Chicot the Jester

WHAT TEMPER THE KING WAS IN WHEN ST. LUC REAPPEARED AT THE LOUVRE

Since the departure of Catherine, Henri, however, confident in his ambassador, had thought only of arming himself against the attacks of his brother. He amused, or rather ennuyéd, himself by drawing up long lists of proscriptions, in which were inscribed in alphabetical order all who had not shown themselves zealous for his cause. The lists became longer every day, and at the S – and the L – , that is to say, twice over, was inscribed the name of M. de St. Luc. Chicot, in the midst of all this, was, little by little, and man by man, enrolling an army for his master. One evening Chicot entered the room where the king sat at supper.

“What is it?” asked the king.

“M. de St. Luc.”

“M. de St. Luc?”

“Yes.”

“At Paris?”

“Yes.”

“At the Louvre?”

“Yes.”

The king rose, red and agitated.

“What has he come for? The traitor!”

“Who knows?”

“He comes, I am sure, as deputy from the states of Anjou – as an envoy from my rebellious brother. He makes use of the rebellion as a safe conduct to come here and insult me.”

“Who knows?”

“Or perhaps he comes to ask me for his property, of which I have kept back the revenues, which may have been rather an abuse of power, as, after all, he has committed no crime.”

“Who knows?”

“Ah, you repeat eternally the same thing; mort de ma vie! you tire my patience out with your eternal ‘Who knows?’”

“Eh! mordieu! do you think you are very amusing with your eternal questions?”

“At least you might reply something.”

“And what should I reply? Do you take me for an ancient oracle? It is you who are tiresome with your foolish suppositions.”

“M. Chicot?”

“M. Henri.”

“Chicot, my friend, you see my grief and you laugh at me.”

“Do not have any grief.”

“But everyone betrays me.”

“Who knows? Ventre de biche! who knows?”

Henri went down to his cabinet, where, at the news of his return, a number of gentlemen had assembled, who were looking at St. Luc with evident distrust and animosity. He, however, seemed quite unmoved by this. He had brought his wife with him also, and she was seated, wrapped in her traveling-cloak, when the king entered in an excited state.

“Ah, monsieur, you here!” he cried.

“Yes, sire,” replied St. Luc.

“Really, your presence at the Louvre surprises me.”

“Sire, I am only surprised that, under the circumstances, your majesty did not expect me.”

“What do you mean, monsieur?”

“Sire, your majesty is in danger.”

“Danger!” cried the courtiers.

“Yes, gentlemen, a real, serious danger, in which the king has need of the smallest as well as the greatest of those devoted to him; therefore I come to lay at his feet my humble services.”

“Ah!” said Chicot, “you see, my son, that I was right to say, ‘who knows.’”

Henri did not reply at once; he would not yield immediately. After a pause, he said, “Monsieur, you have only done your duty; your services are due to us.”

“The services of all the king’s subjects are due to him, I know, sire; but in these times many people forget to pay their debts. I, sire, come to pay mine, happy that your majesty will receive me among the number of your creditors.”

“Then,” said Henri, in a softer tone, “you return without any other motive than that which you state; without any mission, or safe-conduct?”

“Sire, I return simply and purely for that reason. Now, your majesty may throw me into the Bastile, or have me shot, but I shall have done my duty. Sire, Anjou is on fire; Touraine is about to revolt; Guienne is rising. M. le Duc d’Anjou is hard at work.”

“He is well supported, is he not?”

“Sire, M. de Bussy, firm as he is, cannot make your brother brave.”

“Ah! he trembles, then, the rebel.”

“Let me go and shake St. Luc’s hand,” said Chicot, advancing.

The king followed him, and going up to his old favorite, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said, —

“You are welcome, St. Luc!”

“Ah! sire,” cried St. Luc, kissing the king’s hand, “I find again my beloved master.”

“Yes, but you, my poor St. Luc, you have grown thin.”

“It is with grief at having displeased your majesty,” said a feminine voice. Now, although the voice was soft and respectful, Henri frowned, for it was as distasteful to him as the noise of thunder was to Augustus.

“Madame de St. Luc!” said he. “Ah! I forgot.”

Jeanne threw herself at his feet.

“Rise, madame,” said he, “I love all that bear the name of St. Luc.” Jeanne took his hand and kissed it, but he withdrew it quickly.

“You must convert the king,” said Chicot to the young woman, “you are pretty enough for it.”

But Henri turned his back to her, and passing his arm round St. Luc’s neck, said, —

“Then we have made peace, St. Luc?”

“Say rather, sire, that the pardon is granted.”

“Madame!” said Chicot, “a good wife should not leave her husband,” and he pushed her after the king and St. Luc.

CHAPTER LXXII.

IN WHICH WE MEET TWO IMPORTANT PERSONAGES WHOM WE HAVE LOST SIGHT OF FOR SOME TIME

There are two of the personages mentioned in this story, about whom the reader has the right to ask for information. We mean an enormous monk, with thick eyebrows and large lips, whose neck was diminishing every day; and a large donkey whose sides were gradually swelling out like a balloon. The monk resembled a hogshead; and the ass was like a child’s cradle, supported by four posts.

The one inhabited a cell at St. Genevieve, and the other the stable at the same convent. The one was called Gorenflot, and the other Panurge. Both were enjoying the most prosperous lot that ever fell to a monk and an ass.

The monks surrounded their illustrious brother with cares and attentions, and Panurge fared well for his master’s sake.

If a missionary arrived from foreign countries, or a secret legate from the Pope, they pointed out to him Brother Gorenflot, that double model of the church preaching and militant; they showed Gorenflot in all his glory, that is to say, in the midst of a feast, seated at a table in which a hollow had been cut on purpose for his sacred stomach, and they related with a noble pride that Gorenflot consumed the rations of eight ordinary monks. And when the newcomer had piously contemplated this spectacle, the prior would say, “See how he eats! And if you had but heard his sermon one famous night, in which he offered to devote himself for the triumph of the faith. It is a mouth which speaks like that of St. Chrysostom, and swallows like that of Gargantua.”

Every time that any one spoke of the sermon, Gorenflot sighed and said:

“What a pity I did not write it!

“A man like you has no need to write,” the prior would reply. “No, you speak from inspiration; you open your mouth, and the words of God flow from your lips.”

“Do you think so?” sighed Gorenflot.

However, Gorenflot was not perfectly happy. He, who at first thought his banishment from the convent an immense misfortune, discovered in his exile infinite joys before unknown to him. He sighed for liberty; liberty with Chicot, the joyous companion, with Chicot, whom he loved without knowing why. Since his return to the convent, he had never been allowed to go out. He never attempted to combat this decision, but he grew sadder from day to day. The prior saw this, and at last said to him:

“My dear brother, no one can fight against his vocation; yours is to fight for the faith; go then, fulfil your mission, only watch well over your precious life, and return for the great day.”

“What great day?”

“That of the Fête Dieu.”

“Ita,” replied Gorenflot; it was the only Latin word he knew, and used it on all occasions. “But give me some money to bestow in alms in a Christian manner.”

“You have your text, have you not, dear brother?”

“Yes, certainly.”

“Confide it to me.”

“Willingly, but to you alone; it is this: ‘The flail which threshes the corn.’”

“Oh, magnificent! sublime!” cried the prior.

“Now, my father, am I free?”

“Yes, my son, go and walk in the way of the Lord.”

Gorenflot saddled Panurge, mounted him with the aid of two vigorous monks, and left the convent about seven in the evening. It was the same day on which St. Luc arrived at Paris from Méridor.

Gorenflot, having passed through the Rue St. Etienne, was going to have turned to the right, when suddenly Panurge stopped; a strong hand was laid on his croup.

“Who is there?” cried Gorenflot, in terror.

“A friend.”

Gorenflot tried to turn, but he could not.

“What do you want?” said he.

“Will my venerable brother show me the way to the Corne d’Abondance?”

“Morbleu! it is M. Chicot,” cried Gorenflot, joyfully.

“Just so; I was going to seek you at the convent, when I saw you come out, and followed you until we were alone. Ventre de biche! how thin you are!”

“But what are you carrying, M. Chicot?” said the monk, “you appear laden.”

“It is some venison which I have stolen from the king.”

“Dear M. Chicot! and under the other arm?”

“A bottle of Cyprus wine sent by a king to my king.”

“Let me see!”

“It is my wine, and I love it much; do not you, brother?”

“Oh! oh!” cried Gorenflot, raising his eyes and hands to Heaven, and beginning to sing in a voice which shook the neighboring windows. It was the first time he had sung for a month.

CHAPTER LXXIII.

DIANA’S SECOND JOURNEY TO PARIS

Let us leave the two friends entering the Corne d’Abondance, and return to the litter of M. Monsoreau and to Bussy, who set out with the intention of following them. Not only is it not difficult for a cavalier well mounted to overtake foot travelers, but it is difficult not to pass them. This happened to Bussy.

It was the end of May, the heat was great, and about noon M. de Monsoreau wished to make a halt in a little wood, which was near the road, and as they had a horse laden with provisions, they remained there until the great heat of the day had gone by. During this time Bussy passed them, but he had not traveled, as we may imagine, without inquiring if a party on horseback, and a litter carried by peasants, had been seen. Until he had passed the village of Durtal, he had obtained the most satisfactory information, and, convinced that they were before him, had ridden on quickly. But he could see nothing of them, and suddenly all traces of them vanished, and on arriving at La Flèche he felt certain he must have passed them on the road. Then he remembered the little wood, and doubted not that they had been resting there when he passed. He installed himself at a little inn, which had the advantage of being opposite the principal hotel, where he doubted not that Monsoreau would stop; and he remained at the window watching. About four o’clock he saw a courier arrive, and half an hour afterwards the whole party. He waited till nine o’clock, and then he saw the courier set out again, and after him the litter, then Diana, Rémy, and Gertrude on horseback. He mounted his horse and followed them, keeping them in sight. Monsoreau scarcely allowed Diana to move from his side, but kept calling her every instant. After a little while, Bussy gave a long, shrill whistle, with which he had been in the habit of calling his servants at his hotel. Rémy recognized it in a moment. Diana started, and looked at the young man, who made an affirmative sign; then he came up to her and whispered:

“It is he!”

“Who is speaking to you, madame?” said Monsoreau.

“To me, monsieur?”

“Yes, I saw a shadow pass close to you, and heard a voice.”

“It is M. Rémy; are you also jealous of him?”

“No, but I like people to speak out, it amuses me.”

“There are some things which cannot be said aloud before M. le Comte, however,” said Gertrude, coming to the rescue.

“Why not?”

“For two reasons; firstly, because some would not interest you, and some would interest you too much.”

“And of which kind is what M. Rémy has just whispered?”

“Of the latter.”

“What did Rémy say to you, madame?”

“I said, M. le Comte, that if you excite yourself so much, you will be dead before we have gone a third of the way.”

Monsoreau grew deadly pale.

“He is expecting you behind,” whispered Rémy, again, “ride slowly, and he will overtake you.”

Monsoreau, who heard a murmur, tried to rise and look back after Diana.

“Another movement like that, M. le Comte, and you will bring on the bleeding again,” said Rémy.

Diana turned and rode back a little way, while Rémy walked by the litter to occupy the count. A few seconds after, Bussy was by her side.

“You see I follow you,” said he, after their first embrace.

“Oh! I shall be happy, if I know you are always so near to me.”

“But by day he will see us.”

“No; by day you can ride afar off; it is only I who will see you, Louis. From the summit of some hill, at the turn of some road, your plume waving, your handkerchief fluttering in the breeze, would speak to me in your name, and tell me that you love me.”

“Speak on, my beloved Diana; you do not know what music I find in your voice.”

“And when we travel by night, which we shall often do, for Rémy has told him that the freshness of the evening is good for his wounds, then, as this evening, from time to time, I will stay behind, and we will tell each other, with a rapid pressure of the hands, all our thoughts of each other during the day.”

“Oh! I love you! I love you!” murmured Bussy. “Oh! to see you, to press your hand, Diana.”

Suddenly they heard a voice which made them both tremble, Diana with fear, and Bussy with anger.

“Diana!” it cried, “where are you? Answer me.”

“Oh! it is he! I had forgotten him,” said Diana. “Sweet dream, frightful awaking.”

“Listen, Diana; we are together. Say one word, and nothing can separate us more; Diana, let us fly! What prevents us? Before us is happiness and liberty. One word, and we go; one word, and lost to him, you belong to me forever.”

“And my father?”

“When he shall know how I love you?”

“Oh! a father!”

“I will do nothing by violence, dear Diana; order, and I obey.”

“It is our destiny, Bussy; but be strong, and you shall see if I know how to love.”

“Must we then separate?”

“Comtesse!” cried the voice, “reply, or, if I kill myself in doing it, I will jump from this infernal litter.”

“Adieu, Bussy, he will do as he says.”

“You pity him?”

“Jealous!” said Diana, with an adorable smile.

Bussy let her go.

In a minute she was by the litter, and found the count half fainting.

“Ah!” cried he, “where were you, madame?”

“Where should I have been? Behind you.”

“At my side, madame; do not leave me again.”

From time to time this scene was renewed. They all hoped he would die with rage; but he did not die: on the contrary, at the end of ten days, when they arrived at Paris, he was decidedly better. During these ten days Diana had conquered all Bussy’s pride, and had persuaded him to come and visit Monsoreau, who always showed him much friendship. Rémy watched the husband and gave notes to the wife.

“Esculapius and Mercury,” said he; “my functions accumulate.”

CHAPTER LXXIV.

HOW THE AMBASSADOR OF THE DUC D’ANJOU ARRIVED AT THE LOUVRE, AND THE RECEPTION HE MET WITH

As neither Catherine nor the Duc d’Anjou reappeared at the Louvre, the dissension between the brothers became apparently every day more and more certain. The king thought, “No news, bad news.” The minions added, “François, badly counseled, has detained the queen-mother.”

Badly counseled. In these words were comprised all the policy of this singular reign, and the three preceding ones. Badly counseled was Charles IX. when he authorized the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Badly counseled was François II. when he ordered the massacre at Amboise. Badly counseled had been Henri II. when he burned so many heretics and conspirators. And now they dared not say, “Your brother has the family blood in his veins; he wishes, like the rest, to dethrone or poison; he would do to you what you did to your elder brother; what your elder brother did to his, what your mother has taught you to do to one another.” Therefore they said, “Your brother is badly counseled.”

Now, as only one person was able to counsel François, it was against Bussy that the cry was raised, which became every day more and more furious. At last the news was spread that the duke had sent an ambassador. At this the king grew pale with anger, and the minions swore that he should be cut to pieces, and a piece sent to all the provinces of France as a specimen of the king’s anger. Chicot said nothing, but he reflected. Now the king thought much of Chicot’s reflections, and he questioned him about them.

“Sire,” replied he, “if your brother sends an ambassador, it is because he feels himself strong enough to do so; he who is prudence itself. Now, if he is strong, we must temporize with him. Let us respect his ambassador, and receive him with civility. That engages you to nothing. Do you remember how your brother embraced Admiral Coligny, who came as ambassador from the Huguenots?”

“Then you approve of the policy of my brother Charles?”

“Not so, but I cite a fact; and I say to you, do not hurt a poor devil of a herald, or ambassador; perhaps we may find the way to seize the master, the mover, the chief, the great Duc d’Anjou, with the three Guises; and if you can shut them up in a place safer than the Louvre, do it.”

“That is not so bad.”

“Then why do you let all your friends bellow so?”

“Bellow!”

“Yes; I would say, roar, if they could be taken for lions, but they are more like bearded apes.”

“Chicot, they are my friends.”

“Friends! I would lay any bet to make them all turn against you before to-morrow.”

“Well, what do you advise?”

“To wait, my son. Half the wisdom of Solomon lies in that word. If an ambassador arrive, receive him courteously. And as to your brother, kill him if you can and like, but do not degrade him. He is a great knave, but he is a Valois; besides, he can do that well enough for himself.”

“It is true, Chicot.”

“One more lesson that you owe me. Now let me sleep, Henri; for the last week I have been engaged in fuddling a monk.”

“A monk! the one of whom you have already spoken to me?”

“Just so. You promised him an abbey.”

“I?”

“Pardieu! it is the least you can do for him, after all he has done for you.”

“He is then still devoted to me?”

“He adores you. Apropos, my son – ”

“What?”

“In three weeks it will be the Fête Dieu.”

“Well!”

“Are we to have some pretty little procession?”

“I am the most Christian king, and it is my duty to set an example to my subjects.”

“And you will, as usual, stop at the four great convents of Paris?”

“Yes.”

“At St. Geneviève?”

“Yes, that is the second I stop at.”

“Good.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing – I was curious. Now I know all I want, so good night, Henri!”

But just as Chicot prepared to leave, a great noise was heard.

“What is that noise?” said the king.

“It is ordained that I am not to sleep. Henri, you must get me a room in the town, or I must leave your service; the Louvre becomes insupportable.”

At this moment the captain of the guards entered, saying, “Sire, it is an envoy from M. le Duc d’Anjou.”

“With a suite?”

“No, sire, alone.”

“Then you must receive him doubly well, Henri, for he is a brave fellow.”

“Well,” said the king, very pale, but trying to look calm, “let all my court assemble in the great hall.”

CHAPTER LXXV.

WHICH IS ONLY THE END OF THE PRECEDING ONE

Henri sat on his throne in the great hall, and around him was grouped an eager crowd. He looked pale and frowning.

“Sire,” said Quelus to the king, “do you know the name of the ambassador?”

“No; but what does it matter?”

“Sire, it is M. de Bussy; the insult is doubled.”

“I see no insult,” said the king, with affected sang-froid.

“Let him enter,” continued he. Bussy, with his hat in his hand, and his head erect, advanced straight to the king, and waited, with his usual look of pride, to be interrogated.

“You here, M. de Bussy!” said the king; “I thought you were in Anjou.”

“Sire, I was, but you see I have quitted it.”

“And what brings you here?”

“The desire of presenting my humble respects to your majesty.”

The king and courtiers looked astonished; they expected a different answer.

“And nothing else?” said the king.

“I will add, sire, the orders I received from the Duc d’Anjou to join his respects to mine.”

“And the duke said nothing else?”

“Only that he was on the point of returning with the queen-mother, and wished me to apprise your majesty of the return of one of your most faithful subjects.”

The king was choked with surprise.

“Good morning, M. de Bussy,” said Chicot.

Bussy turned, astonished to find a friend in that place.

“Good day, M. Chicot; I am delighted to see you.”

“Is that all you have to say, M. de Bussy?” asked the king.

“Yes, sire; anything that remains to be said, will be said by the duke himself.”

The king rose and went away, and Bussy continued to converse with Chicot, until the king called to him. As soon as Bussy was alone, Quelus approached him.

“Good morning, M. Quelus,” said Bussy graciously; “may I have the honor of asking how you are?”

“Very bad.”

“Oh, mon Dieu! what is the matter?”

“Something annoys me infinitely.”

“Something! And are you not powerful enough to get rid of it?”

“It is not something, but some one, that M. Quelus means,” said Maugiron, advancing.

“And whom I advise him to get rid of,” said Schomberg, coming forward on the other side.

“Ah, M. de Schomberg! I did not recognize you.”

“Perhaps not; is my face still blue?”

“Not so; you are very pale. Are you not well?”

“Yes, it is with anger.”

“Oh I then you have also some one who annoys you?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“And I also,” said Maugiron.

“Really, gentlemen, you all look very gloomy.”

“You forget me,” said D’Epernon, planting himself before Bussy.

“Pardon me, M. d’Epernon, you were behind the others, as usual, and I have so little the pleasure of knowing you, that it was not for me to speak first.”

It was strange to see Bussy smiling and calm among those four furious faces, whose eyes spoke with so terrible an eloquence, that he must have been blind or stupid not to have understood their language.

But Bussy never lost his smile.

“It seems to me that there is an echo in this room,” said he quietly.

“Look, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “how provincial M. de Bussy has become; he has a beard, and no knot to his sword; he has black boots and a gray hat.”

“It is an observation that I was just making to myself, my dear sir; seeing you so well dressed, I said to myself, ‘How much harm a few weeks’ absence does to a man; here am I, Louis de Clermont, forced to take a little Gascon gentleman as a model of taste.’ But let me pass; you are so near to me that you tread on my feet, and I feel it in spite of my boots.”

And turning away, he advanced towards St. Luc, whom he saw approaching.

“Incredible!” cried all the young men, “we insulted him; he took no notice.”

“There is something in it,” said Quelus.

“Well!” said the king, advancing, “what were you and M. de Bussy saying?”

“Do you wish to know what M. de Bussy said, sire?”

“Yes, I am curious.”

“Well, I trod on his foot, and insulted him, and he said nothing.”

“What, gentlemen,” cried Henri, feigning anger, “you dared to insult a gentleman in the Louvre!”

“Alas! yes, sire, and he said nothing.”

“Well! I am going to the queen.”

As the king went out of the great door, St. Luc reentered by a side one, and advanced towards the four gentlemen.

“Pardon, M. Quelus,” said he, “but do you still live in the Rue St. Honoré?”

“Yes, my dear friend; why do you ask?”

“I have two words to say to you.”

“Ah!”

“And you, M. de Schomberg?”

“Rue Béthisy,” said Schomberg, astonished.

“D’Epernon’s address I know.”