Chicot the Jester
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“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.