Kitabı oku: «Chicot the Jester», sayfa 27

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?”

“I.”

“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?”

All agreed, and returned with Bussy to his hotel, where a sumptuous banquet united them till morning.

CHAPTER LXXXIII.
IN WHICH CHICOT SLEEPS

The movements of the young men had been remarked by the king and Chicot. The king walked up and down, waiting impatiently for his friends to return; but Chicot followed them at a distance, and saw enough to be satisfied of their intentions. When he returned to the house he found the king, walking up and down, muttering.

“Ah! my dear friend! do you know what has become of them?” cried Henri.

“Whom? your minions?”

“Alas! yes, my poor friends.”

“They must lie very low by this time.”

“Have they been killed?” cried Henri; “are they dead?”

“Dead I fear – ”

“And you laugh, wretch?”

“Oh! my son, dead drunk.”

“Oh! Chicot, how you terrified me. But why do you calumniate these gentlemen?”

“On the contrary, I praise them.”

“Be serious, I beg; do you know that they went out with the Angevins?”

“Of course, I know it.”

“What was the result?”

“What I tell you; that they are dead drunk.”

“But Bussy!”

“He is intoxicating them; he is a dangerous man.”

“Chicot, for pity’s sake – ”

“Yes; Bussy has given a dinner to your friends; how do you like that?”

“Impossible! They are sworn enemies.”

“Have you good legs?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you go to the river?”

“I would go to the end of the world to see such a thing.”

“Well! go only to the Hôtel Bussy.”

“Will you accompany me?”

“Thank you, I have just come from there.”

“But – ”

“Oh! no; I, who have seen, do not need to be convinced. Go, my son, go. You disquiet yourself about your friends; you first pity them as if they were dead, and when you hear they are not dead, you are uneasy still – ”

“You are intolerable, M. Chicot.”

“Would you have preferred that they should each have had seven or eight wounds by a rapier?”

“I should like to be able to depend on my friends.”

“Oh! ventre de biche, depend upon me; I am here, my son, only feed me. I want pheasant and truffles.”

Henri and his only friend went to bed early, the king still sighing.

The next day, at the petite levée of the king, MM. Quelus, Schomberg, Maugiron, and D’Epernon presented themselves. Chicot still slept. The king jumped from his bed in a fury, and tearing off the perfumed mask from his face, cried, “Go out from here.”

The young men looked at each other in wonder.

“But, sire, we wished to say to your majesty – ”

“That you are no longer drunk, I suppose.”

Chicot opened his eyes.

“Your majesty is in error,” said Quelus, gravely.

“And yet I have not drunk the wine of Anjou.”

“Oh! I understand,” said Quelus, smiling.

“What?”

“If your majesty will remain alone with us, we will tell you.”

“I hate drunkards and traitors.”

“Sire,” cried three of the gentlemen.

“Patience, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “his majesty has slept badly, and had unpleasant dreams. A few words will set all right.”

“Speak then, but be brief.”

“It is possible, sire, but difficult.”

“Yes; one turns long round certain accusations.”

“No, sire, we go straight to it,” replied Quelus, looking again at Chicot and the usher, as though to reiterate his request that they might be left alone. The king signed to the usher to leave the room, but Chicot said, “Never mind me, I sleep like a top,” and closing his eyes again, he began to snore with all his strength.

CHAPTER LXXXIV.
WHERE CHICOT WAKES

“Your majesty,” said Quelus, “knows only half the business, and that the least interesting half. Assuredly, we have all dined with M. de Bussy, and to the honor of his cook, be it said, dined well. There was, above all, a certain wine from Austria or Hungary, which really appeared to me marvelous. But during the repast, or rather after it, we had the most serious and interesting conversation concerning your majesty’s affairs.”

“You make the exordium very long.”

“How talkative you are, Valois!” cried Chicot.

“Oh! oh! M. Gascon,” said Henri, “if you do not sleep, you must leave the room.”

“Pardieu, it is you who keep me from sleeping, your tongue clacks so fast.”

Quelus, seeing it was impossible to speak seriously, shrugged his shoulders, and rose in anger.

“We were speaking of grave matters,” said he.

“Grave matters?”

“Yes,” said D’Epernon, “if the lives of eight brave gentlemen are worth the trouble of your majesty’s attention.”

“What does it mean, my son?” said Henri, placing his hand on Quelus’s shoulder.

“Well, sire, the result of our conversation was, that royalty is menaced – weakened, that is to say, that all the world is conspiring against you. Sire, you are a great king, but you have no horizon before you; the nobility have raised so many barriers before your eyes, that you can see nothing, if it be not the still higher barriers that the people have raised. When, sire, in battle one battalion places itself like a menacing wall before another, what happens? Cowards look behind them, and seeing an open space, they fly; the brave lower their heads and rush on.”

“Well, then forward!” cried the king, “mordieu! am I not the first gentleman in my kingdom? Were they not great battles that I fought in my youth? Forward, then, gentlemen, and I will take the lead; it is my custom in the mêlée.”

“Oh! yes, sire,” cried the young men, with one voice.

“And,” said Quelus, “against these ramparts which are closing round your majesty, four men will march, sure to be applauded by you, and glorified by posterity.”

“What do you mean, Quelus?” cried the king, with eyes in which joy was tempered by solicitude; “who are these four men?”

“I, and these other gentlemen,” replied Quelus, with pride; “we devote ourselves, sire.”

“To what?”

“To your safety.”

“Against whom?”

“Against your enemies.”

“Private enmities of young men?”

“Oh! sire, that is the expression of vulgar prejudice; speak like a king, sire, not like a bourgeois. Do not profess to believe that Maugiron detests Antragues, that Schomberg dislikes Livarot, that D’Epernon is jealous of Bussy, and that I hate Ribeirac. Oh! no. They are all young, and agreeable, and might love each other like brothers: it is not, therefore, a rivalry between man and man, which places the swords in our hands; it is the quarrel of France with Anjou, the dispute as to the rights of the populace against the prerogatives of the king. We present ourselves as champions of royalty in those lists, where we shall be met by the champions of the League, and we came to say, ‘Bless us, sire, smile on those who are going to die for you.’ Your blessing will, perhaps, give us the victory, your smile will make us die happy.”

Henri, overcome with emotion, opened his arms to Quelus and the others. He united them in his heart; and it was not a spectacle without interest, a picture without expression, but a scene in which manly courage was allied to softer emotions, sanctified by devotion. Chicot looked on, and his face, ordinarily indifferent or sarcastic, was not the least noble and eloquent of the six.

“Ah!” cried the king, “I am proud to-day, not of being King of France, but of being your friend; at the same time, as I know my own interests best, I will not accept a sacrifice, of which the result will deliver me up, if you fall, into the hands of my enemies. France is enough to make war on Anjou; I know my brother, the Guises, and the League, and have often conquered more dangerous foes.”

“But, sire, soldiers do not reason thus, they never take ill luck into their calculations.”

“Pardon me, Maugiron; a soldier may act blindly, but the captain reflects.”

“Reflect, then, sire, and let us act, who are only soldiers,” said Schomberg: “besides, I know no ill luck; I am always successful.”

“Friend, friend,” said the king, sadly, “I wish I could say as much. It is true, you are but twenty.”

“Sire,” said Quelus, “on what day shall we meet MM. Bussy, Livarot, Antragues and Ribeirac?”

“Never; I forbid it absolutely.”

“Sire, excuse us, the rendezvous was arranged before the dinner, words were said which cannot be retracted.”

“Excuse me, monsieur,” said Henri, “the king absolves from oaths and promises by saying, ‘I will, or I will not,’ for the king is all-powerful. Tell these gentlemen, therefore, that I have menaced you with all my anger it you come to blows; and that you may not doubt it yourselves, I swear to exile you, if – ”

“Stop! sire; do not swear; because, if for such a cause we have merited your anger, and this anger shows itself by exiling us, we will go into exile with joy, because, being no longer on your majesty’s territories, we can then keep our promises, and meet our adversaries.”

“If these gentlemen approach you within range of an arquebuse, I will throw them all into the Bastile.”

“Sire, if you do so we will all go barefooted, and with cords round our necks, to M. Testu, the governor, and pray to be incarcerate with them.”

“I will have them beheaded, then; I am king, I hope.”

“We will cut our throats at the foot of their scaffold.”

Henri kept silent for a long time; then, raising his eyes, said, “God will surely bless a cause defended by such noble hearts.”

“Yes, they are noble hearts,” said Chicot, rising; “do what they wish, and fix a day for their meeting. It is your duty, my son.”

“Oh I mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” murmured Henri.

“Sire, we pray you,” cried all the four gentlemen, bending their knees.

“Well! so be it. Let us trust that God will give us the victory. But let us prepare for the conflict in a Christian manner. If I had time, I would send all your swords to Rome, that the Pope might bless them. But we have the shrine of St. Genevieve, which contains most precious relics: let us fast, and do penance, and keep holy the great day of the Fête Dieu, and then the next day – ”

“Ah! sire, thanks; that is in eight days!” cried the young men.

And they seized the hands of the king, who embraced them all once more, and, going into his oratory, melted into tears.

“Our cartel is ready,” said Quelus, “we have but to add the day and hour. Write, Maugiron, the day after the Fête Dieu. Here is a table.”

“It is done,” said Maugiron, “now who will carry the letter?”

“I will, if you please,” said Chicot, approaching, “but I wish to give you a piece of advice. His majesty speaks of fasts and macerations. That is all very well after the combat, but before, I prefer good nourishment, generous wine, and eight hours’ sleep every night.”

“Bravo, Chicot!”

“Adieu, my little lions,” replied the Gascon, “I go to the Hôtel Bussy.” He went three steps and returned, and said, “Apropos, do not quit the king during the Fête Dieu; do not go to the country, any of you, but stay by the Louvre. Now, I will do your commission.”