Александр Дюма
The Forty-Five Guardsmen
CHAPTER LIV.
WHAT WAS PASSING AT THE LOUVRE ABOUT THE TIME CHICOT ENTERED NÉRAC
The necessity of following Chicot to the end of his mission has kept us a long time away from the Louvre. The king, after having passed so bravely through his adventurous return from Vincennes, experienced that retrospective emotion which sometimes is felt by the bravest heart after the danger is over. He entered the Louvre without saying anything, made his prayers longer than usual, forgetting to thank the officers and guards who had served him so well. Then he went to bed, astonishing his valets by the rapidity of his toilet; and D'Epernon, who remained in his room to the last, expecting thanks at least, went away in a very bad humor.
At two o'clock every one slept in the Louvre. The next day, Henri took four bouillons in bed instead of two, and then sent for MM. de Villeguie and D'O to come to his room, to speak about a new financial edict. The queen received the order to dine alone, but it was added that in the evening the king would receive. All day he played with Love, saying, every time that the animal showed his white teeth, "Ah, rebel! you want to bite me also; you attack your king also; but you are conquered, M. Love – conquered, wretched leaguer – conquered." His secretaries of state were somewhat astonished at all this, particularly as he said nothing else, and signed everything without looking at it. At three o'clock in the afternoon he asked for D'Epernon. They replied that he was reviewing the light horse; then he inquired for De Loignac, but he also was absent. He asked for lunch, and, while he ate, had an edifying discourse read to him, which he interrupted by saying to the reader, "Was it not Plutarch who wrote the life of Sylla?"
"Yes, sire," said the reader, much astonished at being interrupted in his pious reading by this profane question.
"Do you remember that passage where the historian recounts how the dictator avoided death?"
The reader hesitated.
"Not precisely, sire; it is a long time since I read Plutarch."
At this moment, the Cardinal de Joyeuse was announced.
"Ah! here is a learned man, he will tell me at once!" cried the king.
"Sire," said the cardinal, "am I lucky enough to arrive apropos – it is a rare thing in this world."
"Ma foi! yes; you heard my question?"
"Your majesty asked, I think, in what manner, and when, Sylla narrowly escaped death?"
"Just so – can you answer me, cardinal?"
"Nothing more easy, sire."
"So much the better."
"Sylla, who had killed so many men, never risked his life but in combats; did your majesty mean in one of those?"
"Yes; in one in which I think I recollect he was very near death. Open a Plutarch, cardinal; there should be one there translated by Amyot, and read me the passage where he escaped the javelins of his enemies, thanks to the swiftness of his white horse."
"Sire, there is no need of opening Plutarch; the event took place in the combat with Telescrius the Samnite, and Lamponius the Lucanian."
"You are so learned, my dear cardinal."
"Your majesty is too good."
"Now explain to me how this Roman lion, who was so cruel, was never annoyed by his enemies."
"Sire, I will reply to your majesty in the words of this same Plutarch."
"Go on, Joyeuse."
"Carbon, the enemy of Sylla, said often, 'I have to fight at once a lion and a fox who inhabit the soul of Sylla, but it is the fox who gives me most trouble.'"
"Ah! it was the fox?"
"Plutarch says so, sire."
"And he is right, cardinal. But apropos of combats, have you any news of your brother?"
"Of which brother, sire? I have two."
"Of the Duc d'Arques, my friend."
"Not yet, sire."
"If M. d'Anjou, who always plays the fox, will only play the lion a little for once."
The cardinal did not reply, so Henri, signing to him to remain, dressed himself sumptuously, and passed into the room where the court waited for him. He entered, looking full of good humor, kissed the hands of his wife and mother, paid all sorts of compliments to the ladies, and even offered them sweetmeats.
"We were unquiet about your health, my son," said Catherine.
"You were wrong, madame; I have never been better."
"And to what happy influence do you owe this amelioration, my son?"
"To having laughed much, madame."
Every one looked astonished.
"Laughed! you can laugh much, my son; then you are very happy?"
"It is true, madame."
"And about what were you so much amused?"
"I must tell you, mother, that yesterday I went to Vincennes."
"I knew it."
"Oh! you knew it; well, my people told me, before my return, of an enemy's army whose muskets shone on the road."
"An enemy's army on the road to Vincennes?"
"Yes, mother."
"And where?"
"In front of the Jacobins, near the house of our good cousin."
"Near Madame de Montpensier's?"
"Precisely so, near Bel-Esbat. I approached, bravely to give battle, and I perceived – "
"What, sire?" cried the queen, in alarm.
"Reassure yourself, madame, I perceived an entire priory of good monks, who presented arms to me with acclamations."
Every one laughed, and the king continued:
"Yes, you are right to laugh; I have in France more than ten thousand monks, of whom I can make, if necessary, ten thousand musketeers; then I will create a Grand-Master of the Tonsured Musketeers, and give the place to you, cardinal."
"Sire, I accept."
The ladies now, according to etiquette, rose, and, bowing to the king, retired. The queen followed with her ladies of honor. The queen-mother remained: the king's gayety was a mystery that she wished to fathom.
"Cardinal," said the king, "what has become of your brother, Du Bouchage?"
"I do not know, sire."
"How! you do not know?"
"No; I never see him, now."
A grave, sad voice from the end of the room said, "Here I am, sire."
"Ah! it is he," cried Henri. "Approach, comte; approach."
The young man obeyed.
"Mon Dieu!" cried the king, "he is no longer a man, but a shade."
"Sire, he works hard," said the cardinal, stupefied himself at the change in his brother during the last week. He was as pale as wax, and looked thin and wan.
"Come here, young man," said the king. "Thanks, cardinal, for your quotation from Plutarch; in a similar case I shall apply to you again."
The cardinal saw that Henri wished to be left alone with his brother, and took his leave.
There only remained the queen-mother, D'Epernon, and Du Bouchage. The king beckoned to the latter, and said:
"Why do you hide thus behind the ladies; do you not know it gives me pleasure to see you?"
"Your kind words do me honor, sire," said the young man, bowing.
"Then how is it that we never see you here now?"
"If your majesty has not seen me, it is because you have not deigned to cast an eye on the corner of the room. I am here every day regularly; I never have failed, and never will, as long as I can stand upright: it is a sacred duty to me."
"And is it that that makes you so sad?"
"Oh! your majesty cannot think so?"
"No, for you and your brother love me, and I love you. Apropos, do you know that poor Anne has written to me from Dieppe?"
"I did not, sire."
"Yes; but you know he did not like going?"
"He confided to me his regrets at leaving Paris."
"Yes; but do you know what he said? That there existed a man who would have regretted Paris much more; and that if I gave you this order you would die."
"Perhaps, sire."
"He said yet more, for your brother talks fast when he is not sulky; he said that if I had given such an order you would have disobeyed it."
"Your majesty was right to place my death before my disobedience; it would have been a greater grief to me to disobey than to die, and yet I should have disobeyed."
"You are a little mad, I think, my poor comte," said Henri.
"I am quite so, I believe."
"Then the case is serious."
Joyeuse sighed.
"What is it? tell me."
Joyeuse tried to smile. "A great king like you, sire, would not care for such confidences."
"Yes, Henri, yes; tell me. It will amuse me," said the king.
"Sire, you deceive yourself; there is nothing in my grief that could amuse a noble heart like yours."
The king took the young man's hand.
"Do not be angry, Du Bouchage," said he; "you know that your king also has known the griefs of an unrequited love."
"I know it, sire, formerly."
"Therefore, I feel for your sufferings."
"Your majesty is too good."
"Not so; but when I suffered what you suffer, no one could aid me, because no one was more powerful than myself, whereas I can aid you."
"Sire?"
"And, consequently, hope soon for an end of your sorrows."
The young man shook his head.
"Du Bouchage, you shall be happy, or I am no longer king of France!" cried Henri.
"Happy! alas, sire, it is impossible," said the young man with a bitter smile.
"And why so?"
"Because my happiness is not of this world."
"Henri, your brother, when he went, recommended you to my friendship. I wish, since you consult neither the experience of your father, nor the wisdom of your brother the cardinal, to be an elder brother to you. Come, be confiding, and tell me all. I assure you, Du Bouchage, that for everything except death my power and love shall find you a remedy."
"Sire," replied the young man, falling at the king's feet, "do not confound me by the expression of a goodness to which I cannot reply. My misfortune is without remedy, for it is that which makes my only happiness."
"Du Bouchage, you are mad; you will kill yourself with fancies."
"I know it well, sire."
"But," cried the king, impatiently, "is it a marriage you wish for?"
"Sire, my wish is to inspire love. You see that the whole world is powerless to aid me in this; I alone can obtain it for myself." – "Then why despair?"
"Because I feel that I shall never inspire it."
"Try, try, my child; you are young and rich. Where is the woman that can resist at once beauty, youth and wealth? There are none, Du Bouchage."
"Sire, your goodness is great."
"If you wish to be discreet, and tell me nothing, do so; I will find out, and then act. You know what I have done for your brother, I will do as much for you; a hundred thousand crowns shall not stop me."
Du Bouchage seized the king's hand, and pressed his lips to it.
"May your majesty ask one day for my blood, and I will shed it to the last drop to show you how grateful I am for the protection that I refuse!"
Henri III. turned on his heel angrily.
"Really," said he, "these Joyeuses are more obstinate than a Valois. Here is one who will bring me every day his long face and eyes circled with black; that will be delightful."
"Oh! sire, I will smile so, when I am here, that every one shall think me the happiest of men."
"Yes, but I shall know the contrary, and that will sadden me."
"Does your majesty permit me to retire?" asked Du Bouchage.
"Go, my child, and try to be a man."
When he was gone the king approached D'Epernon, and said:
"Lavalette, have money distributed this evening to the Forty-five, and give them holiday for a night and a day to amuse themselves. By the mass! they saved me like Sylla's white horse."
"Saved?" said Catherine.
"Yes, mother."
"From what?"
"Ah! ask D'Epernon."
"I ask you, my son."
"Well, madame, our dear cousin, the sister of your good friend M. de Guise – oh! do not deny it; you, know he is your good friend – laid an ambush for me."
"An ambush!"
"Yes, madame, and I narrowly escaped imprisonment or assassination."
"By M. de Guise?"
"You do not believe it?"
"I confess I do not."
"D'Epernon, my friend, relate the adventure to my mother. If I go on speaking, and she goes on shrugging her shoulders, I shall get angry, and that does not suit my health. Adieu, madame; cherish M. de Guise as much as you please, but I would advise them not to forget Salcede."
CHAPTER LV.
RED PLUME AND WHITE PLUME
It was eight in the evening, and the house of Robert Briquet, solitary and sad-looking, formed a worthy companion to that mysterious house of which we have already spoken to our readers. One might have thought that these two houses were yawning in each other's face. Not far from there the noise of brass was heard, mingled with confused voices, vague murmurs, and squeaks.
It was probably this noise that attracted a young and handsome cavalier, with a violet cap, red plume, and gray mantle, who, after stopping for some minutes to hear this noise, went on slowly and pensively toward the house of Robert Briquet. Now this noise of brass was that of saucepans; these vague murmurs, those of pots boiling on fires and spits turned by dogs; those cries, those of M. Fournichon, host of the "Brave Chevalier," and of Madame Fournichon, who was preparing her rooms. When the young man with the violet hat had well looked at the fire, inhaled the smell of the fowls, and peeped through the curtains, he went away, then returned to recommence his examinations. He continued to walk up and down, but never passed Robert Briquet's house, which seemed to be the limit of his walk. Each time that he arrived at this limit he found there, like a sentinel, a young man about his own age, with a black cap, a white plume, and a violet cloak, who, with frowning brow and his hand on his sword, seemed to say, "Thou shalt go no further." But the other took twenty turns without observing this, so preoccupied was he. Certainly he saw a man walking up and down like himself: but, as he was too well dressed to be a robber, he never thought of disquieting himself about him. But the other, on the contrary, looked more and more black at each return of the red plume, till at last it attracted his attention, and he began to think that his presence there must be annoying to the other; and wondering for what reason, he looked first at Briquet's house, then at the one opposite, and seeing nothing, turned round and recommenced his walk from west to east. This continued for about five minutes, until, as they once again came face to face, the young man in the white plume walked straight up against the other, who, taken unawares, with difficulty saved himself from falling.
"Monsieur," cried he, "are you mad, or do you mean to insult me?"
"Monsieur, I wish to make you understand that you annoy me much. It seems to me that you might have seen that without my telling you."
"Not at all, monsieur; I never see what I do not wish to see."
"There are, however, certain things which would attract your attention, I hope, if they shone before your eyes;" and he drew his sword as he spoke, which glittered in the moonlight.
The red plume said quietly, "One would think, monsieur, that you had never drawn a sword before, you are in such a hurry to attack one who does not attack you."
"But who will defend himself, I hope."
"Why so?" replied the other smiling. "And what right have you to prevent me from walking in the street?"
"Why do you walk in this street?"
"Parbleu! because it pleases me."
"Ah! it pleases you."
"Doubtless; are you not also walking here? Have you a license from the king to keep to yourself the Rue de Bussy?"
"What is that to you?"
"A great deal, for I am a faithful subject of the king's, and would not disobey him."
"Ah! you laugh!"
"And you threaten."
"Heaven and earth! I tell you, you annoy me, monsieur, and that if you do not go away willingly I will make you."
"Oh! oh! we shall see that."
"Yes, we shall see."
"Monsieur, I have particular business here. Now, if you will have it, I will cross swords with you, but I will not go away."
"Monsieur, I am Comte Henri du Bouchage, brother of the Duc de Joyeuse. Once more, will you yield me the place, and go away?"
"Monsieur," replied the other, "I am the Vicomte Ernanton de Carmainges. You do not annoy me at all, and I do not ask you to go away."
Du Bouchage reflected a moment, and then put his sword back in its sheath.
"Excuse me, monsieur," said he; "I am half mad, being in love."
"And I also am in love, but I do not think myself mad for that."
Henri grew pale.
"You are in love!" said he.
"Yes, monsieur."
"And you confess it?"
"Is it a crime?"
"But with some one in this street?"
"Yes, for the present."
"In Heaven's name tell me who it is!"
"Ah! M. du Bouchage, you have not reflected on what you are asking me; you know a gentleman cannot reveal a secret, of which only half belongs to him."
"It is true; pardon, M. de Carmainges; but, in truth, there is no one so unhappy as I am under heaven."
There was so much real grief and eloquent despair in these words, that Ernanton was profoundly touched.
"Oh! mon Dieu! I understand," said he; "you fear that we are rivals."
"I do."
"Well; monsieur, I will be frank."
Joyeuse grew pale again.
"I," continued Ernanton, "have a rendezvous."
"A rendezvous?"
"Yes."
"In this street?"
"Yes."
"Written?"
"Yes; in very good writing."
"A woman's?"
"No; a man's."
"What do you mean?"
"What I say. I have an invitation to a rendezvous with a woman, written by a man; it seems she has a secretary."
"Ah! go on, monsieur."
"I cannot refuse you, monsieur. I will tell you the tenor of the note."
"I listen."
"You will see if it is like yours."
"Oh! monsieur, I have no rendezvous – no note."
Ernanton then drew out a little paper. "Here is the note, monsieur," said he; "it would be difficult to read it to you by this obscure light: but it is short, and I know it by heart, if you will trust to me."
"Oh! entirely."
"This is it, then: 'M. Ernanton, my secretary is charged by me to tell you that I have a great desire to talk with you for an hour; your merit has touched me.' I pass over another phrase still more flattering."
"Then you are waited for?"
"No; I wait, as you see."
"Are they to open the door to you?"
"No; to whistle three times from the window."
Henri, trembling all over, placed one hand on Ernanton's arm and with the other pointed to the opposite house.
"From there?" said he.
"Oh! no; from there," said Ernanton, pointing to the "Brave Chevalier."
Henri uttered a cry of joy. "Oh! a thousand thanks, monsieur," said he; "pardon my incivility – my folly. Alas! you know, for a man who really loves, there exists but one woman, and, seeing you always return to this house, I believed that it was here you were waited for."
"I have nothing to pardon, monsieur; for really I half-thought you had come on the same errand as myself."
"And you had the incredible patience to say nothing! Ah! you do not love, you do not love."
"Ma foi! I have no great rights as yet; and these great ladies are so capricious, and would, perhaps, enjoy playing me a trick."
"Oh! M. de Carmainges, you do not love as I do; and yet – "
"Yet what?"
"You are more happy."
"Ah! are they cruel in that house?"
"M. de Carmainges, for three months I have loved like a madman her who lives there, and I have not yet had the happiness of hearing the sound of her voice."
"Diable! you are not far advanced. But stay."
"What is it?"
"Did not some one whistle?"
"Indeed, I think I heard something."
A second whistle was now distinctly heard.
"M. le Comte," said Ernanton, "you will excuse me for taking leave, but I believe that is my signal."
A third whistle sounded.
"Go, monsieur," said Joyeuse; "and good luck to you."
Ernanton made off quickly, while Joyeuse began to walk back more gloomily than ever.
"Now for my accustomed task," said he; "let me knock as usual at this cursed door which never opens to me."
CHAPTER LVI.
THE DOOR OPENS
On arriving at the door of the house, poor Henri was seized by his usual hesitation.
"Courage!" said he to himself.
But before knocking, he looked once more behind him, and saw the bright light shining through the windows of the hotel.
"There," said he, "enter for love and joy, people who are invited almost without desiring; why have I not a tranquil and careless heart? Perhaps I might enter there also, instead of vainly trying here."
Ten o'clock struck. Henri lifted the knocker and struck once, then again.
"There," said he, listening, "there is the inner door opening, the stairs creaking, the sound of steps approaching, always the same thing."
And he knocked again.
"There," said he, "he peeps through the trellis-work, sees my pale face, and goes away, always without opening. Adieu, cruel house, until to-morrow."
And he turned to go; but scarcely had he taken two steps, when the key turned in the lock, and, to his profound surprise, the door opened, and a man stood bowing on the threshold. It was the same whom he had seen before.
"Good-evening, monsieur," said he, in a harsh voice, but whose sound appeared to Du Bouchage sweeter than the song of birds.
Henri joined his hands and trembled so that the servant put out a hand to save him from falling, with a visible expression of respectful pity.
"Come, monsieur," said he, "here I am: explain to me, I beg, what you want."
"I have loved so much," replied the young man; "my heart has beat so fast, that I hardly know if it still beats."
"Will it please you, monsieur, to sit down and talk to me?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Speak, then, monsieur, and tell me what you desire."
"My friend, you already know. Many times, you know, I have waited for you and surprised you at the turn of a street, and have offered you gold enough to enrich you, had you been the greediest of men; at other times I have threatened you, but you have never listened to me, and have always seen me suffer without seeming to pity me. To-day you tell me to speak – to express my wishes; what then has happened, mon Dieu?"
The servant sighed. He had evidently a pitying heart under a rough covering. Henry heard this sigh, and it encouraged him.
"You know," continued he, "that I love, and how I love; you have seen me pursue a woman and discover her, in spite of her efforts to fly me: but never in my greatest grief has a bitter word escaped me, or have I given heed to those violent thoughts which are born of despair and the fire of youth."
"It is true, monsieur; and in this my mistress renders you full justice."
"Could I not," continued Henri, "when you refused me admittance, have forced the door, as is done every day by some lad, tipsy, or in love? Then, if but for a minute, I should have seen this inexorable woman, and have spoken to her."
"It is true."
"And," continued the young count, sadly, "I am something in this world; my name is great as well as my fortune, the king himself protects me; just now he begged me to confide to him my griefs and to apply to him for aid."
"Ah!" said the servant, anxiously.
"I would not do it," continued Joyeuse; "no, no, I refused all, to come and pray at this door with clasped hands – a door which never yet opened to me."
"M. le Comte, you have indeed a noble heart, and worthy to be loved."
"Well, then, he whom you call worthy, to what do you condemn him? Every morning my page brings a letter; it is refused. Every evening I knock myself at the door, and I am disregarded. You let me suffer, despair, die in the street, without having the compassion for me that you would have for a dog that howled. Ah! this woman has no woman's heart, she does not love me. Well! one can no more tell one's heart to love than not to love. But you may pity the unfortunate who suffers, and give him a word of consolation – reach out your hand to save him from falling; but no, this woman cares not for my sufferings. Why does she not kill me, either with a refusal from her mouth, or some blow from a poniard? Dead, I should suffer no more."
"M. le Comte," replied the man, "the lady whom you accuse is, believe me, far from having the hard, insensible heart you think; she has seen you, and understood what you suffer, and feels for you the warmest sympathy."
"Oh! compassion, compassion!" cried the young man; "but may that heart of which you boast some day know love – love such as I feel, and may they offer her compassion in exchange; I shall be well avenged."
"M. le Comte, not to reply to love is no reason for never having loved. This woman has perhaps felt the passion more than ever you will – has perhaps loved as you can never love."
"When one loves like that, one loves forever," cried Henri, raising his eyes to heaven.
"Did I tell you that she loved no more?"
Henri uttered a doleful cry.
"She loves!" cried he. "Ah! mon Dieu!"
"Yes, she loves; but be not jealous of the man she loves, M. le Comte, for he is no more of this world. My mistress is a widow."
These words restored hope and life to the young man.
"Oh!" cried he, "she is a widow, and recently; the source of her tears will dry up in time. She is a widow, then she loves no one, or only a shadow – a name. Ah! she will love me. Oh! mon Dieu, all great griefs are calmed by time. When the widow of Mausole, who had sworn an eternal grief at her husband's tomb, had exhausted her tears, she was cured. Regrets are a malady, from which every one who survives comes out as strong as before."
The servant shook his head.
"This lady, M. le Comte, has also sworn eternal fidelity to death; but I know her, and she will keep her word better than the forgetful woman of whom you speak."
"I will wait ten years, if necessary; since she lives, I may hope."
"Oh! young man, do not reckon thus. She has lived, you say; yes, so she has, not a month, or a year, but seven years. You hope that she will console herself; never, M. le Comte, never. I swear it to you – I, who was but the servant of him who is dead, and yet I shall never be consoled."
"This man so much regretted, this husband – "
"It was not her husband, it was her lover, M. le Comte, and a woman like her whom you unluckily love has but one lover in her life."
"My friend," cried Joyeuse, "intercede for me."
"I! Listen, M. le Comte. Had I believed you capable of using violence toward my mistress, I would have killed you long ago with my own hand. If, on the contrary, I could have believed that she would love you, I think I should have killed her. Now, M. le Comte, I have said what I wished to say; do not seek to make me say more, for, on my honor – and although not a nobleman, my honor is worth something – I have told you all I can."
Henri rose.
"I thank you," said he, "for having had compassion on my misfortunes; now I have decided."
"Then you will be calmer for the future. M. le Comte, you will go away, and leave us to ourselves?"
"Yes, be easy; I will go away, and forever."
"You mean to die?"
"Why not? I cannot live without her."
"M. le Comte, believe me, it is bad to die by your own hand."
"Therefore I shall not choose that death; but there is, for a young man like me, a death which has always been reckoned the best – that received in defending your king and country."
"If you suffer beyond your strength, if you owe nothing to those who survive you, if death on the field of battle is offered to you, die, M. le Comte; I should have done so long ago, had I not been condemned to live."
"Adieu, and thank you," replied Joyeuse.
"Au revoir in another world."
And he went away rapidly, throwing a heavy purse of gold at the feet of the servant.
