Александр Дюма
Chicot the Jester
CHAPTER LXXXV.
THE FÊTE DIEU
During these eight days events were preparing themselves, as a tempest gathers in the heavens during the calm days of summer. Monsoreau had an attack of fever for twenty-four hours, then he rallied, and began to watch, himself; but as he discovered no one, he became more than ever convinced of the hypocrisy of the Duc d’Anjou, and of his bad intentions with regard to Diana.
Bussy did not discontinue his visits by day, but, warned by Rémy of this constant watchfulness, came no more at night to the window.
Chicot divided his time between the king, whom he watched like a child, and his friend Gorenflot, whom he had persuaded to return to his convent. He passed hours with him in his cell, always bringing with him large bottles in his pocket, and the report begin to be spread that Gorenflot had nearly persuaded him to turn monk.
As for the king, he gave constant lessons in fencing to his friends, teaching them new thrusts, and, above all, exercising D’Epernon, to whom fate had given so skilful an adversary, that he was visibly preoccupied by it.
Any one walking in the streets of Paris at certain hours, might have met the strange monks, of whom our first chapters furnished some description, and who resembled troopers more than monks. Then, to complete the picture, we must add that the Hôtel de Guise had become at once mysterious and turbulent, the most peopled within and the most deserted without that can be imagined; that meetings were held every night in the great hall, and with all the blinds and windows hermetically closed, and that these meetings were preceded by dinners, to which none but men were invited, and which were presided over by Madame de Montpensier. Of all these meetings, however, important though they were, the police suspected nothing. On the morning of the great day, the weather was superb, and the flowers which filled the streets sent their perfumes through the air. Chicot, who for the last fortnight had slept in the king’s room, woke him early; no one had yet entered the royal chamber.
“Oh, Chicot!” cried the king, “you have woke me from one of the sweetest dreams I ever had in my life.”
“What was it, my son?”
“I dreamed that Quelus had run Antragues through the body, and was swimming in the blood of his adversary. Let us go and pray that my dream may be realized. Call, Chicot, call.”
“What do you want?”
“My hair-cloth and my scourge.”
“Would you not prefer a good breakfast?”
“Pagan, would you go to hear mass on the Fête Dieu with a full stomach?”
“Even so.”
“Call, Chicot.”
“Patience; it is scarcely eight o’clock, and you will have plenty of time to scourge yourself. Let us talk first. Converse with your friend; you will not repent it, Valois, on the faith of a Chicot.”
“Well, talk; but be quick.”
“How shall we divide our day, my son?”
“Into three parts.”
“In honor of the Trinity; very well, let me hear these three parts.”
“First, mass at St. Germain l’Auxerrois.”
“Well?”
“Return to the Louvre, for a collation.”
“Very good.”
“Then, a procession of penitents through the streets, stopping at the principal convente of Paris, beginning at the Jacobine and finishing at St. Geneviève, where I have promised the prior to stay till to-morrow in the cell of a saint, who will pray for the success of our arms.”
“I know him.”
“The saint?”
“Yes, perfectly.”
“So much the better; you shall accompany me, and we will pray together.”
“Yes; make yourself easy.”
“Then dress yourself, and come.”
“Wait a little.”
“What for?”
“I have more to ask.”
“Be quick, then, for time passes.”
“What is the court to do?”
“Follow me.”
“And your brother?”
“Will accompany me.”
“Your guard?”
“The French guard wait for me at the Louvre, and the Swiss at the door of the Abbey.”
“That will do; now I know all.”
“Then I may call?”
“Yes.”
Henri struck on his gong.
“The ceremony will be magnificent,” said Chicot.
“God will accept our homage, I hope.”
“But tell me, Henri, before any one comes in, have you nothing else to say to me?”
“No, I have given you all the details.”
“Have you settled to sleep at St. Genevieve?”
“Doubtless.”
“Well, my son, I do not like that part of the program.”
“How so?”
“When we have dined I will tell you another plan that has occurred to me.”
“Well, I consent.”
“Whether you consent or not, it will be all the same thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hush! here are your valets.”
As he spoke, the ushers opened the door, and the barber, perfumer, and valet of the king entered, and commenced to execute upon his majesty one of those toilets which we have described elsewhere. When the king was dressing, the Duc d’Anjou was announced. He was accompanied by M. de Monsoreau, D’Epernon, and Aurilly. Henri, at the sight of Monsoreau, still pale and looking more frightful than ever, could not repress a movement of surprise.
“You have been wounded, comte, have you not?”
“Yes, sire.”
“At the chase, they told me.”
“Yes sire.”
“But you are better now?”
“I am well.”
“Sire,” said the duke, “would it please you that, after our devotions, M, de Monsoreau should go and prepare a chase for us in the woods of Compiègne?”
“But do you not know that to-morrow – ”
He was going to say, “Four of your friends are to fight four of mine;” but he stopped, for he remembered that it was a secret.
“I know nothing,” said the duke; “but if your majesty will inform me – ”
“I meant that, as I am to pass the night at the Abbey of St. Genevieve, I should perhaps not be ready for to-morrow; but let the count go; if it be not to-morrow, it shall be the day after.”
“You hear?” said the duke to Monsoreau.
“Yes monseigneur.”
At this moment Quelus and Schomberg entered. The king received them with open arms.
Monsoreau said softly to the duke, “You exile me, monseigneur.”
“Is it not your duty to prepare the chase for the king?”
“I understand – this is the last of the eight days fixed by your highness, and you prefer sending me to Compiègne to keeping your promise.”
“No, on the contrary; I keep my promise.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Your departure will be publicly known.”
“Well?”
“Well, do not go, but hide near your house; then, believing you gone, the man you wish to know will come; the rest concerns yourself: I engage for no more.”
“Ah! if that be so – ”
“You have my word.”
“I have better than that, I have your signature.”
“Oh, yes, mordieu! I know that.”
Aurilly touched D’Epernon’s arm and said, “It is done; Bussy will not fight to-morrow.”
“Not fight!”
“I answer for it.”
“Who will prevent it?”
“Never mind that.”
“If it be so, my dear sorcerer, there are one thousand crowns for you.”
“Gentlemen,” said the king, who had finished his toilet, “to St. Germain l’Auxerrois.”
“And from there to St. Genevieve?” asked the duke.
“Certainly,” replied Henri, passing into the gallery where all his court were waiting for him.
CHAPTER LXXXVI.
WHICH WILL ELUCIDATE THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER
The evening before M. de Monsoreau had returned to his home from the Hôtel Guise, and had found Bussy there. Then, in his friendship for this brave gentleman, he had taken him aside, and said:
“Will you permit me to give you a piece of advice?”
“Pray do.”
“If I were you, I should leave Paris to-morrow.”
“I! and why so?”
“All that I can tell you is, that your absence may save you from great embarrassment.”
“How so?”
“Are you ignorant of what is to take place to-morrow?”
“Completely.”
“On your honor?”
“On my word as a gentleman.”
“M. d’Anjou has confided nothing to you?”
“Nothing; M. d’Anjou confides nothing to me beyond what all the world knows.”
“Well! I, who am not the Duc d’Anjou, who love my friends for their own sakes, and not for mine, I will tell you, my dear count, that he is preparing for grave events to-morrow, and that the parting of Guise and Anjou meditate a stroke which may end in the fall of the king.”
Bussy looked at M. de Monsoreau with suspicion, but his whole manner expressed so much sincerity that it was impossible to doubt him.
“Count,” replied he, “my sword belongs to the Duc d’Anjou. The king, against whom I have done nothing, hates me, and has never let slip an occasion of doing or saying something wounding to me; and to-morrow I tell you – but you alone, remember – I am about to risk my life to humiliate Henri de Valois in the person of his favorites.”
“Then you are resolved to risk all the consequences of your adherence to the duke?”
“Yes.”
“You know where it may lead you?”
“I know where I will stop; whatever complaints I have against the king, I will never lift a hand against him; but I will let others do what they like, and I will follow M. d’Anjou to protect him in case of need.”
“My dear comte,” said Monsoreau, “the Duc d’Anjou is perfidious and a traitor; a coward, capable, from jealous or fear, of sacrificing his most faithful servant – his most devoted friend; abandon him, take a friend’s counsel, pass the day in your little house at Vincennes, go where you like, except to the procession of the Fête Dieu.”
“But why do you follow the duke yourself?”
“For reasons which concern my honor. I have need of him for a little while longer.”
“Well! that is like me; for things which concern my honor I must follow the duke.”
The Comte de Monsoreau pressed his hand, and they parted.
The next morning Monsoreau announced to his wife his approaching departure for Compiègne, and gave all the necessary orders. Diana heard the news with joy. She knew from her husband of the duel which was arranged between Bussy and D’Epernon, but had no fear for the result, and looked forward to it with pride. Bussy had presented himself in the morning to the Duc d’Anjou, who, seeing him so frank, loyal, and devoted, felt some remorse; but two things combated this return of good feeling – firstly, the great empire Bussy had over him, as every powerful mind has over a weak one, and which annoyed him; and, secondly, the love of Bussy for Diana, which awoke all the tortures of jealousy in his heart. Monsoreau, it was true, inspired him with equal dislike and fear, but he thought, “Either Bussy will accompany me and aid my triumph, and then if I triumph, I do not care for Monsoreau, or Bussy will abandon me, and then I owe him nothing, and I will abandon him in return.”
When they were in the church, the duke saw Rémy enter, and going up to his master, slide a note into his hand.
“It is from her,” thought he; “she sends him word that her husband is leaving Paris.”
Bussy put the note into his hat, opened, and read it, and the prince saw his face radiant with joy and love. The duke looked round; if Monsoreau had been there, perhaps he would not have had patience to wait till the evening to denounce Bussy.
The mass over, they returned to the Louvre, where a collation waited for the king in his room, and for his gentlemen in the gallery. On entering the Louvre, Bussy approached the duke.
“Pardon, monseigneur,” said he, “but can I say two words to you?”
“Are you in a hurry?”
“Very much so.”
“Will it not do during the procession? we shall walk side by side.”
“Monseigneur must excuse me, but what I wished to ask is, that I need not accompany you.”
“Why so?”
“Monseigneur, to-morrow is a great day, and I would wish to retire to-day to my little house at Vincennes.”
“Then you do not join the procession with the king and court?”
“No, monseigneur, if you will excuse me.”
“Will you not rejoin me at St. Geneviève?”
“Monseigneur, I wish to have the whole day to myself.”
“But if anything should occur when I have need of my friends?”
“As monseigneur would only want me to draw my sword against my king, it is a double reason for excusing myself,” replied Bussy; “my sword is engaged against M. d’Epernon.”
Monsoreau had told the duke the night before that he might reckon on Bussy; this change, therefore, must have been occasioned by Diana’s note.
“Then,” said the duke, “you abandon your chief and master?”
“Monseigneur, he who is about to risk his life in a bloody duel, as ours will be, has but one master, and it is to Him my last devotions will be paid.”
“You know that I am playing for a throne, and you leave me.”
“Monseigneur, I have worked enough for you; I will work again to-morrow, do not ask me for more than my life.”
“It is well!” said the duke, in a hollow voice, “you are free; go, M. de Bussy.”
Bussy, without caring for the prince’s evident anger, ran down the staircase of the Louvre, and went rapidly to his own house.
The duke called Aurilly. “Well! he has condemned himself,” said he.
“Does he not follow you?”
“No.”
“He goes to the rendezvous?”
“Yes.”
“Then it is for this evening?”
“It is.”
“Is M. de Monsoreau warned?”
“Of the rendezvous – yes; but not yet of the man.”
“Then you have decided to sacrifice the count?”
“I have determined to revenge myself; I fear now but one thing.”
“What is that?”
“That Monsoreau will trust to his strength, and that Bussy will escape him.”
“Reassure yourself, monseigneur.”
“Why?”
“Is M. de Bussy irrevocably condemned?”
“Yes, mordieu! A man who dictates to me – who takes away from me her whom I was seeking for – who is a sort of lion, of whom I am less the master than the keeper – yes, Aurilly, he is condemned without mercy.”
“Well, then, be easy, for if he escape Monsoreau, he will not escape from another.”
“And who is that?”
“Does your highness order me to name him?”
“Yes, I do.”
“It is M. d’Epernon.”
“D’Epernon! who was to fight him to-morrow?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“How is that?”
Aurilly was about to reply, when the duke was summoned; for the king was at table, and had sent for his brother.
“You shall tell me during the procession,” said the duke.
We will now tell our readers what had passed between Aurilly and D’Epernon. They had long known each other, for Aurilly had taught D’Epernon to play on the lute, and, as he was fond of music, they were often together. He called upon Aurilly to tell him of his approaching duel, which disquieted him not a little. Bravery was never one of D’Epernon’s prominent qualities, and he looked on a duel with Bussy as certain death. When Aurilly heard it, he told D’Epernon that Bussy practised fencing every morning with an artist, lately arrived, who was said to have borrowed from all nations their best points, until he had become perfect. During this recital D’Epernon grew livid with terror.
“Ah! I am doomed,” said he.
“Well?”
“But it is absurd to go out with a man who is sure to kill me.”
“You should have thought of that before making the engagement.”
“Peste! I will break the engagement.”
“He is a fool who gives up his life willingly at twenty-five. But, now I think of it – ”
“Well.”
“M. de Bussy is sure to kill me.”
“I do not doubt it.”
“Then it will not be a duel, but an assassination.”
“Perhaps so.”
“And if it be, it is lawful to prevent an assassination by – ”
“By?”
“A murder.”
“Doubtless.”
“What prevents me, since he wishes to kill me, from killing him first?”
“Oh, mon Dieu! nothing; I thought of that myself.”
“It is only natural.”
“Very natural.”
“Only, instead of killing him with my own hands, I will leave it to others.”
“That is to say, you will hire assassins?”
“Ma foi! yes, like M. de Guise for St. Megrim.”
“It will cost you dear.”
“I will give three thousand crowns.”
“You will only get six men for that, when they know who they have to deal with.”
“Are not six enough?”
“M. de Bussy would kill four before they touched him. Do you remember the fight in the Rue St. Antoine?”
“I will give six thousand; if I do the thing, I will take care he does not escape.”
“Have you your men?”
“Oh, there are plenty of unoccupied men-soldiers of fortune.”
“Very well; but take care.”
“Of what?”
“If they fail they will denounce you.”
“I have the king to protect me.”
“That will not hinder M. de Bussy from killing you.”
“That is true.”
“Should you like an auxiliary?”
“I should like anything which would aid me to get rid of him.”
“Well, a certain enemy of your enemy is jealous.”
“And he is now laying a snare for him?”
“Ah!”
“Well?”
“But he wants money; with your six thousand crowns he will take care of your affair as well as his own. You do not wish the honor. of the thing to be yours, I suppose?”
“Mon Dieu! no; I only ask to remain in obscurity.”
“Send your men, and he will use them.”
“But I must know who it is.”
“I will show you in the morning.”
“Where?”
“At the Louvre.”
“Then he is noble?”
“Yes:”
“Aurilly, you shall have the six thousand crowns.”
“Then it is settled?”
“Irrevocably.”
“At the Louvre, then?”
“Yes, at the Louvre.”
We have seen in the preceding chapter how Aurilly said to D’Epernon, “Be easy, Bussy will not fight to-morrow.”
CHAPTER LXXXVII.
THE PROCESSION
As soon as the collation was over, the king had entered his room with Chicot, to put on his penitent’s robe and had come out an instant after, with bare feet, a cord round his waist, and his hood over his face; the courtiers had made the same toilet. The weather was magnificent, and the pavements were strewn with flowers; an immense crowd lined the roads to the four places where the king was to stop. The clergy of St. Germain led the procession, and the Archbishop of Paris followed, carrying the holy sacrament; between them walked young boys, shaking censers, and young girls scattering roses. Then came the king, followed by his four friends, barefooted and frocked like himself.
The Duc d’Anjou followed in his ordinary dress, accompanied by his Angevins. Next came the principal courtiers, and then the bourgeois. It was one o’clock when they left the Louvre. Crillon and the French guards were about to follow, but the king signed to them to remain. It was near six in the evening before they arrived before the old abbey, where they saw the prior and the monks drawn up on the threshold to wait for his majesty. The Duc d’Anjou, a little before, had pleaded great fatigue, and had asked leave to retire to his hotel, which had been granted to him. His gentlemen had retired with him, as if to proclaim that they followed the duke and not the king, besides which, they did not wish to fatigue themselves before the morrow. At the door of the abbey the king dismissed his four favorites, that they also might take some repose. The archbishop also, who had eaten nothing since morning, was dropping with fatigue, so the king took pity on him and on the other priests and dismissed them all. Then, turning to the prior, Joseph Foulon, “Here I am, my father,” said he; “I come, sinner as I am, to seek repose in your solitude.”
The prior bowed, and the royal penitent mounted the steps of the abbey, striking his breast at each step, and the door was immediately closed behind him.
“We will first,” said the prior, “conduct your majesty into the crypt, which we have ornamented in our best manner to do honor to the King of heaven and earth.”
No sooner had the king passed through the somber arcade, lined with monks, and turned the corner which led to the chapel, than twenty hoods were thrown into the air, and eyes were seen brilliant with joy and triumph. Certainly, they were not monkish or peaceful faces displayed, but bristling mustaches and embrowned skins, many scarred by wounds, and by the side of the proudest of all, who displayed the most celebrated scar, stood a woman covered with a frock, and looking triumphant and happy. This woman, shaking a pair of golden scissors which hung by her side, cried:
“Ah! my brothers, at last we have the Valois!”
“Ma foi, sister, I believe so.”
“Not yet,” murmured the cardinal.
“How so?”
“Shall we have enough bourgeois guards to make head against Crillon and his guards?”
“We have better than bourgeois guards; and, believe me, there will not be a musket-shot exchanged.”
“How so?” said the duchess. “I should have liked a little disturbance.”
“Well, sister, you will be deprived of it. When the king is taken he will cry out, but no one will answer; then, by persuasion or by violence, but without showing ourselves, we shall make him sign his abdication. The news will soon spread through the city, and dispose in our favor both the bourgeois and the troops.”
“The plan is good, and cannot fail,” said the duchess. “It is rather brutal,” said the Duc de Guise; “besides which, the king will refuse to sign the abdication. He is brave, and will rather die.”
“Let him die, then.”
“Not so,” replied the duke, firmly. “I will mount the throne of a prince who abdicates and is despised, but not of an assassinated man who is pitied. Besides, in your plans you forget M. le Duc d’Anjou, who will claim the crown.”
“Let him claim, mordieu!” said Mayenne; “he shall be comprised in his brother’s act of abdication. He is in connection with the Huguenots, and is unworthy to reign.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Pardieu! did he not escape from the Louvre by the aid of the King of Navarre?”
“Well?”
“Then another clause in favor of our house shall follow; this clause shall make you lieutenant-general of the kingdom, from which to the throne is only a step.”
“Yes, yes,” said the cardinal, “all that is settled; but it is probable that the French guards, to make sure that the abdication is a genuine one, and above all, a voluntary one, will insist upon seeing the king, and will force the gates of the abbey if they are not admitted. Crillon does not understand joking, and he is just the man to say to the king, ‘Sire, your life is in danger; but, before everything, let us save our honor.’”
“The general has taken his precautions. If it be necessary to sustain a siege, we have here eighty gentlemen, and I have distributed arms to a hundred monks. We could hold out for a month against the army; besides, in case of danger, we have the cave to fly to with our prey.”
“What is the Duc d’Anjou doing?”
“In the hour of danger he has failed, as usual. He has gone home, no doubt, waiting for news of us, through Bussy or Monsoreau.”
“Mon Dieu! he should have been here; not at home.”
“You are wrong, brother,” said the cardinal; “the people and the nobles would have seen in it a snare to entrap the family. As you said just now, we must, above all things, avoid playing the part of usurper. We must inherit. By leaving the Duc d’Anjou free, and the queen-mother independent, no one will have anything to accuse us of. If we acted otherwise, we should have against us Bussy, and a hundred other dangerous swords.”
“Bah! Bussy is going to fight against the king’s minions.”
“Pardieu! he will kill them, and then he will join us,” said the Duc de Guise; “he is a superior man, and one whom I much esteem, and I will make him general of the army in Italy, where war is sure to break out.”
“And I,” said the duchess, “if I become a widow, will marry him.”
“Who is near the king?” asked the duke.
“The prior and Brother Gorenflot.”
“Is he in the cell?”
“Oh no! he will look first at the crypt and the relics.”
At this moment a bell sounded.
“The king is returning,” said the Duc de Guise; “let us become monks again.” And immediately the hoods covered ardent eyes and speaking scars, and twenty or thirty monks, conducted by the three brothers, went towards the crypt.
