Kitabı oku: «Chicot the Jester», sayfa 29

CHAPTER LXXXVIII.
CHICOT THE FIRST

The king visited the crypt, kissed the relics-often striking his breast, and murmuring the most doleful psalms. At last the prior said, “Sire, will it please you now to depose your earthly crown at the feet of the eternal king?”

“Let us go!” said the king.

They arrived at the cell, on the threshold of which stood Gorenflot, his eyes brilliant as carbuncles.

Henri entered. “Hic portus salutis!” murmured he.

“Yes,” replied Foulon.

“Leave us!” said Gorenflot, with a majestic gesture; and immediately the door shut, and they were left alone.

“Here you are, then, Herod! pagan! Nebuchadnezzar!” cried Gorenflot, suddenly.

“Is it to me you speak, my brother?” cried the king, in surprise.

“Yes, to you. Can one accuse you of anything so bad, that it is not true?”

“My brother!”

“Bah! you have no brother here. I have long been meditating a discourse, and now you shall have it. I divide it into three heads. First, you are a tyrant; second, you are a satyr; third, you are dethroned.”

“Dethroned!”

“Neither more or less. This abbey is not like Poland, and you cannot fly.”

“Ah! a snare!”

“Oh, Valois, learn that a king is but a man.”

“You are violent, my brother.”

“Pardieu! do you think we imprison you to flatter you?”

“You abuse your religious calling.”

“There is no religion.”

“Oh, you are a saint, and say such things!”

“I have said it.”

“You speak dreadfully, my brother.”

“Come, no preaching; are you ready?”

“To do what?”

“To resign your crown; I am charged to demand it of you.”

“You are committing a mortal sin.”

“Oh! I have right of absolution, and I absolve myself in advance. Come, renounce, Brother Valois.”

“Renounce what?”

“The throne of France.”

“Rather death!”

“Oh! then you shall die! Here is the prior returning. Decide!”

“I have my guards – my friends; they will defend me.”

“Yes, but you will be killed first.”

“Leave me at least a little time for reflection.”

“Not an instant!”

“Your zeal carries you away, brother,” said the prior, opening the door; and saying to the king, “Your request is granted,” he shut it again.

Henri fell into a profound reverie. “I accept the sacrifice,” he said, after the lapse of ten minutes.

“It is done – he accepts!” cried Gorenflot.

The king heard a murmur of joy and surprise.

“Read him the act,” said a voice, and a monk passed a paper to Gorenflot.

Gorenflot read it to the king, who listened with his head buried in his hands.

“If I refuse to sign?” cried he, shedding tears.

“It will be doubly your ruin,” said the Duc de Guise, from under his hood. “Look on yourself as dead to the world, and do not force your subjects to shed the blood of a man who has been their king.”

“I will not be forced.”

“I feared so,” said the duke to his sister. Then, turning to his brother, “Let everyone arm and prepare,” said he.

“For what?” cried the king, in a miserable tone.

“For anything.”

The king’s despair redoubled.

“Corbleu!” cried Gorenflot, “I hated you before, Valois, but now I despise you! Sign, or you shall perish by my hand!”

“Have patience,” said the king; “let me pray to my divine Master for resignation.”

“He wishes to reflect again,” said Gorenflot.

“Give him till midnight,” said the cardinal.

“Thanks, charitable Christian!” cried the king:

“His brain is weak,” said the duke; “we serve France by dethroning him.”

“I shall have great pleasure in clipping him!” said the duchess.

Suddenly a noise was heard outside, and soon they distinguished blows struck on the door of the abbey, and Mayenne went to see what it was. “My brothers,” said he, “there is a troop of armed men outside.”

“They have come to seek him,” said the duchess.

“The more reason that he should sign quickly.”

“Sign, Valois, sign!” roared Gorenflot.

“You gave me till midnight,” said the king, piteously.

“Ah! you hoped to be rescued.”

“He shall die if he does not sign!” cried the duchess. Gorenflot offered him the pen. The noise outside redoubled.

“A new troop!” cried a monk; “they are surrounding the abbey!”

“The Swiss,” cried Foulon, “are advancing on the right!”

“Well, we will defend ourselves; with such a hostage in our hands, we need not surrender.”

“He has signed!” cried Gorenflot, tearing the paper from Henri, who buried his face in his hands.

“Then you are king!” cried the cardinal to the duke; “take the precious paper.”

The king overturned the little lamp which alone lighted the scene, but the duke already held the parchment.

“What shall we do?” said a monk. “Here is Crillon, with his guards, threatening to break in the doors!”

“In the king’s name!” cried the powerful voice of Crillon.

“There is no king!” cried Gorenflot through the window.

“Who says that?” cried Crillon.

“I! I!”

“Break in the doors, Monsieur Crillon!” said, from outside, a voice which made the hair of all the monks, real and pretended, stand on end.

“Yes, sire,” replied Crillon, giving a tremendous blow with a hatchet on the door.

“What do you want?” said the prior, going to the window.

“Ah! it is you, M. Foulon,” replied the same voice, “I want my jester, who is in one of your cells. I want Chicot, I am ennuyé at the Louvre.”

“And I have been much amused, my son,” said Chicot, throwing off his hood, and pushing his way through the crowd of monks, who recoiled, with a cry of terror.

At this moment the Duc de Guise, advancing to a lamp, read the signature obtained with so much labor. It was “Chicot I.”

“Chicot!” cried he; “thousand devils!”

“Let us fly!” said the cardinal, “we are lost.”

“Ah!” cried Chicot, turning to Gorenflot, who was nearly fainting, and he began to strike him with the cord he had round his waist.

CHAPTER LXXXIX.
INTEREST AND CAPITAL

As the king spoke and the conspirators listened, they passed from astonishment to terror. Chicot I. relinquished his role of apparent terror, threw back his hood, crossed his arms, and, while Gorenflot fled at his utmost speed, sustained, firm and smiling, the first shock. It was a terrible moment, for the gentlemen, furious at the mystification of which they had been the dupes, advanced menacingly on the Gascon. But this unarmed man, his breast covered only by his arms – this laughing face, stopped them still more than the remonstrance of the cardinal, who said to them that Chicot’s death could serve no end, but, on the contrary, would be terribly avenged by the king, who was the jester’s accomplice in this scene of terrible buffoonery.

The result was, that daggers and rapiers were lowered before Chicot, who continued to laugh in their faces.

However, the king’s menaces and Crillon’s blows became more vehement, and it was evident that the door could not long resist such an attack. Thus, after a moment’s deliberation, the Duc de Guise gave the order for retreat. This order made Chicot smile, for, during his nights with Gorenflot, he had examined the cave and found out the door, of which he had informed the king, who had placed there Torquenot, lieutenant of the Swiss guards. It was then evident that the leaguers, one after another, were about to throw themselves into the trap. The cardinal made off first, followed by about twenty gentlemen. Then Chicot saw the duke pass with about the same number, and afterwards Mayenne. When Chicot saw him go he laughed outright. Ten minutes passed, during which he listened earnestly, thinking to hear the noise of the leaguers sent back into the cave, but to his astonishment, the sound continued to go further and further off. His laugh began to change into oaths. Time passed, and the leaguers did not return; had they seen that the door was guarded and found another way out? Chicot was about to rush from the cell, when all at once the door was obstructed by a mass which fell at his feet, and began to tear its hair.

“Ah! wretch that I am!” cried the monk. “Oh! my good M. Chicot, pardon me, pardon me!”

How did Gorenflot, who went first, return now alone? was the question that presented itself to Chicot’s mind.

“Oh! my good M. Chicot!” he continued to cry, “pardon your unworthy friend, who repents at your knees.”

“But how is it you have not fled with the others?”

“Because the Lord in His anger has struck me with obesity, and I could not pass where the others did. Oh! unlucky stomach! Oh! miserable paunch!” cried the monk, striking with his two hands the part he apostrophized. “Ah! why am not I thin like you, M. Chicot?”

Chicot understood nothing of the lamentations of the monk.

“But the others are flying, then?” cried he, in a voice of thunder.

“Pardieu! what should they do? Wait to be hung? Oh! unlucky paunch!”

“Silence, and answer me.”

“Interrogate me, M. Chicot; you have the right.”

“How are the others escaping?”

“As fast as they can.”

“So I imagine; but where?”

“By the hole.”

“Mordieu! what hole?”

“The hole in the cemetery cellar.”

“Is that what you call the cave?”

“Oh! no; the door of that was guarded outside. The great cardinal, just as he was about to open it, heard a Swiss say, ‘Mich dwistel,’ which means, ‘I am thirsty.’”

“Ventre de biche! so then they took another way?”

“Yes, dear M. Chicot, they are getting out through the cellar.”

“How does that run?”

“From the crypt to the Porte St. Jacques.”

“You lie; I should have seen them repass before this cell.”

“No, dear M. Chicot; they thought they had not time for that, so they are creeping out through the air-hole.”

“What hole?”

“One which looks into the garden, and serves to light the cellar.”

“So that you – ”

“I was too big, and could not pass, and they drew me back by my legs, because I intercepted the way for the others.”

“Then he who is bigger than you?”

“He! who?”

“Oh! Holy Virgin, I promise you a dozen wax candles, if he also cannot pass.”

“M. Chicot!”

“Get up.”

The monk raised himself from the ground as quickly as he could.

“Now lead me to the hole.”

“Where you wish.”

“Go on, then, wretch.”

Gorenflot went on as fast as he was able, while Chicot indulged himself by giving him a few blows with the cord. They traversed the corridor, and descended into the garden.

“Here! this way,” said Gorenflot.

“Hold your tongue, and go on.”

“There it is,” and exhausted by his efforts, the monk sank on the grass, while Chicot, hearing groans, advanced, and saw something protruding through the hole. By the side of this something lay a frock and a sword. It was evident that the individual in the hole had taken off successively all the loose clothing which increased his size; and yet, like Gorenflot, he was making useless efforts to get through.

“Mordieu! ventrebleu! sangdien!” cried a stifled voice. “I would rather pass through the midst of the guards. Do not pull so hard, my friends; I shall come through gradually; I feel that I advance, not quickly, it is true, but I do advance.”

“Ventre de biche!” murmured Chicot, “it is M. de Mayenne. Holy Virgin, you have gained your candles.”

And he made a noise with his feet like some one running fast.

“They are coming,” cried several voices from inside.

“All!” cried Chicot, as if out of breath, “it is you, miserable monk!”

“Say nothing, monseigneur!” murmured the voices, “he takes you for Gorenflot.”

“Ah! it is you, heavy mass – pondus immobile; it is you, indigesta moles!”

And at each apostrophe, Chicot, arrived at last at his desired vengeance, let fall the cord with all the weight of his arm on the body before him.

“Silence!” whispered the voices again; “he takes you for Gorenflot.”

Mayenne only uttered groans, and made immense efforts to get through.

“Ah! conspirator!” cried Chicot again; “ah! unworthy monk, this is for your drunkenness, this for idleness, this for anger, this for greediness, and this for all the vices you have.”

“M. Chicot, have pity,” whispered Gorenflot.

“And here, traitor, this is for your treason,” continued Chicot.

“Ah! why did it not please God to substitute for your vulgar carcass the high and mighty shoulders of the Duc de Mayenue, to whom I owe a volley of blows, the interest of which has been accumulating for seven years!”

“Chicot!” cried the duke.

“Yes, Chicot, unworthy servant of the king, who wishes he had the hundred arms of Briareus for this occasion.”

And he redoubled his blows with such violence, that the sufferer, making a tremendous effort, pushed himself through, and fell torn and bleeding into the arms of his friends. Chicot’s last blow fell into empty space. He turned, and saw that the true Gorenflot had fainted with terror.

CHAPTER XC.
WHAT WAS PASSING NEAR THE BASTILE WHILE CHICOT WAS PAYING HIS DEBT TO Y. DE MAYENNE

It was eleven at night, and the Duc d’Anjou was waiting impatiently at home for a messenger from the Duc le Guise. He walked restlessly up and down, looking every minute at the clock. All at once he heard a horse in the courtyard, and thinking it was the messenger, he ran to the window, but it was a groom leading up and down a horse which was waiting for its master, who almost immediately came out. It was Bussy, who, as captain of the duke’s guards, came to give the password for the night. The duke, seeing this handsome and brave young man, of whom he had never had reason to complain, experienced an instant’s remorse, but on his face he read so much joy, hope, and happiness, that all his jealousy returned. However, Bussy, ignorant that the duke was watching him, jumped into his saddle and rode off to his own hotel, where he gave his horse to the groom. There he saw Rémy.

“Ah! you Rémy?”

“Myself, monsieur.”

“Not yet in bed?”

“I have just come in. Indeed, since I have no longer a patient, it seems to me that the days have forty-eight hours.”

“Are you ennuyé?”

“I fear so.”

“Then Gertrude is abandoned?”

“Perfectly.”

“You grew tired?”

“Of being beaten. That was how her love showed itself.”

“And does your heart not speak for her to-night?”

“Why to-night?”

“Because I would have taken you with me.”

“To the Bastile?”

“Yes.”

“You are going there?”

“Yes.”

“And Monsoreau?”

“Is at Compiègne, preparing a chase for the king.”

“Are you sure, monsieur?”

“The order was given publicly this morning.”

“Ah, well; Jourdain, my sword.”

“You have changed your mind?”

“I will accompany you to the door, for two reasons.”

“What are they?”

“Firstly, lest you should meet any enemies.” Bussy smiled.

“Oh! mon Dieu, I know you fear no one, and that Rémy the doctor is but a poor companion; still, two men are not so likely to be attacked as one. Secondly, because I have a great deal of good advice to give you.”

“Come, my dear Rémy, come. We will speak of her; and next to the pleasure of seeing the woman you love, I know none greater than talking of her.”

Bussy then took the arm of the young doctor, and they set off. Rémy on the way tried hard to induce Bussy to return early, insisting that he would be more fit for his duel on the morrow.

Bussy smiled. “Fear nothing,” said he.

“Ah! my dear master, to-morrow you ought to fight like Hercules against Antæus – like Theseus against the Minotaur – like Bayard – like something Homeric, gigantic, impossible; I wish people to speak of it in future times as the combat, par excellence, and in which you had not even received a scratch.”

“Be easy, my dear Rémy, you shall see wonders. This morning I put swords in the hands of four fencers, who during eight minutes could not touch me once, while I tore their doublets to pieces.”

So conversing, they arrived in the Rue St. Antoine.

“Adieu! here we are,” said Bussy.

“Shall I wait for you?”

“Why?”

“To make sure that you will return before two o’clock, and have at least five or six hours’ sleep before your duel.”

“If I give you my word?”

“Oh! that will be enough; Bussy’s word is never doubted.”

“You have it then.”

“Then, adieu, monsieur.”

“Adieu, Rémy.”

Rémy watched, and saw Bussy enter, not this time by the window, but boldly through the door, which Gertrude opened for him. Then Rémy turned to go home; but he had only gone a few steps, when he saw coming towards him five armed men, wrapped in cloaks. When they arrived about ten yards from him, they said good night to each other, and four went off in different directions, while the fifth remained stationary.

“M. de St. Luc!” said Rémy.

“Rémy!”

“Rémy, in person. Is it an indiscretion to ask what your lordship does at this hour so far from the Louvre?”

“Ma foi! I am examining, by the king’s order, the physiognomy of the city. He said to me, ‘St. Luc, walk about the streets of Paris, and if you hear any one say I have abdicated, contradict him.’”

“And have you heard it?”

“Nowhere; and as it is just midnight, and I have met no one but M. de Monsoreau, I have dismissed my friends, and am about to return.”

“M. de Monsoreau?”

“Yes.”

“You met him?”

“With a troop of armed men; ten or twelve at least.”

“Impossible!”

“Why so?”

“He ought to be at Compiègne.”

“He ought to be, but he is not.”

“But the king’s order?”

“Bah! who obeys the king?”

“Did he know you?”

“I believe so.”

“You were but five?”

“My four friends and I.”

“And he did not attack you?”

“On the contrary, he avoided me, which astonished me, as on seeing him, I expected a terrible battle.”

“Where was he going?”

“To the Rue de la Tixanderie.”

“Ah! mon Dieu!”

“What?”

“M. de St. Luc, a great misfortune is about to happen.”

“To whom?”

“To M. de Bussy.”

“Bussy! speak, Rémy; I am his friend, you know.”

“Oh! M. de Bussy thought him at Compiègne.”

“Well?”

“And, profiting by his absence, is with Madame de Monsoreau.”

“Ah!”

“Do you not see? he has had suspicions, and has feigned to depart, that he might appear unexpectedly.”

“Ah! it is the Duc d’Anjou’s doing, I believe. Have you good lungs, Rémy?”

“Corbleu! like a blacksmith’s bellows.”

“Well! let us run. You know the house?”

“Yes.”

“Go on then.” And the young men set off like hunted deer.

“Is he much in advance of us?” said Rémy.

“About a quarter of an hour.”

“If we do but arrive in time!”

CHAPTER XCI.
THE ASSASSINATION

Bussy, himself without disquietude or hesitation, had been received by Diana without fear, for she believed herself sure of the absence of M. de Monsoreau. Never had this beautiful woman been more beautiful, nor Bussy more happy. She was moved, however, by fears for the morrow’s combat, now so near, and she repeated to him, again and again, the anxiety she felt about it, and questioned him as to the arrangements he had made for flight. To conquer was not all; there was afterwards the king’s anger to avoid, for it was not probable that he would ever pardon the death or defeat of his favorites.

“And then,” said she, “are you not acknowledged to be the bravest man in France? Why make it a point of honor to augment your glory? You are already superior to other men, and you do not wish to please any other woman but me, Louis. Therefore, guard your life, or rather – for I think there is not a man in France capable of killing you, Louis – I should say, take care of wounds, for you may be wounded. Indeed, it was through a wound received in fighting with these same men, that I first made your acquaintance.”

“Make yourself easy,” said Bussy, smiling; “I will take care of my face – I shall not be disfigured.”

“Oh, take care of yourself altogether. Think of the grief you would experience if you saw me brought home wounded and bleeding, and that I should feel the same grief on seeing your blood. Be prudent, my too courageous hero – that is all I ask. Act like the Roman of whom you read to me the other day: let your friends fight, aid the one who needs it most, but if three men – if two men attack you, fly; you can turn, like Horatius, and kill them one after another.”

“Yes, my dear Diana.”

“Oh, you reply without hearing me, Louis; you look at me, and do not listen.”

“But I see you, and you are beautiful.”

“Do not think of my beauty just now! Mon Dieu! it is your life I am speaking of. Stay, I will tell you something that will make you more prudent – I shall have the courage to witness this duel.”

“You!”

“I shall be there.”

“Impossible, Diana!”

“No; listen. There is, in the room next to this, a window looking into a little court, but with a side-view of the Tournelles.”

“Yes, I remember – the window from which I threw crumbs to the birds the other day.”

“From there I can have a view of the ground; therefore, above all things, take care to stand so that I can see you; you will know that I am there, but do not look at me, lest your enemy should profit by it.”

“And kill me, while I had my eyes fixed upon you. If I had to choose my death, Diana, that is the one I should prefer.”

“Yes; but now you are not to die, but live.”

“And I will live; therefore tranquilize yourself, Diana. Besides, I am well seconded – you do not know my friends; Antragues uses his sword as well as I do, Ribeirac is so steady on the ground that his eyes and his arms alone seem to be alive, and Livarot is as active as a tiger. Believe me, Diana, I wish there were more danger, for there would be more honor.”

“Well, I believe you, and I smile and hope; but listen, and promise to obey me.”

“Yes, if you do not tell me to leave.”

“It is just what I am about to do. I appeal to your reason.”

“Then you should not have made me mad.”

“No nonsense, but obedience – that is the way to prove your love.”

“Order, then.”

“Dear friend, you want a long sleep; go home.”

“Not already.”

“Yes, I am going to pray for you.”

“Pray now, then.”

As he spoke, a pane of the window flew into pieces, then the window itself, and three armed men appeared on the balcony while a fourth was climbing over. This one had his face covered with a mask, and held in his right hand a sword, and in his left a pistol.

Bussy remained paralyzed for a moment by the dreadful cry uttered by Diana at this sight. The masked man made a sign, and the three others advanced. Bussy put Diana back, and drew his sword.

“Come, my brave fellows!” said a sepulchral voice from under the mask; “he is already half-dead with fear.”

“You are wrong,” said Bussy; “I never feel fear.”

Diana drew near him.

“Go back, Diana,” said he. But she threw herself on his neck. “You will get me killed,” said he; and she drew back.

“Ah!” said the masked man, “it is M. de Bussy, and I would not believe it, fool that I was! Really, what a good and excellent friend! He learns that the husband is absent, and has left his wife alone, and fears she may be afraid, so he comes to keep her company, although on the eve of a duel. I repeat, he is a good and excellent friend!”

“Ah! it is you, M. de Monsoreau!” said Bussy; “throw off your mask.”

“I will,” said he, doing so.

Diana uttered another cry; the comte was as pale as a corpse, but he smiled like a demon.

“Let us finish, monsieur,” said Bussy; “it was very well for Homer’s heroes, who were demigods, to talk before they fought; but I am a man – attack me, or let me pass.”

Monsoreau replied by a laugh which made Diana shudder, but raised Bussy’s anger.

“Let me pass!” cried he.

“Oh, oh!”

“Then, draw and have done; I wish to go home and I live far off.”

During this time two other men mounted into the balcony.

“Two and four make six,” said Bussy, “where are the others?”

“Waiting at the door.”

Diana fell on her knees, and in spite of her efforts Bussy heard her sobs.

“My dear comte,” said he, “you know I am a man of honor.”

“Yes, you are, and madame is a faithful wife.”

“Good, monsieur; you are severe, but, perhaps, it is deserved; only as I have a prior engagement with four gentlemen, I beg to be allowed to retire to-night, and I pledge my word, you shall find me again, when and where you will.”

Monsoreau shrugged his shoulders.

“I swear to you, monsieur,” said Bussy, “that when I have satisfied MM. Quelus, Schomberg, D’Epernon, and Maugiron, I shall be at your service. If they kill me, your vengeance will be satisfied, and if not – ”

Monsoreau turned to his men. “On, my brave fellows,” said he.

“Oh!” said Bussy, “I was wrong; it is not a duel, but an assassination.”

“Yes.”

“We were each deceived with regard to the other; but remember, monsieur, that the Duc d’Anjou will avenge me.”

“It was he who sent me.”

Diana groaned.

Instantaneously Bussy overturned the prie-Dieu, drew a table towards him, and threw a chair over all, so that in a second he had formed a kind of rampart between himself and his enemies. This movement had been so rapid, that the ball fired at him from the arquebuse only struck the prie-Dieu. Diana sobbed aloud. Bussy glanced at her, and then at his assailants, crying, “Come on, but take care, for my sword is sharp.”

The men advanced, and one tried to seize the prie-Dieu, but before he reached it, Bussy’s sword pierced his arm. The man uttered a cry, and fell back.

Bussy then heard rapid steps in the corridor, and thought he was surrounded. He flew to the door to lock it, but before he could reach it, it was opened, and two men rushed in.

“Ah! dear master!” cried a well-known voice, “are we in time?”

“Rémy!”

“And I?” cried a second voice, “it seems they are attempting assassination here.”

“St. Luc!” cried Bussy, joyfully. “Ah! M. de Monsoreau, I think now you will do well to let us pass, for if you do not, we will pass over you.”

“Three more men,” cried Monsoreau. And they saw three new assailants appear on the balcony.

“They are an army,” cried St. Luc.

“Oh! God protect him!” cried Diana.

“Wretch!” cried Monsoreau, and he advanced to strike her. Bussy saw the movement. Agile as a tiger, he bounded on him, and touched him in the throat; but the distance was too great, it was only a scratch. Five or six men rushed on Bussy, but one fell beneath the sword of St. Luc.

“Rémy!” cried Bussy, “carry away Diana.”

Monsoreau uttered a yell and snatched a pistol from one of the men.

Rémy hesitated. “But you?” said he.

“Away! away! I confide her to you.”

“Come, madame,” said Rémy.

“Never! I will never leave him.”

Rémy seized her in his arms.

“Bussy, help me! Bussy!” cried Diana. For any one who separated her from Bussy, seemed an enemy to her.

“Go,” cried Bussy, “I will rejoin you.”

At this moment Monsoreau fired, and Bussy saw Rémy totter, and then fall, dragging Diana with him. Bussy uttered a cry, and turned.

“It is nothing, master,” said Rémy. “It was I who received the ball. She is safe.”

As Bussy turned, three men threw themselves on him; St. Luc rushed forward, and one of them fell. The two others drew back.

“St. Luc,” cried Bussy, “by her you love, save Diana.”

“But you?”

“I am a man.”

St. Luc rushed to Diana, seized her in his arms, and disappeared through the door.

“Here, my men, from the staircase,” shouted Monsoreau.

“Ah! coward!” cried Bussy.

Monsoreau retreated behind his men. Bussy gave a back stroke and a thrust; with the first he cleft open a head, and with the second pierced a breast.

“That clears!” cried he.

“Fly, master!” cried Rémy.

“Diana must save herself first,” murmured he.

“Take care,” cried Rémy again, as four men rushed in through the door from the staircase. Bussy saw himself between two troops, but his only cry was, “Ah! Diana!”

Then, without losing a second, he rushed on the four men; and taken by surprise, two fell, one dead, one wounded.

Then, as Monsoreau advanced, he retreated again behind his rampart.

“Push the bolts, and turn the key,” cried Monsoreau, “we have him now.” During this time, by a great effort, Rémy had dragged himself before Bussy, and added his body to the rampart.

There was an instant’s pause. Bussy looked around him. Seven men lay stretched on the ground, but nine remained. And seeing these nine swords, and hearing Monsoreau encouraging them, this brave man, who had never known fear, saw plainly before him the image of death, beckoning him with its gloomy smile.

“I may kill five more,” thought he, “but the other four will kill me. I have strength for ten minutes’ more combat; in that ten minutes let me do what man never did before.”

And rushing forward, he gave three thrusts, and three times he pierced the leather of a shoulder-belt, or the buff of a jacket, and three times a stream of blood followed.

During this time he had parried twenty blows with his left arm, and his cloak, which he had wrapped round it, was hacked to pieces.

The men changed their tactics; seeing two of their number fall and one retire, they renounced the sword, and some tried to strike with the butt-ends of their muskets, while others fired at him with pistols. He avoided the balls by jumping from side to side, or by stooping; for he seemed not only to see, hear, and act, but to divine every movement of his enemies, and appeared more than a man, or only man because he was mortal. Then he thought that to kill Monsoreau would be the best way to end the combat, and sought him with his eyes among his assailants, but he stood in the background, loading the pistols for his men. However, Bussy rushed forward, and found himself face to face with him. He, who held a loaded pistol, fired, and the ball, striking Bussy’s sword, broke it off six inches from the handle.

“Disarmed!” cried Monsoreau.

Bussy drew back, picking up his broken blade, and in an instant it was fastened to the handle with a handkerchief; and the battle recommenced, presenting the extraordinary spectacle of a man almost without arms, but also almost without wounds, keeping six enemies at bay, and with ten corpses at his feet for a rampart. When the fight began again, Monsoreau commenced to draw away the bodies, lest Bussy should snatch a sword from one of them. Bussy was surrounded; the blade of his sword bent and shook in his hand, and fatigue began to render his arm heavy, when suddenly, one of the bodies raising itself, pushed a rapier into his hand. It was Rémy’s last act of devotion. Bussy uttered a cry of joy, and threw away his broken sword: at the same moment Monsoreau fired at Rémy, and the ball entered his brain. This time he fell to rise no more.

Bussy uttered a cry. His strength seemed to return to him, and he whirled round his sword in a circle, cutting through a wrist at his right hand, and laying open a cheek at his left. Exhausted by the effort, he let his right arm fall for a moment, while with his left he tried to undraw the bolts behind him. During this second, he received a ball in his thigh, and two swords touched his side. But he had unfastened the bolt, and turned the key. Sublime with rage, he rushed on Monsoreau, and wounded him in the breast.