Chicot the Jester

He shook the ladder to see if it was firm, then he put his leg over the balustrade and placed his foot on the first step. Nothing can describe the anguish of the prisoner at this moment, placed between a frail silk cord on the one hand and his brother’s cruel menaces on the other. But as he stood there he felt the ladder stiffened; some one held it. Was it a friend or an enemy? Were they open arms or armed ones which waited for him? An irresistible terror seized him; he still held the balcony with his left hand, and made a movement to remount, when a very slight pull at the ladder came to him like a solicitation. He took courage, and tried the second step. The ladder was held as firm as a rock, and he found a steady support for his foot. He descended rapidly, almost gliding down, when all at once, instead of touching the earth, which he knew to be near, he felt himself seized in the arms of a man who whispered, “You are saved.” Then he was carried along the fosse till they came to the end, when another man seized him by the collar and drew him up, and after having aided his companion in the same way, they ran to the river, where stood the horses. The prince knew he was at, the mercy of his saviours, so he jumped at once on a horse, and his companions did the same. The same voice now said, “Quick!” And they set off at a gallop.

“All goes well at present,” thought the prince, “let us hope it will end so. Thanks, my brave Bussy,” said he to his companion on the right, who was entirely covered with a large cloak.

“Quick!” replied the other.

They arrived thus at the great ditch of the Bastile, which they crossed on a bridge improvised by the Leaguers the night before. The three cavaliers rode towards Charenton, when all at once the man on the right entered the forest of Vincennes, saying only, “Come.” The prince’s horse neighed, and several others answered from the depths of the forest. François would have stopped if he could, for he feared they were taking him to an ambush, but it was too late, and in a few minutes he found himself in a small open space, where eight or ten men on horseback were drawn up.

“Oh! oh!” said the prince, “what does this mean, monsieur?”

“Ventre St. Gris! it means that we are saved.”

“You! Henri!” cried the duke, stupefied, “you! my liberator?”

“Does that astonish you? Are we not related, Agrippa?” continued he, looking round for his companion.

“Here I am,” said D’Aubigné.

“Are there two fresh horses, with which we can go a dozen leagues without stopping?”

“But where are you taking me, my cousin?”

“Where you like, only be quick, for the King of France has more horses than I have, and is rich enough to kill a dozen if he wishes to catch us.”

“Really, then, I am free to go where I like?”

“Certainly, I wait your orders.”

“Well, then, to Angers.”

“To Angers; so be it, there you are at home.”

“But you?”

“I! when we are in sight of Angers I shall leave you, and ride on to Navarre, where my good Margot expects me, and must be much ennuyée at my absence.”

“But no one knew you were here?”

“I came to sell three diamonds of my wife’s.”

“Ah! very well.”

“And also to know if this League was really going to ruin me.”

“You see there is nothing in it.”

“Thanks to you, no.”

“How! thanks to me?”

“Certainly. If, instead of refusing to be chief of the League, when you knew it was directed against me, you had accepted, I was ruined. Therefore, when I heard that the king had punished your refusal with imprisonment, I swore to release you, and I have done so.”

“Always so simple-minded,” thought François, “really, it is easy to deceive him.”

“Now for Anjou,” thought the king. “Ah! M. de Guise, I send you a companion you do not want.”

CHAPTER LIII.

THE FRIENDS

While Paris was in this ferment, Madame de Monsoreau, escorted by her father and two servants, pursued their way to Méridor. She began to enjoy her liberty, precious to those who have suffered. The azure of the sky, compared to that which hung always menacingly over the black towers of the Bastile, the trees already green, all appeared to her fresh and young, beautiful and new, as if she had really come out of the tomb where her father had believed her. He, the old baron, had grown young again. We will not attempt to describe their long journey, free from incidents. Several times the baron said to Diana, —

“Do not fear, my daughter.”

“Fear what?”

“Were you not looking if M. de Monsoreau was following us?”

“Yes, it was true, I did look,” replied she, with a sigh and another glance behind.

At last, on the eighth day, they reached the château of Méridor, and were received by Madame de St. Luc and her husband. Then began for these four people one of those existences of which every man has dreamed in reading Virgil or Theocritus. The baron and St. Luc hunted from morning till evening; you might have seen troops of dogs rushing from the hills in pursuit of some hare or fox, and startling Diana and Jeanne, as they sat side by side on the moss, under the shade of the trees.

“Recount to me,” said Jeanne, “all that happened to you in the tomb, for you were dead to us. See, the hawthorn is shedding on us its last flowers, and the elders send out their perfume. Not a breath in the air, not a human being near us; recount, little sister.”

“What can I say?”

“Tell me, are you happy? That beautiful eye often swimming in tears, the paleness of your cheeks, that mouth which tries a smile which it never finishes – Diana, you must have many things to tell me.”

“No, nothing.”

“You are, then, happy with M. de Monsoreau?”

Diana shuddered.

“You see!” said Jeanne.

“With M. de Monsoreau! Why did you pronounce that name? why do you evoke that phantom in the midst of our woods, our flowers, our happiness?”

“You told me, I think,” said Jeanne, “that M. de Bussy showed much interest in you.”

Diana reddened, even to her round pretty ears.

“He is a charming creature,” continued Jeanne, kissing Diana.

“It is folly,” said Diana; “M. de Bussy thinks no more of Diana de Méridor.”

“That is possible; but I believe he pleases Diana de Monsoreau a little.”

“Do not say that.”

“Does it displease you?”

“I tell you he thinks no more of me; and he does well – oh, I was cowardly.”

“What do you say?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Now, Diana, do not cry, do not accuse yourself. You cowardly! you, my heroine! you were constrained.”

“I believed it; I saw dangers, gulfs under my feet. Now, Jeanne, these dangers seem to me chimerical, these gulfs as if a child could cross them. I was cowardly, I tell you; oh, I had no time to reflect.”

“You speak in enigmas.”

“No,” cried Diana, rising, “it was not my fault, it was his. The Duc d’Anjou was against him; but when one wishes a thing, when one loves, neither prince nor master should keep you back. See, Jeanne, if I loved – ”

“Be calm, dear friend.”

“I tell you, we were cowardly.”

“‘We!’ of whom do you speak? That ‘we’ is eloquent, my dearest Diana.”

“I mean my father and I; you did not think anything else, did you? My father is a nobleman – he might have spoken to the king; I am proud, and do not fear a man when I hate him. But he did not love me.”

“You lie to yourself! you know the contrary, little hypocrite!”

“You may believe in love, Jeanne, you, whom M. de St. Luc married in spite of the king; you, whom he carried away from Paris; you, who pay him by your caresses for proscription and exile.”

“And he thinks himself richly repaid.”

“But I – reflect a little, do not be egotistical – I, whom that fiery young man pretended to love – I, who fixed the regards of that invincible Bussy, he who fears no one – I was alone with him in the cloister of l’Egyptienne – we were alone; but for Gertrude and Rémy, our accomplices, he could have carried me off. At that moment I saw him suffering because of me; I saw his eyes languishing, his lips pale and parched with fever. If he had asked me to die to restore the brightness to his eyes, and the freshness to his lips, I should have died. Well, I went away, and he never tried to detain me. Wait still. He knew that I was leaving Paris, that I was returning to Méridor; he knew that M. de Monsoreau – I blush as I tell it – was only my husband in name; he knew that I traveled alone; and along the road, dear Jeanne, I kept turning, thinking I heard the gallop of his horse behind us. But no, it was only the echo of my own. I tell you he does not think of me. I am not worth a journey to Anjou while there are so many beautiful women at the court of France, whose smiles are worth a hundred confessions from the provincial, buried at Méridor. Do you understand now? Am I forgotten, despised – ”

She had not finished when the foliage of the oak rustled, a quantity of mortar and moss fell from the old wall, and a man threw himself at the feet of Diana, who uttered an affrighted cry.

Jeanne ran away – she recognized him.

“Here I am!” cried Bussy, kissing the dress of Diana.

She too recognized him, and, overcome by this unexpected happiness, fell unconscious into the arms of him whom she had just accused of indifference.

CHAPTER LIV.

BUSSY AND DIANA

Faintings from love seldom last any length of time, nor are they very dangerous. Diana was not long in opening her eyes, and finding herself supported by Bussy.

“Oh!” murmured she, “it was shocking, count, to surprise us thus.”

Bussy expected other words, men are so exacting, but Diana said no more, and, disengaging herself gently from his arms, ran to her friend, who, seeing her faint, had returned softly, and stood a little way off.

“Is it thus that you receive me, madame?”

“No, M. de Bussy, but – ”

“Oh! no ‘but,’ madame,” sighed Bussy, drawing near again.

“No, no, not on your knees!”

“Oh! let me pray to you an instant, thus!” cried the count. “I have so longed for this place.”

“Yes, but to come to it, you jumped over the wall. Not only is it not suitable for a man of your rank, but it is very imprudent.”

“How so?”

“If you had been seen?”

“Who could have seen me?”

“Our hunters, who, a quarter of an hour ago, passed by this wall.”

“Do not be uneasy, madame, I hide myself too carefully to be seen.”

“Hidden! really!” said Jeanne, “tell us how, M. de Bussy.”

“Firstly, if I did not join you on the road, it was not my fault, I took one route and you another. You came by Rambouillet, and I by Chartres. And then judge if your poor Bussy be not in love; I did not dare to join you. It was not in the presence of your father and your servants that I wished to meet you again, for I did not desire to compromise you, so I made the journey stage by stage, devoured by impatience. At last you arrived. I had taken a lodging in the village, and, concealed behind the window, I saw you pass.”

“Oh! mon Dieu! are you then at Angers under your own name?”

“For what do you take me? I am a traveling merchant; look at my costume, it is of a color much worn among drapers and goldsmiths. I have not been remarked.”

“Bussy, the handsome Bussy, two days in a provincial town and not remarked; who would believe that at court?” said Jeanne.

“Continue, count,” said Diana, blushing; “how do you come here from the town?”

“I have two horses of a chosen race; I leave the village on one, stopping to look at all the signs and writings, but when out of sight my horse takes to a gallop, which brings him the four miles in half an hour. Once in the wood of Méridor I ride to the park wall, but it is very long, for the park is large. Yesterday I explored this wall for more than four hours, climbing up here and there, hoping to see you. At last, when I was almost in despair, I saw you in the evening returning to the house; the two great dogs of the baron were jumping round you. When you had disappeared, I jumped over, and saw the marks on the grass where you had been sitting. I fancied you might have adopted this place, which is charming, during the heat of the sun, so I broke away some branches that I might know it again, and sighing, which hurts me dreadfully – ”

“From want of habit,” said Jeanne.

“I do not say no, madame; well, then, sighing, I retook my way to the town. I was very tired, I had torn my dress in climbing trees, but I had seen you, and I was happy.”

“It is an admirable recital,” said Jeanne, “and you have surmounted dreadful obstacles; it is quite heroic; but in your place I would have preserved my doublet, and above all, have taken care of my white hands. Look at yours, how frightful they are with scratches.”

“Yes, but then I should not have seen her whom I came to see.”

“On the contrary, I should have seen her better than you did.”

“What would you have done then?”

“I would have gone straight to the Château de Méridor. M. le Baron would have pressed me in his arms, Madame de Monsoreau would have placed me by her at table, M. de St. Luc would have been delighted to see me, and his wife also. It was the simplest thing in the world, but lovers never think of what is straight before them.”

Bussy smiled at Diana. “Oh, no,” he said, “that would not have done for me.”

“Then I no longer understand what good manners are.”

“No,” said Bussy, “I could not go to the castle; M. le Baron would watch his daughter.”

“Good!” said Jeanne, “here is a lesson for me,” and kissing Diana on the forehead, she ran away. Diana tried to stop her, but Bussy seized her hands, and she let her friend go. They remained alone.

“Have I not done well, madame,” said Bussy, “and do you not approve?”

“I do not desire to feign,” said Diana, “besides, it would be useless; you know I approve; but here must stop my indulgence; in calling for you as I did just now I was mad – I was guilty.”

“Mon Dieu! What do you say?”

“Alas I count, the truth; I have a right to make M. de Monsoreau unhappy, to withhold from him my smiles and my love, but I have no right to bestow them on another: for, after all, he is my master.”

“Now, you will let me speak, will you not?”

“Speak!”

“Well! of all that you have just said, you do not find one word in your heart.”

“How!”

“Listen patiently; you have overwhelmed me with sophisms. The commonplaces of morality do not apply here; this man is your master, you say, but did you choose him? No; fate imposed him on you, and you submitted. Now, do you mean to suffer all your life the consequences, of this odious constraint? I will deliver you from it.”

Diana tried to speak, but Bussy stopped her.

“Oh! I know what you are going to say; that if I provoke M. de Monsoreau and kill him, you will see me no more. So be it; I may die of grief, but you will live free and happy, and you may render happy some gallant man, who in his joy will sometimes bless my name, and cry, ‘Thanks, Bussy, thanks, for having delivered us from that dreadful Monsoreau;’ and you, yourself, Diana, who will not dare to thank me while living, will thank me dead.”

Diana seized his hand.

“You have not yet implored me, Bussy; you begin with menaces.”

“Menace you! oh! could I have such an intention, I, who love you so ardently, Diana. I know you love me; do not deny it, I know it, for you have avowed it. Here, on my knees before you, my hand on my heart, which has never lied, either from interest or from fear, I say to you, Diana, I love you, for my whole life. Diana, I swear to you, that if I die for you, it will be in adoring you. If you still say to me, ‘go,’ I will go without a sigh, or complaint, from this place where I am so happy, and I should say, ‘this woman does not love me, and never will love me.’ Then I should go away, and you would see me no more, but as my devotion for you is great, my desire to see you happy would survive the certainty that I could never be happy myself.”

Bussy said this with so much emotion, and, at the same time firmness, that Diana felt sure that he would do all he said, and she cried, —

“Thanks, count, for you take from me all remorse by your threats.”

Saying these words, she gave him her hand, which he kissed passionately. Then they heard the light steps of Jeanne, accompanied by a warning cough. Instinctively the clasped hands parted. Jeanne saw it.

“Pardon, my good friends, for disturbing you,” said she, “but we must go in if we do not wish to be sent for. M. le Comte, regain, if you please, your excellent horse, and let us go to the house. See what you lose by your obstinacy, M. de Bussy, a dinner at the château, which is not to be despised by a man who has had a long ride, and has been climbing trees, without counting all the amusement we could have had, or the glances that might have passed. Come, Diana, come away.”

Bussy looked at the two friends with a smile. Diana held out her hand to him.

“Is that all?” said he; “have you nothing to say?”

“Till to-morrow,” replied she.

“Only to-morrow.”

“To-morrow, and always.”

Bussy uttered a joyful exclamation, pressed his lips to her hand, and ran off. Diana watched him till he was out of sight.

“Now!” said Jeanne, when he had disappeared, “will you talk to me a little?”

“Oh! yes.”

“Well! to-morrow I shall go to the chase with St. Luc and your father.”

“What, you will leave me alone at the château!”

“Listen, dear friend; I also have my principles, and there are certain things that I cannot consent to do.”

“Oh, Jeanne!” cried Diana, growing pale, “can you say such things to me?”

“Yes, I cannot continue thus.”

“I thought you loved me, Jeanne. What cannot you continue?”

“Continue to prevent two poor lovers from talking to each other at their ease.” Diana seized in her arms the laughing young woman.

“Listen!” said Jeanne, “there are the hunters calling us, and poor St. Luc is impatient.”

CHAPTER LV.

HOW BUSSY WAS OFFERED THREE HUNDRED PISTOLES FOR HIS HORSE, AND PARTED WITH HIM FOR NOTHING

The next day, Bussy left Angers before the most wakeful bourgeois had had their breakfast. He flew along the road, and Diana, mounted on a terrace in front of the castle, saw him coming, and went to meet him. The sun had scarcely risen over the great oaks, and the grass was still wet with dew, when she heard from afar, as she went along, the horn of St. Luc, which Jeanne incited him to sound. She arrived at the meeting-place just as Bussy appeared on the wall. The day passed like an hour. What had they to say? That they loved each other. What had they to wish for? They were together.

“Diana,” said Bussy at length, “it seems to me as though my life had begun only to-day. You have shown me what it is to live.”

“And I,” replied she, “who not long ago would have willingly thrown myself into the arms of death, would now tremble to die and lose your love. But why do you not come to the castle? My father would be glad to see you, and M. de St. Luc is your friend.”

“Alas, Diana, if I came once, I should be always there; all the province would know it, and if it came to the ears of that ogre, your husband, he would hasten here. You forbid me to deliver you from him – ”

“Oh, yes!”

“Well, then, for the safety of our happiness, we must guard our secret. Madame de St. Luc knows it, and her husband soon will. I have written him a line this morning, asking him for an interview at Angers, and when he comes I will make him promise never to breathe a word of this. It is the more important, dear Diana, as doubtless they are seeking me everywhere. Things looked grave when I left Paris.

“You are right; and then my father is so scrupulous that, in spite of his love for me, he is capable of denouncing me to M. de Monsoreau.”

“Let us hide ourselves well, then; I fear some evil spirit, jealous of our happiness.”

“Say adieu to me, then; and do not ride so fast – your horse frightens me.”

“Fear nothing; he knows the way, and is the gentlest and safest horse I ever rode. When I return to the city, buried in sweet thoughts, he takes the way without my touching the bridle.”

At last the sound of the returning chase was heard, the horns playing an air agreed upon with Jeanne, and Bussy left. As he approached the city, he remarked that the time was approaching when the gates of the city would be closed. He was preparing to ride on quickly, when he heard behind him the gallop of horses. For a lover who wishes to remain concealed, as for a robber, everything seems a menace. Bussy asked himself whether he should ride on or draw up and let them pass, but their course was so rapid that they were up to him in a moment. There were two.

“Here is the city,” said one, with a Gascon accent; “three hundred more blows with the whip, and one hundred with the spur; courage and vigor!”

“The beast has no more breath – he shivers and totters; he will not go on; and yet I would give a hundred horses to be in my city before nightfall.”

“It is some Angers man out late,” thought Bussy. “But look, the horse is falling; take care, monsieur,” cried he; “quit your horse – he is about to fall.”

Indeed, as he spoke the animal fell heavily on his side, shook his legs convulsively, then suddenly his breath stopped, his eyes grew dim, and he was dead.

“Monsieur!” cried the cavalier to Bussy, “three hundred pistoles for your horse!”

“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried Bussy, drawing near.

“Do you hear me, monsieur? I am in haste.”

“Ah! my prince, take it for nothing,” cried Bussy, who had recognized the Duc d’Anjou.

At the same moment they heard the click of a pistol, which was cocked by the duke’s companion.

“Stop, M. d’Aubigné,” cried the duke, “it is Bussy, I believe.”

“Oh! yes, my prince, it is I. But what, in Heaven’s name are you doing, killing horses on the road at this hour?”

“Ah! is it M. de Bussy?” said D’Aubigné, “then you do not want me any more. Permit me to return to him who sent me?”

“Not without receiving my sincere thanks and the promise of a lasting friendship.”

“I accept it, monseigneur, and will recall your words to you some day.”

“M. D’Aubigné! I am in the clouds,” murmured Bussy.

“Did you not know? As you are here, did you not expect me?” said the prince, with an air of suspicion which did not escape Bussy, who began to reflect that his secret residence in Anjou might seem very strange to the prince.

“I did better than expect you,” said Bussy, “and as you wish to enter the town before the gates are closed, jump into the saddle, monseigneur.”

The prince accepted, and Bussy mounted behind him, asking himself if this prince, dressed in black, were not the evil spirit sent already to disturb his happiness.

“Where do we go now, monseigneur?” said he, as they entered the city.

“To the castle. Let them hoist my banner and convoke the nobility of the district.”

“Nothing more easy,” said Bussy, full of surprise, but willing to be docile. The news was soon spread through the city that the duke had arrived, and a crowd soon collected.

“Gentlemen!” cried the duke, “I have come to throw myself into my good city of Angers. At Paris the most terrible dangers have menaced my life – I had lost even my liberty. I succeeded in escaping, thanks to some good friends, and now I am here I feel my tranquillity and my life assured.”

The people cried, “Long live our seigneur.”

“Now let me sup,” said the prince, “I have had nothing since the morning.”

The city was illuminated, guns were fired, the bells of the cathedral were rung, and the wind carried to Méridor the noisy joy of the good Angevins.

CHAPTER LVI.

THE DIPLOMACY OF THE DUC D’ANJOU

When the duke and Bussy were left alone, the duke said, “Let us talk.”

François, who was very quick, had perceived that Bussy had made more advances to him than usual, therefore he judged that he was in some embarrassing situation, and that he might, by a little address, get an advantage over him. But Bussy had had time to prepare himself, and he was quite ready.

“Yes, let us talk, monseigneur,” replied he.

“The last day I saw you, my poor Bussy, you were very ill.”

“It is true, monseigneur, I was very ill, and it was almost a miracle that saved me.”

“There was near you a doctor very devoted to you, for he growled at everyone who approached you.”