Chicot the Jester

“If they should catch us, and send us to the Bastile?”

“If they only put us there together, we can bear it.”

“I do not think they would. But there is no fear, if you only knew Méridor, its great oaks, and its endless thickets, its rivers, its lakes, its flower-beds and lawns; and, then, in the midst of all, the queen of this kingdom, the beautiful, the good Diana. And I know she loves me still; she is not capricious in her friendships. Think of the happy life we shall lead there.”

“Let us push on; I am in haste to get there,” and they rode on, stayed the night at Mans, and then set off for Méridor. They had already reached the woods and thought themselves in safety, when they saw behind them a cavalier advancing at a rapid pace. St. Luc grew pale.

“Let us fly,” said Jeanne.

“Yes; let us fly, for there is a plume on that hat which disquiets me; it is of a color much in vogue at the court, and he looks to me like an ambassador from our royal master.”

But to fly was easier to say than to do; the trees grew so thickly that it was impossible to ride through them but slowly, and the soil was so sandy that the horses sank into it at every step. The cavalier gained upon them rapidly, and soon they heard his voice crying, —

“Eh, monsieur, do not run away; I bring you something you have lost.”

“What does he say?” asked Jeanne.

“He says we have lost something.”

“Eh! monsieur,” cried the unknown, again, “you left a bracelet in the hotel at Courville. Diable! a lady’s portrait; above all, that of Madame de Cossé. For the sake of that dear mamma, do not run away.”

“I know that voice,” said St. Luc.

“And then he speaks of my mother.”

“It is Bussy!”

“The Comte de Bussy, our friend,” and they reined up their horses.

“Good morning, madame,” said Bussy, laughing, and giving her the bracelet.

“Have you come from the king to arrest us?”

“No, ma foi, I am not sufficiently his majesty’s friend for such a mission. No, I found your bracelet at the hotel, which showed me that you preceded me on my way.”

“Then,” said St. Luc, “it is chance which brings you on our path.”

“Chance, or rather Providence.”

Every remaining shadow of suspicion vanished before the sincere smile and bright eyes of the handsome speaker.

“Then you are traveling?” asked Jeanne.

“I am.”

“But not like us?”

“Unhappily; no.”

“I mean in disgrace. Where are you going?”

“Towards Angers, and you?”

“We also.”

“Ah! I should envy your happiness if envy were not so vile.”

“Eh! M. de Bussy, marry, and you will be as happy as we are,” said Jeanne; “it is so easy to be happy when you are loved.”

“Ah! madame, everyone is not so fortunate as you.”

“But you, the universal favorite.”

“To be loved by everyone is as though you were loved by no one, madame.”

“Well, let me marry you, and you will know the happiness you deny.”

“I do not deny the happiness, only that it does not exist for me.”

“Shall I marry you?”

“If you marry me according to your taste, no; if according to mine, yes.”

“Are you in love with a woman whom you cannot marry?”

“Comte,” said Bussy, “beg your wife not to plunge dagger in my heart.”

“Take care, Bussy; you will make me think it is with her you are in love.”

“If it were so, you will confess, at least, that I am a lover not much to be feared.”

“True,” said St. Luc, remembering how Bussy had brought him his wife. “But confess, your heart is occupied.”

“I avow it.”

“By a love, or by a caprice?” asked Jeanne.

“By a passion, madame.”

“I will cure you.”

“I do not believe it.”

“I will marry you.”

“I doubt it.”

“And I will make you as happy as you ought to be.”

“Alas! madame, my only happiness now is to be unhappy.”

“I am very determined.”

“And I also.”

“Well, will you accompany us?”

“Where are you going?”

“To the château of Méridor.”

The blood mounted to the cheeks of Bussy, and then he grew so pale, that his secret would certainly have been betrayed, had not Jeanne been looking at her husband with a smile. Bussy therefore had time to recover himself, and said, —

“Where is that?”

“It is the property of one of my best friends.”

“One of your best friends, and – are they at home?”

“Doubtless,” said Jeanne, who was completely ignorant of the events of the last two months; “but have you never heard of the Baron de Méridor, one of the richest noblemen in France, and of – ”

“Of what?”

“Of his daughter, Diana, the most beautiful girl possible?”

Bussy was filled with astonishment, asking himself by what singular happiness he found on the road people to talk to him of Diana de Méridor to echo the only thought which he had in his mind.

“Is this castle far off, madame?” asked he.

“About seven leagues, and we shall sleep there to-night; you will come, will you not?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Come, that is already a step towards the happiness I promised you.”

“And the baron, what sort of a man is he?”

“A perfect gentleman, a preux chevalier, who, had he lived in King Arthur’s time, would have had a place at his round table.”

“And,” said Bussy, steadying his voice, “to whom is his daughter married?”

“Diana married?”

“Would that be extraordinary?”

“Of course not, only I should have been the first to hear of it.”

Bussy could not repress a sigh. “Then,” said he, “you expect to find Mademoiselle de Méridor at the château with her father?”

“We trust so.”

They rode on a long time in silence, and at last Jeanne cried:

“Ah! there are the turrets of the castle. Look, M. de Bussy, through that great leafless wood, which in a month, will be so beautiful; do you not see the roof?”

“Yes,” said Bussy, with an emotion which astonished himself; “and is that the château of Méridor?”

And he thought of the poor prisoner shut up in the Rue St. Antoine.

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE OLD MAN

Two hours after they reached the castle. Bussy had been debating within himself whether or not to confide to his friends what he knew about Diana. But there was much that he could tell to no one, and he feared their questions, and besides, he wished to enter Méridor as a stranger.

Madame de St. Luc was surprised, when the report sounded his horn to announce a visit, that Diana did not run as usual to meet them, but instead of her appeared an old man, bent and leaning on a stick, and his white hair flying in the wind. He crossed the drawbridge, followed by two great dogs, and when he drew quite near, said in a feeble voice, —

“Who is there, and who does a poor old man the honor to visit him?”

“It is I, Seigneur Augustin!” cried the laughing voice of the young woman.

But the baron, raising his head slowly, said, “You? I do not see. Who is it?”

“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Jeanne, “do you not know me? It is true, my disguise – ”

“Excuse me,” said the old man, “but I can see little; the eyes of old men are not made for weeping, and if they weep too much, the tears burn them.”

“Must I tell you my name? I am Madame de St. Luc.”

“I do not know you.”

“Ah! but my maiden name was Jeanne de Cosse-Brissac.”

“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried the old man, trying to open the gate with his trembling hands. Jeanne, who did not understand this strange reception, still attributed it only to his declining faculties; but, seeing that he remembered her, jumped off her horse to embrace him, but as she did so she felt his cheek wet with tears.

“Come,” said the old man, turning towards the house, without even noticing the others. The château had a strange sad look; all the blinds were down, and no one was visible.

“Is Diana unfortunately not at home?” asked Jeanne. The old man stopped, and looked at her with an almost terrified expression. “Diana!” said he. At this name the two dogs uttered a mournful howl. “Diana!” repeated the old man; “do you not, then, know?”

And his voice, trembling before, was extinguished in a sob.

“But what has happened?” cried Jeanne, clasping her hands.

“Diana is dead!” cried the old man, with a torrent of tears.

“Dead!” cried Jeanne, growing as pale as death.

“Dead,” thought Bussy; “then he has let him also think her dead. Poor old man! how he will bless me some day!”

“Dead!” cried the old man again; “they killed her.”

“Ah, my dear baron!” cried Jeanne, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms round the old man’s neck.

“But,” said he at last, “though desolate and empty, the old house is none the less hospitable. Enter.”

Jeanne took the old man’s arm, and they went into the dining-hall, where he sunk into his armchair. At last, he said, “You said you were married; which is your husband?”

M. de St. Luc advanced and bowed to the old man, who tried to smile as he saluted him; then, turning to Bussy, said, “And this gentleman?”

“He is our friend, M. Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy d’Amboise, gentleman of M. le Duc d’Anjou.”

At these words the old man started up, threw a withering glance at Bussy, and then sank back with a groan.

“What is it?” said Jeanne.

“Does the baron know you, M. de Bussy?” asked St. Luc.

“It is the first time I ever had the honor of seeing M. de Méridor,” said Bussy, who alone understood the effect which the name of the Duc d’Anjou had produced on the old man.

“Ah! you a gentleman of the Duc d’Anjou!” cried the baron, “of that monster, that demon, and you dare to avow it, and have the audacity to present yourself here!”

“Is he mad?” asked St. Luc of his wife.

“Grief must have turned his brain,” replied she, in terror.

“Yes, that monster!” cried he again; “the assassin who killed my child! Ah, you do not know,” continued he, taking Jeanne’s hands; “but the duke killed my Diana, my child – he killed her!”

Tears stood in Bussy’s eyes, and Jeanne said:

“Seigneur, were it so, which I do not understand, you cannot accuse M. de Bussy of this dreadful crime – he, who is the most noble and generous gentleman living. See, my good father, he weeps with us. Would he have come had he known how you would receive him? Ah, dear baron, tell us how this catastrophe happened.”

“Then you did not know?” said the old man to Bussy.

“Eh, mon Dieu! no,” cried Jeanne, “we none of us knew.”

“My Diana is dead, and her best friend did not know it! Oh, it is true! I wrote to no one; it seemed to me that everything must die with her. Well, this prince, this disgrace to France, saw my Diana, and, finding her so beautiful, had her carried away to his castle of Beaugé to dishonor her. But Diana, my noble and sainted Diana, chose death instead. She threw herself from the window into the lake, and they found nothing but her veil floating on the surface.” And the old man finished with a burst of sobs which overwhelmed them all.

“Oh, comte,” cried St. Luc, “you must abandon this infamous prince; a noble heart like yours cannot remain friendly to a ravisher and an assassin!”

But Bussy instead of replying to this, advanced to M. de Méridor.

“M. le Baron,” said he, “will you grant me the honor of a private interview?”

“Listen to M. de Bussy, dear seigneur,” said Jeanne; “you will see that he is good and may help you.”

“Speak, monsieur,” said the baron, trembling.

Bussy turned to St. Luc and his wife, and said:

“Will you permit me?”

The young couple went out, and then Bussy said: “M. le Baron, you have accused the prince whom I serve in terms which force me to ask for an explanation. Do not mistake the sense in which I speak; it is with the most profound sympathy, and the most earnest desire to soften your griefs, that I beg of you to recount to me the details of this dreadful event. Are you sure all hope is lost?”

“Monsieur, I had once a moment’s hope. A noble gentleman, M. de Monsoreau, loved my poor daughter, and interested himself for her.”

“M. de Monsoreau! Well, what was his conduct in all this!”

“Ah, generous; for Diana had refused his hand. He was the first to tell me of the infamous projects of the duke; he showed me how to baffle them, only asking, if he succeeded, for her hand. I gave my consent with joy; but alas! it was useless – he arrived too late – my poor Diana had saved herself by death!”

“And since then, what have you heard of him?”

“It is a month ago, and the poor gentleman has not dared to appear before me, having failed in his generous design.”

“Well, monsieur,” said Bussy, “I am charged by the Duc d’Anjou to bring you to Paris, where his highness desires to speak to you.”

“I!” cried the baron, “I see this man! And what can the murderer have to say to me?”

“Who knows? To justify himself perhaps.”

“No, M. de Bussy, no, I will not go to Paris; it would be too far away from where my child lies in her cold bed.”

“M. le Baron,” said Bussy firmly, “I have come expressly to take you to Paris, and it is my duty to do so.”

“Well, I will go,” cried the old man, trembling with anger; “but woe to those who bring me. The king will hear me, or, if he will not, I will appeal to all the gentlemen of France. Yes, M. de Bussy, I will accompany you.”

“And I, M. le Baron,” said Bussy, taking his hand, “recommend to you the patience and calm dignity of a Christian nobleman. God is merciful to noble hearts, and you know not what He reserves for you. I beg you also, while waiting for that day, not to count me among your enemies, for you do not know what I will do for you. Till to-morrow, then, baron, and early in the morning we will set off.”

“I consent,” replied the old baron, moved by Bussy’s tone and words; “but meanwhile, friend or enemy, you are my guest, and I will show you to your room.”

CHAPTER XXIV.

HOW REMY-LE-HAUDOUIN HAD, IN BUSSY’S ABSENCE, ESTABLISHED A COMMUNICATION WITH THE RUE ST. ANTOINE

M. and Madame de St. Luc could hardly recover from their surprise. Bussy, holding secret interviews with M. de Méridor, and then setting off with him for Paris, appearing to take the lead in a matter which at first seemed strange and unknown to him, was to the young people an inexplicable phenomenon. In the morning the baron took leave of his guests, begging them to remain in the castle. Before Bussy left, however, he whispered a few words to Madame de St. Luc, which brought the color to her cheeks, and smiles to her eyes.

It was a long way from Méridor to Paris, especially for the old baron, covered with wounds from all his battles, and for his old horse, whom he called Jarnac. Bussy studied earnestly during the journey to find his way to the heart of the old man by his care and attentions, and without doubt he succeeded, for on the sixth morning, as they arrived at Paris, M. de Méridor said:

“It is singular, count, but I feel less unquiet at the end than at the beginning of my journey.”

“Two hours more, M. le Baron, and you shall have judged me as I deserve.”

“Where are we going – to the Louvre?”

“Let me first take you to my hotel, that you may refresh yourself a little, and be fit to see the person to whom I am leading you.”

The count’s people had been very much alarmed at his long absence, for he had set off without telling any one but Rémy. Thus their delight on seeing him again was great, and they all crowded round him with joyous exclamations. He thanked them, and then said, “Now assist this gentleman to dismount, and remember that I look upon him with more respect than a prince.”

When M. de Méridor had been shown to his room, and had had some refreshment, he asked if they should set out.

“Soon, baron; and be easy – it will be a happiness for you as well as for us.”

“You speak in a language which I do not understand.”

Bussy smiled, and left the room to seek Rémy.

“Well! dear Hippocrates!” said he, “is there anything new?”

“Nothing; all goes well.”

“Then the husband has not returned?”

“Yes, he has, but without success. It seems there is a father who is expected to turn up to make the dénouement.”

“Good,” said Bussy, “but how do you know all this?”

“Why, monseigneur, as your absence made my position a sinecure, I thought I would try to make some little use of my time; so I took some books and a sword to a little room which I hired at the corner of the Rue St. Antoine, from whence I could see the house that you know.”

“Very good.”

“But as I feared, if I were constantly watching, to pass for a spy, I thought it better to fall in love.”

“In love?”

“Oh yes, desperately with Gertrude; she is a fine girl, only two inches taller than myself, and who recounts, capitally.”

“Recounts?”

“Yes; through her I know all that passes with her mistress. I thought you might not dislike to have communications with the house.”

“Rémy, you are a good genius, whom chance, or rather Providence, has placed in my way. Then you are received in the house?”

“Last night I made my entrance on the points of my toes, by the door you know.”

“And how did you manage it?”

“Quite naturally. The day after you left, I waited at my door till the lady of my thoughts came out to buy provisions, which she does every morning. She recognized me, uttered a cry, and ran away.”

“Then?”

“Then I ran after her, but could hardly catch her, for she runs fast; but still, petticoats are always a little in the way. ‘Mon Dieu!’ cried she. ‘Holy Virgin!’ said I. ‘The doctor!’ ‘The charming housekeeper.’ She smiled, but said, ‘You are mistaken, monsieur, I do not know you.’ ‘But I know you,’ I replied, ‘and for the last three days I have lived but for you, and I adore you so much, that I no longer live in the Rue Beautreillis, but at the corner of this street, and I changed my lodging only to see you pass in and out.’”

“So that now you are – ”

“As happy as a lover can be – with Gertrude.”

“Does she suspect you come from me?”

“Oh no, how should the poor doctor know a great lord like M. de Bussy. No, I said, ‘And how is your young master?’ ‘What young master?’ ‘The one I cured.’ ‘He is not my master.’ ‘Oh! I thought, as he was in your mistress’s bed – ’ ‘Oh! no, poor young man! we have only seen him once since.’ ‘Do you know his name?’ ‘Oh! yes; he is the Seigneur de Bussy.’ ‘What! the brave Bussy?’ ‘Yes himself.’ ‘And your mistress?’ ‘Oh! she is married!’ ‘Yes, but still she may think sometimes of a handsome young man when she has seen him lying wounded in her bed.’ ‘Oh, to be frank, I do not say she does not think of him; we talk of him very often.’ ‘What do you say about him?’ I asked. ‘I recount all I hear about his prowess, and I have even taught her a little song about him, which she sings constantly.’” Bussy pressed the young man’s hand; he felt supremely happy.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER

On descending into the court, M. de Méridor found a fresh horse, which Bussy had had prepared for him; another waited for Bussy, and attended by Rémy, they started. As they went along, the baron could not but ask himself by what strange confidence he had accompanied, almost blindly, the friend of the prince to whom he owed all his misfortunes. Would it not have been better to have braved the Duc d’Anjou, and instead of following Bussy where it pleased him to lead, to have gone at once to the Louvre, and thrown himself at the feet of the king? What could the prince say to him? How could he console him? Could soft words heal his wound?

When they stopped, “What,” said the baron, “does the Duc d’Anjou live in this humble house?”

“Not exactly, monsieur, but if it is not his dwelling, it is that of a lady whom he has loved.”

A cloud passed over the face of the old gentleman. “Monsieur,” said he, “we provincials are not used to the easy manners of Paris; they annoy us. It seems to me that if the Duc d’Anjou wishes to see the Baron de Méridor, it ought to be at his palace, and not at the house of one of his mistresses.”

“Come, come, baron!” said Bussy, with his smile, which always carried conviction with it, “do not hazard false conjectures. On my honor, the lady who you are going to see is perfectly virtuous and worthy in all respects.”

“Who is she then?”

“She is the wife of a friend of yours.”

“Really! but then, monsieur, why did you say the duke loved her?”

“Because I always speak truth. But enter, and you shall see accomplished all I have promised you.”

“Take care; I wept for my child, and you said, ‘Console yourself, monsieur, the mercy of God is great;’ to promise me a consolation to my grief was almost to promise me a miracle.”

“Enter, monsieur,” said Bussy, with his bright smile. Bussy went in first, and, running up to Gertrude, said, “Go and tell Madame de Monsoreau that M. de Bussy is here, and desires to speak to her. But,” continued he, in a low voice, “not a word of the person who accompanies me.”

“Madame de Monsoreau!” said the old man in astonishment. But as he feebly mounted the staircase, he heard the voice of Diana crying, —

“M. de Bussy. Gertrude? Oh! let him come in!”

“That voice!” cried the baron, stopping. “Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!”

At that moment, as the baron tremblingly held on to the banister, and looked around him, he saw at the top of the staircase, Diana, smiling, and more beautiful that ever. At this sight the old man uttered a cry and would have fallen, had he not caught hold of Bussy, who stood by him.

“Diana alive! Diana, oh, my God!”

“Mon Dieu! M. de Bussy!” cried Diana, running down, “what is the matter with my father?”

“He thought you dead, madame, and he wept, as a father must weep for a daughter like you.”

“How!” cried Diana; “and no one undeceived him?”

“No one.”

“No,” cried the old man, recovering a little, “no one, not even M. de Bussy.”

“Ungrateful,” said Bussy.

“Oh! yes! you are right; for this moment repays me for all my griefs. Oh! my Diana! my beloved Diana!” cried he, drawing his daughter to him with one hand, and extending the other to Bussy. But all at once he cried, “But you said I was to see Madame de Monsoreau. Where is she?”

“Alas! my father!” cried Diana.

Bussy summoned up all his strength. “M. de Monsoreau is your son-in-law,” he said.

“What! my son-in-law! and every one – even you, Diana – left me in ignorance.”

“I feared to write, my father; he said my letters would fall into the hands of the prince. Besides, I thought you knew all.”

“But why all these strange mysteries?”

“Ah, yes, my father; why did M. de Monsoreau let you think me dead, and not let you know I was his wife?”

The baron, overwhelmed, looked from Bussy to Diana.

“M. de Monsoreau my son-in-law!” stammered he.

“That cannot astonish you, father; did you not order me to marry him?”

“Yes, if he saved you.”

“Well! he did save me,” said Diana, sinking on to a chair, “not from misfortune, but from shame.”

“Then why did he let me think you dead? I, who wept for you so bitterly. Why did he let me die of despair, when a single word would have restored me?”

“Oh! there is some hidden mystery,” cried Diana; “my father, you will not leave me again; M. de Bussy, you will protect us.”

“Alas! madame! it belongs to me no more to enter into your family secrets. Seeing the strange maneuvers of your husband, I wished to bring you a defender; you have your father, I retire.”

“He is right,” said the old man, sadly.

“M. de Monsoreau feared the Duc d’Anjou, and so does M. de Bussy.”

Diana cast a glance at the young man. He smiled and said, “M. le Baron, excuse, I beg, the singular question I am about to ask; and you also, madame, for I wish to serve you. M. le Baron, ask Madame de Monsoreau if she be happy in the marriage which she has contracted in obedience to your orders.”

Diana burst into tears for her only answer. The eyes of the baron filled also, for he began to fear that his friendship for M. de Monsoreau had tended to make his daughter unhappy.

“Now!” said Bussy, “is it true that you voluntarily promised him your daughter’s hand?”

“Yes, if he saved her.”

“And he did save her. Then, monsieur, I need not ask if you mean to keep your promise.”

“It is a law for all, and above all for gentlemen; you know that, M. de Bussy. My daughter must be his.”

“Ah!” cried Diana, “would I were dead!”