Chicot the Jester

CHAPTER LIX.

ROLAND

Thanks to the reinforcement which had arrived, M. le Duc d’Anjou could go where he pleased; he explored the ramparts of the surrounding country and castles. The Angevin gentlemen found liberty and amusement at the court of the duke, and the three friends were soon intimate with many of these nobles, especially those who had pretty wives. The general joy was at its height when twenty-two riding horses, thirty carriage horses, and forty mules, together with litters, carriages and wagons, arrived at Angers, all the property of the duke. We must allow that the saddles were not paid for, and that the coffers were empty, but still it made a magnificent effect. The duke’s reputation for wealth was henceforward solidly established, and all the province remained convinced that he was rich enough to war against all Europe if need were, therefore they did not grudge the new tax which the prince imposed upon them. People never mind giving or lending to rich people, only to poor ones; therefore the worthy prince lived like a patriarch on all the fat of the land. Numerous cavaliers arrived to offer to him their adhesions, or their offers of service. One afternoon, however, about four o’clock, M. de Monsoreau arrived on horseback at the gates of Angers. He had ridden eighteen leagues that day; therefore his spurs were red, and his horse covered with foam, and half dead. They no longer made difficulties about letting strangers enter, therefore M. de Monsoreau went straight through the city to the palace, and asked for the duke.

“He is out reconnoitering,” replied the sentinel.

“Where?”

“I do not know.”

“Diable! What I have to say to him is very pressing.”

“First put your horse in the stable, or he will fall.”

“The advice is good; where are the stables?”

As he spoke a man approached and asked for his name. M. de Monsoreau gave it. The major-domo (for it was he) bowed respectfully, for the chief huntsman’s name was well known in Anjou.

“Monsieur,” said he, “please to enter and take some repose. Monseigneur has not been out more than ten minutes, and will not be back till eight o’clock.”

“Eight o’clock! I cannot wait so long; I am the bearer of news which cannot be too soon known to his highness. Can I not have a horse and a guide?”

“There are plenty of horses, but a guide is a different thing, for his highness did not say where he was going.”

“Well, I will take a fresh horse, and try to discover him.”

“Probably you will hear where he has passed, monsieur.”

“Do they ride fast?”

“Oh no.”

“Well, get me a horse then.”

“Will monsieur come into the stables and choose one? they all belong to the duke.” Monsoreau entered. Ten or twelve fine horses, quite fresh, were feeding from the manger, which was filled with grain.

Monsoreau looked over them, and then said, “I will take this bay.”

“Roland?”

“Is that his name?”

“Yes, and it is his highness’s favorite horse. M. de Bussy gave him to the duke, and it is quite a chance that it is here to-day.”

Ronald was soon saddled, and Monsoreau rode out of the stable.

“In which direction did they start?” asked he.

The man pointed it out.

“Ma foi!” said Monsoreau, “the horse seems to know the way.”

Indeed, the animal set off without being urged, and went deliberately out of the city, took a short cut to the gate, and then began to accelerate his pace: Monsoreau let him go. He went along the boulevard, then turned into a shady lane, which cut across the country, passing gradually from a trot to a gallop.

“Oh!” thought Monsoreau, as they entered the woods, “one would say we were going to Méridor. Can his highness be there?” and his face grew black at the thought.

“Oh!” murmured he, “I who was going to see the prince, and putting off till to-morrow to see my wife; shall I see them both at the same time?”

The horse went on, turning always to the right.

“We cannot be far from the park,” said he.

At that moment his horse neighed, and another answered him. In a minute Monsoreau saw a wall, and a horse tied to a neighboring tree.

“There is some one,” thought he, turning pale.

CHAPTER LX.

WHAT M. DE MONSOREAU CAME TO ANNOUNCE

As M. de Monsoreau approached, he remarked the dilapidation of the wall; it was almost in steps, and the brambles had been torn away, and were lying about. He looked at the horse standing there. The animal had a saddle-cloth embroidered in silver, and in one corner an F. and an A. There was no doubt, then, that it came from the prince’s stables; the letters stood for François d’Anjou. The count’s suspicions at this sight became real alarm; the duke had come here, and had come often, for, besides the horse waiting there, there was a second that knew the way. He tied up his horse near to the other, and began to scale the wall. It was an easy task; there were places for both feet and hands, and the branches of an oak-tree, which hung over, had been carefully cut away. Once up, he saw at the foot of a tree a blue mantilla and a black cloak, and not far off a man and woman, walking hand in hand, with their backs turned to the wall, and nearly hidden by the trees. Unluckily, with M. de Monsoreau’s weight a stone fell from the wall on the crackling branches with a great noise.

At this noise the lovers must have turned and seen him, for the cry of a woman was heard, and a rustling of the branches as they ran away like startled deer. At this cry, Monsoreau felt cold drops on his forehead, for he recognized Diana’s voice. Full of fury, he jumped over the wall, and with his drawn sword in his hand, tried to follow the fugitives, but they had disappeared, and, there was not a trace or a sound to guide him. He stopped, and considered that he was too much under the influence of passion to act with prudence against so powerful a rival. Then a sublime idea occurred to him; it was to climb back again over the wall, and carry off with his own the horse he had seen there. He retraced his steps to the wall and climbed up again; but on the other side no horse was to be seen; his idea was so good, that before it came to him it had come to his adversary. He uttered a howl of rage, clenching his fists, but started off at once on foot. In two hours and a half, he arrived at the gates of the city, dying with hunger and fatigue, but determined to interrogate every sentinel, and find out by what gate a man had entered with two horses. The first sentinel he applied to said that, about two hours before, a horse without a rider had passed through the gate, and had taken the road to the palace; he feared some accident must have happened to his rider. Monsoreau ground his teeth with passion, and went on to the castle. There he found great life and gaiety, windows lighted up, and animation everywhere. He went first to the stable, and found his horse in the stall he had taken him from; then, without changing his dress, he went to the dining-room. The prince and all his gentlemen were sitting round a table magnificently served and lighted. The duke, who had been told of his arrival, received him without surprise, and told him to sit down and sup with him.

“Monseigneur,” replied he, “I am hungry, tired, and thirsty; but I will neither eat, drink, nor sit down till I have delivered my important message.”

“You come from Paris?”

“Yes, in great haste.”

“Well, speak.”

Monsoreau advanced, with a smile on his lips and hatred In his heart, and said, “Monseigneur, your mother is advancing hastily to visit you.”

The duke looked delighted. “It is well,” said he; “M. de Monsoreau, I find you to-day, as ever, a faithful servant; let us continue our supper, gentlemen.”

Monsoreau sat down with them, but gloomy and preoccupied. He still seemed to see the two figures among the trees, and to hear the cry of Diana.

“You are overcome with weariness,” said the prince to him, “really, you had better go to bed.”

“Yes,” said Livarot, “or he will go to sleep in his chair.”

“Pardon, monseigneur, I am tired out.”

“Get tipsy,” said Antragues; “there is nothing so good when you are tired. To your health, count!”

“You must give us some good hunts,” said Ribeirac, “you know the country.”

“You have horses and woods here,” said Antragues.

“And a wife,” added Livarot.

“We will hunt a boar, count,” said the prince.

“Oh, yes, to-morrow!” cried the gentlemen.

“What do you say, Monsoreau?”

“I am always at your highness’s orders, but I am too much fatigued to conduct a chase to-morrow; besides which, I must examine the woods.”

“And we must leave him time to see his wife,” cried the duke.

“Granted,” cried the young men; “we give him twenty-four hours to do all he has to do.”

“Yes, gentlemen, I promise to employ them well.”

“Now go to bed,” said the duke, and M. de Monsoreau bowed, and went out, very happy to escape.

CHAPTER LXI.

HOW THE KING LEARNED THE FLIGHT OF HIS BELOVED BROTHER, AND WHAT FOLLOWED

When Monsoreau had retired, the repast continued, and was more gay and joyous than ever.

“Now, Livarot,” said the duke, “finish the recital of your flight from Paris, which Monsoreau interrupted.”

Livarot began again, but as our title of historian gives us the privilege of knowing better than Livarot himself what had passed, we will substitute our recital for that of the young man.

Towards the middle of the night Henri III. was awoke by an unaccustomed noise in the palace. It was oaths, blows on the wall, rapid steps in the galleries, and, amidst all, these words continually sounding, “What will the king say?”

Henri sat up and called Chicot, who was asleep on the couch.

Chicot opened one eye.

“Ah, you were wrong to call me, Henri,” said he; “I was dreaming that you had a son.”

“But listen.”

“To what? You say enough follies to me by day, without breaking in on my nights.”

“But do you not hear?”

“Oh, oh! I do hear cries.”

“Do you hear, ‘What will the king say?’”

“It is one of two things – either your dog Narcissus is ill, or the Huguenots are taking their revenge for St. Bartholomew.”

“Help me to dress.”

“If you will first help me to get up.”

“What a misfortune!” sounded from the antechamber.

“Shall we arm ourselves?” said the king.

“We had better go first and see what is the matter.”

And almost immediately they went out by the secret door into the gallery. “I begin to guess,” said Chicot; “your unlucky prisoner has hanged himself.”

“Oh, no; it cannot be that.”

“So much the worse.”

“Come on;” and they entered the duke’s chamber.

The window was open, and the ladder still hung from it. Henri grew as pale as death.

“Oh, my son, you are not so blasé as I thought!” said Chicot.

“Escaped!” cried Henri, in such a thundering voice that all the gentlemen who were crowded round the window turned in terror. Schomberg tore his hair, Quelus and Maugiron struck themselves like madmen; as for D’Epernon, he had vanished. This sight calmed the king.

“Gently, my son,” said he, laying hold of Maugiron.

“No! mordieu!” cried he, “I will kill myself!” and he knocked his head against the wall.

“Hola! help me to hold him.”

“It would be an easier death to pass your sword through your body!” said Chicot.

“Quelus, my child,” said the king, “you will be as blue as Schomberg when he came out of the indigo.”

Quelus stopped, but Schomberg still continued to tear at his hair.

“Schomberg, Schomberg, a little reason, I beg.”

“It is enough to drive one mad!”

“Indeed, it is a dreadful misfortune; there will be a civil war in my kingdom. Who did it – who furnished the ladder? Mordieu! I will hang all the city! Who was it? Ten thousand crowns to whoever will tell me his name, and one hundred thousand to whoever will bring him to me, dead or alive!”

“It must have been some Angevin,” said Maugiron.

“Oh yes! we will kill all the Angevins!” cried Quelus. However, the king suddenly disappeared; he had thought of his mother, and, without saying a word, went to her. When he entered, she was half lying in a great armchair: She heard the news without answering.

“You say nothing, mother. Does not this flight seem to you criminal, and worthy of punishment?”

“My dear son, liberty is worth as much as a crown; and remember, I advised you to fly in order to gain a crown.”

“My mother, he braves me – he outrages me!”

“No; he only saves himself.”

“Ah! this is how you take my part.”

“What do you mean, my son?”

“I mean that with age the feelings grow calm – that you do not love me as much as you used to do.”

“You are wrong, my son,” said Catherine coldly; “you are my beloved son, but he of whom you complain is also my son.”

“Well, then, madame, I will go to find other counselors capable of feeling for me and of aiding me.”

“Go, my son; and may God guide your counselors, for they will have need of it to aid you in this strait.”

“Adieu, then, madame!”

“Adieu, Henri! I do not pretend to counsel you – you do not need me, I know – but beg your counselors to reflect well before they advise, and still more before they execute.”

“Yes, madame, for the position is difficult.”

“Very grave,” replied she, raising her eyes to heaven.

“Have you any idea who it was that carried him off?” Catherine did not reply.

“I think it was the Angevins,” continued the king.

Catherine smiled scornfully.

“The Angevins!”

“You do not think so?”

“Do you, really?”

“Tell me what you think, madame.”

“Why should I?”

“To enlighten me.”

“Enlighten you! I am but a doting old woman, whose only influence lies in her prayers and repentance.”

“No, mother; speak, you are the cleverest of us all.”

“Useless; I have only ideas of the last century; at my age it is impossible I should give good counsel.”

“Well, then, mother, refuse me your counsel, deprive me of your aid. In an hour I will hang all the Angevins in Paris.”

“Hang all the Angevins!” cried Catherine, in amazement.

“Yes, hang, slay, massacre, burn; already, perhaps, my friends are out to begin the work.”

“They will ruin themselves, and you with them.”

“How so?”

“Blind! Will kings eternally have eyes, and not see?”

“Kings must avenge their injuries, it is but justice, and in this case all my subjects will rise to defend me.”

“You are mad.”

“Why so?”

“You will make oceans of blood flow. The standard of revolt will soon be raised; and you will arm against you a host who never would rise for François.”

“But if I do not revenge myself they will think I am afraid.”

“Did any one ever think I was afraid? Besides, it was not the Angevins.”

“Who was it then? it must have been my brother’s friends.”

“Your brother has no friends.”

“But who was it then?”

“Your enemy.”

“What enemy?”

“O! my son, you know you have never had but one; yours, mine, your brother Charles’s; always the same.”

“Henri of Navarre, you mean?”

“Yes, Henri of Navarre.”

“He is not at Paris.”

“Do you know who is at Paris, and who is not? No, you are all deaf and blind.”

“Can it have been he?”

“My son, at every disappointment you meet with, at every misfortune that happens to you of which the author is unknown, do not seek or conjecture; it is useless. Cry out, it is Henri of Navarre, and you will be sure to be right. Strike on the side where he is, and you will be sure to strike right. Oh! that man, that man; he is the sword suspended over the head of the Valois.”

“Then you think I should countermand my orders about the Angevins?”

“At once, without losing an instant. Hasten; perhaps you are already too late.”

Henry flew out of the Louvre to find his friends, but found only Chicot drawing figures in the sand with a stone.

CHAPTER LXII.

HOW, AS CHICOT AND THE QUEEN MOTHER WERE AGREED, THE KING BEGAN TO AGREE WITH THEM

“Is this how you defend your king?” cried Henri.

“Yes, it is my manner, and I think it is a good one.”

“Good, indeed!”

“I maintain it, and I will prove it.”

“I am curious to hear this proof.”

“It is easy; but first, we have committed a great folly.”

“How so?” cried Henri, struck by the agreement between Chicot and his mother.

“Yes,” replied Chicot, “your friends are crying through the city, ‘Death to the Angevins!’ and now that I reflect, it was never proved that they had anything to do with the affair. And your friends, crying thus through the city, will raise that nice little civil war of which MM. de Guise have so much need, and which they did not succeed in raising for themselves. Besides which, your friends may get killed, which would not displease me, I confess, but which would afflict you, or else they will chase all the Angevins from the city, which will please M. d’Anjou enormously.”

“Do you think things are so bad?”

“Yes, if not worse.”

“But all this does not explain what you do here, sitting on a stone.”

“I am tracing a plan of all the provinces that your brother will raise against you, and the number of men each will furnish to the revolt.”

“Chicot, Chicot, you are a bird of bad augury.”

“The owl sings at night, my son, it is his hour. Now it is dark, Henri, so dark that one might take the day for the night, and I sing what you ought to hear. Look!”

“At what?”

“My geographical plan. Here is Anjou, something like a tartlet, you see; there your brother will take refuge. Anjou, well managed, as Monsoreau and Bussy will manage it, will alone furnish to your brother ten thousand combatants.”

“Do you think so?”

“That is the minimum; let us pass to Guyenne; here it is, this figure like a calf walking on one leg. Of course, you will not be astonished to find discontent in Guyenne; it is an old focus for revolt, and will be enchanted to rise. They can furnish 8,000 soldiers; that is not much, but they are well trained. Then we have Béarn and Navarre; you see these two compartments, which look like an ape on the back of an elephant – they may furnish about 16,000. Let us count now – 10,000 for Anjou, 8,000 for Guyenne, 16,000 for Béarn and Navarre; making a total of 34,000.”

“You think, then, that the King of Navarre will join my brother?”

“I should think so.”

“Do you believe that he had anything to do with my brother’s escape?”

Chicot looked at him. “That is not your own idea, Henri.”

“Why not?”

“It is too clever, my son.”

“Never mind whose idea it was; answer my question.”

“Well! I heard a ‘Ventre St. Gris’ in the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”

“You heard a ‘Ventre St. Gris!’ But it might not have been he.”

“I saw him.”

“You saw Henri of Navarre in Paris?”

“Yes.”

“You saw my mortal enemy here, and did not tell me?”

“I am not a spy. Then there are the Guises; 20,000 or 25,000 men under the orders of the Duc de Guise will make up altogether a nice little army.”

“But Henri of Navarre and the Duc de Guise are enemies.”

“Which will not prevent them from uniting against you; they will be free to fight with each other when they have conquered you.”

“You are right, Chicot, and my mother is right. I will call the Swiss.”

“Oh, yes! Quelus has got them.”

“My guards, then.”

“Schomberg has them.”

“My household at least.”

“They have gone with Maugiron.”

“Without my orders?”

“And when do you ever give orders, except, perhaps, to flagellate either your own skin, or that of others? – But about government. – Bah! allow me to observe that you have been a long time finding out that you rank seventh or eighth in this kingdom.”

“Here they are!” cried the king, as three cavaliers approached, followed by a crowd of men on foot and on horseback.

“Schomberg! Quelus! come here,” cried the king. They approached.

“I have been seeking you, and waiting for you impatiently. What have you done? Do not go away again without my permission.”

“There is no more need,” said Maugiron, who now approached, “since all is finished.”

“All is finished?”

“Heaven be praised,” said D’Epernon, appearing all at once, no one knew from whence.

“Then you have killed them?” cried the king; “well, at least the dead do not return.”

“Oh! we had not that trouble; the cowards ran away, we had scarcely time to cross our swords with them.”

Henri grew pale. “With whom?” said he.

“With Antragues?”

“On the contrary, he killed a lackey of Quelus’s.”

“Oh!” murmured the king, “here is a civil war lighted up.”

Quelus started. “It is true,” said he.

“Ah,” said Chicot. “You begin to perceive it, do you?”

“But, M. Chicot, you cried with us, ‘Death to the Angevins!’”

“Oh! that is a different thing; I am a fool, and you are clever men.”

“Come, peace, gentlemen; we shall have enough of war soon.”

“What are your majesty’s orders?”

“That you employ the same ardor in calming the people as you have done in exciting them, and that you bring back all the Swiss, my guards, and my household, and have the doors of the Louvre closed, so that perhaps tomorrow the bourgeois may take the whole thing for a sortie of drunken people.”

The young men went off, and Henri returned to his mother.

“Well,” said she, “what has passed?”

“All you foresaw, mother.”

“They have escaped?”

“Alas! yes.”

“What else?”

“Is not that enough?”

“The city?”

“Is in tumult; but that is not what disquiets me.”

“No, it is the provinces.”

“Which will revolt.”

“What shall you do?”

“I see but one thing.”

“What is that?”

“To withdraw the army from La Charité, and march on Anjou.”

“And M. de Guise?”

“Oh, I will arrest him if necessary.”

“And you think violent measures will succeed?”

“What can I do, then?”

“Your plan will not do.”

“Well, what is your idea?”

“Send an ambassador.”

“To whom?”

“To your brother.”

“An ambassador to that traitor! You humiliate me, mother.”

“This is not a moment to be proud.”

“An ambassador will ask for peace?”

“Who will buy it if necessary.”

“With what? mon Dieu!”

“If it were only to secure quietly, afterwards, those who have gone to make war on you.”

“I would give much for that.”

“Well, then, the end is worth the means.”

“I believe you are right, mother; but whom shall I send?”

“Seek among your friends.”

“My mother, I do not know a single man to whom I could confide such a mission.”

“Confide it to a woman, then.”

“My mother, would you consent?”

“My son, I am very old, and very weak, and death will perhaps await me on my return; but I will make this journey so rapidly that your brother and his friends will not have had time to learn their own power.”

“Oh, my good mother!” cried Henri, kissing her hands, “you are my support, my benefactress!”

“That means that I am still Queen of France,” murmured she.

CHAPTER LXIII.

IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT GRATITUDE WAS ONE OF ST. LUC’S VIRTUES

The next morning, M. de Monsoreau rose early, and descended into the courtyard of the palace. He entered the stable, where Roland was in his place.

“Are the horses of monseigneur taught to return to their stable alone?” asked he of the man who stood there.

“No, M. le Comte.”

“But Roland did so yesterday.”

“Oh, he is remarkably intelligent.”

“Has he ever done it before?”