Александр Дюма
Chicot the Jester
CHAPTER LXII.
HOW, AS CHICOT AND THE QUEEN MOTHER WERE AGREED, THE KING BEGAN TO AGREE WITH THEM
“Is this how you defend your king?” cried Henri.
“Yes, it is my manner, and I think it is a good one.”
“Good, indeed!”
“I maintain it, and I will prove it.”
“I am curious to hear this proof.”
“It is easy; but first, we have committed a great folly.”
“How so?” cried Henri, struck by the agreement between Chicot and his mother.
“Yes,” replied Chicot, “your friends are crying through the city, ‘Death to the Angevins!’ and now that I reflect, it was never proved that they had anything to do with the affair. And your friends, crying thus through the city, will raise that nice little civil war of which MM. de Guise have so much need, and which they did not succeed in raising for themselves. Besides which, your friends may get killed, which would not displease me, I confess, but which would afflict you, or else they will chase all the Angevins from the city, which will please M. d’Anjou enormously.”
“Do you think things are so bad?”
“Yes, if not worse.”
“But all this does not explain what you do here, sitting on a stone.”
“I am tracing a plan of all the provinces that your brother will raise against you, and the number of men each will furnish to the revolt.”
“Chicot, Chicot, you are a bird of bad augury.”
“The owl sings at night, my son, it is his hour. Now it is dark, Henri, so dark that one might take the day for the night, and I sing what you ought to hear. Look!”
“At what?”
“My geographical plan. Here is Anjou, something like a tartlet, you see; there your brother will take refuge. Anjou, well managed, as Monsoreau and Bussy will manage it, will alone furnish to your brother ten thousand combatants.”
“Do you think so?”
“That is the minimum; let us pass to Guyenne; here it is, this figure like a calf walking on one leg. Of course, you will not be astonished to find discontent in Guyenne; it is an old focus for revolt, and will be enchanted to rise. They can furnish 8,000 soldiers; that is not much, but they are well trained. Then we have Béarn and Navarre; you see these two compartments, which look like an ape on the back of an elephant – they may furnish about 16,000. Let us count now – 10,000 for Anjou, 8,000 for Guyenne, 16,000 for Béarn and Navarre; making a total of 34,000.”
“You think, then, that the King of Navarre will join my brother?”
“I should think so.”
“Do you believe that he had anything to do with my brother’s escape?”
Chicot looked at him. “That is not your own idea, Henri.”
“Why not?”
“It is too clever, my son.”
“Never mind whose idea it was; answer my question.”
“Well! I heard a ‘Ventre St. Gris’ in the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”
“You heard a ‘Ventre St. Gris!’ But it might not have been he.”
“I saw him.”
“You saw Henri of Navarre in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“You saw my mortal enemy here, and did not tell me?”
“I am not a spy. Then there are the Guises; 20,000 or 25,000 men under the orders of the Duc de Guise will make up altogether a nice little army.”
“But Henri of Navarre and the Duc de Guise are enemies.”
“Which will not prevent them from uniting against you; they will be free to fight with each other when they have conquered you.”
“You are right, Chicot, and my mother is right. I will call the Swiss.”
“Oh, yes! Quelus has got them.”
“My guards, then.”
“Schomberg has them.”
“My household at least.”
“They have gone with Maugiron.”
“Without my orders?”
“And when do you ever give orders, except, perhaps, to flagellate either your own skin, or that of others? – But about government. – Bah! allow me to observe that you have been a long time finding out that you rank seventh or eighth in this kingdom.”
“Here they are!” cried the king, as three cavaliers approached, followed by a crowd of men on foot and on horseback.
“Schomberg! Quelus! come here,” cried the king. They approached.
“I have been seeking you, and waiting for you impatiently. What have you done? Do not go away again without my permission.”
“There is no more need,” said Maugiron, who now approached, “since all is finished.”
“All is finished?”
“Heaven be praised,” said D’Epernon, appearing all at once, no one knew from whence.
“Then you have killed them?” cried the king; “well, at least the dead do not return.”
“Oh! we had not that trouble; the cowards ran away, we had scarcely time to cross our swords with them.”
Henri grew pale. “With whom?” said he.
“With Antragues?”
“On the contrary, he killed a lackey of Quelus’s.”
“Oh!” murmured the king, “here is a civil war lighted up.”
Quelus started. “It is true,” said he.
“Ah,” said Chicot. “You begin to perceive it, do you?”
“But, M. Chicot, you cried with us, ‘Death to the Angevins!’”
“Oh! that is a different thing; I am a fool, and you are clever men.”
“Come, peace, gentlemen; we shall have enough of war soon.”
“What are your majesty’s orders?”
“That you employ the same ardor in calming the people as you have done in exciting them, and that you bring back all the Swiss, my guards, and my household, and have the doors of the Louvre closed, so that perhaps tomorrow the bourgeois may take the whole thing for a sortie of drunken people.”
The young men went off, and Henri returned to his mother.
“Well,” said she, “what has passed?”
“All you foresaw, mother.”
“They have escaped?”
“Alas! yes.”
“What else?”
“Is not that enough?”
“The city?”
“Is in tumult; but that is not what disquiets me.”
“No, it is the provinces.”
“Which will revolt.”
“What shall you do?”
“I see but one thing.”
“What is that?”
“To withdraw the army from La Charité, and march on Anjou.”
“And M. de Guise?”
“Oh, I will arrest him if necessary.”
“And you think violent measures will succeed?”
“What can I do, then?”
“Your plan will not do.”
“Well, what is your idea?”
“Send an ambassador.”
“To whom?”
“To your brother.”
“An ambassador to that traitor! You humiliate me, mother.”
“This is not a moment to be proud.”
“An ambassador will ask for peace?”
“Who will buy it if necessary.”
“With what? mon Dieu!”
“If it were only to secure quietly, afterwards, those who have gone to make war on you.”
“I would give much for that.”
“Well, then, the end is worth the means.”
“I believe you are right, mother; but whom shall I send?”
“Seek among your friends.”
“My mother, I do not know a single man to whom I could confide such a mission.”
“Confide it to a woman, then.”
“My mother, would you consent?”
“My son, I am very old, and very weak, and death will perhaps await me on my return; but I will make this journey so rapidly that your brother and his friends will not have had time to learn their own power.”
“Oh, my good mother!” cried Henri, kissing her hands, “you are my support, my benefactress!”
“That means that I am still Queen of France,” murmured she.
CHAPTER LXIII.
IN WHICH IT IS PROVED THAT GRATITUDE WAS ONE OF ST. LUC’S VIRTUES
The next morning, M. de Monsoreau rose early, and descended into the courtyard of the palace. He entered the stable, where Roland was in his place.
“Are the horses of monseigneur taught to return to their stable alone?” asked he of the man who stood there.
“No, M. le Comte.”
“But Roland did so yesterday.”
“Oh, he is remarkably intelligent.”
“Has he ever done it before?”
“No, monsieur; he is generally ridden by the Duc d’Anjou, who is a good rider, and never gets thrown.”
“I was not thrown,” replied the count, “for I also am a good rider; no, I tied him to a tree while I entered a house, and at my return he had disappeared. I thought he had been stolen, or that some passer-by had played a bad joke by carrying him away; that was why I asked how he returned to the stable.”
“He returned alone, as monsieur said just now.”
“It is strange. Monseigneur often rides this horse, you say?”
“Nearly every day.”
“His highness returned late last night?”
“About an hour before you.”
“And what horse did he ride? was it a bay with a white star on his forehead?”
“No, monsieur, he rode Isolin, which you see here.”
“And in the prince’s escort is there any one who rides such a horse as I describe?”
“I know of no one.”
“Well,” said Monsoreau, impatiently, “saddle me Roland.”
“Roland?”
“Yes, are there any orders against it?”
“No; on the contrary, I was told to let you have any horse you pleased.”
When Roland was saddled, Monsoreau said to the man, “What are your wages?”
“Twenty crowns, monsieur.”
“Will you earn ten times that sum at once?”
“I ask no better. But how?”
“Find out who rode yesterday the horse I described.”
“Ah, monsieur, what you ask is very difficult, there are so many gentlemen come here.”
“Yes, but two hundred crowns are worth some trouble.”
“Certainly, M. le Comte, and I will do my best to discover.”
“That is right, and here are ten crowns to encourage you.”
“Thanks, M. le Comte.”
“Well, tell the prince I have gone to reconnoiter the wood for the chase.”
As he spoke he heard steps behind him, and turned.
“Ah, M. de Bussy!” he cried.
“Why, M. le Comte, who would have thought of seeing you here!”
“And you, who they said was so ill.”
“So I am; my doctor orders absolute rest, and for a week I have not left the city. Ah! you are going to ride Roland; I sold him to the duke, who is very fond of him.”
“Yes, he is an excellent animal; I rode him yesterday.”
“Which makes you wish for him again to-day?”
“Yes.”
“You were speaking of a chase.”
“Yes, the prince wishes for one.”
“Whereabouts is it to be?”
“Near Méridor. Will you come with me?”
“No, thank you, I do not feel well.”
“Oh!” cried a voice from behind, “there is M. de Bussy out without permission.”
“Ah! there is my doctor scolding. Adieu, comte.”
Bussy went away, and Monsoreau jumped into the saddle.
“What is the matter?” said Rémy; “you look so pale, I believe you are really ill.”
“Do you know where he is going?”
“No.”
“To Méridor.”
“Well, did you hope he would not?”
“Mon Dieu! what will happen, after what he saw yesterday?”
“Madame de Monsoreau will deny everything.”
“But he saw her.”
“She will say he did not.”
“She will never have the courage.”
“Oh, M. de Bussy, is it possible you do not know women better than that!”
“Rémy, I feel very ill.”
“So I see. Go home, and I will prescribe for you.”
“What?”
“A slice of fowl and ham, and some lobster.”
“Oh, I am not hungry.”
“The more reason I should order you to eat.”
“Rémy, I fear that that wretch will make a great scene at Méridor. I ought to have gone with him when he asked me.”
“What for?”
“To sustain Diana.”
“Oh, she will sustain herself. Besides, you ought not to be out; we agreed you were too ill.”
“I could not help it, Rémy, I was so unquiet.”
Rémy carried him off, and made him sit down to a good breakfast.
M. de Monsoreau wished to see if it were chance or habit that had led Roland to the park wall; therefore he left the bridle on his neck. Roland took precisely the same road as on the previous day, and before very long M. de Monsoreau found himself in the same spot as before. Only now the place was solitary, and no horse was there. The count climbed the wall again, but no one was to be seen; therefore, judging that it was useless to watch for people on their guard, he went on to the park gates. The baron, seeing his son-in-law coming over the drawbridge, advanced ceremoniously to meet him. Diana, seated under a magnificent sycamore, was reading poetry, while Gertrude was embroidering at her side. The count, seeing them, got off his horse, and approached them.
“Madame,” said he, “will you grant me the favor of an interview?”
“Willingly, monsieur.”
“What calm, or rather what perfidy!” thought the count.
“Do you do us the honor of remaining at the chat?” asked the baron.
“Yes, monsieur, until to-morrow, at least.”
The baron went away to give orders, and Diana reseated herself, while Monsoreau took Gertrude’s chair, and, with a look sufficient to intimidate most people, said:
“Madame, who was in the park with you yesterday?”
“At what time?” said Diana, in a firm voice.
“At six.”
“Where?”
“Near the copse.”
“It must have been some one else, it was not I.”
“It was you, madame.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Tell me the man’s name!” cried Monsoreau, furiously.
“What man?”
“The man who was walking with you.”
“I cannot tell, if it was some other woman.”
“It was you, I tell you.”
“You are wrong, monsieur.”
“How dare you deny it? I saw you.”
“You, monsieur?”
“Yes, madame, myself. And there is no other lady here.”
“You are wrong again; there is Jeanne de Brissac.”
“Madame de St. Luc?”
“Yes, my friend.”
“And M. de St. Luc?”
“Never leaves her; theirs was a love-match; you must have seen them.”
“It was not them; it was you, with some man whom I do not know, but whom I will know, I swear. I heard your cry.”
“When you are more reasonable, monsieur, I shall be ready to hear you; at present I will retire.”
“No, madame, you shall stay.”
“Monsieur, here are M. and Madame de St. Luc, I trust you will contain yourself.”
Indeed, M. and Madame de St. Luc approached. She bowed to Monsoreau, and St. Luc gave him his hand; then, leaving his wife to Monsoreau, took Diana, and after a walk they returned, warned by the bell for dinner, which was early at Méridor, as the baron preserved the old customs. The conversation was general, and turned naturally on the Duc d’Anjou, and the movement his arrival had caused. Diana sat far from her husband, between St. Luc and the baron.
CHAPTER LXIV.
THE PROJECT OF M. DE ST. LUC
When the repast was over, Monsoreau took St. Luc’s arm and went out. “Do you know,” said he, “that I am very happy to have found you here, for the solitude of Méridor frightened me.”
“What, with your wife? As for me, with such a companion I should find a desert delightful.”
“I do not say no, but still – ”
“Still, what?”
“I am very glad to have met you here.”
“Really, monsieur, you are very polite, for I cannot believe that you could possibly fear ennui with such a companion, and such a country.”
“Bah! I pass half my life in the woods.”
“The more reason for being fond of them, it seems to me. I know I shall be very sorry to leave them; unluckily, I fear I shall be forced to do so before long.”
“Why so?”
“Oh! monsieur, when is man the arbiter of his own destiny? He is like the leaf of the tree, which the wind blows about. You are very fortunate.”
“Fortunate; how?”
“To live amongst these splendid trees.”
“Oh! I do not think I shall stay here long; I am not so fond of nature, and I fear these woods; I think they are not safe.”
“Why? on account of their loneliness, do you mean?”
“No, not that, for I suppose you see friends here.”
“Not a soul.”
“Ah! really. How long is it since you had any visitor?”
“Not since I have been here.”
“Not one gentleman from the court at Angers?”
“Not one.”
“Impossible.”
“It is true.”
“Then I am wrong.”
“Perfectly; but why is not the park safe, are there bears here?”
“Oh, no.”
“Wolves?”
“No.”
“Robbers?”
“Perhaps. Tell me, monsieur, Madame de St. Luc seemed to me very pretty; is she not?”
“Why, yes.”
“Does she often walk in the park?”
“Often; she adores the woods, like myself.”
“And do you accompany her?”
“Always.”
“Nearly always?”
“What the devil are you driving at?”
“Oh; mon Dieu, nothing; or, at least, a trifle.”
“I listen.”
“They told me – ”
“Well?”
“You will not be angry?”
“I never am so.”
“Besides, between husbands, these confidences are right; they told me a man had been seen wandering in the park.”
“A man.”
“Yes.”
“Who came for my wife?”
“Oh! I do not say that.”
“You would be wrong not to tell me, my dear Monsoreau. Who saw him? pray tell me.”
“Oh! to tell you the truth, I do not think it was for Madame de St. Luc that he came.”
“For whom, then?”
“Ah! I fear it is for Diana.”
“Oh! I should like that better.”
“What?”
“Certainly; you know we husbands are an egotistical set. Everyone for himself, and God for us all.”
“The devil rather.”
“Then you think a man entered here?”
“I think so.”
“And I do more than think,” said St. Luc, “for I saw him.”
“You saw a man in the park?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Alone?”
“With Madame de Monsoreau.”
“Where?”
“Just here to the left.” And as they had walked down to the old copse, St. Luc pointed out the spot where Bussy always came over.
“Ah!” continued he, “here is a wall in a bad state; I must warn the baron.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
“Of what?”
“Of climbing over here to talk to my wife.” St. Luc seemed to reflect.
“Diable!” said he, “it could only have been – ”
“Whom?”
“Why, yourself.”
“Are you joking, M. de St. Luc?”
“Ma foi, no; when I was first married I did such things.”
“Come! you are trying to put me off; but do not fear, I have courage. Help me to seek, you will do me an immense favor.”
St. Luc shook his head. “It must have been you,” said he.
“Do not jest, I beg of you; the thing is serious.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Oh! and how does this man come?”
“Secretly.”
“Often?”
“I fear so; look at the marks in the wall.”
“Well, I suspected it, but I always fancied it was you.”
“But I tell you, no!”
“Oh, I believe you, my dear sir.”
“Well, then – ”
“It must have been some one else.”
Monsoreau began to look black, but St. Luc preserved his easy nonchalance.
“I have an idea,” said he.
“Tell me.”
“If it were – ”
“Well!”
“But, no.”
“Pray speak.”
“The Duc d’Anjou.”
“I thought so at first, but I have made inquiries, and it could not have been he.”
“Oh! he is very cunning.”
“Yes, but it was not he.”
“Wait, then.”
“Well!”
“I have another idea; if it was neither you nor the duke, it must have been I.”
“You?”
“Why not?”
“You to come on horseback to the outside of the park, when you live inside!”
“Oh, mon Dieu! I am such a capricious being.”
“You, who fled away when you saw me!”
“Oh! any one would do that.”
“Then you were doing wrong,” cried the count, no longer able to keep in his anger.
“I do not say so.”
“You are mocking me,” cried the count, growing very pale, “and have been doing so for a quarter of an hour.”
“You are wrong, monsieur,” said St. Luc, drawing out his watch, and looking steadily at him; “it has been twenty minutes.”
“You insult me.”
“And you insult me with your questions like a constable.”
“Ah! now I see clearly.”
“How wonderful, at ten o’clock in the morning. But what do you see?”
“I see that you act in concert with the traitor, the coward, whom I saw yesterday.”
“I should think so; he is my friend.”
“Then I will kill you in his place.”
“Bah! in your own house, and without crying, gare. Ah! M. de Monsoreau, how badly you have been brought up, and how living among beasts spoils the manners.”
“Do you not see that I am furious?” howled the count.
“Yes, indeed, I do see it, and it does not become you at all; you look frightful.”
The count drew his sword.
“Ah!” said St. Luc, “you try to provoke me; you see I am perfectly calm.”
“Yes, I do provoke you.”
“Take the trouble to get over the wall; on the other side we shall be on neutral ground.”
“What do I care!”
“I do; I do not want to kill you in your own house.”
“Very well!” said Monsoreau, climbing over.
“Take care; pray do not hurt yourself, my dear count; those stones are loose,” said St. Luc. Then he also got over.
CHAPTER LXV.
HOW M. DE ST. LUC SHOWED M. DE MONSOREAU THE THRUST THAT THE KING HAD TAUGHT HIM
“Are you ready?” cried Monsoreau.
“No; I have the sun in my eyes.”
“Move then; I warn you I shall kill you.”
“Shall you really? Well, man proposes, and God disposes. Look at that bed of poppies and dandelions.”
“Well!”
“Well, I mean to lay you there.” And he laughed as he drew his sword. Monsoreau began the combat furiously, but St. Luc parried his thrusts skilfully.
“Pardieu! M. de Monsoreau,” said he, “you use your sword very well; you might kill any one but Bussy or me.”
Monsoreau grew pale.
“As for me,” continued St. Luc, “the king, who loves me, took the trouble to give me a great many lessons, and showed me, among other things, a thrust, which you shall see presently. I tell you, that you may have the pleasure of knowing you are killed by the king’s method; it is very flattering.” And then suddenly he rushed furiously on Monsoreau, who, half wild with rage as he was, parried five thrusts, but received the sixth full in his chest.
“Ah!” said St. Luc, “you will fall just where I told you,” as Monsoreau sank down on the poppies. Then, wiping his sword, he stood quietly by, watching the changes which came over the face of the dying man.
“Ah, you have killed me!” cried Monsoreau.
“I intended to do so, but now I see you dying, devil take me if I am not sorry for what I have done. You are horribly jealous, it is true, but you were brave. Have you any last wish? If so, tell it to me; and, on the faith of a gentleman, it shall be executed. Are you thirsty? Shall I get you water?”
Monsoreau did not reply. He turned over with his face to the earth, biting the ground, and struggling in his blood. Then he tried to raise his head, but fell back with a groan.
“Come, he is dead; let me think no more about him. Ah! but that is not so easy, when you have killed a man.” And jumping back over the wall, he went to the château. The first person he saw was Diana talking to his wife.
“How well she will look in black,” thought he. Then, approaching them, “Pardon me,” said he, “but may I say a few words to Jeanne?”
“Do so; I will go to my father,”
“What is it?” said Jeanne, when Diana was gone; “you look rather gloomy.”
“Why, yes.”
“What has happened?”
“Oh, mon Dieu! an accident.”
“To you?”
“Not precisely to me, but to a person who was near me.”
“Who was it?”
“The person I was walking with.”
“M. de Monsoreau?”
“Alas! yes; poor dear man.”
“What has happened to him?”
“I believe he is dead.”
“Dead!” cried Jeanne, starting back in horror.
“Just so.”
“He who was here just now talking – ”
“Yes, that is just the cause of his death; he talked too much.”
“St. Luc, you are hiding something from me!” cried Jeanne, seizing his hands.
“I! Nothing; not even the place where he lies.”
“Where is it?”
“Down there behind the wall; just where Bussy used to tie his horse.”
“It was you who killed him.”
“Parbleu! that is not very difficult to discover.”
“Unlucky that you are!”
“Ah, dear friend! he provoked me, insulted me, drew the sword first.”
“It is dreadful! the poor man!”
“Good; I was sure of it; before a week is over he will be called St. Monsoreau.”
“But you cannot stay here in the house of the man you have killed.”
“So I thought at once, and that is why I came to ask you to get ready.”
“He has not wounded you?”
“No, I am perfectly unhurt.”
“Then, we will go.”
“As quickly as possible, for you know the accident may be discovered at any moment.”
“Then Diana is a widow.”
“That is just what I thought of.”
“After you killed him?”
“No, before.”
“Well, I will go and tell her.”
“Spare her feelings.”
“Do not laugh. Meanwhile you get the horses saddled. But where shall we go?”
“To Paris.”
“But the king?”
“Oh! he will have forgotten everything by this time; besides, if there is to be war, as seems probable, he will be glad of me. But I must have pen and ink.”
“For what?”
“To write to Bussy; I cannot leave Anjou without telling him why.”
“No, of course not; you will find all that you require in my room.” St. Luc went in, and wrote, —
“DEAR FRIEND,
“You will learn, by report, ere long, the accident which has happened to M. de Monsoreau; we had together, by the old copse, a discussion on broken-down walls and horses that go home alone. In the heat of the argument, he fell on a bed of poppies and dandelions so hard that he died there.
“Your friend for life,
“St. Luc.
“P. S. As you may think this rather improbable, I must add that we had our swords in our hands. I set off at once for Paris to make peace with the king, Anjou not seeming to me very safe after what has occurred.”
Ten minutes after a servant set off for Angers with this letter, while M. and Madame de St. Luc went out by another door, leaving Diana much grieved at their departure, and much embarrassed how to tell the baron what had occurred. She had turned away her eyes from St. Luc as he passed.
“That is the reward for serving your friends,” said he to his wife; “decidedly all people are ungrateful excepting me.”
