. ‘It is the fifth house from the
corner of the Rue St. Paul.’ ‘And you are sure of the key?’ ‘I
took the pattern of the lock.’ I seized Gertrude’s arm in terror.
‘And once inside’ he went on, ‘the servant will admit us; your
highness has in your pocket a golden key as good as this one.’
‘Open, then.’ We heard the key turn in the lock but all at once
the ambushed men rushed forward, crying, ‘a mort! a mort!’ I
could not understand this, only I saw that unexpected help had
come to us, and I fell on my knees, thanking Heaven. But the
prince had only to name himself, when every sword went back into
the scabbard, and every foot drew back.”
“Yes, yes,” said Bussy, “it was for me they came, not for the
prince.”
“However, this attack caused the prince to retire, and the five
gentlemen went back to their hiding-place. It was evident that
the danger was over for that night, but we were too unquiet to
go to bed. Soon we saw a man on horseback appear, and then the
five gentlemen immediately rushed on him. You know the rest,
as the gentleman was yourself.”
“On the contrary, madame, I know only that I fought and then
fainted.”
“It is useless to say,” continued Diana, with a blush, “the interest
that we took in the combat so unequal, but so valiantly sustained.
Each blow drew from us a shudder, a cry, and a prayer. We saw
your horse fall, and we thought you lost, but it was not so;
the brave Bussy merited his reputation. At last, surrounded,
menaced on all sides, you retreated like a lion, facing your
foes, and came to lean against our door; the same idea came to
both of us, to go down and open to you, and we ran towards the
staircase; but we had barricaded the door, and it took us some
minutes to move the furniture, and as we arrived on the stairs,
we heard the door shut. We stopped, and looked at each other,
wondering who had entered. Soon we heard steps, and a man appeared,
who tottered, threw up his arms, and fell on the first step. It
was evident that he was not pursued, but had put the door, so
luckily left open by the duke, between him and his adversaries.
In any case we had nothing to fear; it was he who needed our help.
Gertrude ran and fetched a lamp, and we found you had fainted, and
carried you to the bed. Gertrude had heard of a wonderful cure
made by a young doctor in the Rue Beautrellis, and she offered to
go and fetch him. ‘But,’ said I, ‘he might betray us.’ ‘I will
take precautions’ said she. She took money and the key, and I
remained alone near you, and--praying for you.”
“Alas!” said Bussy, “I did not know all my happiness, madame.”
“In a quarter of an hour Gertrude returned, bringing the young
doctor with his eyes bandaged.”
“Yes, it was at that moment I recovered my senses and saw your
portrait, and thought I saw you enter,” said Bussy.
“I did so; my anxiety was stronger than my prudence. The doctor
examined your wound and answered for your life.”
“All that remained in my mind,” said Bussy, “like a dream, and
yet something told me,” added he, laying his hand upon his heart,
“that it was real.”
“When the surgeon had dressed your wound, he drew from his pocket
a little bottle containing a red liquor, of which he put some
drops on your lips. He told me it was to counteract the fever and
produce sleep, and said that the only thing then was to keep you
quiet. Gertrude then bandaged his eyes again, and took him back
to the Rue Beautrellis, but she fancied he counted the steps.”
“He did so, madame.”
“This supposition frightened us. We feared he would betray us,
and we wished to get rid of every trace of the hospitality we
had shown you. I gathered up my courage; it was two o’clock,
and the streets were deserted; Gertrude was strong, and I aided
her, and between us we carried you to the Temple. Luckily we
met no one, but when we returned, I fainted with emotion.”
“Oh! madame!” cried Bussy, “how can I ever repay you for what
you have done for me?”
There was a moment’s silence, and they heard the clock of St.
Catherine’s church strike. “Two o’clock,” cried Diana, “and you
here!”
“Oh! madame, do not send me away without telling me all. Suppose
that God had given you a brother, and tell this brother what
he can do for his sister.”
“Alas! nothing now; it is too late.”
“What happened the next day?” said Bussy; “what did you do on
that day when I thought constantly of you, without feeling sure
if you were not a vision of my delirium?”
“During that day, Gertrude went out, and met Aurilly. He was
more pressing than ever. He said nothing of the night before,
but asked for an interview for his master. Gertrude appeared
to consent, but she asked until the Wednesday--that is to-day--to
decide. Aurilly promised that his master would wait until then.
That evening, M. de Monsoreau returned. We told him all, except
about you.
“‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I heard of all this. Then he has a key.’ ‘Can
we not change the lock?’ ‘He will get another key.’ ‘Put on bolts?
‘He will come with ten men and force the door. ‘But the event which
was to give you full power over him?’ ‘Is postponed indefinitely.’
I stood in despair. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘the duke has promised to
wait till Wednesday; I ask you to wait till Tuesday.’ ‘Tuesday
evening I will be here, madame,’ and without another word he
went out. I followed him with my eyes, but instead of going away
he stood in the corner by the Hôtel des Tournelles, and seemed
determined to watch me all night. Every proof of devotion he gave
me was like a knife in my heart. The two days passed rapidly, but
what I suffered it is impossible to describe. When Tuesday evening
came, I felt exhausted, and all emotion seemed dead within me.
“Gertrude went to the window. ‘Madame,’ cried she, ‘four men!
I see four men! They approach, they open the door--they enter!
It is, doubtless, the duke and his followers.’ For an answer,
I drew my poniard, and placed it near me on the table. ‘See,’
said I. An instant after, Gertrude returned, ‘It is the count,’
said she. He entered. ‘Gertrude tells me,’ said he, ‘that you
took me for the duke, and were ready to kill yourself.’ It was
the first time I had ever seen him moved. Gertrude was wrong to
tell you,’ said I. ‘You know that I am not alone.’ ‘Gertrude saw
four men.’ ‘You know who they are?’ ‘I presume one is a priest,
and the others witnesses.’ ‘Then, you are ready to become my
wife?’ ‘It was so agreed; only I stipulated that except in an
urgent case, I would only marry you in the presence of my father.’
‘I remember; but do you not think the case urgent?’ ‘Yes, and
the priest may marry us, but, until I have seen my father, I
will be your wife only in name.’
“The count frowned, and bit his lips. ‘I do not wish to coerce
you,’ said he; ‘you are free; but look here.’ I went to the window,
and saw a man wrapped in a cloak, who seemed trying to get into
the house.”
“Oh! mon dieu!” cried Bussy; “and this was yesterday?”
“Yes, about nine o’clock. Presently, another man, with a lantern,
joined him. I thought it was the duke and his followers.
“‘Now,’ said, M de Monsoreau, ‘shall I go or stay?’ I hesitated
a moment, in spite of my father’s letter and of my given word,
but those two men there----”
“Oh! unhappy that I am,” cried Bussy, “it was I and Rémy, the
young doctor.”
“You!” cried Diana.
“Yes, I; I, who, more and more convinced of the reality of my
dream, sought for the house where I had been, and the woman,
or rather angel, who had appeared to me. Oh! I am unfortunate.
Then,” continued he, after a pause, “you are his wife?”
“Since yesterday.”
There was a fresh silence.
“But,” said Diana at last, “how did you enter this house?”
Bussy silently showed his key.
“A key! where did you get it?”
“Had not Gertrude promised the prince to enter tonight? He had
seen M. de Monsoreau here, and also myself, and fearing a snare,
sent me to find out.”
“And you accepted this mission?”
“It was my only method of penetrating to you. Will you reproach
me for having sought at once the greatest joy and the greatest
grief of my life?”
“Yes, for it is better that you should see me no more, and forget
me.”
“No, madame; God has brought me to you, to deliver you from the
toils in which your enemies have taken you. I vow my life to
you. You wish for news of your father?”
“Oh, yes! for, in truth, I know not what has become of him.”
“Well, I charge myself with finding out; only think of him who
henceforth will live but for you.”
“But this key?”
“This key I restore to you, for I will receive it only from your
hands; but I pledge you my word as a gentleman, that never sister
could trust in a brother more devoted and respectful.”
“I trust to the word of the brave Bussy. Here, monsieur,” and
she gave back the key.
“Madame, in a fortnight we will know more;” and, saluting Diana
with a respect mingled with love and sadness, Bussy took leave.
Diana listened to his retreating steps with tears in her eyes.
CHAPTER XVII.
HOW HENRI III. TRAVELED, AND HOW LONG IT TOOK HIM TO GET FROM
PARIS TO FONTAINEBLEAU.
The sun, which shone four or five hours after the events which
we have just recorded had taken place, saw, by his pale light,
Henri III. set off for Fontainebleau, where a grand chase was
projected. A crowd of gentlemen, mounted on good horses and wrapped
in their fur cloaks, then a number of pages, after them lackey,
and then Swiss, followed the royal litter. This litter, drawn
by eight mules richly caparisoned, was a large machine, about
fifteen feet long and eight wide, on four wheels, furnished inside
with cushions and curtains of silk brocade. In difficult places
they substituted for the mules an indefinite number of oxen.
This machine contained Henri III., his doctor, and his chaplain,
Chicot, four of the king’s favorites, a pair of large dogs, and
a basket of little ones, which the king held on his knees, and
which was suspended from his neck by a golden chain. From the
roof hung a gilded cage containing turtle doves, quite white,
with a black ring round their necks. Sometimes the collection
was completed by the presence of two or three apes. Thus this
litter was commonly termed the Noah’s Ark.
Quelus and Maugiron employed themselves with plaiting ribbons,
a favorite diversion of that time; and Chicot amused himself
by making anagrams on the names of all the courtiers. Just as
they passed the Place Maubert, Chicot rushed out of the litter,
and went to kneel down before a house of good appearance.
“Oh!” cried the king, “if you kneel, let it be before the crucifix
in the middle of the street, and not before the house. What do
you mean by it?”
But Chicot, without attending, cried out in a loud voice:
“Mon Dieu! I recognize it, I shall always recognize it--the house
where I suffered! I have never prayed for vengeance on M. de
Mayenne, author of my martyrdom, nor on Nicholas David, his
instrument. No; Chicot is patient, Chicot can wait, although
it is now six years that this debt has been running on, and in
seven years the interest is doubled. May, then, my patience last
another year, so that instead of fifty blows of a stirrup-leather
which I received in this house by the orders of this assassin
of a Lorraine prince, and which drew a pint of blood, I may owe
a hundred blows and two pints of blood! Amen, so be it!”
“Amen!” said the king.
Chicot then returned to the litter, amidst the wondering looks
of the spectators.
“Why, Chicot, what does all this mean?” said the king.
“Sire, it means that Chicot is like the fox--that he licks the
stones where his blood fell, until against those very stones
he crushes the heads of those who spilt it.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Sire, in that house lived a girl whom Chicot loved, a good and
charming creature, and a lady. One evening when he went to see
her, a certain prince, who had also fallen in love with her,
had him seized and beaten, so that Chicot was forced to jump
out of window; and as it was a miracle that he was not killed,
each time he passes the house he kneels down and thanks God for
his escape.”
“You were, then, well beaten, my poor Chicot?”
“Yes, sire, and yet not as much as I wished.”
“Why--for your sins?”
“No, for those of M. de Mayenne.”
“Oh! I understand; your intention is to render to Cæsar----”
“Not to Cæsar, sire--Cæsar is the great general, the valiant
warrior, the eldest brother, who wishes to be king of France.
No, you must settle with him; pay your debts, and I will pay
mine.”
Henri did not like to hear his cousin of Guise spoken of, and
this made him serious. It was three o’clock in the afternoon
when they arrived at Juvisy and the great hotel of the “Cour de
France.”
Chicot, looking out of the litter, saw at the door of the hotel
several men wrapped in cloaks. In the midst of them was a short,
stout person, whose large hat almost covered his face. They went
in quickly on seeing the litter, but not before the look of this
person had had time to excite Chicot’s attention. Therefore he
jumped out, and asking a page for his horse, which was being
led, let the royal litter go on to Essones, where the king was
to sleep, while he remained behind, and, cautiously peeping in
through a window, saw the men whom he had noticed sitting inside.
He then entered the hotel, went into the opposite room, asked
for a bottle of wine, and placed himself so that, although he
could not be seen, no one could pass by without his seeing them.
“Ah!” said he to himself, “shall I be forced to make my payment
sooner than I expected?”
Soon Chicot found that by keeping the door open he could both
see into the room and hear what was said.
“Gentlemen,” said the short fat man to his companions, “I think
it is time to set out; the last lackey of the cortege is out
of sight, and I believe now that the road is safe.”
“Perfectly so, monseigneur,” replied a voice which made Chicot
tremble, and which came from the mouth of a person as tall as
the other was short, as pale as he was red, and as obsequious
as he was arrogant.
“Ah! M. Nicolas,” said Chicot, “tu quoque, that is good. It will
be odd if I let you slip this time!”
Then the short man came out, paid the bill, and, followed by
the others, took the road to Paris. Chicot followed them at a
distance. They entered by the Porte St. Antoine, and entered
the Hôtel Guise. Chicot waited outside a full hour, in spite
of cold and hunger. At last the door reopened, but, instead of
seven cavaliers wrapped in their cloaks, seven monks came out,
with their hoods over their faces, and carrying immense rosaries.
“Oh!” said Chicot, “is, then, the Hôtel Guise so embalmed in
sanctity that wolves change into lambs only by entering it? This
becomes more and more interesting.”
And he followed the monks as he had followed the cavaliers, for
he believed them to be the same. The monks passed over the bridge
of Notre Dame, crossed the city and the petit pont, and went up
the Rue St. Geneviève.
“Oh!” said Chicot, as he passed the house where he had kneeled
in the morning, “are we returning to Fontainebleau? In that case
I have made a round.”
However, the monks stopped at the door of the Abbey of St. Geneviève,
in the porch of which stood another monk, who examined everyone’s
hand.
“Why,” said Chicot, “it seems that to be admitted to night into
the abbey one must have clean hands!”
Then he saw, with astonishment, monks appear from every street
leading to the abbey, some alone, some walking in pairs, but
all coming to the abbey.
“Ah!” said Chicot, “is there a general chapter at the abbey to-night?
I have never seen one, and I should like it much.”
The monks entered, showing their hands, or something in them,
and passed on.
“I should like to go also,” thought Chicot; “but for that I want
two things--a monk’s robe, for I see no layman here, and then this
mysterious thing which they show to the porter, for certainly
they show something. Ah, Brother Gorenflot, if you were here!”
The monks continued to arrive, till it seemed as if half Paris
had taken the frock.
“There must be something extraordinary to-night,” thought Chicot.
“I will go and find Gorenflot at the Corne d’Abondance; he will
be at supper.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
BROTHER GORENFLOT.
To the beautiful day had succeeded a beautiful evening, only,
as the day had been cold, the evening was still colder. It was
one of those frosts which make the lights in the windows of an
hotel look doubly tempting. Chicot first entered the dining-room,
and looked around him, but not finding there the man he sought
for, went familiarly down to the kitchen. The master of the
establishment was superintending a frying-pan full of whitings.
At the sound of Chicot’s step he turned.
“Ah! it is you, monsieur,” said he, “good evening, and a good
appetite to you.”
“Thanks for the wish, but you know I cannot bear to eat alone.”
“If necessary, monsieur, I will sup with you.”
“Thanks, my dear host, but though I know you to be an excellent
companion, I seek for some one else.”
“Brother Gorenflot, perhaps?”
“Just so; has he begun supper?”
“No, not yet; but you must make haste nevertheless, for in five
minutes he will have finished.”
“Monsieur!” cried Chicot, striking his head.
“Monsieur, it is Friday, and the beginning of Lent.”
“Well, and what then?” said Chicot, who did not hold a high opinion
of Gorenflot’s religious austerity.
Boutromet shrugged his shoulders. “Decidedly, something must
be wrong,” said Chicot, “five minutes for Gorenflot’s supper!
I am destined to see wonders to-day.”
Chicot then advanced towards a small private room, pushed open the
door, and saw within the worthy monk, who was turning negligently
on his plate a small portion of spinach, which he tried to render
more savory by the introduction into it of some cheese. Brother
Gorenflot was about thirty-eight years of age and five feet high.
However, what he wanted in height, he made up in breadth, measuring
nearly three feet in diameter from shoulder to shoulder, which, as
everyone knows, is equal to nine feet of circumference. Between
these Herculean shoulders rose a neck of which the muscles stood
out like cords. Unluckily this neck partook of the same proportions;
it was short and thick, which at any great emotion might render
Brother Gorenflot liable to apoplexy. But knowing this, perhaps,
he never gave way to emotions, and was seldom so disturbed as
he was when Chicot entered his room.
“Ah, my friend! what are you doing?” cried Chicot, looking at
the vegetables and at a glass filled with water just colored
with a few drops of wine.
“You see, my brother, I sup,” replied Gorenflot in a powerful
voice.
“You call that supper, Gorenflot! Herbs and cheese?”
“We are in the beginning of Lent, brother; we must think of our
souls,” replied Gorenflot, raising his eyes to heaven.
Chicot looked astounded; he had so often seen Gorenflot feast
in a different manner during Lent.
“Our souls!” said he; “and what the devil have herbs and water
to do with them?”
“We are forbidden to eat meat on Wednesdays and Fridays.”
“But when did you breakfast?”
“I have not breakfasted, my brother,” said the monk.
“Not breakfasted! Then what have you done?”
“Composed a discourse,” said Gorenflot proudly.
“A discourse, and what for?”
“To deliver this evening at the abbey.”
“That is odd.”
“And I must be quick and go there, or perhaps my audience will
grow impatient.”
Chicot thought of the infinite number of monks he had seen going
to the abbey, and wondered why Gorenflot, whom certainly he had
never thought eloquent, had been chosen to preach before M. de
Mayenne and the numerous assemblage. “When are you to preach?”
said he.
“At half-past nine.”
“Good; it is still a quarter to nine, you can give me a few minutes.
Ventre de biche! we have not dined together for a week.”
“It is not our fault, but I know that your duties keep you near
our King Henry III., while my duties fill up my time.”
“Yes, but it seems to me that is so much the more reason why we
should be merry when we do meet.”
“Yes, I am merry,” said Gorenflot, with a piteous look, “but still
I must leave you.”
“At least, finish your supper.”
Gorenflot looked at the spinach, and sighed, then at the water,
and turned away his head.
“Do you remember,” said Chicot, “the little dinner at the Porte
Montmartre, where, while the king was scourging himself and others,
we devoured a teal from the marshes of the Grauge-Batelière,
with a sauce made with crabs, and we drank that nice Burgundy
wine; what do you call it?”
“It is a wine of my country, La Romanée.”
“Yes, yes, it was the milk you sucked as a baby, worthy son of
Noah.”
“It was good,” said Gorenflot, “but there is better.”
“So says Claude Boutromet, who pretends that he has in his cellar
fifty bottles to which that is paltry.”
“It is true.”
“True, and yet you drink that abominable red water. Fie!” And
Chicot, taking the glass, threw the contents out of window.
“There is a time for all, my brother,” said Gorenflot, “and wine
is good when one has only to praise God after it, but water is
better when one has a discourse to pronounce.”
“Opinions differ, for I, who have also a discourse to pronounce,
am going to ask for a bottle of Romanée. What do you advise me
to take with it, Gorenflot?”
“Not these herbs, they are not nice.” Chicot, seizing the plate,
threw it after the water, and then cried, “Maître Claude.”
The host appeared.
“M. Claude, bring me two bottles of your Romanée, which you call
so good.”
“Why two bottles,” said Gorenflot, “as I do not drink it?”
“Oh! if you did I would have four or six, but if I drink alone,
two will do for me.”
“Indeed; two bottles are reasonable, and if you eat no meat with
it, your confessor will have nothing to reproach you with.”
“Oh, of course not; meat on a Friday in Lent!” And going to the
larder, he drew out a fine capon.
“What are you doing, brother?” said Gorenflot, following his
movements with interest.
“You see I am taking this carp.”
“Carp!” cried Gorenflot.
“Yes, a carp,” said Chicot, showing him the tempting bird.
“And since when has a carp had a beak?”
“A beak! do you see a beak? I only see a nose.”
“And wings?”
“Fins!”
“Feathers?”
“Scales, my dear Gorenflot, you are drunk.”
“Drunk! I, who have only eaten spinach and drunk water?”
“Well, your spinach has overloaded your stomach, and your water
has mounted to your head.”
“Parbleu! here is our host, he shall decide.”
“So be it, but first let him uncork the wine.”
M. Boutromet uncorked a bottle and gave a glass to Chicot. Chicot
swallowed and smacked his lips.
“Ah!” said he, “I have a bad memory, I cannot remember if it
be better or worse than that at Montmartre. Here, my brother,
enlighten me,” said he, giving a little to the monk, who was
looking on with eager eyes.
Gorenflot took the glass, and drank slowly the liquor it contained.
“It is the same wine,” said he, “but I had too little to tell
whether it be better or worse.”
“But I want to know, and if you had not a sermon to preach, I
would beg you to drink a little more.”
“If it will give you pleasure, my brother.”
Chicot half filled the monk’s glass. Gorenflot drank it with great
gravity.
“I pronounce it better,” said he.
“You flatter our host.”
“A good drinker ought, at the first draught, to recognize the
wine, at the second, the quality, and, at the third, the age.”
“Oh! I should like to know the age of this wine.”
“Give me a few drops more, and I will tell you.”
Chicot filled his glass. He drank it off, and then said, “1561.”
“Right,” cried Claude Boutromet, “it was 1561.”
“Brother Gorenflot,” cried Chicot, “they have beatified men at
Rome who were worth less than you.”
“A little habit,” said Gorenflot, modestly.
“And talent; for I flatter myself I have the habit, and I could
not do it. But what are you about?”
“Going to my assembly.”
“Without eating a piece of my carp?”
“Ah I true; you know still less of eating than drinking. M.
Boutromet, what is the name of this animal?”
The innkeeper looked astonished. “A capon,” said he.
“A capon!” cried Chicot, with an air of consternation.
“Yes, and a fine one.”
“Well!” said Gorenflot, triumphantly.
“Well I it seems I was wrong, but as I wish to eat this capon,
and yet not sin, be so kind, brother, as to throw a few drops
of water upon it, and christen it a carp.”
“Ah! ah!”
“Yes, I pray you, save me from mortal sin.”
“So be it,” cried Gorenflot, “but there is no water.”
“Oh! the intention is all; baptize it with wine, my brother;
the animal will be less Catholic but quite as good.” And Chicot
refilled the monk’s glass. The first bottle was finished.
“In the name of Bacchus, Momus, and Comus, trinity of the great
saint Pantagruel, I baptize thee, carp,” said Gorenflot.
“Now,” said Chicot, “to the health of the newly baptized; may it
be cooked to perfection, and may M. Boutromet add to the excellent
qualities which it has received from nature.”
“To his health,” cried Gorenflot, interrupting a hearty laugh
to swallow his wine.
“M. Claude, put this carp at once on the spit, cover it with
fresh butter, with shalots in it, and put some toast in the
frying-pan, and serve it hot.” Gorenflot approved with a motion
of his head.
“Now, M. Boutromet, some sardines and a tunny fish, meanwhile;
it is Lent, and I wish to make a maigre dinner. And let me have
two more bottles of wine.”
The smell of the cookery began to mount to the brain of the monk.
Yet he made a last effort to rise.
“Then you leave me, after all?” said Chicot.
“I must,” said Gorenflot, raising his eyes to heaven.
“It is very imprudent of you to go to pronounce a discourse fasting.”
“Why?”
“Because your strength will fail you. Galen has said it. Pulmo
hominis facile deficit.”
“Alas! yes.”
“You see, then?”
“Luckily, I have zeal.”
“Ah! but that is not enough; I advise you to eat some sardines,
and drink a little of this nectar.”
“A single sardine, then, and one glass.” Chicot gave him the
sardine, and passed him the bottle. He himself took care to keep
sober.
“I feel myself less feeble,” said Gorenflot.
“Oh! you must feel quite strong before you go, and so I advise
you to eat the fins of the carp.” And as they entered with the
pullet, Chicot cut off a leg and thigh, which Gorenflot soon
despatched.
“What a delicious fish!” said Gorenflot. Chicot cut off the other
leg and gave it to Gorenflot, while he ate the wings.
“And famous wine,” said he, uncorking another bottle.
Having once commenced, Gorenflot could not stop. His appetite
was enormous; he finished the bird, and then called to Boutromet.
“M. Claude,” said he, “I am hungry; did you not offer me omelet
just now?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, bring it.”
“In five minutes.”
“Ah!” said Gorenflot, “now I feel in force; if the omelet were
here, I could eat it at a mouthful, and I swallow this wine at
a gulp.” And he swallowed a quarter of the third bottle.
“Ah! you were ill before.”
“I was foolish, friend; that cursed discourse weighed on my mind;
I have been thinking of it for days.”
“It ought to be magnificent.”
“Splendid.”
“Tell me some of it while we wait for the omelet.”
“No, no; not a sermon at table.”
“We have beautiful discourses at the court, I assure you.”
“About what?”
“About virtue.”
“Ah! yes, he is a very virtuous man, our King Henri III.”
“I do not know if he be virtuous; but I know that I have never
seen anything there to make me blush.”
“You blush!”
At this moment M. Boutromet entered with the omelet and two more
bottles.
“Bring it here,” cried the monk, with a smile, which showed his
thirty-two teeth.
“But, friend, I thought you had a discourse to pronounce.”
“It is here,” cried Gorenflot, striking his forehead.
“At half-past nine.”
“I lied; it was ten.”
“Ten! I thought the abbey shut at nine.”
“Let it shut; I have a key.”
“A key of the abbey!”
“Here, in my pocket.”
“Impossible; I know the monastic rules. They would not give the
key to a simple monk.”
“Here it is,” said Gorenflot, showing a piece of money.
“Oh, money! you corrupt the porter to go in when you please, wretched
sinner! But what strange money!”
“An effigy of the heretic, with a hole through his heart.”
“Yes, I see it is a tester of the Béarn king’s, and here is a
hole.”
“A blow with a dagger. Death to the heretic. He who does it is
sure of Paradise.”
“He is not yet drunk enough;” so thought Chicot; and he filled
his glass again.
“To the mass!” cried Gorenflot, drinking it off.
Chicot remembered the porter looking at the hands of the monks,
and said--
“Then, if you show this to the porter----”
“I enter.”
“Without difficulty?”
“As this wine into my stomach.” And the monk absorbed a new dose.
“And you pronounce your discourse?”
“And I pronounce my discourse. I arrive--do you hear? The assembly
is numerous and select. There are barons, counts, and dukes.”
“And even princes?”
“And even princes. I enter humbly among the faithful of the Union----”
“The Union--what does that mean?”
“I enter; they call Brother Gorenflot, and I advance----”
At these words the monk rose. “And I advance,” continued he,
trying to do so, but at the first step he rolled on the floor.
“Bravo!” cried Chicot; “you advance, you salute the audience and
say----”
“No, it is my friends who say, Brother Gorenflot--a fine name
for a leaguer, is it not?”
“A leaguer,” thought Chicot: “what truths is this wine going to
bring out?”
“Then I begin.” And the monk rose, and leaned against the wall.
“You begin,” said Chicot, holding him up.
“I begin, ‘My brothers, it is a good day for the faith, a very
good day, my brothers; it is a very good day for the faith.’”
After this, as Chicot loosed his hold, Gorenflot fell full length
again on the floor, and before many minutes a loud snoring was
heard.
“Good,” said Chicot, “he is in for twelve hours sleep. I can easily
undress him.”
He then untied the monk’s robe, and pulled it off; then rolled
Gorenflot in the tablecloth, and covered his head with a napkin,
and hiding the monk’s frock under his cloak, passed into the
kitchen.
“M. Boutromet,” said he, “here is for our supper, and for my
horse; and pray do not wake the worthy Brother Gorenflot, who
sleeps sound.”
“No, no; be easy, M. Chicot.”
Then Chicot ran to the rue St. Etienne, put on the monk’s robe,
took the tester in his hand, and at a quarter to ten presented
himself, not without a beating heart, at the wicket of the Abbey
St. Geneviève.
CHAPTER XIX.
HOW CHICOT FOUND OUT THAT IT WAS EASIER TO GO IN THAN OUT OF THE
ABBEY.
Chicot, from the cloak and other things under the monk’s robe,
looked much larger across the shoulders than usual. His beard
was of the same color as Gorenflot’s, and he had so often amused
himself with mimicking the monk’s voice and manner of speaking
that he could do it perfectly. Now, everyone knows that the beard
and the voice are the only things which are recognizable from
under the depths of a monk’s hood. Chicot exhibited his coin,
and was admitted without difficulty, and then followed two other
monks to the chapel of the convent. In this chapel, built in the
eleventh century, the choir was raised nine or ten feet above
the rest of the building, and you mounted into it by two lateral
staircases, while an iron door between them led from the nave to
the crypt, into which you had to descend again. In this choir
there was a portrait of St. Geneviève, and on each side of the
altar were statues of Clovis and Clotilda.
Three lamps only lighted the chapel, and the imperfect light
gave a greater solemnity to the scene. Chicot was glad to find
that he was not the last, for three monks entered after in gray
robes, and placed themselves in front of the altar. Soon after,
a little monk, doubtless a lad belonging to the choir, came and
spoke to one of these monks, who then said, aloud,--
“We are now one hundred and thirty-six.”
Then a great noise of bolts and bars announced that the door
was being closed. The three monks were seated in armchairs, like
judges. The one who had spoken before now rose and said--
“Brother Monsoreau, what news do you bring to the Union from the
province of Anjou?”
Two things made Chicot start, the first was the voice of the
speaker, the second the name of Monsoreau, known to the court only
the last few days. A tall monk crossed the assembly, and placed
himself in a large chair, behind the shadow of which Chicot had
kept himself.
“My brothers,” said a voice which Chicot recognized at once as that
of the chief huntsman, “the news from Anjou is not satisfactory;
not that we fail there in sympathy, but in representatives. The
progress of the Union there had been confided to the Baron de
Méridor, but he in despair at the recent death of his daughter,
has, in his grief, neglected the affairs of the league, and we
cannot at present count on him. As for myself, I bring three new
adherents to the association. The council must judge whether these
three, for whom I answer, as for myself, ought to be admitted
into the Union.”
A murmur of applause followed and as Monsoreau regained his
seat,--“Brother la Hurière,” cried the same monk, “tell us what
you have done in the city of Paris.”
A man now took the chair and said, “My brothers, you know I am
devoted to the Catholic faith, and I have given proofs of this
devotion on the great day of its triumph. Yes, my brothers, I
glory in saying that I was one of the faithful of our great Henri
de Guise, and that I followed his orders strictly. I have now
noted all the heretics of the Quartier St. Germain l’Auxerrois,
where I shall hold the hotel of the Belle-Etoile, at your service,
my brothers. Now, although I no longer thirst for the blood of
heretics as formerly, I do not delude myself as to the real object
of the holy Union which we are forming. If I am not deceived,
brothers, the extinction of private heretics is not all we aim at.
We wish to be sure that we shall never be governed by a heretic
prince. Now, my friends, what is our situation? Charles IX., who
was zealous, died without children; Henri Ill. will probably
do the same, and there remains only the Duc d’Anjou, who not
only has no children either, but seems cold towards us.”
“What makes you accuse the prince thus?” said the monk who always
spoke.
“Because he has not joined us.”
“Who tells you so, since there are new adherents?”
“It is true; I will wait; but after him, who is mortal, and has
no children, to whom will the crown fall? To the most ferocious
Huguenot that can be imagined, to a renegade, a Nebuchadnezzar?”
Here the acclamations were tremendous.
“To Henri of Béarn,” continued he, “against whom this association
is chiefly directed--to Henri, who the people at Pau, or Tarbes,
think is occupied with his love affairs, but who is in Paris!”
“In Paris! impossible!” cried many voices.
“He was here on the night when Madame de Sauve was assassinated,
and perhaps is here still.”
“Death to the Béarnais!” cried several.
“Yes, doubtless, and if he came to lodge at the Belle-Etoile,
I answer for him; but he will not come. One does not catch a
fox twice in the same hole. He will lodge with some friend, for
he has friends. The important thing is to know them. Our union
is holy, our league is loyal, consecrated and blessed by the
Pope; therefore I demand that it be no longer kept secret, but
that we go into the houses and canvass the citizens. Those who
sign will be our friends, the others our enemies, and if a second
St. Bartholomew come, which seems to the faithful to be more
necessary daily, we shall know how to separate the good from the
wicked.”
Thunders of acclamation followed. When they were calm, the monk
who always spoke said,--
“The proposition of Brother la Hurière, whom the union thanks
for his zeal, will be taken into consideration by the superior
council.”
La Hurière bowed, amidst fresh applause.
“Ah! ah!” thought Chicot, “I begin to see clearly into all this.
The Guises are forming a nice little party, and some fine morning
Henri will find that he has nothing left, and will be politely
invited to enter a monastery. But what will they do with the
Duc d’Anjou?”
“Brother Gorenflot,” then cried the monk.
No one replied.
“Brother Gorenflot,” cried the little monk, in a voice which
made Chicot start; for it sounded like a woman’s. However, he
rose, and speaking like the monk, said,--
“Here I am; I was plunged in profound meditation.” He feared
not to reply, for the members had been counted, and therefore
the absence of a member would have provoked an examination.
Therefore, without hesitation, he mounted the chair and began.
“My brothers, you know that I purvey for the convent, and have
the right of entering every dwelling. I use this privilege for
the good of religion. My brothers,” continued he, remembering
Gorenflot’s beginning, “this day, which unites us, is a good
one for the faith. Let us speak freely, my brothers, since we
are in the house of God.
“What is the kingdom of France? A body. ‘_Omnis civitas corpus
est_.’ What is the first requisite of a body? Good health.
How do we preserve this? By prudent bleedings at times. Now it
is evident that the enemies of our religion are too strong; we
must therefore once more bleed that great body we call society.
This is what is constantly said to me by the faithful, who give
me ham, eggs, or money for the convent.”
Several murmurs of approbation interrupted Chicot, then he went
on.
“Some may object that the church abhors blood. But they do not
say what blood, and I wager that it is not the blood of heretics
it abhors. And then another argument; I said, ‘the church;’ but
are we the church? Brother Monsoreau, who spoke so well just
now, has, I doubt not, his huntsman’s knife in his belt. Brother
la Hurière manages the spit; I, myself, who speak to you--I,
Jacques Gorenflot, have carried the musket in Champagne. It now
remains to us to speak of our chiefs, of whom it seems to me,
poor monk as I am, that there is something to say. Certainly, it
is very well and prudent to come at night under a monk’s robe,
to hear Brother Gorenflot preach; but it appears to me that their
duties do not stop there. So much prudence may make the Huguenots
laugh. Let us play a part more worthy of the brave people we are.
What do we want? The extinction of heresy. Well, that may be
cried from the housetops, it seems to me. Why not march in holy
procession, displaying our good cause, and our good partisans,
but not like the thieves, who keep looking round them to see if
the watch is coming. Who is the man who will set the example?
Well, it is I, Jacques Gorenflot; I, unworthy brother of the
order of St. Geneviève, poor and humble purveyor of the convent.
It shall be I, who with a cuirass on my back, a helmet on my
head, and a musket on my shoulder, will march at the head of
all good Catholics who will follow me. This I would do, were it
only to make those chiefs blush, who, while defending the Church,
hide, as if their cause was a bad one.”
This speech, which corresponded with the sentiments of many there,
was received with shouts of applause; and the more so, as up
to this time Gorenflot had never shown any enthusiasm for the
cause. However, it was not the plan of the chiefs to let this
enthusiasm proceed. One of the monks spoke to the lad, who cried
in his silvery voice, “My brothers, it is time to retire; the
sitting is over.”
The monks rose, all determined to insist on the procession at
the next meeting. Many approached the chair to felicitate the
author of this brilliant speech; but Chicot, fearful of being
recognized, threw himself on his knees and buried his head in
his hands, as if in prayer. They respected his devotions, and
went towards the door. However, Chicot had missed his chief aim.
What had made him quit the king was the sight of M. de Mayenne and
Nicolas David, on both of whom he had, as we know, vowed vengeance;
and although the duke was too great a man to be attacked openly,
Nicolas David was not, and Chicot was so good a swordsman as to
feel sure of success if he could but meet him. He therefore began
to watch each monk as he went out, and perceived to his terror
that each, on going out, had to show some sign again. Gorenflot
had told him how to get in, but not how to get out again.
CHAPTER XX.
HOW CHICOT, FORCED TO REMAIN IN THE ABBEY, SAW AND HEARD THINGS
VERY DANGEROUS TO SEE AND HEAR.
Chicot hastened to get down from his chair, and to mix among the
monks so as to discover, if possible, what signs they used. By
peeping over their shoulders, he found out that it was a farthing,
with a star cut in the middle. Our Gascon had plenty of farthings
in his pocket, but unluckily none with a star in it. Of course, if
when on coming to the door he was unable to produce the necessary
signs, he would be suspected and examined. He gained the shade
of a pillar, which stood at the corner of a confessional, and
stood there wondering what he should do. An assistant cried,
“Is everyone out, the doors are about to be shut.”
No one answered; Chicot peeped out and saw the chapel empty,
with the exception of the three monks, who still kept their seats
in front of the choir.
“Provided they do not shut the windows, it is all I ask,” thought
Chicot.
“Let us examine,” said the young lad to the porter. Then the
porter lifted a taper, and, followed by the young lad, began
to make the tour of the church. There was not a moment to lose.
Chicot softly opened the door of the confessional, slipped in,
and shut the door after him. They passed close by him, and he
could see them through the spaces of the sculpture.
[Illustration: CHICOT THE JESTER.]
“Diable!” thought he, “he cannot stay here all night, and once
they are gone, I will pile chairs upon benches, Pelion on Ossa,
and get out of the window. Ah! yes, but when I have done that,
I shall be, not in the street, but in the court. I believe it
will be better to pass the night in the confessional; Gorenflot’s
robe is warm.”
“Extinguish the lamps,” now cried the lad; and the porter with
an immense extinguisher put out the lamps, and left the church
dark, except for the rays of the moon which shone through the
windows. The clock struck twelve.
“Ventre de biche!” said Chicot, “Henri, if he were here, would be
nicely frightened; but, luckily, I am less timid. Come, Chicot,
my friend, good night and sleep well.”
Then Chicot pushed the inside bolt, made himself as comfortable
as he could, and shut his eyes. He was just falling asleep, when
he was startled by a loud stroke on a copper bell, and at the
same time the lamp in the choir was relighted, and showed the
three monks still there.
“What can this mean?” thought Chicot, starting up. Brave as he
was, Chicot was not exempt from superstitious fears. He made
the sign of the cross, murmuring, “Vade retro, Satanas!” But
as the lights did not go out at the holy sign, Chicot began to
think he had to deal with real monks and real lights; but at
this moment one of the flagstones of the choir raised itself
slowly, and a monk appeared through the opening, after which the
stone shut again. At this sight Chicot’s hair stood on end, and
he began to fear that all the priors and abbés of St. Geneviève,
from Opsat, dead in 533, down to Pierre Boudin, predecessor of
the present superior, were being resuscitated from their tombs,
and were going to raise with their bony heads the stones of the
choir. But this doubt did not last long.
“Brother Monsoreau,” said one of the monks to him who had just
made so strange an appearance.
“Yes, monseigneur,” said he.
“Open the door that he may come to us.”
Monsoreau descended to open the door between the staircases,
and at the same time the monk in the middle lowered his hood,
and showed the great scar, that noble sign by which the Parisians
recognized their hero.
“The great Henri of Guise himself!” thought Chicot, “whom his very
imbecile majesty believes occupied at the siege of La Charité. Ah!
and he at the right is the Cardinal of Lorraine, and he at the
left M. de Mayenne--a trinity not very holy, but very visible.”
“Did you think he would come?” said La Balafré to his brothers.
“I was so sure of it, that I have under my cloak where-with to
replace the holy vial.”
And Chicot perceived, by the feeble light of the lamp, a silver
gilt box, richly chased. Then about twenty monks, with their heads
buried in immense hoods, came out of the crypt, and stationed
themselves in the nave. A single one, conducted by M. de Monsoreau,
mounted the staircase, and placed himself at the right of M. de
Guise. Then M. de Guise spoke. “Friends,” said he, “time is
precious; therefore I go straight to the point. You have heard
just now, in the first assembly, the complaints of some of our
members, who tax with coldness the principal person among us,
the prince nearest to the throne. The time is come to render
justice to this prince; you shall hear and judge for yourselves
whether your chiefs merit the reproach of coldness and apathy
made by one of our brothers, the monk Gorenflot, whom we have
not judged it prudent to admit into our secret.”
At this name, pronounced in a tone which showed bad intentions
towards the warlike monk, Chicot in his confessional could not
help laughing quietly.
“Monsieur,” said the duke, now turning towards the mysterious
personages at his right, “the will of God appears to me manifest;
for since you have consented to join us, it shows that what we
do is well done. Now, your highness, we beg of you to lower your
hood, that your faithful friends may see with their own eyes
that you keep the promise which I made in your name, and which
they hardly dared to believe.”
The mysterious personage now lowered his hood, and Chicot saw
the head of the Duc d’Anjou appear, so pale that, by the light
of the lamp, it looked like that of a marble statue.
“Oh, oh!” thought Chicot, “the duke is not yet tired of playing
for the crown with the heads of others!”
“Long live Monseigneur le Duc d’Anjou!” cried the assembly.
The duke grew paler than ever.
“Fear nothing, monseigneur,” said Henri de Guise; “our chapel is
deaf, and its doors are well closed.”
“My brothers,” said the Comte de Monsoreau, “his highness wishes
to address a few words to the assembly.”
“Yes, yes!” cried they.
“Gentlemen,” began he, in a voice so trembling that at first
they could hardly distinguish his words, “I believe that God,
who often seems insensible and deaf to the things of this world,
keeps, on the contrary, His piercing eyes constantly on us, and
only remains thus careless in appearance in order to remedy, by
some great blow, the disorders caused by the foolish ambitions
of men. I also have kept my eyes, if not on the world, at least
on France. What have I seen there? The holy religion of Christ
shaken to its foundation by those who sap all belief, under the
pretext of drawing nearer to God, and my soul has been full of
grief. In the midst of this grief, I heard that several noble
and pious gentlemen, friends of our old faith, were trying to
strengthen the tottering altar. I threw my eyes around me, and
saw on one side the heretics, from whom I recoiled with horror;
on the other side the elect, and I am come to throw myself into
their arms. My brothers, here I am.”
The applause and bravos resounded through the chapel. Then the
cardinal, turning to the duke, said:
“You are amongst us of your own free will?”
“Of my free will, monsieur.”
“Who instructed you in the holy mystery?”
“My friend, the Comte de Monsoreau, a man zealous for religion.”
“Then,” said the Duc de Guise, “as your highness has joined us,
have the goodness to tell us what you intend to do for the league.”
“I intend to serve the Catholic religion in all its extent.”
“Ventre de biche!” thought Chicot, “why not propose this right
out to the king? It would suit him excellently--processions,
macerations, extirpation of heresy, fagots, and auto-da-fés!
Go on, worthy brother of his majesty, noble imbecile, go on!”
And the duke, as if sensible of the encouragement, proceeded:
“But the interests of religion are not the sole aim which you
gentlemen propose. As for me, I see another; for when a gentleman
has thought of what he owes to God, he then thinks of his country,
and he asks himself if it really enjoys all the honor and prosperity
which it ought to enjoy. I ask this about our France, and I see
with grief that it does not. Indeed, the state is torn to pieces
by different wills and tastes, one as powerful as the other. It
is, I fear, to the feebleness of the head, which forgets that
it ought to govern all for the good of its subjects, or only
remembers this royal principle at capricious intervals, when
the rare acts of energy are generally not for the good, but the
ill of France, that we must attribute these evils. Whatever be
the cause, the ill is a real one, although I accuse certain false
friends of the king rather than the king himself. Therefore I
join myself to those who by all means seek the extinction of
heresy and the ruin of perfidious counselors.”
This discourse appeared profoundly to interest the audience, who,
throwing back their hoods, drew near to the duke.
“Monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, “in thanking your royal
highness for the words you have just uttered, I will add that
you are surrounded by people devoted not only to the principles
which you profess, but to the person of your highness; and if
you have any doubt, the conclusion of this sitting will convince
you.”
“Monseigneur,” said the cardinal, “if your highness still experiences
any fear, the names of those who now surround you will, I hope,
reassure you. Here is M. le Gouverneur d’Aunis, M. d’Antragues, M.
de Ribeirac, and M. de Livarot, and gentlemen whom your highness
doubtless knows to be as brave as loyal. Here are, besides, M.
de Castillon, M. le Baron de Lusignan, MM. Cruce and Leclerc,
all ready to march under the guidance of your highness, to the
emancipation of religion and the throne. We shall, then, receive
with gratitude the orders that you will give us.”
Then M. de Mayenne said: “You are by your birth, and by your
wisdom, monseigneur, the natural chief of the Holy Union, and we
ought to learn from you what our conduct should be with regard
to the false friends of his majesty of whom you just now spoke.”
“Nothing more simple,” replied the prince, with that feverish
excitement which in weak natures supplies the place of courage
to weak minds; “when venomous plants grow in a field, we root
them up. The king is surrounded, not with friends, but with
courtiers, who ruin him, and cause a perpetual scandal in France
and all Christendom.”
“It is true,” said the Duc de Guise, in a gloomy tone.
“And,” said the cardinal, “these courtiers prevent us, who are
his majesty’s true friends, from approaching him as we have the
right to do by our birth and position.”
“Let us, then,” said M. de Mayenne, “leave the heretics to the
vulgar leaguers; let us think of those who annoy and insult us,
and who often fail in respect to the prince whom we honor, and
who is our chief.”
The Duc d’Anjou grew red.
“Let us destroy,” continued Mayenne, “to the last man, that cursed
race whom the king enriches, and let each of us charge ourselves
with the life of one. We are thirty here; let us count.”
“I,” said D’Antragues, “charge myself with Quelus.”
“I with Maugiron,” said Livarot.
“And I with Schomberg,” said Ribeirac.
“Good!” said the duke; “and there is Bussy, my brave Bussy, who
will undertake some of them.”
“And us!” cried the rest.
M. de Monsoreau now advanced. “Gentlemen,” said he, “I claim
an instant’s silence. We are resolute men, and yet we fear to
speak freely to each other; we are intelligent men, and yet we are
deterred by foolish scruples. Come, gentlemen, a little courage,
a little hardihood, a little frankness. It is not of the king’s
minions that we think; there does not lie our difficulty. What we
really complain of is the royalty which we are under, and which
is not acceptable to a French nobility; prayers and despotism,
weakness and orgies, prodigality for fêtes which make all Europe
laugh, and parsimony for everything that regards the state and the
arts. Such conduct is not weakness or ignorance--it is madness.”
A dead silence followed this speech. Everyone trembled at the
words which echoed his own thoughts. M. de Monsoreau went on.
“Must we live under a king, foolish, inert, and lazy, at a time
when all other nations are active, and work gloriously, while
we sleep? Gentlemen, pardon me for saying before a prince, who
will perhaps blame my temerity (for he has the prejudices of
family), that for four years we have been governed, not by a king,
but by a monk.”
At these words the explosion so skilfully prepared and as skilfully
kept in check, burst out with violence.
“Down with the Valois!” they cried, “down with Brother Henri!
Let us have for chief a gentleman, a knight, rather a tyrant
than a monk.”
“Gentlemen!” cried the Duc d’Anjou, hypocritically, “let me plead
for my brother, who is led away. Let me hope that our wise
remonstrances, that the efficacious intervention of the power
of the League, will bring him back into the right path.”
“Hiss, serpent, hiss,” said Chicot to himself.
“Monseigneur,” replied the Duc de Guise, “your highness has heard,
perhaps rather too soon, but still you have heard, the true meaning
of the association. No! we are not really thinking of a league
against the Béarnais, nor of a league to support the Church,
which will support itself: no, we think of raising the nobility
of France from its abject condition. Too long we have been kept
back by the respect we feel for your highness, by the love which
we know you to have for your family. Now, all is revealed,
monseigneur, and your highness will assist at the true sitting
of the League. All that has passed is but preamble.”
“What do you mean, M. le Duc?” asked the prince, his heart beating
at once with alarm and ambition.
“Monseigneur, we are united here, not only to talk, but to act.
To-day we choose a chief capable of honoring and enriching the
nobility of France; and as it was the custom of the ancient Franks
when they chose a chief to give him a present worthy of him, we
offer a present to the chief whom we have chosen.”
All hearts beat, and that of the prince most of any; yet he remained
mute and motionless, betraying his emotion only by his paleness.
“Gentlemen,” continued the duke, taking something from behind
him, “here is the present that in your name I place at the feet
of the prince.”
“A crown!” cried the prince, scarcely able to stand, “a crown
to me, gentlemen?”
“Long live François III.!” cried all the gentlemen, drawing their
swords.
“I! I!” cried the Duke, trembling with joy and terror. “It is
impossible! My brother still lives; he is the anointed of the
Lord.”
“We depose him,” said the duke, “waiting for the time when God
shall sanction, by his death, the election which we are about
to make, or rather, till one of his subjects, tired of this
inglorious reign, forestalls by poison or the dagger the justice
of God.”
“Gentlemen!” said the duke, feebly.
“Monseigneur,” then said the cardinal, “to the scruple which
you so nobly expressed just now, this is our answer. Henri III.
was the anointed of the Lord, but we have deposed him; it is you
who are going to be so. Here is a temple as venerable as that
of Rheims; for here have reposed the relics of St Geneviève,
patroness of Paris; here has been embalmed the body of Clovis,
our first Christian king; well, monseigneur, in this holy temple,
I, one of the princes of the Church, and who may reasonably hope
to become one day its head, I tell you, monseigneur, that here,
to replace the holy oil, is an oil sent by Pope Gregory XIII.
Monseigneur, name your future archbishop of Rheims, name your
constable, and in an instant, it is you who will be king, and
your brother Henri, if he do not give you up the crown, will
be the usurper. Child, light the altar.”
Immediately, the lad, who was evidently waiting, came out, and
presently fifty lights shone round the altar and choir.
Then was seen on the altar a miter glittering with precious stones,
and a large sword ornamented with fleur-de-lis. It was the
archbishop’s miter and the constable’s sword. At the same moment
the organ began to play the Veni Creator. This sudden stroke,
managed by the three Lorraine princes, and which the Duc d’Anjou
himself did not expect, made a profound impression on the spectators.
The courageous grew bolder than ever, and the weak grew strong.
The Duc d’Anjou raised his head, and with a firmer step than
might have been expected, walked to the altar, took the miter in
the left hand and the sword in the right, presented one to the
cardinal and the other to the duke. Unanimous applause followed
this action.
“Now, gentlemen,” said the prince to the others, “give your names
to M. de Mayenne, grand Master of France, and the day when I
ascend the throne, you shall have the cordon bleu.”
“Mordieu!” thought Chicot, “what a pity I cannot give mine; I
shall never have such another opportunity.”
“Now to the altar, sire,” said the cardinal.
“Monsieur de Monsoreau my colonel, MM. de Ribeirac and d’Antragues
my captains, and M. Livarot, my lieutenant of the guards, take
your places.”
Each of those named took the posts which, at a real coronation,
etiquette would have assigned to them. Meanwhile, the cardinal
had passed behind the altar to put on his pontifical robes; soon
he reappeared with the holy vial. Then the lad brought to him a
Bible and a cross. The cardinal put the cross on the book and
extended them towards the Duc d’Anjou, who put his hand on them,
and said,--
“In the presence of God, I promise to my people to maintain and
honor our holy religion as a Christian king should. And may God
and His saints aid me!”
Then the Duc de Guise laid the sword before the altar, and the
cardinal blessed it and gave it to the prince.
“Sire,” said he, “take this sword, which is given to you with the
blessing of God, that you may resist your enemies, and protect
and defend the holy Church, which is confided to you. Take this
sword that, with it, you may exercise justice, protect the widow
and the orphan, repair disorders, so that, covering yourself
with glory by all the virtues, you will be a blessing to your
people.”
Then the prince returned the sword to the Duc de Guise, and knelt
down. The cardinal opened the gold box, and, with the point of a
golden needle, drew out some holy oil; he then said two prayers,
and taking the oil on his finger, traced with it a cross on the
head of the prince, saying, “Ungo dein regem de oleo sanctificato,
in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”
The lad wiped off the oil with an embroidered handkerchief. Then
the cardinal took the crown, and, holding it over the head of
the prince, said, “God crown thee with the crown of glory and
justice.” Then, placing it, “Receive this crown, in the name
of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
All brandished their swords and cried, “Long live François III.”
“Sire,” said the cardinal, “you reign henceforth over France.”
“Gentlemen,” said the prince, “I shall never forget the names
of the thirty gentlemen who first judged me worthy to reign over
them; and now adieu, and may God have you in His holy keeping.”
The Duc de Mayenne led away the new king, while the other two
brothers exchanged an ironical smile.
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW CHICOT LEARNED GENEALOGY.
When the Duc d’Anjou was gone, and had been followed by all the
others, the three Guises entered the vestry. Chicot, thinking
of course this was the end, got up to stretch his limbs, and
then, as it was nearly two o’clock, once more disposed himself
to sleep.
But to his great astonishment, the three brothers almost immediately
came back again, only this time without their frocks. On seeing
them appear, the lad burst into so hearty a fit of laughing,
that Chicot could hardly help laughing also.
“Do not laugh so loud, sister,” said the Duc de Mayenne, “they
are hardly gone out, and might hear you.”
As he spoke, the seeming lad threw back his hood, and displayed
a head as charming and intelligent as was ever painted by Leonardo
da Vinci. Black eyes, full of fun, but which could assume an
expression almost terrible in its seriousness, a little rosy
month, and a round chin terminating the perfect oval of a rather
pale face. It was Madame de Montpensier, a dangerous syren, who
had the soul of a demon with the face of an angel.
“Ah, brother cardinal,” cried she, “how well you acted the holy
man! I was really afraid for a minute that you were serious;
and he letting himself be greased and crowned. Oh, how horrid
he looked with his crown on!”
“Never mind,” said the duke, “we have got what we wanted, and
François cannot now deny his share. Monsoreau, who doubtless
had his own reasons for it, led the thing on well, and now he
cannot abandon us, as he did La Mole and Coconnas.”
Chicot saw that they had been laughing at M. d’Anjou, and as he
detested him, would willingly have embraced them for it, always
excepting M. de Mayenne, and giving his share to his sister.
“Let us return to business,” said the cardinal, “is all well
closed?”
“Oh, yes!” said the duchess, “but if you like I will go and see.”
“Oh, no; you must be tired.”
“No; it was too amusing.”
“Mayenne, you say he is here?”
“Yes.”
“I did not see him.”
“No, he is hidden in a confessional.”
These words startled Chicot fearfully.
“Then he has heard and seen all?” asked the duke.
“Never mind, he is one of us.”
“Bring him here, Mayenne.”
Mayenne descended the staircase and came straight to where Chicot
was hiding. He was brave, but now his teeth chattered with terror.
“Ah,” thought he, trying to get out his sword from under his
monk’s frock, “at least I will kill him first!” The duke had
already extended his hand to open the door, when Chicot heard
the duchess say:
“Not there, Mayenne; in that confessional to the left.”
“It was time,” thought Chicot, as the duke turned away, “but who
the devil can the other be?”
“Come out, M. David,” said Mayenne, “we are alone.”
“Here I am, monseigneur,” said he, coming out.
“You have heard all?” asked the Duc de Guise.
“I have not lost a word, monseigneur.”
“Then you can report it to the envoy of his Holiness Gregory XIII.?”
“Everything.”
“Now, Mayenne tells me you have done wonders for us; let us see.”
“I have done what I promised, monseigneur; that is to say, found
a method of seating you, without opposition, on the throne of
France!”
“They also!” thought Chicot; “everyone wants then to be King of
France!”
Chicot was gay now, for he felt safe once more, and he had discovered
a conspiracy by which he hoped to ruin his two enemies.
“To gain a legitimate right is everything,” continued Nicolas
David, “and I have discovered that you are the true heirs, and
the Valois only a usurping branch.”
“It is difficult to believe,” said the duke, “that our house,
however illustrious it may be, comes before the Valois.”
“It is nevertheless proved, monseigneur,” said David, drawing
out a parchment. The duke took it.
“What is this?” said he.
“The genealogical tree of the house of Lorraine.”
“Of which the root is?”
“Charlemagne, monseigneur.”
“Charlemagne!” cried the three brothers, with an air of incredulous
satisfaction, “Impossible!”
“Wait, monseigneur; you may be sure I have not raised a point to
which any one may give the lie. What you want is a long lawsuit,
during which you can gain over, not the people, they are yours,
but the parliament. See, then, monseigneur, here it is. Ranier,
first Duc de Lorraine, contemporary with Charlemagne;--Guibert,
his son;--Henri, son of Guibert----”
“But----” said the duke.
“A little patience, monseigneur. Bonne----”
“Yes,” said the duke, “daughter of Ricin, second son of Ranier.”
“Good; to whom married?”
“Bonne?”
“Yes.”
“To Charles of Lorraine, son of Louis IV., King of France.”
“Just so. Now add, ‘brother of Lothaire, despoiled of the crown
of France by the usurper, Hugh Capet.’”
“Oh! oh!” said the duke and the cardinal.
“Now, Charles of Lorraine inherited from his brother Lothaire.
Now, the race of Lothaire is extinct, therefore you are the only
true heirs of the throne.”
“What do you say to that, brother?” cried the cardinal.
“I say, that unluckily there exists in France a law they call
the Salic law, which destroys all our pretensions.”
“I expected that objection, monseigneur,” said David, “but what
is the first example of the Salic law?”
“The accession of Philippe de Valois, to the prejudice of Edward
of England.”
“What was the date of that accession?”
“1328,” said the cardinal.
“That is to say, 341 years after the usurpation of Hugh Capet,
240 years after the extinction of the race of Lothaire. Then, for
240 years your ancestors had already had a right to the throne
before the Salic law was invented. Now, everyone knows that
the law cannot have any retrospective effect.”
“You are a clever man, M. David,” said the Duc de Guise.
“It is very ingenious,” said the cardinal.
“It is very fine,” said Mayenne.
“It is admirable,” said the duchess; “then I am a princess royal.
I will have no one less than the Emperor of Germany for a husband.”
“Well; here are your 200 gold crowns which I promised you.”
“And here are 200 others,” said the cardinal, “for the new mission
with which we are about to charge you.”
“Speak, monseigneur, I am ready.”
“We cannot commission you to carry this genealogy yourself to
our holy Father, Gregory XIII.”
“Alas! no; my will is good, but I am of too poor birth.”
“Yes, it is a misfortune. We must therefore send Pierre de Gondy
on this mission.”
“Permit me to speak,” said the duchess. “The Gondys are clever,
no doubt, but ambitious, and not to be trusted.”
“Oh! reassure yourself. Gondy shall take this, but mixed with
other papers, and not knowing what he carries. The Pope will
approve, or disapprove, silently, and Gondy will bring us back
the answer, still in ignorance of what he brings. You, Nicolas
David, shall wait for him at Chalons, Lyons, or Avignon, according
to your instructions. Thus you alone will know our true secret.”
Then the three brothers shook hands, embraced their sister, put
on again their monk’s robes, and disappeared. Behind them the
porter drew the bolts, and then came in and extinguished the
lights, and Chicot heard his retreating steps fainter and fainter,
and all was silent.
“It seems now all is really over,” thought Chicot, and he came
out of the confessional. He had noticed in a corner a ladder
destined to clean the windows. He felt about until he found it,
for it was close to him, and by the light of the moon placed it
against the window. He easily opened it, and striding across it
and drawing the ladder to him with that force and address which
either fear or joy always gives, he drew it from the inside to
the outside. When he had descended, he hid the ladder in a hedge,
which was planted at the bottom of the wall, jumped from tomb to
tomb, until he reached the outside wall over which he clambered.
Once in the street he breathed more freely; he had escaped with
a few scratches from the place where he had several times felt
his life in danger. He went straight to the Corne d’Abondance,
at which he knocked. It was opened by Claude Boutromet himself,
who knew him at once, although he went out dressed as a cavalier,
and returned attired as a monk.
“Ah! is it you?” cried he.
Chicot gave him a crown, and asked for Gorenflot.
The host smiled, and said, “Look!”
Brother Gorenflot lay snoring just in the place where Chicot had
left him.
CHAPTER XXII.
HOW M. AND MADAME DE ST. LUC MET WITH A TRAVELING COMPANION.
The next morning, about the time when Gorenflot woke from his nap,
warmly rolled in his frock, our reader, if he had been traveling
on the road from Paris to Angers, might have seen a gentleman
and his page, riding quietly side by side. These cavaliers had
arrived at Chartres the evening before, with foaming horses, one
of which had fallen with fatigue, as they stopped. They entered
the inn, and half an hour after set out on fresh horses. Once in
the country, still bare and cold, the taller of the two approached
the other, and said, as he opened his arms: “Dear little wife,
embrace me, for now we are safe.”
Then Madame de St. Luc, leaning forward and opening her thick
cloak, placed her arms round the young man’s neck and gave him
the long and tender kiss which he had asked for. They stayed
the night in the little village of Courville four leagues only
from Chartres, but which from its isolation seemed to them a
secure retreat; and it was on the following morning that they
were, as we said, pursuing their way. This day, as they were
more easy in their minds, they traveled no longer like fugitives,
but like schoolboys seeking for moss, for the first few early
flowers, enjoying the sunshine and amused at everything.
“Morbleu!” cried St. Luc, at last, “how delightful it is to be
free. Have you ever been free, Jeanne?”
“I?” cried she, laughing, “never; it is the first time I ever
felt so. My father was suspicious, and my mother lazy. I never
went out without a governess and two lackeys, so that I do not
remember having run on the grass, since, when a laughing child,
I ran in the woods of Méridor with my dear Diana, challenging
her to race, and rushing through the branches. But you, dear
St. Luc; you were free, at least?”
“I, free?”
“Doubtless, a man.”
“Never. Brought up with the Duc d’Anjou, taken by him to Poland,
brought back to Paris, condemned never to leave him by the perpetual
rule of etiquette; pursued, if I tried to go away, by that doleful
voice, crying, ‘St. Luc, my friend, I am ennuyé, come and amuse
me.’ Free, with that stiff corset which strangled me, and that
great ruff which scratched my neck! No, I have never been free
till now, and I enjoy it.”
“If they should catch us, and send us to the Bastile?”
“If they only put us there together, we can bear it.”
“I do not think they would. But there is no fear, if you only knew
Méridor, its great oaks, and its endless thickets, its rivers,
its lakes, its flower-beds and lawns; and, then, in the midst of
all, the queen of this kingdom, the beautiful, the good Diana.
And I know she loves me still; she is not capricious in her
friendships. Think of the happy life we shall lead there.”
“Let us push on; I am in haste to get there,” and they rode on,
stayed the night at Mans, and then set off for Méridor. They
had already reached the woods and thought themselves in safety,
when they saw behind them a cavalier advancing at a rapid pace.
St. Luc grew pale.
“Let us fly,” said Jeanne.
“Yes; let us fly, for there is a plume on that hat which disquiets
me; it is of a color much in vogue at the court, and he looks
to me like an ambassador from our royal master.”
But to fly was easier to say than to do; the trees grew so thickly
that it was impossible to ride through them but slowly, and the
soil was so sandy that the horses sank into it at every step.
The cavalier gained upon them rapidly, and soon they heard his
voice crying,--
“Eh, monsieur, do not run away; I bring you something you have
lost.”
“What does he say?” asked Jeanne.
“He says we have lost something.”
“Eh! monsieur,” cried the unknown, again, “you left a bracelet
in the hotel at Courville. Diable! a lady’s portrait; above all,
that of Madame de Cossé. For the sake of that dear mamma, do
not run away.”
“I know that voice,” said St. Luc.
“And then he speaks of my mother.”
“It is Bussy!”
“The Comte de Bussy, our friend,” and they reined up their horses.
“Good morning, madame,” said Bussy, laughing, and giving her the
bracelet.
“Have you come from the king to arrest us?”
“No, ma foi, I am not sufficiently his majesty’s friend for such
a mission. No, I found your bracelet at the hotel, which showed
me that you preceded me on my way.”
“Then,” said St. Luc, “it is chance which brings you on our path.”
“Chance, or rather Providence.”
Every remaining shadow of suspicion vanished before the sincere
smile and bright eyes of the handsome speaker.
“Then you are traveling?” asked Jeanne.
“I am.”
“But not like us?”
“Unhappily; no.”
“I mean in disgrace. Where are you going?”
“Towards Angers, and you?”
“We also.”
“Ah! I should envy your happiness if envy were not so vile.”
“Eh! M. de Bussy, marry, and you will be as happy as we are,”
said Jeanne; “it is so easy to be happy when you are loved.”
“Ah! madame, everyone is not so fortunate as you.”
“But you, the universal favorite.”
“To be loved by everyone is as though you were loved by no one,
madame.”
“Well, let me marry you, and you will know the happiness you deny.”
“I do not deny the happiness, only that it does not exist for me.”
“Shall I marry you?”
“If you marry me according to your taste, no; if according to
mine, yes.”
“Are you in love with a woman whom you cannot marry?”
“Comte,” said Bussy, “beg your wife not to plunge dagger in my
heart.”
“Take care, Bussy; you will make me think it is with her you are
in love.”
“If it were so, you will confess, at least, that I am a lover
not much to be feared.”
“True,” said St. Luc, remembering how Bussy had brought him his
wife. “But confess, your heart is occupied.”
“I avow it.”
“By a love, or by a caprice?” asked Jeanne.
“By a passion, madame.”
“I will cure you.”
“I do not believe it.”
“I will marry you.”
“I doubt it.”
“And I will make you as happy as you ought to be.”
“Alas! madame, my only happiness now is to be unhappy.”
“I am very determined.”
“And I also.”
“Well, will you accompany us?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the château of Méridor.”
The blood mounted to the cheeks of Bussy, and then he grew so
pale, that his secret would certainly have been betrayed, had not
Jeanne been looking at her husband with a smile. Bussy therefore
had time to recover himself, and said,--
“Where is that?”
“It is the property of one of my best friends.”
“One of your best friends, and--are they at home?”
“Doubtless,” said Jeanne, who was completely ignorant of the
events of the last two months; “but have you never heard of the
Baron de Méridor, one of the richest noblemen in France, and
of----”
“Of what?”
“Of his daughter, Diana, the most beautiful girl possible?”
Bussy was filled with astonishment, asking himself by what singular
happiness he found on the road people to talk to him of Diana de
Méridor to echo the only thought which he had in his mind.
“Is this castle far off, madame?” asked he.
“About seven leagues, and we shall sleep there to-night; you will
come, will you not?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Come, that is already a step towards the happiness I promised
you.”
“And the baron, what sort of a man is he?”
“A perfect gentleman, a preux chevalier, who, had he lived in
King Arthur’s time, would have had a place at his round table.”
“And,” said Bussy, steadying his voice, “to whom is his daughter
married?”
“Diana married?”
“Would that be extraordinary?”
“Of course not, only I should have been the first to hear of it.”
Bussy could not repress a sigh. “Then,” said he, “you expect
to find Mademoiselle de Méridor at the château with her father?”
“We trust so.”
They rode on a long time in silence, and at last Jeanne cried:
“Ah! there are the turrets of the castle. Look, M. de Bussy,
through that great leafless wood, which in a month, will be so
beautiful; do you not see the roof?”
“Yes,” said Bussy, with an emotion which astonished himself; “and
is that the château of Méridor?”
And he thought of the poor prisoner shut up in the Rue St. Antoine.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE OLD MAN.
Two hours after they reached the castle. Bussy had been debating
within himself whether or not to confide to his friends what
he knew about Diana. But there was much that he could tell to
no one, and he feared their questions, and besides, he wished
to enter Méridor as a stranger.
Madame de St. Luc was surprised, when the report sounded his
horn to announce a visit, that Diana did not run as usual to meet
them, but instead of her appeared an old man, bent and leaning
on a stick, and his white hair flying in the wind. He crossed
the drawbridge, followed by two great dogs, and when he drew
quite near, said in a feeble voice,--
“Who is there, and who does a poor old man the honor to visit
him?”
“It is I, Seigneur Augustin!” cried the laughing voice of the
young woman.
But the baron, raising his head slowly, said, “You? I do not see.
Who is it?”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Jeanne, “do you not know me? It is true,
my disguise----”
“Excuse me,” said the old man, “but I can see little; the eyes
of old men are not made for weeping, and if they weep too much,
the tears burn them.”
“Must I tell you my name? I am Madame de St. Luc.”
“I do not know you.”
“Ah! but my maiden name was Jeanne de Cosse-Brissac.”
“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried the old man, trying to open the gate with
his trembling hands. Jeanne, who did not understand this strange
reception, still attributed it only to his declining faculties;
but, seeing that he remembered her, jumped off her horse to embrace
him, but as she did so she felt his cheek wet with tears.
“Come,” said the old man, turning towards the house, without
even noticing the others. The château had a strange sad look;
all the blinds were down, and no one was visible.
“Is Diana unfortunately not at home?” asked Jeanne. The old man
stopped, and looked at her with an almost terrified expression.
“Diana!” said he. At this name the two dogs uttered a mournful
howl. “Diana!” repeated the old man; “do you not, then, know?”
And his voice, trembling before, was extinguished in a sob.
“But what has happened?” cried Jeanne, clasping her hands.
“Diana is dead!” cried the old man, with a torrent of tears.
“Dead!” cried Jeanne, growing as pale as death.
“Dead,” thought Bussy; “then he has let him also think her dead.
Poor old man! how he will bless me some day!”
“Dead!” cried the old man again; “they killed her.”
“Ah, my dear baron!” cried Jeanne, bursting into tears, and throwing
her arms round the old man’s neck.
“But,” said he at last, “though desolate and empty, the old house
is none the less hospitable. Enter.”
Jeanne took the old man’s arm, and they went into the dining-hall,
where he sunk into his armchair. At last, he said, “You said
you were married; which is your husband?”
M. de St. Luc advanced and bowed to the old man, who tried to
smile as he saluted him; then, turning to Bussy, said, “And this
gentleman?”
“He is our friend, M. Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy d’Amboise,
gentleman of M. le Duc d’Anjou.”
At these words the old man started up, threw a withering glance
at Bussy, and then sank back with a groan.
“What is it?” said Jeanne.
“Does the baron know you, M. de Bussy?” asked St. Luc.
“It is the first time I ever had the honor of seeing M. de Méridor,”
said Bussy, who alone understood the effect which the name of the
Duc d’Anjou had produced on the old man.
“Ah! you a gentleman of the Duc d’Anjou!” cried the baron, “of
that monster, that demon, and you dare to avow it, and have the
audacity to present yourself here!”
“Is he mad?” asked St. Luc of his wife.
“Grief must have turned his brain,” replied she, in terror.
“Yes, that monster!” cried he again; “the assassin who killed
my child! Ah, you do not know,” continued he, taking Jeanne’s
hands; “but the duke killed my Diana, my child--he killed her!”
Tears stood in Bussy’s eyes, and Jeanne said:
“Seigneur, were it so, which I do not understand, you cannot
accuse M. de Bussy of this dreadful crime--he, who is the most
noble and generous gentleman living. See, my good father, he weeps
with us. Would he have come had he known how you would receive
him? Ah, dear baron, tell us how this catastrophe happened.”
“Then you did not know?” said the old man to Bussy.
“Eh, mon Dieu! no,” cried Jeanne, “we none of us knew.”
“My Diana is dead, and her best friend did not know it! Oh, it
is true! I wrote to no one; it seemed to me that everything must
die with her. Well, this prince, this disgrace to France, saw
my Diana, and, finding her so beautiful, had her carried away
to his castle of Beaugé to dishonor her. But Diana, my noble
and sainted Diana, chose death instead. She threw herself from
the window into the lake, and they found nothing but her veil
floating on the surface.” And the old man finished with a burst
of sobs which overwhelmed them all.
“Oh, comte,” cried St. Luc, “you must abandon this infamous prince;
a noble heart like yours cannot remain friendly to a ravisher
and an assassin!”
But Bussy instead of replying to this, advanced to M. de Méridor.
“M. le Baron,” said he, “will you grant me the honor of a private
interview?”
“Listen to M. de Bussy, dear seigneur,” said Jeanne; “you will
see that he is good and may help you.”
“Speak, monsieur,” said the baron, trembling.
Bussy turned to St. Luc and his wife, and said:
“Will you permit me?”
The young couple went out, and then Bussy said: “M. le Baron,
you have accused the prince whom I serve in terms which force
me to ask for an explanation. Do not mistake the sense in which
I speak; it is with the most profound sympathy, and the most
earnest desire to soften your griefs, that I beg of you to recount
to me the details of this dreadful event. Are you sure all hope
is lost?”
“Monsieur, I had once a moment’s hope. A noble gentleman, M. de
Monsoreau, loved my poor daughter, and interested himself for
her.”
“M. de Monsoreau! Well, what was his conduct in all this!”
“Ah, generous; for Diana had refused his hand. He was the first
to tell me of the infamous projects of the duke; he showed me
how to baffle them, only asking, if he succeeded, for her hand.
I gave my consent with joy; but alas! it was useless--he arrived
too late--my poor Diana had saved herself by death!”
“And since then, what have you heard of him?”
“It is a month ago, and the poor gentleman has not dared to appear
before me, having failed in his generous design.”
“Well, monsieur,” said Bussy, “I am charged by the Duc d’Anjou
to bring you to Paris, where his highness desires to speak to
you.”
“I!” cried the baron, “I see this man! And what can the murderer
have to say to me?”
“Who knows? To justify himself perhaps.”
“No, M. de Bussy, no, I will not go to Paris; it would be too
far away from where my child lies in her cold bed.”
“M. le Baron,” said Bussy firmly, “I have come expressly to take
you to Paris, and it is my duty to do so.”
“Well, I will go,” cried the old man, trembling with anger;
“but woe to those who bring me. The king will hear me, or, if
he will not, I will appeal to all the gentlemen of France. Yes,
M. de Bussy, I will accompany you.”
“And I, M. le Baron,” said Bussy, taking his hand, “recommend to
you the patience and calm dignity of a Christian nobleman. God
is merciful to noble hearts, and you know not what He reserves
for you. I beg you also, while waiting for that day, not to count
me among your enemies, for you do not know what I will do for
you. Till to-morrow, then, baron, and early in the morning we
will set off.”
“I consent,” replied the old baron, moved by Bussy’s tone and
words; “but meanwhile, friend or enemy, you are my guest, and
I will show you to your room.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
HOW REMY-LE-HAUDOUIN HAD, IN BUSSY’S ABSENCE, ESTABLISHED A
COMMUNICATION WITH THE RUE ST. ANTOINE.
M. and Madame de St. Luc could hardly recover from their surprise.
Bussy, holding secret interviews with M. de Méridor, and then
setting off with him for Paris, appearing to take the lead in
a matter which at first seemed strange and unknown to him, was
to the young people an inexplicable phenomenon. In the morning
the baron took leave of his guests, begging them to remain in
the castle. Before Bussy left, however, he whispered a few words
to Madame de St. Luc, which brought the color to her cheeks,
and smiles to her eyes.
It was a long way from Méridor to Paris, especially for the old
baron, covered with wounds from all his battles, and for his old
horse, whom he called Jarnac. Bussy studied earnestly during
the journey to find his way to the heart of the old man by his
care and attentions, and without doubt he succeeded, for on the
sixth morning, as they arrived at Paris, M. de Méridor said:
“It is singular, count, but I feel less unquiet at the end than
at the beginning of my journey.”
“Two hours more, M. le Baron, and you shall have judged me as
I deserve.”
“Where are we going--to the Louvre?”
“Let me first take you to my hotel, that you may refresh yourself
a little, and be fit to see the person to whom I am leading you.”
The count’s people had been very much alarmed at his long absence,
for he had set off without telling any one but Rémy. Thus their
delight on seeing him again was great, and they all crowded round
him with joyous exclamations. He thanked them, and then said,
“Now assist this gentleman to dismount, and remember that I look
upon him with more respect than a prince.”
When M. de Méridor had been shown to his room, and had had some
refreshment, he asked if they should set out.
“Soon, baron; and be easy--it will be a happiness for you as well
as for us.”
“You speak in a language which I do not understand.”
Bussy smiled, and left the room to seek Rémy.
“Well! dear Hippocrates!” said he, “is there anything new?”
“Nothing; all goes well.”
“Then the husband has not returned?”
“Yes, he has, but without success. It seems there is a father
who is expected to turn up to make the dénouement.”
“Good,” said Bussy, “but how do you know all this?”
“Why, monseigneur, as your absence made my position a sinecure,
I thought I would try to make some little use of my time; so
I took some books and a sword to a little room which I hired
at the corner of the Rue St. Antoine, from whence I could see
the house that you know.”
“Very good.”
“But as I feared, if I were constantly watching, to pass for a
spy, I thought it better to fall in love.”
“In love?”
“Oh yes, desperately with Gertrude; she is a fine girl, only two
inches taller than myself, and who recounts, capitally.”
“Recounts?”
“Yes; through her I know all that passes with her mistress. I
thought you might not dislike to have communications with the
house.”
“Rémy, you are a good genius, whom chance, or rather Providence,
has placed in my way. Then you are received in the house?”
“Last night I made my entrance on the points of my toes, by the
door you know.”
“And how did you manage it?”
“Quite naturally. The day after you left, I waited at my door
till the lady of my thoughts came out to buy provisions, which
she does every morning. She recognized me, uttered a cry, and
ran away.”
“Then?”
“Then I ran after her, but could hardly catch her, for she runs
fast; but still, petticoats are always a little in the way. ‘Mon
Dieu!’ cried she. ‘Holy Virgin!’ said I. ‘The doctor!’ ‘The charming
housekeeper.’ She smiled, but said, ‘You are mistaken, monsieur,
I do not know you.’ ‘But I know you,’ I replied, ‘and for the
last three days I have lived but for you, and I adore you so
much, that I no longer live in the Rue Beautreillis, but at the
corner of this street, and I changed my lodging only to see you
pass in and out.’”
“So that now you are----”
“As happy as a lover can be--with Gertrude.”
“Does she suspect you come from me?”
“Oh no, how should the poor doctor know a great lord like M. de
Bussy. No, I said, ‘And how is your young master?’ ‘What young
master?’ ‘The one I cured.’ ‘He is not my master.’ ‘Oh! I thought,
as he was in your mistress’s bed----’ ‘Oh! no, poor young man!
we have only seen him once since.’ ‘Do you know his name?’ ‘Oh!
yes; he is the Seigneur de Bussy.’ ‘What! the brave Bussy?’ ‘Yes
himself.’ ‘And your mistress?’ ‘Oh! she is married!’ ‘Yes, but
still she may think sometimes of a handsome young man when she
has seen him lying wounded in her bed.’ ‘Oh, to be frank, I do
not say she does not think of him; we talk of him very often.’
‘What do you say about him?’ I asked. ‘I recount all I hear about
his prowess, and I have even taught her a little song about him,
which she sings constantly.’” Bussy pressed the young man’s
hand; he felt supremely happy.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
On descending into the court, M. de Méridor found a fresh horse,
which Bussy had had prepared for him; another waited for Bussy,
and attended by Rémy, they started. As they went along, the baron
could not but ask himself by what strange confidence he had
accompanied, almost blindly, the friend of the prince to whom
he owed all his misfortunes. Would it not have been better to
have braved the Duc d’Anjou, and instead of following Bussy where
it pleased him to lead, to have gone at once to the Louvre, and
thrown himself at the feet of the king? What could the prince
say to him? How could he console him? Could soft words heal his
wound?
When they stopped, “What,” said the baron, “does the Duc d’Anjou
live in this humble house?”
“Not exactly, monsieur, but if it is not his dwelling, it is that
of a lady whom he has loved.”
A cloud passed over the face of the old gentleman. “Monsieur,”
said he, “we provincials are not used to the easy manners of
Paris; they annoy us. It seems to me that if the Duc d’Anjou
wishes to see the Baron de Méridor, it ought to be at his palace,
and not at the house of one of his mistresses.”
“Come, come, baron!” said Bussy, with his smile, which always
carried conviction with it, “do not hazard false conjectures. On
my honor, the lady who you are going to see is perfectly virtuous
and worthy in all respects.”
“Who is she then?”
“She is the wife of a friend of yours.”
“Really! but then, monsieur, why did you say the duke loved her?”
“Because I always speak truth. But enter, and you shall see
accomplished all I have promised you.”
“Take care; I wept for my child, and you said, ‘Console yourself,
monsieur, the mercy of God is great;’ to promise me a consolation
to my grief was almost to promise me a miracle.”
“Enter, monsieur,” said Bussy, with his bright smile. Bussy went
in first, and, running up to Gertrude, said, “Go and tell Madame
de Monsoreau that M. de Bussy is here, and desires to speak to
her. But,” continued he, in a low voice, “not a word of the
person who accompanies me.”
“Madame de Monsoreau!” said the old man in astonishment. But
as he feebly mounted the staircase, he heard the voice of Diana
crying,--
“M. de Bussy. Gertrude? Oh! let him come in!”
“That voice!” cried the baron, stopping. “Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!”
At that moment, as the baron tremblingly held on to the banister,
and looked around him, he saw at the top of the staircase, Diana,
smiling, and more beautiful that ever. At this sight the old man
uttered a cry and would have fallen, had he not caught hold of
Bussy, who stood by him.
“Diana alive! Diana, oh, my God!”
“Mon Dieu! M. de Bussy!” cried Diana, running down, “what is the
matter with my father?”
“He thought you dead, madame, and he wept, as a father must weep
for a daughter like you.”
“How!” cried Diana; “and no one undeceived him?”
“No one.”
“No,” cried the old man, recovering a little, “no one, not even
M. de Bussy.”
“Ungrateful,” said Bussy.
“Oh! yes! you are right; for this moment repays me for all my
griefs. Oh! my Diana! my beloved Diana!” cried he, drawing his
daughter to him with one hand, and extending the other to Bussy.
But all at once he cried, “But you said I was to see Madame de
Monsoreau. Where is she?”
“Alas! my father!” cried Diana.
Bussy summoned up all his strength. “M. de Monsoreau is your
son-in-law,” he said.
“What! my son-in-law! and every one--even you, Diana--left me
in ignorance.”
“I feared to write, my father; he said my letters would fall
into the hands of the prince. Besides, I thought you knew all.”
“But why all these strange mysteries?”
“Ah, yes, my father; why did M. de Monsoreau let you think me
dead, and not let you know I was his wife?”
The baron, overwhelmed, looked from Bussy to Diana.
“M. de Monsoreau my son-in-law!” stammered he.
“That cannot astonish you, father; did you not order me to marry
him?”
“Yes, if he saved you.”
“Well! he did save me,” said Diana, sinking on to a chair, “not
from misfortune, but from shame.”
“Then why did he let me think you dead? I, who wept for you so
bitterly. Why did he let me die of despair, when a single word
would have restored me?”
“Oh! there is some hidden mystery,” cried Diana; “my father,
you will not leave me again; M. de Bussy, you will protect us.”
“Alas! madame! it belongs to me no more to enter into your family
secrets. Seeing the strange maneuvers of your husband, I wished
to bring you a defender; you have your father, I retire.”
“He is right,” said the old man, sadly.
“M. de Monsoreau feared the Duc d’Anjou, and so does M. de Bussy.”
Diana cast a glance at the young man. He smiled and said, “M.
le Baron, excuse, I beg, the singular question I am about to
ask; and you also, madame, for I wish to serve you. M. le Baron,
ask Madame de Monsoreau if she be happy in the marriage which
she has contracted in obedience to your orders.”
Diana burst into tears for her only answer. The eyes of the baron
filled also, for he began to fear that his friendship for M. de
Monsoreau had tended to make his daughter unhappy.
“Now!” said Bussy, “is it true that you voluntarily promised him
your daughter’s hand?”
“Yes, if he saved her.”
“And he did save her. Then, monsieur, I need not ask if you mean
to keep your promise.”
“It is a law for all, and above all for gentlemen; you know that,
M. de Bussy. My daughter must be his.”
“Ah!” cried Diana, “would I were dead!”
“Madame,” said Bussy, “you see I was right, and that I can do
no more here. M. le Baron gives you to M. de Monsoreau, and you
yourself promised to marry him when you should see your father
again safe and well.”
“Ah! you tear my heart, M. de Bussy,” cried Diana, approaching
the young man; “my father does not know that I fear this man,
that I hate him; my father sees in him only my saviour, and I
think him my murderer.”
“Diana! Diana!” cried the baron, “he saved you.”
“Yes,” cried Bussy, “but if the danger were less great than you
thought; what do we know? There is some mystery in all this,
which I must clear up. But I protest to you, that if I had had
the happiness to be in the place of M. de Monsoreau, I would
have saved your young and beautiful daughter without exacting
a price for it.”
“He loved her,” said M. de Méridor, trying to excuse him.
“And I, then----” cried Bussy; and, although he stopped, frightened
at what he was about to say, Diana heard and understood.
“Well!” cried she, reddening, “my brother, my friend, can you
do nothing for me?”
“But the Duc d’Anjou,” said the baron.
“I am not aware of those who fear the anger of princes,” said
Bussy; “and, besides, I believe the danger lies not with him,
but with M. de Monsoreau.”
“But if the duke learns that Diana is alive, all is lost.”
“I see,” said Bussy, “you believe M. de Monsoreau more than me.
Say no more; you refuse my aid; throw yourself, then, into the
arms of the man who has already so well merited your confidence.
Adieu, baron; adieu, madame, you will see me no more.”
“Oh!” cried Diana, taking his hand. “Have you seen me waver for
an instant; have you ever seen me soften towards him? No. I beg
you, on my knees, M. de Bussy, not to abandon me.”
Bussy seized her hands, and all his anger melted away like snow
before the sun.
“Then so be it, madame,” said he; “I accept the mission, and
in three days--for I must have time to go to Chartres to the
prince--you shall see me again.” Then, in a low tone to her, he
said, “We are allied against this Monsoreau; remember that it
was not he who brought you back to your father, and be faithful
to me.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT AWOKE, AND THE RECEPTION HE MET WITH AT
HIS CONVENT.
Chicot, after seeing with pleasure that Gorenflot still slept
soundly, told M. Boutromet to retire and to take the light with
him, charging him not to say anything of his absence. Now M.
Boutromet, having remarked that, in all transactions between the
monk and Chicot, it was the latter who paid, had a great deal of
consideration for him, and promised all he wished. Then, by the
light of the fire which still smouldered, he wrapped Gorenflot
once more in his frock, which he accomplished without eliciting
any other signs of wakefulness than a few grunts, and afterwards
making a pillow of the table-cloth and napkins, lay down to sleep
by his side. Daylight, when it came, succeeded in at last awakening
Gorenflot, who sat up, and began to look about him, at the remains
of their last night’s repast, and at Chicot, who, although also
awake, lay pretending to snore, while, in reality, he watched.
“Broad daylight!” said the monk. “Corbleu, I must have passed
the night here. And the abbey! Oh, dear! How happy he is to sleep
thus!” cried he, looking at Chicot. “Ah! he is not in my position,”
and he sighed. “Shall I wake him to ask for advice? No, no, he
will laugh at me; I can surely invent a falsehood without him.
But whatever I invent, it will be hard to escape punishment. It
is not so much the imprisonment, it is the bread and water I
mind. Ah! if I had but some money to bribe the brother jailer.”
Chicot, hearing this, adroitly slipped his purse from his pocket
and put it under him. This precaution was not useless, for Gorenflot,
who had been looking about him, now approached his friend softly,
and murmuring:
“Were he awake, he would not refuse me a crown, but his sleep
is sacred, and I will take it,” advanced, and began feeling his
pockets. “It is singular,” said he, “nothing in his pockets.
Ah! in his hat, perhaps.”
While he searched there Chicot adroitly emptied out his money,
and stuffed the empty purse into his breeches pocket.
“Nothing in the hat,” said the monk. “Ah! I forgot,” and thrusting
in his hand, he drew from the pocket the empty purse. “Mon Dieu,”
cried he, “empty! and who will pay the bill?”
This thought terrified him so much that he got up and made instantly
for the door, through which he quickly disappeared. As he approached
the convent, his fears grew strong, and seeing a concourse of
monks standing talking on the threshold, he felt inclined to
fly. But some of them approached to meet him; he knew flight
was hopeless, and resigned himself. The monks seemed at first
to hesitate to speak to him, but at last one said:
“Poor dear brother!”
Gorenflot sighed, and raised his eyes to Heaven.
“You know the prior waits for you?”
“Ah! mon Dieu!”
“Oh! yes; he ordered that you should be brought to him as soon
as you came in.”
“I feared it,” said Gorenflot. And more dead than alive, he entered
the convent, whose doors closed on him. They led him to the prior.
Gorenflot did not dare to raise his eyes, finding himself alone
with his justly irritated superior.
“Ah! it is you at last,” said the abbé.
“Reverend sir----”
“What anxiety you have given me.”
“You are too good, my father,” said Gorenflot, astonished at this
indulgent tone.
“You feared to come in after the scene of last night?”
“I confess it.”
“Ah, dear brother, you have been very imprudent.”
“Let me explain, father.”
“There is no need of explanations; your sally----”
“Oh! so much the better,” thought Gorenflot.
“I understand it perfectly. A moment of enthusiasm carried you
away; enthusiasm is a holy virtue, but virtues, exaggerated become
almost vices, and the most honorable sentiments, when carried
to excess, are reprehensible.”
“Pardon, my father,” said Gorenflot, timidly, “but I do not
understand. Of what sally do you speak?”
“Of yours last night.”
“Out of the convent?”
“No; in it. I am as good a Catholic as you, but your audacity
frightened me.”
Gorenflot was puzzled. “Was I audacious?” asked he.
“More than that--rash.”
“Alas! you must pardon me, my father. I will endeavor to correct
myself.”
“Yes; but meanwhile, I fear the consequences for you and for all
of us. Had it passed among ourselves, it would have been nothing.”
“How, is it known to others?”
“Doubtless; you know well there were more than a hundred laymen
listening to your discourse.”
“My discourse!” said Gorenflot, more and more astonished.
“I allow it was fine, and that the universal applause must have
carried you on, but to propose to make a procession through the
streets of Paris, with a helmet on your head and a partisan on
your shoulder, appealing to all good Catholics, was rather too
strong, you will allow.” Gorenflot looked bewildered.
“Now,” continued the prior, “this religious fervor, which burns
so strongly in your heart, will injure you in Paris. I wish you
therefore to go and expend it in the provinces.”
“An exile!” cried Gorenflot.
“If you remain here, much worse may happen to you, my dear brother.”
“What?”
“Perpetual imprisonment, or even death.”
Gorenflot grew frightfully pale; he could not understand how he
had incurred all this by getting tipsy in an inn, and passing
the night out of the convent.
“By submitting to this temporary exile, my dear brother, not
only will you escape this danger, but you will plant the banner
of our faith in the provinces, where such words are less dangerous
than here, under the eyes of the king. Set off at once, then,
brother; perhaps the archers are already out to arrest you.”
“The archers, I!” said Gorenflot.
“I advise you to go at once.”
“It is easy to say ‘go,’ but how am I to live?”
“Oh! nothing more easy. You will find plenty of partisans who
will let you want for nothing. But go, in Heaven’s name, and
do not come back till you are sent for.” And the prior, after
embracing him, pushed him to the door. There he found all the
community waiting for him, to touch his hands or his robe.
“Adieu!” said one, embracing him, “you are a holy man; do not
forget me in your prayers.”
“I, a holy man!” thought Gorenflot.
“Adieu, brave champion of the faith,” said another.
“Adieu, martyr,” said a third, “the light will soon come.”
Thus was he conducted to the outside of the convent, and as he
went away he exclaimed, “Devil take me, but either they are all
mad, or I am.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT REMAINED CONVINCED THAT HE WAS A SOMNAMBULIST,
AND BITTERLY DEPLORED THIS INFIRMITY.
Until the day when this unmerited persecution fell on Brother
Gorenflot, he had led a contemplative and easy life, diverting
himself on occasions at the Corne d’Abondance, when he had gained
a little money from the faithful. He was one of those monks for
whom the world began at the prior of the convent, and finished
at the cook. And now he was sent forth to seek for adventures.
He had no money; so that when out of Paris and he heard eleven
o’clock (the time for dinner at the convent) strike, he sat down
in dejection. His first idea was to return to the convent, and
ask to be put in confinement, instead of being sent in to exile,
and even to submit to the discipline, provided they would insure
him his repasts. His next was more reasonable. He would go to the
Corne d’Abondance, send for Chicot, explain to him the lamentable
situation into which he had helped to bring him, and obtain aid
from this generous friend. He was sitting absorbed in these
reflections, when he heard the sound of a horse’s feet approaching.
In great fear, he hid behind a tree until the traveler should
have passed; but a new idea struck him. He would endeavor to
obtain some money for his dinner. So he approached tremblingly,
and said, “Monsieur, if five patera, and five aves for the success
of your projects would be agreeable to you----”
“Gorenflot!” cried the cavalier.
“M. Chicot!”
“Where the devil are you going?”
“I do not know. And you?”
“Oh! I am going straight before me.”
“Very far?”
“Till I stop. But you--what are you doing outside the barriers?”
“Alas! M. Chicot! I am proscribed,” said Gorenflot, with an enormous
sigh.
“What?”
“Proscribed, I tell you. My brothers reject me from their bosom:
I am anathematized, excommunicated.”
“Bah! what for?”
“Listen, M. Chicot; you will not believe me, perhaps, but I do
not know.”
“Perhaps you were met last night gadding about.”
“Do not joke; you know quite well what I was doing last night.”
“Yes, from eight till ten, but not from ten till three.”
“How, from ten till three?”
“Yes, at ten you went out.”
“I?”
“Yes, and I asked you where you were going.”
“And what did I say?”
“That you were going to pronounce a discourse.”
“There was some truth in that,” murmured Gorenflot.
“Yes, and you even told me part of it; it was very long, and there
were terrible things against the king in it.”
“Bah!”
“So terrible, that I should not wonder if you were arrested for
them.”
“M. Chicot, you open my eyes; did I seem quite awake when I spoke?”
“I must say you seemed very strange; you looked like a man who
talks in his sleep.”
“Yet, I feel sure I awoke this morning at the Corne d’Abondance.”
“Well, of course; you came in again at three o’clock. I know;
you left the door open, and made me cold.”
“It is true, then?”
“True! ask M. Boutromet.”
“M. Boutromet?”
“Yes, he opened to you on your return. And you were so full of
pride when you came in, that I said to you,--‘Fie, compère; pride
does not become mortals, more especially monks.’”
“And of what was I proud?”
“Of the success your discourse had met with, and the compliments
paid to you by the Duc de Guise and M. de Mayenne.”
“Now I understand all.”
“That is lucky. Then you confess you went to the assembly; what
did you call it? Oh! the Holy Union.”
Gorenflot groaned. “I am a somnambulist,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, that with me mind is stronger than matter; so that
while the body sleeps, the spirit wakes, and sometimes is so
powerful that it forces the body to obey.”
“Ah! compère, that sounds much like magic; if you are possessed,
tell me so frankly; for, really a man who walks and makes discourses
in his sleep in which he attacks the king is not natural. Vade
retro, Satanas!”
“Then,” cried Gorenflot, “you abandon me also. Ah! I could not
have believed that of you.”
Chicot took pity on him. “What did you tell me just now?” said he.
“I do not know; I feel half mad, and my stomach is empty.”
“You spoke of traveling.”
“Yes, the holy prior sends me.”
“Where to?”
“Wherever I like.”
“I also am traveling, and will take you with me.”
Gorenflot looked bewildered.
“Well! do you accept?” continued Chicot.
“Accept! I should think so. But have you money to travel with?”
“Look,” said Chicot, drawing out his purse.
Gorenflot jumped for joy.
“How much?” said he.
“One hundred and fifty pistoles.”
“And where are we going?”
“You shall see.”
“When shall we breakfast?”
“Immediately.”
“What shall I ride?”
“Not my horse; you would kill it.”
“Then what must I do?”
“Nothing more simple; I will buy you an ass.”
“You are my benefactor, M. Chicot. Let the ass be strong. Now,
where do we breakfast?”
“Here; look over this door and read.”
Gorenflot looked up, and saw, “Here eggs, ham, eel-pies, and
white wine may be had!” At this sight, Gorenflot’s whole face
expanded with joy.
“Now,” said Chicot, “go and get your breakfast, while I go and
look for an ass for you.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT TRAVELED UPON AN ASS, NAMED PANURGE, AND
LEARNED MANY THINGS HE DID NOT KNOW BEFORE.
What made Chicot so indifferent to his own repast was, that he
had already breakfasted plentifully. Therefore, he sat Gorenflot
down to eggs and bacon, while he went among the peasants to look
for an ass. He found a pacific creature, four years old, and
something between an ass and a horse; gave twenty-two livres
for it, and brought it to Gorenflot, who was enchanted at the
sight of it, and christened it Panurge. Chicot, seeing by the
look of the table that there would be no cruelty in staying his
companion’s repast, said,--
“Come, now we must go on; at Mélun we will lunch.”
Gorenflot got up, merely saying, “At Mélun, at Mélun.”
They went on for about four leagues, then Gorenflot lay down on
the grass to sleep, while Chicot began to calculate.
“One hundred and twenty leagues, at ten leagues a day, would
take twelve days.” It was as much as he could reasonably expect
from the combined forces of a monk and an ass. But Chicot shook
his head. “It will not do,” he said, “if he wants to follow me,
he must do fifteen.”
He pushed the monk to wake him, who, opening his eyes, said, “Are
we at Mélun? I am hungry.”
“Not yet, compère, and that is why I woke you; we must get on;
we go too slow, ventre de biche!”
“Oh, no, dear M. Chicot; it is so fatiguing to go fast. Besides,
there is no hurry: am I not traveling for the propagation of
the faith, and you for pleasure? Well, the slower we go, the
better the faith will be propagated, and the more you will amuse
yourself. My advice is to stay some days at Mélun, where they
make excellent eel-pies. What do you say, M. Chicot?”
“I say, that my opinion is to go as fast as possible; not to
lunch at Mélun, but only to sup at Monterau, to make up for lost
time.”
Gorenflot looked at his companion as if he did not understand.
“Come, let us get on,” said Chicot.
The monk sat still and groaned.
“If you wish to stay behind and travel at your ease, you are
welcome.”
“No, no!” cried Gorenflot, in terror; “no, no, M. Chicot; I love
you too much to leave you!”
“Then to your saddle at once.”
Gorenflot got on his ass this time sideways, as a lady sits,
saying it was more comfortable; but the fact was that, fearing
they were to go faster, he wished to be able to hold on both
by mane and tail.
Chicot began to trot, and the ass followed. The first moments
were terrible for Gorenflot, but he managed to keep his seat.
From time to time Chicot stood up in his stirrups and looked
forward, then, not seeing what he looked for, redoubled his speed.
“What are you looking for, dear M. Chicot?”
“Nothing; but we are not getting on.”
“Not getting on! we are trotting all the way.”
“Gallop then!” and he began to canter.
Panurge again followed; Gorenflot was in agonies.
“Oh, M. Chicot!” said he, as soon as he could speak, “do you
call this traveling for pleasure? It does not amuse me at all.”
“On! on!”
“It is dreadful!”
“Stay behind then!”
“Panurge can do no more; he is stopping.”
“Then adieu, compère!”
Gorenflot felt half inclined to reply in the same manner, but he
remembered that the horse, whom he felt ready to curse, bore on
his back a man with a hundred and fifty pistoles in his pocket,
so he resigned himself, and beat his ass to make him gallop once
more.
“I shall kill my poor Panurge!” cried he dolefully, thinking to
move Chicot.
“Well, kill him,” said Chicot quietly, “and we will buy another.”
All at once Chicot, on arriving at the top of a hill, reined
in his horse suddenly. But the ass, having once taken it into
his head to gallop, was not so easily stopped, and Gorenflot
was forced to let himself slide off and hang on to the donkey
with all his weight before he could stop him.
“Ah, M. Chicot!” cried he, “what does it all mean? First we must
gallop fit to break our necks, and then we must stop short here!”
Chicot had hidden himself behind a rock, and was eagerly watching
three men who, about two hundred yards in advance, were traveling
on quietly on their mules, and he did not reply.
“I am tired and hungry!” continued Gorenflot angrily.
“And so am I,” said Chicot; “and at the first hotel we come to
we will order a couple of fricasseed chickens, some ham, and
a jug of their best wine.”
“Really, is it true this time?”
“I promise you, compère.”
“Well, then, let us go and seek it. Come, Panurge, you shall have
some dinner.”
Chicot remounted his horse, and Gorenflot led his ass. The
much-desired inn soon appeared, but, to the surprise of Gorenflot,
Chicot caused him to make a detour and pass round the back. At
the front door were standing the three travelers.
CHAPTER XXIX.
HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT CHANGED HIS ASS FOR A MULE, AND HIS MULE
FOR A HORSE.
However, Gorenflot’s troubles were near their end for that day,
for after the detour they went on a mile, and then stopped at a
rival hotel. Chicot took a room which looked on to the high-road,
and ordered supper. But even while he was eating he was constantly
on the watch. However, at ten o’clock, as he had seen nothing,
he went to bed, first, however, ordering that the horse and the
ass should be ready at daybreak.
“At daybreak?” uttered Gorenflot, with a deep sigh.
“Yes; you must be used to getting up at that time.”
“Why so?”
“For matins.”
“I had an exemption from the superior.” Chicot ordered Gorenflot’s
bed to be placed in his room. With daylight he was up and at the
window, and before very long he saw three mules coming along.
He ran to Gorenflot and shook him.
“Can I not have a moment’s rest?” cried the monk, who had been
sleeping for ten hours.
“Be quick; get up and dress, for we are going.”
“But the breakfast?”
“Is on the road to Monterau.”
“Where is Monterau?”
“It is the city where we breakfast, that is enough for you. Now,
I am going down to pay the bill, and if you are not ready in
five minutes, I go without you.”
A monk’s toilet takes not long; however, Gorenflot took six minutes,
and when he came down Chicot was starting. This day passed much
like the former one, and by the third, Gorenflot was beginning
to get accustomed to it, when towards the evening, Chicot lost
all his gaiety. Since noon he had seen nothing of the three
travelers; therefore he was in a very bad humor. They were off
at daybreak and galloped till noon, but all in vain; no mules
were visible. Chicot stopped at a turnpike, and asked the man
if he had seen three travelers pass on mules.
“Not to-day,” was the reply, “yesterday evening about seven.”
“What were they like?”
“They looked like a master and two servants!”
“It was them,” said Chicot; “ventre de biche! they have twelve
hours’ start of me. But courage!”
“Listen, M. Chicot!” said Gorenflot, “my ass can do no more,
even your horse is almost exhausted.” Chicot looked, and saw,
indeed, that the poor animals were trembling from head to foot.
“Well! brother,” said he, “we must take a resolution. You must
leave me.”
“Leave you; why?”
“You go too slow.”
“Slow! why, we have galloped for five hours this morning.”
“That is not enough.”
“Well, then, let us go on; the quicker we go, the sooner we shall
arrive, for I suppose we shall stop at last.”
“But our animals are exhausted.”
“What shall we do then?”
“Leave them here, and take them as we come back.”
“Then how are we to proceed?”
“We will buy mules.”
“Very well,” said Gorenflot with a sigh. Two mules were soon
found, and they went so well that in the evening Chicot saw with
joy those of the three travelers, standing at the door of a
farrier’s. But they were without harness, and both master and
lackeys had disappeared. Chicot trembled. “Go,” said he, to
Gorenflot, “and ask if those mules are for sale, and where their
owners are.” Gorenflot went, and soon returned, saying that a
gentleman had sold them, and had afterwards taken the road to
Avignon.
“Alone?”
“No, with a lackey.”
“And where is the other lackey?”
“He went towards Lyons.”
“And how did they go on?”
“On horses which they bought.”
“Of whom?”
“Of a captain of troopers who was here, and they sold their mules
to a dealer, who is trying to sell them again to those Franciscan
monks whom you see there.”
“Well, take our two mules and go and offer them to the monks instead;
they ought to give you the preference.”
“But, then, how shall we go on?”
“On horseback, morbleu.”
“Diable!”
“Oh! a good rider like you. You will find me again on the Grand
Place.” Chicot was bargaining for some horses, when he saw the
monk reappear, carrying the saddles and bridles of the mules.
“Oh! you have kept the harness?”
“Yes.”
“And sold the mules?”
“For ten pistoles each.”
“Which they paid you?”
“Here is the money.”
“Ventre de biche! you are a great man, let us go on.”
“But I am thirsty.”
“Well, drink while I saddle the beasts, but not too much.”
“A bottle.”
“Very well.”
Gorenflot drank two, and came to give the rest of the money back
to Chicot, who felt half inclined to give it to him, but reflecting
that if Gorenflot had money he would no longer be obedient, he
refrained. They rode on, and the next evening Chicot came up
with Nicolas David, still disguised as a lackey, and kept him in
sight all the way to Lyons, whose gates they all three entered
on the eighth day after their departure from Paris.
CHAPTER XXX.
HOW CHICOT AND HIS COMPANION INSTALLED THEMSELVES AT THE HOTEL
OF THE CROSS, AND HOW THEY WERE RECEIVED BY THE HOST.
Chicot watched Nicolas David into the principal hotel of the
place, and then said to Gorenflot, “Go in and bargain for a private
room, say that you expect your brother, then come out and wait
about for me, and I will come in when it is dark, and you can
bring me straight to my room. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“Choose a good room, as near as possible to that of the traveler
who has just arrived; it must look on to the street, and on no
account pronounce my name.”
Gorenflot acquitted himself marvelously of the commission. Their
room was only separated by a partition from that of Nicolas David.
“You deserve a recompense,” said Chicot to him, “and you shall
have sherry wine for supper.”
“I never got tipsy on that wine; it would be agreeable.”
“You shall to-night. But now ramble about the town.”
“But the supper?”
“I shall be ready against your return; here is a crown meanwhile.”
Gorenflot went off quite happy, and then Chicot made, with a
gimlet, a hole in the partition at about the height of his eye.
Through this, he could hear distinctly all that passed, and he
could just see the host talking to Nicolas David, who was professing
to have been sent on a mission by the king, to whom he professed
great fidelity. The host did not reply, but Chicot fancied he
could see an ironical smile on his lip whenever the king’s name
was mentioned.
“Is he a leaguer?” thought Chicot; “I will find out.”
When the host left David he came to visit Chicot, who said, “Pray
sit down, monsieur; and before we make a definitive arrangement,
listen to my history. You saw me this morning with a monk?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Silence! that monk is proscribed.”
“What! is he a disguised Huguenot?”
Chicot took an offended air. “Huguenot, indeed! he is my relation,
and I have no Huguenot relations. On the contrary, he is so fierce
an enemy of the Huguenots, that he has fallen into disgrace with
his majesty Henri III., who protects them, as you know.”
The host began to look interested. “Silence,” said he.
“Why, have you any of the king’s people here?”
“I fear so; there is a traveler in there.”
“Then we must fly at once, for proscribed, menaced----”
“Where will you go?”
“We have two or three addresses given to us by an innkeeper we
know, M. la Hurière.”
“Do you know La Hurière?”
“Yes, we made his acquaintance on the night of St. Bartholomew.”
“Well, I see you and your relation are holy people; I also know
La Hurière. Then you say this monk----”
“Had the imprudence to preach against the Huguenots, and with
so much success that the king wanted to put him in prison.”
“And then?”
“Ma foi, I carried him off.”
“And you did well.”
“M. de Guise offered to protect him.”
“What! the great Henri?”
“Himself; but I feared civil war.”
“If you are friends of M. de Guise, you know this;” and he made
a sort of masonic sign by which the leaguers recognized each
other.
Chicot, who had seen both this and the answer to it twenty times
during that famous night, replied, “And you this?”
“Then,” said the innkeeper, “you are at home here; my house is
yours, look on me as a brother, and if you have no money----”
Chicot drew out his purse. The sight of a well-filled purse is
always agreeable, even to a generous host.
“Our journey,” continued Chicot, “is paid for by the treasurer
of the Holy Union, for we travel to propagate the faith. Tell
us of an inn where we may be safe.”
“Nowhere more so than here, and if you wish it, the other traveler
shall turn out.”
“Oh! no; it is better to have your enemies near, that you may
watch them. But, what makes you think he is our enemy?”
“Well! first he came disguised as a lackey, then he put on an
advocate’s dress, and I am sure he is no more an advocate than
he is a lackey, for I saw a long rapier under his cloak. Then
he avowed he had a mission from the king!”
“From Herod, as I call him.”
“Sardanapalus.”
“Bravo!”
“Ah! I see we understand each other.”
“Then we are to remain here?”
“I should think so.”
“Not a word about my relation.”
“Of course not.”
“Nor of me.”
“Oh, no! But hush! here is some one.”
“Oh, it is the worthy man himself!”
The host turned to Gorenflot, and made a sign of the leaguers.
Gorenflot was struck with terror and astonishment.
“Reply, my brother,” said Chicot; “he is a member.”
“Of what?”
“Of the Holy Union,” said Bernouillet, in a low tone.
“You see all is safe; reply,” said Chicot.
Gorenflot replied, to the great joy of the innkeeper.
“But,” said Gorenflot, who did not like the conversation, “you
promised me some sherry.”
“Sherry, Malaga, Alicant--every wine in my cellar is at your
disposal.”
Gorenflot looked at Chicot in amazement.
For three following days Gorenflot got drunk, first on sherry,
next on Malaga, then on Alicant; afterwards he declared he liked
Burgundy best, and returned to that. Meanwhile, Chicot had never
stirred from his room, and had constantly watched Nicolas David,
who, having appointed to meet Pierre de Gondy at this inn, would
not leave the house. On the morning of the sixth day he declared
himself ill, and the next day worse. Bernouillet came joyfully
to tell Chicot.
“What! do you think him in danger?”
“High fever, my dear brother; he is delirious, and tried to strangle
me and beat my servants. The doctors do not understand his
complaint.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Yes; I tell you he tried to strangle me.”
“How did he seem?”
“Pale and furious, and constantly crying out.”
“What?”
“Take care of the king! they want to hurt the king! Then he
constantly says that he expects a man from Avignon, and wishes
to see him before he dies.”
As for Gorenflot, he grew visibly fatter every day, so much so,
that he announced to Chicot with terror one day that the staircase
was narrowing. Neither David, the League, nor religion occupied
him; he thought of nothing but how to vary his dinner and wine,
so that Bernouillet often exclaimed in astonishment, “To think
that that man should be a torrent of eloquence!”
CHAPTER XXXI.
HOW THE MONK CONFESSED THE ADVOCATE, AND THE ADVOCATE THE MONK.
At last M. Bernouillet came into Chicot’s room, laughing
immoderately.
“He is dying,” said he, “and the man has arrived from Avignon.”
“Have you seen him?”
“Of course.”
“What is he like?”
“Little and thin.”
“It is he,” thought Chicot; and he said, “Tell me about his arrival.”
“An hour ago I was in the kitchen, when I saw a great horse,
ridden by a little man, stop before the door. ‘Is M. Nicolas
here?’ asked he. ‘Yes, monsieur,’ said I. ‘Tell him that the
person he expects from Avignon is here.’ ‘Certainly, monsieur,
but I must warn you that he is very ill.’ ‘All the more reason
for doing my bidding at once.’ ‘But he has a malignant fever.’
‘Oh, pray, then, be quick!’ ‘How! you persist?’ ‘I persist.’
‘In spite of the danger!’ ‘In spite of everything I must see
him.’ So I took him to the room, and there he is now. Is it not
odd?”
“Very droll.”
“I wish I could hear them.”
“Go in.”
“He forbade me to go in, saying he was going to confess.”
“Listen at the door.”
Bernouillet went, and Chicot went also to his hole: but they
spoke so low that he could hear nothing, and in a few minutes
Gondy rose and took leave. Chicot ran to the window, and saw a
lackey waiting with a horse, which M. de Gondy mounted and rode
off.
“If he only has not carried off the genealogy. Never mind, I
shall soon catch him if necessary; but I suspect it is left here.
Where can Gorenflot be?”
M. Bernouillet returned, saying, “He is gone.”
“The confessor?”
“He is no more a confessor than I am.”
“Will you send me my brother as soon as he comes in.”
“Even if he be drunk?”
“Whatever state he is in.”
Bernouillet went, and Chicot remained in a state of indecision
as to what to do, for he thought, “If David is really so ill,
he may have sent on the despatches by Gondy.” Presently he heard
Gorenflot’s voice, singing a drinking song as he came up the
stairs.
“Silence, drunkard!” said Chicot.
“Drunkard, indeed!”
“Yes; but come here and speak seriously, if you can.”
“What is it now?”
“It is, that you never think of the duties of your profession,
that you wallow in greediness and drunkenness, and let religion
go where it pleases.”
Gorenflot looked astonished. “I!” he gasped.
“Yes, you; you are disgraceful to see; you are covered with mud;
you have been drunk in the streets.”
“It is too true!”
“If you go on so, I will abandon you.”
“Chicot, my friend, you will not do that? Am I very guilty?”
“There are archers at Lyons.”
“Oh, pity! my dear protector, pity!”
“Are you a Christian or not?”
“I not a Christian!”
“Then do not let a neighbor die without confession.”
“I am ready, but I must drink first, for I am thirsty.”
Chicot passed him a jug of water, which he emptied.
“Now who am I to confess?”
“Our unlucky neighbor who is dying.”
“Let them give him a pint of wine with honey in it.”
“He needs spiritual aid as well as temporal. Go to him.”
“Am I fit?” said Gorenflot, timidly.
“Perfectly.”
“Then I will go.”
“Stay; I must tell you what to do.”
“Oh! I know.”
“You do not know what I wish.”
“What you wish?”
“If you execute it well, I will give you one hundred pistoles
to spend here.”
“What must I do?”
“Listen; your robe gives you authority; in the name of God and
the King, summon him to give up the papers he has just received
from Avignon.”
“What for?”
“To gain one hundred pistoles, stupid.”
“Ah! true; I go.”
“Wait a minute. He will tell you he has confessed.”
“But if he has?”
“Tell him he lies; that the man who has just left him is no
confessor, but an intriguer like himself.”
“But he will be angry.”
“What does that matter, since he is dying?”
“True.”
“Well; one way or the other, you must get hold of those papers.”
“If he refuses?”
“Refuse him absolution, curse him, anathematize him----”
“Oh, I will take them by force.”
“Good; and when you have got them, knock on the wall.”
“And if I cannot get them?”
“Knock also.”
“Then, in any case I am to knock?”
“Yes.”
Gorenflot went, and Chicot placed his ear to the hole in the
wall. When Gorenflot entered, the sick man raised himself in his
bed, and looked at him with wonder.
“Good day, brother,” said Gorenflot.
“What do you want, my father?” murmured the sick man, in a feeble
voice.
“My son, I hear you are in danger, and I come to speak to you
of your soul.”
“Thank you, but I think your care is needless; I feel better.”
“You think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“It is a ruse of Satan, who wishes you to die without confession.”
“Then he will be deceived, for I have just confessed.”
“To whom?”
“To a worthy priest from Avignon.”
“He was not a priest.”
“Not!”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I knew him.”
“You knew the man who has just gone?”
“Yes; and as you are not better, and this man was not a priest,
you must confess.”
“Very well,” replied the patient, in a stronger voice, “but I
will chose to whom I will confess.”
“You will have no time to send for another priest, and I am here.”
“How! no time, when I tell you I am getting well?”
Gorenflot shook his head. “I tell you, my son, you are condemned
by the doctors and by Providence; you may think it cruel to tell
you so, but it is what we must all come to sooner or later. Confess,
my son, confess.”
“But I assure you, father, that I feel much stronger.”
“A mistake, my son, the lamp flares up at the last, just before
it goes out. Come, confess all your plots, your intrigues, and
machinations!”
“My intrigues and plots!” cried David, frightened at this singular
monk, whom he did not know, but who seemed to know him so well.
“Yes; and when you have told all that, give me up the papers,
and perhaps God will let me absolve you.”
“What papers?” cried the sick man, in a voice as strong as though
he were quite well.
“The papers that the pretended priest brought you from Avignon.”
“And who told you that he brought me papers?” cried the patient,
putting one leg out of bed.
Gorenflot began to feel frightened, but he said firmly, “He who
told me knew well what he was saying; give me the papers, or
you shall have no absolution.”
“I laugh at your absolution,” cried David, jumping out of bed,
and seizing Gorenflot by the throat, “and you shall see if I
am too ill to strangle you.”
Gorenflot was strong, and he pushed David back so violently that
he fell into the middle of the room. But he rose furious, and
seizing a long sword, which hung on the wall behind his clothes,
presented it to the throat of Gorenflot, who sank on a chair
in terror.
“It is now your turn to confess,” said he, “speak, or you die.”
“Oh!” cried Gorenflot, “then you are not ill--not dying.”
“It is not for you to question, but to answer.”
“To answer what?”
“Who are you?”
“You can see that.”
“Your name?”
“Brother Gorenflot.”
“You are then a real monk?”
“I should think so.”
“What brings you to Lyons?”
“I am exiled.”
“What brought you to this inn?”
“Chance.”
“How long have you been here?”
“A fortnight.”
“Why did you watch me?”
“I did not.”
“How did you know that I had the papers?”
“Because I was told so.”
“Who told you?”
“He who sent me here.”
“Who was that?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“You must.”
“Oh! oh! I will cry out.”
“And I will kill.”
Gorenflot cried out, and a spot of blood appeared on the point
of the sword.
“His name?” cried David.
“Oh! I can hold out no more.”
“Speak.”
“It was Chicot.”
“The king’s jester!”
“Himself.”
“And where is he?”
“Here!” cried a voice, and Chicot appeared at the door with a
drawn sword in his hand.
CHAPTER XXXII.
HOW CHICOT USED HIS SWORD.
Nicolas David, in recognizing him whom he knew to be his mortal
enemy, could not repress a movement of terror, during which Gorenflot
slipped a little to the side, crying out, “Help, friend! come to
my aid!”
“Ah, Monsieur David, it is you!” said Chicot; “I am delighted
to meet you again!” Then, turning to Gorenflot, he said, “My
good Gorenflot, your presence as monk was very necessary just
now, when we believed monsieur dying; but now that he is so well,
it is with me he must deal; therefore, do me the favor to stand
sentinel on the threshold, and prevent any one from coming in
to interrupt our little conversation.” Gorenflot, who asked no
better than to go, was soon out of the room; but David, having
now recovered from his surprise, and confident in his skill as
a swordsman, stood waiting for Chicot, with his sword in his
hand and a smile on his lips.
“Dress yourself, monsieur,” said Chicot; “I do not wish to take
any advantage of you. Do you know what I have come to seek in
this room?”
“The rest of the blows which I have owed you on account of the
Duc de Mayenne, since that day when you jumped so quickly out
of the window.”
“No, monsieur; I know the number, and will return them. Be easy.
What I have come for is a certain genealogy which M. Pierre de
Gondy took to Avignon, without knowing what he carried, and,
equally in ignorance, brought back to you just now.”
David turned pale. “What genealogy?” he said.
“That of M. de Guise, who descends, as you know, in a direct line
from Charlemagne.”
“Ah, you are a spy! I thought you only a buffoon.”
“Dear M. David, I will be both if you wish it: a spy to hang you,
and a buffoon to laugh at it after.”
“To hang me!”
“High and dry, monsieur; I hope you do not lay claim to be beheaded
like a gentleman.”
“And how will you do it?”
“Oh, very easily; I will relate the truth, for I must tell you,
dear M. David, that I assisted last month at the meeting held
in the convent of St. Geneviève.”
“You!”
“Yes; I was in the confessional in front of yours, and it was
very uncomfortable there, especially as I was obliged to wait
to go out until all was finished. Therefore I heard all, saw
the coronation of M. d’Anjou, which was not very amusing; but
then the genealogy was delightful.”
“Ah! you know about the genealogy?” cried David, biting his lips
with anger.
“Yes, and I found it very ingenious, especially that part about
the Salic law; only it is a misfortune to have so much intellect,
one gets hung for it; therefore, feeling myself moved with tender
pity for so ingenious a man, I said to myself, ‘Shall I let this
brave M. David be hung?’ and I took the resolution of traveling
with, or rather behind, you. I followed you, therefore, not without
trouble, and at last we arrived at Lyons. I entered the hotel
an hour after you, and have been in the adjoining room; look,
there is only a partition between, and, as you may imagine, I
did not travel all the way from Paris to Lyons to lose sight
of you now. I pierced a little hole, through which I had the
pleasure of watching you when I liked, and I confess I gave myself
this pleasure several times a day. At last you fell ill; the
host wished to get rid of you, but you were determined to wait
here for M. de Gondy. I was duped by you at first, for you might
really have been ill, so I sent you a brave monk, to excite you
to repentance; but, hardened sinner that you are, you tried to
kill him, forgetting the Scripture maxim, ‘He who strikes with
the sword shall perish with the sword.’ Then I came to you, and
said, ‘We are old friends; let us arrange the matter.’”
“In what manner?”
“It would be a pity that such a man as you should disappear from
the world; give up plots, trust me, break with the Guises, give
me your papers, and, on the faith of a gentleman, I will make
your peace with the king.”
“While, on the contrary, if I do not give them to you?”
“Ah! then, on the faith of a gentleman, I will kill you! But if
you give them to me, all shall be forgotten. You do not believe
me, perhaps, for your nature is bad, and you think my resentment
can never be forgotten. But, although it is true that I hate you,
I hate M. de Mayenne more; give me what will ruin him, and I will
save you. And then, perhaps, you will not believe this either,
for you love nothing; but I love the king, foolish and corrupted
as he is, and I wish that he should reign tranquilly--which is
impossible with the Mayennes and the genealogy of Nicolas David.
Therefore, give me up the genealogy, and I promise to make your
name and your fortune.”
David never moved.
“Well,” said Chicot, “I see all that I say to you is but wasted
breath; therefore, I go to get you hanged. Adieu, M. David,”
and he stepped backwards towards the door.
“And you think I shall let you go out,” cried the advocate.
“No, no, my fine spy; no, no, Chicot, my friend, those who know
of the genealogy must die. Those who menace me must die.”
“You put me quite at my ease; I hesitated only because I am sure
to kill you. Crillon, the other day, taught me a particular thrust,
only one, but that will suffice. Come, give me the papers, or
I will kill you; and I will tell you how--I will pierce your
throat just where you wished to bleed Gorenflot.”
Chicot had hardly finished, when David rushed on him with a savage
laugh. The two adversaries were nearly matched in height, but
Chicot, who fenced nearly every day with the king, had become
one of the most skilful swordsmen in the kingdom. David soon
began to perceive this, and he retreated a step.
“Ah! ah!” said Chicot, “now you begin to understand. Once more;
the papers.”
David, for answer, threw himself again upon Chicot, and a new
combat ensued. At last Chicot called out,--
“Here is the thrust,” and as he spoke, he thrust his rapier half
through his throat.
David did not reply, but fell at Chicot’s feet, pouring out a
mouthful of blood. But by a natural movement he tried to drag
himself towards his bed, so as to defend his secret to the last.
“Ah!” cried Chicot, “I thought you cunning, but I see you are
a fool. I did not know where the papers were, and you have shown
me----” and while David rolled in the agonies of death, he ran
to the bed, raised the mattress, and found under it a roll of
parchment. At the moment in which he unrolled it to see if it
was the document he sought, David raised himself in a rage and
then fell back dead. Chicot saw with joy that he held what he
wanted. The Pope had written at the bottom, “Fiat ut voluit Deus;
Deus jura hominum fecit.” After placing it in his breast, he
took the body of the advocate, who had died without losing more
blood, the nature of the wound making him bleed inwardly, put
it back in the bed, turned the face to the wall, and, opening
the door, called Gorenflot.
“How pale you are!” said the monk, as he entered.
“Yes, the last moments of that man caused me some emotion.”
“Then he is dead?”
“Yes.”
“He was so well just now.”
“Too well; he swallowed something difficult of digestion, and
died of it.”
“The wretch wanted to strangle me, a holy man, and he is punished
for it.”
“Pardon him, you are a Christian.”
“I do, although he frightened me much.”
“You must do more; you must light the lamps, and say some prayers
by his bed.”
“Why?”
“That you may not be taken prisoner as his murderer.”
“I, a murderer! it was he who tried to murder me.”
“Mon Dieu! yes, and as he could not succeed, his rage made him
break a blood-vessel. But till your innocence is established
they might annoy you much.”
“I fear you are right.”
“Then do what I tell you. Install yourself here, and recite all
the prayers you know, or do not know; then, when evening comes,
go out and call at the ironmonger’s at the corner of the street.
There you will find your horse; mount him, and take the road to
Paris; at Villeneuve-le-Roi sell him, and take Panurge back.”
“Ah! that good Panurge; I shall be delighted to see him again.
But how am I to live?”
Chicot drew from his pocket a handful of crowns and put them into
the large hand of the monk.
“Generous man!” cried Gorenflot. “Let me stay with you at Lyons;
I love Lyons.”
“But I do not stay here; I set off at once, and travel too rapidly
for you to follow me.”
“So be it, then.”
Chicot installed the monk by the bed, and went downstairs to the
host.
“M. Bernouillet,” said he, “a great event has taken place in your
house.”
“What do you mean?”
“The hateful royalist, the enemy of our religion upstairs, received
to-day a messenger from Rome.”
“I know that: it was I who told you.”
“Well, our holy father, the Pope, had sent him to this conspirator,
who, however, probably did not suspect for what purpose.”
“And why did he come?”
“Go up-stairs, lift up the bedclothes, look at his neck, and you
will see.”
“You frighten me.”
“I say no more. The Pope did you honor in choosing your house
for the scene of his vengeance.”
Then Chicot put ten crowns into the hand of the host, and went
down to the stable to get out the horses. M. Bernouillet went
up and found Gorenflot praying. He looked as directed, and found
the wound.
“May every enemy of our religion die thus,” said he to Gorenflot.
“Amen,” replied the monk.
These events passed about the same time that Bussy brought the
Baron de Méridor back to his daughter.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
HOW THE DUC D’ANJOU LEARNED THAT DIANA WAS NOT DEAD.
The month of April had arrived. The great cathedral of Chartres
was hung with white, and the king was standing barefooted in the
nave. The religious ceremonies, which were for the purpose of
praying for an heir to the throne of France, were just finishing,
when Henri, in the midst of the general silence, heard what seemed
to him a stifled laugh. He turned round to see if Chicot were
there, for he thought no one else would have dared to laugh at
such a time. It was not, however, Chicot who had laughed at the
sight of the two chemises of the Holy Virgin which were said to
have such a prolific power, and which were just being drawn from
their golden box; but it was a cavalier who had just stopped
at the door of the church, and who was making his way with his
muddy boots through the crowd of courtiers in their penitents’
robes and sacks. Seeing the king turn, he stopped for a moment,
and Henri, irritated at seeing him arrive thus, threw an angry
glance at him. The newcomer, however, continued to advance until
he reached the velvet chair of M. le Duc d’Anjou, by which he
knelt down. He, turning round, said, “Bussy!”
“Good morning, monseigneur.”
“Are you mad?”
“Why so?”
“To come here to see this nonsense.”
“Monseigneur, I wish to speak to you at once.”
“Where have you been for the last three weeks?”
“That is just what I have to tell you.”
“Well, you must wait until we leave the church.”
“So much the worse.”
“Patience, here is the end.”
Indeed, the king was putting on one of these chemises, and the
queen another. Then they all knelt down, and afterwards the king,
taking off his holy tunic, left the church.
“Now, monseigneur,” said Bussy, “shall we go to your house?”
“Yes, at once, if you have anything to tell me.”
“Plenty of things which you do not expect.”
When they were in the hotel the duke said, “Now sit down and tell
me all; I feared you were dead.”
“Very likely, monseigneur.”
“You left me to look after my beautiful unknown. Who is this woman,
and what am I to expect?”
“You will reap what you have sown, monseigneur--plenty of shame.”
“What do you mean?” cried the duke.
“What I said.”
“Explain yourself, monsieur; who is this woman?”
“I thought you had recognized her.”
“Then it was her?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“You saw her?”
“Yes.”
“And she spoke to you?”
“Certainly. Doubtless you had reason to think her dead, and you
perhaps hoped she was so.”
The duke grew pale.
“Yes, monseigneur,” continued Bussy, “although you pushed to
despair a young girl of noble race, she escaped from death; but
do not breathe yet, do not think yourself absolved, for, in
preserving her life, she found a misfortune worse than death.”
“What is it? what has happened to her?”
“Monseigneur, a man preserved her honor and saved her life, but
he made her pay for this service so dearly that she regrets his
having rendered it.”
“Finish.”
“Well, monseigneur, Mademoiselle de Méridor, to escape becoming
the mistress of the Duc d’Anjou, has thrown herself into the arms
of a man whom she detests, and is now Madame de Monsoreau.”
At these words the blood rushed furiously into the duke’s face.
“Is this true?” said he.
“Pardieu! I said it,” said Bussy, haughtily.
“I did not mean that; I did not doubt your word, Bussy, I wondered
only if it were possible that one of my gentlemen had had the
audacity to interfere between me and a woman whom I honored with
my love.”
“And why not?”
“Then you would have done so?”
“I would have done better; I would have warned you that your honor
was being lost.”
“Listen, Bussy,” said the prince, becoming calmer, “I do not
justify myself, but M. de Monsoreau has been a traitor towards
me.”
“Towards you?”
“Yes, he knew my intentions.”
“And they were?”
“To try and make Diana love me.”
“Love you!”
“Yes, but in no case to use violence.”
“Those were your intentions?” said Bussy, with an ironical smile.
“Certainly, and these intentions I preserved to the last, although
M. de Monsoreau constantly combated them.”
“Monseigneur, what do you say! This man incited you to dishonor
Diana?”
“Yes.”
“By his counsels?”
“By his letters. Would you like to see them?”
“Oh! if I could believe that!”
“You shall see.”
And the duke, opening a little cabinet, and taking out a letter,
said, “Since you doubt your prince’s words, read.”
Bussy took it and read,--
“MONSEIGNEUR,
“Be quite easy; the coup-de-main can be executed without risk,
for the young person sets off this evening to pass a week with an
aunt who lives at the château of Lude. I charge myself with it,
and you need take no trouble as for the scruples of the young lady,
be sure that they will vanish in the presence of your highness:
meanwhile I act; and this evening she will be at the château of
Beaugé.
“Your highness’s respectful servant,
“BRYAN DE MONSOREAU.”
“Well, what do you say, Bussy?”
“I say that you are well served, monseigneur.”
“You mean betrayed.”
“Ah, true; I forgot the end.”
“The wretch! he made me believe in the death woman----”
“Whom he stole from you; it is black enough.”
“How did he manage?”
“He made the father believe you the ravisher, and offered himself
to rescue the lady, presented himself at the château of Beaugé
with a letter from the Baron de Méridor, brought a boat to the
windows, and carried away the prisoner; then shut her up in the
house you know of, and by constantly working upon her fears,
forced her to become his wife.”
“Is it not infamous?”
“Only partly excused by your conduct, monseigneur.”
“Ah! Bussy, you shall see how I will revenge myself!”
“Princes do not revenge themselves, they punish,” said Bussy.
“How can I punish him?”
“By restoring happiness to Madame de Monsoreau.”
“But can I?”
“Certainly.”
“How?”
“By restoring her to liberty. The marriage was forced, therefore
it is null.”
“You are right.”
“Get it set aside, then, and you will have acted like a gentleman
and a prince.”
“Ah, ah!” said the prince, “what warmth! you are interested in
it, Bussy.”
“I! not at all, except that I do not wish people to say that
Louis de Clermont serves a perfidious prince and a man without
honor.”
“Well, you shall see. But how to do it?”
“Nothing more easy; make her father act.”
“But he is buried in Anjou.”
“Monseigneur, he is here in Paris.”
“At your house?”
“No, with his daughter. Speak to him, monseigneur, that he may
see in you, not what he does now, an enemy, but a protector--that
he who now curses your name may bless you.”
“And when can I see him?”
“As soon as you return Paris.”
“Very well.”
“It is agreed, then?”
“Yes.”
“On your word as a gentleman?”
“On my faith as a prince.”
“And when do you return?”
“This evening; will you accompany me?”
“No, I go first; where shall I meet your highness?”
“To-morrow; at the king’s levee.”
“I will be there, monseigneur.”
Bussy did not lose a moment, and the distance that took the duke
fifteen hours to accomplish, sleeping in his litter, the young
man, who returned to Paris, his heart beating with joy and love,
did in five, to console the baron and Diana the sooner.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
HOW CHICOT RETURNED TO THE LOUVRE, AND WAS RECEIVED BY THE KING
HENRI III.
All was quiet at the Louvre, for the king, fatigued with his
pilgrimage, had not yet risen, when two men presented themselves
together at the gates.
“M. Chicot,” cried the younger, “how are you this morning?”
“Ah, M. de Bussy.”
“You come for the king’s levee, monsieur?”
“And you also, I presume?”
“No; I come to see M. le Duc d’Anjou. You know I have not the
honor of being a favorite of his majesty’s.”
“The reproach is for the king, and not for you.”
“Do you come from far? I heard you were traveling.”
“Yes, I was hunting. And you?”
“Yes, I have been in the provinces; and now will you be good enough
to render me a service?”
“I shall be delighted.”
“Well, you can penetrate into the Louvre, while I remain in the
ante-chamber; will you tell the duke I am waiting for him?”
“Why not come in with me?”
“The king would not be pleased.”
“Bah!”
“Diable! he has not accustomed me to his most gracious smiles.”
“Henceforth, for some time, all that will change.”
“Ah, ah! are you a necromancer, M. Chicot?”
“Sometimes; come, take courage, and come in with me.”
They entered together; one went towards the apartments of the
Duc d’Anjou, and the other to those of the king.
Henri was just awake, and had rung, and a crowd of valets and
friends had rushed in; already the chicken broth and the spiced
wine were served, when Chicot entered, and without saying a word,
sat down to eat and drink.
“Par la mordieu!” cried the king, delighted, although he affected
anger; “it is that knave of a Chicot, that fugitive, that vagabond!”
“What is the matter, my son?” said Chicot, placing himself on
the immense seat, embroidered with fleur-de-lis, on which the
king was seated.
“Here is my misfortune returned,” said Henri; “for three weeks
I have been so tranquil.”
“Bah! you always grumble. One would think you were one of your
own subjects. Let me hear, Henriquet, how you have governed this
kingdom in my absence.”
“Chicot!”
“Have you hung any of your curled gentlemen? Ah! pardon, M. Quelus,
I did not see you.”
“Chicot, I shall be angry,” said the king; but he ended by laughing,
as he always did; so he went on: “But what has become of you? Do
you know that I have had you sought for in all the bad parts
of Paris?”
“Did you search the Louvre?”
Just then M. de Monsoreau entered.
“Ah! it is you, monsieur,” said the king; “when shall we hunt
again?”
“When it shall please your majesty; I hear there are plenty of
wild boars at St. Germain en Laye.”
“The wild boar is dangerous,” said Chicot; “King Charles IX.,
I remember, was nearly killed by one. And then spears are sharp
also; is it not so, Henri? and do you know your chief huntsman
must have met a wolf not long ago?”
“Why so?”
“Because he has caught the likeness; it is striking.”
M. de Monsoreau grew pale, and turning to Chicot, said:
“M. Chicot, I am not used to jesters, having lived little at
court, and I warn you that before my king I do not like to be
humiliated, above all when I speak of my duties.”
“Well, monsieur,” said Chicot, “we are not like you, we court
people laughed heartily at the last joke.”
“And what was that?”
“Making you chief huntsman.”
Monsoreau looked daggers at Chicot.
“Come, come,” said Henri, “let us speak of something else.”
“Yes, let us speak of the merits of Nôtre Dame de Chartres.”
“Chicot, no impiety.”
“I impious! it is you, on the contrary; there were two chemises
accustomed to be together, and you separated them. Join them
together and a miracle may happen.”
This illusion to the estrangement of the king and queen made everyone
laugh.
Monsoreau then whispered to Chicot, “Pray withdraw with me into
that window, I wish to speak to you.” When they were alone, he went
on, “Now, M. Chicot, buffoon as you are, a gentleman forbids you;
do you understand? forbids you to laugh at him, and to remember
that others may finish what M. de Mayenne began.”
“Ah! you wish me to become your creditor, as I am his, and to
give you the same place in my gratitude.”
“It seems to me that, among your creditors, you forget the
principal.”
“Indeed, I have generally a good memory. Who may it be?”
“M. Nicolas David.”
“Oh! you are wrong; he is paid.”
At this moment Bussy entered.
“Monsieur,” said he to the count, “M. le Duc d’Anjou desires to
speak with you.”
“With me?”
“With you, monsieur.”
“Do you accompany me?”
“No, I go first, to tell the duke you are coming,” and he rapidly
disappeared.
“Well?” said the duke.
“He is coming.”
“And he suspects nothing?”
“Nothing; but if he did, what matter? is he not your creature?
Does he seem to you less guilty than he did yesterday?”
“No, a hundred times more so.”
“He has carried off, by treason, a noble young girl, and married
her equally treasonably; either he must ask for the dissolution
of the marriage himself, or you must do it for him.”
“I have promised.”
“I have your word?”
“You have.”
“Remember that they know and are anxiously waiting.”
“She shall be free, Bussy; I pledge my word.”
Bussy kissed the hand which had signed so many false promises.
As he did so, M. de Monsoreau entered, and Bussy went to the
corridor, where were several other gentlemen. Here he had to
wait as patiently as might be for the result of this interview,
on which all his future happiness was at stake. He waited for
some time, when suddenly the door of the duke’s room opened,
and the sound of M. de Monsoreau’s voice made Bussy tremble,
for it sounded almost joyful. Soon the voices approached, and
Bussy could see M. de Monsoreau bowing and retiring, and he heard
the duke say:
“Adieu, my friend.”
“My friend!” murmured Bussy.
Then Monsoreau said, “Your highness agrees with me that publicity
is best?”
“Yes, yes; an end to all mysteries.”
“Then this evening I will present her to the king.”
“Do so; I will prepare him.”
“Gentlemen,” then said Monsoreau, turning towards those in the
corridor, “allow me to announce to you a secret; monseigneur
permits me to make public my marriage with Mademoiselle Diana
de Méridor, who has been my wife for more than a month, and whom
I intend this evening to present to the court.”
Bussy, who had been hidden behind a door, staggered, and almost
fell at this unexpected blow. However, he darted a glance of
contempt at the duke, towards whom he made a step, but he, in
terror, shut his door, and Bussy heard the key turn in the lock.
Feeling that if he stayed a moment longer he should betray before
everyone the violence of his grief, he ran downstairs, got on
his horse, and galloped to the Rue St. Antoine. The baron and
Diana were eagerly waiting for him, and they saw him enter pale
and trembling.
“Madame,” cried he, “hate me, despise me; I believed I could do
something and I can do nothing. Madame, you are now the recognized
wife of M. de Monsoreau, and are to be presented this evening.
I am a fool--a miserable dupe, or rather, as you said, M. le
Baron, the duke is a coward and a villain.”
And leaving the father and daughter overcome with grief, he rushed
wildly away.
CHAPTER XXXV.
WHAT PASSED BETWEEN M. DE MONSOREAU AND THE DUKE.
It is time to explain the duke’s sudden change of intention with
regard to M. de Monsoreau. When he first received him, it was
with dispositions entirely favorable to Bussy’s wishes.
“Your highness sent for me?” said Monsoreau.
“You have nothing to fear, you who have served me so well, and
are so much attached to me. Often you have told me of the plots
against me, have aided my enterprises forgetting your own interests,
and exposing your life.”
“Your highness----”
“Even lately, in this last unlucky adventure----”
“What adventure, monseigneur?”
“This carrying off of Mademoiselle de Méridor--poor young creature!”
“Alas!” murmured Monsoreau.
“You pity her, do you not?” said the duke.
“Does not your highness?”
“I! you know how I have regretted this fatal caprice. And, indeed,
it required all my friendship for you, and the remembrance of
all your good services, to make me forget that without you I
should not have carried off this young girl.”
Monsoreau felt the blow. “Monseigneur,” said he, “your natural
goodness leads you to exaggerate, you no more caused the death
of this young girl than I did.”
“How so?”
“You did not intend to use violence to Mademoiselle de Méridor.”
“Certainly not.”
“Then the intention absolves you; it is a misfortune, nothing
more.”
“And besides,” said the duke, looking at him, “death has buried
all in eternal silence.”
The tone of his voice and his look struck Monsoreau. “Monseigneur,”
said he, after a moment’s pause, “shall I speak frankly to you?”
“Why should you hesitate?” said the prince, with astonishment
mingled with hauteur.
“Indeed, I do not know, but your highness has not thought fit
to be frank with me.”
“Really!” cried the duke, with an angry laugh.
“Monseigneur, I know what your highness meant to say to me.”
“Speak, then.”
“Your highness wished to make me understand that perhaps Mademoiselle
de Méridor was not dead, and that therefore those who believed
themselves her murderers might be free from remorse.”
“Oh, monsieur, you have taken your time before making this consoling
reflection to me. You are a faithful servant, on my word; you
saw me sad and afflicted, you heard me speak of the wretched
dreams I had since the death of this woman, and you let me live
thus, when even a doubt might have spared me so much suffering.
How must I consider this conduct, monsieur?”
“Monseigneur, is your highness accusing me?”
“Traitor!” cried the duke, “you have deceived me; you have taken
from me this woman whom I loved----”
Monsoreau turned pale, but did not lose his proud, calm look.
“It is true,” said he.
“True, knave!”
“Please to speak lower, monseigneur; your highness forgets, that
you speak to a gentleman and an old servant.”
The duke laughed.
“My excuse is,” continued he, “that I loved Mademoiselle de Méridor
ardently.”
“I, also,” replied François, with dignity.
“It is true, monseigneur; but she did not love you.”
“And she loved you?”
“Perhaps.”
“You lie! you know you lie! You used force as I did; only I, the
master, failed, while you, the servant, succeeded by treason.”
“Monseigneur, I loved her.”
“What do I care?”
“Monseigneur, take care. I loved her, and I am not a servant.
My wife is mine, and no one can take her from me, not even the
king. I wished to have her, and I took her.”
“You took her! Well! you shall give her up.”
“You are wrong, monseigneur. And do not call,” continue he, stopping
him, “for if you call once--if you do me a public injury----”
“You shall give up this woman.”
“Give her up! she is my wife before God----”
“If she is your wife before God, you shall give her up before
men. I know all, and I will break this marriage, I tell you.
To-morrow, Mademoiselle de Méridor shall be restored to her father;
you shall set off into the exile I impose on you; you shall have
sold your place; these are my conditions, and take care, or I will
break you as I break this glass.” And he threw down violently
a crystal cup.
“I will not give up my wife, I will not give up my place, and
I will remain in France,” replied Monsoreau.
“You will not?”
“No, I will ask my pardon of the King of France--of the king
anointed at the Abbey of St. Geneviève; and this new sovereign
will not, I am sure, refuse the first request proffered to him.”
François grew deadly pale, and nearly fell.
“Well, well,” stammered he, “this request, speak lower--I listen.”
“I will speak humbly, as becomes the servant of your highness.
A fatal love was the cause of all. Love is the most imperious
of the passions. To make me forget that your highness had cast
your eyes on Diana, I must have been no longer master of myself.”
“It was a treason.”
“Do not overwhelm me, monseigneur; I saw you rich, young and
happy, the first Christian prince in the world. For you are so,
and between you and supreme rank there is now only a shadow easy
to dispel. I saw all the splendor of your future, and, comparing
your proud position with my humble one, I said, ‘Leave to the
prince his brilliant prospects and splendid projects, scarcely
will he miss the pearl that I steal from his royal crown.’”
“Comte! comte!”
“You pardon me, monseigneur, do you not?”
At this moment the duke raised his eyes, and saw Bussy’s portrait
on the wall. It seemed to exhort him to courage, and he said, “No,
I cannot pardon you; it is not for myself that I hold out, it is
because a father in mourning--a father unworthily deceived--cries
out for his daughter; because a woman, forced to marry you, cries
for vengeance against you; because, in a word, the first duty
of a prince is justice.”
“Monseigneur, if justice be a duty, gratitude is not less so;
and a king should never forget those to whom he owes his crown.
Now, monseigneur, you owe your crown to me.”
“Monsoreau!” cried the duke, in terror.
“But I cling to those only who cling to me.”
“I cannot--you are a gentleman, you know I cannot approve of
what you have done. My dear count, this one more sacrifice; I
will recompense you for it; I will give you all you ask.”
“Then your highness loves her still!” cried Monsoreau, pale with
jealousy.
“No, I swear I do not.”
“Then, why should I? I am a gentleman; who can enter into the
secrets of my private life?”
“But she does not love you.”
“What matter?”
“Do this for me, Monsoreau.”
“I cannot.”
“Then----” commenced the duke, who was terribly perplexed.
“Reflect, sire.”
“You will denounce me?”
“To the king dethroned for you, yes; for if my new king destroyed
my honor and happiness, I would return to the old.”
“It is infamous.”
“True, sire; but I love enough to be infamous.”
“It is cowardly.”
“Yes, your majesty, but I love enough to be cowardly. Come,
monseigneur, do something for the man who has served you so well.”
“What do you want?”
“That you should pardon me.”
“I will.”
“That you should reconcile me with M. de Méridor.”
“I will try.”
“That you will sign my marriage contract with Mademoiselle de
Méridor.”
“Yes,” said the prince, in a hoarse voice.
“And that you shall honor my wife with a smile when I shall present
her to his majesty.”
“Yes; is that all?”
“All, monseigneur.”
“You have my word.”
“And you shall keep the throne to which I have raised you.--There
remains now, only,” thought Monsoreau, “to find out who told
the duke.”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHICOT AND THE KING.
That same evening M. de Monsoreau presented his wife in the queen’s
circle. Henri, tired, had gone to bed, but after sleeping three or
four hours, he woke, and feeling no longer sleepy, proceeded to
the room where Chicot slept, which was the one formerly occupied
by St. Luc; Chicot slept soundly, and the king called him three
times before he woke. At last he opened his eyes and cried out,
“What is it?”
“Chicot, my friend, it is I.”
“You; who?”
“I, Henri.”
“Decidedly, my son, the pheasants must have disagreed with you;
I warned you at supper, but you would eat so much of them, as
well as of those crabs.”
“No; I scarcely tasted them.”
“Then you are poisoned, perhaps. Ventre de biche! how pale you
are!”
“It is my mask,” said the king.
“Then you are not ill?”
“No.”
“Then why wake me?”
“Because I am annoyed.”
“Annoyed! if you wake a man at two o’clock in the morning, at
least you should bring him a present. Have you anything for me?”
“No; I come to talk to you.”
“That is not enough.”
“Chicot, M. de Morvilliers came here last evening.”
“What for?”
“To ask for an audience. What can he want to say to me, Chicot?”
“What! it is only to ask that, that you wake me?”
“Chicot, you know he occupies himself with the police.”
“No; I did not know it.”
“Do you doubt his watchfulness?”
“Yes, I do, and I have my reasons.”
“What are they?”
“Will one suffice you?”
“Yes, if it be good.”
“And you will leave me in peace afterwards?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, one day--no, it was one evening, I beat you in the Rue
Foidmentel; you had with you Quelus and Schomberg.”
“You beat me?”
“Yes, all three of you.”
“How, it was you! wretch!”
“I, myself,” said Chicot, rubbing his hands, “do I not hit hard?”
“Wretch!”
“You confess, it was true?”
“You know it is, villain.”
“Did you send for M. de Morvilliers the next day?”
“You know I did, for you were there when he came.”
“And you told him the accident that had happened to one of your
friends?”
“Yes.”
“And you ordered him to find out the criminal?”
“Yes.”
“Did he find him?”
“No.”
“Well, then, go to bed, Henri; you see your police is bad.” And,
turning round, Chicot refused to say another word, and was soon
snoring again.
The next day the council assembled. It consisted of Quelus, Maugiron,
D’Epernon, and Schomberg. Chicot, seated at the head of the table,
was making paper boats, and arranging them in a fleet. M. de
Morvilliers was announced, and came in, looking grave.
“Am I,” said he, “before your majesty’s council?”
“Yes, before my best friends; speak freely.”
“Well, sire, I have a terrible plot to denounce to your majesty.”
“A plot!” cried all.
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Oh, is it a Spanish plot?”
At this moment the Duc d’Anjou, who had been summoned to attend
the council, entered.
“My brother,” said Henri, “M. de Morvilliers comes to announce
a plot to us.”
The duke threw a suspicious glance round him. “Is it possible?”
he said.
“Alas, yes, monseigneur,” said M. de Morvilliers.
“Tell us all about it,” said Chicot.
“Yes,” stammered the duke, “tell us all about it, monsieur.”
“I listen,” said Henri.
“Sire, for some time I have been watching some malcontents, but
they were shopkeepers, or junior clerks, a few monks and students.”
“That is not much,” said Chicot.
“I know that malcontents always make use either of war or of
religion.”
“Very sensible!” said the king.
“I put men on the watch, and at last I succeeded in persuading
a man from the provosty of Paris to watch the preachers, who go
about exciting the people against your majesty. They are prompted
by a party hostile to your majesty, and this party I have studied,
and now I know their hopes,” added he, triumphantly. “I have men
in my pay, greedy, it is true, who, for a good sum of money,
promised to let me know of the first meeting of the conspirators.”
“Oh! never mind money, but let us hear the aim of this conspiracy.”
“Sire, they think of nothing less than a second St. Bartholomew.”
“Against whom?”
“Against the Huguenots.”
“What have you paid for your secret?” said Chicot.
“One hundred and sixty thousand livres.”
Chicot turned to the king, saying, “If you like, for one thousand
crowns, I will tell you all the secrets of M. de Morvilliers.”
“Speak.”
“It is simply the League, instituted ten years ago; M. de Morvilliers
has discovered what every Parisian knows as well as his _ave_.”
“Monsieur,” interrupted the chancellor.
“I speak the truth, and I will prove it,” cried Chicot.
“Tell me, then, their place of meeting.”
“Firstly, the public streets; secondly, the public streets.”
“M. Chicot is joking,” said the chancellor; “tell me their rallying
sign.”
“They are dressed like Parisians, and shake their legs when they
walk.”
A burst of laughter followed this speech; then M. de Morvilliers
said, “They have had one meeting-place which M. Chicot does not
know of.”
“Where?” asked the king.
“The Abbey of St. Geneviève.”
“Impossible!” murmured the duke.
“It is true,” said M. de Morvilliers, triumphantly.
“What did they decide?” asked the king.
“That the Leaguers should choose chiefs, that every one should
arm, that every province should receive a deputy from the
conspirators, and that all the Huguenots cherished by his majesty
(that was their expression)----”
The king smiled.
“Should be massacred on a given day.”
“Is that all?” said the duke.
“No, monseigneur.”
“I should hope not,” said Chicot; “if the king got only that
for one hundred and sixty thousand livres, it would be a shame.”
“There are chiefs----”
The Duc d’Anjou could not repress a start.
“What!” cried Chicot, “a conspiracy that has chiefs! how wonderful!
But we ought to have more than that for one hundred and sixty
thousand livres.”
“Their names?” asked the king.
“Firstly, a fanatic preacher; I gave ten thousand livres for his
name.”
“Very well.”
“A monk called Gorenflot.”
“Poor devil!” said Chicot.
“Gorenflot?” said the king, writing down the name; “afterwards----”
“Oh!” said the chancellor, with hesitation, “that is all.” And
he looked round as if to say, “If your majesty were alone, you
should hear more.”
“Speak, chancellor,” said the king, “I have none but friends here.”
“Oh! sire, I hesitate to pronounce such powerful names.”
“Are they more powerful than I am?” cried the king.
“No, sire; but one does not tell secrets in public.”
“Monsieur,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “we will retire.”
The king signed to the chancellor to approach him, and to the
duke to remain. M. de Morvilliers had just bent over the king to
whisper his communication, when a great clamor was heard in the
court of the Louvre. The king jumped up, but Chicot, running to
the window, called out, “It is M. de Guise entering the Louvre.”
“The Duc de Guise,” stammered the Duc d’Anjou.
“How strange that he should be in Paris,” said the king, reading
the truth in M. de Morvilliers’ look. “Was it of him you were
about to speak?” he asked.
“Yes, sire; he presided over the meeting.”
“And the others?”
“I know no more.”
“You need not write that name on your tablets! you will not forget
it,” whispered Chicot.
The Duc de Guise advanced, smiling, to see the king.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
WHAT M. DE GUISE CAME TO DO AT THE LOUVRE.
Behind M. de Guise there entered a great number of officers,
courtiers, and gentlemen, and behind them a concourse of the
people; an escort less brilliant, but more formidable, and it was
their cries that had resounded as the duke entered the Louvre.
“Ah! it is you, my cousin,” said the king; “what a noise you bring
with you! Did I not hear the trumpets sound?”
“Sire, the trumpets sound in Paris only for the king, and in
campaigns for the general. Here the trumpets would make too much
noise for a subject; there they do not make enough for a prince.”
Henri bit his lips. “Have you arrived from the siege of La Charité
only to-day?”
“Only to-day, sire,” replied the duke, with a heightened color.
“Ma foi! your visit is a great honor to us.”
“Your majesty jests, no doubt. How can my visit honor him from
whom all honor comes?”
“I mean, M. de Guise,” replied Henri, “that every good Catholic
is in the habit, on returning from a campaign, to visit God first
in one of his temple’s--the king only comes second. ‘Honor God,
serve the king,’ you know, my cousin.”
The heightened color of the duke became now still more distinct;
and the king, happening to turn towards his brother, saw with
astonishment, that he was as pale as the duke was red. He was
struck by this emotion in each, but he said:
“At all events, duke, nothing equals my joy to see that you have
escaped all the dangers of war, although you sought them, I was
told in the rashest manner; but danger knows you and flies you.”
The duke bowed.
“But I must beg you, my cousin, not to be so ambitious of mortal
perils, for you put to shame sluggards like us, who sleep, eat,
and invent new prayers.”
“Yes, sire,” replied the duke, “we know you to be a pious prince,
and that no pleasure can make you forget the glory of God and
the interests of the Church. That is why we have come with so
much confidence to your majesty.”
“With confidence! Do you not always come to me with confidence,
my cousin?”
“Sire, the confidence of which I speak refers to the proposition
I am about to make to you.”
“You have a proposition to make to me! Well, speak, as you say,
with confidence. What have you to propose?”
“The execution of one of the most beautiful ideas which has been
originated since the Crusades.”
“Continue, duke.”
“Sire, the title of most Christian king is not a vain one; it
makes an ardent zeal for religion incumbent on its possessor.”
“Is the Church menaced by the Saracens once more?”
“Sire, the great concourse of people who followed me, blessing
my name, honored me with this reception only because of my zeal
to defend the Church. I have already had the honor of speaking
to your majesty of an alliance between all true Catholics.”
“Yes, yes,” said Chicot, “the League; ventre de biche, Henri,
the League. By St. Bartholomew! how can you forget so splendid
an idea, my son?”
The duke cast a disdainful glance on Chicot, while d’Anjou, who
stood by, as pale as death, tried by signs, to make the duke stop.
“Look at your brother, Henri,” whispered Chicot.
“Sire,” continued the Duc de Guise, “the Catholics have indeed
called this association the Holy League, and its aim is to fortify
the throne against the Huguenots, its mortal enemies; but to
form an association is not enough, and in a kingdom like France,
several millions of men cannot assemble without the consent of
the king.”
“Several millions!” cried Henri, almost with terror.
“Several millions!” repeated Chicot; “a small number of malcontents,
which may bring forth pretty results.”
“Sire,” cried the duke, “I am astonished that your majesty allows
me to be interrupted so often, when I am speaking on serious
matters.”
“Quite right,” said Chicot; “silence there.”
“Several millions!” repeated the king; “and against these millions,
how many Huguenots are there in my kingdom?”
“Four,” said Chicot.
This new sally made the king and his friends laugh, but the duke
frowned, and his gentlemen murmured loudly.
Henri, becoming once more serious, said, “Well, duke, what do
you wish? To the point.”
“I wish, sire--for your popularity is dearer to me than my own--that
your majesty should be superior to us in your zeal for religion--I
wish you to choose a chief for the League.”
“Well!” said the king, to those who surrounded him, “what do you
think of it, my friends?”
Chicot, without saying a word, drew out a lion’s skin from a corner,
and threw himself on it.
“What are you doing, Chicot?” asked the king.
“Sire, they say that night brings good counsel; that must be
because of sleep; therefore I am going to sleep, and to-morrow
I will reply to my cousin Guise.”
The duke cast a furious glance on Chicot, who replied by a loud
snore.
“Well, sire!” said the duke, “what does your majesty say?”
“I think that, as usual, you are in the right, my cousin; convoke,
then, your principal leaguers, come at their head, and I will
choose the chief.”
“When, sire?”
“To-morrow.”
The Duc de Guise then took leave, and the Duc d’Anjou was about
to do the same, when the king said,--
“Stay, my brother, I wish to speak to you.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CASTOR AND POLLUX.
The king dismissed all his favorites, and remained with his brother.
The duke, who had managed to preserve a tolerably composed
countenance throughout, believed himself unsuspected, and remained
without fear.
“My brother,” said Henri, after assuring himself that, with the
exception of Chicot, no one remained in the room, “do you know
that I am a very happy prince?”
“Sire, if your majesty be really happy, it is a recompense from
Heaven for your merits.”
“Yes, happy,” continued the king, “for if great ideas do not
come to me, they do to my subjects. It is a great idea which has
occurred to my cousin Guise.”
The duke make a sign of assent, and Chicot opened his eyes to
watch the king’s face.
“Indeed,” continued Henri, “to unite under one banner all the
Catholics, to arm all France on this pretext from Calais to
Languedoc, from Bretagne to Burgundy, so that I shall always
have an army ready to march against England, Holland, or Spain,
without alarming any of them--do you know, François, it is a
magnificent idea?”
“Is it not, sire?” said the duke, delighted.
“Yes, I confess I feel tempted to reward largely the author of
this fine project.”
Chicot opened his eyes, but he shut them again, for he had seen
on the face of the king one of his almost imperceptible smiles,
and he was satisfied.
“Yes,” continued Henri, “I repeat such a project merits recompense,
and I will do what I can for the author of this good work, for
the work is begun--is it not, my brother?”
The duke confessed that it was.
“Better and better; my subjects not only conceive these good
ideas, but, in their anxiety to be of use to me, hasten to put
them in execution. But I ask you, my dear François, if it be
really to the Duc de Guise that I am indebted for this royal
thought?”
“No, sire, it occurred to the Cardinal de Lorraine twenty years
ago, only the St. Bartholomew rendered it needless for the time.”
“Ah! what a pity he is dead; but,” continued Henri, with that
air of frankness which made him the first comedian of the day,
“his nephew has inherited it, and brought it to bear. What can
I do for him?”
“Sire,” said François, completely duped by his brother, “you
exaggerate his merits. He has, as I say, but inherited the idea,
and another man has given him great help in developing it.”
“His brother the cardinal?”
“Doubtless he has been occupied with it, but I do not mean him.”
“Mayenne, then?”
“Oh! sire, you do him too much honor.”
“True, how could any good ideas come to such a butcher? But to
whom, then, am I to be grateful for aid to my cousin Guise?”
“To me, sire.”
“To you!” cried Henri, as if in astonishment. “How! when I saw
all the world unchained against me, the preachers against my
vices, the poets against my weaknesses, while my friends laughed
at my powerlessness, and my situation was so harassing, that
it gave me gray hairs every day: such an idea came to you,
François--to you, whom I confess, for man is feeble and kings are
blind, I did not always believe to be my friend! Ah! François,
how guilty I have been.” And Henri, moved even to tears, held
out his hand to his brother.
Chicot opened his eyes again.
“Oh!” continued Henri, “the idea is triumphant. Not being able
to raise troops without raising an outcry, scarcely to walk,
sleep, or love, without exciting ridicule, this idea gives me
at once an army, money, friends, and repose. But my cousin spake
of a chief?”
“Yes, doubtless.”
“This chief, you understand, François, cannot be one of my favorites;
none of them has at once the head and the heart necessary for
so important a post. Quelus is brave, but is occupied only by
his amours. Maugiron is also brave, but he thinks only of his
toilette. Schomberg also, but he is not clever. D’Epernon is
a valiant man, but he is a hypocrite, whom I could not trust,
although I am friendly to him. But you know, François, that one
of the heaviest taxes on a king is the necessity of dissimulation;
therefore, when I can speak freely from my heart, as I do now,
I breathe. Well, then, if my cousin Guise originated this idea,
to the development of which you have assisted, the execution
of it belongs to him.”
“What do you say, sire?” said François, uneasily.
“I say, that to direct such a movement we must have a prince of
high rank.”
“Sire, take care.”
“A good captain and a skilful negotiator.”
“The last particularly.”
“Well, is not M. de Guise all this?”
“My brother, he is very powerful already.”
“Yes, doubtless; but his power makes my strength.”
“He holds already the army and the bourgeois; the cardinal holds
the Church, and Mayenne is their instrument; it is a great deal
of power to be concentrated in one family.”
“It is true, François; I had thought of that.”
“If the Guises were French princes, their interest would be to
aggrandize France.”
“Yes, but they are Lorraines.”
“Of a house always rival to yours.”
“Yes, François; you have touched the sore. I did not think you
so good a politician. Yes, there does not pass a day but one or
other of these Guises, either by address or by force, carries
away from me some particle of my power. Ah! François, if we had
but had this explanation sooner, if I had been able to read your
heart as I do now, certain of support in you, I might have resisted
better, but now it is too late.”
“Why so?”
“Because all combats fatigue me; therefore I must make him chief
of the League.”
“You will be wrong, brother.”
“But who could I name, François? who would accept this perilous
post? Yes, perilous; for do you not see that he intended me to
appoint him chief, and that, should I name any one else to the
post, he would treat him as an enemy?”
“Name some one so powerful that, supported by you, he need not
fear all the three Lorraine princes together.”
“Ah, my good brother, I know no such person.”
“Look round you, brother.”
“I know no one but you and Chicot who are really my friends.”
“Well, brother.”
Henri looked at the duke as if a veil had fallen from his eyes.
“Surely you would never consent, brother! It is not you who could
teach all these bourgeois their exercise, who could look over
the discourses of the preachers, who, in case of battle, would
play the butcher in the streets of Paris; for all this, one must
be triple, like the duke, and have a right arm called Charles
and a left called Louis. What! you would like all this? You, the
first gentleman of our court! Mort de ma vie! how people change
with the age!”
“Perhaps I would not do it for myself, brother, but I would do
it for you.”
“Excellent brother!” said Henri, wiping away a tear which never
existed.
“Then,” said the duke, “it would not displease you for me to assume
this post?”
“Displease me! On the contrary, it would charm me.”
François trembled with joy. “Oh! if your majesty thinks me worthy
of this confidence.”
“Confidence! When you are the chief, what have I to fear? The
League itself? That cannot be dangerous can it, François?”
“Oh, sire?”
“No, for then you would not be chief, or at least, when you are
chief, there will be no danger. But, François, the duke is doubtless
certain of this appointment, and he will not lightly give way.”
“Sire, you grant me the command?”
“Certainly.”
“And you wish me to have it?”
“Particularly; but I dare not too much displease M. de Guise.”
“Oh, make yourself easy, sire; if that be the only obstacle, I
pledge myself to arrange it.”
“When?”
“At once.”
“Are you going to him? That will be doing him too much honor.”
“No, sire; he is waiting for me.”
“Where?”
“In my room.”
“Your room! I heard the cries of the people as he left the Louvre.”
“Yes; but after going out at the great door he came back by the
postern. The king had the right to the first visit, but I to
the second.”
“Ah, brother, I thank you for keeping up our prerogative, which
I had the weakness so often to abandon. Go, then, François, and
do your best.”
François bent down to kiss the king’s hand, but he, opening his
arms, gave him a warm embrace, and then the duke left the room
to go to his interview with the Duc de Guise. The king, seeing
his brother gone, gave an angry growl, and rapidly made his way
through the secret corridor, until he reached a hiding-place
whence he could distinctly hear the conversation between the two
dukes.
“Ventre de biche!” cried Chicot, starting up, “how touching these
family scenes are! For an instant I believed myself in Olympus,
assisting at the reunion of Castor and Pollux after six months’
separation.”
CHAPTER XXXIX.
IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT LISTENING IS THE BEST WAY TO HEAR.
The Duc d’Anjou was well aware that there were few rooms in the
Louvre which were not built so that what was said in them could be
heard from the outside; but, completely seduced by his brother’s
manner, he forgot to take any precautions.
“Why, monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, “how pale you are!”
“Visibly?”
“Yes, to me.”
“The king saw nothing?”
“I think not; but he retained you?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he say, monseigneur?”
“He approves the idea, but the more gigantic it appears, the more
he hesitates to place a man like you at the head.”
“Then we are likely to fail.”
“I fear so, my dear duke; the League seems likely to fail.”
“Before it begins.”
At this moment Henri, hearing a noise, turned and saw Chicot
by his side, listening also. “You followed me, Knave!” said he.
“Hush, my son,” said Chicot; “you prevent me from hearing.”
“Monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, “it seems to me that in
this case the king would have refused at once. Does he wish to
dispossess me?”
“I believe so.”
“Then he would ruin the enterprise?”
“Yes; but I aided you with all my power.”
“How, monseigneur?”
“In this--the king has left me almost master, to kill or reanimate
the League.”
“How so?” cried the duke, with sparkling eyes.
“Why, if, instead of dissolving the League, he named me chief----”
“Ah!” cried the duke, while the blood mounted to his face.
“Ah! the dogs are going to fight over their bones,” said Chicot;
but to his surprise, and the king’s, the Duc de Guise suddenly
became calm, and exclaimed, in an almost joyful tone:
“You are an adroit politician, monseigneur, if you did this.”
“Yes, I did; but I would not conclude anything without speaking
to you.”
“Why so, monseigneur?”
“Because I did not know what it would lead us to.”
“Well, I will tell you, monseigneur, not to what it will lead
us--that God alone knows--but how it will serve us. The League
is a second army, and as I hold the first, and my brother the
Church, nothing can resist us as long as we are united.”
“Without counting,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “that I am heir presumptive
to the throne.”
“True, but still calculate your bad chances.”
“I have done so a hundred times.”
“There is, first, the King of Navarre.”
“Oh! I do not mind him; he is entirely occupied by his amours
with La Fosseuse.”
“He, monseigneur, will dispute every inch with you; he watches
you and your brother; he hungers for the throne. If any accident
should happen to your brother, see if he will not be here with
a bound from Pau to Paris.”
“An accident to my brother,” repeated François.
“Listen, Henri,” said Chicot.
“Yes, monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, “an accident. Accidents
are not rare in your family; you know that, as well as I do.
One prince is in good health, and all at once he falls ill of
a lingering malady; another is counting on long years, when,
perhaps, he has but a few hours to live.”
“Do you hear, Henri?” said Chicot, taking the hand of the king,
who shuddered at what he heard.
“Yes, it is true,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “the princes of my house
are born under fatal influences; but my brother Henri is, thank
God, strong and well; he supported formerly the fatigues of war,
and now that his life is nothing but recreation--”
“Yes; but, monseigneur, remember one thing; these recreations
are not always without danger. How did your father, Henri II.,
die, for example? He, who also had happily escaped the dangers
of war. The wound by M. de Montgomery’s lance was an accident.
Then your poor brother, François, one would hardly call a pain
in the ears an accident, and yet it was one; at least, I have
often heard it said that this mortal malady was poured into his
ear by some one well known.”
“Duke!” murmured François, reddening.
“Yes, monseigneur; the name of king has long brought misfortune
with it. Look at Antoine de Bourbon, who died from a spot in
the shoulder. Then there was Jeanne d’Albret, the mother of the
Béarnais, who died from smelling a pair of perfumed gloves, an
accident very unexpected although there were people who had great
interest in this death. Then Charles IX., who died neither by
the eye, the ear, nor the shoulder, but by the mouth----”
“What do you say?” cried François, starting back.
“Yes, monseigneur, by the mouth. Those hunting books are very
dangerous, of which the pages stick together, and can only be
opened by wetting the finger constantly.”
“Duke! duke! I believe you invent crimes.”
“Crimes! who speaks of crimes? I speak of accidents. Was it not
also an accident that happened to Charles IX. at the chase? You
know what chase I mean; that of the boar, where, intending to
kill the wild boar, which had turned on your brother, you, who
never before had missed your aim, did so then, and the king would
have been killed, as he had fallen from his horse, had not Henri
of Navarre slain the animal which you had missed.”
“But,” said the Duc d’Anjou, trying to recover himself, “what
interest could I have had in the death of Charles IX., when the
next king would be Henri III.?”
“Oh! monseigneur, there was already one throne vacant, that of
Poland. The death of Charles IX. would have left another, that
of France; and even the kingdom of Poland might not have been
despised. Besides, the death of Charles would have brought you
a degree nearer the throne, and the next accident would have
benefited you.”
“What do you conclude from all this, duke?” said the Duc d’Anjou.
“Monseigneur, I conclude that each king has his accident, and
that you are the inevitable accident of Henri III., particularly
if you are chief of the League.”
“Then I am to accept?”
“Oh! I beg you to do so.”
“And you?”
“Oh! be easy; my men are ready, and to-night Paris will be curious.”
“What are they going to do in Paris to-night?” asked Henri.
“Oh! how foolish you are, my friend; to-night they sign the League
publicly.”
“It is well,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “till this evening then.”
“Yes, till this evening,” said Henri.
“How!” said Chicot, “you will not risk going into the streets
to-night?”
“Yes, I shall.”
“You are wrong, Henri; remember the accidents.”
“Oh! I shall be well accompanied; will you come with me?”
“What! do you take me for a Huguenot? I shall go and sign the
League ten times. However, Henri, you have a great advantage over
your predecessors, in being warned, for you know your brother,
do you not?”
“Yes, and, mordieu! before long he shall find it out.”
CHAPTER XI.
THE EVENING OF THE LEAGUE.
Paris presented a fine sight, as through its then narrow streets
thousands of people pressed towards the same point, for at eight
o’clock in the evening, M. le Duc de Guise was to receive the
signatures of the bourgeois to the League. A crowd of citizens,
dressed in their best clothes, as for a fête, but fully armed,
directed their steps towards the churches. What added to the
noise and confusion was that large numbers of women, disdaining
to stay at home on such a great day, had followed their husbands,
and many had brought with them a whole batch of children. It was
in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec that the crowd was the thickest. The
streets were literally choked, and the crowd pressed tumultuously
towards a bright light suspended below the sign of the Belle
Etoile. On the threshold a man, with a cotton cap on his head
and a naked sword in one hand and a register in the other, was
crying out, “Come come, brave Catholics, enter the hotel of the
Belle Etoile, where you will find good wine; come, to-night the
good will be separated from the bad, and to-morrow morning the
wheat will be known from the tares; come, gentlemen, you who
can write, come and sign;--you who cannot write, come and tell
your names to me, La Hurière; vive la messe!” A tall man elbowed
his way through the crowd, and in letters half an inch high, wrote
his name, ‘Chicot.’ Then, turning to La Hurière, he asked if he
had not another register to sign. La Hurière did not understand
raillery, and answered angrily. Chicot retorted, and a quarrel
seemed approaching, when Chicot, feeling some one touch his arm,
turned, and saw the king disguised as a simple bourgeois, and
accompanied by Quelus and Maugiron, also disguised, and carrying
an arquebuse on their shoulders.
“What!” cried the king, “good Catholics disputing among themselves;
par la mordieu, it is a bad example.”
“Do not mix yourself with what does not concern you,” replied
Chicot, without seeming to recognize him. But a new influx of
the crowd distracted the attention of La Hurière, and separated
the king and his companions from the hotel.
“Why are you here, sire?” said Chicot.
“Do you think I have anything to fear?”
“Eh! mon Dieu! in a crowd like this it is so easy for one man
to put a knife into his neighbor, and who just utters an oath
and gives up the ghost.”
“Have I been seen?”
“I think not; but you will be if you stay longer. Go back to the
Louvre, sire.”
“Oh! oh! what is this new outcry, and what are the people running
for?”
Chicot looked, but could at first see nothing but a mass of people
crying, howling, and pushing. At last the mass opened, and a monk,
mounted on a donkey, appeared. The monk spoke and gesticulated,
and the ass brayed.
“Ventre de biche!” cried Chicot, “listen to the preacher.”
“A preacher on a donkey!” cried Quelus.
“Why not?”
“He is Silenus,” said Maugiron.
“Which is the preacher?” said the king, “for they speak both at
once.”
“The underneath one is the most eloquent,” said Chicot, “but the
one at the top speaks the best French; listen, Henri.”
“My brethren,” said the monk, “Paris is a superb city; Paris is
the pride of France, and the Parisians a fine people.” Then he
began to sing, but the ass mingled his accompaniment so loudly
that he was obliged to stop. The crowd burst out laughing.
“Hold your tongue, Panurge, hold your tongue,” cried the monk,
“you shall speak after, but let me speak first.”
The ass was quiet.
“My brothers,” continued the preacher, “the earth is a valley
of grief, where man often pan quench his thirst only with his
tears.”
“He is drunk,” said the king.
“I should think so.”
“I, who speak to you,” continued the monk, “I am returning from
exile like the Hebrews of old, and for eight days Panurge and
I have been living on alms and privations.”
“Who is Panurge?” asked the king.
“The superior of his convent, probably but let me listen.”
“Who made me endure this? It was Herod; you know what Herod I
speak of. I and Panurge have come from Villeneuve-le-Roi, in
three days, to assist at this great solemnity; now we see, but
we do not understand. What is passing, my brothers? Is it to-day
that they depose Herod? Is it to-day that they put brother Henri
in a convent?--Gentlemen,” continued he, “I left Paris with two
friends; Panurge, who is my ass, and Chicot, who is his majesty’s
jester. Can you tell me what has become of my friend Chicot?”
Chicot made a grimace.
“Oh,” said the king, “he is your friend.” Quelus and Maugiron
burst out laughing. “He is handsome and respectable,” continued
the king.
“It is Gorenflot, of whom M. de Morvilliers spoke to you.”
“The incendiary of St. Geneviève?”
“Himself!”
“Then I will have him hanged!”
“Impossible!”
“Why?”
“He has no neck.”
“My brothers,” continued Gorenflot: “I am a true martyr, and it
is my cause that they defend at this moment or, rather, that
of all good Catholics. You do not know what is passing in the
provinces, we have been obliged at Lyons to kill a Huguenot who
preached revolt. While one of them remains in France, there will
be no tranquillity for us. Let us exterminate them. To arms!
to arms!”
Several voices repeated, “To arms!”
“Par la mordieu!” said the king, “make this fellow hold his tongue,
or he will make a second St. Bartholomew!”
“Wait,” said Chicot, and with his stick he struck Gorenflot with
all his force on the shoulders.
“Murder!” cried the monk.
“It is you!” cried Chicot.
“Help me, M. Chicot, help me! The enemies of the faith wish to
assassinate me, but I will not die without making my voice heard.
Death to the Huguenots!”
“Will you hold your tongue?” cried Chicot. But at this moment
a second blow fell on the shoulders of the monk with such force
that he cried out with real pain. Chicot, astonished, looked
round him, but saw nothing but the stick. The blow had been given
by a man who had immediately disappeared in the crowd after
administering this punishment.
“Who the devil could it have been?” thought Chicot, and he began
to run after the man, who was gliding away, followed by only
one companion.