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How M. De Monsoreau Opened and Shut His Eyes, which Proved that he was Not Dead.
Rémy rode along, wondering in what humor he should find Diana, and what he should say to her. He had just arrived at the park wall, when his horse, which had been trotting, stopped so suddenly that, had he not been a good rider, he would have been thrown over his head. Rémy, astonished, looked to see the cause, and saw before him a pool of blood, and a little further on, a body, lying against the wall. “It is Monsoreau!” cried he; “how strange! he lies dead there, and the blood is down here. Ah! there is the track; he must have crawled there, or rather that good M. de St. Luc leaned him up against the wall that the blood might not fly to his head. He died with his eyes open, too.”
All at once Rémy started back in horror; the two eyes, that he had seen open, shut again, and a paleness more livid than ever spread itself over the face of the defunct. Rémy became almost as pale as M. de Monsoreau, but, as he was a doctor, he quickly recovered his presence of mind, and said to himself that if Monsoreau moved his eyes, it showed he was not dead. “And yet I have read,” thought he, “of strange movements after death. This devil of a fellow frightens one even after death. Yes, his eyes are quite closed; there is one method of ascertaining whether he is dead or not, and that is to shove my sword into him, and if he does not move, he is certainly dead.” And Rémy was preparing for this charitable action, when suddenly the eyes opened again. Rémy started back, and the perspiration rolled off his forehead as he murmured, “He is not dead; we are in a nice position. Yes, but if I kill him he will be dead.” And he looked at Monsoreau, who seemed also to be looking at him earnestly.
“Oh!” cried Rémy, “I cannot do it. God knows that if he were upright before me I would kill him with all my heart; but as he is now, helpless and three parts dead, it would be an infamy.”
“Help!” murmured Monsoreau, “I am dying.”
“Mordieu!” thought Rémy, “my position is embarrassing. I am a doctor, and, as such, bound to succor my fellow-creatures when they suffer. It is true that Monsoreau is so ugly that he can scarcely be called a fellow-creature, still he is a man. Come, I must forget that I am the friend of M. de Bussy, and do my duty as a doctor.”
“Help!” repeated the wounded man.
“Here I am,” said Rémy.
“Fetch me a priest and a doctor.”
“The doctor is here, and perhaps he will dispense with the priest.”
“Rémy,” said Monsoreau, “by what chance —”
Rémy understood all the question might mean. This was no beaten road, and no one was likely to come without particular business.
“Pardieu!” he replied, “a mile or two off I met M. de St. Luc ——”
“Ah! my murderer.”
“And he said, ‘Rémy, go to the old copse, there you will find a man dead.’”
“Dead?”
“Yes, he thought so; well, I came here and saw you.”
“And now, tell me frankly, am I mortally wounded?”
“I will try to find out.”
Rémy approached him carefully, took off his cloak, his doublet and shirt. The sword had penetrated between the sixth and seventh ribs.
“Do you suffer much?”
“In my back, not in my chest.”
“Ah, let me see; where?”
“Below the shoulder bone.”
“The steel must have come against a bone.” And he began to examine. “No, I am wrong,” said he, “the sword came against nothing, but passed right through.” Monsoreau fainted after this examination.
“Ah! that is all right,” said Rémy, “syncope, low pulse, cold in the hands and legs: Diable! the widowhood of Madame de Monsoreau will not last long, I fear.”
At this moment a slight bloody foam rose to the lips of the wounded man.
Rémy drew from his pocket his lancet case; then tearing off a strip from the patient’s shirt, bound it round his arm.
“We shall see,” said he, “if the blood flows. Ah, it does! and I believe that Madame de Monsoreau will not be a widow. Pardon, my dear M. de Bussy, but I am a doctor.”
Presently the patient breathed, and opened his eyes.
“Oh!” stammered he, “I thought all was over.”
“Not yet, my dear monsieur; it is even possible ——”
“That I live!”
“Oh, mon Dieu! yes; but let me close the wound. Stop; do not move; nature at this moment is aiding my work. I make the blood flow, and she stops it. Ah! nature is a great doctor, my dear sir. Let me wipe your lips. See the bleeding has stopped already. Good; all goes well, or rather badly.”
“Badly!”
“No, not for you; but I know what I mean.”
“You think I shall get well?”
“Alas! yes.”
“You are a singular doctor, M. Rémy.”
“Never mind, as long as I cure you,” said he, rising.
“Do not abandon me,” said the count.
“Ah! you talk too much. Diable! I ought to tell him to cry out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind; your wound is dressed. Now I will go to the castle and fetch assistance.”
“And what must I do meanwhile?”
“Keep quite still; do not stir; breathe lightly, and try not to cough. Which is the nearest house?”
“The chateau de Méridor.”
“Which is the way to it?” said Rémy, affecting ignorance.
“Get over the wall, and you will find yourself in the park.”
“Very well; I go.”
“Thanks, generous man.”
“Generous, indeed, if you only knew all.”
He soon arrived at the chateau, where all the inhabitants were busy looking for the body of the count; for St. Luc had given them a wrong direction. Rémy came among them like a thunderbolt, and was so eager to bring them to the rescue, that Diana looked at him with surprise, “I thought he was Bussy’s friend,” murmured she, as Rémy disappeared, carrying with him a wheelbarrow, lint and water.
How M. Le Duc d’Anjou Went to Méridor to Congratulate Madame De Monsoreau on the Death of Her Husband, and Found Him There Before Him.
As soon as the duke left his mother, he hastened to Bussy to know the meaning of all his signs. Bussy, who was reading St. Luc’s letter for the fifth time, received the prince with a gracious smile.
“How! monseigneur takes the trouble to come to my house to seek me.”
“Yes mordieu, I want an explanation.”
“From me?”
“Yes, from you.”
“I listen, monseigneur.”
“You tell me to steel myself against the suggestions of my mother, and to sustain the attack valiantly. I do so; and in the hottest of the fight you tell me to surrender.”
“I gave you all those charges, monseigneur, because I was ignorant of the object for which your mother came; but now that I see that she has come to promote your highness’s honor and glory ——”
“How! what do you mean?”
“Doubtless: what does your highness want? To triumph over your enemies, do you not? For I do not believe, as some people say, that you wish to become King of France.”
The duke looked sullen.
“Some might counsel you to it, but believe me they are your most cruel enemies. Consider for yourself, monseigneur; have you one hundred thousand men — ten millions of livres — alliance with foreigners — and, above all, would you turn against your king?”
“My king did not hesitate to turn against me.”
“Ah! there you are right. Well! declare yourself — get crowned — take the title of King of France — and if you succeed, I ask no better; I should grow great with you.”
“Who speaks of being king?” cried the duke, angrily; “you discuss a question which I have never proposed, even to myself.”
“Well, then, that is settled. Let them give you a guard and five hundred thousand livres. Obtain, before peace is signed, a subsidy from Anjou, to carry on the war. Once you have it, you can keep it. So, we should have arms and money, and we could do —— God knows what.”
“But once they have me at Paris, they will laugh at me.”
“Oh! impossible, monseigneur; did you not hear what the queen mother offered you?”
“She offered me many things.”
“That disquiets you?”
“Yes.”
“But, among other things, she offered you a company of guards, even if I commanded it.”
“Yes, she offered that.”
“Well, accept; I will be captain; Antragues and Livarot lieutenants; and Ribeirac ensign. Let us get up your company for you, and see if they dare to laugh at you then.”
“Ma foi! I believe you are right, Bussy; I will think of it.”
“Do so, monseigneur.”
“What were you reading so attentively when I came in?”
“Oh! a letter, which interests you still more than me. Where the devil were my brains, that I did not show it to you?”
“What is it?”
“Sad news, monseigneur; Monsoreau is dead.”
“What!” cried the duke, with a surprise which Bussy thought was a joyful one.
“Dead, monseigneur.”
“M. de Monsoreau!”
“Mon Dieu! yes; are we not all mortal?”
“Yes; but so suddenly.”
“Ah! but if you are killed?”
“Then, he was killed?”
“So it seems; and by St. Luc, with whom he quarreled.”
“Oh, that dear St. Luc!”
“I did not think he was one of your highness’s friends.”
“Oh, he is my brother’s, and, since we are to be reconciled, his friends are mine. But are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. Here is a letter from St. Luc, announcing it; and I have sent Rémy, my doctor, to present my condolences to the old baron.”
“Oh, Monsoreau!” cried the prince, with his malignant smile.
“Why monseigneur, one would say you hated the poor count.”
“No, it was you.”
“Of course I did; did he not humiliate me through you?”
“You remember it still.”
“But you, monseigneur, whose friend and tool he was ——”
“Well, well, get my horse saddled, Bussy.”
“What for?”
“To go to Méridor; I wish to pay a visit to Madame Monsoreau. I have been projecting one for some time, and I do not know why it has not taken place sooner.”
“Now Monsoreau is dead,” thought Bussy, “I do not care; I will protect Diana. I will go with him, and see her.”
A quarter of an hour after, the prince, Bussy, and ten gentlemen rode to Méridor, with that pleasure which fine weather, turf, and youth always inspire in men on horseback.
The porter at the chateau came to ask the names of the visitors.
“The Duc d’Anjou,” replied the prince.
The porter blew his horn, and soon windows were opened, and they heard the noise of bolts and bars as the door was unfastened, and the old baron appeared on the threshold, holding in his hand a bunch of keys. Immediately behind him stood a lady.
“Ah, there is the beautiful Diana!” cried the duke; “do you see her, Bussy?”
Diana, indeed, came out of the house, and behind her came a litter, on which lay Monsoreau, his eyes shining with fever and jealousy as he was carried along.
“What does this mean?” cried the duke to his companion, who had turned whiter than the handkerchief with which he was trying to hide his emotion.
“Long live the Duc d’Anjou!” cried Monsoreau, raising his hand in the air by a violent effort.
“Take care, you will hurt yourself,” said a voice behind him. It was Rémy.
Surprise does not last long at court, so, with a smile, the duke said, “Oh, my dear count, what a happy surprise! Do you know we heard you were dead?”
“Come near, monseigneur, and let me kiss your hand. Thank God, not only I am not dead, but I shall live; I hope to serve you with more ardor than ever.”
As for Bussy, he felt stunned, and scarcely dared to look at Diana. This treasure, twice lost to him, belonged still to his rival.
“And you, M. de Bussy,” said Monsoreau, “receive my thanks, for it is almost to you that I owe my life.”
“To me!” stammered the young man, who thought the count was mocking him.
“Yes, indirectly, it is true, for here is my saviour,” said he, turning to Rémy, who would willingly have sunk into the earth. Then, in spite of his signs, which he took for precautions to himself, he recounted the care and skill which the young doctor had exhibited towards him.
The duke frowned, and Bussy looked thunders. The poor fellow raised his hands to heaven.
“I hear,” continued the count, “that Rémy one day found you dying, as he found me. It is a tie of friendship between us, M. de Bussy, and when Monsoreau loves, he loves well; it is true that when he hates, it is also with all his heart.”
“Come, then,” said the duke, getting off his horse, “deign, beautiful Diana, to do us the honors of the house, which we thought to find in grief, but which we find still the abode of joy. As for you, Monsoreau, rest — you require it.”
“Monseigneur!” said the count, “it shall never be said that Monsoreau, while he lived, allowed another to do the honors of his house to you; my servants will carry me, and wherever you go, I shall follow.”
Bussy approached Diana, and Monsoreau smiled; he took her hand, and he smiled again. It was only the duke he feared.
“Here is a great change, M. le Comte,” said Diana.
“Alas! why is it not greater!”
The Inconvenience of Large Litters and Narrow Doors.
Bussy did not quit Diana; the smiles of Monsoreau gave him a liberty which he was only too glad to make use of.
“Madame,” said he to Diana, “I am in truth the most miserable of men. On the news of his death, I advised the prince to return to Paris, and to come to terms with his mother; he did so, and now you remain in Anjou.”
“Oh, Louis,” replied she, “we dare not say that we are unhappy; so many happy days, so many joys — do you forget them all?”
“I forget nothing, madame; on the contrary, I remember but too much, and that is why I suffer as I do at losing this happiness. What shall I do if I return to Paris, a hundred leagues from you? My heart sinks at the thought, Diana.”
Diana looked at him, and saw so much grief in his eyes, that she said, “Well, if you go to Paris, I will go also.”
“How! will you quit M. de Monsoreau?”
“No, he would not allow me to do so; he must come with us.”
“Wounded, ill as he is? Impossible!”
“He will come, I tell you.” And, leaving Bussy, she went to the prince. The count frowned dreadfully.
“Monseigneur,” said she, “they say your highness is fond of flowers; if you will come with me, I will show you the most beautiful in Anjou.”
The duke offered her his hand.
“Where are you about to take monseigneur?” asked Monsoreau uneasily.
“Into the greenhouse.”
“Ah! well, carry me there.”
“Ma foi!” thought Rémy, “I was right not to kill him, for he will soon kill himself.”
Diana smiled on Bussy, and said to him, in a low voice, “Do not let M. de Monsoreau suspect that you are about to leave Anjou, and I will manage all.”
“Good!” said Bussy, and approaching the prince, he whispered, “Do not let Monsoreau know that we intend to make peace.”
“Why not?”
“Because he might tell the queen-mother, to make a friend of her.”
“You suspect him, then?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, so do I; I believe he only counterfeited death to deceive us.”
“No, he really received a sword-thrust through his body, and but for that fool of a Rémy, he would have died; I believe his soul must be glued to his body.”
They arrived at the conservatory, and Diana continued to smile charmingly on the prince. He passed first, then Diana, and Monsoreau wished to follow, but it was impossible. His litter was too large to go through the door. At this sight he uttered a groan. Diana went on quietly, without looking at him, but Bussy, who understood her, said to him:
“It is useless to try, M. le Comte, your litter will not pass.”
“Monseigneur!” cried Monsoreau, “do not go into that conservatory, some of the flowers exhale dangerous perfumes.”
Then he fainted, and was carried to his room.
Bussy went to tell Diana what had happened, and she left the duke to go to the castle.
“Have we succeeded?” said Bussy to her as she passed.
“I hope so; do not go away without having seen Gertrude.”
When Monsoreau opened his eyes again, he saw Diana standing at his bedside.
“Ah! it is you, madame,” said he, “to-night we leave for Paris.”
Rémy cried out in horror, but Monsoreau paid no attention.
“Can you think of such a thing, with your wound?” said Diana, quietly.
“Madame, I would rather die than suffer, and were I to die on the road, we start to-night.”
“As you please, monsieur.”
“Then make your preparations.”
“My preparations are soon made, but may I ask the reason of this sudden determination?”
“I will tell you, madame, when you have no more flowers to show to the prince, and when my doors are large enough to admit litters.”
Diana bowed.
“But, madame ——” said Rémy.
“M. le Comte wishes it,” replied she, “and my duty is to obey.” And she left the room.
As the duke was making his adieux to the Baron de Méridor, Gertrude appeared, and said aloud to the duke that her mistress regretted that she could not have the honor of saying farewell to his highness; and softly to Bussy that Diana would set off for Paris that evening. As they went home again, the duke felt unwilling to leave Anjou now that Diana smiled on him. Therefore he said, “I have been reflecting, Bussy,” said he.
“On what, monseigneur?”
“That it is not wise to give in at once to my mother.”
“You are right, she thinks herself clever enough without that.”
“But by dragging it on for a week, and giving fêtes, and calling the liability around us, she will see how strong we are.”
“Well reasoned, but still ——”
“I will stay here a week; depend upon it I shall draw new concessions from the queen.”
Bussy appeared to reflect. “Well, monseigneur,” said he, “perhaps you are right, but the king, not knowing your intentions, may become annoyed; he is very irascible.”
“You are right, but I shall send some one to the king to announce my return in a week.”
“Yes, but that some one will run great risks.”
“If I change my mind, you mean.”
“Yes, and in spite of your promise, you would do so if you thought it your interest.”
“Perhaps.”
“Then they will send your messenger to the Bastile.”
“I will give him a letter, and not let him know what he is carrying.”
“On the contrary, give him no letter, and let him know.”
“Then no one will go.”
“Oh! I know some one.”
“Who?”
“I, myself.”
“You!”
“Yes, I like difficult negotiations.”
“Bussy, my dear Bussy, if you will do that, I shall be eternally grateful.”
Bussy smiled. The duke thought he hesitated.
“And I will give you ten thousand crowns for your journey,” added he.
“Thanks, monseigneur, but these things cannot be paid for.”
“Then you will go?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Whenever you like.”
“The sooner the better.”
“This evening if you wish it.”
“Dear Bussy.”
“You know I would do anything for your highness. I will go to-night; you stay here and enjoy yourself, and get me something good from the queen-mother.”
“I will not forget.”
Bussy then prepared to depart as soon as the signal arrived from Méridor. It did not come till the next morning, for the count had felt himself so feeble that he had been forced to take a night’s rest. But early in the morning a messenger came to announce to Bussy that the count had set off for Paris in a litter, followed on horseback by Rémy, Diana, and Gertrude. Bussy jumped on his horse, and took the same road.
What Temper the King was in when St. Luc Reappeared at the Louvre.
Since the departure of Catherine, Henri, however, confident in his ambassador, had thought only of arming himself against the attacks of his brother. He amused, or rather ennuyéd, himself by drawing up long lists of proscriptions, in which were inscribed in alphabetical order all who had not shown themselves zealous for his cause. The lists became longer every day, and at the S—— and the L— — that is to say, twice over, was inscribed the name of M. de St. Luc. Chicot, in the midst of all this, was, little by little, and man by man, enrolling an army for his master. One evening Chicot entered the room where the king sat at supper.
“What is it?” asked the king.
“M. de St. Luc.”
“M. de St. Luc?”
“Yes.”
“At Paris?”
“Yes.”
“At the Louvre?”
“Yes.”
The king rose, red and agitated.
“What has he come for? The traitor!”
“Who knows?”
“He comes, I am sure, as deputy from the states of Anjou — as an envoy from my rebellious brother. He makes use of the rebellion as a safe conduct to come here and insult me.”
“Who knows?”
“Or perhaps he comes to ask me for his property, of which I have kept back the revenues, which may have been rather an abuse of power, as, after all, he has committed no crime.”
“Who knows?”
“Ah, you repeat eternally the same thing; mort de ma vie! you tire my patience out with your eternal ‘Who knows?’”
“Eh! mordieu! do you think you are very amusing with your eternal questions?”
“At least you might reply something.”
“And what should I reply? Do you take me for an ancient oracle? It is you who are tiresome with your foolish suppositions.”
“M. Chicot?”
“M. Henri.”
“Chicot, my friend, you see my grief and you laugh at me.”
“Do not have any grief.”
“But everyone betrays me.”
“Who knows? Ventre de biche! who knows?”
Henri went down to his cabinet, where, at the news of his return, a number of gentlemen had assembled, who were looking at St. Luc with evident distrust and animosity. He, however, seemed quite unmoved by this. He had brought his wife with him also, and she was seated, wrapped in her traveling-cloak, when the king entered in an excited state.
“Ah, monsieur, you here!” he cried.
“Yes, sire,” replied St. Luc.
“Really, your presence at the Louvre surprises me.”
“Sire, I am only surprised that, under the circumstances, your majesty did not expect me.”
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
“Sire, your majesty is in danger.”
“Danger!” cried the courtiers.
“Yes, gentlemen, a real, serious danger, in which the king has need of the smallest as well as the greatest of those devoted to him; therefore I come to lay at his feet my humble services.”
“Ah!” said Chicot, “you see, my son, that I was right to say, ‘who knows.’”
Henri did not reply at once; he would not yield immediately. After a pause, he said, “Monsieur, you have only done your duty; your services are due to us.”
“The services of all the king’s subjects are due to him, I know, sire; but in these times many people forget to pay their debts. I, sire, come to pay mine, happy that your majesty will receive me among the number of your creditors.”
“Then,” said Henri, in a softer tone, “you return without any other motive than that which you state; without any mission, or safe-conduct?”
“Sire, I return simply and purely for that reason. Now, your majesty may throw me into the Bastile, or have me shot, but I shall have done my duty. Sire, Anjou is on fire; Touraine is about to revolt; Guienne is rising. M. le Duc d’Anjou is hard at work.”
“He is well supported, is he not?”
“Sire, M. de Bussy, firm as he is, cannot make your brother brave.”
“Ah! he trembles, then, the rebel.”
“Let me go and shake St. Luc’s hand,” said Chicot, advancing.
The king followed him, and going up to his old favorite, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said —
“You are welcome, St. Luc!”
“Ah! sire,” cried St. Luc, kissing the king’s hand, “I find again my beloved master.”
“Yes, but you, my poor St. Luc, you have grown thin.”
“It is with grief at having displeased your majesty,” said a feminine voice. Now, although the voice was soft and respectful, Henri frowned, for it was as distasteful to him as the noise of thunder was to Augustus.
“Madame de St. Luc!” said he. “Ah! I forgot.”
Jeanne threw herself at his feet.
“Rise, madame,” said he, “I love all that bear the name of St. Luc.” Jeanne took his hand and kissed it, but he withdrew it quickly.
“You must convert the king,” said Chicot to the young woman, “you are pretty enough for it.”
But Henri turned his back to her, and passing his arm round St. Luc’s neck, said —
“Then we have made peace, St. Luc?”
“Say rather, sire, that the pardon is granted.”
“Madame!” said Chicot, “a good wife should not leave her husband,” and he pushed her after the king and St. Luc.
In which We Meet Two Important Personages Whom We have Lost Sight of for Some Time.
There are two of the personages mentioned in this story, about whom the reader has the right to ask for information. We mean an enormous monk, with thick eyebrows and large lips, whose neck was diminishing every day; and a large donkey whose sides were gradually swelling out like a balloon. The monk resembled a hogshead; and the ass was like a child’s cradle, supported by four posts.
The one inhabited a cell at St. Genevieve, and the other the stable at the same convent. The one was called Gorenflot, and the other Panurge. Both were enjoying the most prosperous lot that ever fell to a monk and an ass.
The monks surrounded their illustrious brother with cares and attentions, and Pan urge fared well for his master’s sake.
If a missionary arrived from foreign countries, or a secret legate from the Pope, they pointed out to him Brother Gorenflot, that double model of the church preaching and militant; they showed Gorenflot in all his glory, that is to say, in the midst of a feast, seated at a table in which a hollow had been cut on purpose for his sacred stomach, and they related with a noble pride that Gorenflot consumed the rations of eight ordinary monks. And when the newcomer had piously contemplated this spectacle, the prior would say, “See how he eats! And if you had but heard his sermon one famous night, in which he offered to devote himself for the triumph of the faith. It is a mouth which speaks like that of St. Chrysostom, and swallows like that of Gargantua.”
Every time that any one spoke of the sermon, Gorenflot sighed and said:
“What a pity I did not write it!
“A man like you has no need to write,” the prior would reply. “No, you speak from inspiration; you open your mouth, and the words of God flow from your lips.”
“Do you think so?” sighed Gorenflot.
However, Gorenflot was not perfectly happy. He, who at first thought his banishment from the convent an immense misfortune, discovered in his exile infinite joys before unknown to him. He sighed for liberty; liberty with Chicot, the joyous companion, with Chicot, whom he loved without knowing why. Since his return to the convent, he had never been allowed to go out. He never attempted to combat this decision, but he grew sadder from day to day. The prior saw this, and at last said to him:
“My dear brother, no one can fight against his vocation; yours is to fight for the faith; go then, fulfil your mission, only watch well over your precious life, and return for the great day.”
“What great day?”
“That of the Fête Dieu.”
“Ita,” replied Gorenflot; it was the only Latin word he knew, and used it on all occasions. “But give me some money to bestow in alms in a Christian manner.”
“You have your text, have you not, dear brother?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Confide it to me.”
“Willingly, but to you alone; it is this: ‘The flail which threshes the corn.’”
“Oh, magnificent! sublime!” cried the prior.
“Now, my father, am I free?”
“Yes, my son, go and walk in the way of the Lord.”
Gorenflot saddled Panurge, mounted him with the aid of two vigorous monks, and left the convent about seven in the evening. It was the same day on which St. Luc arrived at Paris from Méridor.
Gorenflot, having passed through the Rue St. Etienne, was going to have turned to the right, when suddenly Panurge stopped; a strong hand was laid on his croup.
“Who is there?” cried Gorenflot, in terror.
“A friend.”
Gorenflot tried to turn, but he could not.
“What do you want?” said he.
“Will my venerable brother show me the way to the Corne d’Abondance?”
“Morbleu! it is M. Chicot,” cried Gorenflot, joyfully.
“Just so; I was going to seek you at the convent, when I saw you come out, and followed you until we were alone. Ventre de biche! how thin you are!”
“But what are you carrying, M. Chicot?” said the monk, “you appear laden.”
“It is some venison which I have stolen from the king.”
“Dear M. Chicot! and under the other arm?”
“A bottle of Cyprus wine sent by a king to my king.”
“Let me see!”
“It is my wine, and I love it much; do not you, brother?”
“Oh! oh!” cried Gorenflot, raising his eyes and hands to Heaven, and beginning to sing in a voice which shook the neighboring windows. It was the first time he had sung for a month.
Diana’s Second Journey to Paris.
Let us leave the two friends entering the Corne d’Abondance, and return to the litter of M. Monsoreau and to Bussy, who set out with the intention of following them. Not only is it not difficult for a cavalier well mounted to overtake foot travelers, but it is difficult not to pass them. This happened to Bussy.
It was the end of May, the heat was great, and about noon M. de Monsoreau wished to make a halt in a little wood, which was near the road, and as they had a horse laden with provisions, they remained there until the great heat of the day had gone by. During this time Bussy passed them, but he had not traveled, as we may imagine, without inquiring if a party on horseback, and a litter carried by peasants, had been seen. Until he had passed the village of Durtal, he had obtained the most satisfactory information, and, convinced that they were before him, had ridden on quickly. But he could see nothing of them, and suddenly all traces of them vanished, and on arriving at La Flèche he felt certain he must have passed them on the road. Then he remembered the little wood, and doubted not that they had been resting there when he passed. He installed himself at a little inn, which had the advantage of being opposite the principal hotel, where he doubted not that Monsoreau would stop; and he remained at the window watching. About four o’clock he saw a courier arrive, and half an hour afterwards the whole party. He waited till nine o’clock, and then he saw the courier set out again, and after him the litter, then Diana, Rémy, and Gertrude on horseback. He mounted his horse and followed them, keeping them in sight. Monsoreau scarcely allowed Diana to move from his side, but kept calling her every instant. After a little while, Bussy gave a long, shrill whistle, with which he had been in the habit of calling his servants at his hotel. Rémy recognized it in a moment. Diana started, and looked at the young man, who made an affirmative sign; then he came up to her and whispered:
“It is he!”
“Who is speaking to you, madame?” said Monsoreau.
“To me, monsieur?”
“Yes, I saw a shadow pass close to you, and heard a voice.”
“It is M. Rémy; are you also jealous of him?”
“No, but I like people to speak out, it amuses me.”
“There are some things which cannot be said aloud before M. le Comte, however,” said Gertrude, coming to the rescue.
“Why not?”
“For two reasons; firstly, because some would not interest you, and some would interest you too much.”
“And of which kind is what M. Rémy has just whispered?”
“Of the latter.”
“What did Rémy say to you, madame?”
“I said, M. le Comte, that if you excite yourself so much, you will be dead before we have gone a third of the way.”
Monsoreau grew deadly pale.
“He is expecting you behind,” whispered Rémy, again, “ride slowly, and he will overtake you.”
Monsoreau, who heard a murmur, tried to rise and look back after Diana.
“Another movement like that, M. le Comte, and you will bring on the bleeding again,” said Rémy.
Diana turned and rode back a little way, while Rémy walked by the litter to occupy the count. A few seconds after, Bussy was by her side.
“You see I follow you,” said he, after their first embrace.
“Oh! I shall be happy, if I know you are always so near to me.”
“But by day he will see us.”
“No; by day you can ride afar off; it is only I who will see you, Louis. From the summit of some hill, at the turn of some road, your plume waving, your handkerchief fluttering in the breeze, would speak to me in your name, and tell me that you love me.”
“Speak on, my beloved Diana; you do not know what music I find in your voice.”
“And when we travel by night, which we shall often do, for Rémy has told him that the freshness of the evening is good for his wounds, then, as this evening, from time to time, I will stay behind, and we will tell each other, with a rapid pressure of the hands, all our thoughts of each other during the day.”
“Oh! I love you! I love you!” murmured Bussy. “Oh! to see you, to press your hand, Diana.”
Suddenly they heard a voice which made them both tremble, Diana with fear, and Bussy with anger.
“Diana!” it cried, “where are you? Answer me.”
“Oh! it is he! I had forgotten him,” said Diana. “Sweet dream, frightful awaking.”
“Listen, Diana; we are together. Say one word, and nothing can separate us more; Diana, let us fly! What prevents us? Before us is happiness and liberty. One word, and we go; one word, and lost to him, you belong to me forever.”
“And my father?”
“When he shall know how I love you?”
“Oh! a father!”
“I will do nothing by violence, dear Diana; order, and I obey.”
“It is our destiny, Bussy; but be strong, and you shall see if I know how to love.”
“Must we then separate?”
“Comtesse!” cried the voice, “reply, or, if I kill myself in doing it, I will jump from this infernal litter.”
“Adieu, Bussy, he will do as he says.”
“You pity him?”
“Jealous!” said Diana, with an adorable smile.
Bussy let her go.
In a minute she was by the litter, and found the count half fainting.
“Ah!” cried he, “where were you, madame?”
“Where should I have been? Behind you.”
“At my side, madame; do not leave me again.”
From time to time this scene was renewed. They all hoped he would die with rage; but he did not die: on the contrary, at the end of ten days, when they arrived at Paris, he was decidedly better. During these ten days Diana had conquered all Bussy’s pride, and had persuaded him to come and visit Monsoreau, who always showed him much friendship. Rémy watched the husband and gave notes to the wife.
“Esculapius and Mercury,” said he; “my functions accumulate.”
How the Ambassador of the Duc d’Anjou Arrived at the Louvre, and the Reception he Met with.
As neither Catherine nor the Duc d’Anjou reappeared at the Louvre, the dissension between the brothers became apparently every day more and more certain. The king thought, “No news, bad news.” The minions added, “Fran?ois, badly counseled, has detained the queen-mother.”
Badly counseled. In these words were comprised all the policy of this singular reign, and the three preceding ones. Badly counseled was Charles IX. when he authorized the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Badly counseled was Fran?ois II. when he ordered the massacre at Amboise. Badly counseled had been Henri II. when he burned so many heretics and conspirators. And now they dared not say, “Your brother has the family blood in his veins; he wishes, like the rest, to dethrone or poison; he would do to you what you did to your elder brother; what your elder brother did to his, what your mother has taught you to do to one another.” Therefore they said, “Your brother is badly counseled.”
Now, as only one person was able to counsel Fran?ois, it was against Bussy that the cry was raised, which became every day more and more furious. At last the news was spread that the duke had sent an ambassador. At this the king grew pale with anger, and the minions swore that he should be cut to pieces, and a piece sent to all the provinces of France as a specimen of the king’s anger. Chicot said nothing, but he reflected. Now the king thought much of Chicot’s reflections, and he questioned him about them.
“Sire,” replied he, “if your brother sends an ambassador, it is because he feels himself strong enough to do so; he who is prudence itself. Now, if he is strong, we must temporize with him. Let us respect his ambassador, and receive him with civility. That engages you to nothing. Do you remember how your brother embraced Admiral Coligny, who came as ambassador from the Huguenots?”
“Then you approve of the policy of my brother Charles?”
“Not so, but I cite a fact; and I say to you, do not hurt a poor devil of a herald, or ambassador; perhaps we may find the way to seize the master, the mover, the chief, the great Duc d’Anjou, with the three Guises; and if you can shut them up in a place safer than the Louvre, do it.”
“That is not so bad.”
“Then why do you let all your friends bellow so?”
“Bellow!”
“Yes; I would say, roar, if they could be taken for lions, but they are more like bearded apes.”
“Chicot, they are my friends.”
“Friends! I would lay any bet to make them all turn against you before tomorrow.”
“Well, what do you advise?”
“To wait, my son. Half the wisdom of Solomon lies in that word. If an ambassador arrive, receive him courteously. And as to your brother, kill him if you can and like, but do not degrade him. He is a great knave, but he is a Valois; besides, he can do that well enough for himself.”
“It is true, Chicot.”
“One more lesson that you owe me. Now let me sleep, Henri; for the last week I have been engaged in fuddling a monk.”
“A monk! the one of whom you have already spoken to me?”
“Just so. You promised him an abbey.”
“I?”
“Pardieu! it is the least you can do for him, after all be has done for you.”
“He is then still devoted to me?”
“He adores you. Apropos, my son ——”
“What?”
“In three weeks it will be the Fête Dieu.”
“Well!”
“Are we to have some pretty little procession?”
“I am the most Christian king, and it is my duty to set an example to my subjects.”
“And you will, as usual, stop at the four great convents of Paris?”
“Yes.”
“At St. Geneviève?”
“Yes, that is the second I stop at.”
“Good.”
“Why do you ask?”
“Oh, nothing — I was curious. Now I know all I want, so good night, Henri!”
But just as Chicot prepared to leave, a great noise was heard.
“What is that noise?” said the king.
“It is ordained that I am not to sleep. Henri, you must get me a room in the town, or I must leave your service; the Louvre becomes insupportable.”
At this moment the captain of the guards entered, saying, “Sire, it is an envoy from M. le Duc d’Anjou.”
“With a suite?”
“No, sire, alone.”
“Then you must receive him doubly well, Henri, for he is a brave fellow.”
“Well,” said the king, very pale, but trying to look calm, “let all my court assemble in the great hall.”
Which is Only the End of the Preceding One.
Henri sat on his throne in the great hall, and around him was grouped an eager crowd. He looked pale and frowning.
“Sire,” said Quelus to the king, “do you know the name of the ambassador?”
“No; but what does it matter?”
“Sire, it is M. de Bussy; the insult is doubled.”
“I see no insult,” said the king, with affected sang-froid.
“Let him enter,” continued he. Bussy, with his hat in his hand, and his head erect, advanced straight to the king, and waited, with his usual look of pride, to be interrogated.
“You here, M. de Bussy!” said the king; “I thought you were in Anjou.”
“Sire, I was, but you see I have quitted it.”
“And what brings you here?”
“The desire of presenting my humble respects to your majesty.”
The king and courtiers looked astonished; they expected a different answer.
“And nothing else?” said the king.
“I will add, sire, the orders I received from the Duc d’Anjou to join his respects to mine.”
“And the duke said nothing else?”
“Only that he was on the point of returning with the queen-mother, and wished me to apprise your majesty of the return of one of your most faithful subjects.”
The king was choked with surprise.
“Good morning, M. de Bussy,” said Chicot.
Bussy turned, astonished to find a friend in that place.
“Good day, M. Chicot; I am delighted to see you.”
“Is that all you have to say, M. de Bussy?” asked the king.
“Yes, sire; anything that remains to be said, will be said by the duke himself.”
The king rose and went away, and Bussy continued to converse with Chicot, until the king called to him. As soon as Bussy was alone, Quelus approached him.
“Good morning, M. Quelus,” said Bussy graciously; “may I have the honor of asking how you are?”
“Very bad.”
“Oh, mon Dieu! what is the matter?”
“Something annoys me infinitely.”
“Something! And are you not powerful enough to get rid of it?”
“It is not something, but some one, that M. Quelus means,” said Maugiron, advancing.
“And whom I advise him to get rid of,” said Schomberg, coming forward on the other side.
“Ah, M. de Schomberg! I did not recognize you.”
“Perhaps not; is my face still blue?”
“Not so; you are very pale. Are you not well?”
“Yes, it is with anger.”
“Oh I then you have also some one who annoys you?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“And I also,” said Maugiron.
“Really, gentlemen, you all look very gloomy.”
“You forget me,” said D’Epernon, planting himself before Bussy.
“Pardon me, M. d’Epernon, you were behind the others, as usual, and I have so little the pleasure of knowing you, that it was not for me to speak first.”
It was strange to see Bussy smiling and calm among those four furious faces, whose eyes spoke with so terrible an eloquence, that he must have been blind or stupid not to have understood their language.
But Bussy never lost his smile.
“It seems to me that there is an echo in this room,” said he quietly.
“Look, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “how provincial M. de Bussy has become; he has a beard, and no knot to his sword; he has black boots and a gray hat.”
“It is an observation that I was just making to myself, my dear sir; seeing you so well dressed, I said to myself, ‘How much harm a few weeks’ absence does to a man; here am I, Louis de Clermont, forced to take a little Gascon gentleman as a model of taste.’ But let me pass; you are so near to me that you tread on my feet, and I feel it in spite of my boots.”
And turning away, he advanced towards St. Luc, whom he saw approaching.
“Incredible!” cried all the young men, “we insulted him; he took no notice.”
“There is something in it,” said Quelus.
“Well!” said the king, advancing, “what were you and M. de Bussy saying?”
“Do you wish to know what M. de Bussy said, sire?”
“Yes, I am curious.”
“Well, I trod on his foot, and insulted him, and he said nothing.”
“What, gentlemen,” cried Henri, feigning anger, “you dared to insult a gentleman in the Louvre!”
“Alas! yes, sire, and he said nothing.”
“Well! I am going to the queen.”
As the king went out of the great door, St. Luc reentered by a side one, and advanced towards the four gentlemen.
“Pardon, M. Quelus,” said he, “but do you still live in the Rue St. Honoré?”
“Yes, my dear friend; why do you ask?”
“I have two words to say to you.”
“Ah!”
“And you, M. de Schomberg?”
“Rue Béthisy,” said Schomberg, astonished.
“D’Epernon’s address I know.”
“Rue de Grenelle.”
“You are my neighbor. And you, Maugiron?”
“Near the Louvre. But I begin to understand; you come from M. de Bussy.”
“Never mind from whom I come; I have to speak to you, that is all.”
“To all four of us?”
“Yes.”
“Then if you cannot speak here, let us all go to Schomberg’s; it is close by.”
“So be it.”
And the five gentlemen went out of the Louvre arm in arm.