Chicot the Jester

“Alas, yes, monseigneur,” said M. de Morvilliers.

“Tell us all about it,” said Chicot.

“Yes,” stammered the duke, “tell us all about it, monsieur.”

“I listen,” said Henri.

“Sire, for some time I have been watching some malcontents, but they were shopkeepers, or junior clerks, a few monks and students.”

“That is not much,” said Chicot.

“I know that malcontents always make use either of war or of religion.”

“Very sensible!” said the king.

“I put men on the watch, and at last I succeeded in persuading a man from the provosty of Paris to watch the preachers, who go about exciting the people against your majesty. They are prompted by a party hostile to your majesty, and this party I have studied, and now I know their hopes,” added he, triumphantly. “I have men in my pay, greedy, it is true, who, for a good sum of money, promised to let me know of the first meeting of the conspirators.”

“Oh! never mind money, but let us hear the aim of this conspiracy.”

“Sire, they think of nothing less than a second St. Bartholomew.”

“Against whom?”

“Against the Huguenots.”

“What have you paid for your secret?” said Chicot.

“One hundred and sixty thousand livres.”

Chicot turned to the king, saying, “If you like, for one thousand crowns, I will tell you all the secrets of M. de Morvilliers.”

“Speak.”

“It is simply the League, instituted ten years ago; M. de Morvilliers has discovered what every Parisian knows as well as his ave.”

“Monsieur,” interrupted the chancellor.

“I speak the truth, and I will prove it,” cried Chicot.

“Tell me, then, their place of meeting.”

“Firstly, the public streets; secondly, the public streets.”

“M. Chicot is joking,” said the chancellor; “tell me their rallying sign.”

“They are dressed like Parisians, and shake their legs when they walk.”

A burst of laughter followed this speech; then M. de Morvilliers said, “They have had one meeting-place which M. Chicot does not know of.”

“Where?” asked the king.

“The Abbey of St. Geneviève.”

“Impossible!” murmured the duke.

“It is true,” said M. de Morvilliers, triumphantly.

“What did they decide?” asked the king.

“That the Leaguers should choose chiefs, that every one should arm, that every province should receive a deputy from the conspirators, and that all the Huguenots cherished by his majesty (that was their expression) – ”

The king smiled.

“Should be massacred on a given day.”

“Is that all?” said the duke.

“No, monseigneur.”

“I should hope not,” said Chicot; “if the king got only that for one hundred and sixty thousand livres, it would be a shame.”

“There are chiefs – ”

The Duc d’Anjou could not repress a start.

“What!” cried Chicot, “a conspiracy that has chiefs! how wonderful! But we ought to have more than that for one hundred and sixty thousand livres.”

“Their names?” asked the king.

“Firstly, a fanatic preacher; I gave ten thousand livres for his name.”

“Very well.”

“A monk called Gorenflot.”

“Poor devil!” said Chicot.

“Gorenflot?” said the king, writing down the name; “afterwards – ”

“Oh!” said the chancellor, with hesitation, “that is all.” And he looked round as if to say, “If your majesty were alone, you should hear more.”

“Speak, chancellor,” said the king, “I have none but friends here.”

“Oh! sire, I hesitate to pronounce such powerful names.”

“Are they more powerful than I am?” cried the king.

“No, sire; but one does not tell secrets in public.”

“Monsieur,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “we will retire.”

The king signed to the chancellor to approach him, and to the duke to remain. M. de Morvilliers had just bent over the king to whisper his communication, when a great clamor was heard in the court of the Louvre. The king jumped up, but Chicot, running to the window, called out, “It is M. de Guise entering the Louvre.”

“The Duc de Guise,” stammered the Duc d’Anjou.

“How strange that he should be in Paris,” said the king, reading the truth in M. de Morvilliers’ look. “Was it of him you were about to speak?” he asked.

“Yes, sire; he presided over the meeting.”

“And the others?”

“I know no more.”

“You need not write that name on your tablets! you will not forget it,” whispered Chicot.

The Duc de Guise advanced, smiling, to see the king.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

WHAT M. DE GUISE CAME TO DO AT THE LOUVRE

Behind M. de Guise there entered a great number of officers, courtiers, and gentlemen, and behind them a concourse of the people; an escort less brilliant, but more formidable, and it was their cries that had resounded as the duke entered the Louvre.

“Ah! it is you, my cousin,” said the king; “what a noise you bring with you! Did I not hear the trumpets sound?”

“Sire, the trumpets sound in Paris only for the king, and in campaigns for the general. Here the trumpets would make too much noise for a subject; there they do not make enough for a prince.”

Henri bit his lips. “Have you arrived from the siege of La Charité only to-day?”

“Only to-day, sire,” replied the duke, with a heightened color.

“Ma foi! your visit is a great honor to us.”

“Your majesty jests, no doubt. How can my visit honor him from whom all honor comes?”

“I mean, M. de Guise,” replied Henri, “that every good Catholic is in the habit, on returning from a campaign, to visit God first in one of his temple’s – the king only comes second. ‘Honor God, serve the king,’ you know, my cousin.”

The heightened color of the duke became now still more distinct; and the king, happening to turn towards his brother, saw with astonishment, that he was as pale as the duke was red. He was struck by this emotion in each, but he said:

“At all events, duke, nothing equals my joy to see that you have escaped all the dangers of war, although you sought them, I was told in the rashest manner; but danger knows you and flies you.”

The duke bowed.

“But I must beg you, my cousin, not to be so ambitious of mortal perils, for you put to shame sluggards like us, who sleep, eat, and invent new prayers.”

“Yes, sire,” replied the duke, “we know you to be a pious prince, and that no pleasure can make you forget the glory of God and the interests of the Church. That is why we have come with so much confidence to your majesty.”

“With confidence! Do you not always come to me with confidence, my cousin?”

“Sire, the confidence of which I speak refers to the proposition I am about to make to you.”

“You have a proposition to make to me! Well, speak, as you say, with confidence. What have you to propose?”

“The execution of one of the most beautiful ideas which has been originated since the Crusades.”

“Continue, duke.”

“Sire, the title of most Christian king is not a vain one; it makes an ardent zeal for religion incumbent on its possessor.”

“Is the Church menaced by the Saracens once more?”

“Sire, the great concourse of people who followed me, blessing my name, honored me with this reception only because of my zeal to defend the Church. I have already had the honor of speaking to your majesty of an alliance between all true Catholics.”

“Yes, yes,” said Chicot, “the League; ventre de biche, Henri, the League. By St. Bartholomew! how can you forget so splendid an idea, my son?”

The duke cast a disdainful glance on Chicot, while d’Anjou, who stood by, as pale as death, tried by signs, to make the duke stop.

“Look at your brother, Henri,” whispered Chicot.

“Sire,” continued the Duc de Guise, “the Catholics have indeed called this association the Holy League, and its aim is to fortify the throne against the Huguenots, its mortal enemies; but to form an association is not enough, and in a kingdom like France, several millions of men cannot assemble without the consent of the king.”

“Several millions!” cried Henri, almost with terror.

“Several millions!” repeated Chicot; “a small number of malcontents, which may bring forth pretty results.”

“Sire,” cried the duke, “I am astonished that your majesty allows me to be interrupted so often, when I am speaking on serious matters.”

“Quite right,” said Chicot; “silence there.”

“Several millions!” repeated the king; “and against these millions, how many Huguenots are there in my kingdom?”

“Four,” said Chicot.

This new sally made the king and his friends laugh, but the duke frowned, and his gentlemen murmured loudly.

Henri, becoming once more serious, said, “Well, duke, what do you wish? To the point.”

“I wish, sire – for your popularity is dearer to me than my own – that your majesty should be superior to us in your zeal for religion – I wish you to choose a chief for the League.”

“Well!” said the king, to those who surrounded him, “what do you think of it, my friends?”

Chicot, without saying a word, drew out a lion’s skin from a corner, and threw himself on it.

“What are you doing, Chicot?” asked the king.

“Sire, they say that night brings good counsel; that must be because of sleep; therefore I am going to sleep, and to-morrow I will reply to my cousin Guise.”

The duke cast a furious glance on Chicot, who replied by a loud snore.

“Well, sire!” said the duke, “what does your majesty say?”

“I think that, as usual, you are in the right, my cousin; convoke, then, your principal leaguers, come at their head, and I will choose the chief.”

“When, sire?”

“To-morrow.”

The Duc de Guise then took leave, and the Duc d’Anjou was about to do the same, when the king said, —

“Stay, my brother, I wish to speak to you.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CASTOR AND POLLUX

The king dismissed all his favorites, and remained with his brother. The duke, who had managed to preserve a tolerably composed countenance throughout, believed himself unsuspected, and remained without fear.

“My brother,” said Henri, after assuring himself that, with the exception of Chicot, no one remained in the room, “do you know that I am a very happy prince?”

“Sire, if your majesty be really happy, it is a recompense from Heaven for your merits.”

“Yes, happy,” continued the king, “for if great ideas do not come to me, they do to my subjects. It is a great idea which has occurred to my cousin Guise.”

The duke make a sign of assent, and Chicot opened his eyes to watch the king’s face.

“Indeed,” continued Henri, “to unite under one banner all the Catholics, to arm all France on this pretext from Calais to Languedoc, from Bretagne to Burgundy, so that I shall always have an army ready to march against England, Holland, or Spain, without alarming any of them – do you know, François, it is a magnificent idea?”

“Is it not, sire?” said the duke, delighted.

“Yes, I confess I feel tempted to reward largely the author of this fine project.”

Chicot opened his eyes, but he shut them again, for he had seen on the face of the king one of his almost imperceptible smiles, and he was satisfied.

“Yes,” continued Henri, “I repeat such a project merits recompense, and I will do what I can for the author of this good work, for the work is begun – is it not, my brother?”

The duke confessed that it was.

“Better and better; my subjects not only conceive these good ideas, but, in their anxiety to be of use to me, hasten to put them in execution. But I ask you, my dear François, if it be really to the Duc de Guise that I am indebted for this royal thought?”

“No, sire, it occurred to the Cardinal de Lorraine twenty years ago, only the St. Bartholomew rendered it needless for the time.”

“Ah! what a pity he is dead; but,” continued Henri, with that air of frankness which made him the first comedian of the day, “his nephew has inherited it, and brought it to bear. What can I do for him?”

“Sire,” said François, completely duped by his brother, “you exaggerate his merits. He has, as I say, but inherited the idea, and another man has given him great help in developing it.”

“His brother the cardinal?”

“Doubtless he has been occupied with it, but I do not mean him.”

“Mayenne, then?”

“Oh! sire, you do him too much honor.”

“True, how could any good ideas come to such a butcher? But to whom, then, am I to be grateful for aid to my cousin Guise?”

“To me, sire.”

“To you!” cried Henri, as if in astonishment. “How! when I saw all the world unchained against me, the preachers against my vices, the poets against my weaknesses, while my friends laughed at my powerlessness, and my situation was so harassing, that it gave me gray hairs every day: such an idea came to you, François – to you, whom I confess, for man is feeble and kings are blind, I did not always believe to be my friend! Ah! François, how guilty I have been.” And Henri, moved even to tears, held out his hand to his brother.

Chicot opened his eyes again.

“Oh!” continued Henri, “the idea is triumphant. Not being able to raise troops without raising an outcry, scarcely to walk, sleep, or love, without exciting ridicule, this idea gives me at once an army, money, friends, and repose. But my cousin spake of a chief?”

“Yes, doubtless.”

“This chief, you understand, François, cannot be one of my favorites; none of them has at once the head and the heart necessary for so important a post. Quelus is brave, but is occupied only by his amours. Maugiron is also brave, but he thinks only of his toilette. Schomberg also, but he is not clever. D’Epernon is a valiant man, but he is a hypocrite, whom I could not trust, although I am friendly to him. But you know, François, that one of the heaviest taxes on a king is the necessity of dissimulation; therefore, when I can speak freely from my heart, as I do now, I breathe. Well, then, if my cousin Guise originated this idea, to the development of which you have assisted, the execution of it belongs to him.”

“What do you say, sire?” said François, uneasily.

“I say, that to direct such a movement we must have a prince of high rank.”

“Sire, take care.”

“A good captain and a skilful negotiator.”

“The last particularly.”

“Well, is not M. de Guise all this?”

“My brother, he is very powerful already.”

“Yes, doubtless; but his power makes my strength.”

“He holds already the army and the bourgeois; the cardinal holds the Church, and Mayenne is their instrument; it is a great deal of power to be concentrated in one family.”

“It is true, François; I had thought of that.”

“If the Guises were French princes, their interest would be to aggrandize France.”

“Yes, but they are Lorraines.”

“Of a house always rival to yours.”

“Yes, François; you have touched the sore. I did not think you so good a politician. Yes, there does not pass a day but one or other of these Guises, either by address or by force, carries away from me some particle of my power. Ah! François, if we had but had this explanation sooner, if I had been able to read your heart as I do now, certain of support in you, I might have resisted better, but now it is too late.”

“Why so?”

“Because all combats fatigue me; therefore I must make him chief of the League.”

“You will be wrong, brother.”

“But who could I name, François? who would accept this perilous post? Yes, perilous; for do you not see that he intended me to appoint him chief, and that, should I name any one else to the post, he would treat him as an enemy?”

“Name some one so powerful that, supported by you, he need not fear all the three Lorraine princes together.”

“Ah, my good brother, I know no such person.”

“Look round you, brother.”

“I know no one but you and Chicot who are really my friends.”

“Well, brother.”

Henri looked at the duke as if a veil had fallen from his eyes. “Surely you would never consent, brother! It is not you who could teach all these bourgeois their exercise, who could look over the discourses of the preachers, who, in case of battle, would play the butcher in the streets of Paris; for all this, one must be triple, like the duke, and have a right arm called Charles and a left called Louis. What! you would like all this? You, the first gentleman of our court! Mort de ma vie! how people change with the age!”

“Perhaps I would not do it for myself, brother, but I would do it for you.”

“Excellent brother!” said Henri, wiping away a tear which never existed.

“Then,” said the duke, “it would not displease you for me to assume this post?”

“Displease me! On the contrary, it would charm me.”

François trembled with joy. “Oh! if your majesty thinks me worthy of this confidence.”

“Confidence! When you are the chief, what have I to fear? The League itself? That cannot be dangerous can it, François?”

“Oh, sire?”

“No, for then you would not be chief, or at least, when you are chief, there will be no danger. But, François, the duke is doubtless certain of this appointment, and he will not lightly give way.”

“Sire, you grant me the command?”

“Certainly.”

“And you wish me to have it?”

“Particularly; but I dare not too much displease M. de Guise.”

“Oh, make yourself easy, sire; if that be the only obstacle, I pledge myself to arrange it.”

“When?”

“At once.”

“Are you going to him? That will be doing him too much honor.”

“No, sire; he is waiting for me.”

“Where?”

“In my room.”

“Your room! I heard the cries of the people as he left the Louvre.”

“Yes; but after going out at the great door he came back by the postern. The king had the right to the first visit, but I to the second.”

“Ah, brother, I thank you for keeping up our prerogative, which I had the weakness so often to abandon. Go, then, François, and do your best.”

François bent down to kiss the king’s hand, but he, opening his arms, gave him a warm embrace, and then the duke left the room to go to his interview with the Duc de Guise. The king, seeing his brother gone, gave an angry growl, and rapidly made his way through the secret corridor, until he reached a hiding-place whence he could distinctly hear the conversation between the two dukes.

“Ventre de biche!” cried Chicot, starting up, “how touching these family scenes are! For an instant I believed myself in Olympus, assisting at the reunion of Castor and Pollux after six months’ separation.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT LISTENING IS THE BEST WAY TO HEAR

The Duc d’Anjou was well aware that there were few rooms in the Louvre which were not built so that what was said in them could be heard from the outside; but, completely seduced by his brother’s manner, he forgot to take any precautions.

“Why, monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, “how pale you are!”

“Visibly?”

“Yes, to me.”

“The king saw nothing?”

“I think not; but he retained you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he say, monseigneur?”

“He approves the idea, but the more gigantic it appears, the more he hesitates to place a man like you at the head.”

“Then we are likely to fail.”

“I fear so, my dear duke; the League seems likely to fail.”

“Before it begins.”

At this moment Henri, hearing a noise, turned and saw Chicot by his side, listening also. “You followed me, Knave!” said he.

“Hush, my son,” said Chicot; “you prevent me from hearing.”

“Monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, “it seems to me that in this case the king would have refused at once. Does he wish to dispossess me?”

“I believe so.”

“Then he would ruin the enterprise?”

“Yes; but I aided you with all my power.”

“How, monseigneur?”

“In this – the king has left me almost master, to kill or reanimate the League.”

“How so?” cried the duke, with sparkling eyes.

“Why, if, instead of dissolving the League, he named me chief – ”

“Ah!” cried the duke, while the blood mounted to his face.

“Ah! the dogs are going to fight over their bones,” said Chicot; but to his surprise, and the king’s, the Duc de Guise suddenly became calm, and exclaimed, in an almost joyful tone:

“You are an adroit politician, monseigneur, if you did this.”

“Yes, I did; but I would not conclude anything without speaking to you.”

“Why so, monseigneur?”

“Because I did not know what it would lead us to.”

“Well, I will tell you, monseigneur, not to what it will lead us – that God alone knows – but how it will serve us. The League is a second army, and as I hold the first, and my brother the Church, nothing can resist us as long as we are united.”

“Without counting,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “that I am heir presumptive to the throne.”

“True, but still calculate your bad chances.”

“I have done so a hundred times.”

“There is, first, the King of Navarre.”

“Oh! I do not mind him; he is entirely occupied by his amours with La Fosseuse.”

“He, monseigneur, will dispute every inch with you; he watches you and your brother; he hungers for the throne. If any accident should happen to your brother, see if he will not be here with a bound from Pau to Paris.”

“An accident to my brother,” repeated François.

“Listen, Henri,” said Chicot.

“Yes, monseigneur,” said the Duc de Guise, “an accident. Accidents are not rare in your family; you know that, as well as I do. One prince is in good health, and all at once he falls ill of a lingering malady; another is counting on long years, when, perhaps, he has but a few hours to live.”

“Do you hear, Henri?” said Chicot, taking the hand of the king, who shuddered at what he heard.

“Yes, it is true,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “the princes of my house are born under fatal influences; but my brother Henri is, thank God, strong and well; he supported formerly the fatigues of war, and now that his life is nothing but recreation – ”

“Yes; but, monseigneur, remember one thing; these recreations are not always without danger. How did your father, Henri II., die, for example? He, who also had happily escaped the dangers of war. The wound by M. de Montgomery’s lance was an accident. Then your poor brother, François, one would hardly call a pain in the ears an accident, and yet it was one; at least, I have often heard it said that this mortal malady was poured into his ear by some one well known.”

“Duke!” murmured François, reddening.

“Yes, monseigneur; the name of king has long brought misfortune with it. Look at Antoine de Bourbon, who died from a spot in the shoulder. Then there was Jeanne d’Albret, the mother of the Béarnais, who died from smelling a pair of perfumed gloves, an accident very unexpected although there were people who had great interest in this death. Then Charles IX., who died neither by the eye, the ear, nor the shoulder, but by the mouth – ”

“What do you say?” cried François, starting back.

“Yes, monseigneur, by the mouth. Those hunting books are very dangerous, of which the pages stick together, and can only be opened by wetting the finger constantly.”

“Duke! duke! I believe you invent crimes.”

“Crimes! who speaks of crimes? I speak of accidents. Was it not also an accident that happened to Charles IX. at the chase? You know what chase I mean; that of the boar, where, intending to kill the wild boar, which had turned on your brother, you, who never before had missed your aim, did so then, and the king would have been killed, as he had fallen from his horse, had not Henri of Navarre slain the animal which you had missed.”

“But,” said the Duc d’Anjou, trying to recover himself, “what interest could I have had in the death of Charles IX., when the next king would be Henri III.?”

“Oh! monseigneur, there was already one throne vacant, that of Poland. The death of Charles IX. would have left another, that of France; and even the kingdom of Poland might not have been despised. Besides, the death of Charles would have brought you a degree nearer the throne, and the next accident would have benefited you.”

“What do you conclude from all this, duke?” said the Duc d’Anjou.

“Monseigneur, I conclude that each king has his accident, and that you are the inevitable accident of Henri III., particularly if you are chief of the League.”

“Then I am to accept?”

“Oh! I beg you to do so.”

“And you?”

“Oh! be easy; my men are ready, and to-night Paris will be curious.”