Chicot the Jester
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“You had some other object in bringing me here than that I should admire the St. Marie, had you not?”
“Ma foi! no.”
“Then let us go.”
“Wait a moment; the service is finishing.”
“Now let us go,” said Bussy; “they are moving;” and he walked to the door.
“At least take some holy water.”
Bussy obeyed, and Rémy making a sign to a woman who stood near, she advanced, and Bussy grew suddenly pale, for he recognized Gertrude. She saluted him and passed on, but behind her came a figure which, although closely veiled, made his heart beat fast. Rémy looked at him, and Bussy knew now why he had brought him to this church. Bussy followed the lady, and Rémy followed him. Gertrude had walked on before, until she came to an alley closed by a door. She opened it, and let her mistress pass. Bussy followed, and the two others disappeared.
It was half-past seven in the evening, and near the beginning of May; the air began to have the feeling of spring, and the leaves were beginning to unfold themselves. Bussy looked round him, and found himself in a little garden fifty feet square, surrounded by high walls covered with vines and moss. The first lilacs which had begun to open in the morning sun sent out their sweet emanations, and the young man felt tempted to think that so much perfume and warmth and life came to him only from the presence of the woman he loved so tenderly.
On a little wooden bench sat Diana, twisting in her fingers a sprig of wall-flower, which she had picked, without knowing what she did. As Bussy approached her, she raised her head, and said timidly, “M. le Comte, all deception would be unworthy of us; if you found me at the church of St. Marie l’Egyptienne, it was not chance that brought you there.”
“No, madame; Rémy took me out without my knowing where I was going, and I swear to you that I was ignorant – ”
“You do not understand me, monsieur, I know well that M. Rémy brought you there, by force, perhaps.”
“No, madame, not by force; I did not know that he was going to take me to see any one.”
“That is a harsh speech,” said Diana, sadly, and with tears in her eyes. “Do you mean that had you known, you would not have come?”
“Oh, madame!”
“It would have been but just, monsieur; you did me a great service, and I have not thanked you. Pardon me, and receive all my thanks.”
“Madame – ” Bussy stopped; he felt so overcome, that he had neither words nor ideas.
“But I wished to prove to you,” continued Diana, “that I am not ungrateful, nor forgetful. It was I who begged M. Rémy to procure for me the honor of this interview; it was I who sought for it, forgive me if I have displeased you.”
“Oh, madame! you cannot think that.”
“I know,” continued Diana, who was the strongest, because she had prepared herself for this interview, “how much trouble you had in fulfilling my commission; I know all your delicacy; I know it and appreciate it, believe me. Judge, then, what I must have suffered from the idea that you would misunderstand the sentiments of my heart.”
“Madame, I have been ill for three days.”
“Oh! I know,” cried Diana, with a rising color, “and I suffered more than you, for M. Rémy, he deceived me, no doubt; for he made me believe – ”
“That your forgetfulness caused it. Oh! it is true.”
“Then I have been right to do as I have done; to see you, to thank you for your kindness, and to swear to you an eternal gratitude. Do you believe that I speak from the bottom of my heart?”
Bussy shook his head sadly, and did not reply.
“Do you doubt my words?” said Diana.
“Madame, those who feel a kindness for you, show it when they can. You knew I was at the palace the night of your presentation, you knew I was close to you, you must have felt my looks fixed on you, and you never raised your eyes to me, you never let me know by a word, a sign, or a gesture, that you were aware of my presence; but perhaps you did not recognize me, madame, you have only seen me twice.” Diana replied with so sad a glance of reproach, that Bussy was moved by it.
“Pardon, madame,” said he; “you are not an ordinary woman, and yet you act like them. This marriage – ”
“I was forced to conclude it.”
“Yes, but it was easy to break.”
“Impossible, on the contrary.”
“Did you not know that near you watched a devoted friend?”
“Even that made me fear.”
“And you did not think of what my life would be, when you belonged to another. But perhaps you kept the name of Monsoreau from choice?”
“Do you think so?” murmured Diana; “so much the better.” And her eyes filled with tears. Bussy walked up and down in great agitation.
“I am to become once more a stranger to you,” said he.
“Alas!”
“Your silence says enough.”
“I can only speak by my silence.”
“At the Louvre you would not see me, and now you will not speak to me.”
“At the Louvre I was watched by M. de Monsoreau, and he is jealous.”
“Jealous! What does he want then? mon Dieu! whose happiness can he envy, when all the world is envying his?”
“I tell you he is jealous; for the last two or three days he has seen some one wandering round our new abode.”
“Then you have quitted the Rue St. Antoine?”
“How!” cried Diana thoughtlessly, “then it was not you?”
“Madame, since your marriage was publicly announced, since that evening at the Louvre, where you did not deign to look at me, I have been in bed, devoured by fever, so you see that your husband could not be jealous of me, at least.”
“Well! M. le Comte, if it be true that you had any desire to see me, you must thank this unknown man; for knowing M. de Monsoreau as I know him, this man made me tremble for you, and I wished to see you and say to you, ‘Do not expose yourself so, M. le Comte; do not make me more unhappy than I am.’”
“Reassure yourself, madame; it was not I.”
“Now, let me finish what I have to say. In the fear of this man – whom I do not know, but whom M. de Monsoreau does perhaps – he exacts that I should leave Paris, so that,” said Diana, holding out her hand to Bussy, “you may look upon this as our last meeting, M. le Comte. To-morrow we start for Méridor.”
“You are going, madame?”
“There is no other way to reassure M. de Monsoreau; no other way for me to be at peace. Besides, I myself detest Paris, the world, the court, and the Louvre. I wish to be alone with my souvenirs of my happy past; perhaps a little of my former happiness will return to me there. My father will accompany me, and I shall find there M. and Madame de St. Luc, who expect me. Adieu, M. de Bussy.”
Bussy hid his face in his hands. “All is over for me,” he murmured.
“What do you say?” said Diana.
“I say, madame, that this man exiles you, that he takes from me the only hope left to me, that of breathing the same air as yourself, of seeing you sometimes, of touching your dress as you pass. Oh! this man is my mortal enemy, and if I perish for it, I will destroy him with my own hands.”
“Oh! M. le Comte!”
“The wretch; it is not enough for him that you are his wife: you, the most beautiful and most charming of creatures, but he is still jealous. Jealous! The devouring monster would absorb the whole world!”
“Oh! calm yourself, comte; mon Dieu; he is excusable, perhaps.”
“He is excusable! you defend him, madame?”
“Oh! if you knew!” cried Diana, covering her face with her hands.
“If I knew! Oh! madame, I know one thing; he who is your husband is wrong to think of the rest of the world.”
“But!” cried Diana, in a broken voice, “if you were wrong, M. le Comte, and if he were not.”
And the young woman, touching with her cold hand the burning ones of Bussy, rose and fled among the somber alleys of the garden, seized Gertrude’s arm and dragged her away, before Bussy, astonished and overwhelmed with delight, had time to stretch out his arms to retain her. He uttered a cry and tottered; Rémy arrived in time to catch him in his arms and make him sit down on the bench that Diana had just quitted.
CHAPTER XLIV.
HOW D’EPERNON HAD HIS DOUBLET TORN, AND HOW CHOMBERG WAS STAINED BLUE
While M. la Hurière piled signature upon signature, while Chicot consigned Gorenflot to the Corne d’Abondance, while Bussy returned to life in the happy little garden full of perfume and love, the king, annoyed at all he had seen in the city, and furious against his brother, whom he had seen pass in the Rue St. Honoré, accompanied by MM. de Guise and Monsoreau, and followed by a whole train of gentlemen, re-entered the Louvre, accompanied by Maugiron and Quelus. He had gone out with all four of his friends, but, at some steps from the Louvre, Schomberg and D’Epernon had profited by the first crush to disappear, counting on some adventures in such a turbulent night. Before they had gone one hundred yards D’Epernon had passed his sword-sheath between the legs of a citizen who was running, and who tumbled down in consequence, and Schomberg had pulled the cap off the head of a young and pretty woman. But both had badly chosen their day for attacking these good Parisians, generally so patient; for a spirit of revolt was prevalent in the streets, and the bourgeois rose, crying out for aid, and the husband of the young woman launched his apprentices on Schomberg. He was brave; therefore he stopped, put his hand on his sword, and spoke in a high tone. D’Epernon was prudent; he fled.
Henri had entered his room at the Louvre, and, seated in his great armchair, was trembling with impatience, and seeking a good pretext for getting into a passion. Maugiron was playing with Narcissus, the large greyhound, and Quelus was sitting near.
“They go on!” cried Henri, “their plot advances; sometimes tigers, sometimes serpents; when they do not spring they glide.”
“Oh, sire!” said Quelus, “are there not always plots in a kingdom? What the devil could all the sons, brothers, and cousins of kings do if they did not plot?” And Quelus irreverently turned his back to the king.
“Hear, Maugiron,” said the king, “with what nonsense he tries to put me off.”
“Well, sire, look at Narcissus; he is a good dog, but when you pull his ears, he growls, and when you tread on his toes he bites.”
“Here is the other comparing me to my dog!”
“Not so, sire; I place Narcissus far above you, for he knows how to defend himself, and you do not.” And he also turned his back.
“That is right,” cried the king, “my good friends, for whom they accuse me of despoiling the kingdom, abandon me, insult me! Ah, Chicot! if you were here.”
At this moment, however, the door opened, and D’Epernon appeared, without hat or cloak, and with his doublet all torn.
“Bon Dieu!” cried Henri, “what is the matter?”
“Sire,” said D’Epernon, “look at me; see how they treat the friends of your majesty.”
“Who has treated you thus?”
“Mordieu, your people; or rather the people of; M. le Duc d’Anjou, who cried, ‘Vive la Messe!’ ‘Vive Guise!’ ‘Vive François! – vive everyone, in fact, except the king.”
“And what did you do to be treated thus?”
“I? nothing. What can a man do to a people? They recognized me for your majesty’s friend, and that was enough.”
“But Schomberg?”
“Well?”
“Did he not come to your aid? did he not defend you?”
“Corboeuf! he had enough to do on his own account.”
“How so?”
“I left him in the hands of a dyer whose wife’s cap he had pulled off, and who, with his five or six apprentices, seemed likely to make him pass an unpleasant quarter of an hour.”
“Par la mordieu! and where did you leave my poor Schomberg? I will go myself to his aid. They may say,” continued he, looking at Maugiron and Quelus, “that my friends abandon me, but they shall never say that I abandon them.”
“Thanks, sire,” said a voice behind Henri; “thanks, but here I am; I extricated myself without assistance; but, mein Gott! it was not without trouble.”
“It is Schomberg’s voice,” cried all, “but where the devil is he?”
“Here I am,” cried the voice; and indeed, in the corner of the room they saw something that looked not like a man but a shadow.
“Schomberg,” cried the king, “where do you come from, and why are you that color?”
Indeed, Schomberg from head to foot was of a most beautiful blue.
“Der Teufel!” cried he, “the wretches! It is not wonderful that the people ran after me.”
“But what is the matter?”
“The matter is, that they dipped me in a vat, the knaves; I believed that it was only water, but it was indigo.”
“Oh, mordieu!” cried Quelus, bursting out laughing, “indigo is very dear; you must have carried away at least twenty crowns’ worth of indigo.”
“I wish you had been in my place.”
“And you did not kill any one?”
“I left my poniard somewhere, that is all I know, up to the hilt in a sheath of flesh; but in a second I was taken, carried off, dipped in the vat, and almost drowned.”
“And how did you get out of their hands?”
“By committing a cowardice, sire.”
“What was that?”
“Crying, ‘Vive la Ligue!’”
“That was like me; only they made me add, ‘Vive le Duc d’Anjou!’” said D’Epernon.
“And I also,” cried Schomberg; “but that is not all.”
“What, my poor Schomberg, did they make you cry something else?”
“No, that was enough, God knows; but just as I cried, ‘Vive le Duc d’Anjou,’ guess who passed.”
“How can I guess?”
“Bussy; his cursed Bussy, who heard me.”
“He could not understand.”
“Parbleu! it was not difficult to understand. I had a poniard at my throat, and I was in a vat.”
“And he did not come to your rescue?”
“It seemed as though he was in a dreadful hurry; he scarcely seemed to touch the ground.”
“Perhaps he did not recognize you, as you were blue.”
“Ah! very likely.”
“He would be excusable,” said the king; “for, indeed, my poor Schomberg, I should hardly have known you myself.”
“Never mind; we shall meet some other time, when I am not in a vat.”
“Oh! as for me,” said D’Epernon, “it is his master I should like to punish.”
“The Duc d’Anjou, whose praises they are singing all over Paris,” said Quelus.
“The fact is, that he is master of Paris to-night,” said D’Epernon.
“Ah, my brother! my brother!” cried the king. “Ah! yes, sire; you cry, ‘my brother,’ but you do nothing against him; and yet it is clear to me that he is at the head of some plot.” said Schomberg.
“Eh, mordieu! that is what I was saying just before you came in, to these gentlemen, and they replied by shrugging their shoulders and turning their backs.”
“Not because you said there was a plot, sire, but because you do nothing to suppress it.”
“And, now,” said Quelus, “we say, ‘Save us,’ sire; or rather, save yourself; to-morrow M. de Guise will come to the Louvre, and ask you to name a chief for the League; if you name M. d’Anjou, as you promised, he, at the head of one hundred thousand Parisians, excited by this night, can do what he likes.”
“Then,” said Henri, “if I take a decisive step, you will support me?”
“Yes, sire.”
“If, sire, you will only give me time to remodel my dress,” said D’Epernon.
“Go to my room, D’Epernon; my valet de chambre will give you what you want.”
“And I, sire, must have a bath,” said Schomberg.
“Go to my bath.”
“Then I may hope, sire, that my insult will not remain unavenged.”
Henri remained silent a moment, and then said, “Quelus, ask if M. d’Anjou has returned to the Louvre.”
Quelus went, but came back, and said that the duke had not yet returned.
“Well, you, Quelus and Maugiron, go down and watch for his entrance.”
“And then?”
“Have all the doors shut.”
“Bravo! sire.”
“I will be back in ten minutes, sire,” said D’Epernon.
“And my stay will depend on the quality of the dye,” said Schomberg.
“Come as soon as possible,” said the king.
The young men went out, and the king, left alone, kneeled down on his prie-Dieu.
CHAPTER XLV.
CHICOT MORE THAN EVER KING OF FRANCE
The gates of the Louvre were generally closed at twelve, but the king gave orders that they should be left open on this night till one. At a quarter to one Quelus came up.
“Sire,” said he, “the duke has come in.”
“What is Maugiron doing?”
“Watching that he does not go out again.”
“There is no danger.”
“Then – ”
“Let him go to bed quietly. Whom has he with him?”
“M. de Monsoreau and his ordinary gentlemen.”
“And M. de Bussy?”
“No; he is not there.”
“So much the better.”
“What are your orders, sire?”
“Tell Schomberg and D’Epernon to be quick, and let M. de Monsoreau know that I wish to speak to him.”
Five minutes after, Schomberg and D’Epernon entered; the former with only a slight blue tint left, which it would take several baths to eradicate, and the latter newly clothed. After them, M. de Monsoreau appeared. “The captain of the guards has just announced to me that your majesty did me the honor to send for me,” said he.
“Yes, monsieur; when I was out this evening, I saw the stars so brilliant, and the moon so clear, that I thought it would be splendid weather for the chase to-morrow; so, M. le Comte, set off at once for Vincennes, and get a stag turned out ready for me.”
“But, sire, I thought that to-morrow your majesty had given a rendezvous to Monsieur le Duc d’Anjou and M. de Guise, in order to name a chief for the League.”
“Well, monsieur?” said the king haughtily.
“Sire, there might not be time.”
“There is always time, monsieur, for those who know how to employ it; that is why I tell you to set off at once, so that you may have all ready for to-morrow morning at ten. Quelus, Schomberg, have the door of the Louvre opened for M. de Monsoreau, and have it closed behind him.”
The chief huntsman retired in astonishment. “It is a whim of the king’s,” said he to the young men.
“Yes.”
They watched him out, and then returned to the king.
“Now,” said Henri, “silence, and all four of you follow me.”
“Where are we going, sire?” said D’Epernon.
“Those who follow will see.”
The king took a lantern in his hand, and led the young men along the secret corridor, which led to his brother’s rooms. A valet-de-chambre watched here; but before he had time to warn his master, Henri ordered him to be silent, and the young men pushed him into a room and locked the door.
Henri opened his brother’s door. François had gone to bed full of dreams of ambition, which the events of the evening had nourished; he had heard his name exalted, and the king’s abused. Conducted by the Duc de Guise, he had seen the Parisians open everywhere for him and his gentlemen, while those of the king were insulted and hooted. Never since the commencement of his career had he been so popular, and consequently so hopeful. He had placed on the table a letter from M. de Guise, which had been brought to him by M. de Monsoreau. His surprise and terror were great when he saw the secret door open, and still more when he recognized the king. Henri signed to his companions to remain on the threshold, and advanced to the bed, frowning, but silent.
“Sire,” stammered the duke, “the honor that your majesty does me is so unlooked for – ”
“That it frightens you, does it not? But stay where you are, my brother; do not rise.”
“But, sire, only – permit me – ” and he drew towards him the letter of M. de Guise.
“You are reading?” asked the king.
“Yes, sire.”
“Something interesting to keep you awake at this time of night?”
“Oh, sire, nothing very important; the evening courier – ”
“Oh, yes, I understand – Courier of Venus; but no, I see I am wrong – they do not seal billet-doux with seals of that size.”
The duke hid the letter altogether.
“How discreet this dear François is!” said the king, with a smile which frightened his brother. However, making an effort to recover himself, he said:
“Did your majesty wish to say anything particular to me?”
“What I have to say to you, monsieur, I wish to say before witnesses. Here, gentlemen,” continued he, turning to the four young men, “listen to us; I order you.”
“Sire,” said the duke, with a glance full of rage and hatred, “before insulting a man of my rank, you should have refused me the hospitality of the Louvre; in the Hotel d’Anjou, at least, I should have been free to reply to you.”
“Really, you forget, then, that wherever you are, you are my subject; that I am the king, and that every house is mine.”
“Sire, I am at the Louvre, at my mother’s.”
“And your mother is in my house. But to the point – give me that paper.”
“Which?”
“That which you were reading, which was on your table, and which you hid when I came in.”
“Sire, reflect.”
“On what?”
“On this, that you are making a request unworthy of a gentleman, and fit only for a police-officer.”
The king grew livid. “That letter, monsieur!”
“A woman’s letter, sire.”
“There are some women’s letters very good to see, and dangerous not to see – such as those our mother writes.”
“Brother!”
“This letter, monsieur!” cried the king, stamping his foot, “or I will have it torn from you by my Swiss!”
The duke jumped out of bed, with the letter crumpled in his hand, evidently with the intention of approaching the fire. But Henri, divining his intention, placed himself between him and the fire.
“You would not treat your brother thus?” cried the duke.
“Not my brother, but my mortal enemy. Not my brother, but the Duc D’Anjou, who went all through Paris with M. de Guise, who tries to hide from me a letter from one of his accomplices, the Lorraine princes.”
“This time,” said the duke, “your police are wrong.”
“I tell you I saw on the seal the three merlets of Lorraine. Give it to me, mordieu! or – ”
Henri advanced towards his brother and laid his hand on his shoulder. François had no sooner felt the touch of his hand than, falling on his knees, he cried out, “Help! help! my brother is going to kill me.”
These words, uttered in an accent of profound terror, startled the king and mitigated his rage. The idea passed quickly through his mind that in their family, as by a curse, brother had always assassinated brother.
“No, my brother,” said he, “you are wrong; I do not wish to hurt you, but you cannot contend with me. I am the master, and if you did not know it before, you know it now.”
“Yes, my brother, I acknowledge it.”
“Very well, then give me that letter; the king orders it.”
The duke let it fall, and the king picked it up, but without reading it put it in his pocket-book.
“Is that all?” said the duke, with his sinister glance.
“No, monsieur, you must keep your room until my suspicions with respect to you are completely dissipated. The room is commodious, and not much like a prison; stay here. You will have good company – at least, outside the door, for this night these four gentlemen will guard you; to-morrow they will be relieved by a guard of Swiss.”
“But, my friends – cannot I see them?”
“Who do you call your friends?”
“M. de Monsoreau, M. de Ribeirac, M. Antragues, and M. de Bussy.”
“Oh, yes, he, of course.”
“Has he had the misfortune to displease your majesty?”
“Yes.”
“When, sire?”
“Always, but particularly to-night.”
“To-night! what did he do?”
“Insulted me in the streets of Paris.”
“You?”
“My followers, which is the same thing.”
“Bussy! you have been deceived, sire.”
“I know what I say.”
“Sire, M. de Bussy has not been out of his hotel for two days. He is at home, ill in bed, burning with fever.”
The king turned to Schomberg, who said, “If he had fever, at all events he had it in the Rue Coquillière.”
“Who told you he was there?” said the duke.
“I saw him.”
“You saw Bussy out of doors?”
“Yes, looking well and happy, and accompanied by his ordinary follower, that Rémy.”
“Then I do not understand it; I saw him in bed myself; he must have deceived me.”
“It is well; he will be punished with the rest,” said the king.
“If M. de Bussy went out alone after refusing to go out with me – ”
“You hear, gentlemen, what my brother says. But we will talk of him another time; now I recommend my brother to your care; you will have the honor of serving as guard to a prince of the blood.”