Chicot the Jester

“Every evening M. de Monsoreau came, to hear what was going on, and remained from eight o’clock to midnight, and it was evident that his anxiety was great. On Saturday evening he arrived pale and agitated.

“‘You must promise to receive the duke on Tuesday or Wednesday,’ said he. ‘Promise! and why?’ ‘Because he has made up his mind to come in, and he is just now on the best terms with the king; we have nothing to expect from him.’ ‘But before then will anything happen to help me?’ ‘I hope so. I expect from day to day the event which is to place the duke in my power. But tomorrow I must leave you, and must go to Monsoreau.’ ‘Must you?’ cried I with a mixture of joy and terror. ‘Yes, I have there a rendezvous which is indispensable to bring about the event of which I speak.’ ‘But if you fail, what are we to do?’ ‘What can I do against a prince, if I have no right to protect you, but yield to bad fortune?’

“‘Oh! my father! my father!’ cried I. The count looked at me. ‘What have you to reproach me with?’ said he. ‘Nothing, on the contrary.’ ‘Have I not been a devoted friend, and as respectful as a brother?’ ‘You have behaved throughout like a gallant man.’ ‘Had I not your promise?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Have I once recalled it to you?’ ‘No.’ ‘And yet you prefer to be the mistress of the duke, to being my wife?’ ‘I do not say so, monsieur.’ ‘Then decide.’ ‘I have decided.’ ‘To be Countess of Monsoreau?’ ‘Rather than mistress of the duke.’ ‘The alternative is flattering. But, meanwhile, let Gertrude gain time until Tuesday.’ The next day Gertrude went out, but did not meet Aurilly. We felt more frightened at his absence than we had done at his presence. Night came, and we were full of terror. We were alone and feeble, and for the first time I felt my injustice to the count.”

“Oh! madame!” cried Bussy, “do not be in a hurry to think so, his conduct conceals some mystery, I believe.”

“All was quiet,” continued Diana, “until eleven o’clock. Then five men came out of the Rue St Antoine, and hid themselves by the Hôtel des Tournelles. We began to tremble; were they there for us? However, they remained quiet, and a quarter of an hour passed; then we saw two other men approach. By the moonlight Gertrude recognized Aurilly. ‘Alas! mademoiselle; it is they,’ cried she. ‘Yes,’ cried I, trembling, ‘and the five others are to help them.’ ‘But they must force the door,’ said Gertrude, ‘perhaps the neighbors will come and help us.’ ‘Oh! no, they do not know us, and they will not fight against the duke. Alas! Gertrude, I fear we have no real defender but the count.’ ‘Well! then, why do you always refuse to marry him?’ I sighed.”

CHAPTER XVI.

THE MARRIAGE

“The two men approached the window. We gently opened it a little way, and heard one say, ‘Are you sure it is here?’ ‘Yes, monseigneur, quite sure,’ said the other. ‘It is the fifth house from the corner of the Rue St. Paul.’ ‘And you are sure of the key?’ ‘I took the pattern of the lock.’ I seized Gertrude’s arm in terror. ‘And once inside’ he went on, ‘the servant will admit us; your highness has in your pocket a golden key as good as this one.’ ‘Open, then.’ We heard the key turn in the lock but all at once the ambushed men rushed forward, crying, ‘a mort! a mort!’ I could not understand this, only I saw that unexpected help had come to us, and I fell on my knees, thanking Heaven. But the prince had only to name himself, when every sword went back into the scabbard, and every foot drew back.”

“Yes, yes,” said Bussy, “it was for me they came, not for the prince.”

“However, this attack caused the prince to retire, and the five gentlemen went back to their hiding-place. It was evident that the danger was over for that night, but we were too unquiet to go to bed. Soon we saw a man on horseback appear, and then the five gentlemen immediately rushed on him. You know the rest, as the gentleman was yourself.”

“On the contrary, madame, I know only that I fought and then fainted.”

“It is useless to say,” continued Diana, with a blush, “the interest that we took in the combat so unequal, but so valiantly sustained. Each blow drew from us a shudder, a cry, and a prayer. We saw your horse fall, and we thought you lost, but it was not so; the brave Bussy merited his reputation. At last, surrounded, menaced on all sides, you retreated like a lion, facing your foes, and came to lean against our door; the same idea came to both of us, to go down and open to you, and we ran towards the staircase; but we had barricaded the door, and it took us some minutes to move the furniture, and as we arrived on the stairs, we heard the door shut. We stopped, and looked at each other, wondering who had entered. Soon we heard steps, and a man appeared, who tottered, threw up his arms, and fell on the first step. It was evident that he was not pursued, but had put the door, so luckily left open by the duke, between him and his adversaries. In any case we had nothing to fear; it was he who needed our help. Gertrude ran and fetched a lamp, and we found you had fainted, and carried you to the bed. Gertrude had heard of a wonderful cure made by a young doctor in the Rue Beautrellis, and she offered to go and fetch him. ‘But,’ said I, ‘he might betray us.’ ‘I will take precautions’ said she. She took money and the key, and I remained alone near you, and – praying for you.”

“Alas!” said Bussy, “I did not know all my happiness, madame.”

“In a quarter of an hour Gertrude returned, bringing the young doctor with his eyes bandaged.”

“Yes, it was at that moment I recovered my senses and saw your portrait, and thought I saw you enter,” said Bussy.

“I did so; my anxiety was stronger than my prudence. The doctor examined your wound and answered for your life.”

“All that remained in my mind,” said Bussy, “like a dream, and yet something told me,” added he, laying his hand upon his heart, “that it was real.”

“When the surgeon had dressed your wound, he drew from his pocket a little bottle containing a red liquor, of which he put some drops on your lips. He told me it was to counteract the fever and produce sleep, and said that the only thing then was to keep you quiet. Gertrude then bandaged his eyes again, and took him back to the Rue Beautrellis, but she fancied he counted the steps.”

“He did so, madame.”

“This supposition frightened us. We feared he would betray us, and we wished to get rid of every trace of the hospitality we had shown you. I gathered up my courage; it was two o’clock, and the streets were deserted; Gertrude was strong, and I aided her, and between us we carried you to the Temple. Luckily we met no one, but when we returned, I fainted with emotion.”

“Oh! madame!” cried Bussy, “how can I ever repay you for what you have done for me?”

There was a moment’s silence, and they heard the clock of St. Catherine’s church strike. “Two o’clock,” cried Diana, “and you here!”

“Oh! madame, do not send me away without telling me all. Suppose that God had given you a brother, and tell this brother what he can do for his sister.”

“Alas! nothing now; it is too late.”

“What happened the next day?” said Bussy; “what did you do on that day when I thought constantly of you, without feeling sure if you were not a vision of my delirium?”

“During that day, Gertrude went out, and met Aurilly. He was more pressing than ever. He said nothing of the night before, but asked for an interview for his master. Gertrude appeared to consent, but she asked until the Wednesday – that is to-day – to decide. Aurilly promised that his master would wait until then. That evening, M. de Monsoreau returned. We told him all, except about you.

“‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I heard of all this. Then he has a key.’ ‘Can we not change the lock?’ ‘He will get another key.’ ‘Put on bolts? ‘He will come with ten men and force the door. ‘But the event which was to give you full power over him?’ ‘Is postponed indefinitely.’ I stood in despair. ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘the duke has promised to wait till Wednesday; I ask you to wait till Tuesday.’ ‘Tuesday evening I will be here, madame,’ and without another word he went out. I followed him with my eyes, but instead of going away he stood in the corner by the Hôtel des Tournelles, and seemed determined to watch me all night. Every proof of devotion he gave me was like a knife in my heart. The two days passed rapidly, but what I suffered it is impossible to describe. When Tuesday evening came, I felt exhausted, and all emotion seemed dead within me.

“Gertrude went to the window. ‘Madame,’ cried she, ‘four men! I see four men! They approach, they open the door – they enter! It is, doubtless, the duke and his followers.’ For an answer, I drew my poniard, and placed it near me on the table. ‘See,’ said I. An instant after, Gertrude returned, ‘It is the count,’ said she. He entered. ‘Gertrude tells me,’ said he, ‘that you took me for the duke, and were ready to kill yourself.’ It was the first time I had ever seen him moved. Gertrude was wrong to tell you,’ said I. ‘You know that I am not alone.’ ‘Gertrude saw four men.’ ‘You know who they are?’ ‘I presume one is a priest, and the others witnesses.’ ‘Then, you are ready to become my wife?’ ‘It was so agreed; only I stipulated that except in an urgent case, I would only marry you in the presence of my father.’ ‘I remember; but do you not think the case urgent?’ ‘Yes, and the priest may marry us, but, until I have seen my father, I will be your wife only in name.’

“The count frowned, and bit his lips. ‘I do not wish to coerce you,’ said he; ‘you are free; but look here.’ I went to the window, and saw a man wrapped in a cloak, who seemed trying to get into the house.”

“Oh! mon dieu!” cried Bussy; “and this was yesterday?”

“Yes, about nine o’clock. Presently, another man, with a lantern, joined him. I thought it was the duke and his followers.

“‘Now,’ said, M de Monsoreau, ‘shall I go or stay?’ I hesitated a moment, in spite of my father’s letter and of my given word, but those two men there – ”

“Oh! unhappy that I am,” cried Bussy, “it was I and Rémy, the young doctor.”

“You!” cried Diana.

“Yes, I; I, who, more and more convinced of the reality of my dream, sought for the house where I had been, and the woman, or rather angel, who had appeared to me. Oh! I am unfortunate. Then,” continued he, after a pause, “you are his wife?”

“Since yesterday.”

There was a fresh silence.

“But,” said Diana at last, “how did you enter this house?”

Bussy silently showed his key.

“A key! where did you get it?”

“Had not Gertrude promised the prince to enter tonight? He had seen M. de Monsoreau here, and also myself, and fearing a snare, sent me to find out.”

“And you accepted this mission?”

“It was my only method of penetrating to you. Will you reproach me for having sought at once the greatest joy and the greatest grief of my life?”

“Yes, for it is better that you should see me no more, and forget me.”

“No, madame; God has brought me to you, to deliver you from the toils in which your enemies have taken you. I vow my life to you. You wish for news of your father?”

“Oh, yes! for, in truth, I know not what has become of him.”

“Well, I charge myself with finding out; only think of him who henceforth will live but for you.”

“But this key?”

“This key I restore to you, for I will receive it only from your hands; but I pledge you my word as a gentleman, that never sister could trust in a brother more devoted and respectful.”

“I trust to the word of the brave Bussy. Here, monsieur,” and she gave back the key.

“Madame, in a fortnight we will know more;” and, saluting Diana with a respect mingled with love and sadness, Bussy took leave. Diana listened to his retreating steps with tears in her eyes.

CHAPTER XVII.

HOW HENRI III. TRAVELED, AND HOW LONG IT TOOK HIM TO GET FROM PARIS TO FONTAINEBLEAU

The sun, which shone four or five hours after the events which we have just recorded had taken place, saw, by his pale light, Henri III. set off for Fontainebleau, where a grand chase was projected. A crowd of gentlemen, mounted on good horses and wrapped in their fur cloaks, then a number of pages, after them lackey, and then Swiss, followed the royal litter. This litter, drawn by eight mules richly caparisoned, was a large machine, about fifteen feet long and eight wide, on four wheels, furnished inside with cushions and curtains of silk brocade. In difficult places they substituted for the mules an indefinite number of oxen.

This machine contained Henri III., his doctor, and his chaplain, Chicot, four of the king’s favorites, a pair of large dogs, and a basket of little ones, which the king held on his knees, and which was suspended from his neck by a golden chain. From the roof hung a gilded cage containing turtle doves, quite white, with a black ring round their necks. Sometimes the collection was completed by the presence of two or three apes. Thus this litter was commonly termed the Noah’s Ark.

Quelus and Maugiron employed themselves with plaiting ribbons, a favorite diversion of that time; and Chicot amused himself by making anagrams on the names of all the courtiers. Just as they passed the Place Maubert, Chicot rushed out of the litter, and went to kneel down before a house of good appearance.

“Oh!” cried the king, “if you kneel, let it be before the crucifix in the middle of the street, and not before the house. What do you mean by it?”

But Chicot, without attending, cried out in a loud voice:

“Mon Dieu! I recognize it, I shall always recognize it – the house where I suffered! I have never prayed for vengeance on M. de Mayenne, author of my martyrdom, nor on Nicholas David, his instrument. No; Chicot is patient, Chicot can wait, although it is now six years that this debt has been running on, and in seven years the interest is doubled. May, then, my patience last another year, so that instead of fifty blows of a stirrup-leather which I received in this house by the orders of this assassin of a Lorraine prince, and which drew a pint of blood, I may owe a hundred blows and two pints of blood! Amen, so be it!”

“Amen!” said the king.

Chicot then returned to the litter, amidst the wondering looks of the spectators.

“Why, Chicot, what does all this mean?” said the king.

“Sire, it means that Chicot is like the fox – that he licks the stones where his blood fell, until against those very stones he crushes the heads of those who spilt it.”

“Explain yourself.”

“Sire, in that house lived a girl whom Chicot loved, a good and charming creature, and a lady. One evening when he went to see her, a certain prince, who had also fallen in love with her, had him seized and beaten, so that Chicot was forced to jump out of window; and as it was a miracle that he was not killed, each time he passes the house he kneels down and thanks God for his escape.”

“You were, then, well beaten, my poor Chicot?”

“Yes, sire, and yet not as much as I wished.”

“Why – for your sins?”

“No, for those of M. de Mayenne.”

“Oh! I understand; your intention is to render to Cæsar – ”

“Not to Cæsar, sire – Cæsar is the great general, the valiant warrior, the eldest brother, who wishes to be king of France. No, you must settle with him; pay your debts, and I will pay mine.”

Henri did not like to hear his cousin of Guise spoken of, and this made him serious. It was three o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived at Juvisy and the great hotel of the “Cour de France.”

Chicot, looking out of the litter, saw at the door of the hotel several men wrapped in cloaks. In the midst of them was a short, stout person, whose large hat almost covered his face. They went in quickly on seeing the litter, but not before the look of this person had had time to excite Chicot’s attention. Therefore he jumped out, and asking a page for his horse, which was being led, let the royal litter go on to Essones, where the king was to sleep, while he remained behind, and, cautiously peeping in through a window, saw the men whom he had noticed sitting inside. He then entered the hotel, went into the opposite room, asked for a bottle of wine, and placed himself so that, although he could not be seen, no one could pass by without his seeing them.

“Ah!” said he to himself, “shall I be forced to make my payment sooner than I expected?”

Soon Chicot found that by keeping the door open he could both see into the room and hear what was said.

“Gentlemen,” said the short fat man to his companions, “I think it is time to set out; the last lackey of the cortege is out of sight, and I believe now that the road is safe.”

“Perfectly so, monseigneur,” replied a voice which made Chicot tremble, and which came from the mouth of a person as tall as the other was short, as pale as he was red, and as obsequious as he was arrogant.

“Ah! M. Nicolas,” said Chicot, “tu quoque, that is good. It will be odd if I let you slip this time!”

Then the short man came out, paid the bill, and, followed by the others, took the road to Paris. Chicot followed them at a distance. They entered by the Porte St. Antoine, and entered the Hôtel Guise. Chicot waited outside a full hour, in spite of cold and hunger. At last the door reopened, but, instead of seven cavaliers wrapped in their cloaks, seven monks came out, with their hoods over their faces, and carrying immense rosaries.

“Oh!” said Chicot, “is, then, the Hôtel Guise so embalmed in sanctity that wolves change into lambs only by entering it? This becomes more and more interesting.”

And he followed the monks as he had followed the cavaliers, for he believed them to be the same. The monks passed over the bridge of Notre Dame, crossed the city and the petit pont, and went up the Rue St. Geneviève.

“Oh!” said Chicot, as he passed the house where he had kneeled in the morning, “are we returning to Fontainebleau? In that case I have made a round.”

However, the monks stopped at the door of the Abbey of St. Geneviève, in the porch of which stood another monk, who examined everyone’s hand.

“Why,” said Chicot, “it seems that to be admitted to night into the abbey one must have clean hands!”

Then he saw, with astonishment, monks appear from every street leading to the abbey, some alone, some walking in pairs, but all coming to the abbey.

“Ah!” said Chicot, “is there a general chapter at the abbey to-night? I have never seen one, and I should like it much.”

The monks entered, showing their hands, or something in them, and passed on.

“I should like to go also,” thought Chicot; “but for that I want two things – a monk’s robe, for I see no layman here, and then this mysterious thing which they show to the porter, for certainly they show something. Ah, Brother Gorenflot, if you were here!”

The monks continued to arrive, till it seemed as if half Paris had taken the frock.

“There must be something extraordinary to-night,” thought Chicot. “I will go and find Gorenflot at the Corne d’Abondance; he will be at supper.”

CHAPTER XVIII.

BROTHER GORENFLOT

To the beautiful day had succeeded a beautiful evening, only, as the day had been cold, the evening was still colder. It was one of those frosts which make the lights in the windows of an hotel look doubly tempting. Chicot first entered the dining-room, and looked around him, but not finding there the man he sought for, went familiarly down to the kitchen. The master of the establishment was superintending a frying-pan full of whitings. At the sound of Chicot’s step he turned.

“Ah! it is you, monsieur,” said he, “good evening, and a good appetite to you.”

“Thanks for the wish, but you know I cannot bear to eat alone.”

“If necessary, monsieur, I will sup with you.”

“Thanks, my dear host, but though I know you to be an excellent companion, I seek for some one else.”

“Brother Gorenflot, perhaps?”

“Just so; has he begun supper?”

“No, not yet; but you must make haste nevertheless, for in five minutes he will have finished.”

“Monsieur!” cried Chicot, striking his head.

“Monsieur, it is Friday, and the beginning of Lent.”

“Well, and what then?” said Chicot, who did not hold a high opinion of Gorenflot’s religious austerity.

Boutromet shrugged his shoulders. “Decidedly, something must be wrong,” said Chicot, “five minutes for Gorenflot’s supper! I am destined to see wonders to-day.”

Chicot then advanced towards a small private room, pushed open the door, and saw within the worthy monk, who was turning negligently on his plate a small portion of spinach, which he tried to render more savory by the introduction into it of some cheese. Brother Gorenflot was about thirty-eight years of age and five feet high. However, what he wanted in height, he made up in breadth, measuring nearly three feet in diameter from shoulder to shoulder, which, as everyone knows, is equal to nine feet of circumference. Between these Herculean shoulders rose a neck of which the muscles stood out like cords. Unluckily this neck partook of the same proportions; it was short and thick, which at any great emotion might render Brother Gorenflot liable to apoplexy. But knowing this, perhaps, he never gave way to emotions, and was seldom so disturbed as he was when Chicot entered his room.

“Ah, my friend! what are you doing?” cried Chicot, looking at the vegetables and at a glass filled with water just colored with a few drops of wine.

“You see, my brother, I sup,” replied Gorenflot in a powerful voice.

“You call that supper, Gorenflot! Herbs and cheese?”

“We are in the beginning of Lent, brother; we must think of our souls,” replied Gorenflot, raising his eyes to heaven.

Chicot looked astounded; he had so often seen Gorenflot feast in a different manner during Lent.

“Our souls!” said he; “and what the devil have herbs and water to do with them?”

“We are forbidden to eat meat on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“But when did you breakfast?”

“I have not breakfasted, my brother,” said the monk.

“Not breakfasted! Then what have you done?”

“Composed a discourse,” said Gorenflot proudly.

“A discourse, and what for?”

“To deliver this evening at the abbey.”

“That is odd.”

“And I must be quick and go there, or perhaps my audience will grow impatient.”

Chicot thought of the infinite number of monks he had seen going to the abbey, and wondered why Gorenflot, whom certainly he had never thought eloquent, had been chosen to preach before M. de Mayenne and the numerous assemblage. “When are you to preach?” said he.

“At half-past nine.”

“Good; it is still a quarter to nine, you can give me a few minutes. Ventre de biche! we have not dined together for a week.”

“It is not our fault, but I know that your duties keep you near our King Henry III., while my duties fill up my time.”

“Yes, but it seems to me that is so much the more reason why we should be merry when we do meet.”

“Yes, I am merry,” said Gorenflot, with a piteous look, “but still I must leave you.”

“At least, finish your supper.”

Gorenflot looked at the spinach, and sighed, then at the water, and turned away his head.

“Do you remember,” said Chicot, “the little dinner at the Porte Montmartre, where, while the king was scourging himself and others, we devoured a teal from the marshes of the Grauge-Batelière, with a sauce made with crabs, and we drank that nice Burgundy wine; what do you call it?”

“It is a wine of my country, La Romanée.”

“Yes, yes, it was the milk you sucked as a baby, worthy son of Noah.”

“It was good,” said Gorenflot, “but there is better.”

“So says Claude Boutromet, who pretends that he has in his cellar fifty bottles to which that is paltry.”

“It is true.”

“True, and yet you drink that abominable red water. Fie!” And Chicot, taking the glass, threw the contents out of window.

“There is a time for all, my brother,” said Gorenflot, “and wine is good when one has only to praise God after it, but water is better when one has a discourse to pronounce.”

“Opinions differ, for I, who have also a discourse to pronounce, am going to ask for a bottle of Romanée. What do you advise me to take with it, Gorenflot?”

“Not these herbs, they are not nice.” Chicot, seizing the plate, threw it after the water, and then cried, “Maître Claude.”

The host appeared.

“M. Claude, bring me two bottles of your Romanée, which you call so good.”