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How M. And Madame De St. Luc Met with a Traveling
The next morning, about the time when Gorenflot woke from his nap, warmly rolled in his frock, our reader, if he had been traveling on the road from Paris to Angers, might have seen a gentleman and his page, riding quietly side by side. These cavaliers had arrived at Chartres the evening before, with foaming horses, one of which had fallen with fatigue, as they stopped. They entered the inn, and half an hour after set out on fresh horses. Once in the country, still bare and cold, the taller of the two approached the other, and said, as he opened his arms: “Dear little wife, embrace me, for now we are safe.”
Then Madame de St. Luc, leaning forward and opening her thick cloak, placed her arms round the young man’s neck and gave him the long and tender kiss which he had asked for. They stayed the night in the little village of Courville four leagues only from Chartres, but which from its isolation seemed to them a secure retreat; and it was on the following morning that they were, as we said, pursuing their way. This day, as they were more easy in their minds, they traveled no longer like fugitives, but like schoolboys seeking for moss, for the first few early flowers, enjoying the sunshine and amused at everything.”
“Morbleu!” cried St. Luc, at last, “how delightful it is to be free. Have you ever been free, Jeanne?”
“I?” cried she, laughing, “never; it is the first time I ever felt so. My father was suspicious, and my mother lazy. I never went out without a governess and two lackeys, so that I do not remember having run on the grass, since, when a laughing child, I ran in the woods of Méridor with my dear Diana, challenging her to race, and rushing through the branches. But you, dear St. Luc; you were free, at least?”
“I, free?”
“Doubtless, a man.”
“Never. Brought up with the Duc d’Anjou, taken by him to Poland, brought back to Paris, condemned never to leave him by the perpetual rule of etiquette; pursued, if I tried to go away, by that doleful voice, crying, ‘St. Luc, my friend, I am ennuyé, come and amuse me.’ Free, with that stiff corset which strangled me, and that great ruff which scratched my neck! No, I have never been free till now, and I enjoy it.”
“If they should catch us, and send us to the Bastile?”
“If they only put us there together, we can bear it.”
“I do not think they would. But there is no fear, if you only knew Méridor, its great oaks, and its endless thickets, its rivers, its lakes, its flower-beds and lawns; and, then, in the midst of all, the queen of this kingdom, the beautiful, the good Diana. And I know she loves me still; she is not capricious in her friendships. Think of the happy life we shall lead there.”
“Let us push on; I am in haste to get there,” and they rode on, stayed the night at Mans, and then set off for Méridor. They had already reached the woods and thought themselves in safety, when they saw behind them a cavalier advancing at a rapid pace. St. Luc grew pale.
“Let us fly,” said Jeanne.
“Yes; let us fly, for there is a plume on that hat which disquiets me; it is of a color much in vogue at the court, and he looks to me like an ambassador from our royal master.”
But to fly was easier to say than to do; the trees grew so thickly that it was impossible to ride through them but slowly, and the soil was so sandy that the horses sank into it at every step. The cavalier gained upon them rapidly, and soon they heard his voice crying —
“Eh, monsieur, do not run away; I bring you something you have lost.”
“What does he say?” asked Jeanne.
“He says we have lost something.”
“Eh! monsieur,” cried the unknown, again, “you left a bracelet in the hotel at Courville. Diable! a lady’s portrait; above all, that of Madame de Cossé. For the sake of that dear mamma, do not run away.”
“I know that voice,” said St. Luc.
“And then he speaks of my mother.”
“It is Bussy!”
“The Comte de Bussy, our friend,” and they reined up their horses.
“Good morning, madame,” said Bussy, laughing, and giving her the bracelet.
“Have you come from the king to arrest us?”
“No, ma foi, I am not sufficiently his majesty’s friend for such a mission. No, I found your bracelet at the hotel, which showed me that you preceded me on my way.”
“Then,” said St. Luc, “it is chance which brings you on our path.”
“Chance, or rather Providence.”
Every remaining shadow of suspicion vanished before the sincere smile and bright eyes of the handsome speaker.
“Then you are traveling?” asked Jeanne.
“I am.”
“But not like us?”
“Unhappily; no.”
“I mean in disgrace. Where are you going?”
“Towards Angers, and you?”
“We also.”
“Ah! I should envy your happiness if envy were not so vile.”
“Eh! M. de Bussy, marry, and you will be as happy as we are,” said Jeanne; “it is so easy to be happy when you are loved.”
“Ah! madame, everyone is not so fortunate as you.”
“But you, the universal favorite.”
“To be loved by everyone is as though you were loved by no one, madame.”
“Well, let me marry you, and you will know the happiness you deny.”
“I do not deny the happiness, only that it does not exist for me.”
“Shall I marry you?”
“If you marry me according to your taste, no; if according to mine, yes.”
“Are you in love with a woman whom you cannot marry?”
“Comte,” said Bussy, “beg your wife not to plunge dagger in my heart.”
“Take care, Bussy; you will make me think it is with her you are in love.”
“If it were so, you will confess, at least, that I am a lover not much to be feared.”
“True,” said St. Luc, remembering how Bussy had brought him his wife. “But confess, your heart is occupied.”
“I avow it.”
“By a love, or by a caprice?” asked Jeanne.
“By a passion, madame.”
“I will cure you.”
“I do not believe it.”
“I will marry you.”
“I doubt it.”
“And I will make you as happy as you ought to be.”
“Alas! madame, my only happiness now is to be unhappy.”
“I am very determined.”
“And I also.”
“Well, will you accompany us?”
“Where are you going?”
“To the chateau of Méridor.”
The blood mounted to the cheeks of Bussy, and then he grew so pale, that his secret would certainly have been betrayed, had not Jeanne been looking at her husband with a smile. Bussy therefore had time to recover himself, and said —
“Where is that?”
“It is the property of one of my best friends.”
“One of your best friends, and — are they at home?”
“Doubtless,” said Jeanne, who was completely ignorant of the events of the last two months; “but have you never heard of the Baron de Méridor, one of the richest noblemen in France, and of ——”
“Of what?”
“Of his daughter, Diana, the most beautiful girl possible?”
Bussy was filled with astonishment, asking himself by what singular happiness he found on the road people to talk to him of Diana de Méridor to echo the only thought which he had in his mind.
“Is this castle far off, madame?” asked he.
“About seven leagues, and we shall sleep there to-night; you will come, will you not?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Come, that is already a step towards the happiness I promised you.”
“And the baron, what sort of a man is he?”
“A perfect gentleman, a preux chevalier, who, had he lived in King Arthur’s time, would have had a place at his round table.”
“And,” said Bussy, steadying his voice, “to whom is his daughter married?”
“Diana married?”
“Would that be extraordinary?”
“Of course not, only I should have been the first to hear of it.”
Bussy could not repress a sigh. “Then,” said he, “you expect to find Mademoiselle de Méridor at the chateau with her father?”
“We trust so.”
They rode on a long time in silence, and at last Jeanne cried:
“Ah! there are the turrets of the castle. Look, M. de Bussy, through that great leafless wood, which in a month, will be so beautiful; do you not see the roof?”
“Yes,” said Bussy, with an emotion which astonished himself; “and is that the chateau of Méridor?”
And he thought of the poor prisoner shut up in the Rue St. Antoine.
The Old Man.
Two hours after they reached the castle. Bussy had been debating within himself whether or not to confide to his friends what he knew about Diana. But there was much that he could tell to no one, and he feared their questions, and besides, he wished to enter Méridor as a stranger.
Madame de St. Luc was surprised, when the report sounded his horn to announce a visit, that Diana did not run as usual to meet them, but instead of her appeared an old man, bent and leaning on a stick, and his white hair flying in the wind. He crossed the drawbridge, followed by two great dogs, and when he drew quite near, said in a feeble voice —
“Who is there, and who does a poor old man the honor to visit him?”
“It is I, Seigneur Augustin!” cried the laughing voice of the young woman.
But the baron, raising his head slowly, said, “You? I do not see. Who is it?”
“Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Jeanne, “do you not know me? It is true, my disguise ——”
“Excuse me,” said the old man, “but I can see little; the eyes of old men are not made for weeping, and if they weep too much, the tears burn them.”
“Must I tell you my name? I am Madame de St. Luc.”
“I do not know you.”
“Ah! but my maiden name was Jeanne de Cosse-Brissac.”
“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried the old man, trying to open the gate with his trembling hands. Jeanne, who did not understand this strange reception, still attributed it only to his declining faculties; but, seeing that he remembered her, jumped off her horse to embrace him, but as she did so she felt his cheek wet with tears.
“Come,” said the old man, turning towards the house, without even noticing the others. The chateau had a strange sad look; all the blinds were down, and no one was visible.
“Is Diana unfortunately not at home?” asked Jeanne. The old man stopped, and looked at her with an almost terrified expression. “Diana!” said he. At this name the two dogs uttered a mournful howl. “Diana!” repeated the old man; “do you not, then, know?”
And his voice, trembling before, was extinguished in a sob.
“But what has happened?” cried Jeanne, clasping her hands.
“Diana is dead!” cried the old man, with a torrent of tears.
“Dead!” cried Jeanne, growing as pale as death.
“Dead,” thought Bussy; “then he has let him also think her dead. Poor old man! how he will bless me some day!”
“Dead!” cried the old man again; “they killed her.”
“Ah, my dear baron!” cried Jeanne, bursting into tears, and throwing her arms round the old man’s neck.
“But,” said he at last, “though desolate and empty, the old house is none the less hospitable. Enter.”
Jeanne took the old man’s arm, and they went into the dining-hall, where he sunk into his armchair. At last, he said, “You said you were married; which is your husband?”
M. de St. Luc advanced and bowed to the old man, who tried to smile as he saluted him; then, turning to Bussy, said, “And this gentleman?”
“He is our friend, M. Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy d’Amboise, gentleman of M. le Duc d’Anjou.”
At these words the old man started up, threw a withering glance at Bussy, and then sank back with a groan.
“What is it?” said Jeanne.
“Does the baron know you, M. de Bussy?” asked St. Luc.
“It is the first time I ever had the honor of seeing M. de Méridor,” said Bussy, who alone understood the effect which the name of the Duc d’Anjou had produced on the old man.
“Ah! you a gentleman of the Duc d’Anjou!” cried the baron, “of that monster, that demon, and you dare to avow it, and have the audacity to present yourself here!”
“Is he mad?” asked St. Luc of his wife.
“Grief must have turned his brain,” replied she, in terror.
“Yes, that monster!” cried he again; “the assassin who killed my child! Ah, you do not know,” continued he, taking Jeanne’s hands; “but the duke killed my Diana, my child — he killed her!”
Tears stood in Bussy’s eyes, and Jeanne said:
“Seigneur, were it so, which I do not understand, you cannot accuse M. de Bussy of this dreadful crime — he, who is the most noble and generous gentleman living. See, my good father, he weeps with us. Would he have come had he known how you would receive him? Ah, dear baron, tell us how this catastrophe happened.”
“Then you did not know?” said the old man to Bussy.
“Eh, mon Dieu! no,” cried Jeanne, “we none of us knew.”
“My Diana is dead, and her best friend did not know it! Oh, it is true! I wrote to no one; it seemed to me that everything must die with her. Well, this prince, this disgrace to France, saw my Diana, and, finding her so beautiful, had her carried away to his castle of Beaugé to dishonor her. But Diana, my noble and sainted Diana, chose death instead. She threw herself from the window into the lake, and they found nothing but her veil floating on the surface.” And the old man finished with a burst of sobs which overwhelmed them all.
“Oh, comte,” cried St. Luc, “you must abandon this infamous prince; a noble heart like yours cannot remain friendly to a ravisher and an assassin!”
But Bussy instead of replying to this, advanced to M. de Méridor.
“M. le Baron,” said he, “will you grant me the honor of a private interview?”
“Listen to M. de Bussy, dear seigneur,” said Jeanne; “you will see that he is good and may help you.”
“Speak, monsieur,” said the baron, trembling.
Bussy turned to St. Luc and his wife, and said:
“Will you permit me?”
The young couple went out, and then Bussy said: “M. le Baron, you have accused the prince whom I serve in terms which force me to ask for an explanation. Do not mistake the sense in which I speak; it is with the most profound sympathy, and the most earnest desire to soften your griefs, that I beg of you to recount to me the details of this dreadful event. Are you sure all hope is lost?”
“Monsieur, I had once a moment’s hope. A noble gentleman, M. de Monsoreau, loved my poor daughter, and interested himself for her.”
“M. de Monsoreau! Well, what was his conduct in all this!”
“Ah, generous; for Diana had refused his hand. He was the first to tell me of the infamous projects of the duke; he showed me how to baffle them, only asking, if he succeeded, for her hand. I gave my consent with joy; but alas! it was useless — he arrived too late — my poor Diana had saved herself by death!”
“And since then, what have you heard of him?”
“It is a month ago, and the poor gentleman has not dared to appear before me, having failed in his generous design.”
“Well, monsieur,” said Bussy, “I am charged by the Duc d’Anjou to bring you to Paris, where his highness desires to speak to you.”
“I!” cried the baron, “I see this man! And what can the murderer have to say to me?”
“Who knows? To justify himself perhaps.”
“No, M. de Bussy, no, I will not go to Paris; it would be too far away from where my child lies in her cold bed.”
“M. le Baron,” said Bussy firmly, “I have come expressly to take you to Paris, and it is my duty to do so.”
“Well, I will go,” cried the old man, trembling with anger; “but woe to those who bring me. The king will hear me, or, if he will not, I will appeal to all the gentlemen of France. Yes, M. de Bussy, I will accompany you.”
“And I, M. le Baron,” said Bussy, taking his hand, “recommend to you the patience and calm dignity of a Christian nobleman. God is merciful to noble hearts, and you know not what He reserves for you. I beg you also, while waiting for that day, not to count me among your enemies, for you do not know what I will do for you. Till tomorrow, then, baron, and early in the morning we will set off.”
“I consent,” replied the old baron, moved by Bussy’s tone and words; “but meanwhile, friend or enemy, you are my guest, and I will show you to your room.”
How Remy-Le-Haudouin Had, in Bussy’s Absence, Established a Communication with the Rue St. Antoine.
M. and Madame de St. Luc could hardly recover from their surprise. Bussy, holding secret interviews with M. de Méridor, and then setting off with him for Paris, appearing to take the lead in a matter which at first seemed strange and unknown to him, was to the young people an inexplicable phenomenon. In the morning the baron took leave of his guests, begging them to remain in the castle. Before Bussy left, however, he whispered a few words to Madame de St. Luc, which brought the color to her cheeks, and smiles to her eyes.
It was a long way from Méridor to Paris, especially for the old baron, covered with wounds from all his battles, and for his old horse, whom he called Jarnac. Bussy studied earnestly during the journey to find his way to the heart of the old man by his care and attentions, and without doubt he succeeded, for on the sixth morning, as they arrived at Paris, M. de Méridor said:
“It is singular, count, but I feel less unquiet at the end than at the beginning of my journey.”
“Two hours more, M. le Baron, and you shall have judged me as I deserve.”
“Where are we going — to the Louvre?”
“Let me first take you to my hotel, that you may refresh yourself a little, and be fit to see the person to whom I am leading you.”
The count’s people had been very much alarmed at his long absence, for he had set off without telling any one but Rémy. Thus their delight on seeing him again was great, and they all crowded round him with joyous exclamations. He thanked them, and then said, “Now assist this gentleman to dismount, and remember that I look upon him with more respect than a prince.”
When M. de Méridor had been shown to his room, and had had some refreshment, he asked if they should set out.
“Soon, baron; and be easy — it will be a happiness for you as well as for us.”
“You speak in a language which I do not understand.”
Bussy smiled, and left the room to seek Rémy.
“Well! dear Hippocrates!” said he, “is there anything new?”
“Nothing; all goes well.”
“Then the husband has not returned?”
“Yes, he has, but without success. It seems there is a father who is expected to turn up to make the dénouement.”
“Good,” said Bussy, “but how do you know all this?”
“Why, monseigneur, as your absence made my position a sinecure, I thought I would try to make some little use of my time; so I took some books and a sword to a little room which I hired at the corner of the Rue St. Antoine, from whence I could see the house that you know.”
“Very good.”
“But as I feared, if I were constantly watching, to pass for a spy, I thought it better to fall in love.”
“In love?”
“Oh yes, desperately with Gertrude; she is a fine girl, only two inches taller than myself, and who recounts, capitally.”
“Recounts?”
“Yes; through her I know all that passes with her mistress. I thought you might not dislike to have communications with the house.”
“Rémy, you are a good genius, whom chance, or rather Providence, has placed in my way. Then you are received in the house?”
“Last night I made my entrance on the points of my toes, by the door you know.”
“And how did you manage it?”
“Quite naturally. The day after you left, I waited at my door till the lady of my thoughts came out to buy provisions, which she does every morning. She recognized me, uttered a cry, and ran away.”
“Then?”
“Then I ran after her, but could hardly catch her, for she runs fast; but still, petticoats are always a little in the way. ‘Mon Dieu!’ cried she. ‘Holy Virgin!’ said I. ‘The doctor!’ ‘The charming housekeeper.’ She smiled, but said, ‘You are mistaken, monsieur, I do not know you.’ ‘But I know you,’ I replied, ‘and for the last three days I have lived but for you, and I adore you so much, that I no longer live in the Rue Beautreillis, but at the corner of this street, and I changed my lodging only to see you pass in and out.’”
“So that now you are ——”
“As happy as a lover can be-with Gertrude.”
“Does she suspect you come from me?”
“Oh no, how should the poor doctor know a great lord like M. de Bussy. No, I said, ‘And how is your young master?’ ‘What young master?’ ‘The one I cured.’ ‘He is not my master.’ ‘Oh! I thought, as he was in your mistress’s bed ——’ ‘Oh! no, poor young man! we have only seen him once since.’ ‘Do you know his name?’ ‘Oh! yes; he is the Seigneur de Bussy.’ ‘What! the brave Bussy?’ ‘Yes himself.’ ‘And your mistress?’ ‘Oh! she is married!’ ‘Yes, but still she may think sometimes of a handsome young man when she has seen him lying wounded in her bed.’ ‘Oh, to be frank, I do not say she does not think of him; we talk of him very often.’ ‘What do you say about him?’ I asked. ‘I recount all I hear about his prowess, and I have even taught her a little song about him, which she sings constantly.’” Bussy pressed the young man’s hand; he felt supremely happy.
The Father and Daughter.
On descending into the court, M. de Méridor found a fresh horse, which Bussy had had prepared for him; another waited for Bussy, and attended by Rémy, they started. As they went along, the baron could not but ask himself by what strange confidence he had accompanied, almost blindly, the friend of the prince to whom he owed all his misfortunes. Would it not have been better to have braved the Duc d’Anjou, and instead of following Bussy where it pleased him to lead, to have gone at once to the Louvre, and thrown himself at the feet of the king? What could the prince say to him? How could he console him? Could soft words heal his wound?
When they stopped, “What,” said the baron, “does the Duc d’Anjou live in this humble house?”
“Not exactly, monsieur, but if it is not his dwelling, it is that of a lady whom he has loved.”
A cloud passed over the face of the old gentleman. “Monsieur,” said he, “we provincials are not used to the easy manners of Paris; they annoy us. It seems to me that if the Duc d’Anjou wishes to see the Baron de Méridor, it ought to be at his palace, and not at the house of one of his mistresses.”
“Come, come, baron!” said Bussy, with his smile, which always carried conviction with it, “do not hazard false conjectures. On my honor, the lady who you are going to see is perfectly virtuous and worthy in all respects.”
“Who is she then?”
“She is the wife of a friend of yours.”
“Really! but then, monsieur, why did you say the duke loved her?”
“Because I always speak truth. But enter, and you shall see accomplished all I have promised you.”
“Take care; I wept for my child, and you said, ‘Console yourself, monsieur, the mercy of God is great;’ to promise me a consolation to my grief was almost to promise me a miracle.”
“Enter, monsieur,” said Bussy, with his bright smile. Bussy went in first, and, running up to Gertrude, said, “Go and tell Madame de Monsoreau that M. de Bussy is here, and desires to speak to her. But,” continued he, in a low voice, “not a word of the person who accompanies me.”
“Madame de Monsoreau!” said the old man in astonishment. But as he feebly mounted the staircase, he heard the voice of Diana crying —
“M. de Bussy. Gertrude? Oh! let him come in!”
“That voice!” cried the baron, stopping. “Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!”
At that moment, as the baron tremblingly held on to the banister, and looked around him, he saw at the top of the staircase, Diana, smiling, and more beautiful that ever. At this sight the old man uttered a cry and would have fallen, had he not caught hold of Bussy, who stood by him.
“Diana alive! Diana, oh, my God!”
“Mon Dieu! M. de Bussy!” cried Diana, running down, “what is the matter with my father?”
“He thought you dead, madame, and he wept, as a father must weep for a daughter like you.”
“How!” cried Diana; “and no one undeceived him?”
“No one.”
“No,” cried the old man, recovering a little, “no one, not even M. de Bussy.”
“Ungrateful,” said Bussy.
“Oh! yes! you are right; for this moment repays me for all my griefs. Oh! my Diana! my beloved Diana!” cried he, drawing his daughter to him with one hand, and extending the other to Bussy. But all at once he cried, “But you said I was to see Madame de Monsoreau. Where is she?”
“Alas! my father!” cried Diana.
Bussy summoned up all his strength. “M. de Monsoreau is your son-inlaw,” he said.
“What! my son-inlaw! and every one — even you, Diana — left me in ignorance.”
“I feared to write, my father; he said my letters would fall into the hands of the prince. Besides, I thought you knew all.”
“But why all these strange mysteries?”
“Ah, yes, my father; why did M. de Monsoreau let you think me dead, and not let you know I was his wife?”
The baron, overwhelmed, looked from Bussy to Diana.
“M. de Monsoreau my son-inlaw!” stammered he.
“That cannot astonish you, father; did you not order me to marry him?”
“Yes, if he saved you.”
“Well! he did save me,” said Diana, sinking on to a chair, “not from misfortune, but from shame.”
“Then why did he let me think you dead? I, who wept for you so bitterly. Why did he let me die of despair, when a single word would have restored me?”
“Oh! there is some hidden mystery,” cried Diana; “my father, you will not leave me again; M. de Bussy, you will protect us.”
“Alas! madame! it belongs to me no more to enter into your family secrets. Seeing the strange maneuvers of your husband, I wished to bring you a defender; you have your father, I retire.”
“He is right,” said the old man, sadly.
“M. de Monsoreau feared the Duc d’Anjou, and so does M. de Bussy.”
Diana cast a glance at the young man. He smiled and said, “M. le Baron, excuse, I beg, the singular question I am about to ask; and you also, madame, for I wish to serve you. M. le Baron, ask Madame de Monsoreau if she be happy in the marriage which she has contracted in obedience to your orders.”
Diana burst into tears for her only answer. The eyes of the baron filled also, for he began to fear that his friendship for M. de Monsoreau had tended to make his daughter unhappy.
“Now!” said Bussy, “is it true that you voluntarily promised him your daughter’s hand?”
“Yes, if he saved her.”
“And he did save her. Then, monsieur, I need not ask if you mean to keep your promise.”
“It is a law for all, and above all for gentlemen; you know that, M. de Bussy. My daughter must be his.”
“Ah!” cried Diana, “would I were dead!”
“Madame,” said Bussy, “you see I was right, and that I can do no more here. M. le Baron gives you to M. de Monsoreau, and you yourself promised to marry him when you should see your father again safe and well.”
“Ah! you tear my heart, M. de Bussy,” cried Diana, approaching the young man; “my father does not know that I fear this man, that I hate him; my father sees in him only my saviour, and I think him my murderer.”
“Diana! Diana!” cried the baron, “he saved you.”
“Yes,” cried Bussy, “but if the danger were less great than you thought; what do we know? There is some mystery in all this, which I must clear up. But I protest to you, that if I had had the happiness to be in the place of M. de Monsoreau, I would have saved your young and beautiful daughter without exacting a price for it.”
“He loved her,” said M. de Méridor, trying to excuse him.
“And I, then ——” cried Bussy; and, although he stopped, frightened at what he was about to say, Diana heard and understood.
“Well!” cried she, reddening, “my brother, my friend, can you do nothing for me?”
“But the Duc d’Anjou,” said the baron.
“I am not aware of those who fear the anger of princes,” said Bussy; “and, besides, I believe the danger lies not with him, but with M. de Monsoreau.”
“But if the duke learns that Diana is alive, all is lost.”
“I see,” said Bussy, “you believe M. de Monsoreau more than me. Say no more; you refuse my aid; throw yourself, then, into the arms of the man who has already so well merited your confidence. Adieu, baron; adieu, madame, you will see me no more.”
“Oh!” cried Diana, taking his hand. “Have you seen me waver for an instant; have you ever seen me soften towards him? No. I beg you, on my knees, M. de Bussy, not to abandon me.”
Bussy seized her hands, and all his anger melted away like snow before the sun.
“Then so be it, madame,” said he; “I accept the mission, and in three days — for I must have time to go to Chartres to the prince — you shall see me again.” Then, in a low tone to her, he said, “We are allied against this Monsoreau; remember that it was not he who brought you back to your father, and be faithful to me.”
How Brother Gorenflot Awoke, and the Reception he Met with at His Convent.
Chicot, after seeing with pleasure that Gorenflot still slept soundly, told M. Boutromet to retire and to take the light with him, charging him not to say anything of his absence. Now M. Boutromet, having remarked that, in all transactions between the monk and Chicot, it was the latter who paid, had a great deal of consideration for him, and promised all he wished. Then, by the light of the fire which still smouldered, he wrapped Gorenflot once more in his frock, which he accomplished without eliciting any other signs of wakefulness than a few grunts, and afterwards making a pillow of the table-cloth and napkins, lay down to sleep by his side. Daylight, when it came, succeeded in at last awakening Gorenflot, who sat up, and began to look about him, at the remains of their last night’s repast, and at Chicot, who, although also awake, lay pretending to snore, while, in reality, he watched.
“Broad daylight!” said the monk. “Corbleu, I must have passed the night here. And the abbey! Oh, dear! How happy he is to sleep thus!” cried he, looking at Chicot. “Ah! he is not in my position,” and he sighed. “Shall I wake him to ask for advice? No, no, he will laugh at me; I can surely invent a falsehood without him. But whatever I invent, it will be hard to escape punishment. It is not so much the imprisonment, it is the bread and water I mind. Ah! if! had but some money to bribe the brother jailer.”
Chicot, hearing this, adroitly slipped his purse from his pocket and put it under him. This precaution was not useless, for Gorenflot, who had been looking about him, now approached his friend softly, and murmuring:
“Were he awake, he would not refuse me a crown, but his sleep is sacred, and I will take it,” advanced, and began feeling his pockets. “It is singular,” said he, “nothing in his pockets. Ah! in his hat, perhaps.”
While he searched there Chicot adroitly emptied out his money, and stuffed the empty purse into his breeches pocket.
“Nothing in the hat,” said the monk. “Ah! I forgot,” and thrusting in his hand, he drew from the pocket the empty purse. “Mon Dieu,” cried he, “empty! and who will pay the bill?”
This thought terrified him so much that he got up and made instantly for the door, through which he quickly disappeared. As he approached the convent, his fears grew strong, and seeing a concourse of monks standing talking on the threshold, he felt inclined to fly. But some of them approached to meet him; he knew flight was hopeless, and resigned himself. The monks seemed at first to hesitate to speak to him, but at last one said:
“Poor dear brother!”
Gorenflot sighed, and raised his eyes to Heaven.
“You know the prior waits for you?”
“Ah! mon Dieu!”
“Oh! yes; he ordered that you should be brought to him as soon as you came in.”
“I feared it,” said Gorenflot. And more dead than alive, he entered the convent, whose doors closed on him. They led him to the prior. Gorenflot did not dare to raise his eyes, finding himself alone with his justly irritated superior.
“Ah! it is you at last,” said the abbé.
“Reverend sir ——”
“What anxiety you have given me.”
“You are too good, my father,” said Gorenflot, astonished at this indulgent tone.
“You feared to come in after the scene of last night?”
“I confess it.”
“Ah, dear brother, you have been very imprudent.”
“Let me explain, father.”
“There is no need of explanations; your sally ——”
“Oh! so much the better,” thought Gorenflot.
“I understand it perfectly. A moment of enthusiasm carried you away; enthusiasm is a holy virtue, but virtues, exaggerated become almost vices, and the most honorable sentiments, when carried to excess, are reprehensible.”
“Pardon, my father,” said Gorenflot, timidly, “but I do not understand. Of what sally do you speak?”
“Of yours last night.”
“Out of the convent?”
“No; in it. I am as good a Catholic as you, but your audacity frightened me.”
Gorenflot was puzzled. “Was I audacious?” asked he.
“More than that — rash.”
“Alas! you must pardon me, my father. I will endeavor to correct myself.”
“Yes; but meanwhile, I fear the consequences for you and for all of us. Had it passed among ourselves, it would have been nothing.”
“How, is it known to others?”
“Doubtless; you know well there were more than a hundred laymen listening to your discourse.”
“My discourse!” said Gorenflot, more and more astonished.
“I allow it was fine, and that the universal applause must have carried you on, but to propose to make a procession through the streets of Paris, with a helmet on your head and a partisan on your shoulder, appealing to all good Catholics, was rather too strong, you will allow.” Gorenflot looked bewildered.
“Now,” continued the prior, “this religious fervor, which burns so strongly in your heart, will injure you in Paris. I wish you therefore to go and expend it in the provinces.”
“An exile!” cried Gorenflot.
“If you remain here, much worse may happen to you, my dear brother.”
“What?”
“Perpetual imprisonment, or even death.”
Gorenflot grew frightfully pale; he could not understand how he had incurred all this by getting tipsy in an inn, and passing the night out of the convent.
“By submitting to this temporary exile, my dear brother, not only will you escape this danger, but you will plant the banner of our faith in the provinces, where such words are less dangerous than here, under the eyes of the king. Set off at once, then, brother; perhaps the archers are already out to arrest you.”
“The archers, I!” said Gorenflot.
“I advise you to go at once.”
“It is easy to say ‘go,’ but how am I to live?”
“Oh! nothing more easy. You will find plenty of partisans who will let you want for nothing. But go, in Heaven’s name, and do not come back till you are sent for.” And the prior, after embracing him, pushed him to the door. There he found all the community waiting for him, to touch his hands or his robe.
“Adieu!” said one, embracing him, “you are a holy man; do not forget me in your prayers.”
“I, a holy man!” thought Gorenflot.
“Adieu, brave champion of the faith,” said another.
“Adieu, martyr,” said a third, “the light will soon come.”
Thus was he conducted to the outside of the convent, and as he went away he exclaimed, “Devil take me, but either they are all mad, or I am.”
How Brother Gorenflot remained convinced that he was a somnambulist, and bitterly deplored this infirmity.
Until the day when this unmerited persecution fell on Brother Gorenflot, he had led a contemplative and easy life, diverting himself on occasions at the Corne d’Abondance, when he had gained a little money from the faithful. He was one of those monks for whom the world began at the prior of the convent, and finished at the cook. And now he was sent forth to seek for adventures. He had no money; so that when out of Paris and he heard eleven o’clock (the time for dinner at the convent) strike, he sat down in dejection. His first idea was to return to the convent, and ask to be put in confinement, instead of being sent in to exile, and even to submit to the discipline, provided they would insure him his repasts. His next was more reasonable. He would go to the Corne d’Abondance, send for Chicot, explain to him the lamentable situation into which he had helped to bring him, and obtain aid from this generous friend. He was sitting absorbed in these reflections, when he heard the sound of a horse’s feet approaching. In great fear, he hid behind a tree until the traveler should have passed; but a new idea struck him. He would endeavor to obtain some money for his dinner. So he approached tremblingly, and said, “Monsieur, if five patera, and five aves for the success of your projects would be agreeable to you ——”
“Gorenflot!” cried the cavalier.
“M. Chicot!”
“Where the devil are you going?”
“I do not know. And you?”
“Oh! I am going straight before me.”
“Very far?”
“Till I stop. But you — what are you doing outside the barriers?”
“Alas! M. Chicot! I am proscribed,” said Gorenflot, with an enormous sigh.
“What?”
“Proscribed, I tell you. My brothers reject me from their bosom: I am anathematized, excommunicated.”
“Bah! what for?”
“Listen, M. Chicot; you will not believe me, perhaps, but I do not know.”
“Perhaps you were met last night gadding about.”
“Do not joke; you know quite well what I was doing last night.”
“Yes, from eight till ten, but not from ten till three.”
“How, from ten till three?”
“Yes, at ten you went out.”
“I?”
“Yes, and I asked you where you were going.”
“And what did I say?”
“That you were going to pronounce a discourse.”
“There was some truth in that,” murmured Gorenflot.
“Yes, and you even told me part of it; it was very long, and there were terrible things against the king in it.”
“Bah!”
“So terrible, that I should not wonder if you were arrested for them.”
“M. Chicot, you open my eyes; did I seem quite awake when I spoke?”
“I must say you seemed very strange; you looked like a man who talks in his sleep.”
“Yet, I feel sure I awoke this morning at the Corne d’Abondance.”
“Well, of course; you came in again at three o’clock. I know; you left the door open, and made me cold.”
“It is true, then?”
“True! ask M. Boutromet.”
“M. Boutromet?”
“Yes, he opened to you on your return. And you were so full of pride when you came in, that I said to you — ‘Fie, compère; pride does not become mortals, more especially monks.’”
“And of what was I proud?”
“Of the success your discourse had met with, and the compliments paid to you by the Duc de Guise and M. de Mayenne.”
“Now I understand all.”
“That is lucky. Then you confess you went to the assembly; what did you call it? Oh! the Holy Union.”
Gorenflot groaned. “I am a somnambulist,” he said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means, that with me mind is stronger than matter; so that while the body sleeps, the spirit wakes, and sometimes is so powerful that it forces the body to obey.”
“Ah! compère, that sounds much like magic; if you are possessed, tell me so frankly; for, really a man who walks and makes discourses in his sleep in which he attacks the king is not natural. Vade retro, Satanas!”
“Then,” cried Gorenflot, “you abandon me also. Ah! I could not have believed that of you.”
Chicot took pity on him. “What did you tell me just now?” said he.
“I do not know; I feel half mad, and my stomach is empty.”
“You spoke of traveling.”
“Yes, the holy prior sends me.”
“Where to?”
“Wherever I like.”
“I also am traveling, and will take you with me.”
Gorenflot looked bewildered.
“Well! do you accept?” continued Chicot.
“Accept! I should think so. But have you money to travel with?”
“Look,” said Chicot, drawing out his purse.
Gorenflot jumped for joy.
“How much?” said he.
“One hundred and fifty pistoles.”
“And where are we going?”
“You shall see.”
“When shall we breakfast?”
“Immediately.”
“What shall I ride?”
“Not my horse; you would kill it.”
“Then what must I do?”
“Nothing more simple; I will buy you an ass.”
“You are my benefactor, M. Chicot. Let the ass be strong. Now, where do we breakfast?”
“Here; look over this door and read.”
Gorenflot looked up, and saw, “Here eggs, ham, eel-pies, and white wine may be had!” At this sight, Gorenflot’s whole face expanded with joy.
“Now,” said Chicot, “go and get your breakfast, while I go and look for an ass for you.”
How Brother Gorenflot traveled upon an ass, named Panurge, and learned many things he did not know before.
What made Chicot so indifferent to his own repast was, that he had already breakfasted plentifully. Therefore, he sat Gorenflot down to eggs and bacon, while he went among the peasants to look for an ass. He found a pacific creature, four years old, and something between an ass and a horse; gave twenty-two livres for it, and brought it to Gorenflot, who was enchanted at the sight of it, and christened it Panurge. Chicot, seeing by the look of the table that there would be no cruelty in staying his companion’s repast, said —
“Come, now we must go on; at Mélun we will lunch.”
Gorenflot got up, merely saying, “At Mélun, at Mélun.”
They went on for about four leagues, then Gorenflot lay down on the grass to sleep, while Chicot began to calculate.
“One hundred and twenty leagues, at ten leagues a day, would take twelve days.” It was as much as he could reasonably expect from the combined forces of a monk and an ass. But Chicot shook his head. “It will not do,” he said, “if he wants to follow me, he must do fifteen.”
He pushed the monk to wake him, who, opening his eyes, said, “Are we at Mélun? I am hungry.”
“Not yet, compère, and that is why I woke you; we must get on; we go too slow, ventre de biche!”
“Oh, no, dear M. Chicot; it is so fatiguing to go fast. Besides, there is no hurry: am I not traveling for the propagation of the faith, and you for pleasure? Well, the slower we go, the better the faith will be propagated, and the more you will amuse yourself. My advice is to stay some days at Mélun, where they make excellent eel-pies. What do you say, M. Chicot?”
“I say, that my opinion is to go as fast as possible; not to lunch at Mélun, but only to sup at Monterau, to make up for lost time.”
Gorenflot looked at his companion as if he did not understand.
“Come, let us get on,” said Chicot.
The monk sat still and groaned.
“If you wish to stay behind and travel at your ease, you are welcome.”
“No, no!” cried Gorenflot, in terror; “no, no, M. Chicot; I love you too much to leave you!”
“Then to your saddle at once.”
Gorenflot got on his ass this time sideways, as a lady sits, saying it was more comfortable; but the fact was that, fearing they were to go faster, he wished to be able to hold on both by mane and tail.
Chicot began to trot, and the ass followed. The first moments were terrible for Gorenflot, but he managed to keep his seat. From time to time Chicot stood up in his stirrups and looked forward, then, not seeing what he looked for, redoubled his speed.
“What are you looking for, dear M. Chicot?”
“Nothing; but we are not getting on.”
“Not getting on! we are trotting all the way.”
“Gallop then!” and he began to canter.
Panurge again followed; Gorenflot was in agonies.
“Oh, M. Chicot!” said he, as soon as he could speak, “do you call this traveling for pleasure? It does not amuse me at all.”
“On! on!”
“It is dreadful!”
“Stay behind then!”
“Panurge can do no more; he is stopping.”
“Then adieu, compère!”
Gorenflot felt half inclined to reply in the same manner, but he remembered that the horse, whom he felt ready to curse, bore on his back a man with a hundred and fifty pistoles in his pocket, so he resigned himself, and beat his ass to make him gallop once more.
“I shall kill my poor Panurge!” cried he dolefully, thinking to move Chicot.
“Well, kill him,” said Chicot quietly, “and we will buy another.”
All at once Chicot, on arriving at the top of a hill, reined in his horse suddenly. But the ass, having once taken it into his head to gallop, was not so easily stopped, and Gorenflot was forced to let himself slide off and hang on to the donkey with all his weight before he could stop him.
“Ah, M. Chicot!” cried he, “what does it all mean? First we must gallop fit to break our necks, and then we must stop short here!”
Chicot had hidden himself behind a rock, and was eagerly watching three men who, about two hundred yards in advance, were traveling on quietly on their mules, and he did not reply.
“I am tired and hungry!” continued Gorenflot angrily.
“And so am I,” said Chicot; “and at the first hotel we come to we will order a couple of fricasseed chickens, some ham, and a jug of their best wine.”
“Really, is it true this time?”
“I promise you, compère.”
“Well, then, let us go and seek it. Come, Panurge, you shall have some dinner.”
Chicot remounted his horse, and Gorenflot led his ass. The much-desired inn soon appeared, but, to the surprise of Gorenflot, Chicot caused him to make a detour and pass round the back. At the front door were standing the three travelers.