Kitabı oku: «Chicot the Jester», sayfa 30

“Ah!” cried Bussy, “I begin to think I shall escape.” The four men rushed on him, but they could not touch him, and were repulsed with blows. Monsoreau approached him twice more, and twice more was wounded. But three men seized hold of the handle of his sword, and tore it from him. He seized a stool of carved wood, and struck three blows with it, and knocked down two men; but it broke on the shoulder of the third, who sent his dagger into Bussy’s breast.

Bussy seized him by the wrist, forced the dagger from him, and stabbed him to the heart. The last man jumped out of the window. Bussy made two steps to follow him, but Monsoreau, raising himself from the floor, where he was lying, wounded him in the leg with his dagger. The young man seized a sword which lay near, and plunged it so vigorously into his breast, that he pinned him to the floor.

“Ah!” cried Bussy, “I do not know if I shall live, but at least I shall have seen you die!”

Bussy dragged himself to the corridor, his wounds bleeding fearfully. He threw a last glance behind him. The moon was shining brilliantly, and its light penetrated this room inundated with blood, and illuminated the walls pierced by balls, and hacked by blows, and lighted up the pale faces of the dead, which even then seemed to preserve the fierce look of assassins.

Bussy, at the sight of this field of battle, peopled by him with slain, nearly dying as he was, experienced a feeling of pride. As he had intended, he had done what no man had done before him. There now remained to him only to fly.

But all was not over for the unfortunate young man. On arriving on the staircase, he saw arms shine in the courtyard; some one fired, and the ball pierced his shoulder. The court being guarded, he thought of the little window, where Diana had said she would sit to see the combat, and as quickly as he could he dragged himself there, and locked the door behind him; then he mounted the window with great difficulty, and measured the distance with his eyes, wondering if he could jump to the other side.

“Oh, I shall never have the strength!” cried he.

But at that moment he heard steps coming up the staircase; it was the second troop mounting. He collected all his strength, and made a spring; but his foot slipped, and he fell on the iron spikes, which caught his clothes, and he hung suspended.

He thought of his only friend.

“St. Luc!” cried he, “help! St. Luc!”

“Ah, it is you, M. de Bussy,” answered a voice from behind some trees.

Bussy shuddered, for it was not the voice of St. Luc.

“St. Luc!” cried he again, “come to me! Diana is safe! I have killed Monsoreau!”

“Ah! Monsoreau is killed?” said the same voice.

“Yes.” Then Bussy saw two men come out from behind the trees.

“Gentlemen,” cried he, “in heaven’s name, help an unfortunate nobleman, who may still escape if you aid him.”

“What do you say, monseigneur?” said one.

“Imprudent!” said the other.

“Monseigneur,” cried Bussy, who heard the conversation, “deliver me, and I will pardon you for betraying me.”

“Do you hear?” said the duke.

“What do you order?”

“That you deliver him from his sufferings,” said he, with a kind of laugh.

Bussy turned his head to look at the man who laughed at such a time, and at the same instant an arquebuse was discharged into his breast.

“Cursed assassin! oh, Diana!” murmured he, and fell back dead.

“Is he dead?” cried several men who, after forcing the door, appeared at the windows.

“Yes,” said Aurilly. “But fly; remember that his highness the Duc d’Anjou was the friend and protector of M. de Bussy.”

The men instantly made off, and when the sound of their steps was lost, the duke said, “Now, Aurilly, go up into the room and throw out of the window the body of Monsoreau.”

Aurilly obeyed, and the blood fell over the clothes of the duke, who, however, raised the coat of the dead man, and drew out the paper which he had signed.

“This is all I wanted,” said he; “so now let us go.”

“And Diana?”

“Ma foi! I care no more for her. Untie her and St. Luc, and let them go.”

Aurilly disappeared.

“I shall not be king of France,” murmured the duke, “but, at all events, I shall not be beheaded for high treason.”

CHAPTER XCII.
HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT FOUND HIMSELF MORE THAN EVER BETWEEN A GALLOWS AND AN ABBEY

The guard placed to catch the conspirators got none of them; they all escaped, as we have seen; therefore, when Crillon at last broke open the door, he found the place deserted and empty. In vain they opened doors and windows; in vain the king cried, “Chicot!” No one answered.

“Can they have killed him?” said he. “Mordieu! if they have they shall pay for it!”

Chicot did not reply, because he was occupied in beating M. de Mayenne, which gave him so much pleasure that he neither heard nor saw what was passing. However, when the duke had disappeared, he heard and recognized the royal voice.

“Here, my son, here!” he cried, trying at the same time to raise Gorenflot, who, beginning to recover himself, cried, “Monsieur Chicot!”

“You are not dead, then?”

“My good M. Chicot, you will not give me up to my enemies?”

“Wretch!”

Gorenflot began to howl and wring his hands.

“I, who have had so many good dinners with you,” continued Gorenflot; “I, who drank so well, that you always called me the king of the sponges; I, who loved so much the capons you used to order at the Corne d’Abondance, that I never left anything but the bones.”

This climax appeared sublime to Chicot, and determined him to clemency.

“Here they are! Mon Dieu,” cried Gorenflot, vainly trying to rise, “here they come, I am lost! Oh! good M. Chicot, help me!” and finding he could not rise, he threw himself with his face to the ground.

“Get up,” said Chicot.

“Do you pardon me?”

“We shall see.”

“You have beaten me so much.”

Chicot laughed; the poor monk fancied he had received the blows given to Mayenne.

“You laugh, M. Chicot.”

“I do, animal.”

“Then I shall live?”

“Perhaps.”

“You would not laugh if your Gorenflot was about to die.”

“It does not depend upon me, but on the king; he alone has the power of life and death.”

At this moment lights appeared, and a crowd of embroidered dresses and swords shining in the light of the torches.

“Ah! Chicot! my dear Chicot, how glad I am to see you,” cried the king.

“You hear, good M. Chicot,” whispered Gorenflot, “this great prince is glad to see you.”

“Well?”

“Well! in his happiness he would not refuse you a favor; ask for my pardon.”

“What! from Herod?”

“Oh! silence, dear M. Chicot.”

“Well! sire, how many have you caught?” said Chicot, advancing.

“Confiteor,” said Gorenflot.

“Not one,” said Crillon, “the traitors must have found some opening unknown to us.”

“It is probable.”

“But you saw them?” said the king.

“All.”

“You recognized them, no doubt?”

“No, sire.”

“Not recognized them?”

“That is to say, I recognized only one.”

“Who was that?”

“M. de Mayenne.”

“M. de Mayenne, to whom you owed – ”

“Yes, sire; we are quits.”

“Ah! tell me about that, Chicot.”

“Afterwards, my son; now let us think of the present.”

“Confiteor,” repeated Gorenflot.

“Ah! you have made a prisoner,” said Crillon, laying his large hand on the monk’s shoulder.

Chicot was silent for a minute, leaving Gorenflot a prey to all the anguish of such profound terror that he nearly fainted again.

At last Chicot said, “Sire, look well at this monk.”

“The preacher Gorenflot,” cried Henri.

“Confiteor, confiteor,” repeated he.

“Himself,” said Chicot.

“He who – ”

“Just so,” interrupted Chicot.

“Ah, ah!”

Gorenflot shook with terror, for he heard the sounds of swords clashing.

“Wait,” said Chicot, “the king must know all.” And, taking him aside, “My son,” said he, “thank God for having permitted this holy man to be born thirty-five years ago, for it is he who has saved us all.”

“How so?”

“It was he who recounted to me the whole plot, from the alpha to the omega.”

“When?”

“About a week ago; so that if ever your majesty’s enemies catch him he will be a dead man.”

Gorenflot heard only the last words, “a dead man”; and he covered his face with his hands.

“Worthy man,” said the king, casting a benevolent look on the mass of flesh before him, “we will cover him with our protection.”

Gorenflot perceived the nature of the look, and began to feel relieved.

“You will do well, my king,” said Chicot.

“What must we do with him?”

“I think that as long as he remains in Paris he will be in danger.”

“If I gave him guards.”

Gorenflot heard this proposition of Henri’s. “Well!” thought he, “I shall get off with imprisonment; I prefer that to beating, if they only feed me well.”

“Oh! no, that is needless,” said Chicot, “if you will allow me to take him with me.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Well! take him, and then return to the Louvre.”

“Get up, reverend father,” said Chicot.

“He mocks me,” murmured Gorenflot.

“Get up, brute,” whispered Chicot, giving him a sly kick.

“Ah! I have deserved it,” cried Gorenflot.

“What does he say?” asked the king.

“Sire, he is thinking over all his fatigues and his tortures, and when I promised him your protection, he said, ‘Oh! I have well merited that.’”

“Poor devil!” said the king, “take good care of him.”

“Oh! be easy, sire, he will want for nothing with me.”

“Oh! M. Chicot, dear M. Chicot,” cried Gorenflot, “where am I to be taken to?”

“You will know soon. Meanwhile, monster of iniquity, thank his majesty.”

“What for?”

“Thank him, I tell you.”

“Sire,” stammered Gorenflot, “since your gracious majesty – ”

“Yes,” interrupted Henri, “I know all you did for me, in your journey from Lyons, on the evening of the League, and again to-day. Be easy, you shall be recompensed according to your merits.”

Gorenflot sighed.

“Where is Panurge?” said Chicot.

“In the stable, poor beast.”

“Well! go and fetch him, and return to me.”

“Yes, M. Chicot.”

And the monk went away as fast as he could, much astonished not to be followed by guards.

“Now, my son,” said Chicot, “keep twenty men for your own escort, and send ten with M. Crillon to the Hôtel d’Anjou and let them bring your-brother here.”

“Why?”

“That he may not escape a second time.”

“Did my brother – ”

“Have you repented following my advice to-day?”

“No, par le mordieu.”

“Then do what I tell you.”

Henri gave the order to Crillon, who set off at once.

“And you?” said Henri.

“Oh! I am waiting for my saint.”

“And you will rejoin me at the Louvre?”

“In an hour; go, my son.”

Henri went; and Chicot, proceeding to the stables, met Gorenflot coming out on his ass. The poor devil had not an idea of endeavoring to escape from the fate that he thought awaited him.

“Come, come,” said Chicot, “we are waited for.” Gorenflot made no resistance, but he shed many tears.

CHAPTER XCIII.
WHERE CHICOT GUESSES WHY D’EPERNON HAD BLOOD ON HIS FEET AND NONE IN HIS CHEEKS

The king, returning to the Louvre, found his friends peacefully asleep, except D’Epernon, whose bed was empty.

“Not come in yet; how imprudent,” murmured the king to Chicot, who had also returned, and was standing with them by their beds. “The fool; having to fight to-morrow with a man like Bussy, and to take no more care than this. Let them seek M. d’Epernon,” said he, going out of the room, and speaking to an usher.

“M. d’Epernon is just coming in, sire,” replied the man.

Indeed, D’Epernon came softly along, thinking to glide unperceived to his room.

On seeing the king he looked confused.

“Ah! here you are at last,” said Henri; “come here and look at your friends. They are wise! they understand the importance of the duel to-morrow; but you, instead of praying and sleeping like them, have been running about the streets. Corbleu; how pale you are! What will you look like to-morrow?”

D’Epernon was indeed pale, but at the king’s remark he colored.

“Now go to bed,” continued Henri, “and sleep if you can.”

“Why not?”

“Much time you will have. You are to fight at daybreak; and at this time of year the sun rises at four. It is now two; you have but two hours to sleep.”

“Two hours well employed go a long way.”

“You will sleep, then?”

“Well, sire!”

“I do not believe it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are agitated; you think of to-morrow.”

“I will sleep, sire, if your majesty will only let me.”

“That is just,” said Chicot.

Indeed D’Epernon undressed and got into bed, with a calm and satisfied look, that seemed, both to the king and Chicot to augur well.

“He is as brave as a Cæsar,” said the king.

“So brave that I do not understand it,” said Chicot.

“See, he sleeps already.”

Chicot approached the bed to look.

“Oh!” said he.

“What is it?”

“Look,” and he pointed to D’Epernon’s boots.

“Blood!”

“He has been walking in blood.”

“Can he be wounded?” said the king, anxiously.

“Bah! he would have told us; and, besides, unless he had been wounded like Achilles in the heel – ”

“See, the sleeve of his doublet is also spotted. What can have happened to him?”

“Perhaps he has killed some one to keep his hand in.”

“It is singular. Well, to-morrow, at least – ”

“To-day, you mean.”

“Well! to-day I shall be tranquil.”

“Why so?”

“Because those cursed Angevins will be killed.”

“You think so, Henri?”

“I am sure of it; my friends are brave.”

“I never heard that the Angevins were cowards.”

“No, doubtless; but my friends are so strong; look at Schomberg’s arm; what muscle!”

“Ah! if you saw Autragues’s! Is that all that reassures you?”

“No; come, and I will show you something.”

“Where?”

“In my room.”

“And this something makes you confident of victory?”

“Yes.”

“Come, then.”

“Wait, and let me take leave of them. Adieu, my good friends,” murmured the king, as he stooped and imprinted a light kiss on each of their foreheads.

Chicot was not superstitious, but as he looked on, his imagination pictured a living man making his adieux to the dead.

“It is singular,” thought he. “I never felt so before – poor fellows.”

As soon as the king quitted the room, D’Epernon opened his eyes; and, jumping out of bed, began to efface, as well as he could, the spots of blood on his clothes. Then he went to bed again.

As for Henri, he conducted Chicot to his room, and opened a long ebony coffer lined with white satin.

“Look!” said he.

“Swords!”

“Yes! but blessed swords, my dear friend.”

“Blessed! by whom?”

“By our holy father the Pope, who granted me this favor. To send this box to Rome and back, cost me twenty horses and four men.”

“Are they sharp?”

“Doubtless; but their great merit is that they are blessed.”

“Yes, I know that; but still I should like to be sure they are sharp.”

“Pagan!”

“Let us talk of something else.”

“Well, be quick.”

“You want to sleep?”

“No, to pray.”

“In that case we will talk. Have you sent for M. d’Anjou?”

“Yes, he is waiting below.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Throw him into the Bastile.”

“That is very wise: only choose a dungeon that is deep and safe – such for example, as those which were occupied by the Constable de St. Paul, or Armagnac.”

“Oh! be easy.”

“I know where they sell good black velvet, my son.”

“Chicot! he is my brother.”

“Ah! true; the family mourning is violet. Shall you speak to him?”

“Yes, certainly, if only to show him that his plots are discovered.”

“Hum!”

“Do you disapprove?”

“In your place I should cut short the conversation, and double the imprisonment.”

“Let them bring here the Duc d’Anjou,” said the king.

A minute after the duke entered, very pale and disarmed. Crillon followed him.

“Where did you find him?” asked the king.

“Sire, his highness was not at home, but I took possession of his hotel in the king’s name, and soon after he returned, and we arrested him without resistance.”

“That is fortunate.” Then, turning to the prince, he said, “Where were you, monsieur?”

“Wherever I was, sire, be sure it was on your business.”

“I doubt it.”

François bowed.

“Come, tell me where you were while your accomplices were being arrested.”

“My accomplices!”

“Yes; your accomplices.”

“Sire, your majesty is making some mistake.”

“Oh! this time you shall not escape me; your measure of crime is full.”

“Sire, be moderate; there is certainly some one who slanders me to you.”

“Wretch! you shall die of hunger in a cell of the Bastile!”

“I bow to your orders, whatever they may be.”

“Hypocrite! But where were you?”

“Sire, I was serving your majesty, and working for the glory and tranquillity of your reign.”

“Really! your audacity is great.”

“Bah!” said Chicot, “tell us about it, my prince; it must be curious.”

“Sire, I would tell your majesty, had you treated me as a brother, but as you have treated me as a criminal, I will let the event speak for itself.”

Then, bowing profoundly to the king, he turned to Crillon and the other officers, and said, “Now, which of you gentlemen will conduct the first prince of the blood to the Bastile?”

Chicot had been reflecting, and a thought struck him.

“Ah!” murmured he, “I believe I guess now why M. d’Epernon had so much blood on his feet and so little in his cheeks.”

CHAPTER XCIV.
THE MORNING OF THE COMBAT

The king did not sleep all night, and very early in the morning he set off, accompanied by Chicot, to examine the ground where the combat was to take place.

“Quelus will be exposed to the sun,” said he; “he will have it at his right, just in his only eye; whereas Maugiron, who has good eyes, will be in the shade. That is badly managed. As for Schomberg, his place is good; but Quelus, my poor Quelus!”

“Do not torment yourself so, my king, it is useless.”

“And D’Epernon; I am really unjust not to think of him; he, who is to fight Bussy. Look at his place, Chicot, he who will have to give way constantly, for Bussy is like a tiger, he has a tree on his right and a ditch on his left.”

“Bah!” said Chicot, “I am not concerned about D’Epernon.”

“You are wrong; he will be killed.”

“Not he; be sure he has taken precautions.”

“How so?”

“He will not fight.”

“Did you not hear what he said before going to bed?”

“That is just why I think he will not fight.”

“Incredulous and distrustful!”

“I know my Gasçon, Henri; but if you will take my advice, you will return to the Louvre.”

“Do you think I can stay there during the combat?”

“I do not wish you not to love your friends, but I do wish you not to leave M. d’Anjou alone at the Louvre.”

“Is not Crillon there?”

“Crillon is only a buffalo – a rhinoceros – a wild boar; while your brother is the serpent, whose strength lies in his cunning.”

“You are right; I should have sent him to the Bastile.”

When Chicot and the king entered, the young men were being dressed by their valets.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said he; “I find you all in good spirits, I hope?”

“Yes, sire,” said Quelus.

“You look gloomy, Maugiron.”

“Sire, I am superstitious, and I had bad dreams last night, so I am drinking a little wine to keep up my spirits.”

“My friend, remember that dreams are the impressions of the previous day, and have no influence on the morrow.”

“Yes, sire,” said D’Epernon, “I also had bad dreams last night; but, in spite of that, my hand is steady and fit for action.”

“Yes,” said Chicot, “you dreamed you had blood on your boots; that is not a bad dream, for it signifies that you will be a conqueror, like Alexander or Cæsar.”

“My friends,” said Henri, “remember you fight only for honor; the past night has seated me firmly on my throne, therefore do not think of me; and, above all things, no false bravery; you wish to kill your enemies, not to die yourselves.”

The gentlemen were now ready, and it only remained to take leave of their master.

“Do you go on horseback?” asked he.

“No, sire, on foot.”

They each kissed his hand, and D’Epernon said, “Sire, bless my sword.”

“Not so, D’Epernon; give up your sword – I have a better one for each of you. Chicot, bring them here.”

“No, sire, send your captain of the guards; I am but a Pagan, and they might lose their virtue by coming through my hands.”

“What are these swords, sire?” said Schomberg.

“Italian swords, my son, forged at Milan.”

“Thanks, sire.”

“Now go, it is time,” said the king, who could hardly control his emotion.

“Sire,” said Quelus, “shall we not have your majesty’s presence to encourage us?”

“No, that would not be right; you will be supposed to fight without any one being cognizant of it, and without my sanction. Let it appear to be the result of a private quarrel.”

When they were gone, the king threw himself down in tears.

“Now,” said Chicot, “I will go to see this duel, for I have an idea that something curious will happen with regard to D’Epernon.” And he went off.

Henri shut himself up in his own room, first saying to Crillon, who knew what was to take place, “If we are conquerors, Crillon, come and tell me; if not, strike three blows on the door.”