Chicot the Jester

“‘Whom do you come from?’ asked I. ‘Will mademoiselle take the trouble to read, and she will see.’ ‘But I will not read this letter without knowing whom it comes from.’ ‘Mademoiselle can do as she pleases; my business is only to leave the letter,’ and putting it down, he went away. ‘What shall I do?’ asked I of Gertrude. ‘Read the letter, mademoiselle; it is better to know what to expect.’ I opened and read.”

Diana, at this moment, rose, opened a desk, and from a portfolio drew out the letter. Bussy glanced at the address and read, “To the beautiful Diana de Méridor.”

Then looking at Diana, he said —

“It is the Duc d’Anjou’s writing.”

“Ah!” replied she, with a sigh, “then he did not deceive me.”

Then, as Bussy hesitated to open the letter —

“Read,” said she, “chance has initiated you into the most secret history of my life, and I wish to keep nothing from you.”

Bussy obeyed and read —

“An unhappy prince, whom your divine beauty has struck to the heart, will come at ten o’clock to-night to apologize for his conduct towards you – conduct which he himself feels has no other excuse than the invincible love he entertains for you.

“FRANÇOIS.”

“Then this letter was really from the duke?” asked Diana.

“Alas! yes; it is his writing and his seal.”

Diana sighed. “Can he be less guilty than I thought?” said she.

“Who, the prince?”

“No, M. de Monsoreau.”

“Continue, madame, and we will judge the prince and the count.”

“This letter, which I had then no idea of not believing genuine, rendered still more precious to me the intervention of the unknown friend who offered me aid in the name of my father; I had no hope but in him. Night arrived soon, for it was in the month of January, and we had still four or five hours to wait for the appointed time. It was a fine frosty night; the heavens were brilliant with stars, and the crescent moon lighted the country with its silver beams. We had no means of knowing the time, but we sat anxiously watching at Gertrude’s window. At last we saw figures moving among the trees, and then distinctly heard the neighing of a horse.

“It is our friends,’ said Gertrude. ‘Or the prince,’ replied I. ‘The prince would not hide himself.’ This reflection reassured me. A man now advanced alone: it seemed to us that he quitted another group who were left under the shade of the trees. As he advanced, my eyes made violent efforts to pierce the obscurity, and I thought I recognized first the tall figure, then the features, of M. de Monsoreau. I now feared almost as much the help as the danger. I remained mute, and drew back from the window. Arrived at the wall, he secured his boat, and I saw his head at our window. I could not repress a cry.

“‘Ah, pardon,’ said he, ‘but I thought you expected me.’ ‘I expected some one, monsieur, but I did not know it was you.’ A bitter smile passed over his face. ‘Who else,’ said he, ‘except her father, watches over the honor of Diana de Méridor?’ ‘You told me, monsieur, in your letter, that you came in my father’s name.’ ‘Yes, mademoiselle, and lest you should doubt it, here is a note from the baron,’ and he gave me a paper. I read —

“‘MY DEAR DIANA, – M. de Monsoreau can alone extricate you from your dangerous position, and this danger is immense. Trust, then, to him as to the best friend that Heaven can send to us. I will tell you later what from the bottom of my heart I wish you to do to acquit the debt we shall contract towards him.

“‘Your father, who begs you to believe him, and to have pity on him, and on yourself,

“‘BARON DE MÉRIDOR.’

“I knew nothing against M. de Monsoreau; my dislike to him was rather from instinct than reason. I had only to reproach him with the death of a doe, a very light crime for a hunter. I then turned towards him. ‘Well?’ said he. ‘Monsieur, I have read my father’s letter, it tells me you will take me from hence, but it does not tell me where you will take me.’ ‘Where the baron waits for you.’ ‘And where is that?’ ‘In the castle of Méridor.’ ‘Then I shall see my father?’ ‘In two hours.’

“‘Ah I monsieur, if you speak truly – ’ I stopped. The count waited for the end of my sentence. ‘Count on my gratitude,’ said I in a trembling tone, for I knew what he might expect from my gratitude. ‘Then, mademoiselle,’ said he, ‘you are ready to follow me?’ I looked at Gertrude. ‘Reflect that each minute that passes is most precious,’ said he, ‘I am nearly half an hour behind time now; it will soon be ten o’clock, and then the prince will be here.’ ‘Alas! yes.’ ‘Once he comes, I can do nothing for you but risk without hope that life which I now risk to save you.’ ‘Why did not my father come?’ I asked. ‘Your father is watched. They know every step he takes.’ ‘But you – ’ ‘Oh! I am different; I am the prince’s friend and confidant.’ ‘Then if you are his friend – ’ ‘Yes, I betray him for you; it is true, as I told you just now, I am risking my life to save you.’ This seemed so true, that although I still felt repugnance, I could not express it. ‘I wait,’ said the count, ‘and stay; if you still doubt, look there.’ I looked, and saw on the opposite shore a body of cavaliers advancing. ‘It is the duke and his suite,’ said he, ‘in five minutes it will be too late.’

“I tried to rise, but my limbs failed me. Gertrude raised me in her arms and gave me to the count. I shuddered at his touch, but he held me fast and placed me in the boat. Gertrude followed without aid. Then I noticed that my veil had come off, and was floating on the water. I thought they would track us by it, and I cried, ‘My veil; catch my veil.’ The count looked at it and said, ‘No, no, better leave it.’ And seizing the oars, he rowed with all his strength. We had just reached the bank when we saw the windows of my room lighted up. ‘Did I deceive you? Was it time?’ said M. de Monsoreau. ‘Oh I yes, yes,’ cried I, ‘you are really my saviour.’

“The lights seemed to be moving about from one room to the other. We heard voices, and a man entered who approached the open window, looked out, saw the floating veil, and uttered a cry. ‘You see I did well to leave the veil,’ said the count, ‘the prince believes that to escape him you threw yourself into the lake.’ I trembled at the man who had so instantaneously conceived this idea.”

CHAPTER XIV.

THE TREATY

There was a moment’s silence. Diana seemed almost overcome. Bussy was already vowing eternal vengeance against her enemies. She went on:

“Scarcely had we touched the shore, when seven or eight men ran to us. They were the count’s people, and I thought I recognized among them the two men who had escorted me when I left Méridor. A squire held two horses, a black one for the count and a white one for me. The count helped me to mount, and then jumped on his own horse. Gertrude mounted en croupe behind one of the men, and we set off at full gallop. The count held the bridle of my horse. I said to him that I was a sufficiently good horsewoman to dispense with this, but he replied that the horse was inclined to run away. When we had gone about ten minutes, I heard Gertrude’s voice calling to me, and turning, I saw that four of the men were taking her by a different path from that which we were following. ‘Gertrude,’ cried I, ‘why does she not come with me?’ ‘It is an indispensable precaution,’ said the count; ‘if we are pursued we must leave two tracks, and they must be able to say in two places that they have seen a woman carried away by men. There is then a chance that M. d’Anjou may take a wrong road, and go after your servant instead of you.’ Although specious, this reply did not satisfy me, but what could I do? Besides, the path which the count was following was the one which led to the Château de Méridor. In a quarter of an hour, at the rate at which we are going, we should have been at the castle, when all at once, when we came to a cross road which I knew well, the count, instead of following the road to the castle, turned to the left, and took a road which led away from it. I cried out, and in spite of our rapid pace had already my hand on the pommel in order to jump off, when the count, seizing me round the waist, drew me off my horse, and placed me on the saddle before him. This action was so rapid that I had only time to utter a cry. M. de Monsoreau put his hand on my mouth, and said, ‘Mademoiselle, I swear to you, on my honor, that I only act by your father’s orders, as I will prove to you at the first halt we make. If this proof appears to you insufficient, you shall then be free.’ ‘But, monsieur,’ cried I, pushing away his hand, ‘you told me you were taking me to my father!’ ‘Yes, I told you so, because I saw that you hesitated to follow me, and a moment’s more hesitation would have ruined us both, as you know. Now, do you wish to kill your father? Will you march straight to your dishonor? If so, I will take you to Méridor.’ ‘You spoke of a proof that you acted in the name of my father.’ ‘Here it is,’ said the baron, giving me a letter, ‘keep it, and read it at the first stoppage. If, when you have read it, you wish to return to Méridor, you are free; but if you have any respect for your father’s wishes you will not.’ ‘Then, monsieur,’ I replied, ‘let us reach quickly our stopping-place, for I wish to know if you speak the truth.’ ‘Remember, you follow me freely.’ ‘Yes, as freely as a young girl can who sees herself placed between her father’s death and her own dishonor on the one hand, and on the other the obligation to trust herself to the word of a man whom she hardly knows.’ ‘Never mind, I follow you freely, monsieur, as you shall see if you will give me my horse again.’ The count called to one of his men to dismount and give me his horse. ‘The white mare cannot be far,’ said he to the man; ‘seek her in the forest and call her, she will come like a dog to her name or to a whistle; you can rejoin us at La Châtre.’ I shuddered in spite of myself. La Châtre was ten leagues from Méridor, on the road to Paris. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘I accompany you, but at La Châtre we make our conditions.’ ‘Mademoiselle, at La Châtre you shall give me your orders.’ At daybreak we arrived at La Châtre, but instead of entering the village we went by across-road to a lonely house. I stopped. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked. ‘Mademoiselle,’ said the count, ‘I appeal to yourself. Can we, in flying from a prince next in power to the king, stop in an ordinary village inn, where the first person would denounce us?’ ‘Well,’ said I, ‘go on.’ We resumed our way. We were expected, for a man had ridden on before to announce our arrival. A good fire burned in a decent room, and a bed was prepared. ‘This is your room,’ said the count, ‘I will await your orders.’ He went out and left me alone. My first thought was for my letter. Here it is, M. de Bussy; read.”

Bussy took the letter and read:

“MY BELOVED DIANA – As I do not doubt that, yielding to my prayer, you have followed the Comte de Monsoreau, he must have told you that you had the misfortune to please M. le Duc d’Anjou, and that it was this prince who had you forcibly carried away and taken to the castle of Beaugé; judge by this violence of what the prince is capable, and with what you were menaced. Your dishonor I could not survive; but there is a means of escape – that of marrying our noble friend. Once Countess of Monsoreau, the count would protect his wife. My desire is, then, my darling daughter, that this marriage should take place as soon as possible, and if you consent, I give you my paternal benediction, and pray God to bestow upon you every treasure of happiness.

“Your father, who does not order, but entreats,

“BARON DE MÉRIDOR.”

“Alas!” said Bussy, “if this letter be from your father, it is but too positive.”

“I do not doubt its being from him, and yet I read it three times before deciding. At last I called the count. He entered at once; I had the letter in my hand. ‘Well, have you read it?’ said he. ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Do you still doubt my devotion and respect?’ ‘This letter imposes belief on me, monsieur; but in case I yield to my father’s wishes, what do you propose to do?’ ‘To take you to Paris, mademoiselle; that is the easiest place to hide you.’ ‘And my father?’ ‘As soon as there is no longer danger of compromising you, you know he will come to you wherever you are.’ ‘Well, monsieur, I am ready to accept your protection on the conditions you impose.’

“‘I impose nothing, mademoiselle,’ answered he, ‘I simply offer you a method of safety.’ ‘Well, I will accept this safety on three conditions.’ ‘Speak, mademoiselle.’ ‘The first is, that Gertrude shall return to me.’ She is here. ‘The second is, that we travel separately to Paris.’ ‘I was about to propose it to you.’ ‘And the third is, that our marriage, unless I myself acknowledge some urgent necessity for it, shall only take place in presence of my father.’ ‘It is my earnest desire; I count on his benediction to draw upon us that of heaven.’

“I was in despair. I had hoped for some opposition to my wishes. ‘Now, mademoiselle,’ said he, ‘allow me to give you some advice.’ ‘I listen, monsieur.’ ‘Only to travel by night.’ ‘Agreed.’ ‘To let me choose the route, and the places where you should stop. All my precautions will be taken with the sole aim of escaping the Duc d’Anjou.’ ‘I have no objection to make, monsieur.’ ‘Lastly, at Paris, to occupy the lodging I shall prepare for you, however simple and out of the way it may be.’ ‘I only ask to live hidden, monsieur, the more out of the way, the better it will suit me.’ ‘Then, as we are agreed on all points, mademoiselle, it only remains for me to present to you my humble respects, and to send to you your femme de chambre.’ ‘On my side! monsieur, be sure that if you keep all your promises, I will keep mine.’ ‘That is all I ask,’ said the count, ‘and the promise makes me the happiest of men.’

“With these words, he bowed and went out. Five minutes after, Gertrude entered. The joy of this good girl was great; she had believed herself separated from me forever. I told her all that had passed. As I finished, we heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs. I ran to the window; it was M. de Monsoreau going away. He had fulfilled two articles of the treaty. We passed all the day in that little house, served by our hostess; in the evening the chief of our escort appeared, and asked me if I were ready. I said yes, and five minutes after, we set off. At the door I found my white mare. We traveled all night, and stopped at daybreak. I calculated we had gone about thirty-five miles, but my horse had a very easy pace, and on leaving the house a fur cloak had been thrown over me to protect me from the cold. It took us seven days to reach Paris in this manner, and I saw nothing of the count. We entered the city at night, and the first object I saw, after passing through the gate, was an immense monastery; then we crossed the river, and in ten minutes we were in the Place de la Bastile. Then a man who seemed to be waiting for us, advanced and said, ‘It is here.’ The chief of our escort jumped off his horse, and presented me his hand to dismount also. A door was open, and the staircase lighted by a lamp. ‘Madame,’ said the man to me, ‘you are now at home. At this door finishes the mission I received; may I flatter myself I have fulfilled it according to your wishes?’ ‘Yes, monsieur,’ said I, ‘I have only thanks to give you. Offer them in my name to all your men; I would wish to reward them in a better manner, but I possess nothing.’ ‘Do not be uneasy about that, madame,’ said he, ‘they are largely recompensed.’

“Then the little troop went away, and we went up the stairs of our house, and found ourselves in a corridor. Three doors were open; we entered the middle one, and found ourselves in the room where we now stand. On opening the door of my bedroom, to my great astonishment I found my own portrait there. It was one which had hung at Méridor, and the count had doubtless begged it of my father. I trembled at this new proof that my father regarded me already as his wife.

“Nothing was wanting in the room; a fire burned in the grate, and a supper was ready in the sitting-room. I saw with satisfaction that it was laid for one only, and yet when Gertrude said, ‘Well, mademoiselle, you see the count keeps his promises.’ – ‘Alas! yes,’ replied I with a sigh, for I should have preferred that by breaking his word he should have given me an excuse to break mine. After supper, we examined the house, but found no one in it. The next day Gertrude went out, and from her I learned that we were at the end of the Rue St. Antoine, near the Bastile. That evening, as we were sitting down to supper, some one knocked. I grew pale.

“‘If it be the count?’ asked Gertrude. ‘You must open to him; he has kept his promises, and I must keep mine.’ A moment after he entered. ‘Well, madame,’ said he, ‘have I kept my word?’ ‘Yes, monsieur, and I thank you for it.’ ‘Then you will receive me?’ said he, with an ironical smile. ‘Enter, monsieur,’ said I, ‘have you any news?’ ‘Of what, madame?’ ‘Of my father, firstly?’ ‘I have not been to Méridor and have not seen the baron.’ ‘Then of Beaugé, and the Duc d’Anjou?’ ‘I have been to Beaugé, and have spoken to the duke.’ ‘What does he say?’ ‘He appears to doubt.’ ‘Of what?’ ‘Of your death.’ ‘But you confirmed it?’ ‘I did all I could.’ ‘Where is the duke?’ I then asked. ‘He returned to Paris yesterday. One does not like to stay in a place where one has the death of a woman to reproach one’s self with.’ ‘Have you seen him in Paris?’ ‘I have just left him.’ ‘Did he speak of me?’ ‘I did not give him time; I spoke incessantly of a promise which he made to me.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘He promised me as a reward for services rendered to him, to make, me chief huntsman.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ said I, thinking of my poor Daphné ‘you are a terrible hunter, I know.’ ‘It is not for, that reason I obtain it, but the duke dare not be ungrateful to me.’

“‘Can I write to my father?’ said I. ‘Doubtless; but your letters may be intercepted.’ ‘Am I forbidden to go out?’ ‘Nothing is forbidden; but I beg to point out to you that you may be followed.’ ‘At least I must go on Sunday to mass.’ ‘It would be better not; but if you do, I advise you to go to St. Catherine.’ ‘Where is that?’ ‘Just opposite you.’ There was a silence. Then I said, ‘When shall I see you again, monsieur?’ ‘When I have your permission to come.’ ‘Do you need it?’ ‘Certainly, as yet I am a stranger to you.’ ‘Monsieur,’ said I, half frightened at this unnatural submission, ‘you can return when you like, or when you think you have anything important to communicate.’

“‘Thanks, madame,’ said he, ‘I will use your permission, but not abuse it. I know you do not love me, and I will not abuse a situation which forces you to receive me. You will, I trust, gradually become accustomed to the thought, and be willing, when the moment shall arrive, to become my wife.’ ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘I appreciate your delicacy and frankness. I will use the same frankness. I had a prejudice against you, which I trust that time will cure.’ ‘Permit me,’ said he, ‘to partake this anticipation and live in the hopes of that happy moment.’ Then bowing respectfully, he went out.”

CHAPTER XV.

THE MARRIAGE

“A strange man,” said Bussy.

“Yes, is he not, monsieur? When he was gone I felt sadder and more frightened than ever. This icy respect, this ironical obedience, this repressed passion, which now and then showed itself in his voice, frightened me more than a will firmly expressed, and which I could have opposed, would have done. The next day was Sunday; I had never in my life missed divine service, so I took a thick veil and went to St. Catherine’s, followed by Gertrude, and no one seemed to remark us.

“The next day the count came to announce to me that the duke had fulfilled his promise, and had obtained for him the place of chief huntsman, which had been promised to M. de St. Luc. A week passed thus: the count came twice to see me, and always preserved the same cold and submissive manner. The next Sunday I went again to the church. Imprudently, in the midst of my prayers, I raised my veil. I was praying earnestly for my father, when Gertrude touched me on the arm. I raised my head, and saw with terror M. le Duc d’Anjou leaning against the column, and looking earnestly at me. A man stood by him.”

“It was Aurilly,” said Bussy.

“Yes, that was the name that Gertrude told me afterwards. I drew my veil quickly over my face, but it was too late: he had seen me, and if he had not recognized me, at least my resemblance to her whom he believed dead had struck him. Uneasy, I left the church, but found him standing at the door and he offered to me the holy water as I passed. I feigned not to see him, and went on. We soon discovered that we were followed. Had I known anything of Paris, I would have attempted to lead them wrong, but I knew no more of it than from the church to the house, nor did I know any one of whom I could ask a quarter of an hour’s hospitality; not a friend, and only one protector, whom I feared more than an enemy.”

“Oh! mon Dieu!” cried Bussy, “why did not Heaven, or chance, throw me sooner in your path?”

Diana thanked the young man with a look.

“But pray go on,” said Bussy, “I interrupt you, and yet I am dying to hear more.”

“That evening M. de Monsoreau came. I did not know whether to tell him of what had happened, but he began, ‘You asked me if you could go to mass, and I told you you were free, but that it would be better not to do so. You would not believe me: you went this morning to St. Catherine’s, and by a fatality the prince was there and saw you.’ ‘It is true, monsieur; but I do not know if he recognized me.’ ‘Your face struck him; your resemblance to the woman he regrets appeared to him extraordinary, he followed you home, and made inquiries, but learned nothing, for no one knew anything.’ ‘Mon Dieu!’ cried I. ‘The duke is persevering,’ said he. ‘Oh! he will forget me, I hope.’

“‘No one forgets you who has once seen you,’ said he. ‘I did all I could to forget you, and I have not succeeded.’ And the first passionate look that I had seen flashed from the eyes of the count. I was more terrified by it than I had been by the sight of the prince. I remained mute. ‘What will you do?’ asked the count. ‘Can I not change my abode – go to the other end of Paris, or, better still, return to Anjou?’ ‘It will be useless; the duke is a terrible bloodhound, and now he is on your track, he will follow you wherever you go till he finds you.’ ‘Oh! mon Dieu! you frighten me.’ ‘I tell you the simple truth.’ ‘Then what do you advise me to do?’ ‘Alas!’ said he, with a bitter irony. ‘I am a man of poor imagination. I had formed a plan, but it does not suit you; I can find no other.’ ‘But the danger is perhaps less pressing than you imagine.’

“‘The future will show us, madame,’ said the count, rising. ‘I can but add that the Comtesse de Monsoreau would have the less to fear from the prince, as my new post places me under the direct protection of the court.’ I only replied by a sigh. He smiled bitterly, and as he went down-stairs I heard him giving vent to oaths. The next day, when Gertrude went out, she was accosted by a young man whom she recognized as the one who had accompanied the prince, but she remained obstinately silent to all his questions. This meeting inspired me with profound terror; I feared that M. de Monsoreau would not come, and that they would invade the house in his absence. I sent for him, he came at once. I told him all about the young man, whom I described.

“‘It was Aurilly;’ he said, ‘and what did Gertrude answer?’ ‘She did not answer at all.’ ‘She was wrong,’ said he. ‘Why?’ ‘We must gain time.’ ‘Time?’ ‘Yes, I am now dependent on the Duc d’Anjou; in a fortnight, in a week perhaps, he will be in my power. We must deceive him to get him to wait.’ ‘Mon Dieu!’ ‘Certainly; hope will make him patient. A complete refusal will push him to extremities.’ ‘Monsieur, write to my father; he will throw himself at the feet of the king. He will have pity on an old man.’ ‘That is according to the king’s humor, and whether he be for the time friendly or hostile to the duke. Besides, it would take six days for a messenger to reach your father, and six days for him to come here. In twelve days, if we do not stop him, the duke will have done all he can do.’

“‘And how to stop him?’ I cried. A smile passed over the lips of M. de Monsoreau at this first appeal to his protection. ‘Madame,’ said he, ‘will you permit me to pass two or three hours in your room? I may be seen going out, and would rather wait till dark.’ I signed him to sit down. We conversed; he was clever and had traveled much, and at the end of the time I understood, better than I had ever done before, the influence he had obtained over my father. When it grew dark, he rose and took leave. Gertrude and I then approached the window, and could distinctly see two men examining the house. The next day, Gertrude, when she went out, found the same young man in the same place. He spoke to her again, and this time she answered him. On the following day she told him that I was the widow of a counselor, who, being poor, lived in retirement. He tried to learn more, but could extract nothing further from her. The next day, Aurilly, who seemed to doubt her story, spoke of Anjou, of Beaugé, and Méridor. Gertrude declared these names to be perfectly unknown to her. Then he avowed that he came from the Duc d’Anjou, who had seen and fallen in love with me; then came magnificent offers for both of us, for her, if she would introduce the prince into my house, and for me, if I would receive him.