Chicot the Jester

“If I think it a good one.”

“I will leave my throne, and you your wife, and we will enter a cloister. I will call myself Brother Henri – ”

“Pardon, sire, if you do not care for your crown, of which you are tired, I care very much for my wife, whom I know so little. Therefore I refuse.”

“Oh! you are better.”

“Infinitely better, sire; I feel quite joyous, and disposed for happiness and pleasure.”

“Poor St. Luc!” cried the king, clasping his hands.

“You should have asked me yesterday, sire, then I was ill and cross. I would have thrown myself into a well for a trifle. But this evening it is quite a different thing. I have passed a good night and a charming day. Mordieu, vive la joie!”

“You swear, St. Luc.”

“Did I, sire? but I think you swear sometimes.”

“I have sworn, St. Luc, but I shall swear no more.”

“I cannot say that; I will not swear more than I can help, and God is merciful.”

“You think he will pardon me?”

“Oh! I speak for myself, not for you, sire. You have sinned as a king, I as a private man, and we shall, I trust, be differently judged.”

The king sighed. “St. Luc,” said he, “will you pass the night in my room?”

“Why, what should we do?”

“We will light all the lamps, I will go to bed, and you shall read prayers to me.”

“No, thank you, sire.”

“You will not?”

“On no account.”

“You abandon me, St. Luc!”

“No, I will stay with your majesty, if you will send for music and ladies, and have a dance.”

“Oh, St. Luc, St. Luc!”

“I am wild to-night, sire, I want to dance and drink.”

“St. Luc,” said the king, solemnly, “do you ever dream?”

“Often, sire.”

“You believe in dreams?”

“With reason.”

“How so?”

“Dreams console for the reality. Last night I had a charming dream.”

“What was it?”

“I dreamed that my wife – ”

“You still think of your wife?”

“More than ever, sire; well, I dreamed that she, with her charming face – for she is pretty, sire – ”

“So was Eve, who ruined us all.”

“Well, my wife had procured wings and the form of a bird, and so, braving locks and bolts, she passed over the walls of the Louvre, and came to my window, crying, ‘Open, St. Luc, open, my husband.’”

“And you opened?”

“I should think so.”

“Worldly.”

“As you please, sire.”

“Then you woke?”

“No, indeed, the dream was too charming; and I hope to-night to dream again; therefore I refuse your majesty’s obliging offer. If I sit up, let me at least have something to pay me for losing my dream. If your majesty will do as I said – ”

“Enough, St. Luc. I trust Heaven will send you a dream to-night which will lead you to repentance.”

“I doubt it, sire, and I advise you to send away this libertine St. Luc, who is resolved not to amend.”

“No, no, I hope, before to-morrow, grace will have touched you as it has me. Good night, I will pray for you.”

CHAPTER VIII.

HOW THE KING WAS AFRAID OF BEING AFRAID

When the king left St. Luc, he found the court, according to his orders, in the great gallery. Then he gave D’O, D’Epernon and Schomberg an order to retire into the provinces, threatened Quelus and Maugiron to punish them if they quarreled anymore with Bussy, to whom he gave his hand to kiss, and then embraced his brother François.

As for the queen, he was prodigal in politeness to her.

When the usual time for retiring approached, the king seemed trying to retard it. At last ten o’clock struck.

“Come with me, Chicot,” then said he, “good night, gentlemen.”

“Good night, gentlemen,” said Chicot, “we are going to bed. I want my barber, my hairdresser, my valet de chambre, and, above all, my cream.”

“No,” said the king, “I want none of them to-night; Lent is going to begin.”

“I regret the cream,” said Chicot.

The king and Chicot entered the room, which we already know.

“Ah ça! Henri,” said Chicot, “I am the favorite to-night. Am I handsomer than that Cupid, Quelus?”

“Silence, Chicot, and you, gentlemen of the toilette, go out.”

They obeyed, and the king and Chicot were left alone.

“Why do you send them away?” asked Chicot, “they have not greased us yet. Are you going to grease me with your own royal hand? It would be an act of humility.”

“Let us pray,” said Henri.

“Thank you, that is not amusing. If that be what you called me here for, I prefer to return to the bad company I have left. Adieu, my son. Good night.”

“Stay,” said the king.

“Oh! this is tyranny. You are a despot, a Phalaris, a Dionysius. All day you have made me tear the shoulders of my friends with cow-hide, and now we are to begin again. Do not let us do it, Henri, when there’s but two, every blow tells.”

“Hold your tongue, miserable chatterer, and think of repentance.”

“I repent! And of what? Of being jester to a monk. Confiteor – I repent, mea culpa, it is a great sin.”

“No sacrilege, wretch.”

“Ah! I would rather he shut up in a cage with lions and apes, than with a mad king. Adieu, I am going.”

The king locked the door.

“Henri, you look sinister; if you do not let me go, I will cry, I will call, I will break the window, I will kick down the door.”

“Chicot,” said the king, in a melancholy tone, “you abuse my sadness.”

“Ah! I understand, you are afraid to be alone. Tyrants always are so. Take my long sword, and let me take the scabbard to my room.”

At the word “afraid,” Henri shuddered, and he looked nervously around, and seemed so agitated and grew so pale, that Chicot began to think him really ill, and said, —

“Come, my son, what is the matter, tell your troubles to your friend Chicot.”

The king looked at him and said, “Yes, you are my friend, my only friend.”

“There is,” said Chicot, “the abbey of Valency vacant.”

“Listen, Chicot, you are discreet.”

“There is also that of Pithiviers, where they make such good pies.”

“In spite of your buffooneries, you are a brave man.”

“Then do not give me an abbey, give me a regiment.”

“And even a wise one.”

“Then do not give me a regiment, make me a counselor; but no, when I think of it, I should prefer a regiment, for I should be always forced to be of the king’s opinion.”

“Hold your tongue, Chicot, the terrible hour approaches.”

“Ah! you are beginning again.”

“You will hear.”

“Hear what?”

“Wait, and the event will show you. Chicot, you are brave!”

“I boast of it, but I do not wish to try. Call your captain of the guard, your Swiss, and let me go away from this invisible danger.”

“Chicot, I command you to stay.”

“On my word, a nice master. I am afraid, I tell you. Help!”

“Well, drôle, if I must, I will tell you all.”

“Ah!” cried Chicot, drawing his sword, “once warned, I do not care; tell, my son, tell. Is it a crocodile? my sword is sharp, for I use it every week to cut my corns.” And Chicot sat down in the armchair with his drawn sword between his legs.

“Last night,” said Henri, “I slept – ”

“And I also,” said Chicot.

“Suddenly a breath swept over my face.”

“It was the dog, who was hungry, and who licked your cream.”

“I half woke, and felt my beard bristle with terror under my mask.”

“Ah! you make me tremble deliciously.”

“Then,” continued the king, in a trembling voice, “then a voice sounded through the room, with a doleful vibration.”

“The voice of the crocodile! I have read in Marco Polo, that the crocodile has a voice like the crying of children; but be easy, my son, for if it comes, we will kill it.”

“‘Listen! miserable sinner,’ said the voice – ”

“Oh! it spoke; then it was not a crocodile.”

“‘Miserable sinner,’ said the voice, ‘I am the angel of God.’”

“The angel of God!”

“Ah! Chicot, it was a frightful voice.”

“Was it like the sound of a trumpet?”

“‘Are you there?’ continued the voice, ‘do you hear, hardened sinner; are you determined to persevere in your iniquities?’”

“Ah, really; he said very much the same as other people, it seems to me.”

“Then, Chicot, followed many other reproaches, which I assure you were most painful.”

“But tell me what he said, that I may see if he was well informed?”

“Impious! do you doubt?”

“I? all that astonishes me is, that he waited so long to reproach you. So, my son, you were dreadfully afraid?”

“Oh, yes, the marrow seemed to dry in my bones.”

“It is quite natural; on my word, I do not know what I should have done in your place. And then you called?”

“Yes.”

“And they came?”

“Yes.”

“And there was no one here?”

“No one.”

“It is frightful.”

“So frightful, that I sent for my confessor.”

“And he came?”

“Immediately.”

“Now, be frank, my son; tell the truth for once. What did he think of your revelation?”

“He shuddered.”

“I should think so.”

“He ordered me to repent, as the voice told me.”

“Very well. There can be no harm in repenting. But what did he think of the vision?”

“That it was a miracle, and that I must think of it seriously. Therefore, this morning – ”

“What have you done?”

“I gave 100,000 livres to the Jesuits.”

“Very well.”

“And scourged myself and my friends.”

“Perfect! but after?”

“Well, what do you think of it, Chicot? It is not to the jester I speak, but to the man of sense, to my friend.”

“Ah, sire, I think your majesty had the nightmare.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, it was a dream, which will not be renewed, unless your majesty thinks too much about it.”

“A dream? No, Chicot, I was awake, my eyes were open.”

“I sleep like that.”

“Yes, but then you do not see, and I saw the moon shining through my windows, and its light on the amethyst in the hilt of my sword, which lay in that chair where you are.”

“And the lamp?”

“Had gone out.”

“A dream, my son.”

“Why do you not believe, Chicot? It is said that God speaks to kings, when He wishes to effect some change on the earth.”

“Yes, he speaks, but so low that they never hear Him.”

“Well, do you know why I made you stay? – that you might hear as well as I.”

“No one would believe me if I said I heard it.”

“My friend, it is a secret which I confide to your known fidelity.”

“Well, I accept. Perhaps it will also speak to me.”

“Well, what must I do?”

“Go to bed, my son.”

“But – ”

“Do you think that sitting up will keep it away?”

“Well, then, you remain.”

“I said so.”

“Well, then, I will go to bed.”

“Good.”

“But you will not?”

“Certainly not, I will stay here.”

“You will not go to sleep?”

“Oh, that I cannot promise; sleep is like fear, my son, a thing independent of will.”

“You will try, at least?”

“Be easy; I will pinch myself. Besides, the voice would wake me.”

“Do not joke about the voice.”

“Well, well, go to bed.”

The king sighed, looked round anxiously, and glided tremblingly into bed. Then Chicot established him in his chair, arranging round him the pillows and cushions.

“How do you feel, sire?” said he.

“Pretty well; and you?”

“Very well; good night, Henri.”

“Good night, Chicot; do not go to sleep.”

“Of course not,” said Chicot, yawning fit to break his jaws.

And they both closed their eyes, the king to pretend to sleep, Chicot to sleep really.

CHAPTER IX.

HOW THE ANGEL MADE A MISTAKE AND SPOKE TO CHICOT, THINKING IT WAS THE KING

The king and Chicot remained thus for some time. All at once the king jumped up in his bed. Chicot woke at the noise.

“What is it?” asked he in a low voice.

“The breath on my face.”

As he spoke, one of the wax lights went out, then the other, and the rest followed. Then the lamp also went out, and the room was lighted only by the rays of the moon. At the same moment they heard a hollow voice, saying, apparently from the end of the room, —

“Hardened sinner, art thou there?”

“Yes,” said Henri, with chattering teeth.

“Oh!” thought Chicot, “that is a very hoarse voice to come from heaven; nevertheless, it is dreadful.”

“Do you hear?” asked the voice.

“Yes, and I am bowed down to the earth.”

“Do you believe you obeyed me by all the exterior mummeries which you performed yesterday, without your heart being touched?”

“Very well said,” thought Chicot. He approached the king softly.

“Do you believe now?” asked the king, with clasped hands.

“Wait.”

“What for?”

“Hush! leave your bed quietly, and let me get in.”

“Why?”

“That the anger of the Lord may fall first on me.”

“Do you think He will spare me for that?”

“Let us try,” and he pushed the king gently out and got into his place.

“Now, go to my chair, and leave all to me.”

Henri obeyed; he began to understand.

“You do not reply,” said the voice; “you are hardened in sin.”

“Oh! pardon! pardon!” cried Chicot, imitating the king’s voice. Then he whispered to Henri, “It is droll that the angel does not know me.”

“What can it mean?”

“Wait.”

“Wretch!” said the voice.

“Yes, I confess,” said Chicot; “I am a hardened sinner, a dreadful sinner.”

“Then acknowledge your crimes, and repent.”

“I acknowledge to have been a great traitor to my cousin Condé, whose wife I seduced.”

“Oh! hush,” said the king, “that is so long ago.”

“I acknowledge,” continued Chicot, “to have been a great rogue to the Poles, who chose me for king, and whom I abandoned one night, carrying away the crown jewels. I repent of this.”

“Ah!” whispered Henri again: “that is all forgotten.”

“Hush! let me speak.”

“Go on,” said the voice.

“I acknowledge having stolen the crown from my brother D’Alençon, to whom it belonged of right, as I had formerly renounced it on accepting the crown of Poland.”

“Knave!” said the king.

“Go on,” said the voice.

“I acknowledge having joined my mother, to chase from France my brother-in-law, the King of Navarre, after having destroyed all his friends.”

“Ah!” whispered the king, angrily.

“Sire, do not let us offend God, by trying to hide what He knows as well as we do.”

“Leave politics,” said the voice.

“Ah!” cried Chicot, with a doleful voice, “is it my private life I am to speak of?”

“Yes.”

“I acknowledge, then, that I am effeminate, idle, and hypocritical.”

“It is true.”

“I have ill-treated my wife – such a worthy woman.”

“One ought to love one’s wife as one’s self, and prefer her to all things,” said the voice, angrily.

“Ah!” cried Chicot, “then I have sinned deeply.”

“And you have made others sin by your example.”

“It is true.”

“Especially that poor St. Luc; and if you do not send him home to-morrow to his wife, there will be no pardon for you.”

“Ah!” said Chicot to the king, “the voice seems to be friendly to the house of Cossé.”

“And you must make him a duke, to recompense him for his forced stay.”

“Peste!” said Chicot; “the angel is much interested for M. de St. Luc.”

“Oh!” cried the king, without listening, “this voice from on high will kill me.”

“Voice from the side, you mean,” said Chicot.

“How! a voice from the side?”

“Yes; can you not hear that the voice comes from that wall, Henri? – the angel lodges in the Louvre.”

“Blasphemer!”

“Why, it is honorable for you; but you do not seem to recognize it. Go and visit him; he is only separated from you by that partition.”

A ray of the moon falling on Chicot’s face, showed it to the king so laughing and amused, that he said, “What! you dare to laugh?”

“Yes, and so will you in a minute. Be reasonable, and do as I tell you. Go and see if the angel be not in the next room.”

“But if he speak again?”

“Well, I am here to answer. He is vastly credulous. For the last quarter of an hour I have been talking, and he has not recognized me. It is not clever!”

Henri frowned. “I begin to believe you are right, Chicot,” said he.

“Go, then.”

Henri opened softly the door which led into the corridor. He had scarcely entered it, when he heard the voice redoubling its reproaches, and Chicot replying.

“Yes,” said the voice, “you are as inconstant as a woman, as soft as a Sybarite, as irreligious as a heathen.”

“Oh!” whined Chicot, “is it my fault if I have such a soft skin – such white hands – such a changeable mind? But from to-day I will alter – I will wear coarse linen – ”

However, as Henri advanced, he found that Chicot’s voice grew fainter, and the other louder, and that it seemed to come from St. Luc’s room, in which he could see a light. He stooped down and peeped through the keyhole, and immediately grew pale with anger.

“Par la mordieu!” murmured he, “is it possible that they have dared to play such a trick?”

This is what he saw through the keyhole. St. Luc, in a dressing-gown, was roaring through a tube the words which he had found so dreadful, and beside him, leaning on his shoulder, was a lady in white, who every now and then took the tube from him, and called through something herself, while stifled bursts of laughter accompanied each sentence of Chicot’s, who continued to answer in a doleful tone.

“Jeanne de Cossé in St. Luc’s room! A hole in the wall! such a trick on me! Oh! they shall pay dearly for it!”. And with a vigorous kick he burst open the door.

Jeanne rushed behind the curtains to hide herself, while St. Luc, his face full of terror, fell on his knees before the king, who was pale with rage.

“Ah!” cried Chicot, from the bed, “Ah! mercy! – Holy Virgin! I am dying!”

Henri, seizing, in a transport of rage, the trumpet from the hands of St. Luc, raised it as if to strike. But St. Luc jumped up and cried —

“Sire, I am a gentleman; you have no right to strike me!”

Henri dashed the trumpet violently on the ground. Some one picked it up; it was Chicot, who, hearing the noise, judged that his presence was necessary as a mediator. He ran to the curtain, and, drawing out poor Jeanne, all trembling —

“Oh!” said he, “Adam and Eve after the Fall. You send them away, Henri, do you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will be the exterminating angel.”

And throwing himself between, the king and St. Luc, and waving the trumpet over the heads of the guilty couple, said —

“This is my Paradise, which you have lost by your disobedience; I forbid you to return to it.”

Then he whispered to St. Luc, who had his arm round his wife —

“If you have a good horse, kill it, but be twenty leagues from here before to-morrow.”

CHAPTER X.

HOW BUSSY WENT TO SEEK FOR THE REALITY OF HIS DREAM

When Bussy returned home again, he was still thinking of his dream.

“Morbleu!” said he, “it is impossible that a dream should have left such a vivid impression on my mind. I see it all so clearly; – the bed, the lady, the doctor. I must seek for it – surely I can find it again.” Then Bussy, after having the bandage of his wound resettled by a valet, put on high boots, took his sword, wrapped himself in his cloak, and set off for the same place where he had been nearly murdered the night before, and nearly at the same hour.

He went in a litter to the Rue Roi-de-Sicile, then got out, and told his servants to wait for him. It was about nine in the evening, the curfew had sounded, and Paris was deserted. Bussy arrived at the Bastile, then he sought for the place where his horse had fallen, and thought he had found it; he next endeavored to repeat his movements of the night before, retreated to the wall, and examined every door to find the corner against which he had leaned, but all the doors seemed alike.

“Pardieu!” said he, “if I were to knock at each of these doors question all the lodgers, spend a thousand crowns to make valets and old women speak, I might learn what I want to know. There are fifty houses; it would take me at least five nights.”

As he spoke, he perceived a small and trembling light approaching.

This light advanced slowly, and irregularly, stopping occasionally, moving on again, and going first to the right, then to the left, then, for a minute, coming straight on, and again diverging. Bussy leaned against a door, and waited. The light continued to advance, and soon he could see a black figure, which, as it advanced, took the form of a man, holding a lantern in his left hand. He appeared to Bussy to belong to the honorable fraternity of drunkards, for nothing else seemed to explain the eccentric movements of the lantern. At last he slipped over a piece of ice, and fell. Bussy was about to come forward and offer his assistance, but the man and the lantern were quickly up again, and advanced directly towards him, when he saw, to his great surprise, that the man had a bandage over his eyes. “Well!” thought he, “it is a strange thing to play at blind man’s buff with a lantern in your hand. Am I beginning to dream again? And, good heavens! he is talking to himself. If he be not drunk or mad, he is a mathematician.”

This last surmise was suggested by the words that Bussy heard.

“488, 489, 490,” murmured the man, “it must be near here.” And then he raised his bandage, and finding himself in front of a house, examined it attentively.

“No, it is not this,” he said. Then, putting back his bandage, he recommenced his walk and his calculations. “491, 492, 493, 494; I must be close.” And he raised his bandage again, and, approaching the door next to that against which Bussy was standing, began again to examine.

“Hum!” said he, “it might, but all these doors are so alike.”

“The same reflection I have just made,” thought Bussy.

However, the mathematician now advanced to the next door, and going up to it, found himself face to face with Bussy.

“Oh!” cried he, stepping back.

“Oh!” cried Bussy.

“It is not possible.”

“Yes; but it is extraordinary. You are the doctor?”

“And you the gentleman?”

“Just so.”

“Mon Dieu! how strange.”

“The doctor,” continued Bussy, “who yesterday dressed a wound for a gentleman?”

“Yes, in the right side.”

“Exactly so. You had a gentle, light, and skilful hand.”

“Ah, sir, I did not expect to find you here.”

“But what were you looking for?”

“The house.”

“Then you do not know it?”

“How should I? They brought me here with my eyes bandaged.”

“Then you really came here?”

“Either to this house or the next.”

“Then I did not dream?”

“Dream?”

“I confess I feared it was all a dream.”

“Ah! I fancied there was some mystery.”

“A mystery which you must help me to unravel.”

“Willingly.”

“What is your name?”

“Monsieur, to such a question I ought, perhaps, to reply by looking fierce, and saying, ‘Yours, monsieur, if you please; but you have a long sword, and I only a lancet; you seem to me a gentleman, and I cannot appear so to you, for I am wet and dirty. Therefore, I reply frankly: I am called Rémy-le-Haudouin.”

“Very well, monsieur; I thank you. I am Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy.”

“Bussy d’Amboise! the hero Bussy!” cried the young doctor, joyfully. “What, monsieur, you are that famous Bussy – ?”

“I am Bussy,” replied he. “And now, wet and dirty as you are, will you satisfy my curiosity?”

“The fact is,” said the young man, “that I shall be obliged, like Epaminondas the Theban, to stay two days at home, for I have but one doublet and trousers. But, pardon, you did me the honor to question me, I think?”

“Yes, monsieur, I asked you how you came to this house?”

“M. le Comte, this is how it happened; I lodge in the Rue Beauheillis, 502 steps from here. I am a poor surgeon, not unskilful, I hope.”

“I can answer for that.”

“And who has studied much, but without any patients. Seven or eight days ago, a man having received behind the Arsenal a stab with a knife, I sewed up the wound, and cured him. This made for me some reputation in the neighborhood, to which I attribute the happiness of having been last night awoke by a pretty voice.”

“A woman’s?”

“Yes, but, rustic as I am, I knew it to be the voice of a servant. I know them well.”

“And what did you do?”

“I rose and opened my door, but scarcely had I done so, when two little hands, not very soft, but not very hard, put a bandage over my eyes, without saying anything.”