Chicot the Jester

CHAPTER XXXII.
HOW CHICOT USED HIS SWORD

Nicolas David, in recognizing him whom he knew to be his mortal enemy, could not repress a movement of terror, during which Gorenflot slipped a little to the side, crying out, “Help, friend! come to my aid!”

“Ah, Monsieur David, it is you!” said Chicot; “I am delighted to meet you again!” Then, turning to Gorenflot, he said, “My good Gorenflot, your presence as monk was very necessary just now, when we believed monsieur dying; but now that he is so well, it is with me he must deal; therefore, do me the favor to stand sentinel on the threshold, and prevent any one from coming in to interrupt our little conversation.” Gorenflot, who asked no better than to go, was soon out of the room; but David, having now recovered from his surprise, and confident in his skill as a swordsman, stood waiting for Chicot, with his sword in his hand and a smile on his lips.

“Dress yourself, monsieur,” said Chicot; “I do not wish to take any advantage of you. Do you know what I have come to seek in this room?”

“The rest of the blows which I have owed you on account of the Duc de Mayenne, since that day when you jumped so quickly out of the window.”

“No, monsieur; I know the number, and will return them. Be easy. What I have come for is a certain genealogy which M. Pierre de Gondy took to Avignon, without knowing what he carried, and, equally in ignorance, brought back to you just now.”

David turned pale. “What genealogy?” he said.

“That of M. de Guise, who descends, as you know, in a direct line from Charlemagne.”

“Ah, you are a spy! I thought you only a buffoon.”

“Dear M. David, I will be both if you wish it: a spy to hang you, and a buffoon to laugh at it after.”

“To hang me!”

“High and dry, monsieur; I hope you do not lay claim to be beheaded like a gentleman.”

“And how will you do it?”

“Oh, very easily; I will relate the truth, for I must tell you, dear M. David, that I assisted last month at the meeting held in the convent of St. Geneviève.”

“You!”

“Yes; I was in the confessional in front of yours, and it was very uncomfortable there, especially as I was obliged to wait to go out until all was finished. Therefore I heard all, saw the coronation of M. d’Anjou, which was not very amusing; but then the genealogy was delightful.”

“Ah! you know about the genealogy?” cried David, biting his lips with anger.

“Yes, and I found it very ingenious, especially that part about the Salic law; only it is a misfortune to have so much intellect, one gets hung for it; therefore, feeling myself moved with tender pity for so ingenious a man, I said to myself, ‘Shall I let this brave M. David be hung?’ and I took the resolution of traveling with, or rather behind, you. I followed you, therefore, not without trouble, and at last we arrived at Lyons. I entered the hotel an hour after you, and have been in the adjoining room; look, there is only a partition between, and, as you may imagine, I did not travel all the way from Paris to Lyons to lose sight of you now. I pierced a little hole, through which I had the pleasure of watching you when I liked, and I confess I gave myself this pleasure several times a day. At last you fell ill; the host wished to get rid of you, but you were determined to wait here for M. de Gondy. I was duped by you at first, for you might really have been ill, so I sent you a brave monk, to excite you to repentance; but, hardened sinner that you are, you tried to kill him, forgetting the Scripture maxim, ‘He who strikes with the sword shall perish with the sword.’ Then I came to you, and said, ‘We are old friends; let us arrange the matter.’”

“In what manner?”

“It would be a pity that such a man as you should disappear from the world; give up plots, trust me, break with the Guises, give me your papers, and, on the faith of a gentleman, I will make your peace with the king.”

“While, on the contrary, if I do not give them to you?”

“Ah! then, on the faith of a gentleman, I will kill you! But if you give them to me, all shall be forgotten. You do not believe me, perhaps, for your nature is bad, and you think my resentment can never be forgotten. But, although it is true that I hate you, I hate M. de Mayenne more; give me what will ruin him, and I will save you. And then, perhaps, you will not believe this either, for you love nothing; but I love the king, foolish and corrupted as he is, and I wish that he should reign tranquilly – which is impossible with the Mayennes and the genealogy of Nicolas David. Therefore, give me up the genealogy, and I promise to make your name and your fortune.”

David never moved.

“Well,” said Chicot, “I see all that I say to you is but wasted breath; therefore, I go to get you hanged. Adieu, M. David,” and he stepped backwards towards the door.

“And you think I shall let you go out,” cried the advocate.

“No, no, my fine spy; no, no, Chicot, my friend, those who know of the genealogy must die. Those who menace me must die.”

“You put me quite at my ease; I hesitated only because I am sure to kill you. Crillon, the other day, taught me a particular thrust, only one, but that will suffice. Come, give me the papers, or I will kill you; and I will tell you how – I will pierce your throat just where you wished to bleed Gorenflot.”

Chicot had hardly finished, when David rushed on him with a savage laugh. The two adversaries were nearly matched in height, but Chicot, who fenced nearly every day with the king, had become one of the most skilful swordsmen in the kingdom. David soon began to perceive this, and he retreated a step.

“Ah! ah!” said Chicot, “now you begin to understand. Once more; the papers.”

David, for answer, threw himself again upon Chicot, and a new combat ensued. At last Chicot called out, —

“Here is the thrust,” and as he spoke, he thrust his rapier half through his throat.

David did not reply, but fell at Chicot’s feet, pouring out a mouthful of blood. But by a natural movement he tried to drag himself towards his bed, so as to defend his secret to the last.

“Ah!” cried Chicot, “I thought you cunning, but I see you are a fool. I did not know where the papers were, and you have shown me – ” and while David rolled in the agonies of death, he ran to the bed, raised the mattress, and found under it a roll of parchment. At the moment in which he unrolled it to see if it was the document he sought, David raised himself in a rage and then fell back dead. Chicot saw with joy that he held what he wanted. The Pope had written at the bottom, “Fiat ut voluit Deus; Deus jura hominum fecit.” After placing it in his breast, he took the body of the advocate, who had died without losing more blood, the nature of the wound making him bleed inwardly, put it back in the bed, turned the face to the wall, and, opening the door, called Gorenflot.

“How pale you are!” said the monk, as he entered.

“Yes, the last moments of that man caused me some emotion.”

“Then he is dead?”

“Yes.”

“He was so well just now.”

“Too well; he swallowed something difficult of digestion, and died of it.”

“The wretch wanted to strangle me, a holy man, and he is punished for it.”

“Pardon him, you are a Christian.”

“I do, although he frightened me much.”

“You must do more; you must light the lamps, and say some prayers by his bed.”

“Why?”

“That you may not be taken prisoner as his murderer.”

“I, a murderer! it was he who tried to murder me.”

“Mon Dieu! yes, and as he could not succeed, his rage made him break a blood-vessel. But till your innocence is established they might annoy you much.”

“I fear you are right.”

“Then do what I tell you. Install yourself here, and recite all the prayers you know, or do not know; then, when evening comes, go out and call at the ironmonger’s at the corner of the street. There you will find your horse; mount him, and take the road to Paris; at Villeneuve-le-Roi sell him, and take Panurge back.”

“Ah! that good Panurge; I shall be delighted to see him again. But how am I to live?”

Chicot drew from his pocket a handful of crowns and put them into the large hand of the monk.

“Generous man!” cried Gorenflot. “Let me stay with you at Lyons; I love Lyons.”

“But I do not stay here; I set off at once, and travel too rapidly for you to follow me.”

“So be it, then.”

Chicot installed the monk by the bed, and went downstairs to the host.

“M. Bernouillet,” said he, “a great event has taken place in your house.”

“What do you mean?”

“The hateful royalist, the enemy of our religion upstairs, received to-day a messenger from Rome.”

“I know that: it was I who told you.”

“Well, our holy father, the Pope, had sent him to this conspirator, who, however, probably did not suspect for what purpose.”

“And why did he come?”

“Go up-stairs, lift up the bedclothes, look at his neck, and you will see.”

“You frighten me.”

“I say no more. The Pope did you honor in choosing your house for the scene of his vengeance.”

Then Chicot put ten crowns into the hand of the host, and went down to the stable to get out the horses. M. Bernouillet went up and found Gorenflot praying. He looked as directed, and found the wound.

“May every enemy of our religion die thus,” said he to Gorenflot.

“Amen,” replied the monk.

These events passed about the same time that Bussy brought the Baron de Méridor back to his daughter.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
HOW THE DUC D’ANJOU LEARNED THAT DIANA WAS NOT DEAD

The month of April had arrived. The great cathedral of Chartres was hung with white, and the king was standing barefooted in the nave. The religious ceremonies, which were for the purpose of praying for an heir to the throne of France, were just finishing, when Henri, in the midst of the general silence, heard what seemed to him a stifled laugh. He turned round to see if Chicot were there, for he thought no one else would have dared to laugh at such a time. It was not, however, Chicot who had laughed at the sight of the two chemises of the Holy Virgin which were said to have such a prolific power, and which were just being drawn from their golden box; but it was a cavalier who had just stopped at the door of the church, and who was making his way with his muddy boots through the crowd of courtiers in their penitents’ robes and sacks. Seeing the king turn, he stopped for a moment, and Henri, irritated at seeing him arrive thus, threw an angry glance at him. The newcomer, however, continued to advance until he reached the velvet chair of M. le Duc d’Anjou, by which he knelt down. He, turning round, said, “Bussy!”

“Good morning, monseigneur.”

“Are you mad?”

“Why so?”

“To come here to see this nonsense.”

“Monseigneur, I wish to speak to you at once.”

“Where have you been for the last three weeks?”

“That is just what I have to tell you.”

“Well, you must wait until we leave the church.”

“So much the worse.”

“Patience, here is the end.”

Indeed, the king was putting on one of these chemises, and the queen another. Then they all knelt down, and afterwards the king, taking off his holy tunic, left the church.

“Now, monseigneur,” said Bussy, “shall we go to your house?”

“Yes, at once, if you have anything to tell me.”

“Plenty of things which you do not expect.”

When they were in the hotel the duke said, “Now sit down and tell me all; I feared you were dead.”

“Very likely, monseigneur.”

“You left me to look after my beautiful unknown. Who is this woman, and what am I to expect?”

“You will reap what you have sown, monseigneur – plenty of shame.”

“What do you mean?” cried the duke.

“What I said.”

“Explain yourself, monsieur; who is this woman?”

“I thought you had recognized her.”

“Then it was her?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“You saw her?”

“Yes.”

“And she spoke to you?”

“Certainly. Doubtless you had reason to think her dead, and you perhaps hoped she was so.”

The duke grew pale.

“Yes, monseigneur,” continued Bussy, “although you pushed to despair a young girl of noble race, she escaped from death; but do not breathe yet, do not think yourself absolved, for, in preserving her life, she found a misfortune worse than death.”

“What is it? what has happened to her?”

“Monseigneur, a man preserved her honor and saved her life, but he made her pay for this service so dearly that she regrets his having rendered it.”

“Finish.”

“Well, monseigneur, Mademoiselle de Méridor, to escape becoming the mistress of the Duc d’Anjou, has thrown herself into the arms of a man whom she detests, and is now Madame de Monsoreau.”

At these words the blood rushed furiously into the duke’s face.

“Is this true?” said he.

“Pardieu! I said it,” said Bussy, haughtily.

“I did not mean that; I did not doubt your word, Bussy, I wondered only if it were possible that one of my gentlemen had had the audacity to interfere between me and a woman whom I honored with my love.”

“And why not?”

“Then you would have done so?”

“I would have done better; I would have warned you that your honor was being lost.”

“Listen, Bussy,” said the prince, becoming calmer, “I do not justify myself, but M. de Monsoreau has been a traitor towards me.”

“Towards you?”

“Yes, he knew my intentions.”

“And they were?”

“To try and make Diana love me.”

“Love you!”

“Yes, but in no case to use violence.”

“Those were your intentions?” said Bussy, with an ironical smile.

“Certainly, and these intentions I preserved to the last, although M. de Monsoreau constantly combated them.”

“Monseigneur, what do you say! This man incited you to dishonor Diana?”

“Yes.”

“By his counsels?”

“By his letters. Would you like to see them?”

“Oh! if I could believe that!”

“You shall see.”

And the duke, opening a little cabinet, and taking out a letter, said, “Since you doubt your prince’s words, read.”

Bussy took it and read, —

“MONSEIGNEUR,

“Be quite easy; the coup-de-main can be executed without risk, for the young person sets off this evening to pass a week with an aunt who lives at the château of Lude. I charge myself with it, and you need take no trouble as for the scruples of the young lady, be sure that they will vanish in the presence of your highness: meanwhile I act; and this evening she will be at the château of Beaugé.

“Your highness’s respectful servant,

“BRYAN DE MONSOREAU.”

“Well, what do you say, Bussy?”

“I say that you are well served, monseigneur.”

“You mean betrayed.”

“Ah, true; I forgot the end.”

“The wretch! he made me believe in the death woman – ”

“Whom he stole from you; it is black enough.”

“How did he manage?”

“He made the father believe you the ravisher, and offered himself to rescue the lady, presented himself at the château of Beaugé with a letter from the Baron de Méridor, brought a boat to the windows, and carried away the prisoner; then shut her up in the house you know of, and by constantly working upon her fears, forced her to become his wife.”

“Is it not infamous?”

“Only partly excused by your conduct, monseigneur.”

“Ah! Bussy, you shall see how I will revenge myself!”

“Princes do not revenge themselves, they punish,” said Bussy.

“How can I punish him?”

“By restoring happiness to Madame de Monsoreau.”

“But can I?”

“Certainly.”

“How?”

“By restoring her to liberty. The marriage was forced, therefore it is null.”

“You are right.”

“Get it set aside, then, and you will have acted like a gentleman and a prince.”

“Ah, ah!” said the prince, “what warmth! you are interested in it, Bussy.”

“I! not at all, except that I do not wish people to say that Louis de Clermont serves a perfidious prince and a man without honor.”

“Well, you shall see. But how to do it?”

“Nothing more easy; make her father act.”

“But he is buried in Anjou.”

“Monseigneur, he is here in Paris.”

“At your house?”

“No, with his daughter. Speak to him, monseigneur, that he may see in you, not what he does now, an enemy, but a protector – that he who now curses your name may bless you.”

“And when can I see him?”

“As soon as you return Paris.”

“Very well.”

“It is agreed, then?”

“Yes.”

“On your word as a gentleman?”

“On my faith as a prince.”

“And when do you return?”

“This evening; will you accompany me?”

“No, I go first; where shall I meet your highness?”

“To-morrow; at the king’s levee.”

“I will be there, monseigneur.”

Bussy did not lose a moment, and the distance that took the duke fifteen hours to accomplish, sleeping in his litter, the young man, who returned to Paris, his heart beating with joy and love, did in five, to console the baron and Diana the sooner.

CHAPTER XXXIV.
HOW CHICOT RETURNED TO THE LOUVRE, AND WAS RECEIVED BY THE KING HENRI III

All was quiet at the Louvre, for the king, fatigued with his pilgrimage, had not yet risen, when two men presented themselves together at the gates.

“M. Chicot,” cried the younger, “how are you this morning?”

“Ah, M. de Bussy.”

“You come for the king’s levee, monsieur?”

“And you also, I presume?”

“No; I come to see M. le Duc d’Anjou. You know I have not the honor of being a favorite of his majesty’s.”

“The reproach is for the king, and not for you.”

“Do you come from far? I heard you were traveling.”

“Yes, I was hunting. And you?”

“Yes, I have been in the provinces; and now will you be good enough to render me a service?”

“I shall be delighted.”

“Well, you can penetrate into the Louvre, while I remain in the ante-chamber; will you tell the duke I am waiting for him?”

“Why not come in with me?”

“The king would not be pleased.”

“Bah!”

“Diable! he has not accustomed me to his most gracious smiles.”

“Henceforth, for some time, all that will change.”

“Ah, ah! are you a necromancer, M. Chicot?”

“Sometimes; come, take courage, and come in with me.”

They entered together; one went towards the apartments of the Duc d’Anjou, and the other to those of the king.

Henri was just awake, and had rung, and a crowd of valets and friends had rushed in; already the chicken broth and the spiced wine were served, when Chicot entered, and without saying a word, sat down to eat and drink.

“Par la mordieu!” cried the king, delighted, although he affected anger; “it is that knave of a Chicot, that fugitive, that vagabond!”

“What is the matter, my son?” said Chicot, placing himself on the immense seat, embroidered with fleur-de-lis, on which the king was seated.

“Here is my misfortune returned,” said Henri; “for three weeks I have been so tranquil.”

“Bah! you always grumble. One would think you were one of your own subjects. Let me hear, Henriquet, how you have governed this kingdom in my absence.”

“Chicot!”

“Have you hung any of your curled gentlemen? Ah! pardon, M. Quelus, I did not see you.”

“Chicot, I shall be angry,” said the king; but he ended by laughing, as he always did; so he went on: “But what has become of you? Do you know that I have had you sought for in all the bad parts of Paris?”

“Did you search the Louvre?”

Just then M. de Monsoreau entered.

“Ah! it is you, monsieur,” said the king; “when shall we hunt again?”

“When it shall please your majesty; I hear there are plenty of wild boars at St. Germain en Laye.”

“The wild boar is dangerous,” said Chicot; “King Charles IX., I remember, was nearly killed by one. And then spears are sharp also; is it not so, Henri? and do you know your chief huntsman must have met a wolf not long ago?”

“Why so?”

“Because he has caught the likeness; it is striking.”

M. de Monsoreau grew pale, and turning to Chicot, said:

“M. Chicot, I am not used to jesters, having lived little at court, and I warn you that before my king I do not like to be humiliated, above all when I speak of my duties.”

“Well, monsieur,” said Chicot, “we are not like you, we court people laughed heartily at the last joke.”

“And what was that?”

“Making you chief huntsman.”

Monsoreau looked daggers at Chicot.

“Come, come,” said Henri, “let us speak of something else.”

“Yes, let us speak of the merits of Nôtre Dame de Chartres.”

“Chicot, no impiety.”

“I impious! it is you, on the contrary; there were two chemises accustomed to be together, and you separated them. Join them together and a miracle may happen.”

This illusion to the estrangement of the king and queen made everyone laugh.

Monsoreau then whispered to Chicot, “Pray withdraw with me into that window, I wish to speak to you.” When they were alone, he went on, “Now, M. Chicot, buffoon as you are, a gentleman forbids you; do you understand? forbids you to laugh at him, and to remember that others may finish what M. de Mayenne began.”

“Ah! you wish me to become your creditor, as I am his, and to give you the same place in my gratitude.”

“It seems to me that, among your creditors, you forget the principal.”

“Indeed, I have generally a good memory. Who may it be?”

“M. Nicolas David.”

“Oh! you are wrong; he is paid.”

At this moment Bussy entered.

“Monsieur,” said he to the count, “M. le Duc d’Anjou desires to speak with you.”

“With me?”

“With you, monsieur.”

“Do you accompany me?”

“No, I go first, to tell the duke you are coming,” and he rapidly disappeared.

“Well?” said the duke.

“He is coming.”

“And he suspects nothing?”

“Nothing; but if he did, what matter? is he not your creature? Does he seem to you less guilty than he did yesterday?”

“No, a hundred times more so.”

“He has carried off, by treason, a noble young girl, and married her equally treasonably; either he must ask for the dissolution of the marriage himself, or you must do it for him.”

“I have promised.”

“I have your word?”

“You have.”

“Remember that they know and are anxiously waiting.”

“She shall be free, Bussy; I pledge my word.”

Bussy kissed the hand which had signed so many false promises. As he did so, M. de Monsoreau entered, and Bussy went to the corridor, where were several other gentlemen. Here he had to wait as patiently as might be for the result of this interview, on which all his future happiness was at stake. He waited for some time, when suddenly the door of the duke’s room opened, and the sound of M. de Monsoreau’s voice made Bussy tremble, for it sounded almost joyful. Soon the voices approached, and Bussy could see M. de Monsoreau bowing and retiring, and he heard the duke say:

“Adieu, my friend.”

“My friend!” murmured Bussy.

Then Monsoreau said, “Your highness agrees with me that publicity is best?”

“Yes, yes; an end to all mysteries.”

“Then this evening I will present her to the king.”

“Do so; I will prepare him.”

“Gentlemen,” then said Monsoreau, turning towards those in the corridor, “allow me to announce to you a secret; monseigneur permits me to make public my marriage with Mademoiselle Diana de Méridor, who has been my wife for more than a month, and whom I intend this evening to present to the court.”

Bussy, who had been hidden behind a door, staggered, and almost fell at this unexpected blow. However, he darted a glance of contempt at the duke, towards whom he made a step, but he, in terror, shut his door, and Bussy heard the key turn in the lock. Feeling that if he stayed a moment longer he should betray before everyone the violence of his grief, he ran downstairs, got on his horse, and galloped to the Rue St. Antoine. The baron and Diana were eagerly waiting for him, and they saw him enter pale and trembling.

“Madame,” cried he, “hate me, despise me; I believed I could do something and I can do nothing. Madame, you are now the recognized wife of M. de Monsoreau, and are to be presented this evening. I am a fool – a miserable dupe, or rather, as you said, M. le Baron, the duke is a coward and a villain.”

And leaving the father and daughter overcome with grief, he rushed wildly away.