Chicot the Jester

All agreed, and returned with Bussy to his hotel, where a sumptuous banquet united them till morning.

CHAPTER LXXXIII.

IN WHICH CHICOT SLEEPS

The movements of the young men had been remarked by the king and Chicot. The king walked up and down, waiting impatiently for his friends to return; but Chicot followed them at a distance, and saw enough to be satisfied of their intentions. When he returned to the house he found the king, walking up and down, muttering.

“Ah! my dear friend! do you know what has become of them?” cried Henri.

“Whom? your minions?”

“Alas! yes, my poor friends.”

“They must lie very low by this time.”

“Have they been killed?” cried Henri; “are they dead?”

“Dead I fear – ”

“And you laugh, wretch?”

“Oh! my son, dead drunk.”

“Oh! Chicot, how you terrified me. But why do you calumniate these gentlemen?”

“On the contrary, I praise them.”

“Be serious, I beg; do you know that they went out with the Angevins?”

“Of course, I know it.”

“What was the result?”

“What I tell you; that they are dead drunk.”

“But Bussy!”

“He is intoxicating them; he is a dangerous man.”

“Chicot, for pity’s sake – ”

“Yes; Bussy has given a dinner to your friends; how do you like that?”

“Impossible! They are sworn enemies.”

“Have you good legs?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will you go to the river?”

“I would go to the end of the world to see such a thing.”

“Well! go only to the Hôtel Bussy.”

“Will you accompany me?”

“Thank you, I have just come from there.”

“But – ”

“Oh! no; I, who have seen, do not need to be convinced. Go, my son, go. You disquiet yourself about your friends; you first pity them as if they were dead, and when you hear they are not dead, you are uneasy still – ”

“You are intolerable, M. Chicot.”

“Would you have preferred that they should each have had seven or eight wounds by a rapier?”

“I should like to be able to depend on my friends.”

“Oh! ventre de biche, depend upon me; I am here, my son, only feed me. I want pheasant and truffles.”

Henri and his only friend went to bed early, the king still sighing.

The next day, at the petite levée of the king, MM. Quelus, Schomberg, Maugiron, and D’Epernon presented themselves. Chicot still slept. The king jumped from his bed in a fury, and tearing off the perfumed mask from his face, cried, “Go out from here.”

The young men looked at each other in wonder.

“But, sire, we wished to say to your majesty – ”

“That you are no longer drunk, I suppose.”

Chicot opened his eyes.

“Your majesty is in error,” said Quelus, gravely.

“And yet I have not drunk the wine of Anjou.”

“Oh! I understand,” said Quelus, smiling.

“What?”

“If your majesty will remain alone with us, we will tell you.”

“I hate drunkards and traitors.”

“Sire,” cried three of the gentlemen.

“Patience, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “his majesty has slept badly, and had unpleasant dreams. A few words will set all right.”

“Speak then, but be brief.”

“It is possible, sire, but difficult.”

“Yes; one turns long round certain accusations.”

“No, sire, we go straight to it,” replied Quelus, looking again at Chicot and the usher, as though to reiterate his request that they might be left alone. The king signed to the usher to leave the room, but Chicot said, “Never mind me, I sleep like a top,” and closing his eyes again, he began to snore with all his strength.

CHAPTER LXXXIV.

WHERE CHICOT WAKES

“Your majesty,” said Quelus, “knows only half the business, and that the least interesting half. Assuredly, we have all dined with M. de Bussy, and to the honor of his cook, be it said, dined well. There was, above all, a certain wine from Austria or Hungary, which really appeared to me marvelous. But during the repast, or rather after it, we had the most serious and interesting conversation concerning your majesty’s affairs.”

“You make the exordium very long.”

“How talkative you are, Valois!” cried Chicot.

“Oh! oh! M. Gascon,” said Henri, “if you do not sleep, you must leave the room.”

“Pardieu, it is you who keep me from sleeping, your tongue clacks so fast.”

Quelus, seeing it was impossible to speak seriously, shrugged his shoulders, and rose in anger.

“We were speaking of grave matters,” said he.

“Grave matters?”

“Yes,” said D’Epernon, “if the lives of eight brave gentlemen are worth the trouble of your majesty’s attention.”

“What does it mean, my son?” said Henri, placing his hand on Quelus’s shoulder.

“Well, sire, the result of our conversation was, that royalty is menaced – weakened, that is to say, that all the world is conspiring against you. Sire, you are a great king, but you have no horizon before you; the nobility have raised so many barriers before your eyes, that you can see nothing, if it be not the still higher barriers that the people have raised. When, sire, in battle one battalion places itself like a menacing wall before another, what happens? Cowards look behind them, and seeing an open space, they fly; the brave lower their heads and rush on.”

“Well, then forward!” cried the king, “mordieu! am I not the first gentleman in my kingdom? Were they not great battles that I fought in my youth? Forward, then, gentlemen, and I will take the lead; it is my custom in the mêlée.”

“Oh! yes, sire,” cried the young men, with one voice.

“And,” said Quelus, “against these ramparts which are closing round your majesty, four men will march, sure to be applauded by you, and glorified by posterity.”

“What do you mean, Quelus?” cried the king, with eyes in which joy was tempered by solicitude; “who are these four men?”

“I, and these other gentlemen,” replied Quelus, with pride; “we devote ourselves, sire.”

“To what?”

“To your safety.”

“Against whom?”

“Against your enemies.”

“Private enmities of young men?”

“Oh! sire, that is the expression of vulgar prejudice; speak like a king, sire, not like a bourgeois. Do not profess to believe that Maugiron detests Antragues, that Schomberg dislikes Livarot, that D’Epernon is jealous of Bussy, and that I hate Ribeirac. Oh! no. They are all young, and agreeable, and might love each other like brothers: it is not, therefore, a rivalry between man and man, which places the swords in our hands; it is the quarrel of France with Anjou, the dispute as to the rights of the populace against the prerogatives of the king. We present ourselves as champions of royalty in those lists, where we shall be met by the champions of the League, and we came to say, ‘Bless us, sire, smile on those who are going to die for you.’ Your blessing will, perhaps, give us the victory, your smile will make us die happy.”

Henri, overcome with emotion, opened his arms to Quelus and the others. He united them in his heart; and it was not a spectacle without interest, a picture without expression, but a scene in which manly courage was allied to softer emotions, sanctified by devotion. Chicot looked on, and his face, ordinarily indifferent or sarcastic, was not the least noble and eloquent of the six.

“Ah!” cried the king, “I am proud to-day, not of being King of France, but of being your friend; at the same time, as I know my own interests best, I will not accept a sacrifice, of which the result will deliver me up, if you fall, into the hands of my enemies. France is enough to make war on Anjou; I know my brother, the Guises, and the League, and have often conquered more dangerous foes.”

“But, sire, soldiers do not reason thus, they never take ill luck into their calculations.”

“Pardon me, Maugiron; a soldier may act blindly, but the captain reflects.”

“Reflect, then, sire, and let us act, who are only soldiers,” said Schomberg: “besides, I know no ill luck; I am always successful.”

“Friend, friend,” said the king, sadly, “I wish I could say as much. It is true, you are but twenty.”

“Sire,” said Quelus, “on what day shall we meet MM. Bussy, Livarot, Antragues and Ribeirac?”

“Never; I forbid it absolutely.”

“Sire, excuse us, the rendezvous was arranged before the dinner, words were said which cannot be retracted.”

“Excuse me, monsieur,” said Henri, “the king absolves from oaths and promises by saying, ‘I will, or I will not,’ for the king is all-powerful. Tell these gentlemen, therefore, that I have menaced you with all my anger it you come to blows; and that you may not doubt it yourselves, I swear to exile you, if – ”

“Stop! sire; do not swear; because, if for such a cause we have merited your anger, and this anger shows itself by exiling us, we will go into exile with joy, because, being no longer on your majesty’s territories, we can then keep our promises, and meet our adversaries.”

“If these gentlemen approach you within range of an arquebuse, I will throw them all into the Bastile.”

“Sire, if you do so we will all go barefooted, and with cords round our necks, to M. Testu, the governor, and pray to be incarcerate with them.”

“I will have them beheaded, then; I am king, I hope.”

“We will cut our throats at the foot of their scaffold.”

Henri kept silent for a long time; then, raising his eyes, said, “God will surely bless a cause defended by such noble hearts.”

“Yes, they are noble hearts,” said Chicot, rising; “do what they wish, and fix a day for their meeting. It is your duty, my son.”

“Oh I mon Dieu! mon Dieu!” murmured Henri.

“Sire, we pray you,” cried all the four gentlemen, bending their knees.

“Well! so be it. Let us trust that God will give us the victory. But let us prepare for the conflict in a Christian manner. If I had time, I would send all your swords to Rome, that the Pope might bless them. But we have the shrine of St. Genevieve, which contains most precious relics: let us fast, and do penance, and keep holy the great day of the Fête Dieu, and then the next day – ”

“Ah! sire, thanks; that is in eight days!” cried the young men.

And they seized the hands of the king, who embraced them all once more, and, going into his oratory, melted into tears.

“Our cartel is ready,” said Quelus, “we have but to add the day and hour. Write, Maugiron, the day after the Fête Dieu. Here is a table.”

“It is done,” said Maugiron, “now who will carry the letter?”

“I will, if you please,” said Chicot, approaching, “but I wish to give you a piece of advice. His majesty speaks of fasts and macerations. That is all very well after the combat, but before, I prefer good nourishment, generous wine, and eight hours’ sleep every night.”

“Bravo, Chicot!”

“Adieu, my little lions,” replied the Gascon, “I go to the Hôtel Bussy.” He went three steps and returned, and said, “Apropos, do not quit the king during the Fête Dieu; do not go to the country, any of you, but stay by the Louvre. Now, I will do your commission.”

CHAPTER LXXXV.

THE FÊTE DIEU

During these eight days events were preparing themselves, as a tempest gathers in the heavens during the calm days of summer. Monsoreau had an attack of fever for twenty-four hours, then he rallied, and began to watch, himself; but as he discovered no one, he became more than ever convinced of the hypocrisy of the Duc d’Anjou, and of his bad intentions with regard to Diana.

Bussy did not discontinue his visits by day, but, warned by Rémy of this constant watchfulness, came no more at night to the window.

Chicot divided his time between the king, whom he watched like a child, and his friend Gorenflot, whom he had persuaded to return to his convent. He passed hours with him in his cell, always bringing with him large bottles in his pocket, and the report begin to be spread that Gorenflot had nearly persuaded him to turn monk.

As for the king, he gave constant lessons in fencing to his friends, teaching them new thrusts, and, above all, exercising D’Epernon, to whom fate had given so skilful an adversary, that he was visibly preoccupied by it.

Any one walking in the streets of Paris at certain hours, might have met the strange monks, of whom our first chapters furnished some description, and who resembled troopers more than monks. Then, to complete the picture, we must add that the Hôtel de Guise had become at once mysterious and turbulent, the most peopled within and the most deserted without that can be imagined; that meetings were held every night in the great hall, and with all the blinds and windows hermetically closed, and that these meetings were preceded by dinners, to which none but men were invited, and which were presided over by Madame de Montpensier. Of all these meetings, however, important though they were, the police suspected nothing. On the morning of the great day, the weather was superb, and the flowers which filled the streets sent their perfumes through the air. Chicot, who for the last fortnight had slept in the king’s room, woke him early; no one had yet entered the royal chamber.

“Oh, Chicot!” cried the king, “you have woke me from one of the sweetest dreams I ever had in my life.”

“What was it, my son?”

“I dreamed that Quelus had run Antragues through the body, and was swimming in the blood of his adversary. Let us go and pray that my dream may be realized. Call, Chicot, call.”

“What do you want?”

“My hair-cloth and my scourge.”

“Would you not prefer a good breakfast?”

“Pagan, would you go to hear mass on the Fête Dieu with a full stomach?”

“Even so.”

“Call, Chicot.”

“Patience; it is scarcely eight o’clock, and you will have plenty of time to scourge yourself. Let us talk first. Converse with your friend; you will not repent it, Valois, on the faith of a Chicot.”

“Well, talk; but be quick.”

“How shall we divide our day, my son?”

“Into three parts.”

“In honor of the Trinity; very well, let me hear these three parts.”

“First, mass at St. Germain l’Auxerrois.”

“Well?”

“Return to the Louvre, for a collation.”

“Very good.”

“Then, a procession of penitents through the streets, stopping at the principal convente of Paris, beginning at the Jacobine and finishing at St. Geneviève, where I have promised the prior to stay till to-morrow in the cell of a saint, who will pray for the success of our arms.”

“I know him.”

“The saint?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“So much the better; you shall accompany me, and we will pray together.”

“Yes; make yourself easy.”

“Then dress yourself, and come.”

“Wait a little.”

“What for?”

“I have more to ask.”

“Be quick, then, for time passes.”

“What is the court to do?”

“Follow me.”

“And your brother?”

“Will accompany me.”

“Your guard?”

“The French guard wait for me at the Louvre, and the Swiss at the door of the Abbey.”

“That will do; now I know all.”

“Then I may call?”

“Yes.”

Henri struck on his gong.

“The ceremony will be magnificent,” said Chicot.

“God will accept our homage, I hope.”

“But tell me, Henri, before any one comes in, have you nothing else to say to me?”

“No, I have given you all the details.”

“Have you settled to sleep at St. Genevieve?”

“Doubtless.”

“Well, my son, I do not like that part of the program.”

“How so?”

“When we have dined I will tell you another plan that has occurred to me.”

“Well, I consent.”

“Whether you consent or not, it will be all the same thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Hush! here are your valets.”

As he spoke, the ushers opened the door, and the barber, perfumer, and valet of the king entered, and commenced to execute upon his majesty one of those toilets which we have described elsewhere. When the king was dressing, the Duc d’Anjou was announced. He was accompanied by M. de Monsoreau, D’Epernon, and Aurilly. Henri, at the sight of Monsoreau, still pale and looking more frightful than ever, could not repress a movement of surprise.

“You have been wounded, comte, have you not?”

“Yes, sire.”

“At the chase, they told me.”

“Yes sire.”

“But you are better now?”

“I am well.”

“Sire,” said the duke, “would it please you that, after our devotions, M, de Monsoreau should go and prepare a chase for us in the woods of Compiègne?”

“But do you not know that to-morrow – ”

He was going to say, “Four of your friends are to fight four of mine;” but he stopped, for he remembered that it was a secret.

“I know nothing,” said the duke; “but if your majesty will inform me – ”

“I meant that, as I am to pass the night at the Abbey of St. Genevieve, I should perhaps not be ready for to-morrow; but let the count go; if it be not to-morrow, it shall be the day after.”

“You hear?” said the duke to Monsoreau.

“Yes monseigneur.”

At this moment Quelus and Schomberg entered. The king received them with open arms.

Monsoreau said softly to the duke, “You exile me, monseigneur.”

“Is it not your duty to prepare the chase for the king?”

“I understand – this is the last of the eight days fixed by your highness, and you prefer sending me to Compiègne to keeping your promise.”

“No, on the contrary; I keep my promise.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Your departure will be publicly known.”

“Well?”

“Well, do not go, but hide near your house; then, believing you gone, the man you wish to know will come; the rest concerns yourself: I engage for no more.”

“Ah! if that be so – ”

“You have my word.”

“I have better than that, I have your signature.”

“Oh, yes, mordieu! I know that.”

Aurilly touched D’Epernon’s arm and said, “It is done; Bussy will not fight to-morrow.”

“Not fight!”

“I answer for it.”

“Who will prevent it?”

“Never mind that.”

“If it be so, my dear sorcerer, there are one thousand crowns for you.”

“Gentlemen,” said the king, who had finished his toilet, “to St. Germain l’Auxerrois.”

“And from there to St. Genevieve?” asked the duke.

“Certainly,” replied Henri, passing into the gallery where all his court were waiting for him.

CHAPTER LXXXVI.

WHICH WILL ELUCIDATE THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER

The evening before M. de Monsoreau had returned to his home from the Hôtel Guise, and had found Bussy there. Then, in his friendship for this brave gentleman, he had taken him aside, and said:

“Will you permit me to give you a piece of advice?”

“Pray do.”

“If I were you, I should leave Paris to-morrow.”

“I! and why so?”

“All that I can tell you is, that your absence may save you from great embarrassment.”

“How so?”

“Are you ignorant of what is to take place to-morrow?”

“Completely.”

“On your honor?”

“On my word as a gentleman.”

“M. d’Anjou has confided nothing to you?”

“Nothing; M. d’Anjou confides nothing to me beyond what all the world knows.”

“Well! I, who am not the Duc d’Anjou, who love my friends for their own sakes, and not for mine, I will tell you, my dear count, that he is preparing for grave events to-morrow, and that the parting of Guise and Anjou meditate a stroke which may end in the fall of the king.”

Bussy looked at M. de Monsoreau with suspicion, but his whole manner expressed so much sincerity that it was impossible to doubt him.

“Count,” replied he, “my sword belongs to the Duc d’Anjou. The king, against whom I have done nothing, hates me, and has never let slip an occasion of doing or saying something wounding to me; and to-morrow I tell you – but you alone, remember – I am about to risk my life to humiliate Henri de Valois in the person of his favorites.”

“Then you are resolved to risk all the consequences of your adherence to the duke?”

“Yes.”

“You know where it may lead you?”

“I know where I will stop; whatever complaints I have against the king, I will never lift a hand against him; but I will let others do what they like, and I will follow M. d’Anjou to protect him in case of need.”

“My dear comte,” said Monsoreau, “the Duc d’Anjou is perfidious and a traitor; a coward, capable, from jealous or fear, of sacrificing his most faithful servant – his most devoted friend; abandon him, take a friend’s counsel, pass the day in your little house at Vincennes, go where you like, except to the procession of the Fête Dieu.”

“But why do you follow the duke yourself?”

“For reasons which concern my honor. I have need of him for a little while longer.”

“Well! that is like me; for things which concern my honor I must follow the duke.”

The Comte de Monsoreau pressed his hand, and they parted.

The next morning Monsoreau announced to his wife his approaching departure for Compiègne, and gave all the necessary orders. Diana heard the news with joy. She knew from her husband of the duel which was arranged between Bussy and D’Epernon, but had no fear for the result, and looked forward to it with pride. Bussy had presented himself in the morning to the Duc d’Anjou, who, seeing him so frank, loyal, and devoted, felt some remorse; but two things combated this return of good feeling – firstly, the great empire Bussy had over him, as every powerful mind has over a weak one, and which annoyed him; and, secondly, the love of Bussy for Diana, which awoke all the tortures of jealousy in his heart. Monsoreau, it was true, inspired him with equal dislike and fear, but he thought, “Either Bussy will accompany me and aid my triumph, and then if I triumph, I do not care for Monsoreau, or Bussy will abandon me, and then I owe him nothing, and I will abandon him in return.”

When they were in the church, the duke saw Rémy enter, and going up to his master, slide a note into his hand.

“It is from her,” thought he; “she sends him word that her husband is leaving Paris.”

Bussy put the note into his hat, opened, and read it, and the prince saw his face radiant with joy and love. The duke looked round; if Monsoreau had been there, perhaps he would not have had patience to wait till the evening to denounce Bussy.

The mass over, they returned to the Louvre, where a collation waited for the king in his room, and for his gentlemen in the gallery. On entering the Louvre, Bussy approached the duke.

“Pardon, monseigneur,” said he, “but can I say two words to you?”

“Are you in a hurry?”

“Very much so.”

“Will it not do during the procession? we shall walk side by side.”

“Monseigneur must excuse me, but what I wished to ask is, that I need not accompany you.”

“Why so?”

“Monseigneur, to-morrow is a great day, and I would wish to retire to-day to my little house at Vincennes.”

“Then you do not join the procession with the king and court?”

“No, monseigneur, if you will excuse me.”

“Will you not rejoin me at St. Geneviève?”

“Monseigneur, I wish to have the whole day to myself.”

“But if anything should occur when I have need of my friends?”

“As monseigneur would only want me to draw my sword against my king, it is a double reason for excusing myself,” replied Bussy; “my sword is engaged against M. d’Epernon.”

Monsoreau had told the duke the night before that he might reckon on Bussy; this change, therefore, must have been occasioned by Diana’s note.

“Then,” said the duke, “you abandon your chief and master?”

“Monseigneur, he who is about to risk his life in a bloody duel, as ours will be, has but one master, and it is to Him my last devotions will be paid.”

“You know that I am playing for a throne, and you leave me.”

“Monseigneur, I have worked enough for you; I will work again to-morrow, do not ask me for more than my life.”

“It is well!” said the duke, in a hollow voice, “you are free; go, M. de Bussy.”

Bussy, without caring for the prince’s evident anger, ran down the staircase of the Louvre, and went rapidly to his own house.

The duke called Aurilly. “Well! he has condemned himself,” said he.

“Does he not follow you?”

“No.”

“He goes to the rendezvous?”

“Yes.”

“Then it is for this evening?”

“It is.”

“Is M. de Monsoreau warned?”

“Of the rendezvous – yes; but not yet of the man.”

“Then you have decided to sacrifice the count?”

“I have determined to revenge myself; I fear now but one thing.”

“What is that?”