Chicot the Jester

“You deserve a recompense,” said Chicot to him, “and you shall have sherry wine for supper.”

“I never got tipsy on that wine; it would be agreeable.”

“You shall to-night. But now ramble about the town.”

“But the supper?”

“I shall be ready against your return; here is a crown meanwhile.”

Gorenflot went off quite happy, and then Chicot made, with a gimlet, a hole in the partition at about the height of his eye. Through this, he could hear distinctly all that passed, and he could just see the host talking to Nicolas David, who was professing to have been sent on a mission by the king, to whom he professed great fidelity. The host did not reply, but Chicot fancied he could see an ironical smile on his lip whenever the king’s name was mentioned.

“Is he a leaguer?” thought Chicot; “I will find out.”

When the host left David he came to visit Chicot, who said, “Pray sit down, monsieur; and before we make a definitive arrangement, listen to my history. You saw me this morning with a monk?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“Silence! that monk is proscribed.”

“What! is he a disguised Huguenot?”

Chicot took an offended air. “Huguenot, indeed! he is my relation, and I have no Huguenot relations. On the contrary, he is so fierce an enemy of the Huguenots, that he has fallen into disgrace with his majesty Henri III., who protects them, as you know.”

The host began to look interested. “Silence,” said he.

“Why, have you any of the king’s people here?”

“I fear so; there is a traveler in there.”

“Then we must fly at once, for proscribed, menaced – ”

“Where will you go?”

“We have two or three addresses given to us by an innkeeper we know, M. la Hurière.”

“Do you know La Hurière?”

“Yes, we made his acquaintance on the night of St. Bartholomew.”

“Well, I see you and your relation are holy people; I also know La Hurière. Then you say this monk – ”

“Had the imprudence to preach against the Huguenots, and with so much success that the king wanted to put him in prison.”

“And then?”

“Ma foi, I carried him off.”

“And you did well.”

“M. de Guise offered to protect him.”

“What! the great Henri?”

“Himself; but I feared civil war.”

“If you are friends of M. de Guise, you know this;” and he made a sort of masonic sign by which the leaguers recognized each other.

Chicot, who had seen both this and the answer to it twenty times during that famous night, replied, “And you this?”

“Then,” said the innkeeper, “you are at home here; my house is yours, look on me as a brother, and if you have no money – ”

Chicot drew out his purse. The sight of a well-filled purse is always agreeable, even to a generous host.

“Our journey,” continued Chicot, “is paid for by the treasurer of the Holy Union, for we travel to propagate the faith. Tell us of an inn where we may be safe.”

“Nowhere more so than here, and if you wish it, the other traveler shall turn out.”

“Oh! no; it is better to have your enemies near, that you may watch them. But, what makes you think he is our enemy?”

“Well! first he came disguised as a lackey, then he put on an advocate’s dress, and I am sure he is no more an advocate than he is a lackey, for I saw a long rapier under his cloak. Then he avowed he had a mission from the king!”

“From Herod, as I call him.”

“Sardanapalus.”

“Bravo!”

“Ah! I see we understand each other.”

“Then we are to remain here?”

“I should think so.”

“Not a word about my relation.”

“Of course not.”

“Nor of me.”

“Oh, no! But hush! here is some one.”

“Oh, it is the worthy man himself!”

The host turned to Gorenflot, and made a sign of the leaguers. Gorenflot was struck with terror and astonishment.

“Reply, my brother,” said Chicot; “he is a member.”

“Of what?”

“Of the Holy Union,” said Bernouillet, in a low tone.

“You see all is safe; reply,” said Chicot.

Gorenflot replied, to the great joy of the innkeeper.

“But,” said Gorenflot, who did not like the conversation, “you promised me some sherry.”

“Sherry, Malaga, Alicant – every wine in my cellar is at your disposal.”

Gorenflot looked at Chicot in amazement.

For three following days Gorenflot got drunk, first on sherry, next on Malaga, then on Alicant; afterwards he declared he liked Burgundy best, and returned to that. Meanwhile, Chicot had never stirred from his room, and had constantly watched Nicolas David, who, having appointed to meet Pierre de Gondy at this inn, would not leave the house. On the morning of the sixth day he declared himself ill, and the next day worse. Bernouillet came joyfully to tell Chicot.

“What! do you think him in danger?”

“High fever, my dear brother; he is delirious, and tried to strangle me and beat my servants. The doctors do not understand his complaint.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Yes; I tell you he tried to strangle me.”

“How did he seem?”

“Pale and furious, and constantly crying out.”

“What?”

“Take care of the king! they want to hurt the king! Then he constantly says that he expects a man from Avignon, and wishes to see him before he dies.”

As for Gorenflot, he grew visibly fatter every day, so much so, that he announced to Chicot with terror one day that the staircase was narrowing. Neither David, the League, nor religion occupied him; he thought of nothing but how to vary his dinner and wine, so that Bernouillet often exclaimed in astonishment, “To think that that man should be a torrent of eloquence!”

CHAPTER XXXI.

HOW THE MONK CONFESSED THE ADVOCATE, AND THE ADVOCATE THE MONK

At last M. Bernouillet came into Chicot’s room, laughing immoderately.

“He is dying,” said he, “and the man has arrived from Avignon.”

“Have you seen him?”

“Of course.”

“What is he like?”

“Little and thin.”

“It is he,” thought Chicot; and he said, “Tell me about his arrival.”

“An hour ago I was in the kitchen, when I saw a great horse, ridden by a little man, stop before the door. ‘Is M. Nicolas here?’ asked he. ‘Yes, monsieur,’ said I. ‘Tell him that the person he expects from Avignon is here.’ ‘Certainly, monsieur, but I must warn you that he is very ill.’ ‘All the more reason for doing my bidding at once.’ ‘But he has a malignant fever.’ ‘Oh, pray, then, be quick!’ ‘How! you persist?’ ‘I persist.’ ‘In spite of the danger!’ ‘In spite of everything I must see him.’ So I took him to the room, and there he is now. Is it not odd?”

“Very droll.”

“I wish I could hear them.”

“Go in.”

“He forbade me to go in, saying he was going to confess.”

“Listen at the door.”

Bernouillet went, and Chicot went also to his hole: but they spoke so low that he could hear nothing, and in a few minutes Gondy rose and took leave. Chicot ran to the window, and saw a lackey waiting with a horse, which M. de Gondy mounted and rode off.

“If he only has not carried off the genealogy. Never mind, I shall soon catch him if necessary; but I suspect it is left here. Where can Gorenflot be?”

M. Bernouillet returned, saying, “He is gone.”

“The confessor?”

“He is no more a confessor than I am.”

“Will you send me my brother as soon as he comes in.”

“Even if he be drunk?”

“Whatever state he is in.”

Bernouillet went, and Chicot remained in a state of indecision as to what to do, for he thought, “If David is really so ill, he may have sent on the despatches by Gondy.” Presently he heard Gorenflot’s voice, singing a drinking song as he came up the stairs.

“Silence, drunkard!” said Chicot.

“Drunkard, indeed!”

“Yes; but come here and speak seriously, if you can.”

“What is it now?”

“It is, that you never think of the duties of your profession, that you wallow in greediness and drunkenness, and let religion go where it pleases.”

Gorenflot looked astonished. “I!” he gasped.

“Yes, you; you are disgraceful to see; you are covered with mud; you have been drunk in the streets.”

“It is too true!”

“If you go on so, I will abandon you.”

“Chicot, my friend, you will not do that? Am I very guilty?”

“There are archers at Lyons.”

“Oh, pity! my dear protector, pity!”

“Are you a Christian or not?”

“I not a Christian!”

“Then do not let a neighbor die without confession.”

“I am ready, but I must drink first, for I am thirsty.”

Chicot passed him a jug of water, which he emptied.

“Now who am I to confess?”

“Our unlucky neighbor who is dying.”

“Let them give him a pint of wine with honey in it.”

“He needs spiritual aid as well as temporal. Go to him.”

“Am I fit?” said Gorenflot, timidly.

“Perfectly.”

“Then I will go.”

“Stay; I must tell you what to do.”

“Oh! I know.”

“You do not know what I wish.”

“What you wish?”

“If you execute it well, I will give you one hundred pistoles to spend here.”

“What must I do?”

“Listen; your robe gives you authority; in the name of God and the King, summon him to give up the papers he has just received from Avignon.”

“What for?”

“To gain one hundred pistoles, stupid.”

“Ah! true; I go.”

“Wait a minute. He will tell you he has confessed.”

“But if he has?”

“Tell him he lies; that the man who has just left him is no confessor, but an intriguer like himself.”

“But he will be angry.”

“What does that matter, since he is dying?”

“True.”

“Well; one way or the other, you must get hold of those papers.”

“If he refuses?”

“Refuse him absolution, curse him, anathematize him – ”

“Oh, I will take them by force.”

“Good; and when you have got them, knock on the wall.”

“And if I cannot get them?”

“Knock also.”

“Then, in any case I am to knock?”

“Yes.”

Gorenflot went, and Chicot placed his ear to the hole in the wall. When Gorenflot entered, the sick man raised himself in his bed, and looked at him with wonder.

“Good day, brother,” said Gorenflot.

“What do you want, my father?” murmured the sick man, in a feeble voice.

“My son, I hear you are in danger, and I come to speak to you of your soul.”

“Thank you, but I think your care is needless; I feel better.”

“You think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

“It is a ruse of Satan, who wishes you to die without confession.”

“Then he will be deceived, for I have just confessed.”

“To whom?”

“To a worthy priest from Avignon.”

“He was not a priest.”

“Not!”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“I knew him.”

“You knew the man who has just gone?”

“Yes; and as you are not better, and this man was not a priest, you must confess.”

“Very well,” replied the patient, in a stronger voice, “but I will chose to whom I will confess.”

“You will have no time to send for another priest, and I am here.”

“How! no time, when I tell you I am getting well?”

Gorenflot shook his head. “I tell you, my son, you are condemned by the doctors and by Providence; you may think it cruel to tell you so, but it is what we must all come to sooner or later. Confess, my son, confess.”

“But I assure you, father, that I feel much stronger.”

“A mistake, my son, the lamp flares up at the last, just before it goes out. Come, confess all your plots, your intrigues, and machinations!”

“My intrigues and plots!” cried David, frightened at this singular monk, whom he did not know, but who seemed to know him so well.

“Yes; and when you have told all that, give me up the papers, and perhaps God will let me absolve you.”

“What papers?” cried the sick man, in a voice as strong as though he were quite well.

“The papers that the pretended priest brought you from Avignon.”

“And who told you that he brought me papers?” cried the patient, putting one leg out of bed.

Gorenflot began to feel frightened, but he said firmly, “He who told me knew well what he was saying; give me the papers, or you shall have no absolution.”

“I laugh at your absolution,” cried David, jumping out of bed, and seizing Gorenflot by the throat, “and you shall see if I am too ill to strangle you.”

Gorenflot was strong, and he pushed David back so violently that he fell into the middle of the room. But he rose furious, and seizing a long sword, which hung on the wall behind his clothes, presented it to the throat of Gorenflot, who sank on a chair in terror.

“It is now your turn to confess,” said he, “speak, or you die.”

“Oh!” cried Gorenflot, “then you are not ill – not dying.”

“It is not for you to question, but to answer.”

“To answer what?”

“Who are you?”

“You can see that.”

“Your name?”

“Brother Gorenflot.”

“You are then a real monk?”

“I should think so.”

“What brings you to Lyons?”

“I am exiled.”

“What brought you to this inn?”

“Chance.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A fortnight.”

“Why did you watch me?”

“I did not.”

“How did you know that I had the papers?”

“Because I was told so.”

“Who told you?”

“He who sent me here.”

“Who was that?”

“I cannot tell you.”

“You must.”

“Oh! oh! I will cry out.”

“And I will kill.”

Gorenflot cried out, and a spot of blood appeared on the point of the sword.

“His name?” cried David.

“Oh! I can hold out no more.”

“Speak.”

“It was Chicot.”

“The king’s jester!”

“Himself.”

“And where is he?”

“Here!” cried a voice, and Chicot appeared at the door with a drawn sword in his hand.

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?”