THE RUE DE LA FERRONNERIE.
Chicot had good legs, and he would have made the best use of them
to join the man who had beaten Gorenflot if he had not imagined
that there might be danger in trying to recognize a man who so
evidently wished to avoid it. He thought the best way not to
seem to watch them was to pass them; so he ran on, and passed
them at the corner of the Rue Tirechappe, and then hid himself
at the end of the Rue des Bourdonnais. The two men went on, their
hats slouched over their eyes, and their cloaks drawn up over
their faces, with a quick and military step, until they reached
the Rue de la Ferronnerie. There they stopped and looked round
them. Chicot, who was still ahead, saw in the middle of the street,
before a house so old that it looked falling to pieces, a litter,
attached to which were two horses. The driver had fallen asleep,
while a woman, apparently unquiet, was looking anxiously through
the blind. Chicot hid himself behind a large stone wall, which
served as stalls for the vegetable sellers on the days when the
market was held in this street, and watched. Scarcely was he
hidden, when he saw the two men approach the litter, one of whom,
on seeing the driver asleep, uttered an impatient exclamation, while
the other pushed him to awaken him. “Oh, they are compatriots!”
thought Chicot. The lady now leaned out of the window, and Chicot
saw that she was young, very pale, but very beautiful. The two
men approached the litter, and the taller of the two took in
both of his the little white hand which was stretched out to him.
“Well, ma mie,” asked he, “how are you?”
“I have been very anxious,” replied she.
“Why the devil did you bring madame to Paris?” said the other
man rudely.
“Ma foi! it is a malediction that you must always have a petticoat
tacked to your doublet!”
“Ah, dear Agrippa,” replied the man who had spoken first, “it
is so great a grief to part from one you love.”
“On my soul, you make me swear to hear you talk! Did you come
to Paris to make love? It seems to me that Béarn is large enough
for your sentimental promenades, without continuing them in this
Babylon, where you have nearly got us killed twenty times to-day.
Go home, if you wish to make love, but, here, keep to your political
intrigues, my master.”
“Let him scold, ma mie, and never mind him; I think he would be
ill if he did not.”
“But, at least, ventre St. Gris, as you say, get into the litter,
and say your sweet things to madame; you will run less risk of
being recognized there than in the open street.”
“You are right, Agrippa. Give me a place, ma mie, if you permit
me to sit by your side.”
“Permit, sire; I desire it ardently,” replied the lady.
“Sire!” murmured Chicot, who, carried away by an impulse, tried
to raise his head, and knocked it against the stone wall. Meanwhile
the happy lover profited by the permission given, and seated
himself in the litter.
“Oh! how happy I am,” he cried, without attending in the least
to the impatience of his friend--“ventre St. Gris, this is a
good day. Here are my good Parisians, who execrate me with all
their souls, and would kill me if they could, working to smooth
my way to the throne, and I have in my arms the woman I love.
Where are we, D’Aubigné? when I am king, I will erect here a
statue to the genius of the Béarnais.”
“The Béarn----” began Chicot, but he stopped, for he had given his
head a second bump.
“We are in the Rue de la Ferronnerie, sire,” said D’Aubigné, “and
it does not smell nice.”
“Get in then, Agrippa, and we will go on.”
“Ma foi, no, I will follow behind; I should annoy you, and, what
is worse, you would annoy me.”
“Shut the door then, bear of Béarn, and do as you like.” Then
to the coachman he said, “Lavarrenne, you know where.”
The litter went slowly away, followed by D’Aubigné.
“Let me see,” said Chicot, “must I tell Henri what I have seen?
Why should I? two men and a woman, who hide themselves; it would be
cowardly. I will not tell; that I know it myself is the important
point, for is it not I who reign? His love was very pretty, but
he loves too often, this dear Henri of Navarre. A year ago it
was Madame de Sauve, and I suppose this was La Fosseuse. However,
I love the Béarnais, for I believe some day he will do an ill
turn to those dear Guises. Well! I have seen everyone to-day
but the Duc d’Anjou; he alone is wanting to my list of princes.
Where can my François III. be? Ventre de biche, I must look for
the worthy monarch.”
Chicot was not the only person who was seeking for the Duc d’Anjou,
and unquiet at his absence. The Guises had also sought for him on
all sides, but they were not more lucky than Chicot. M. d’Anjou
was not the man to risk himself imprudently, and we shall see
afterwards what precautions had kept him from his friends. Once
Chicot thought he had found him in the Rue Bethisy; a numerous
group was standing at the door of a wine-merchant; and in this
group Chicot recognized M. de Monsoreau and M. de Guise, and
fancied that the Duc d’Anjou could not be far off. But he was
wrong. MM. de Monsoreau and Guise were occupied in exciting still
more an orator in his stammering eloquence. This orator was
Gorenflot, recounting his journey to Lyons, and his duel in an
inn with a dreadful Huguenot. M. de Guise was listening intently,
for he began to fancy it had something to do with the silence
of Nicolas David. Chicot was terrified; he felt sure that in
another moment Gorenflot would pronounce his name, which would
throw a fatal light on the mystery. Chicot in an instant cut the
bridles of some of the horses that were fastened up, and giving
them each a violent blow, sent them galloping among the crowd,
which opened, and began to disperse in different directions. Chicot
passed quickly through the groups, and approaching Gorenflot,
took Panurge by the bridle and turned him round. The Duc de Guise
was already separated from them by the rush of the people, and
Chicot led off Gorenflot to a kind of cul-de-sac by the church
of St. Germain l’Auxerrois.
“Ah! drunkard!” said he to him, “ah! traitor! you will then always
prefer a bottle of wine to your friend.’
“Ah! M. Chicot,” stammered the monk.
“What! I feed you, wretch, I give you drink, I fill your pockets
and your stomach, and you betray me.”
“Ah! M. Chicot!”
“You tell my secrets, wretch.”
“Dear friend.”
“Hold your tongue; you are but a sycophant, and deserve punishment.”
And the monk, vigorous and strong, powerful as a bull, but overcome
by wine and repentance, remained without defending himself in
the hands of Chicot, who shook him like a balloon full of air.
“A punishment to me, to your friend, dear M. Chicot!”
“Yes, to you,” said Chicot, striking him over the shoulders with
his stick.
“Ah! if I were but fasting.”
“You would beat me, I suppose; I, your friend.”
“My friend! and you treat me thus!”
“He who loves well chastises well,” said Chicot, redoubling his
proofs of friendship. “Now,” said he, “go and sleep at the Corne
d’Abondance.”
“I can no longer see my way,” cried the monk, from whose eyes
tears were falling.
“Ah!” said Chicot, “if you wept for the wine you have drunk! However,
I will guide you.”
And taking the ass by the bridle, he led him to the hotel, where
two men assisted Gorenflot to dismount, and led him up to the
room which our readers already know.
“It is done,” said the host, returning.
“He is in bed?”
“Yes, and snoring.”
“Very well. But as he will awake some day or other, remember
that I do not wish that he should know how he came here; indeed,
it will be better that he should not know that he has been out
since the famous night when he made such a noise in the convent,
and that he should believe that all that has passed since is a
dream.”
“Very well, M. Chicot; but what has happened to the poor monk?”
“A great misfortune. It appears that at Lyons he quarreled with
an agent of M. de Mayenne’s and killed him.”
“Oh! mon Dieu!”
“So that M. de Mayenne has sworn that he will have him broken
on the wheel.”
“Make yourself easy, monsieur; he shall not go out from here on
any pretext.”
“Good. And now,” said Chicot, as he went away, “I must find the
Duc d’Anjou.”