Александр Дюма
Chicot the Jester
CHAPTER XXI.
HOW CHICOT LEARNED GENEALOGY
When the Duc d’Anjou was gone, and had been followed by all the others, the three Guises entered the vestry. Chicot, thinking of course this was the end, got up to stretch his limbs, and then, as it was nearly two o’clock, once more disposed himself to sleep.
But to his great astonishment, the three brothers almost immediately came back again, only this time without their frocks. On seeing them appear, the lad burst into so hearty a fit of laughing, that Chicot could hardly help laughing also.
“Do not laugh so loud, sister,” said the Duc de Mayenne, “they are hardly gone out, and might hear you.”
As he spoke, the seeming lad threw back his hood, and displayed a head as charming and intelligent as was ever painted by Leonardo da Vinci. Black eyes, full of fun, but which could assume an expression almost terrible in its seriousness, a little rosy month, and a round chin terminating the perfect oval of a rather pale face. It was Madame de Montpensier, a dangerous syren, who had the soul of a demon with the face of an angel.
“Ah, brother cardinal,” cried she, “how well you acted the holy man! I was really afraid for a minute that you were serious; and he letting himself be greased and crowned. Oh, how horrid he looked with his crown on!”
“Never mind,” said the duke, “we have got what we wanted, and François cannot now deny his share. Monsoreau, who doubtless had his own reasons for it, led the thing on well, and now he cannot abandon us, as he did La Mole and Coconnas.”
Chicot saw that they had been laughing at M. d’Anjou, and as he detested him, would willingly have embraced them for it, always excepting M. de Mayenne, and giving his share to his sister.
“Let us return to business,” said the cardinal, “is all well closed?”
“Oh, yes!” said the duchess, “but if you like I will go and see.”
“Oh, no; you must be tired.”
“No; it was too amusing.”
“Mayenne, you say he is here?”
“Yes.”
“I did not see him.”
“No, he is hidden in a confessional.”
These words startled Chicot fearfully.
“Then he has heard and seen all?” asked the duke.
“Never mind, he is one of us.”
“Bring him here, Mayenne.”
Mayenne descended the staircase and came straight to where Chicot was hiding. He was brave, but now his teeth chattered with terror. “Ah,” thought he, trying to get out his sword from under his monk’s frock, “at least I will kill him first!” The duke had already extended his hand to open the door, when Chicot heard the duchess say:
“Not there, Mayenne; in that confessional to the left.”
“It was time,” thought Chicot, as the duke turned away, “but who the devil can the other be?”
“Come out, M. David,” said Mayenne, “we are alone.”
“Here I am, monseigneur,” said he, coming out.
“You have heard all?” asked the Duc de Guise.
“I have not lost a word, monseigneur.”
“Then you can report it to the envoy of his Holiness Gregory XIII.?”
“Everything.”
“Now, Mayenne tells me you have done wonders for us; let us see.”
“I have done what I promised, monseigneur; that is to say, found a method of seating you, without opposition, on the throne of France!”
“They also!” thought Chicot; “everyone wants then to be King of France!”
Chicot was gay now, for he felt safe once more, and he had discovered a conspiracy by which he hoped to ruin his two enemies.
“To gain a legitimate right is everything,” continued Nicolas David, “and I have discovered that you are the true heirs, and the Valois only a usurping branch.”
“It is difficult to believe,” said the duke, “that our house, however illustrious it may be, comes before the Valois.”
“It is nevertheless proved, monseigneur,” said David, drawing out a parchment. The duke took it.
“What is this?” said he.
“The genealogical tree of the house of Lorraine.”
“Of which the root is?”
“Charlemagne, monseigneur.”
“Charlemagne!” cried the three brothers, with an air of incredulous satisfaction, “Impossible!”
“Wait, monseigneur; you may be sure I have not raised a point to which any one may give the lie. What you want is a long lawsuit, during which you can gain over, not the people, they are yours, but the parliament. See, then, monseigneur, here it is. Ranier, first Duc de Lorraine, contemporary with Charlemagne; – Guibert, his son; – Henri, son of Guibert – ”
“But – ” said the duke.
“A little patience, monseigneur. Bonne – ”
“Yes,” said the duke, “daughter of Ricin, second son of Ranier.”
“Good; to whom married?”
“Bonne?”
“Yes.”
“To Charles of Lorraine, son of Louis IV., King of France.”
“Just so. Now add, ‘brother of Lothaire, despoiled of the crown of France by the usurper, Hugh Capet.’”
“Oh! oh!” said the duke and the cardinal.
“Now, Charles of Lorraine inherited from his brother Lothaire. Now, the race of Lothaire is extinct, therefore you are the only true heirs of the throne.”
“What do you say to that, brother?” cried the cardinal.
“I say, that unluckily there exists in France a law they call the Salic law, which destroys all our pretensions.”
“I expected that objection, monseigneur,” said David, “but what is the first example of the Salic law?”
“The accession of Philippe de Valois, to the prejudice of Edward of England.”
“What was the date of that accession?”
“1328,” said the cardinal.
“That is to say, 341 years after the usurpation of Hugh Capet, 240 years after the extinction of the race of Lothaire. Then, for 240 years your ancestors had already had a right to the throne before the Salic law was invented. Now, everyone knows that the law cannot have any retrospective effect.”
“You are a clever man, M. David,” said the Duc de Guise.
“It is very ingenious,” said the cardinal.
“It is very fine,” said Mayenne.
“It is admirable,” said the duchess; “then I am a princess royal. I will have no one less than the Emperor of Germany for a husband.”
“Well; here are your 200 gold crowns which I promised you.”
“And here are 200 others,” said the cardinal, “for the new mission with which we are about to charge you.”
“Speak, monseigneur, I am ready.”
“We cannot commission you to carry this genealogy yourself to our holy Father, Gregory XIII.”
“Alas! no; my will is good, but I am of too poor birth.”
“Yes, it is a misfortune. We must therefore send Pierre de Gondy on this mission.”
“Permit me to speak,” said the duchess. “The Gondys are clever, no doubt, but ambitious, and not to be trusted.”
“Oh! reassure yourself. Gondy shall take this, but mixed with other papers, and not knowing what he carries. The Pope will approve, or disapprove, silently, and Gondy will bring us back the answer, still in ignorance of what he brings. You, Nicolas David, shall wait for him at Chalons, Lyons, or Avignon, according to your instructions. Thus you alone will know our true secret.”
Then the three brothers shook hands, embraced their sister, put on again their monk’s robes, and disappeared. Behind them the porter drew the bolts, and then came in and extinguished the lights, and Chicot heard his retreating steps fainter and fainter, and all was silent.
“It seems now all is really over,” thought Chicot, and he came out of the confessional. He had noticed in a corner a ladder destined to clean the windows. He felt about until he found it, for it was close to him, and by the light of the moon placed it against the window. He easily opened it, and striding across it and drawing the ladder to him with that force and address which either fear or joy always gives, he drew it from the inside to the outside. When he had descended, he hid the ladder in a hedge, which was planted at the bottom of the wall, jumped from tomb to tomb, until he reached the outside wall over which he clambered. Once in the street he breathed more freely; he had escaped with a few scratches from the place where he had several times felt his life in danger. He went straight to the Corne d’Abondance, at which he knocked. It was opened by Claude Boutromet himself, who knew him at once, although he went out dressed as a cavalier, and returned attired as a monk.
“Ah! is it you?” cried he.
Chicot gave him a crown, and asked for Gorenflot.
The host smiled, and said, “Look!”
Brother Gorenflot lay snoring just in the place where Chicot had left him.
CHAPTER XXII.
HOW M. AND MADAME DE ST. LUC MET WITH A TRAVELING COMPANION
The next morning, about the time when Gorenflot woke from his nap, warmly rolled in his frock, our reader, if he had been traveling on the road from Paris to Angers, might have seen a gentleman and his page, riding quietly side by side. These cavaliers had arrived at Chartres the evening before, with foaming horses, one of which had fallen with fatigue, as they stopped. They entered the inn, and half an hour after set out on fresh horses. Once in the country, still bare and cold, the taller of the two approached the other, and said, as he opened his arms: “Dear little wife, embrace me, for now we are safe.”
Then Madame de St. Luc, leaning forward and opening her thick cloak, placed her arms round the young man’s neck and gave him the long and tender kiss which he had asked for. They stayed the night in the little village of Courville four leagues only from Chartres, but which from its isolation seemed to them a secure retreat; and it was on the following morning that they were, as we said, pursuing their way. This day, as they were more easy in their minds, they traveled no longer like fugitives, but like schoolboys seeking for moss, for the first few early flowers, enjoying the sunshine and amused at everything.
“Morbleu!” cried St. Luc, at last, “how delightful it is to be free. Have you ever been free, Jeanne?”
“I?” cried she, laughing, “never; it is the first time I ever felt so. My father was suspicious, and my mother lazy. I never went out without a governess and two lackeys, so that I do not remember having run on the grass, since, when a laughing child, I ran in the woods of Méridor with my dear Diana, challenging her to race, and rushing through the branches. But you, dear St. Luc; you were free, at least?”
“I, free?”
“Doubtless, a man.”
“Never. Brought up with the Duc d’Anjou, taken by him to Poland, brought back to Paris, condemned never to leave him by the perpetual rule of etiquette; pursued, if I tried to go away, by that doleful voice, crying, ‘St. Luc, my friend, I am ennuyé, come and amuse me.’ Free, with that stiff corset which strangled me, and that great ruff which scratched my neck! No, I have never been free till now, and I enjoy it.”
“If they should catch us, and send us to the Bastile?”
“If they only put us there together, we can bear it.”
“I do not think they would. But there is no fear, if you only knew Méridor, its great oaks, and its endless thickets, its rivers, its lakes, its flower-beds and lawns; and, then, in the midst of all, the queen of this kingdom, the beautiful, the good Diana. And I know she loves me still; she is not capricious in her friendships. Think of the happy life we shall lead there.”
“Let us push on; I am in haste to get there,” and they rode on, stayed the night at Mans, and then set off for Méridor. They had already reached the woods and thought themselves in safety, when they saw behind them a cavalier advancing at a rapid pace. St. Luc grew pale.
“Let us fly,” said Jeanne.
“Yes; let us fly, for there is a plume on that hat which disquiets me; it is of a color much in vogue at the court, and he looks to me like an ambassador from our royal master.”
But to fly was easier to say than to do; the trees grew so thickly that it was impossible to ride through them but slowly, and the soil was so sandy that the horses sank into it at every step. The cavalier gained upon them rapidly, and soon they heard his voice crying, —
“Eh, monsieur, do not run away; I bring you something you have lost.”
“What does he say?” asked Jeanne.
“He says we have lost something.”
“Eh! monsieur,” cried the unknown, again, “you left a bracelet in the hotel at Courville. Diable! a lady’s portrait; above all, that of Madame de Cossé. For the sake of that dear mamma, do not run away.”
“I know that voice,” said St. Luc.
“And then he speaks of my mother.”
“It is Bussy!”
“The Comte de Bussy, our friend,” and they reined up their horses.
“Good morning, madame,” said Bussy, laughing, and giving her the bracelet.
“Have you come from the king to arrest us?”
“No, ma foi, I am not sufficiently his majesty’s friend for such a mission. No, I found your bracelet at the hotel, which showed me that you preceded me on my way.”
“Then,” said St. Luc, “it is chance which brings you on our path.”
“Chance, or rather Providence.”
Every remaining shadow of suspicion vanished before the sincere smile and bright eyes of the handsome speaker.
“Then you are traveling?” asked Jeanne.
“I am.”
“But not like us?”
“Unhappily; no.”
“I mean in disgrace. Where are you going?”
“Towards Angers, and you?”
“We also.”
“Ah! I should envy your happiness if envy were not so vile.”
“Eh! M. de Bussy, marry, and you will be as happy as we are,” said Jeanne; “it is so easy to be happy when you are loved.”
“Ah! madame, everyone is not so fortunate as you.”
“But you, the universal favorite.”
“To be loved by everyone is as though you were loved by no one, madame.”
“Well, let me marry you, and you will know the happiness you deny.”
“I do not deny the happiness, only that it does not exist for me.”
“Shall I marry you?”
“If you marry me according to your taste, no; if according to mine, yes.”
“Are you in love with a woman whom you cannot marry?”
“Comte,” said Bussy, “beg your wife not to plunge dagger in my heart.”
“Take care, Bussy; you will make me think it is with her you are in love.”
“If it were so, you will confess, at least, that I am a lover not much to be feared.”
“True,” said St. Luc, remembering how Bussy had brought him his wife. “But confess, your heart is occupied.”
“I avow it.”
“By a love, or by a caprice?” asked Jeanne.
“By a passion, madame.”
“I will cure you.”
“I do not believe it.”
“I will marry you.”
“I doubt it.”
“And I will make you as happy as you ought to be.”
“Alas! madame, my only happiness now is to be unhappy.”
“I am very determined.”
“And I also.”
“Well, will you accompany us?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the château of Méridor.”
The blood mounted to the cheeks of Bussy, and then he grew so pale, that his secret would certainly have been betrayed, had not Jeanne been looking at her husband with a smile. Bussy therefore had time to recover himself, and said, —
“Where is that?”
“It is the property of one of my best friends.”
“One of your best friends, and – are they at home?”
“Doubtless,” said Jeanne, who was completely ignorant of the events of the last two months; “but have you never heard of the Baron de Méridor, one of the richest noblemen in France, and of – ”
“Of what?”
“Of his daughter, Diana, the most beautiful girl possible?”
Bussy was filled with astonishment, asking himself by what singular happiness he found on the road people to talk to him of Diana de Méridor to echo the only thought which he had in his mind.
“Is this castle far off, madame?” asked he.
“About seven leagues, and we shall sleep there to-night; you will come, will you not?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Come, that is already a step towards the happiness I promised you.”
“And the baron, what sort of a man is he?”
“A perfect gentleman, a preux chevalier, who, had he lived in King Arthur’s time, would have had a place at his round table.”
“And,” said Bussy, steadying his voice, “to whom is his daughter married?”
“Diana married?”
“Would that be extraordinary?”
“Of course not, only I should have been the first to hear of it.”
Bussy could not repress a sigh. “Then,” said he, “you expect to find Mademoiselle de Méridor at the château with her father?”
“We trust so.”
They rode on a long time in silence, and at last Jeanne cried:
“Ah! there are the turrets of the castle. Look, M. de Bussy, through that great leafless wood, which in a month, will be so beautiful; do you not see the roof?”
“Yes,” said Bussy, with an emotion which astonished himself; “and is that the château of Méridor?”
And he thought of the poor prisoner shut up in the Rue St. Antoine.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE OLD MAN
Two hours after they reached the castle. Bussy had been debating within himself whether or not to confide to his friends what he knew about Diana. But there was much that he could tell to no one, and he feared their questions, and besides, he wished to enter Méridor as a stranger.
Madame de St. Luc was surprised, when the report sounded his horn to announce a visit, that Diana did not run as usual to meet them, but instead of her appeared an old man, bent and leaning on a stick, and his white hair flying in the wind. He crossed the drawbridge, followed by two great dogs, and when he drew quite near, said in a feeble voice, —
“Who is there, and who does a poor old man the honor to visit him?”
“It is I, Seigneur Augustin!” cried the laughing voice of the young woman.
But the baron, raising his head slowly, said, “You? I do not see. Who is it?”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Jeanne, “do you not know me? It is true, my disguise – ”
“Excuse me,” said the old man, “but I can see little; the eyes of old men are not made for weeping, and if they weep too much, the tears burn them.”
“Must I tell you my name? I am Madame de St. Luc.”
“I do not know you.”
“Ah! but my maiden name was Jeanne de Cosse-Brissac.”
“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried the old man, trying to open the gate with his trembling hands. Jeanne, who did not understand this strange reception, still attributed it only to his declining faculties; but, seeing that he remembered her, jumped off her horse to embrace him, but as she did so she felt his cheek wet with tears.
“Come,” said the old man, turning towards the house, without even noticing the others. The château had a strange sad look; all the blinds were down, and no one was visible.
“Is Diana unfortunately not at home?” asked Jeanne. The old man stopped, and looked at her with an almost terrified expression. “Diana!” said he. At this name the two dogs uttered a mournful howl. “Diana!” repeated the old man; “do you not, then, know?”
And his voice, trembling before, was extinguished in a sob.
“But what has happened?” cried Jeanne, clasping her hands.
“Diana is dead!” cried the old man, with a torrent of tears.
“Dead!” cried Jeanne, growing as pale as death.
“Dead,” thought Bussy; “then he has let him also think her dead. Poor old man! how he will bless me some day!”
“Dead!” cried the old man again; “they killed her.”
“Ah, my dear baron!” cried Jeanne, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms round the old man’s neck.
“But,” said he at last, “though desolate and empty, the old house is none the less hospitable. Enter.”
Jeanne took the old man’s arm, and they went into the dining-hall, where he sunk into his armchair. At last, he said, “You said you were married; which is your husband?”
M. de St. Luc advanced and bowed to the old man, who tried to smile as he saluted him; then, turning to Bussy, said, “And this gentleman?”
“He is our friend, M. Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy d’Amboise, gentleman of M. le Duc d’Anjou.”
At these words the old man started up, threw a withering glance at Bussy, and then sank back with a groan.
“What is it?” said Jeanne.
“Does the baron know you, M. de Bussy?” asked St. Luc.
“It is the first time I ever had the honor of seeing M. de Méridor,” said Bussy, who alone understood the effect which the name of the Duc d’Anjou had produced on the old man.
“Ah! you a gentleman of the Duc d’Anjou!” cried the baron, “of that monster, that demon, and you dare to avow it, and have the audacity to present yourself here!”
“Is he mad?” asked St. Luc of his wife.
“Grief must have turned his brain,” replied she, in terror.
“Yes, that monster!” cried he again; “the assassin who killed my child! Ah, you do not know,” continued he, taking Jeanne’s hands; “but the duke killed my Diana, my child – he killed her!”
Tears stood in Bussy’s eyes, and Jeanne said:
“Seigneur, were it so, which I do not understand, you cannot accuse M. de Bussy of this dreadful crime – he, who is the most noble and generous gentleman living. See, my good father, he weeps with us. Would he have come had he known how you would receive him? Ah, dear baron, tell us how this catastrophe happened.”
“Then you did not know?” said the old man to Bussy.
“Eh, mon Dieu! no,” cried Jeanne, “we none of us knew.”
“My Diana is dead, and her best friend did not know it! Oh, it is true! I wrote to no one; it seemed to me that everything must die with her. Well, this prince, this disgrace to France, saw my Diana, and, finding her so beautiful, had her carried away to his castle of Beaugé to dishonor her. But Diana, my noble and sainted Diana, chose death instead. She threw herself from the window into the lake, and they found nothing but her veil floating on the surface.” And the old man finished with a burst of sobs which overwhelmed them all.
“Oh, comte,” cried St. Luc, “you must abandon this infamous prince; a noble heart like yours cannot remain friendly to a ravisher and an assassin!”
But Bussy instead of replying to this, advanced to M. de Méridor.
“M. le Baron,” said he, “will you grant me the honor of a private interview?”
“Listen to M. de Bussy, dear seigneur,” said Jeanne; “you will see that he is good and may help you.”
“Speak, monsieur,” said the baron, trembling.
Bussy turned to St. Luc and his wife, and said:
“Will you permit me?”
The young couple went out, and then Bussy said: “M. le Baron, you have accused the prince whom I serve in terms which force me to ask for an explanation. Do not mistake the sense in which I speak; it is with the most profound sympathy, and the most earnest desire to soften your griefs, that I beg of you to recount to me the details of this dreadful event. Are you sure all hope is lost?”
“Monsieur, I had once a moment’s hope. A noble gentleman, M. de Monsoreau, loved my poor daughter, and interested himself for her.”
“M. de Monsoreau! Well, what was his conduct in all this!”
“Ah, generous; for Diana had refused his hand. He was the first to tell me of the infamous projects of the duke; he showed me how to baffle them, only asking, if he succeeded, for her hand. I gave my consent with joy; but alas! it was useless – he arrived too late – my poor Diana had saved herself by death!”
“And since then, what have you heard of him?”
“It is a month ago, and the poor gentleman has not dared to appear before me, having failed in his generous design.”
“Well, monsieur,” said Bussy, “I am charged by the Duc d’Anjou to bring you to Paris, where his highness desires to speak to you.”
“I!” cried the baron, “I see this man! And what can the murderer have to say to me?”
“Who knows? To justify himself perhaps.”
“No, M. de Bussy, no, I will not go to Paris; it would be too far away from where my child lies in her cold bed.”
“M. le Baron,” said Bussy firmly, “I have come expressly to take you to Paris, and it is my duty to do so.”
“Well, I will go,” cried the old man, trembling with anger; “but woe to those who bring me. The king will hear me, or, if he will not, I will appeal to all the gentlemen of France. Yes, M. de Bussy, I will accompany you.”
“And I, M. le Baron,” said Bussy, taking his hand, “recommend to you the patience and calm dignity of a Christian nobleman. God is merciful to noble hearts, and you know not what He reserves for you. I beg you also, while waiting for that day, not to count me among your enemies, for you do not know what I will do for you. Till to-morrow, then, baron, and early in the morning we will set off.”
“I consent,” replied the old baron, moved by Bussy’s tone and words; “but meanwhile, friend or enemy, you are my guest, and I will show you to your room.”
