Chicot the Jester

“What are they going to do in Paris to-night?” asked Henri.

“Oh! how foolish you are, my friend; to-night they sign the League publicly.”

“It is well,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “till this evening then.”

“Yes, till this evening,” said Henri.

“How!” said Chicot, “you will not risk going into the streets to-night?”

“Yes, I shall.”

“You are wrong, Henri; remember the accidents.”

“Oh! I shall be well accompanied; will you come with me?”

“What! do you take me for a Huguenot? I shall go and sign the League ten times. However, Henri, you have a great advantage over your predecessors, in being warned, for you know your brother, do you not?”

“Yes, and, mordieu! before long he shall find it out.”

CHAPTER XI.

THE EVENING OF THE LEAGUE

Paris presented a fine sight, as through its then narrow streets thousands of people pressed towards the same point, for at eight o’clock in the evening, M. le Duc de Guise was to receive the signatures of the bourgeois to the League. A crowd of citizens, dressed in their best clothes, as for a fête, but fully armed, directed their steps towards the churches. What added to the noise and confusion was that large numbers of women, disdaining to stay at home on such a great day, had followed their husbands, and many had brought with them a whole batch of children. It was in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec that the crowd was the thickest. The streets were literally choked, and the crowd pressed tumultuously towards a bright light suspended below the sign of the Belle Etoile. On the threshold a man, with a cotton cap on his head and a naked sword in one hand and a register in the other, was crying out, “Come come, brave Catholics, enter the hotel of the Belle Etoile, where you will find good wine; come, to-night the good will be separated from the bad, and to-morrow morning the wheat will be known from the tares; come, gentlemen, you who can write, come and sign; – you who cannot write, come and tell your names to me, La Hurière; vive la messe!” A tall man elbowed his way through the crowd, and in letters half an inch high, wrote his name, ‘Chicot.’ Then, turning to La Hurière, he asked if he had not another register to sign. La Hurière did not understand raillery, and answered angrily. Chicot retorted, and a quarrel seemed approaching, when Chicot, feeling some one touch his arm, turned, and saw the king disguised as a simple bourgeois, and accompanied by Quelus and Maugiron, also disguised, and carrying an arquebuse on their shoulders.

“What!” cried the king, “good Catholics disputing among themselves; par la mordieu, it is a bad example.”

“Do not mix yourself with what does not concern you,” replied Chicot, without seeming to recognize him. But a new influx of the crowd distracted the attention of La Hurière, and separated the king and his companions from the hotel.

“Why are you here, sire?” said Chicot.

“Do you think I have anything to fear?”

“Eh! mon Dieu! in a crowd like this it is so easy for one man to put a knife into his neighbor, and who just utters an oath and gives up the ghost.”

“Have I been seen?”

“I think not; but you will be if you stay longer. Go back to the Louvre, sire.”

“Oh! oh! what is this new outcry, and what are the people running for?”

Chicot looked, but could at first see nothing but a mass of people crying, howling, and pushing. At last the mass opened, and a monk, mounted on a donkey, appeared. The monk spoke and gesticulated, and the ass brayed.

“Ventre de biche!” cried Chicot, “listen to the preacher.”

“A preacher on a donkey!” cried Quelus.

“Why not?”

“He is Silenus,” said Maugiron.

“Which is the preacher?” said the king, “for they speak both at once.”

“The underneath one is the most eloquent,” said Chicot, “but the one at the top speaks the best French; listen, Henri.”

“My brethren,” said the monk, “Paris is a superb city; Paris is the pride of France, and the Parisians a fine people.” Then he began to sing, but the ass mingled his accompaniment so loudly that he was obliged to stop. The crowd burst out laughing.

“Hold your tongue, Panurge, hold your tongue,” cried the monk, “you shall speak after, but let me speak first.”

The ass was quiet.

“My brothers,” continued the preacher, “the earth is a valley of grief, where man often pan quench his thirst only with his tears.”

“He is drunk,” said the king.

“I should think so.”

“I, who speak to you,” continued the monk, “I am returning from exile like the Hebrews of old, and for eight days Panurge and I have been living on alms and privations.”

“Who is Panurge?” asked the king.

“The superior of his convent, probably but let me listen.”

“Who made me endure this? It was Herod; you know what Herod I speak of. I and Panurge have come from Villeneuve-le-Roi, in three days, to assist at this great solemnity; now we see, but we do not understand. What is passing, my brothers? Is it to-day that they depose Herod? Is it to-day that they put brother Henri in a convent? – Gentlemen,” continued he, “I left Paris with two friends; Panurge, who is my ass, and Chicot, who is his majesty’s jester. Can you tell me what has become of my friend Chicot?”

Chicot made a grimace.

“Oh,” said the king, “he is your friend.” Quelus and Maugiron burst out laughing. “He is handsome and respectable,” continued the king.

“It is Gorenflot, of whom M. de Morvilliers spoke to you.”

“The incendiary of St. Geneviève?”

“Himself!”

“Then I will have him hanged!”

“Impossible!”

“Why?”

“He has no neck.”

“My brothers,” continued Gorenflot: “I am a true martyr, and it is my cause that they defend at this moment or, rather, that of all good Catholics. You do not know what is passing in the provinces, we have been obliged at Lyons to kill a Huguenot who preached revolt. While one of them remains in France, there will be no tranquillity for us. Let us exterminate them. To arms! to arms!”

Several voices repeated, “To arms!”

“Par la mordieu!” said the king, “make this fellow hold his tongue, or he will make a second St. Bartholomew!”

“Wait,” said Chicot, and with his stick he struck Gorenflot with all his force on the shoulders.

“Murder!” cried the monk.

“It is you!” cried Chicot.

“Help me, M. Chicot, help me! The enemies of the faith wish to assassinate me, but I will not die without making my voice heard. Death to the Huguenots!”

“Will you hold your tongue?” cried Chicot. But at this moment a second blow fell on the shoulders of the monk with such force that he cried out with real pain. Chicot, astonished, looked round him, but saw nothing but the stick. The blow had been given by a man who had immediately disappeared in the crowd after administering this punishment.

“Who the devil could it have been?” thought Chicot, and he began to run after the man, who was gliding away, followed by only one companion.

CHAPTER XLI.

THE RUE DE LA FERRONNERIE

Chicot had good legs, and he would have made the best use of them to join the man who had beaten Gorenflot if he had not imagined that there might be danger in trying to recognize a man who so evidently wished to avoid it. He thought the best way not to seem to watch them was to pass them; so he ran on, and passed them at the corner of the Rue Tirechappe, and then hid himself at the end of the Rue des Bourdonnais. The two men went on, their hats slouched over their eyes, and their cloaks drawn up over their faces, with a quick and military step, until they reached the Rue de la Ferronnerie. There they stopped and looked round them. Chicot, who was still ahead, saw in the middle of the street, before a house so old that it looked falling to pieces, a litter, attached to which were two horses. The driver had fallen asleep, while a woman, apparently unquiet, was looking anxiously through the blind. Chicot hid himself behind a large stone wall, which served as stalls for the vegetable sellers on the days when the market was held in this street, and watched. Scarcely was he hidden, when he saw the two men approach the litter, one of whom, on seeing the driver asleep, uttered an impatient exclamation, while the other pushed him to awaken him. “Oh, they are compatriots!” thought Chicot. The lady now leaned out of the window, and Chicot saw that she was young, very pale, but very beautiful. The two men approached the litter, and the taller of the two took in both of his the little white hand which was stretched out to him.

“Well, ma mie,” asked he, “how are you?”

“I have been very anxious,” replied she.

“Why the devil did you bring madame to Paris?” said the other man rudely.

“Ma foi! it is a malediction that you must always have a petticoat tacked to your doublet!”

“Ah, dear Agrippa,” replied the man who had spoken first, “it is so great a grief to part from one you love.”

“On my soul, you make me swear to hear you talk! Did you come to Paris to make love? It seems to me that Béarn is large enough for your sentimental promenades, without continuing them in this Babylon, where you have nearly got us killed twenty times to-day. Go home, if you wish to make love, but, here, keep to your political intrigues, my master.”

“Let him scold, ma mie, and never mind him; I think he would be ill if he did not.”

“But, at least, ventre St. Gris, as you say, get into the litter, and say your sweet things to madame; you will run less risk of being recognized there than in the open street.”

“You are right, Agrippa. Give me a place, ma mie, if you permit me to sit by your side.”

“Permit, sire; I desire it ardently,” replied the lady.

“Sire!” murmured Chicot, who, carried away by an impulse, tried to raise his head, and knocked it against the stone wall. Meanwhile the happy lover profited by the permission given, and seated himself in the litter.

“Oh! how happy I am,” he cried, without attending in the least to the impatience of his friend – “ventre St. Gris, this is a good day. Here are my good Parisians, who execrate me with all their souls, and would kill me if they could, working to smooth my way to the throne, and I have in my arms the woman I love. Where are we, D’Aubigné? when I am king, I will erect here a statue to the genius of the Béarnais.”

“The Béarn – ” began Chicot, but he stopped, for he had given his head a second bump.

“We are in the Rue de la Ferronnerie, sire,” said D’Aubigné, “and it does not smell nice.”

“Get in then, Agrippa, and we will go on.”

“Ma foi, no, I will follow behind; I should annoy you, and, what is worse, you would annoy me.”

“Shut the door then, bear of Béarn, and do as you like.” Then to the coachman he said, “Lavarrenne, you know where.”

The litter went slowly away, followed by D’Aubigné.

“Let me see,” said Chicot, “must I tell Henri what I have seen? Why should I? two men and a woman, who hide themselves; it would be cowardly. I will not tell; that I know it myself is the important point, for is it not I who reign? His love was very pretty, but he loves too often, this dear Henri of Navarre. A year ago it was Madame de Sauve, and I suppose this was La Fosseuse. However, I love the Béarnais, for I believe some day he will do an ill turn to those dear Guises. Well! I have seen everyone to-day but the Duc d’Anjou; he alone is wanting to my list of princes. Where can my François III. be? Ventre de biche, I must look for the worthy monarch.”

Chicot was not the only person who was seeking for the Duc d’Anjou, and unquiet at his absence. The Guises had also sought for him on all sides, but they were not more lucky than Chicot. M. d’Anjou was not the man to risk himself imprudently, and we shall see afterwards what precautions had kept him from his friends. Once Chicot thought he had found him in the Rue Bethisy; a numerous group was standing at the door of a wine-merchant; and in this group Chicot recognized M. de Monsoreau and M. de Guise, and fancied that the Duc d’Anjou could not be far off. But he was wrong. MM. de Monsoreau and Guise were occupied in exciting still more an orator in his stammering eloquence. This orator was Gorenflot, recounting his journey to Lyons, and his duel in an inn with a dreadful Huguenot. M. de Guise was listening intently, for he began to fancy it had something to do with the silence of Nicolas David. Chicot was terrified; he felt sure that in another moment Gorenflot would pronounce his name, which would throw a fatal light on the mystery. Chicot in an instant cut the bridles of some of the horses that were fastened up, and giving them each a violent blow, sent them galloping among the crowd, which opened, and began to disperse in different directions. Chicot passed quickly through the groups, and approaching Gorenflot, took Panurge by the bridle and turned him round. The Duc de Guise was already separated from them by the rush of the people, and Chicot led off Gorenflot to a kind of cul-de-sac by the church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois.

“Ah! drunkard!” said he to him, “ah! traitor! you will then always prefer a bottle of wine to your friend.’

“Ah! M. Chicot,” stammered the monk.

“What! I feed you, wretch, I give you drink, I fill your pockets and your stomach, and you betray me.”

“Ah! M. Chicot!”

“You tell my secrets, wretch.”

“Dear friend.”

“Hold your tongue; you are but a sycophant, and deserve punishment.”

And the monk, vigorous and strong, powerful as a bull, but overcome by wine and repentance, remained without defending himself in the hands of Chicot, who shook him like a balloon full of air.

“A punishment to me, to your friend, dear M. Chicot!”

“Yes, to you,” said Chicot, striking him over the shoulders with his stick.

“Ah! if I were but fasting.”

“You would beat me, I suppose; I, your friend.”

“My friend! and you treat me thus!”

“He who loves well chastises well,” said Chicot, redoubling his proofs of friendship. “Now,” said he, “go and sleep at the Corne d’Abondance.”

“I can no longer see my way,” cried the monk, from whose eyes tears were falling.

“Ah!” said Chicot, “if you wept for the wine you have drunk! However, I will guide you.”

And taking the ass by the bridle, he led him to the hotel, where two men assisted Gorenflot to dismount, and led him up to the room which our readers already know.

“It is done,” said the host, returning.

“He is in bed?”

“Yes, and snoring.”

“Very well. But as he will awake some day or other, remember that I do not wish that he should know how he came here; indeed, it will be better that he should not know that he has been out since the famous night when he made such a noise in the convent, and that he should believe that all that has passed since is a dream.”

“Very well, M. Chicot; but what has happened to the poor monk?”

“A great misfortune. It appears that at Lyons he quarreled with an agent of M. de Mayenne’s and killed him.”

“Oh! mon Dieu!”

“So that M. de Mayenne has sworn that he will have him broken on the wheel.”

“Make yourself easy, monsieur; he shall not go out from here on any pretext.”

“Good. And now,” said Chicot, as he went away, “I must find the Duc d’Anjou.”

CHAPTER XLII.

THE PRINCE AND THE FRIEND

We may remember that the Duc de Guise had invited the Duc d’Anjou to meet him in the streets of Paris that evening. However, he determined not to go out of his palace unless he was well accompanied; therefore the duke went to seek his sword, which was Bussy d’Amboise. For the duke to make up his mind to this step he must have been very much afraid; for since his deception with regard to M. de Monsoreau he had not seen Bussy, and stood in great dread of him. Bussy, like all fine natures, felt sorrow more vividly than pleasure; for it is rare that a man intrepid in danger, cold and calm in the face of fire and sword, does not give way to grief more easily than a coward. Those from whom a woman can draw tears most easily are those most to be feared by other men. Bussy had seen Diana received at court as Comtesse de Monsoreau, and as such admitted by the queen into the circle of her maids of honor; he had seen a thousand curious eyes fixed on her unrivaled beauty. During the whole evening he had fastened his ardent gaze on her, who never raised her eyes to him, and he, unjust, like every man in love, never thought how she must have been suffering from not daring to meet his sympathizing glance.

“Oh,” said he to himself, seeing that he waited uselessly for a look, “women have skill and audacity only when they want to deceive a guardian, a husband, or a mother; they are awkward and cowardly when they have simply a debt of gratitude to pay, they fear so much to seem to love – they attach so exaggerated a value to their least favor, that they do not mind breaking their lover’s heart, if such be their humor. Diana might have said to me frankly, ‘I thank you for what you have done for me, but I do not love you.’ The blow would have killed or cured me. But no; she prefers letting me love her hopelessly; but she has gained nothing by it, for I no longer love her, I despise her.”

And he went away with rage in his heart.

“I am mad,” thought he, “to torment myself about a person who disdains me. But why does she disdain me, or for whom? Not, surely, for that long, livid-looking skeleton, who, always by her side, covers her incessantly with his jealous glances. If I wished it, in a quarter of an hour I could hold him mute and cold under my knee with ten inches of steel in his heart, and if I cannot be loved, I could at least be terrible and hated. Oh, her hatred! Rather than her indifference. Yes, but to act thus would be to do what a Quelus or a Maugiron would do if they knew how to love. Better to resemble that hero of Plutarch whom I so much admired, the young Antiochus, dying of love and never avowing it, nor uttering a complaint. Am I not called the brave Bussy?”

He went home, and threw himself on a chair. How long he remained there he did not know when a man approached him.

“M. le Comte,” said he, “you are in a fever.”

“Ah, is it you, Rémy?”

“Yes, count. Go to bed,”

Bussy obeyed, and all the next day Rémy watched by him, with refreshing drinks for his body and kind words for his mind. But on the day after Bussy missed him. “Poor lad!” thought he, “he was tired and wanted air; and then doubtless Gertrude expected him; she is but a femme de chambre, but she loves, and a femme de chambre who loves is better than a queen who does not.”

The day passed, and Rémy did not return. Bussy was angry and impatient. “Oh!” cried he, “I, who still believed in gratitude and friendship, will henceforth believe in nothing.” Towards evening he heard voices in his ante-chamber, and a servant entered, saying, “It is Monseigneur the Duc d’Anjou.”

“Let him enter,” said Bussy, frowning.

The duke, on entering the room, which was without lights, said, “It is too dark here, Bussy.”

Bussy did not answer; disgust closed his mouth. “Are you really ill,” said the duke, “that you do not answer?”

“I am very ill.”

“Then that is why I have not seen you for two days?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

The prince, piqued at these short answers, began to examine the room.

“You seem to me well lodged, Bussy,” said he.

Bussy did not reply.

“Bussy must be very ill,” said the duke to an attendant who stood by, “why was not Miron called? The king’s doctor is not too good for Bussy.” When the servant was gone, “Are you in grief, Bussy?” said the duke.

“I do not know.”

The duke approached, becoming more and more gracious as he was rebuffed. “Come, speak frankly, Bussy,” said he.

“What am I to say, monseigneur?”

“You are angry with me?”

“I! for what? besides, it is no use to be angry with princes.” The duke was silent.

“But,” said Bussy, “we are losing time in preambles; to the point, monseigneur. You have need of me, I suppose?”

“Ah, M. de Bussy!”

“Yes, doubtless; do you think I believe that you come here through friendship; you, who love no one?”

“Oh, Bussy, to say such things to me!”

“Well, be quick, monseigneur, what do you want? When one serves a prince, and he dissimulates to the extent of calling you his friend, one must pay for the dissimulation by being ready to sacrifice everything, even life, if necessary.”

The duke colored, but it was too dark to see it. “I wanted nothing of you, Bussy, and you deceive yourself in thinking my visit interested. I desire only, seeing the fine evening, and that all Paris is out to sign the League, that you should accompany me a little about the streets.”

Bussy looked at him. “Have you not Aurilly to go with you?”

“A lute-player!”

“Ah, monseigneur, you do not mention all his qualities; I believed that he fulfilled other functions for you. Besides, you have a dozen other gentlemen; I hear them in the ante-chamber.”

At this moment the door opened. “Who is there?” said the duke, haughtily. “Who enters unannounced where I am?”

“I, Rémy,” replied the young man, without any embarrassment.

“Who is Rémy?”

“The doctor, monseigneur,” said the young man.

“And my friend,” said Bussy. “You heard what monseigneur asks?” continued he, turning to Rémy.

“Yes, that you should accompany him; but – ”

“But what?” said the duke.

“But you cannot do it!”

“And why so?” cried the duke.

“Because it is too cold out of doors.”

“Too cold!” cried the duke, surprised that any one should oppose him.

“Yes, too cold. Therefore I, who answer for M. Bussy’s life to himself and to his friends, must forbid him to go out.” And he pressed Bussy’s hand in a significant manner.

“Very well,” said the duke, “if the risk be so great, he must stay.” And he turned angrily to the door; but returning to the bed, he said, “Then you have decided not to come?”

“Monseigneur, you hear that the doctor forbids me.”

“You ought to see Miron, he is a great doctor.”

“I prefer my friend.”

“Then adieu.”

“Adieu, monseigneur.”

No sooner was the duke gone than Rémy said, “Now, monsieur, get up at once, if you please.”

“What for?”

“To come out with me. This room is too warm.”

“You said just now to the duke that it was too cold outside.”

“The temperature has changed since.”

“So that – ” said Bussy, with curiosity.

“So that now I am convinced that the air will do you good.”

“I do not understand.”

“Do you understand the medicines I give you? Yet you take them. Come, get up; a walk with M. d’Anjou is dangerous, with me it is healthy. Have you lost confidence in me? If so, send me away.”

“Well, as you wish it.” And he rose, pale and trembling.

“An interesting paleness,” said Rémy.

“But where are we going?”

“To a place where I have analyzed the air to-day.”

“And this air?”

“Is sovereign for your complaint, monseigneur.”

Bussy dressed, and they went out.

CHAPTER XLIII.

ETYMOLOGY OF THE RUE DE LA JUSSIENNE

Rémy took his patient by the arm, and led him by the Rue Coquillière down to the rampart.

“It is strange,” said Bussy, “you take me near the marsh of the Grange-Batelier, and call it healthy.”

“Oh, monsieur, a little patience; we are going to turn round the Rue Pagavin, and get into the Rue Montmartre – you will see what a fine street that is.”

“As if I do not know it.”

“Well, so much the better; I need not lose time in showing you its beauties, and I will lead you at once into a pretty little street.”

Indeed, after going a few steps down the Rue Montmartre, they turned to the right.

“This,” said Rémy, “is the Rue de la Gypecienne, or Egyptienne, which you like; often called by the people the Rue de la Gyssienne, or Jussienne.”

“Very likely; but where are we going?”

“Do you see that little church?” said Rémy. “How nicely it is situated; I dare say you never remarked it before.”

“No, I did not know it.”

“Well, now that you have seen the exterior, enter and look at the windows – they are very curious.”

There was such a pleased smile on the young man’s face, that Bussy felt sure there must have been some other reason for making him enter than to look at the windows which it was too dark to see. The chapel was lighted, however, for service, and Rémy began examining a fresco of the Virgin Mary, which was a continual source of complaint to the women who frequented the church, as they said that it attracted the attention of the young shopkeepers away from them.