Chicot the Jester

CHAPTER LXVIII.

HOW M. DE MONSOREAU OPENED AND SHUT HIS EYES, WHICH PROVED THAT HE WAS NOT DEAD

Rémy rode along, wondering in what humor he should find Diana, and what he should say to her. He had just arrived at the park wall, when his horse, which had been trotting, stopped so suddenly that, had he not been a good rider, he would have been thrown over his head. Rémy, astonished, looked to see the cause, and saw before him a pool of blood, and a little further on, a body, lying against the wall. “It is Monsoreau!” cried he; “how strange! he lies dead there, and the blood is down here. Ah! there is the track; he must have crawled there, or rather that good M. de St. Luc leaned him up against the wall that the blood might not fly to his head. He died with his eyes open, too.”

All at once Rémy started back in horror; the two eyes, that he had seen open, shut again, and a paleness more livid than ever spread itself over the face of the defunct. Rémy became almost as pale as M. de Monsoreau, but, as he was a doctor, he quickly recovered his presence of mind, and said to himself that if Monsoreau moved his eyes, it showed he was not dead. “And yet I have read,” thought he, “of strange movements after death. This devil of a fellow frightens one even after death. Yes, his eyes are quite closed; there is one method of ascertaining whether he is dead or not, and that is to shove my sword into him, and if he does not move, he is certainly dead.” And Rémy was preparing for this charitable action, when suddenly the eyes opened again. Rémy started back, and the perspiration rolled off his forehead as he murmured, “He is not dead; we are in a nice position. Yes, but if I kill him he will be dead.” And he looked at Monsoreau, who seemed also to be looking at him earnestly.

“Oh!” cried Rémy, “I cannot do it. God knows that if he were upright before me I would kill him with all my heart; but as he is now, helpless and three parts dead, it would be an infamy.”

“Help!” murmured Monsoreau, “I am dying.”

“Mordieu!” thought Rémy, “my position is embarrassing. I am a doctor, and, as such, bound to succor my fellow-creatures when they suffer. It is true that Monsoreau is so ugly that he can scarcely be called a fellow-creature, still he is a man. Come, I must forget that I am the friend of M. de Bussy, and do my duty as a doctor.”

“Help!” repeated the wounded man.

“Here I am,” said Rémy.

“Fetch me a priest and a doctor.”

“The doctor is here, and perhaps he will dispense with the priest.”

“Rémy,” said Monsoreau, “by what chance – ”

Rémy understood all the question might mean. This was no beaten road, and no one was likely to come without particular business.

“Pardieu!” he replied, “a mile or two off I met M. de St. Luc – ”

“Ah! my murderer.”

“And he said, ‘Rémy, go to the old copse, there you will find a man dead.’”

“Dead?”

“Yes, he thought so; well, I came here and saw you.”

“And now, tell me frankly, am I mortally wounded?”

“I will try to find out.”

Rémy approached him carefully, took off his cloak, his doublet and shirt. The sword had penetrated between the sixth and seventh ribs.

“Do you suffer much?”

“In my back, not in my chest.”

“Ah, let me see; where?”

“Below the shoulder bone.”

“The steel must have come against a bone.” And he began to examine. “No, I am wrong,” said he, “the sword came against nothing, but passed right through.” Monsoreau fainted after this examination.

“Ah! that is all right,” said Rémy, “syncope, low pulse, cold in the hands and legs: Diable! the widowhood of Madame de Monsoreau will not last long, I fear.”

At this moment a slight bloody foam rose to the lips of the wounded man.

Rémy drew from his pocket his lancet case; then tearing off a strip from the patient’s shirt, bound it round his arm.

“We shall see,” said he, “if the blood flows. Ah, it does! and I believe that Madame de Monsoreau will not be a widow. Pardon, my dear M. de Bussy, but I am a doctor.”

Presently the patient breathed, and opened his eyes.

“Oh!” stammered he, “I thought all was over.”

“Not yet, my dear monsieur; it is even possible – ”

“That I live!”

“Oh, mon Dieu! yes; but let me close the wound. Stop; do not move; nature at this moment is aiding my work. I make the blood flow, and she stops it. Ah! nature is a great doctor, my dear sir. Let me wipe your lips. See the bleeding has stopped already. Good; all goes well, or rather badly.”

“Badly!”

“No, not for you; but I know what I mean.”

“You think I shall get well?”

“Alas! yes.”

“You are a singular doctor, M. Rémy.”

“Never mind, as long as I cure you,” said he, rising.

“Do not abandon me,” said the count.

“Ah! you talk too much. Diable! I ought to tell him to cry out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind; your wound is dressed. Now I will go to the castle and fetch assistance.”

“And what must I do meanwhile?”

“Keep quite still; do not stir; breathe lightly, and try not to cough. Which is the nearest house?”

“The château de Méridor.”

“Which is the way to it?” said Rémy, affecting ignorance.

“Get over the wall, and you will find yourself in the park.”

“Very well; I go.”

“Thanks, generous man.”

“Generous, indeed, if you only knew all.”

He soon arrived at the château, where all the inhabitants were busy looking for the body of the count; for St. Luc had given them a wrong direction. Rémy came among them like a thunderbolt, and was so eager to bring them to the rescue, that Diana looked at him with surprise, “I thought he was Bussy’s friend,” murmured she, as Rémy disappeared, carrying with him a wheelbarrow, lint and water.

CHAPTER LXIX.

HOW M. LE DUC D’ANJOU WENT TO MÉRIDOR TO CONGRATULATE MADAME DE MONSOREAU ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND, AND FOUND HIM THERE BEFORE HIM

As soon as the duke left his mother, he hastened to Bussy to know the meaning of all his signs. Bussy, who was reading St. Luc’s letter for the fifth time, received the prince with a gracious smile.

“How! monseigneur takes the trouble to come to my house to seek me.”

“Yes mordieu, I want an explanation.”

“From me?”

“Yes, from you.”

“I listen, monseigneur.”

“You tell me to steel myself against the suggestions of my mother, and to sustain the attack valiantly. I do so; and in the hottest of the fight you tell me to surrender.”

“I gave you all those charges, monseigneur, because I was ignorant of the object for which your mother came; but now that I see that she has come to promote your highness’s honor and glory – ”

“How! what do you mean?”

“Doubtless: what does your highness want? To triumph over your enemies, do you not? For I do not believe, as some people say, that you wish to become King of France.”

The duke looked sullen.

“Some might counsel you to it, but believe me they are your most cruel enemies. Consider for yourself, monseigneur; have you one hundred thousand men – ten millions of livres – alliance with foreigners – and, above all, would you turn against your king?”

“My king did not hesitate to turn against me.”

“Ah! there you are right. Well! declare yourself – get crowned – take the title of King of France – and if you succeed, I ask no better; I should grow great with you.”

“Who speaks of being king?” cried the duke, angrily; “you discuss a question which I have never proposed, even to myself.”

“Well, then, that is settled. Let them give you a guard and five hundred thousand livres. Obtain, before peace is signed, a subsidy from Anjou, to carry on the war. Once you have it, you can keep it. So, we should have arms and money, and we could do – God knows what.”

“But once they have me at Paris, they will laugh at me.”

“Oh! impossible, monseigneur; did you not hear what the queen mother offered you?”

“She offered me many things.”

“That disquiets you?”

“Yes.”

“But, among other things, she offered you a company of guards, even if I commanded it.”

“Yes, she offered that.”

“Well, accept; I will be captain; Antragues and Livarot lieutenants; and Ribeirac ensign. Let us get up your company for you, and see if they dare to laugh at you then.”

“Ma foi! I believe you are right, Bussy; I will think of it.”

“Do so, monseigneur.”

“What were you reading so attentively when I came in?”

“Oh! a letter, which interests you still more than me. Where the devil were my brains, that I did not show it to you?”

“What is it?”

“Sad news, monseigneur; Monsoreau is dead.”

“What!” cried the duke, with a surprise which Bussy thought was a joyful one.

“Dead, monseigneur.”

“M. de Monsoreau!”

“Mon Dieu! yes; are we not all mortal?”

“Yes; but so suddenly.”

“Ah! but if you are killed?”

“Then, he was killed?”

“So it seems; and by St. Luc, with whom he quarreled.”

“Oh, that dear St. Luc!”

“I did not think he was one of your highness’s friends.”

“Oh, he is my brother’s, and, since we are to be reconciled, his friends are mine. But are you sure?”

“As sure as I can be. Here is a letter from St. Luc, announcing it; and I have sent Rémy, my doctor, to present my condolences to the old baron.”

“Oh, Monsoreau!” cried the prince, with his malignant smile.

“Why monseigneur, one would say you hated the poor count.”

“No, it was you.”

“Of course I did; did he not humiliate me through you?”

“You remember it still.”

“But you, monseigneur, whose friend and tool he was – ”

“Well, well, get my horse saddled, Bussy.”

“What for?”

“To go to Méridor; I wish to pay a visit to Madame Monsoreau. I have been projecting one for some time, and I do not know why it has not taken place sooner.”

“Now Monsoreau is dead,” thought Bussy, “I do not care; I will protect Diana. I will go with him, and see her.”

A quarter of an hour after, the prince, Bussy, and ten gentlemen rode to Méridor, with that pleasure which fine weather, turf, and youth always inspire in men on horseback.

The porter at the château came to ask the names of the visitors.

“The Duc d’Anjou,” replied the prince.

The porter blew his horn, and soon windows were opened, and they heard the noise of bolts and bars as the door was unfastened, and the old baron appeared on the threshold, holding in his hand a bunch of keys. Immediately behind him stood a lady.

“Ah, there is the beautiful Diana!” cried the duke; “do you see her, Bussy?”

Diana, indeed, came out of the house, and behind her came a litter, on which lay Monsoreau, his eyes shining with fever and jealousy as he was carried along.

“What does this mean?” cried the duke to his companion, who had turned whiter than the handkerchief with which he was trying to hide his emotion.

“Long live the Duc d’Anjou!” cried Monsoreau, raising his hand in the air by a violent effort.

“Take care, you will hurt yourself,” said a voice behind him. It was Rémy.

Surprise does not last long at court, so, with a smile, the duke said, “Oh, my dear count, what a happy surprise! Do you know we heard you were dead?”

“Come near, monseigneur, and let me kiss your hand. Thank God, not only I am not dead, but I shall live; I hope to serve you with more ardor than ever.”

As for Bussy, he felt stunned, and scarcely dared to look at Diana. This treasure, twice lost to him, belonged still to his rival.

“And you, M. de Bussy,” said Monsoreau, “receive my thanks, for it is almost to you that I owe my life.”

“To me!” stammered the young man, who thought the count was mocking him.

“Yes, indirectly, it is true, for here is my saviour,” said he, turning to Rémy, who would willingly have sunk into the earth. Then, in spite of his signs, which he took for precautions to himself, he recounted the care and skill which the young doctor had exhibited towards him.

The duke frowned, and Bussy looked thunders. The poor fellow raised his hands to heaven.

“I hear,” continued the count, “that Rémy one day found you dying, as he found me. It is a tie of friendship between us, M. de Bussy, and when Monsoreau loves, he loves well; it is true that when he hates, it is also with all his heart.”

“Come, then,” said the duke, getting off his horse, “deign, beautiful Diana, to do us the honors of the house, which we thought to find in grief, but which we find still the abode of joy. As for you, Monsoreau, rest – you require it.”

“Monseigneur!” said the count, “it shall never be said that Monsoreau, while he lived, allowed another to do the honors of his house to you; my servants will carry me, and wherever you go, I shall follow.”

Bussy approached Diana, and Monsoreau smiled; he took her hand, and he smiled again. It was only the duke he feared.

“Here is a great change, M. le Comte,” said Diana.

“Alas! why is it not greater!”

CHAPTER LXX.

THE INCONVENIENCE OF LARGE LITTERS AND NARROW DOORS

Bussy did not quit Diana; the smiles of Monsoreau gave him a liberty which he was only too glad to make use of.

“Madame,” said he to Diana, “I am in truth the most miserable of men. On the news of his death, I advised the prince to return to Paris, and to come to terms with his mother; he did so, and now you remain in Anjou.”

“Oh, Louis,” replied she, “we dare not say that we are unhappy; so many happy days, so many joys – do you forget them all?”

“I forget nothing, madame; on the contrary, I remember but too much, and that is why I suffer as I do at losing this happiness. What shall I do if I return to Paris, a hundred leagues from you? My heart sinks at the thought, Diana.”

Diana looked at him, and saw so much grief in his eyes, that she said, “Well, if you go to Paris, I will go also.”

“How! will you quit M. de Monsoreau?”

“No, he would not allow me to do so; he must come with us.”

“Wounded, ill as he is? Impossible!”

“He will come, I tell you.” And, leaving Bussy, she went to the prince. The count frowned dreadfully.

“Monseigneur,” said she, “they say your highness is fond of flowers; if you will come with me, I will show you the most beautiful in Anjou.”

The duke offered her his hand.

“Where are you about to take monseigneur?” asked Monsoreau uneasily.

“Into the greenhouse.”

“Ah! well, carry me there.”

“Ma foi!” thought Rémy, “I was right not to kill him, for he will soon kill himself.”

Diana smiled on Bussy, and said to him, in a low voice, “Do not let M. de Monsoreau suspect that you are about to leave Anjou, and I will manage all.”

“Good!” said Bussy, and approaching the prince, he whispered, “Do not let Monsoreau know that we intend to make peace.”

“Why not?”

“Because he might tell the queen-mother, to make a friend of her.”

“You suspect him, then?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, so do I; I believe he only counterfeited death to deceive us.”

“No, he really received a sword-thrust through his body, and but for that fool of a Rémy, he would have died; I believe his soul must be glued to his body.”

They arrived at the conservatory, and Diana continued to smile charmingly on the prince. He passed first, then Diana, and Monsoreau wished to follow, but it was impossible. His litter was too large to go through the door. At this sight he uttered a groan. Diana went on quietly, without looking at him, but Bussy, who understood her, said to him:

“It is useless to try, M. le Comte, your litter will not pass.”

“Monseigneur!” cried Monsoreau, “do not go into that conservatory, some of the flowers exhale dangerous perfumes.”

Then he fainted, and was carried to his room.

Bussy went to tell Diana what had happened, and she left the duke to go to the castle.

“Have we succeeded?” said Bussy to her as she passed.

“I hope so; do not go away without having seen Gertrude.”

When Monsoreau opened his eyes again, he saw Diana standing at his bedside.

“Ah! it is you, madame,” said he, “to-night we leave for Paris.”

Rémy cried out in horror, but Monsoreau paid no attention.

“Can you think of such a thing, with your wound?” said Diana, quietly.

“Madame, I would rather die than suffer, and were I to die on the road, we start to-night.”

“As you please, monsieur.”

“Then make your preparations.”

“My preparations are soon made, but may I ask the reason of this sudden determination?”

“I will tell you, madame, when you have no more flowers to show to the prince, and when my doors are large enough to admit litters.”

Diana bowed.

“But, madame – ” said Rémy.

“M. le Comte wishes it,” replied she, “and my duty is to obey.” And she left the room.

As the duke was making his adieux to the Baron de Méridor, Gertrude appeared, and said aloud to the duke that her mistress regretted that she could not have the honor of saying farewell to his highness; and softly to Bussy that Diana would set off for Paris that evening. As they went home again, the duke felt unwilling to leave Anjou now that Diana smiled on him. Therefore he said, “I have been reflecting, Bussy,” said he.

“On what, monseigneur?”

“That it is not wise to give in at once to my mother.”

“You are right, she thinks herself clever enough without that.”

“But by dragging it on for a week, and giving fêtes, and calling the liability around us, she will see how strong we are.”

“Well reasoned, but still – ”

“I will stay here a week; depend upon it I shall draw new concessions from the queen.”

Bussy appeared to reflect. “Well, monseigneur,” said he, “perhaps you are right, but the king, not knowing your intentions, may become annoyed; he is very irascible.”

“You are right, but I shall send some one to the king to announce my return in a week.”

“Yes, but that some one will run great risks.”

“If I change my mind, you mean.”

“Yes, and in spite of your promise, you would do so if you thought it your interest.”

“Perhaps.”

“Then they will send your messenger to the Bastile.”

“I will give him a letter, and not let him know what he is carrying.”

“On the contrary, give him no letter, and let him know.”

“Then no one will go.”

“Oh! I know some one.”

“Who?”

“I, myself.”

“You!”

“Yes, I like difficult negotiations.”

“Bussy, my dear Bussy, if you will do that, I shall be eternally grateful.”

Bussy smiled. The duke thought he hesitated.

“And I will give you ten thousand crowns for your journey,” added he.

“Thanks, monseigneur, but these things cannot be paid for.”

“Then you will go?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Whenever you like.”

“The sooner the better.”

“This evening if you wish it.”

“Dear Bussy.”

“You know I would do anything for your highness. I will go to-night; you stay here and enjoy yourself, and get me something good from the queen-mother.”

“I will not forget.”

Bussy then prepared to depart as soon as the signal arrived from Méridor. It did not come till the next morning, for the count had felt himself so feeble that he had been forced to take a night’s rest. But early in the morning a messenger came to announce to Bussy that the count had set off for Paris in a litter, followed on horseback by Rémy, Diana, and Gertrude. Bussy jumped on his horse, and took the same road.

CHAPTER LXXI.