Chicot the Jester

“No, monsieur; he is generally ridden by the Duc d’Anjou, who is a good rider, and never gets thrown.”

“I was not thrown,” replied the count, “for I also am a good rider; no, I tied him to a tree while I entered a house, and at my return he had disappeared. I thought he had been stolen, or that some passer-by had played a bad joke by carrying him away; that was why I asked how he returned to the stable.”

“He returned alone, as monsieur said just now.”

“It is strange. Monseigneur often rides this horse, you say?”

“Nearly every day.”

“His highness returned late last night?”

“About an hour before you.”

“And what horse did he ride? was it a bay with a white star on his forehead?”

“No, monsieur, he rode Isolin, which you see here.”

“And in the prince’s escort is there any one who rides such a horse as I describe?”

“I know of no one.”

“Well,” said Monsoreau, impatiently, “saddle me Roland.”

“Roland?”

“Yes, are there any orders against it?”

“No; on the contrary, I was told to let you have any horse you pleased.”

When Roland was saddled, Monsoreau said to the man, “What are your wages?”

“Twenty crowns, monsieur.”

“Will you earn ten times that sum at once?”

“I ask no better. But how?”

“Find out who rode yesterday the horse I described.”

“Ah, monsieur, what you ask is very difficult, there are so many gentlemen come here.”

“Yes, but two hundred crowns are worth some trouble.”

“Certainly, M. le Comte, and I will do my best to discover.”

“That is right, and here are ten crowns to encourage you.”

“Thanks, M. le Comte.”

“Well, tell the prince I have gone to reconnoiter the wood for the chase.”

As he spoke he heard steps behind him, and turned.

“Ah, M. de Bussy!” he cried.

“Why, M. le Comte, who would have thought of seeing you here!”

“And you, who they said was so ill.”

“So I am; my doctor orders absolute rest, and for a week I have not left the city. Ah! you are going to ride Roland; I sold him to the duke, who is very fond of him.”

“Yes, he is an excellent animal; I rode him yesterday.”

“Which makes you wish for him again to-day?”

“Yes.”

“You were speaking of a chase.”

“Yes, the prince wishes for one.”

“Whereabouts is it to be?”

“Near Méridor. Will you come with me?”

“No, thank you, I do not feel well.”

“Oh!” cried a voice from behind, “there is M. de Bussy out without permission.”

“Ah! there is my doctor scolding. Adieu, comte.”

Bussy went away, and Monsoreau jumped into the saddle.

“What is the matter?” said Rémy; “you look so pale, I believe you are really ill.”

“Do you know where he is going?”

“No.”

“To Méridor.”

“Well, did you hope he would not?”

“Mon Dieu! what will happen, after what he saw yesterday?”

“Madame de Monsoreau will deny everything.”

“But he saw her.”

“She will say he did not.”

“She will never have the courage.”

“Oh, M. de Bussy, is it possible you do not know women better than that!”

“Rémy, I feel very ill.”

“So I see. Go home, and I will prescribe for you.”

“What?”

“A slice of fowl and ham, and some lobster.”

“Oh, I am not hungry.”

“The more reason I should order you to eat.”

“Rémy, I fear that that wretch will make a great scene at Méridor. I ought to have gone with him when he asked me.”

“What for?”

“To sustain Diana.”

“Oh, she will sustain herself. Besides, you ought not to be out; we agreed you were too ill.”

“I could not help it, Rémy, I was so unquiet.”

Rémy carried him off, and made him sit down to a good breakfast.

M. de Monsoreau wished to see if it were chance or habit that had led Roland to the park wall; therefore he left the bridle on his neck. Roland took precisely the same road as on the previous day, and before very long M. de Monsoreau found himself in the same spot as before. Only now the place was solitary, and no horse was there. The count climbed the wall again, but no one was to be seen; therefore, judging that it was useless to watch for people on their guard, he went on to the park gates. The baron, seeing his son-in-law coming over the drawbridge, advanced ceremoniously to meet him. Diana, seated under a magnificent sycamore, was reading poetry, while Gertrude was embroidering at her side. The count, seeing them, got off his horse, and approached them.

“Madame,” said he, “will you grant me the favor of an interview?”

“Willingly, monsieur.”

“What calm, or rather what perfidy!” thought the count.

“Do you do us the honor of remaining at the chat?” asked the baron.

“Yes, monsieur, until to-morrow, at least.”

The baron went away to give orders, and Diana reseated herself, while Monsoreau took Gertrude’s chair, and, with a look sufficient to intimidate most people, said:

“Madame, who was in the park with you yesterday?”

“At what time?” said Diana, in a firm voice.

“At six.”

“Where?”

“Near the copse.”

“It must have been some one else, it was not I.”

“It was you, madame.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Tell me the man’s name!” cried Monsoreau, furiously.

“What man?”

“The man who was walking with you.”

“I cannot tell, if it was some other woman.”

“It was you, I tell you.”

“You are wrong, monsieur.”

“How dare you deny it? I saw you.”

“You, monsieur?”

“Yes, madame, myself. And there is no other lady here.”

“You are wrong again; there is Jeanne de Brissac.”

“Madame de St. Luc?”

“Yes, my friend.”

“And M. de St. Luc?”

“Never leaves her; theirs was a love-match; you must have seen them.”

“It was not them; it was you, with some man whom I do not know, but whom I will know, I swear. I heard your cry.”

“When you are more reasonable, monsieur, I shall be ready to hear you; at present I will retire.”

“No, madame, you shall stay.”

“Monsieur, here are M. and Madame de St. Luc, I trust you will contain yourself.”

Indeed, M. and Madame de St. Luc approached. She bowed to Monsoreau, and St. Luc gave him his hand; then, leaving his wife to Monsoreau, took Diana, and after a walk they returned, warned by the bell for dinner, which was early at Méridor, as the baron preserved the old customs. The conversation was general, and turned naturally on the Duc d’Anjou, and the movement his arrival had caused. Diana sat far from her husband, between St. Luc and the baron.

CHAPTER LXIV.

THE PROJECT OF M. DE ST. LUC

When the repast was over, Monsoreau took St. Luc’s arm and went out. “Do you know,” said he, “that I am very happy to have found you here, for the solitude of Méridor frightened me.”

“What, with your wife? As for me, with such a companion I should find a desert delightful.”

“I do not say no, but still – ”

“Still, what?”

“I am very glad to have met you here.”

“Really, monsieur, you are very polite, for I cannot believe that you could possibly fear ennui with such a companion, and such a country.”

“Bah! I pass half my life in the woods.”

“The more reason for being fond of them, it seems to me. I know I shall be very sorry to leave them; unluckily, I fear I shall be forced to do so before long.”

“Why so?”

“Oh! monsieur, when is man the arbiter of his own destiny? He is like the leaf of the tree, which the wind blows about. You are very fortunate.”

“Fortunate; how?”

“To live amongst these splendid trees.”

“Oh! I do not think I shall stay here long; I am not so fond of nature, and I fear these woods; I think they are not safe.”

“Why? on account of their loneliness, do you mean?”

“No, not that, for I suppose you see friends here.”

“Not a soul.”

“Ah! really. How long is it since you had any visitor?”

“Not since I have been here.”

“Not one gentleman from the court at Angers?”

“Not one.”

“Impossible.”

“It is true.”

“Then I am wrong.”

“Perfectly; but why is not the park safe, are there bears here?”

“Oh, no.”

“Wolves?”

“No.”

“Robbers?”

“Perhaps. Tell me, monsieur, Madame de St. Luc seemed to me very pretty; is she not?”

“Why, yes.”

“Does she often walk in the park?”

“Often; she adores the woods, like myself.”

“And do you accompany her?”

“Always.”

“Nearly always?”

“What the devil are you driving at?”

“Oh; mon Dieu, nothing; or, at least, a trifle.”

“I listen.”

“They told me – ”

“Well?”

“You will not be angry?”

“I never am so.”

“Besides, between husbands, these confidences are right; they told me a man had been seen wandering in the park.”

“A man.”

“Yes.”

“Who came for my wife?”

“Oh! I do not say that.”

“You would be wrong not to tell me, my dear Monsoreau. Who saw him? pray tell me.”

“Oh! to tell you the truth, I do not think it was for Madame de St. Luc that he came.”

“For whom, then?”

“Ah! I fear it is for Diana.”

“Oh! I should like that better.”

“What?”

“Certainly; you know we husbands are an egotistical set. Everyone for himself, and God for us all.”

“The devil rather.”

“Then you think a man entered here?”

“I think so.”

“And I do more than think,” said St. Luc, “for I saw him.”

“You saw a man in the park?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Alone?”

“With Madame de Monsoreau.”

“Where?”

“Just here to the left.” And as they had walked down to the old copse, St. Luc pointed out the spot where Bussy always came over.

“Ah!” continued he, “here is a wall in a bad state; I must warn the baron.”

“Whom do you suspect?”

“Of what?”

“Of climbing over here to talk to my wife.” St. Luc seemed to reflect.

“Diable!” said he, “it could only have been – ”

“Whom?”

“Why, yourself.”

“Are you joking, M. de St. Luc?”

“Ma foi, no; when I was first married I did such things.”

“Come! you are trying to put me off; but do not fear, I have courage. Help me to seek, you will do me an immense favor.”

St. Luc shook his head. “It must have been you,” said he.

“Do not jest, I beg of you; the thing is serious.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Oh! and how does this man come?”

“Secretly.”

“Often?”

“I fear so; look at the marks in the wall.”

“Well, I suspected it, but I always fancied it was you.”

“But I tell you, no!”

“Oh, I believe you, my dear sir.”

“Well, then – ”

“It must have been some one else.”

Monsoreau began to look black, but St. Luc preserved his easy nonchalance.

“I have an idea,” said he.

“Tell me.”

“If it were – ”

“Well!”

“But, no.”

“Pray speak.”

“The Duc d’Anjou.”

“I thought so at first, but I have made inquiries, and it could not have been he.”

“Oh! he is very cunning.”

“Yes, but it was not he.”

“Wait, then.”

“Well!”

“I have another idea; if it was neither you nor the duke, it must have been I.”

“You?”

“Why not?”

“You to come on horseback to the outside of the park, when you live inside!”

“Oh, mon Dieu! I am such a capricious being.”

“You, who fled away when you saw me!”

“Oh! any one would do that.”

“Then you were doing wrong,” cried the count, no longer able to keep in his anger.

“I do not say so.”

“You are mocking me,” cried the count, growing very pale, “and have been doing so for a quarter of an hour.”

“You are wrong, monsieur,” said St. Luc, drawing out his watch, and looking steadily at him; “it has been twenty minutes.”

“You insult me.”

“And you insult me with your questions like a constable.”

“Ah! now I see clearly.”

“How wonderful, at ten o’clock in the morning. But what do you see?”

“I see that you act in concert with the traitor, the coward, whom I saw yesterday.”

“I should think so; he is my friend.”

“Then I will kill you in his place.”

“Bah! in your own house, and without crying, gare. Ah! M. de Monsoreau, how badly you have been brought up, and how living among beasts spoils the manners.”

“Do you not see that I am furious?” howled the count.

“Yes, indeed, I do see it, and it does not become you at all; you look frightful.”

The count drew his sword.

“Ah!” said St. Luc, “you try to provoke me; you see I am perfectly calm.”

“Yes, I do provoke you.”

“Take the trouble to get over the wall; on the other side we shall be on neutral ground.”

“What do I care!”

“I do; I do not want to kill you in your own house.”

“Very well!” said Monsoreau, climbing over.

“Take care; pray do not hurt yourself, my dear count; those stones are loose,” said St. Luc. Then he also got over.

CHAPTER LXV.

HOW M. DE ST. LUC SHOWED M. DE MONSOREAU THE THRUST THAT THE KING HAD TAUGHT HIM

“Are you ready?” cried Monsoreau.

“No; I have the sun in my eyes.”

“Move then; I warn you I shall kill you.”

“Shall you really? Well, man proposes, and God disposes. Look at that bed of poppies and dandelions.”

“Well!”

“Well, I mean to lay you there.” And he laughed as he drew his sword. Monsoreau began the combat furiously, but St. Luc parried his thrusts skilfully.

“Pardieu! M. de Monsoreau,” said he, “you use your sword very well; you might kill any one but Bussy or me.”

Monsoreau grew pale.

“As for me,” continued St. Luc, “the king, who loves me, took the trouble to give me a great many lessons, and showed me, among other things, a thrust, which you shall see presently. I tell you, that you may have the pleasure of knowing you are killed by the king’s method; it is very flattering.” And then suddenly he rushed furiously on Monsoreau, who, half wild with rage as he was, parried five thrusts, but received the sixth full in his chest.

“Ah!” said St. Luc, “you will fall just where I told you,” as Monsoreau sank down on the poppies. Then, wiping his sword, he stood quietly by, watching the changes which came over the face of the dying man.

“Ah, you have killed me!” cried Monsoreau.

“I intended to do so, but now I see you dying, devil take me if I am not sorry for what I have done. You are horribly jealous, it is true, but you were brave. Have you any last wish? If so, tell it to me; and, on the faith of a gentleman, it shall be executed. Are you thirsty? Shall I get you water?”

Monsoreau did not reply. He turned over with his face to the earth, biting the ground, and struggling in his blood. Then he tried to raise his head, but fell back with a groan.

“Come, he is dead; let me think no more about him. Ah! but that is not so easy, when you have killed a man.” And jumping back over the wall, he went to the château. The first person he saw was Diana talking to his wife.

“How well she will look in black,” thought he. Then, approaching them, “Pardon me,” said he, “but may I say a few words to Jeanne?”

“Do so; I will go to my father,”

“What is it?” said Jeanne, when Diana was gone; “you look rather gloomy.”

“Why, yes.”

“What has happened?”

“Oh, mon Dieu! an accident.”

“To you?”

“Not precisely to me, but to a person who was near me.”

“Who was it?”

“The person I was walking with.”

“M. de Monsoreau?”

“Alas! yes; poor dear man.”

“What has happened to him?”

“I believe he is dead.”

“Dead!” cried Jeanne, starting back in horror.

“Just so.”

“He who was here just now talking – ”

“Yes, that is just the cause of his death; he talked too much.”

“St. Luc, you are hiding something from me!” cried Jeanne, seizing his hands.

“I! Nothing; not even the place where he lies.”

“Where is it?”

“Down there behind the wall; just where Bussy used to tie his horse.”

“It was you who killed him.”

“Parbleu! that is not very difficult to discover.”

“Unlucky that you are!”

“Ah, dear friend! he provoked me, insulted me, drew the sword first.”

“It is dreadful! the poor man!”

“Good; I was sure of it; before a week is over he will be called St. Monsoreau.”

“But you cannot stay here in the house of the man you have killed.”

“So I thought at once, and that is why I came to ask you to get ready.”

“He has not wounded you?”

“No, I am perfectly unhurt.”

“Then, we will go.”

“As quickly as possible, for you know the accident may be discovered at any moment.”

“Then Diana is a widow.”

“That is just what I thought of.”

“After you killed him?”

“No, before.”

“Well, I will go and tell her.”

“Spare her feelings.”

“Do not laugh. Meanwhile you get the horses saddled. But where shall we go?”

“To Paris.”

“But the king?”

“Oh! he will have forgotten everything by this time; besides, if there is to be war, as seems probable, he will be glad of me. But I must have pen and ink.”

“For what?”

“To write to Bussy; I cannot leave Anjou without telling him why.”

“No, of course not; you will find all that you require in my room.” St. Luc went in, and wrote, —

“DEAR FRIEND,

“You will learn, by report, ere long, the accident which has happened to M. de Monsoreau; we had together, by the old copse, a discussion on broken-down walls and horses that go home alone. In the heat of the argument, he fell on a bed of poppies and dandelions so hard that he died there.

“Your friend for life,

“St. Luc.

“P. S. As you may think this rather improbable, I must add that we had our swords in our hands. I set off at once for Paris to make peace with the king, Anjou not seeming to me very safe after what has occurred.”

Ten minutes after a servant set off for Angers with this letter, while M. and Madame de St. Luc went out by another door, leaving Diana much grieved at their departure, and much embarrassed how to tell the baron what had occurred. She had turned away her eyes from St. Luc as he passed.

“That is the reward for serving your friends,” said he to his wife; “decidedly all people are ungrateful excepting me.”

CHAPTER LXVI.

IN WHICH WE SEE THE QUEEN-MOTHER ENTER THE TOWN OF ANGERS, BUT NOT TRIUMPHANTLY

At the same time that M. de Monsoreau fell under the sword of St. Luc, a flourish of trumpets sounded at the closed gates of Angers. It was Catherine de Medicis, who arrived there with rather a large suite. They sent to tell Bussy, who rose from his bed, and went to the prince, who immediately got into his. Certainly the airs played by the trumpets were fine, but they had not the virtue of those which made the walls of Jericho fall, for the gates did not open. Catherine leaned out of her litter to show herself to the guards, hoping the sight of her would do more than the sound of the trumpets. They saw her, and saluted her courteously, but did not open the gates. Then she sent a gentleman to demand admittance, but they replied that Angers being in a state of war, the gates could not be opened without some necessary formalities. Catherine was furious. At last Bussy appeared, with five other gentlemen.

“Who is there?” cried he.

“It is her majesty the queen mother, who has come to visit Angers.”

“Very well, go to the left, and about eighty steps off you will find the postern.”

“A postern for her majesty!” cried the gentleman. But Bussy was no longer there to hear, he and his friends had ridden off towards the indicated spot.

“Did your majesty hear?” asked the gentleman.

“Oh! yes, monsieur, I heard; let us go there, if that be the only way to get in.”

The cortege turned to the left, and the postern opened.

“Your majesty is welcome to Angers,” said Bussy.

“Thank you, M. de Bussy,” said the queen, descending from her litter, and advancing towards the little door. Bussy stopped her. “Take care, madame,” said he, “the door is low, and you will hurt yourself.”

“Must I then stoop?” replied she; “it is the first time I ever entered a city so.”

Once through the gate she re-entered her litter to go to the palace, Bussy and his friends escorting her.

“Where is my son?” cried she; “why do I not see M. d’Anjou?”

“Monseigneur is ill, madame, or else your majesty cannot doubt that he would have come himself to do the honors of his city.”

Catherine was sublime in hypocrisy.

“Ill – my poor child, ill!” cried she; “ah! let us hasten to him; is he well taken care of?”

“Yes, madame, we do our best.”

“Does he suffer?”

“Horribly, he is subject to these sudden indispositions.”

“It was sudden, then?”

“Mon Dieu! yes, madame.”

When they arrived at the palace, Bussy ran up first to the duke.

“Here she is!” cried he.

“Is she furious?”

“Exasperated.”

“Does she complain?”

“No, she does worse, she smiles.”

“What do the people say?”

“They looked at her in mute terror; now, monseigneur, be careful.”

“We stick to war?”

“Pardieu, ask one hundred to get ten, and with her you will only get five.”

“Bah! you think me very weak. Are you all here? Where is Monsoreau?”

“I believe he is at Méridor.”

“Her majesty the queen mother!” cried the usher at the door.

Catherine entered, looking pale. The duke made a movement to rise, but she threw herself into his arms and half stifled him with kisses. She did more – she wept.

“We must take care,” said Antragues to Ribeirac, “each tear will be paid for by blood.”

Catherine now sat down on the foot of the bed. At a sign from Bussy everyone went away but himself.

“Will you not go and look after my poor attendants, M. de Bussy? you who are at home here,” said the queen.

It was impossible not to go, so he replied, “I am happy to please your majesty,” and he also retired.

Catherine wished to discover whether her son were really ill or feigning. But he, worthy son of such a mother, played his part to perfection. She had wept, he had a fever. Catherine, deceived, thought him really ill, and hoped to have more influence over a mind weakened by suffering. She overwhelmed him with tenderness, embraced him, and wept so much that at last he asked her the reason.

“You have run so great a risk,” replied she.

“In escaping from the Louvre, mother?”

“No, after.”

“How so?”

“Those who aided you in this unlucky escape – ”

“Well?”

“Were your most cruel enemies.”

“She wishes to find out who it was,” thought he.

“The King of Navarre,” continued she, “the eternal scourge of our race – ”

“Ah! she knows.”

“He boasts of having gained much by it.”

“That is impossible, for he had nothing to do with it; and if he had, I am quite safe, as you see. I have not seen the King of Navarre for two years.”

“It was not only of danger I spoke!”

“Of what, then?” replied the duke, smiling, as he saw the tapestry shake behind the queen.

“The king’s anger,” said she, in a solemn voice; “the furious anger which menaces you – ”

“This danger is something like the other, madame; he may be furious, but I am safe here.”

“You believe so?”

“I am sure of it; your majesty has announced it to me yourself.”

“How so?”

“Because if you had been charged only with menaces, you would not have come, and the king in that case would have hesitated to place such a hostage in my hands.”

“A hostage! I!” cried she, terrified.

“A most sacred and venerable one,” replied the duke, with a triumphant glance at the wall.

Catherine was baffled, but she did not know that Bussy was encouraging the duke by signs.

“My son,” said she at length, “you are quite right; they are words of peace I bring to you.”

“I listen, mother, and I think we shall now begin to understand each other.”

CHAPTER LXVII.

LITTLE CAUSES AND GREAT EFFECTS

Catherine had, as we have seen, had the worst of the argument. She was surprised, and began to wonder if her son were really as decided as he appeared to be, when a slight event changed the aspect of affairs. Bussy had been, as we said, encouraging the prince secretly at every word that he thought dangerous to his cause. Now his cause was war at any price, for he wished to stay in Anjou, watch M. de Monsoreau, and visit his wife. The duke feared Bussy, and was guided by him. Suddenly, however, Bussy felt himself pulled by his cloak; he turned and saw Rémy, who drew him gently towards him.