Chicot the Jester

“Madame,” said Bussy, “you see I was right, and that I can do no more here. M. le Baron gives you to M. de Monsoreau, and you yourself promised to marry him when you should see your father again safe and well.”

“Ah! you tear my heart, M. de Bussy,” cried Diana, approaching the young man; “my father does not know that I fear this man, that I hate him; my father sees in him only my saviour, and I think him my murderer.”

“Diana! Diana!” cried the baron, “he saved you.”

“Yes,” cried Bussy, “but if the danger were less great than you thought; what do we know? There is some mystery in all this, which I must clear up. But I protest to you, that if I had had the happiness to be in the place of M. de Monsoreau, I would have saved your young and beautiful daughter without exacting a price for it.”

“He loved her,” said M. de Méridor, trying to excuse him.

“And I, then – ” cried Bussy; and, although he stopped, frightened at what he was about to say, Diana heard and understood.

“Well!” cried she, reddening, “my brother, my friend, can you do nothing for me?”

“But the Duc d’Anjou,” said the baron.

“I am not aware of those who fear the anger of princes,” said Bussy; “and, besides, I believe the danger lies not with him, but with M. de Monsoreau.”

“But if the duke learns that Diana is alive, all is lost.”

“I see,” said Bussy, “you believe M. de Monsoreau more than me. Say no more; you refuse my aid; throw yourself, then, into the arms of the man who has already so well merited your confidence. Adieu, baron; adieu, madame, you will see me no more.”

“Oh!” cried Diana, taking his hand. “Have you seen me waver for an instant; have you ever seen me soften towards him? No. I beg you, on my knees, M. de Bussy, not to abandon me.”

Bussy seized her hands, and all his anger melted away like snow before the sun.

“Then so be it, madame,” said he; “I accept the mission, and in three days – for I must have time to go to Chartres to the prince – you shall see me again.” Then, in a low tone to her, he said, “We are allied against this Monsoreau; remember that it was not he who brought you back to your father, and be faithful to me.”

CHAPTER XXVI.

HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT AWOKE, AND THE RECEPTION HE MET WITH AT HIS CONVENT

Chicot, after seeing with pleasure that Gorenflot still slept soundly, told M. Boutromet to retire and to take the light with him, charging him not to say anything of his absence. Now M. Boutromet, having remarked that, in all transactions between the monk and Chicot, it was the latter who paid, had a great deal of consideration for him, and promised all he wished. Then, by the light of the fire which still smouldered, he wrapped Gorenflot once more in his frock, which he accomplished without eliciting any other signs of wakefulness than a few grunts, and afterwards making a pillow of the table-cloth and napkins, lay down to sleep by his side. Daylight, when it came, succeeded in at last awakening Gorenflot, who sat up, and began to look about him, at the remains of their last night’s repast, and at Chicot, who, although also awake, lay pretending to snore, while, in reality, he watched.

“Broad daylight!” said the monk. “Corbleu, I must have passed the night here. And the abbey! Oh, dear! How happy he is to sleep thus!” cried he, looking at Chicot. “Ah! he is not in my position,” and he sighed. “Shall I wake him to ask for advice? No, no, he will laugh at me; I can surely invent a falsehood without him. But whatever I invent, it will be hard to escape punishment. It is not so much the imprisonment, it is the bread and water I mind. Ah! if I had but some money to bribe the brother jailer.”

Chicot, hearing this, adroitly slipped his purse from his pocket and put it under him. This precaution was not useless, for Gorenflot, who had been looking about him, now approached his friend softly, and murmuring:

“Were he awake, he would not refuse me a crown, but his sleep is sacred, and I will take it,” advanced, and began feeling his pockets. “It is singular,” said he, “nothing in his pockets. Ah! in his hat, perhaps.”

While he searched there Chicot adroitly emptied out his money, and stuffed the empty purse into his breeches pocket.

“Nothing in the hat,” said the monk. “Ah! I forgot,” and thrusting in his hand, he drew from the pocket the empty purse. “Mon Dieu,” cried he, “empty! and who will pay the bill?”

This thought terrified him so much that he got up and made instantly for the door, through which he quickly disappeared. As he approached the convent, his fears grew strong, and seeing a concourse of monks standing talking on the threshold, he felt inclined to fly. But some of them approached to meet him; he knew flight was hopeless, and resigned himself. The monks seemed at first to hesitate to speak to him, but at last one said:

“Poor dear brother!”

Gorenflot sighed, and raised his eyes to Heaven.

“You know the prior waits for you?”

“Ah! mon Dieu!”

“Oh! yes; he ordered that you should be brought to him as soon as you came in.”

“I feared it,” said Gorenflot. And more dead than alive, he entered the convent, whose doors closed on him. They led him to the prior. Gorenflot did not dare to raise his eyes, finding himself alone with his justly irritated superior.

“Ah! it is you at last,” said the abbé.

“Reverend sir – ”

“What anxiety you have given me.”

“You are too good, my father,” said Gorenflot, astonished at this indulgent tone.

“You feared to come in after the scene of last night?”

“I confess it.”

“Ah, dear brother, you have been very imprudent.”

“Let me explain, father.”

“There is no need of explanations; your sally – ”

“Oh! so much the better,” thought Gorenflot.

“I understand it perfectly. A moment of enthusiasm carried you away; enthusiasm is a holy virtue, but virtues, exaggerated become almost vices, and the most honorable sentiments, when carried to excess, are reprehensible.”

“Pardon, my father,” said Gorenflot, timidly, “but I do not understand. Of what sally do you speak?”

“Of yours last night.”

“Out of the convent?”

“No; in it. I am as good a Catholic as you, but your audacity frightened me.”

Gorenflot was puzzled. “Was I audacious?” asked he.

“More than that – rash.”

“Alas! you must pardon me, my father. I will endeavor to correct myself.”

“Yes; but meanwhile, I fear the consequences for you and for all of us. Had it passed among ourselves, it would have been nothing.”

“How, is it known to others?”

“Doubtless; you know well there were more than a hundred laymen listening to your discourse.”

“My discourse!” said Gorenflot, more and more astonished.

“I allow it was fine, and that the universal applause must have carried you on, but to propose to make a procession through the streets of Paris, with a helmet on your head and a partisan on your shoulder, appealing to all good Catholics, was rather too strong, you will allow.” Gorenflot looked bewildered.

“Now,” continued the prior, “this religious fervor, which burns so strongly in your heart, will injure you in Paris. I wish you therefore to go and expend it in the provinces.”

“An exile!” cried Gorenflot.

“If you remain here, much worse may happen to you, my dear brother.”

“What?”

“Perpetual imprisonment, or even death.”

Gorenflot grew frightfully pale; he could not understand how he had incurred all this by getting tipsy in an inn, and passing the night out of the convent.

“By submitting to this temporary exile, my dear brother, not only will you escape this danger, but you will plant the banner of our faith in the provinces, where such words are less dangerous than here, under the eyes of the king. Set off at once, then, brother; perhaps the archers are already out to arrest you.”

“The archers, I!” said Gorenflot.

“I advise you to go at once.”

“It is easy to say ‘go,’ but how am I to live?”

“Oh! nothing more easy. You will find plenty of partisans who will let you want for nothing. But go, in Heaven’s name, and do not come back till you are sent for.” And the prior, after embracing him, pushed him to the door. There he found all the community waiting for him, to touch his hands or his robe.

“Adieu!” said one, embracing him, “you are a holy man; do not forget me in your prayers.”

“I, a holy man!” thought Gorenflot.

“Adieu, brave champion of the faith,” said another.

“Adieu, martyr,” said a third, “the light will soon come.”

Thus was he conducted to the outside of the convent, and as he went away he exclaimed, “Devil take me, but either they are all mad, or I am.”

CHAPTER XXVII.

HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT REMAINED CONVINCED THAT HE WAS A SOMNAMBULIST, AND BITTERLY DEPLORED THIS INFIRMITY

Until the day when this unmerited persecution fell on Brother Gorenflot, he had led a contemplative and easy life, diverting himself on occasions at the Corne d’Abondance, when he had gained a little money from the faithful. He was one of those monks for whom the world began at the prior of the convent, and finished at the cook. And now he was sent forth to seek for adventures. He had no money; so that when out of Paris and he heard eleven o’clock (the time for dinner at the convent) strike, he sat down in dejection. His first idea was to return to the convent, and ask to be put in confinement, instead of being sent in to exile, and even to submit to the discipline, provided they would insure him his repasts. His next was more reasonable. He would go to the Corne d’Abondance, send for Chicot, explain to him the lamentable situation into which he had helped to bring him, and obtain aid from this generous friend. He was sitting absorbed in these reflections, when he heard the sound of a horse’s feet approaching. In great fear, he hid behind a tree until the traveler should have passed; but a new idea struck him. He would endeavor to obtain some money for his dinner. So he approached tremblingly, and said, “Monsieur, if five patera, and five aves for the success of your projects would be agreeable to you – ”

“Gorenflot!” cried the cavalier.

“M. Chicot!”

“Where the devil are you going?”

“I do not know. And you?”

“Oh! I am going straight before me.”

“Very far?”

“Till I stop. But you – what are you doing outside the barriers?”

“Alas! M. Chicot! I am proscribed,” said Gorenflot, with an enormous sigh.

“What?”

“Proscribed, I tell you. My brothers reject me from their bosom: I am anathematized, excommunicated.”

“Bah! what for?”

“Listen, M. Chicot; you will not believe me, perhaps, but I do not know.”

“Perhaps you were met last night gadding about.”

“Do not joke; you know quite well what I was doing last night.”

“Yes, from eight till ten, but not from ten till three.”

“How, from ten till three?”

“Yes, at ten you went out.”

“I?”

“Yes, and I asked you where you were going.”

“And what did I say?”

“That you were going to pronounce a discourse.”

“There was some truth in that,” murmured Gorenflot.

“Yes, and you even told me part of it; it was very long, and there were terrible things against the king in it.”

“Bah!”

“So terrible, that I should not wonder if you were arrested for them.”

“M. Chicot, you open my eyes; did I seem quite awake when I spoke?”

“I must say you seemed very strange; you looked like a man who talks in his sleep.”

“Yet, I feel sure I awoke this morning at the Corne d’Abondance.”

“Well, of course; you came in again at three o’clock. I know; you left the door open, and made me cold.”

“It is true, then?”

“True! ask M. Boutromet.”

“M. Boutromet?”

“Yes, he opened to you on your return. And you were so full of pride when you came in, that I said to you, – ‘Fie, compère; pride does not become mortals, more especially monks.’”

“And of what was I proud?”

“Of the success your discourse had met with, and the compliments paid to you by the Duc de Guise and M. de Mayenne.”

“Now I understand all.”

“That is lucky. Then you confess you went to the assembly; what did you call it? Oh! the Holy Union.”

Gorenflot groaned. “I am a somnambulist,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, that with me mind is stronger than matter; so that while the body sleeps, the spirit wakes, and sometimes is so powerful that it forces the body to obey.”

“Ah! compère, that sounds much like magic; if you are possessed, tell me so frankly; for, really a man who walks and makes discourses in his sleep in which he attacks the king is not natural. Vade retro, Satanas!”

“Then,” cried Gorenflot, “you abandon me also. Ah! I could not have believed that of you.”

Chicot took pity on him. “What did you tell me just now?” said he.

“I do not know; I feel half mad, and my stomach is empty.”

“You spoke of traveling.”

“Yes, the holy prior sends me.”

“Where to?”

“Wherever I like.”

“I also am traveling, and will take you with me.”

Gorenflot looked bewildered.

“Well! do you accept?” continued Chicot.

“Accept! I should think so. But have you money to travel with?”

“Look,” said Chicot, drawing out his purse.

Gorenflot jumped for joy.

“How much?” said he.

“One hundred and fifty pistoles.”

“And where are we going?”

“You shall see.”

“When shall we breakfast?”

“Immediately.”

“What shall I ride?”

“Not my horse; you would kill it.”

“Then what must I do?”

“Nothing more simple; I will buy you an ass.”

“You are my benefactor, M. Chicot. Let the ass be strong. Now, where do we breakfast?”

“Here; look over this door and read.”

Gorenflot looked up, and saw, “Here eggs, ham, eel-pies, and white wine may be had!” At this sight, Gorenflot’s whole face expanded with joy.

“Now,” said Chicot, “go and get your breakfast, while I go and look for an ass for you.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.

HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT TRAVELED UPON AN ASS, NAMED PANURGE, AND LEARNED MANY THINGS HE DID NOT KNOW BEFORE

What made Chicot so indifferent to his own repast was, that he had already breakfasted plentifully. Therefore, he sat Gorenflot down to eggs and bacon, while he went among the peasants to look for an ass. He found a pacific creature, four years old, and something between an ass and a horse; gave twenty-two livres for it, and brought it to Gorenflot, who was enchanted at the sight of it, and christened it Panurge. Chicot, seeing by the look of the table that there would be no cruelty in staying his companion’s repast, said, —

“Come, now we must go on; at Mélun we will lunch.”

Gorenflot got up, merely saying, “At Mélun, at Mélun.”

They went on for about four leagues, then Gorenflot lay down on the grass to sleep, while Chicot began to calculate.

“One hundred and twenty leagues, at ten leagues a day, would take twelve days.” It was as much as he could reasonably expect from the combined forces of a monk and an ass. But Chicot shook his head. “It will not do,” he said, “if he wants to follow me, he must do fifteen.”

He pushed the monk to wake him, who, opening his eyes, said, “Are we at Mélun? I am hungry.”

“Not yet, compère, and that is why I woke you; we must get on; we go too slow, ventre de biche!”

“Oh, no, dear M. Chicot; it is so fatiguing to go fast. Besides, there is no hurry: am I not traveling for the propagation of the faith, and you for pleasure? Well, the slower we go, the better the faith will be propagated, and the more you will amuse yourself. My advice is to stay some days at Mélun, where they make excellent eel-pies. What do you say, M. Chicot?”

“I say, that my opinion is to go as fast as possible; not to lunch at Mélun, but only to sup at Monterau, to make up for lost time.”

Gorenflot looked at his companion as if he did not understand.

“Come, let us get on,” said Chicot.

The monk sat still and groaned.

“If you wish to stay behind and travel at your ease, you are welcome.”

“No, no!” cried Gorenflot, in terror; “no, no, M. Chicot; I love you too much to leave you!”

“Then to your saddle at once.”

Gorenflot got on his ass this time sideways, as a lady sits, saying it was more comfortable; but the fact was that, fearing they were to go faster, he wished to be able to hold on both by mane and tail.

Chicot began to trot, and the ass followed. The first moments were terrible for Gorenflot, but he managed to keep his seat. From time to time Chicot stood up in his stirrups and looked forward, then, not seeing what he looked for, redoubled his speed.

“What are you looking for, dear M. Chicot?”

“Nothing; but we are not getting on.”

“Not getting on! we are trotting all the way.”

“Gallop then!” and he began to canter.

Panurge again followed; Gorenflot was in agonies.

“Oh, M. Chicot!” said he, as soon as he could speak, “do you call this traveling for pleasure? It does not amuse me at all.”

“On! on!”

“It is dreadful!”

“Stay behind then!”

“Panurge can do no more; he is stopping.”

“Then adieu, compère!”

Gorenflot felt half inclined to reply in the same manner, but he remembered that the horse, whom he felt ready to curse, bore on his back a man with a hundred and fifty pistoles in his pocket, so he resigned himself, and beat his ass to make him gallop once more.

“I shall kill my poor Panurge!” cried he dolefully, thinking to move Chicot.

“Well, kill him,” said Chicot quietly, “and we will buy another.”

All at once Chicot, on arriving at the top of a hill, reined in his horse suddenly. But the ass, having once taken it into his head to gallop, was not so easily stopped, and Gorenflot was forced to let himself slide off and hang on to the donkey with all his weight before he could stop him.

“Ah, M. Chicot!” cried he, “what does it all mean? First we must gallop fit to break our necks, and then we must stop short here!”

Chicot had hidden himself behind a rock, and was eagerly watching three men who, about two hundred yards in advance, were traveling on quietly on their mules, and he did not reply.

“I am tired and hungry!” continued Gorenflot angrily.

“And so am I,” said Chicot; “and at the first hotel we come to we will order a couple of fricasseed chickens, some ham, and a jug of their best wine.”

“Really, is it true this time?”

“I promise you, compère.”

“Well, then, let us go and seek it. Come, Panurge, you shall have some dinner.”

Chicot remounted his horse, and Gorenflot led his ass. The much-desired inn soon appeared, but, to the surprise of Gorenflot, Chicot caused him to make a detour and pass round the back. At the front door were standing the three travelers.

CHAPTER XXIX.

HOW BROTHER GORENFLOT CHANGED HIS ASS FOR A MULE, AND HIS MULE FOR A HORSE

However, Gorenflot’s troubles were near their end for that day, for after the detour they went on a mile, and then stopped at a rival hotel. Chicot took a room which looked on to the high-road, and ordered supper. But even while he was eating he was constantly on the watch. However, at ten o’clock, as he had seen nothing, he went to bed, first, however, ordering that the horse and the ass should be ready at daybreak.

“At daybreak?” uttered Gorenflot, with a deep sigh.

“Yes; you must be used to getting up at that time.”

“Why so?”

“For matins.”

“I had an exemption from the superior.” Chicot ordered Gorenflot’s bed to be placed in his room. With daylight he was up and at the window, and before very long he saw three mules coming along. He ran to Gorenflot and shook him.

“Can I not have a moment’s rest?” cried the monk, who had been sleeping for ten hours.

“Be quick; get up and dress, for we are going.”

“But the breakfast?”

“Is on the road to Monterau.”

“Where is Monterau?”

“It is the city where we breakfast, that is enough for you. Now, I am going down to pay the bill, and if you are not ready in five minutes, I go without you.”

A monk’s toilet takes not long; however, Gorenflot took six minutes, and when he came down Chicot was starting. This day passed much like the former one, and by the third, Gorenflot was beginning to get accustomed to it, when towards the evening, Chicot lost all his gaiety. Since noon he had seen nothing of the three travelers; therefore he was in a very bad humor. They were off at daybreak and galloped till noon, but all in vain; no mules were visible. Chicot stopped at a turnpike, and asked the man if he had seen three travelers pass on mules.

“Not to-day,” was the reply, “yesterday evening about seven.”

“What were they like?”

“They looked like a master and two servants!”

“It was them,” said Chicot; “ventre de biche! they have twelve hours’ start of me. But courage!”

“Listen, M. Chicot!” said Gorenflot, “my ass can do no more, even your horse is almost exhausted.” Chicot looked, and saw, indeed, that the poor animals were trembling from head to foot.

“Well! brother,” said he, “we must take a resolution. You must leave me.”

“Leave you; why?”

“You go too slow.”

“Slow! why, we have galloped for five hours this morning.”

“That is not enough.”

“Well, then, let us go on; the quicker we go, the sooner we shall arrive, for I suppose we shall stop at last.”

“But our animals are exhausted.”

“What shall we do then?”

“Leave them here, and take them as we come back.”

“Then how are we to proceed?”

“We will buy mules.”

“Very well,” said Gorenflot with a sigh. Two mules were soon found, and they went so well that in the evening Chicot saw with joy those of the three travelers, standing at the door of a farrier’s. But they were without harness, and both master and lackeys had disappeared. Chicot trembled. “Go,” said he, to Gorenflot, “and ask if those mules are for sale, and where their owners are.” Gorenflot went, and soon returned, saying that a gentleman had sold them, and had afterwards taken the road to Avignon.

“Alone?”

“No, with a lackey.”

“And where is the other lackey?”

“He went towards Lyons.”

“And how did they go on?”

“On horses which they bought.”

“Of whom?”

“Of a captain of troopers who was here, and they sold their mules to a dealer, who is trying to sell them again to those Franciscan monks whom you see there.”

“Well, take our two mules and go and offer them to the monks instead; they ought to give you the preference.”

“But, then, how shall we go on?”

“On horseback, morbleu.”

“Diable!”

“Oh! a good rider like you. You will find me again on the Grand Place.” Chicot was bargaining for some horses, when he saw the monk reappear, carrying the saddles and bridles of the mules.

“Oh! you have kept the harness?”

“Yes.”

“And sold the mules?”

“For ten pistoles each.”

“Which they paid you?”

“Here is the money.”

“Ventre de biche! you are a great man, let us go on.”

“But I am thirsty.”

“Well, drink while I saddle the beasts, but not too much.”

“A bottle.”

“Very well.”

Gorenflot drank two, and came to give the rest of the money back to Chicot, who felt half inclined to give it to him, but reflecting that if Gorenflot had money he would no longer be obedient, he refrained. They rode on, and the next evening Chicot came up with Nicolas David, still disguised as a lackey, and kept him in sight all the way to Lyons, whose gates they all three entered on the eighth day after their departure from Paris.

CHAPTER XXX.

HOW CHICOT AND HIS COMPANION INSTALLED THEMSELVES AT THE HOTEL OF THE CROSS, AND HOW THEY WERE RECEIVED BY THE HOST

Chicot watched Nicolas David into the principal hotel of the place, and then said to Gorenflot, “Go in and bargain for a private room, say that you expect your brother, then come out and wait about for me, and I will come in when it is dark, and you can bring me straight to my room. Do you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“Choose a good room, as near as possible to that of the traveler who has just arrived; it must look on to the street, and on no account pronounce my name.”

Gorenflot acquitted himself marvelously of the commission. Their room was only separated by a partition from that of Nicolas David.