Chicot the Jester

CHAPTER LXXX.

THE WATCHERS

The duke kept Bussy near him all day, so as not to lose sight of his movements. Bussy did not care, so that he had his evenings free. At ten o’clock he wrapped himself in his cloak, and with a rope ladder under his arm went towards the Bastile. The duke, who did not know that he had a ladder, and could not believe in any one walking alone at night through the streets of Paris, thought Bussy would certainly call at his hotel for a horse and a servant, and lost ten minutes in preparations. During those ten minutes, Bussy, active and in love, had already gone three-fourths of the distance. He was lucky, as brave people generally are, and met with no accident by the way, and on arriving saw a light in the windows. It was the signal agreed on between him and Diana. He threw his ladder up to the balcony, it had six hooks to it, and was sure to fasten itself somewhere. At the noise, Diana put out her light and opened the window to fasten the ladder. The thing was done in a moment. Diana looked all around; the street seemed deserted. Then she signed to Bussy to mount, and he was up in five seconds. The moment was happily chosen, for while he got in at the window, M. de Monsoreau, after having listened patiently for a quarter of an hour at his wife’s door, descended the stairs painfully, leaning on the arm of a confidential valet, and it so happened that he opened the street-door just as the ladder was drawn up, and the window closed. He looked around, but the streets were deserted.

“You have been badly informed,” said he to the servant.

“No, monsieur, I have just left the Hôtel d’Anjou, and they told me that the duke had ordered two horses for this evening. But perhaps it was not to come here.”

“Where else should he go?” said Monsoreau, with a somber air. He, like all jealous persons, thought the whole world had nothing to do but to torment him.

“Perhaps I should have done better to stay in her room,” murmured he. “But they probably have signals for corresponding; she would have warned him of my presence, and I should have learned nothing. It is better to watch outside. Come, conduct me to the hiding-place, whence you say one can see everything.”

“Come, monsieur.”

About twenty-five steps from the door was an enormous heap of stones belonging to demolished houses, and serving for fortifications to the children of the neighborhood when they played at battles. In the midst was a space, which could contain two people. The valet spread a cloak, on which Monsoreau sat down, while his servant sat at his feet, with a loaded musket placed beside him. Diana had prudently drawn her thick curtains, so that scarcely a ray of light showed through, to betray that there was life in this gloomy house.

They had been watching about ten minutes, when two horses appeared at the end of the street. The valet pointed to them.

“I see,” said Monsoreau.

The two men got off their horses, and tied them up at the corner of the Hôtel des Tournelles.

“Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “I believe we have arrived too late; he must have gone straight from your hotel and must have entered.”

“Perhaps so; but if we did not see him go in, we can see him come out.”

“Yes, but when?”

“When we please.”

“Would it be too curious to ask how you mean to manage?”

“Nothing is more easy; we have but to knock at the door, and ask after M. de Monsoreau. Our lover will be frightened at the noise, and as you enter the house he will come out at the window, and I, who am hidden outside, shall see him.”

“And Monsoreau?”

“What can he say? I am his friend, and was uneasy about him, as he looked so ill yesterday; nothing can be more simple.”

“It is very ingenious, monseigneur.”

“Do you hear what they say?” asked Monsoreau of his valet.

“No, monsieur, but we soon shall, for they are coming nearer.”

“Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “here is a heap of stones which seems made on purpose for us.”

“Yes, but wait a moment, perhaps we can see through the opening of the curtain.” And they stood for some minutes trying to find a place to peep through. Meanwhile, Monsoreau was boiling with impatience, and his hand approached the musket.

“Oh! shall I suffer this?” murmured he, “shall I devour this affront also? No, my patience is worn out. Mordieu! that I can neither sleep, nor wake, nor even suffer quietly, because a shameful caprice has lodged in the idle brain of this miserable prince. No, I am not a complaisant valet; I am the Comte de Monsoreau, and if he comes near, on my word, I will blow his brains out. Light the match, René.”

At this moment, just as the prince was about to seek his hiding-place, leaving his companion to knock at the door, Aurilly touched his arm.

“Well, monsieur, what is it?” asked the prince.

“Come away, monseigneur, come.”

“Why so?”

“Do you not see something shining there to the left?”

“I see a spark among that heap of stones.”

“It is the match of a musket, or arquebuse.”

“Ah! who the devil can be in ambush there?”

“Some friend or servant of Bussy’s. Let us go and make a detour, and return another way. The servant will give the alarm, and we shall see Bussy come out of the window.”

“You are right; come;” and they went to their horses.

“They are going,” said the valet.

“Yes. Did you recognize them?”

“They seemed to me to be the prince and Aurilly.”

“Just so. But I shall soon be more sure still.”

“What will monsieur do?”

“Come.”

Meanwhile, the duke and Aurilly turned into the Rue St. Catherine, intending to return by the boulevard of the Bastile.

Monsoreau went in, and ordered his litter.

What the duke had foreseen happened. At the noise that Monsoreau made, Bussy took the alarm, the light was extinguished, the ladder fixed, and Bussy, to his great regret, was obliged to fly, like Romeo, but without having, like him, seen the sun rise and heard the lark sing. Just as he touched the ground, and Diana had thrown him the ladder, the duke and Aurilly arrived at the corner of the Bastile. They saw a shadow suspended from Diana’s window, but this shadow disappeared almost instantaneously at the corner of the Rue St. Paul.

“Monsieur,” said the valet to Monsoreau, “we shall wake up the household.”

“What do I care?” cried Monsoreau, furiously. “I am master here, I believe, and I have at least the right to do what M. d’Anjou wished to do.”

The litter was got ready, and, drawn by two stout horses, it was soon at the Hôtel d’Anjou.

The duke and Aurilly had so recently come in that their horses were not unsaddled. Monsoreau, who had the entree, appeared on the threshold just as the duke, after having thrown his hat on a chair, was holding out his boots to a valet to pull off. A servant, preceding him by some steps, announced M. de Monsoreau. A thunderbolt breaking his windows, could not have astonished the prince more.

“M. de Monsoreau!” cried he, with an uneasiness he could not hide.

“Myself, monseigneur,” replied he, trying to repress his emotion, but the effort he made over himself was so violent that his legs failed him, and he fell on to a chair which stood near.

“But you will kill yourself, my dear friend,” said the duke; “you are so pale, you look as though you were going to faint.”

“Oh, no; what I have to say to your highness is of too much importance; I may faint afterwards.”

“Speak, then, my dear comte.”

“Not before your people, I suppose.”

The duke dismissed everyone.

“Your highness has just come in?” said Monsoreau.

“As you see, comte.”

“It is very imprudent of your highness to go by night in the street.”

“Who told you I had been in the streets?”

“The dust on your clothes.”

“M. de Monsoreau, have you another employment besides that of chief huntsman?”

“Yes, that of spy, monseigneur; all the world follow that calling now, more or less, and I, like the rest.”

“And what does this profession bring you, monsieur?”

“Knowledge.”

“It is curious.”

“Very curious.”

“Well, tell me what you have to say.”

“I came for that.”

“You permit me to sit down?” said the duke.

“No irony, monseigneur, towards an old and faithful servant, who comes at this hour and in this state to do you a service. If I sat down, on my honor, it was because I could not stand.”

“A service! to do me a service?”

“Yes.”

“Speak, then.”

“Monseigneur, I come on the part of a great prince.”

“From the king?”

“No; M. le Duc de Guise.”

“Ah! that is quite a different thing. Approach, and speak low.”

CHAPTER LXXXI.

HOW M. LE DUC D’ANJOU SIGNED, AND AFTER HAVING SIGNED, SPOKE

There was a moment’s silence. Then the duke said: “Well, M. le Comte, what have you to say to me from the Duc de Guise?”

“Much, monseigneur.”

“They have written to you?”

“No; the duke writes no more since that strange disappearance of Nicholas David. They have come to Paris.”

“MM. de Guise are at Paris?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“I have not seen them.”

“They are too prudent to expose themselves or your highness to any risk.”

“And I was not told!”

“I tell you now.”

“What have they come for?”

“They come, monseigneur, to the rendezvous you gave them.”

“That I gave them!”

“Doubtless; on the day when your highness was arrested you received a letter from M. de Guise, and replied to it verbally, through me, that they were to come to Paris from the thirty-first of May to the second of June. It is now the thirty-first of May, and if your highness has forgotten them, they have not forgotten you.”

François grew pale. So many events had passed since, that he had forgotten the rendezvous. “It is true,” said he, at length, “but the relations which then existed between us exist no longer.”

“If that be so, monseigneur, you would do well to tell them, for I believe they think differently.”

“How so?”

“You, perhaps, think yourself free as regards them, but they feel bound to you.”

“A snare, my dear comte, in which a man does not let himself be taken twice.”

“And where was monseigneur taken in a snare?”

“Where? at the Louvre, mordieu.”

“Was it the fault of MM. de Guise?”

“I do not say so, but they never assisted me to escape.”

“It would have been difficult; they were flying themselves.”

“It is true.”

“But when you were in Anjou, did they not charge me to tell you that you could always count on them, as they on you, and that the day you marched on Paris, they would do the same?”

“It is true, but I did not march on Paris.”

“You are here.”

“Yes; but as my brother’s ally.”

“Monseigneur will permit me to observe that he is more than the ally of the Guises.”

“What then?”

“Their accomplice.”

The duke bit his lips.

“And you say they charged you to announce their arrival to me?”

“They did me that honour.”

“But they did not tell you the motive of their return?”

“They told me all, knowing me to be the confidant of your highness.”

“Then they have projects. What are they?”

“The same always.”

“And they think them practicable?”

“They look upon them as certain.”

“And these projects have for an aim – ”

The duke stopped, not daring to finish.

“To make you King of France; yes, monseigneur.”

The duke felt the flush of joy mount to his face.

“But,” said he “is the moment favorable?”

“Your wisdom must decide.”

“My wisdom?”

“Yes, the facts cannot be contradicted. The nomination of the king as head of the League was only a comedy, quickly seen through and appreciated. Now the reaction has commenced, and the entire state is rising against the tyranny of the king and his creatures. Sermons are a call to arms, and churches are places where they curse the king, instead of praying to God. The army trembles with impatience; the bourgeois league together; our emissaries bring in nothing but signatures and new adherents to the League. In a word, the king’s reign touches on its close. Now, do you renounce your former projects?”

The duke did not reply.

“Monseigneur knows that he may speak frankly to me.”

“I think,” said the duke, “that considering my brother has no children, that his health is uncertain, and that after him the crown will come naturally to me, there is no reason why I should compromise my name and my dignity, in a useless struggle, and try to take, with danger, what will come to me in due course.”

“Your highness is in error; your brother’s throne will only come to you if you take it. MM. de Guise cannot be kings themselves, but they will only allow to reign a king of their own making, a king whom they substitute for the reigning one. They count on your highness, but if you refuse, they will seek another.”

“And who will dare to seat himself on the throne of Charlemagne?”

“A Bourbon instead of a Valois, monseigneur; a son of St, Louis, instead of a son of St. Louis.”

“The king of Navarre?”

“Why not? He is young, and brave,”

“He is a Huguenot.”

“Was he not converted at the St. Bartholomew?”

“Yes, and he abjured afterwards.”

“Oh, monseigneur, what he did for his wife, he will do again for the crown.”

“They think, then, that I will yield my rights without a struggle.”

“The case is provided for.”

“I will fight.”

“They are men of war.”

“I will put myself at the head of the League.”

“They are the soul of it.”

“I will join my brother.”

“Your brother will be dead.”

“I will call the kings of Europe to my aid.”

“They will think twice before making war on a people.”

“My party will stand by me.”

“Your party, I believe, consists of M. de Bussy and myself.”

“Then I am tied.”

“Nearly so. You can do nothing without the Guises; with them, everything. Say the word, and you are king.”

The duke walked about for a few minutes, in great agitation, then stopped, and said, “Go on, count.”

“This, then, is the plan. In eight days the Fête Dieu will take place, and the king meditates on that day a great procession to the convents of Paris. There, the guards will remain at the door, the king will stop before each altar, kneel down, and say five paters and five aves.”

“I know all that.”

“He will go to St. Geneviève – ”

“Yes.”

“He will enter with a suite of five or six persons, and behind them, the doors will be closed.”

“And then – ”

“Your highness knows the monks who will do the honors of the Abbey to his majesty.”

“They will be the same – ”

“Who were there when your highness was crowned.”

“They will dare to lay hands on the Lord’s anointed?”

“Oh! to shave him, only.”

“They will never dare to do that to a king.”

“He will not be a king then.”

“How so?”

“Have you never heard of a holy man who preaches sermons, and is going to perform miracles?”

“Brother Gorenflot?”

“Just so.”

“The one who wished to preach the League with his arquebuse on his shoulder?”

“The same.”

“Well! they will conduct the king into his cell; once there, he will be asked to sign his abdication, then, when he has signed, Madame de Montpensier will enter, scissors in hand. She wears them now, hanging to her side; they are charming scissors, made of gold, and admirably chased, to do him honor. You understand the rest. We announced to the people that the king, experiencing a holy repentance for his sins, has announced his intention of never more leaving the convent. If there are any who doubt, M. de Guise holds the army, M. le Cardinal the Church, and M. de Mayenne the bourgeois; and with these three powers you can make the people believe what you like.”

“But they will accuse me of violence,” said the duke.

“You need not be there.”

“They will look on me as a usurper.”

“Monseigneur forgets the abdication.”

“The king will refuse.”

“It seems that Brother Gorenflot is not only clever, but strong.”

“The plan is then settled?”

“Quite.”

“And they do not fear that I shall denounce it?”

“No, monseigneur; for in that case, they have another, not less sure.”

“Ah!”

“Yes.”

“And this one?”

“I do not know; they thought me too much your friend to trust me with it.”

“Well, I yield, count. What must I do?”

“Approve.”

“I do.”

“Words are not enough.”

“What then?”

“Writing.”

“It is a folly to suppose I will ever consent to that.”

“And why not?”

“If the conspiracy fail – ”

“It is just in case it should, that they ask for your signature.”

“Then they wish to shelter themselves behind my name?”

“Just so.”

“Then I refuse.”

“You cannot.”

“I cannot refuse?”

“No.”

“Are you mad?”

“To refuse is to betray.”

“Let them think as they like; at all events I will choose my own danger.”

“Monseigneur, you choose badly.”

“I will risk it,” cried François, endeavoring to keep firm.

“For your own interest I advise you not to do so.”

“But I shall compromise myself by signing.”

“In refusing, you assassinate yourself.”

François shuddered.

“They would dare?” said he.

“They would dare anything, monseigneur. The conspirators have gone so far, that they must succeed at any cost.”

The duke, with his usual indecision, felt terribly perplexed.

“I will sign,” said he, at last.

“When?”

“To-morrow.”

“No, monseigneur; if you sign, it must be at once.”

“But M. de Guise must draw up the agreement.”

“It is already drawn-here it is;” and Monsoreau drew a paper from his pocket: it was a full adhesion to the scheme. The duke read it though, growing more and more pale as he did so.

“Here is the pen, monseigneur.”

“Then I must sign?”

“If you wish to do so; no one forces you.”

“Yes, they do, since they menace me with assassination.”

“I do not menace you, monseigneur – I only warn you.”

“Give me the pen.”

And, snatching it eagerly, he signed the paper. Monsoreau watched him with an eye full of hatred and hope, and no sooner had the duke finished than, exclaiming “Ah!” he seized the paper, buttoned it into his doublet, and wrapped his cloak over it.

François looked at him with astonishment, for a flash of ferocious joy played over his face.

“And now, monseigneur, be prudent,” said he.

“How so?”

“Do not run about the streets with Aurilly, as you did just now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that, this evening, you pursued with your love a woman whom her husband adores, and whom he is jealous of, enough to kill any one who approaches her without permission.”

“Is it of you and your wife that you are speaking?”

“Yes, monseigneur. I have married Diana de Méridor; she is mine, and no one shall have her while I live – not even a prince; I swear it by my name and on this poniard!” and he touched with his poniard the breast of the prince, who started back.

“Monsieur, you menace me!” cried François, pale with rage.

“No, monseigneur; once more, I say, I only warn you.”

“Of what?”

“That no one shall make love to my wife.”

“And I warn you that you are too late, and that some one makes love to her already.”

Monsoreau uttered a terrible cry. “Is it you?” cried he.

“You are mad, count!”

“No, I am not; prove your words.”

“Who was hidden this evening, twenty steps from your door, with a musket?”

“Well, comte, during that time there was a man with your wife.”

“You saw him go in?”

“I saw him come out.”

“By the door?”

“No, by the window.”

“Did you recognize him?”

“Yes.”

“Name him, monseigneur, or I do not answer for myself.”

The duke half smiled.

“M. le Comte,” said he, “on my faith as a prince, on my soul, within a week I will tell you his name.”

“You swear it.”

“I swear it.”

“Well, monseigneur, you have a week; but – ” said he, touching the paper in his breast.

“Come back in eight days.”

“Good! in eight days I shall have regained all my strength, ready for vengeance.”

CHAPTER LXXXII.

A PROMENADE AT THE TOURNELLES

In course of time the Angevin gentlemen had returned to Paris, although not with much confidence. They knew too well the king, his brother, and mother, to hope that all would terminate in a family embrace. They returned, therefore, timidly, and glided into the town armed to the teeth, ready to fire on the least suspicion, and drew their swords fifty times before the Hôtel d’Anjou on harmless bourgeois, who were guilty of no crime but of looking at them. They presented themselves at the Louvre, magnificently dressed in silk, velvet, and embroidery. Henri III. would not receive them; they waited vainly in the gallery. It was MM. Quelus, Maugiron, Schomberg, and D’Epernon who came to announce this news to them, with great politeness, and expressing all the regrets in the world.

“Ah, gentlemen,” said Antragues, “the news is sad, but, coming from your mouths, it loses half its bitterness.”

“Gentlemen,” said Schomberg, “you are the flower of grace and courtesy. Would it please you to change the reception which you have missed into a little promenade?”

“Ah! gentlemen, we were about to propose it.”

“Where shall we go?” said Quelus.

“I know a charming place near the Bastile,” said Schomberg.

“We follow you, go on.”

Then the eight gentlemen went out, arm in arm, talking gaily on different subjects, until Quelus said, “Here is a solitary place, with a good footing.”

“Ma foi, yes.”

“Well! we thought that you would one day accompany us here to meet M. de Bussy, who has invited us all here.”

“It is true,” said Bussy.

“Do you accept?” said Maugiron.

“Certainly; we rejoice at such an honor.”

“That is well,” said Schomberg; “shall we each choose an opponent?”

“No,” said Bussy, “that is not fair; let us trust to chance, and the first one that is free can join the others.”

“Let us draw lots then,” said Quelus.

“One moment,” said Bussy, “first let us settle the rules of the game.”

“They are simple; we will fight till death ensues!”

“Yes, but how?”

“With sword and dagger.”

“On foot?”

“Oh, yes! on horseback one’s movements are not so free.”

“Then, on foot.”

“What day?”

“The soonest possible.”

“No,” said D’Epernon, “I have a thousand things to settle and a will to make; I would rather wait five or six days.”

“So be it.”

“Then draw lots.”

“One moment! divide the ground into four compartments, each for a pair.”

“Well said.”

“I propose for number one, the long square between the chestnuts; it is a fine place.”

“Agreed.”

“But the sun? one would be turned to the east.”

“No,” said Bussy, “that is not fair;” and he proposed a new position, which was agreed to.

Schomberg and Ribeirac came first. They were the first pair; Quelus and Antragues the second; then Livarot and Maugiron the third. D’Epernon, who saw himself left to Bussy, grew very pale.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Bussy, “until the day of the combat, let us be friends. Will you accept a dinner at the Hôtel Bussy?”