Chicot the Jester

CHAPTER V.

HOW MADAME DE ST. LUC PASSED THE SECOND NIGHT OF HER MARRIAGE

Bussy went straight to the sleeping-room of the king. There were in it two beds of velvet and satin, pictures, relics, perfumed sachets from the East, and a collection of beautiful swords. Bussy knew the king was not there, as his brother had asked to see him, but he knew that there was next to it a little room which was occupied in turn by all the king’s favorites, and which he now expected to find occupied by St. Luc, whom the king in his great affection had carried off from his wife. Bussy knocked at the antechamber common to the two rooms. The captain of the guards opened.

“M. de Bussy!” cried he.

“Yes, myself, dear M. de Nancey; the king wishes to speak to M. de St. Luc.”

“Very well, tell M. de St. Luc the king wants him.”

“What is he doing?”

“He is with Chicot, waiting for the king’s return from his brother.”

“Will you permit my page to wait here?”

“Willingly, monsieur.”

“Enter, Jean,” said Bussy, and he pointed to the embrasure of a window, where she went to hide herself. St. Luc entered, and M. de Nancey retired.

“What does the king want now?” cried St. Luc, angrily; “ah! it is you, M. de Bussy.”

“I, and before everything, let me thank you for the service you rendered me.”

“Ah! it was quite natural; I could not bear to see a brave gentleman assassinated: I thought you killed.”

“It did not want much to do it, but I got off with a wound, which I think I repaid with interest to Schomberg and D’Epernon. As for Quelus, he may thank the bones of his head: they are the hardest I ever knew.”

“Ah! tell me about it, it will amuse me a little.”

“I have no time now, I come for something else. You are ennuyé – ”

“To death.”

“And a prisoner?”

“Completely. The king pretends no one can amuse him but me. He is very good, for since yesterday I have made more grimaces than his ape, and been more rude than his jester.”

“Well, it is my turn to render you a service: can I do it?”

“Yes, go to the Marshal de Brissac’s, and reassure my poor little wife, who must be very uneasy, and must think my conduct very strange.”

“What shall I say to her?”

“Morbleu! tell her what you see; that I am a prisoner, and that the king talks to me of friendship like Cicero, who wrote on it; and of virtue like Socrates, who practised it. It is in vain I tell him I am ungrateful for the first, and incredulous as to the last: he only repeats it over again.”

“Is that all I can do for you?”

“Ah, mon Dieu! I fear so.”

“Then it is done.”

“How so?”

“I guessed all this, and told your wife so.”

“And what did she say?”

“At first she would not believe; but I trust now,” continued he, glancing towards the window, “she will yield to evidence. Ask me something more difficult.”

“Then, bring here the griffin of Signor Astolfo, and let me mount en croupe, and go to my wife.”

“A more simple thing would be to take the griffin to your wife and bring her here.”

“Here!”

“Yes, here.”

“To the Louvre, that would be droll.”

“I should think so. Then you would be ennuyé no longer?”

“Ma foi! no, but if this goes on much longer, I believe I shall kill myself.”

“Well! shall I give you my page?”

“To me?”

“Yes, he is a wonderful lad.”

“Thank you, but I detest pages.”

“Bah! try him.”

“Bussy, you mock me.”

“Let me leave him.”

“No.”

“I tell you, you will like him.”

“No, no, a hundred times, no.”

“Hola, page, come here.”

Jeanne came forward, blushing.

“Oh!” cried St. Luc, recognizing her, in astonishment.

“Well! shall I send him away?”

“No, no. Ah Bussy, I owe you an eternal friendship.”

“Take care, you cannot be heard, but you can be seen.”

“It is true,” said St. Luc, retreating from his wife. Indeed, M. de Nancey was beginning to wonder what was going on, when a great noise was heard from the gallery.

“Ah! mon Dieu!” cried M. de Nancey, “there is the king quarreling with some one.”

“I really think so,” replied Bussy, affecting inquietude; “can it be with the Duc d’Anjou, who came with me?”

The captain of the guard went off in the direction of the gallery.

“Have I not managed well?” said Bussy to St. Luc.

“What is it?”

“M. d’Anjou and the king are quarrelling; I must go to them. You profit by the time to place in safety the page I have brought you; is it possible?”

“Oh, yes; luckily I declared I was ill and must keep my room.”

“In that case, adieu, madame, and remember me in your prayers.” And Bussy went off to the gallery, where the king, red with fury, swore to the duke, who was pale with anger, that in the scene of the preceding night Bussy was the aggressor.

“I affirm to you, sire,” cried the duke, “that D’Epernon, Schomberg and Quelus were waiting for him at the Hôtel des Tournelles.”

“Who told you so?”

“I saw them with my own eyes.”

“In that darkness! The night was pitch dark.”

“I knew their voices.”

“They spoke to you?”

“They did more, they took me for Bussy, and attacked me.”

“You?”

“Yes, I.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“What does that matter to you?”

“I wish to know; I am curious to-day.”

“I was going to Manasses.”

“A Jew?”

“You go to Ruggieri, a poisoner.”

“I go where I like: I am the king. Besides, as I said, Bussy was the aggressor.”

“Where?”

“At St. Luc’s ball.”

“Bussy provoked five men? No, no, he is brave, but he is not mad.”

“Par la mordieu! I tell you I heard him. Besides, he has wounded Schomberg in the thigh, D’Epernon in the arm, and half killed Quelus.”

“Ah! really I did not know; I compliment him on it.”

“I will make example of this brawler.”

“And I, whom your friends attack, in his person and in my own, will know if I am your brother, and if – ”

At this moment Bussy, dressed in pale-green satin, entered the room.

“Sire!” said he, “receive my humble respects.”

“Pardieu! here he is,” cried Henri.

“Your majesty, it seems, was doing me the honor of speaking of me.”

“Yes, and I am glad to see that, in spite of what they told me, your look shows good health.”

“Sire, blood drawn improves the complexion, so mine ought to be good this morning.”

“Well, since they have wounded you, complain, and I will do you justice.”

“I complain of nothing, sire.”

Henri looked astonished. “What did you say?” said he to the duke.

“I said that Bussy had received a wound in his side.”

“Is it true, Bussy?”

“The first prince of the blood would not lie, sire.”

“And yet you do not complain?”

“I shall never complain, sire, until they cut off my right-hand, and prevent my revenging myself, and then I will try to do it with the left.”

“Insolent,” murmured Henri.

“Sire,” said the duke, “do justice; we ask no better. Order an inquiry, name judges, and let it be proved who prepared the ambush and the intended murder.”

Henri reddened. “No,” said he, “I prefer this time to be ignorant where the wrong lies, and to pardon everyone. I wish these enemies to make peace, and I am sorry that Schomberg and D’Epernon are kept at home by their wounds. Say, M. d’Anjou, which do you call the most forward to fight of all my friends, as you say you saw them?”

“Sire, it was Quelus.”

“Ma foi! yes,” said Quelus, “his highness is right.”

“Then,” said Henri, “let MM. Bussy and Quelus make peace in the name of all.”

“Oh! Oh!” said Quelus, “what does that mean, sire?”

“It means that you are to embrace here, before me.” Quelus frowned.

“Ah, signor,” cried Bussy, imitating a pantaloon, “will you not do me this favor?”

Even the king laughed. Then, approaching Quelus, Bussy threw his arms round his neck, saying, “The king wishes it.”

“I hope it engages us to nothing,” whispered Quelus.

“Be easy,” answered Bussy, “we will meet soon.”

Quelus drew back in a rage, and Bussy, making a pirouette, went out of the gallery.

CHAPTER VI.

LE PETIT COUCHER OF HENRI III

After this scene, beginning in tragedy and ending in comedy, the king, still angry, went to his room, followed by Chicot, who asked for his supper.

“I am not hungry,” said the king.

“It is possible, but I am.”

The king did not seem to hear. He unclasped his cloak, took off his cap, and, advancing to the passage which led to St. Luc’s room, said to Chicot, “Wait here for me till I return.”

“Oh! do not be in a hurry,” said Chicot. No sooner was the king gone, than Chicot opened the door and called “Hola!”

A valet came. “The king has changed his mind,” said Chicot, “he wishes a good supper here for himself and St. Luc, above all, plenty of wine, and despatch.”

The valet went to execute the orders, which he believed to be the king’s. Henri meanwhile had passed into St. Luc’s room. He found him in bed, having prayers read to him by an old servant who had followed him to the Louvre, and shared his captivity. In a corner, on an armchair, his head buried in his hands, slept the page.

“Who is that young man?” asked the king.

“Did not your majesty authorize me to send for a page.”

“Yes, doubtless.”

“Well, I have profited by it.”

“Oh!”

“Does your majesty repent of having allowed me this little indulgence?”

“No, no, on the contrary, amuse yourself, my son. How are you?”

“Sire, I have a fever.”

“Really, your face is red; let me feel your pulse, I am half a doctor.”

St. Luc held out his hand with visible ill-humor.

“Oh!” said the king, “intermittent – agitated.”

“Yes, sire, I am very ill.”

“I will send you my doctor.”

“Thank you, sire, but I hate Miron.”

“I will watch you myself. You shall have a bed in my room, and we will talk all night.”

“Oh!” cried St Luc, “you see me ill, and you want to keep me from sleeping. That is a singular way to treat your patient, doctor.”

“But you cannot be left alone, suffering as you are.”

“Sire, I have my page, Jean.”

“But he sleeps.”

“That is what I like best, then he will not disturb me.”

“Well, come and assist at my going to bed.”

“Then I shall be free to come back to bed?”

“Perfectly.”

“Well, so be it. But I shall make a bad courtier, I assure you; I am dying with sleep.”

“You shall yawn at your ease.”

“Sire, if your majesty will leave me, I will be with you in five minutes.”

“Well, then, five minutes, but no longer.”

As soon as the door was shut, the page jumped up. “Ah! St. Luc,” cried she, “you are going to leave me again. Mon Dieu! I shall die of fright here, if they discover me.”

“My dear Jeanne, Gaspard here will protect you.”

“Had I not better go back?”

“If you really wish it, Jeanne,” said St. Luc, sadly, “you shall. But if you are as good as you are beautiful, if you have any feeling in your heart for me, you will wait here a little. I shall suffer so much from my head and nerves that the king will not long keep so sad a companion.”

“Go, then,” said Jeanne, “and I will wait.”

“My dear Jeanne, you are adorable. Trust me to returns as soon as possible, Besides, I have an idea, which I will tell you when I return.”

“An idea which will restore your liberty?”

“I hope so.”

“Then go,”

“Gaspard,” said St. Luc, “prevent any one from entering here, and in a quarter of an hour lock the door, and bring me the key to the king’s room. Then go home, and tell them not to be uneasy about Madame la Comtesse, and come back to-morrow.”

Then St. Luc kissed his wife’s hand, and went to the king, who was already growing impatient. Jeanne, alone and trembling, hid behind the curtains of the bed. When St. Luc entered he found the king amidst a perfect carpet of flowers, of which the stalks had been cut off-roses, jasmine, violets, and wall-flowers, in spite of the severe weather, formed an odorous carpet for Henry III. The chamber, of which the roof was painted, had in it two beds, one of which was so large as to occupy a third of the room. It was hung with gold and silk tapestry, representing mythological figures and the windows had curtains to match. From the center of the ceiling hung, suspended by a golden chain, a silver gilt lamp, in which burned a perfumed oil. At the side of the bed was a golden satyr, holding in his hand a candelabrum, containing four rose-color wax candles, also perfumed.

The king, with his naked feet resting on the flowers, was seated on a chair of ebony inlaid with gold; he had on his knees seven or eight young spaniels, who were licking his bands. Two servants were curling his hair, his mustachios, and beard, a third was covering his face with a kind of cream, which had a most delightful scent.

“Here,” cried Chicot, “the grease and the combs, I will try them too.”

“Chicot,” said Henri, “your skin is too dry, and will use too much cream, and your beard is so hard, it will break my combs. Well, my son,” said he, turning to St. Luc, “how is your head?”

St. Luc put his hand to his head and groaned.

“Imagine!” continued Henri, “I have seen Bussy d’Amboise.”

“Bussy!” cried St. Luc, trembling.

“Yes, those fools! five of them attacked him, and let him escape. If you had been there, St. Luc – ”

“I should probably have been like the others.”

“Oh! no, I wager you are as good as Bussy. We will try to-morrow.”

“Sire, I am too ill for anything.”

Henri, hearing a singular noise, turned round, and saw Chicot eating up all the supper that had been brought for two.

“What the devil are you doing, M. Chicot?” cried Henri.

“Taking my cream internally, since you will not allow me to do it outwardly.”

“Go and fetch my captain of the guards,” said Henri.

“What for?” asked Chicot, emptying a porcelain cup of chocolate.

“To pass his sword through your body.”

“Ah! let him come, we shall see!” cried Chicot, putting himself in such a comical attitude of defense that every one laughed.

“But I am hungry,” cried the king; “and the wretch has eaten up all the supper.”

“You are capricious, Henri; I offered you supper and you refused. However, your bouillon is left; I am no longer hungry, and I am going to bed.”

“And I also,” said St. Luc, “for I can stand no longer.”

“Stay, St. Luc,” said the king, “take these,” and he offered him a handful of little dogs.

“What for?”

“To sleep with you; they will take your illness from you.”

“Thanks, sire,” said St. Luc, putting them back in their basket, “but I have no confidence in your receipt.”

“I will come and visit you in the night, St. Luc.”

“Pray do not, sire, you will only disturb me,” and saluting the king, he went away. Chicot had already disappeared, and there only remained with the king the valets, who covered his face with a mask of fine cloth, plastered with the perfumed cream, in which were holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth; a cap of silk and silver fixed it on the forehead and ears. They next covered his arms with sleeves made of wadded silk, and then presented him with kid gloves, also greased inside.

These mysteries of the royal toilet finished, they presented to him his soup in a golden cup. Then Henri said a prayer, a short one that night, and went to bed.

When settled there, he ordered them to carry away the flowers, which were beginning to make the air sickly, and to open the window for a moment. Then the valet closed the doors and curtains, and called in Narcissus, the king’s favorite dog, who, jumping on the bed, settled himself at once on the king’s feet. The valet next put out the wax-lights, lowered the lamp, and went out softly.

Already, more tranquil and nonchalant than the lazy monks of his kingdom in their fat abbeys, the King of France no longer remembered that there was a France. – He slept.

Every noise was hushed, and one might have heard a bat fly in the somber corridors of the Louvre.

CHAPTER VII.

HOW, WITHOUT ANY ONE KNOWING WHY, THE KING WAS CONVERTED BEFORE THE NEXT DAY

Three hours passed thus.

Suddenly, a terrible cry was heard, which came from the king’s room.

All the lights in his room were out, and no sound was to be heard except this strange call of the king’s. For it was he who had cried.

Soon was heard the noise of furniture falling, porcelain breaking, steps running about the room, and the barking of dogs-mingled with new cries. Almost instantly lights burned, swords shone in the galleries, and the heavy steps of the Guards were heard.

“To arms!” cried all, “the king calls.”

And the captain of the guard, the colonel of the Swiss, and some attendants, rushed into the king’s room with flambeaux.

Near an overturned chair, broken cups, and disordered bed, stood Henri, looking terrified and grotesque in his night-dress. His right hand was extended, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and his left held his sword, which he had seized mechanically.

He appeared dumb through terror, and all the spectators, not daring to break the silence, waited with the utmost anxiety.

Then appeared, half dressed and wrapped in a large cloak, the young queen, Louise de Lorraine, blonde and gentle, who led the life of a saint upon earth, and who had been awakened by her husband’s cries.

“Sire,” cried she, also trembling, “what is the matter? Mon Dieu! I heard your cries, and I came.”

“It – it is nothing,” said the king, without moving his eyes, which seemed to be looking up the air for some form invisible to all but him.

“But your majesty cried out; is your majesty suffering?” asked the queen.

Terror was so visibly painted on the king’s countenance, that it began to gain on the others.

“Oh, sire!” cried the queen again, “in Heaven’s name do not leave us in this suspense. Will you have a doctor?”

“A doctor, no,” cried Henri, in the same tone, “the body is not ill, it is the mind; no doctor – a confessor.”

Everyone looked round; nowhere was there to be seen any traces of what had so terrified the king. However, a confessor was sent for; Joseph Foulon, superior of the convent of St. Généviève, was torn from his bed, to come to the king. With the confessor, the tumult ceased, and silence was reestablished; everyone conjectured and wondered – the king was confessing.

The next day the king rose early, and began to read prayers then he ordered all his friends to be sent for. They sent to St. Luc, but he was more suffering than ever. His sleep, or rather his lethargy, had been so profound, that he alone had heard nothing of the tumult in the night, although he slept so near. He begged to be left in bed. At this deplorable recital, Henri crossed himself, and sent him a doctor.

Then he ordered that all the scourges from the convent should be brought to him, and, going to his friends, distributed them, ordering them to scourge each other as hard as they could.

D’Epernon said that as his right arm was in a sling, and he could not return the blows he received, he ought to be exempt, but the king replied that that would only make it the more acceptable to God.

He himself set the example. He took off his doublet, waistcoat, and shirt, and struck himself like a martyr. Chicot tried to laugh, as usual, but was warned by a terrible look, that this was not the right time, and he was forced to take a scourge like the others.

All at once the king left the room, telling them to wait for him. Immediately the blows ceased, only Chicot continued to strike D’O, whom he hated, and D’O returned it as well as he could. It was a duel with whips.

The king went to the queen, gave her a pearl necklace worth 25,000 crowns, and kissed her, which he had not done for a year. Then he asked her to put off her royal ornaments and put on a sack.

Louise, always good, consented, but asked why her husband gave her a necklace, and yet made such a request.

“For my sins,” replied he.

The queen said no more, for she knew, better than any one, how many he had to repent of.

Henri returned, which was a signal for the flagellation to recommence. In ten minutes the queen arrived, with her sack on her shoulders. Then tapers were distributed to all the court, and barefooted, through the snow, all the courtiers and fine ladies went to Montmartre, shivering. At five o’clock the promenade was over, the convents had received rich presents, the feet of all the court were swollen, and the backs of the courtiers sore. There had been tears, cries, prayers, incense, and psalms. Everyone had suffered, without knowing why the king, who danced the night before, scourged himself to-day. As for Chicot, he had escaped at the Porte Montmartre, and, with Brother Gorenflot, had entered a public-house, where he had eaten and drank. Then he had rejoined the procession and returned to the Louvre.

In the evening the king, fatigued with his fast and his exercise, ordered himself a light supper, had his shoulders washed, and then went to visit St. Luc.

“Ah!” cried he, “God has done well to render life so bitter.”

“Why so, sire?”

“Because then man, instead of fearing death, longs for it.”

“Speak for yourself, sire, I do not long for it at all.”