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How d’Epernon had his doublet torn, and how Chomberg was stained blue.
While M. la Hurière piled signature upon signature, while Chicot consigned Gorenflot to the Corne d’Abondance, while Bussy returned to life in the happy little garden full of perfume and love, the king, annoyed at all he had seen in the city, and furious against his brother, whom he had seen pass in the Rue St. Honoré, accompanied by MM. de Guise and Monsoreau, and followed by a whole train of gentlemen, reentered the Louvre, accompanied by Maugiron and Quelus. He had gone out with all four of his friends, but, at some steps from the Louvre, Schomberg and D’Epernon had profited by the first crush to disappear, counting on some adventures in such a turbulent night. Before they had gone one hundred yards D’Epernon had passed his sword-sheath between the legs of a citizen who was running, and who tumbled down in consequence, and Schomberg had pulled the cap off the head of a young and pretty woman. But both had badly chosen their day for attacking these good Parisians, generally so patient; for a spirit of revolt was prevalent in the streets, and the bourgeois rose, crying out for aid, and the husband of the young woman launched his apprentices on Schomberg. He was brave; therefore he stopped, put his hand on his sword, and spoke in a high tone. D’Epernon was prudent; he fled.
Henri had entered his room at the Louvre, and, seated in his great armchair, was trembling with impatience, and seeking a good pretext for getting into a passion. Maugiron was playing with Narcissus, the large greyhound, and Quelus was sitting near.
“They go on!” cried Henri, “their plot advances; sometimes tigers, sometimes serpents; when they do not spring they glide.”
“Oh, sire!” said Quelus, “are there not always plots in a kingdom? What the devil could all the sons, brothers, and cousins of kings do if they did not plot?” And Quelus irreverently turned his back to the king.
“Hear, Maugiron,” said the king, “with what nonsense he tries to put me off.”
“Well, sire, look at Narcissus; he is a good dog, but when you pull his ears, he growls, and when you tread on his toes he bites.”
“Here is the other comparing me to my dog!”
“Not so, sire; I place Narcissus far above you, for he knows how to defend himself, and you do not.” And he also turned his back.
“That is right,” cried the king, “my good friends, for whom they accuse me of despoiling the kingdom, abandon me, insult me! Ah, Chicot! if you were here.”
At this moment, however, the door opened, and D’Epernon appeared, without hat or cloak, and with his doublet all torn.
“Bon Dieu!” cried Henri, “what is the matter?”
“Sire,” said D’Epernon, “look at me; see how they treat the friends of your majesty.”
“Who has treated you thus?”
“Mordieu, your people; or rather the people of; M. le Duc d’Anjou, who cried, ‘Vive la Messe!’ ‘Vive Guise!’ ‘Vive Fran?ois! — vive everyone, in fact, except the king.”
“And what did you do to be treated thus?”
“I? nothing. What can a man do to a people? They recognized me for your majesty’s friend, and that was enough.”
“But Schomberg?”
“Well?”
“Did he not come to your aid? did he not defend you?”
“Corboeuf! he had enough to do on his own account.”
“How so?”
“I left him in the hands of a dyer whose wife’s cap he had pulled off, and who, with his five or six apprentices, seemed likely to make him pass an unpleasant quarter of an hour.”
“Par la mordieu! and where did you leave my poor Schomberg? I will go myself to his aid. They may say,” continued he, looking at Maugiron and Quelus, “that my friends abandon me, but they shall never say that I abandon them.”
“Thanks, sire,” said a voice behind Henri; “thanks, but here I am; I extricated myself without assistance; but, mein Gott! it was not without trouble.”
“It is Schomberg’s voice,” cried all, “but where the devil is he?”
“Here I am,” cried the voice; and indeed, in the corner of the room they saw something that looked not like a man but a shadow.
“Schomberg,” cried the king, “where do you come from, and why are you that color?”
Indeed, Schomberg from head to foot was of a most beautiful blue.
“Der Teufel!” cried he, “the wretches! It is not wonderful that the people ran after me.”
“But what is the matter?”
“The matter is, that they dipped me in a vat, the knaves; I believed that it was only water, but it was indigo.”
“Oh, mordieu!” cried Quelus, bursting out laughing, “indigo is very dear; you must have carried away at least twenty crowns’ worth of indigo.”
“I wish you had been in my place.”
“And you did not kill any one?”
“I left my poniard somewhere, that is all I know, up to the hilt in a sheath of flesh; but in a second I was taken, carried off, dipped in the vat, and almost drowned.”
“And how did you get out of their hands?”
“By committing a cowardice, sire.”
“What was that?”
“Crying, ‘Vive la Ligue!’”
“That was like me; only they made me add, ‘Vive le Duc d’Anjou!’” said D’Epernon.
“And I also,” cried Schomberg; “but that is not all.”
“What, my poor Schomberg, did they make you cry something else?”
“No, that was enough, God knows; but just as I cried, ‘Vive le Duc d’Anjou,’ guess who passed.”
“How can I guess?”
“Bussy; his cursed Bussy, who heard me.”
“He could not understand.”
“Parbleu! it was not difficult to understand. I had a poniard at my throat, and I was in a vat.”
“And he did not come to your rescue?”
“It seemed as though he was in a dreadful hurry; he scarcely seemed to touch the ground.”
“Perhaps he did not recognize you, as you were blue.”
“Ah! very likely.”
“He would be excusable,” said the king; “for, indeed, my poor Schomberg, I should hardly have known you myself.”
“Never mind; we shall meet some other time, when I am not in a vat.”
“Oh! as for me,” said D’Epernon, “it is his master I should like to punish.”
“The Duc d’Anjou, whose praises they are singing all over Paris,” said Quelus.
“The fact is, that he is master of Paris to-night,” said D’Epernon.
“Ah, my brother! my brother!” cried the king. “Ah! yes, sire; you cry, ‘my brother,’ but you do nothing against him; and yet it is clear to me that he is at the head of some plot.” said Schomberg.
“Eh, mordieu! that is what I was saying just before you came in, to these gentlemen, and they replied by shrugging their shoulders and turning their backs.”
“Not because you said there was a plot, sire, but because you do nothing to suppress it.”
“And, now,” said Quelus, “we say, ‘Save us,’ sire; or rather, save yourself; tomorrow M. de Guise will come to the Louvre, and ask you to name a chief for the League; if you name M. d’Anjou, as you promised, he, at the head of one hundred thousand Parisians, excited by this night, can do what he likes.”
“Then,” said Henri, “if I take a decisive step, you will support me?”
“Yes, sire.”
“If, sire, you will only give me time to remodel my dress,” said D’Epernon.
“Go to my room, D’Epernon; my valet de chambre will give you what you want.”
“And I, sire, must have a bath,” said Schomberg.
“Go to my bath.”
“Then I may hope, sire, that my insult will not remain unavenged.”
Henri remained silent a moment, and then said, “Quelus, ask if M. d’Anjou has returned to the Louvre.”
Quelus went, but came back, and said that the duke had not yet returned.
“Well, you, Quelus and Maugiron, go down and watch for his entrance.”
“And then?”
“Have all the doors shut.”
“Bravo! sire.”
“I will be back in ten minutes, sire,” said D’Epernon.
“And my stay will depend on the quality of the dye,” said Schomberg.
“Come as soon as possible,” said the king.
The young men went out, and the king, left alone, kneeled down on his prie-Dieu.
Chicot More than Ever King of France.
The gates of the Louvre were generally closed at twelve, but the king gave orders that they should be left open on this night till one. At a quarter to one Quelus came up.
“Sire,” said he, “the duke has come in.”
“What is Maugiron doing?”
“Watching that he does not go out again.”
“There is no danger.”
“Then ——”
“Let him go to bed quietly. Whom has he with him?”
“M. de Monsoreau and his ordinary gentlemen.”
“And M. de Bussy?”
“No; he is not there.”
“So much the better.”
“What are your orders, sire?”
“Tell Schomberg and D’Epernon to be quick, and let M. de Monsoreau know that I wish to speak to him.”
Five minutes after, Schomberg and D’Epernon entered; the former with only a slight blue tint left, which it would take several baths to eradicate, and the latter newly clothed. After them, M. de Monsoreau appeared. “The captain of the guards has just announced to me that your majesty did me the honor to send for me,” said he.
“Yes, monsieur; when I was out this evening, I saw the stars so brilliant, and the moon so clear, that I thought it would be splendid weather for the chase tomorrow; so, M. le Comte, set off at once for Vincennes, and get a stag turned out ready for me.”
“But, sire, I thought that tomorrow your majesty had given a rendezvous to Monsieur le Duc d’Anjou and M. de Guise, in order to name a chief for the League.”
“Well, monsieur?” said the king haughtily.
“Sire, there might not be time.”
“There is always time, monsieur, for those who know how to employ it; that is why I tell you to set off at once, so that you may have all ready for tomorrow morning at ten. Quelus, Schomberg, have the door of the Louvre opened for M. de Monsoreau, and have it closed behind him.”
The chief huntsman retired in astonishment. “It is a whim of the king’s,” said he to the young men.
“Yes.”
They watched him out, and then returned to the king.
“Now,” said Henri, “silence, and all four of you follow me.”
“Where are we going, sire?” said D’Epernon.
“Those who follow will see.”
The king took a lantern in his hand, and led the young men along the secret corridor, which led to his brother’s rooms. A valet-dechambre watched here; but before he had time to warn his master, Henri ordered him to be silent, and the young men pushed him into a room and locked the door.
Henri opened his brother’s door. Fran?ois had gone to bed full of dreams of ambition, which the events of the evening had nourished; he had heard his name exalted, and the king’s abused. Conducted by the Duc de Guise, he had seen the Parisians open everywhere for him and his gentlemen, while those of the king were insulted and hooted. Never since the commencement of his career had he been so popular, and consequently so hopeful. He had placed on the table a letter from M. de Guise, which had been brought to him by M. de Monsoreau. His surprise and terror were great when he saw the secret door open, and still more when he recognized the king. Henri signed to his companions to remain on the threshold, and advanced to the bed, frowning, but silent.
“Sire,” stammered the duke, “the honor that your majesty does me is so unlooked for ——”
“That it frightens you, does it not? But stay where you are, my brother; do not rise.”
“But, sire, only — permit me ——” and he drew towards him the letter of M. de Guise.
“You are reading?” asked the king.
“Yes, sire.”
“Something interesting to keep you awake at this time of night?”
“Oh, sire, nothing very important; the evening courier ——”
“Oh, yes, I understand — Courier of Venus; but no, I see I am wrong — they do not seal billet-doux with seals of that size.”
The duke hid the letter altogether.
“How discreet this dear Fran?ois is!” said the king, with a smile which frightened his brother. However, making an effort to recover himself, he said:
“Did your majesty wish to say anything particular to me?”
“What I have to say to you, monsieur, I wish to say before witnesses. Here, gentlemen,” continued he, turning to the four young men, “listen to us; I order you.”
“Sire,” said the duke, with a glance full of rage and hatred, “before insulting a man of my rank, you should have refused me the hospitality of the Louvre; in the Hotel d’Anjou, at least, I should have been free to reply to you.”
“Really, you forget, then, that wherever you are, you are my subject; that I am the king, and that every house is mine.”
“Sire, I am at the Louvre, at my mother’s.”
“And your mother is in my house. But to the point — give me that paper.”
“Which?”
“That which you were reading, which was on your table, and which you hid when I came in.”
“Sire, reflect.”
“On what?”
“On this, that you are making a request unworthy of a gentleman, and fit only for a police-officer.”
The king grew livid. “That letter, monsieur!”
“A woman’s letter, sire.”
“There are some women’s letters very good to see, and dangerous not to see — such as those our mother writes.”
“Brother!”
“This letter, monsieur!” cried the king, stamping his foot, “or I will have it torn from you by my Swiss!”
The duke jumped out of bed, with the letter crumpled in his hand, evidently with the intention of approaching the fire. But Henri, divining his intention, placed himself between him and the fire.
“You would not treat your brother thus?” cried the duke.
“Not my brother, but my mortal enemy. Not my brother, but the Duc D’Anjou, who went all through Paris with M. de Guise, who tries to hide from me a letter from one of his accomplices, the Lorraine princes.”
“This time,” said the duke, “your police are wrong.”
“I tell you I saw on the seal the three merlets of Lorraine. Give it to me, mordieu! or ——”
Henri advanced towards his brother and laid his hand on his shoulder. Fran?ois had no sooner felt the touch of his hand than, falling on his knees, he cried out, “Help! help! my brother is going to kill me.”
These words, uttered in an accent of profound terror, startled the king and mitigated his rage. The idea passed quickly through his mind that in their family, as by a curse, brother had always assassinated brother.
“No, my brother,” said he, “you are wrong; I do not wish to hurt you, but you cannot contend with me. I am the master, and if you did not know it before, you know it now.”
“Yes, my brother, I acknowledge it.”
“Very well, then give me that letter; the king orders it.”
The duke let it fall, and the king picked it up, but without reading it put it in his pocket-book.
“Is that all?” said the duke, with his sinister glance.
“No, monsieur, you must keep your room until my suspicions with respect to you are completely dissipated. The room is commodious, and not much like a prison; stay here. You will have good company — at least, outside the door, for this night these four gentlemen will guard you; tomorrow they will be relieved by a guard of Swiss.”
“But, my friends — cannot I see them?”
“Who do you call your friends?”
“M. de Monsoreau, M. de Ribeirac, M. Antragues, and M. de Bussy.”
“Oh, yes, he, of course.”
“Has he had the misfortune to displease your majesty?”
“Yes.”
“When, sire?”
“Always, but particularly to-night.”
“To-night! what did he do?”
“Insulted me in the streets of Paris.”
“You?”
“My followers, which is the same thing.”
“Bussy! you have been deceived, sire.”
“I know what I say.”
“Sire, M. de Bussy has not been out of his hotel for two days. He is at home, ill in bed, burning with fever.”
The king turned to Schomberg, who said, “If he had fever, at all events he had it in the Rue Coquillière.”
“Who told you he was there?” said the duke.
“I saw him.”
“You saw Bussy out of doors?”
“Yes, looking well and happy, and accompanied by his ordinary follower, that Rémy.”
“Then I do not understand it; I saw him in bed myself; he must have deceived me.”
“It is well; he will be punished with the rest,” said the king.
“If M. de Bussy went out alone after refusing to go out with me ——”
“You hear, gentlemen, what my brother says. But we will talk of him another time; now I recommend my brother to your care; you will have the honor of serving as guard to a prince of the blood.”
“Oh! sire,” said Quelus, “be satisfied; we know what we owe to M. le Duc.”
“It is well; adieu, gentlemen.”
“Sire,” cried the duke, “am I really a prisoner, are my friends not to visit me, and am I not to go out?” And the idea of the next day presented itself to his mind, when his presence would be so necessary to M. de Guise. “Sire,” cried he again, “let me at least remain near your majesty; it is my place, and I can be as well guarded there as elsewhere. Sire, grant me this favor.”
The king was about to yield to this request and say, “Yes,” when his attention was attracted to the door, where a long body, with its arms, its head, and everything that it could move, was making signs to him to say “No.” It was Chicot.
“No,” said Henri to his brother; “you are very well here, and here you must stay.”
“Sire ——”
“It is my pleasure, and that is enough,” said the king, haughtily.
“I said I was the real King of France,” murmured Chicot.
How Chicot Paid a Visit to Bussy, and what Followed.
The next morning, about nine, Bussy was eating his breakfast, and talking with Rémy over the events of the previous day.
“Rémy,” said he, “did you not think you had seen somewhere that gentleman whom they were dipping in a vat in the Rue Coquillière?”
“Yes, M. le Comte, but I cannot think of his name.”
“I ought to have helped him,” said Bussy, “it is a duty one gentleman owes to another; but, really, Rémy, I was too much occupied with my own affairs.”
“But he must have recognized us, for we were our natural color, and it seemed to me that he rolled his eyes frightfully, and shook his fist at us.”
“Are you sure of that, Rémy? We must find out who it was; I cannot let such an insult pass.”
“Oh!” cried Rémy, “I know now who he was.”
“How so?”
“I heard him swear.”
“I should think so; any one would have sworn in such a situation.”
“Yes, but he swore in German.”
“Bah!”
“Yes, he said, ‘Gott verdomme.’”
“Then it was Schomberg?”
“Himself, M. le Comte.”
“Then, my dear Rémy, get your salves ready.”
“Why so, monsieur?”
“Because, before long, you will have to apply them either to his skin or to mine.”
“You would not be so foolish as to get killed, now you are so well and so happy; St. Marie l’Egyptienne has cured you once, but she will get tired of working miracles for you.”
“On the contrary, Rémy, you cannot tell how pleasant it feels to risk your life when you are happy. I assure you I never fought with a good heart when I had lost large sums at play, when things had gone wrong, or when I had anything to reproach myself with; but when my purse is full, my heart light, and my conscience clear, I go boldly to the field, for I am sure of my hand; it is then I am brilliant. I should fight well today, Rémy, for, thanks to you,” said he, extending his hand to the young man, “I am very happy.”
“Stay a moment, however; you will, I hope, deprive yourself of this pleasure. A beautiful lady of my acquaintance made me swear to keep you safe and sound, under pretext that your life belongs to her.”
“Good Rémy!”
“You call me good Rémy, because I brought you to see Madame de Monsoreau, but shall you call me so when you are separated from her? and unluckily the day approaches, if it be not come.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you not know that she is going to Anjou, and that I myself have the grief of being separated from Gertrude. Ah ——”
Bussy could not help smiling at the pretended grief of the young man.
“You love her, then?” he said.
“I should think so; you should see how she beats me.”
“And you let her do it?”
“Oh! yes.”
“But to return to Diana, Rémy; when shall we set off?”
“Ah! I expected that. On the latest possible day I should say.”
“Why so?”
“Firstly, because it seems to me that M. le Duc d’Anjou will want you here.”
“After?”
“Because M. de Monsoreau, by a special blessing, does not suspect you in the least, and would suspect something immediately if he saw you disappear from Paris at the same time as his wife.”
“What do I care for that?”
“No; but I care. I charge myself with curing the sword strokes received in duels, for, as you manage your sword well, you never receive very serious ones; but not the blows given secretly by jealous husbands; they are animals, who, in such cases, strike hard.”
“Well I my dear friend, if it is my destiny to be killed by M. de Monsoreau.”
“Well!”
“Well! he will kill me.”
“And then, a week after, Madame de Monsoreau will be reconciled to her husband, which will dreadfully enrage your poor soul, which will see it from above or below, without being able to prevent it.”
“You are right, Rémy; I will live.”
“Quite right; but that is not all, you must be charmingly polite to him; he is frightfully jealous of the Duc d’Anjou, who, while you were ill in bed, promenaded before the house with his Aurilly. Make advances, then, to this charming husband, and do not even ask him what has become of his wife, since you know quite well.”
“You are right, Rémy, I believe. Now I am no longer jealous of the bear, I will be civil to him.”
At this moment some one knocked at the door.
“Who is there?” cried Bussy.
“Monsieur,” replied a page, “there is a gentleman below who wishes to speak to you.”
“To speak to me so early; who is it?”
“A tall gentleman, dressed in green velvet.”
“Can it be Schomberg?”
“He said a tall man.”
“True, then Monsoreau, perhaps; well, let him enter.” After a minute the visitor entered.
“M. Chicot!” cried Bussy.
“Himself, M. le Comte.”
Rémy retired into another room, and then Chicot said, “Monsieur, I come to propose to you a little bargain.”
“Speak, monsieur,” said Bussy, in great surprise.
“What will you promise me if I render you a great service?”
“That depends on the service, monsieur,” replied Bussy, disdainfully.
Chicot feigned not to remark this air of disdain. “Monsieur,” said he, sitting down and crossing his long legs, “I remark that you do not ask me to sit down.”
The color mounted to Bussy’s face.
“Monsieur,” continued Chicot, “have you heard of the League?”
“I have heard much of it,” said Bussy.
“Well, monsieur, you ought to know that it is an association of honest Christians, united for the purpose of religiously massacring their neighbors, the Huguenots. Are you of the League, monsieur? I am.”
“But — monsieur ——”
“Say only yes, or no.”
“Allow me to express my astonishment ——”
“I did myself the honor of asking you if you belonged to the League.”
“M. Chicot, as I do not like questions whose import I do not understand, I beg you to change the conversation before I am forced to tell you that I do not like questioners. Come, M. Chicot, we have but a few minutes left.”
“Well! in a few minutes one can say a great deal; however, I might have dispensed with asking you the question, as if you do not belong to the League now, you soon will, as M. d’Anjou does.”
“M. d’Anjou! Who told you that?”
“Himself, speaking to me in person, as the gentlemen of the law say, or rather write; for example, that dear M. Nicolas David, that star of the Forum Parisiense. Now you understand that as M. d’Anjou belongs to the League, you cannot help belonging to it also; you, who are his right arm. The League knows better than to accept a maimed chief.”
“Well, M. Chicot, what then?”
“Why, if you do belong to it, or they think you are likely to do so, what has happened to his royal highness will certainly happen to you.”
“And what has happened to him?”
“Monsieur,” said Chicot, rising and imitating M. de Bussy’s manner of a little before, “I do not love questions, nor questioners, therefore I have a great mind to let them do to you what they have done to-night to the duke.”
“M. Chicot,” said Bussy, with a smile, “speak, I beg of you; where is the duke?”
“He is in prison?”
“Where?”
“In his own room. Four of my good friends guard him. M. de Schomberg, who was dyed blue yesterday, as you know, since you passed during the operation; M. d’Epernon, who is yellow from the fright he had; M. de Quelus, who is red with anger; and M. de Maugiron, who is white with ennui; it is beautiful to see; not to speak of the duke, who is going green with terror, so that we shall have a perfect rainbow to delight our eyes.”
“Then, monsieur, you think my liberty in danger?”
“Danger! monsieur; suppose that they are already on the way to arrest you.”
Bussy shuddered.
“Do you like the Bastile, M. de Bussy? it is a good place for meditation, and M. Laurent Testu, the governor, keeps a good cook.”
“They would send me to the Bastile?”
“Ma foi! I ought to have in my pocket something like an order to conduct you there. Would you like to see it?” and Chicot drew from his pocket an order from the king in due form, to apprehend, wherever he might be, M. Louis de Clermont, Seigneur de Bussy. “Written very nicely by M. Quelus,” continued Chicot.
“Then, monsieur,” cried Bussy, “you are really rendering me a service?”
“I think so; do you agree with me?”
“Monsieur, I beg you to tell me why you do it; for you love the king, and he hates me.”
“M. le Comte, I save you; think what you please of my action. But do you forget that I asked for a recompense?”
“Ah, true.”
“Well?”
“Most willingly, monsieur.”
“Then some day you will do what I ask you?”
“On my honor, if possible.”
“That is enough. Now mount your horse and disappear; I go to carry this order to those who are to use it.”
“Then you were not to arrest me yourself?”
“I! for what do you take me?”
“But I should abandon my master.”
“Have no scruples; he abandons you.”
“You are a gentleman, M. Chicot.”
Bussy called Rémy. To do him justice, he was listening at the door.
“Rémy, our horses!”
“They are saddled, monsieur.”
“Ah!” said Chicot, “this young man knows what he is about.”
Bussy thanked Chicot once more, and went down.
“Where are we going?” said Rémy.
“Well ——” said Bussy, hesitating.
“What do you say to Normandy?” said Chicot.
“It is too near.”
“Flanders, then?”
“Too far.”
“Anjou is a reasonable distance, monsieur,” said Rémy.
“Well, then, Anjou,” said Bussy, coloring.
“Adieu, monsieur!” said Chicot.
“It is destiny,” said Rémy, when he was gone.
“Let us be quick, and perhaps we may overtake her,” said Bussy.
The Chess of M. Chicot, and the Cup and Ball of M. Quelus.
Chicot returned joyfully to the Louvre. It was a great satisfaction to him to have saved a brave gentleman like Bussy.
M. de Guise, after having received in the morning the principal Leaguers, who came to bring him the registers filled with signatures, and after having made them all swear to recognize the chief that the king should appoint, went out to visit M. d’Anjou, whom he had lost sight of about ten the evening before. The duke found the prince’s valet rather unquiet at his master’s absence, but he imagined that he had slept at the Louvre.
The Due de Guise asked to speak to Aurilly, who was most likely to know where his master was. Aurilly came, but stated he had been separated from the prince the evening before by a pressure of the crowd, and had come to the H?tel d’Anjou to wait for him, not knowing that his highness had intended to sleep at the Louvre. He added that he had just sent to the Louvre to inquire, and that a message had been returned that the duke was still asleep.
“Asleep at eleven o’clock! not likely. You ought to go to the Louvre, Aurilly.”
“I did think of it, monseigneur, but I feared that this was only a tale invented to satisfy my messenger, and that the prince was seeking pleasure elsewhere, and might be annoyed at my seeking him.”
“Oh, no; the duke has too much sense to be pleasure-seeking on a day like this. Go to the Louvre; you will be sure to find him there.”
“I will if you wish it; but what shall I say to him?”
“Say that the convocation at the Louvre is fixed for two o’clock, and that it is necessary that we should have a conference first. It is not at the time when the king is about to choose a chief for the League that he should be sleeping.”
“Very well, monseigneur, I will beg his highness to come here.”
“And say that I am waiting impatiently for him. Meanwhile I will go and seek M. de Bussy.”
“But if I do not find his highness, what am I to do?”
“Then make no further search for him. In any event I shall be at the Louvre at a quarter before two.”
Aurilly passed through the courtiers who crowded the Louvre, and made his way to the duke’s apartments. At the door he found Chicot playing chess. Aurilly tried to pass, but Chicot, with his long legs blocked up the doorway. He was forced to touch him on the shoulder.
“Ah, it is you, M. Aurilly.”
“What are you doing, M. Chicot?”
“Playing chess, as you see.”
“All alone?”
“Yes, I am studying; do you play?”
“Very little.”
“Yes, I know you are a musician, and music is so difficult an art, that those who give themselves to it must sacrifice all their time.”
“You seem very serious over your game.”
“Yes, it is my king who disquiets me; you must know, M. Aurilly, that at chess the king is a very insignificant person, who has no will, who can only go one step forward or back, or one to the right or left, while he is surrounded by active enemies, by knights who jump three squares at a time, by a crowd of pawns who surround him, so that if he be badly counseled he is a ruined king in no time, ma foi.”
“But, M. Chicot, how does it happen that you are studying this at the door of his royal highness’ room?”
“Because I am waiting for M. Quelus, who is in there.”
“Where?”
“With his highness.”
“With his highness! What is he doing there? I did not think they were such friends.”
“Hush!” then he whispered in Aurilly’s ear “he is come to ask pardon of the duke for a little quarrel they had yesterday.”
“Really!”
“It was the king who insisted on it; you know on what excellent terms the brothers are just now. The king would not suffer an impertinence of Quelus’s to pass, and ordered him to apologize.”
“Really!”
“Ah! M. Aurilly, I think that we are entering the golden age; the Louvre is about to become Arcadia, and the two brothers Arcades ambo.”
Aurilly smiled, and passed into the ante-chamber, where he was courteously saluted by Quelus, between whose hands a superb cup and ball of ebony inlaid with ivory was making rapid evolutions.
“Bravo! M. Quelus,” said Aurilly.
“Ah! my dear M. Aurilly, when shall I play cup and ball as well as you play the lute?”
“When you have studied your plaything as long as I have my instrument. But where is monseigneur? I thought you were with him.”
“I have an audience with him, but Schomberg comes first.”
“What! M. de Schomberg, also!”
“Oh! mon Dieu; yes. The king settled all that. He is in the next room. Enter, M. Aurilly, and remind the prince that we are waiting for him.”
Aurilly opened the second door and saw Schomberg reclining on a kind of couch, from which he amused himself by sending from a tube little balls of earth through a gold ring, suspended from the ceiling by a silk thread, while a favorite dog brought him back the balls as they fell.
“Ah! guten morgen, M. Aurilly, you see I am amusing myself while I wait for my audience.”
“But where is monseigneur?”
“Oh! he is occupied in pardoning D’Epernon and Maugiron. But will you not enter, you who are privileged?”
“Perhaps it would be indiscreet.”
“Not at all; enter, M. Aurilly, enter.” And he pushed him into the next room, where the astonished musician perceived D’Epernon before a mirror, occupied in stiffening his mustachios, while Maugiron, seated near the window, was cutting out engravings, by the side of which the bas-reliefs on the temple of Venus Aphrodite would have looked holy.
The duke, without his sword, was in his armchair between these two men, who only looked at him to watch his movements, and only spoke to him to say something disagreeable: seeing Aurilly, he got up to meet him.
“Take care monseigneur,” said Maugiron, “you are stepping on my figures.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried the musician, “he insults my master!”
“Dear M. Aurilly,” said D’Epernon, still arranging his mustachois, “how are you?”
“Be so kind as to bring me here your little dagger,” said Maugiron.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, do you not remember where you are?”
“Yes, yes, my dear Orpheus, that is why I ask for your dagger; you see M. le Duc has none.”
“Aurilly!” cried the duke, in a tone full of grief and rage, “do you not see that I am a prisoner?”
“A prisoner! to whom?”
“To my brother; you might know that by my jailers.”
“Oh! if I had but guessed it.”
“You would have brought your lute to amuse his highness,” said a mocking voice behind them, “but I thought of it, and sent for it; here it is.”
“How does your chess go on, Chicot?” said D’Epernon.
“I believe I shall save the king, but it is not without trouble. Come, M. Aurilly, give me your poniard in return for the lute; a fair exchange.”
The astonished musician obeyed.
“There is one rat in the trap,” said Quelus, who returned to his post in the antechamber, only exchanging his cup and ball for Schomberg’s shooting tube.
“It is amusing to vary one’s pleasures,” said Chicot; “so for a change I will go and sign the League.”
The Reception of the Chiefs of the League.
The time for the great reception drew near. Paris, nearly as tumultuous as the evening before, had sent towards the Louvre its deputation of leaguers, its bodies of workmen, its sheriffs, its militia, and its constantly-increasing masses of spectators.
The king, on his throne in the great hall, was surrounded by his officers, his friends, his courtiers, and his family, waiting for all the corporations to defile before him, when M. de Monsoreau entered abruptly.
“Look, Henriquet,” said Chicot, who was standing near the king.
“At what?”
“At your chief huntsman; pardieu, he is well worth it. See how pale and dirty he is!”
Henri made a sign to M. de Monsoreau, who approached.
“How is it that you are at the Louvre, monsieur? I thought you at Vincennes.”
“Sire, the stag was turned off at seven o’clock this morning, but when noon came, and I had no news, I feared that some misfortune had happened to your majesty, and I returned.”
“Really!”
“Sire, if I have done wrong, attribute it to an excess of devotion.”
“Yes, monsieur, and I appreciate it.”
“Now,” said the count, hesitatingly, “if your majesty wishes me to return to Vincennes, as I am reassured ——”
“No, no, stay; this chase was a fancy which came into our head, and which went as it came; do not go away, I want near me devoted subjects, and you have just classed yourself as such.”
Monsoreau bowed, and said, “Where does your majesty wish me to remain?”
“Will you give him to me for half an hour?” said Chicot to the king, in a low voice.
“What for?”
“To torment him a little. You owe me some compensation for obliging me to be present at this tiresome ceremony.”
“Well, take him.”
“Where does your majesty wish me to stand?” again asked M. de Monsoreau.
“Where you like; go behind my armchair, that is where I put my friends.”
“Come here,” said Chicot, making room for M. de Monsoreau, “come and get the scent of these fellows. Here is game which can be tracked without a hound. Here are the shoemakers who pass, or rather, who have passed; then here are the tanners. Mort de ma vie! if you lose their scent, I will take away your place.”
M. de Monsoreau listened mechanically; he seemed preoccupied, and looked around him anxiously.
“Do you know what your chief huntsman is hunting for now?” said Chicot, in an undertone, to the king.
“No.”
“Your brother.”
“The game is not in sight.”
“Just ask him where his countess is.”
“What for?”
“Just ask.”
“M. le Comte,” said Henri, “what have you done with Madame de Monsoreau? I do not see her here.”
The count started, but replied, “Sire, she is ill, the air of Paris did not agree with her; so having obtained leave from the queen, she set out last night, with her father, for Méridor.”
“Paris is not good for women in her situation,” said Chicot.
Monsoreau grew pale and looked furiously at him.
“This poor countess!” continued Chicot, “she will die of ennui by the way.”
“I said that she traveled with her father.”
“A father is very respectable, I allow, but not very amusing; and if she had only that worthy baron to amuse her it would be sad; but luckily ——”
“What!” cried the count.
“What?”
“What do you mean by ‘luckily’?”
“Ah, it was an ellipsis I used.”
The count shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, but it was. Ask Henri, who is a man of letters.”
“Yes,” said the king; “but what did your adverb mean?”
“What adverb?”
“‘Luckily.’”
“‘Luckily’ means luckily. Luckily, then, there exist some of our friends, and very amusing ones, who, if they meet the countess, will amuse her, and as they are going the same way, it is probable they will. Oh, I see them from here; do you not, Henri; you, who are a man of imagination? There they go, on a good road, well mounted, and saying sweet things to Madame la Comtesse, which she likes very much, dear lady.”
M. de Monsoreau was furious, but he could not show it before the king; so he said as mildly as he could, “What, have you friends traveling to Anjou?”
“Good; pretend to be mysterious.”
“I swear to you ——”
“Oh! you know they are there, although I saw you just now seeking for them mechanically among the crowd.”
“You saw me?”
“Yes, you, the palest of all chief huntsmen, past, present, and future, from Nimrod to M. d’Aulefort, your predecessor.”
“M. Chicot!”
“The palest, I repeat.”
“Monsieur, will you return to the friends of whom you spoke, and be so good as to name them, if your super-abundant imagination will let you.”
“Seek, monsieur. Morbleu, it is your occupation to hunt out animals, witness the unlucky stag whom you deranged this morning, and who thought it very unkind of you. Seek.”
The eyes of M. de Monsoreau wandered anxiously again.
“What!” cried he, seeing a vacant place by the king, “not the Duc d’Anjou?”
“Taint! Taint! the beast is found.”
“He is gone today.”
“He is gone today, but it is possible that he set out last night. When did your brother disappear, Henri?”
“Last night.”
“The duke gone!” murmured Monsoreau, paler than ever.
“I do not say he is gone, I say only that he disappeared last night, and that his best friends do not know where he is,” said the king.
“Oh!” cried the count, “if I thought so ——”
“Well; what should you do? Besides, what harm if he does talk nonsense to Madame de Monsoreau? He is the gallant of the family, you know.”
“I am lost!” murmured the count, trying to go away. But Chicot detained him.
“Keep still; mordieu! you shake the king’s chair. Mort de ma vie, your wife will be quite happy with the prince to talk to, and M. Aurilly to play the lute to her.” Monsoreau trembled with anger.
“Quietly, monsieur,” continued Chicot; “hide your joy, here is the business beginning; you should not show your feelings so openly; listen to the discourse of the king.”
M. de Monsoreau was forced to keep quiet. M. de Guise entered and knelt before the king, not without throwing an uneasy glance of surprise on the vacant seat of M. d’Anjou. The king rose, and the heralds commanded silence.
How the King N axed a Chief who was neither the Duc de Guise nor M. d’Anjou.
“Gentlemen,” said the king, after assuring himself that his four friends, now replaced by ten Swiss, were behind him, “a king hears equally the voices which come to him from above and from below, that is to say, what is commanded by God, or asked by his people. I understand perfectly that there is a guarantee for my people, in the association of all classes which has been formed to defend the Catholic faith, and therefore I approve of the counsels of my cousin De Guise. I declare, then, the Holy League duly constituted, and as so great a body must have a powerful head, and as it is necessary that the chief called to sustain the Church should be one of its most zealous sons, I choose a Christian prince for the chief, and declare that this chief shall be”— he made a slight pause —“Henri de Valois, King of France and Poland.”
The Duc de Guise was thunderstruck. Large drops stood on his forehead, and he looked from one to the other of his brothers. All the leaguers uttered a murmur of surprise and discontent. The cardinal stole up to his brother, and whispered:
“Fran?ois; I fear we are no longer in safety here. Let us haste to take leave, for the populace is uncertain, and the king whom they execrated yesterday, will be their idol for two or three days.”
During this time the king had signed the act prepared beforehand by M. de Morvilliers, the only person, with the exception of the queen mother, who was in the secret, then he passed the pen to the Duc de Guise, saying:
“Sign, my cousin; there, below me, now pass it to M. le Cardinal and M. de Mayenne.”
But these two had already disappeared. The king remarked their absence, and added, “Then pass the pen to M. de Monsoreau.”
The duke did so, and was about to retire, but the king said, “Wait.”
And while the others signed, he added, “My cousin, it was your advice, I believe, to guard Paris with a good army, composed of all the forces of the League. The army is made, and the natural general of the Parisians is the king.”
“Assuredly, sire.”
“But I do not forget that there is another army to command, and that this belongs of right to the bravest soldier in my kingdom; therefore go and command the army.”
“And when am I to set out, sire?”
“Immediately.”
“Henri, Henri!” whispered Chicot; but, in spite of his signs and grimaces, the king gave the duke his brevet ready signed. He took it and retired, and was soon out of Paris. The rest of the assembly dispersed gradually, crying, “Vive le Roi! and Vive la Ligue!”
“Oh, sire!” cried the favorites, approaching the king, “what a sublime idea you have had!”
“They think that gold is going to rain on them like manna,” said Chicot, who followed his master about everywhere with lamentations. As soon as they were left alone, “Ah! M. Chicot!” said Henri, “you are never content. Diable! I do not ask even for complaisance, but for good sense.”
“You are right, Henri; it is what you want most.”
“Confess I have done well.”
“That is just what I do not think.”
“Ah! you are jealous, M. Roi de France.”
“I! Heaven forbid. I shall choose better subjects for jealousy.”
“Corbleu.”
“Oh! what self-love.”
“Am I or not king of the League?”
“Certainly you are; but ——”
“But what?”
“You are no longer King of France.”
“And who is king then?”
“Everybody, except you; firstly, your brother ——”
“My brother!”
“Yes, M. d’Anjou.”
“Whom I hold prisoner.”
“Yes, but prisoner as he is, he was consecrated.”
“By whom was he consecrated?”
“By the Cardinal de Guise. Really, Henri, you have a fine police. They consecrate a king at Paris before thirty-three people, in the church of St. Genevieve, and you do not know of it!”
“Oh! and you do?”
“Certainly I do.”
“How can you know what I do not?”
“Ah! because M. de Morvilliers manages your police, and I am my own.”
The king frowned.
“Well, then, without counting Henri de Valois, we have Fran?ois d’Anjou for king,” continued Chicot; “and then there is the Duc de Guise.”
“The Duc de Guise!”
“Yes, Henri de Guise, Henri le Balfré.”
“A fine king! whom I exile, whom I send to the army.”
“Good! as if you were not exiled to Poland; and La Charité is nearer to the Louvre than Cracow is. Ah, yes, you send him to the army — that is so clever; that is to say, you put thirty thousand men under his orders, ventre de biche! and a real army, not like your army of the League; no, no, an army of bourgeois is good for Henri de Valois, but Henri de Guise must have an army of soldiers — and what soldiers? hardened warriors, capable of destroying twenty armies of the League; so that if, being king in fact, Henri de Guise had the folly one day to wish to be so in name, he would only have to turn towards the capital, and say, ‘Let us swallow Paris, and Henri de Valois and the Louvre at a mouthful,’ and the rogues would do it. I know them.”
“You forget one thing in your argument, illustrious politician.”
“Ah, diable! it is possible! If you mean a fourth king ——”
“No; you forget that before thinking of reigning in France, when a Valois is on the throne, it would be necessary to look back and count your ancestors. That such an idea might come to M. d’Anjou is possible; his ancestors are mine, and it is only a question of primogeniture. But M. de Guise!”
“Ah! that is just where you are in error.”
“How so?”
“M. de Guise is of a better race than you think.”
“Better than me, perhaps,” said Henri, smiling.
“There is no perhaps in it.”
“You are mad. Learn to read, my friend.”
“Well, Henri, you who can read, read this;” and he drew from his pocket the genealogy which we know already, handing it to Henri, who turned pale as he recognized, near to the signature of the prelate, the seal of St. Peter.
“What do you say, Henri? Are not your fleur-delys thrown a little in the background?”
“But how did you get this genealogy?”
“I! Do I seek these things? It came to seek me.”
“Where?”
“Under the bolster of a lawyer.”
“And what was his name?”
“M. Nicolas David.”
“Where was he?”
“At Lyons.”
“And who took it from under the bolster?”
“One of my good friends.”
“Who is he?”
“A monk.”
“His name?”
“Gorenflot.”
“What! that abominable leaguer, who uttered those incendiary discourses at St. Genevieve, and again yesterday in the streets of Paris?”
“You remember the history of Brutus, who pretended to be a fool?”
“He is, then, a profound politician? Did he take it from the advocate?”
“Yes, by force.”
“Then he is brave?”
“Brave as Bayard.”
“And having done this, he has not asked for any recompense?”
“He returned humbly to his convent, and only asks me to forget that he ever came out.”
“Then he is modest?”
“As St. Crepin.”
“Chicot, your friend shall be made a prior on the first vacancy.”
“Thanks for him, Henri.”
“Ma foi!” said Chicot to himself, “if he escapes being hung by Mayenne, he will have an abbey.”
Eteocles and Polynices.
This day of the League terminated brilliantly and tumultuously, as it began. The friends of the king rejoiced, the preachers proposed to canonize Brother Henri, and spoke everywhere of the great deeds of the Valois. The favorites said, “The lion is roused.” The leaguers said, “The fox has discovered the snare.”
The three Lorraine princes, as we have seen, had left Paris, and their principal agent, M. de Monsoreau, was ready to start for Anjou. But as he was leaving the Louvre, Chicot stopped him.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” said he.
“To his highness.”
“His highness?”
“Yes, I am unquiet about him. We do not live in times when a prince ought to travel without a good escort.”
“Well, if you are unquiet, so am I.”
“About what?”
“About his highness also.”
“Why?”
“Do you not know what they say?”
“That he has gone to Anjou.”
“No; that he is dead.”
“Bah!” said Monsoreau, with a tone of surprise, not unmixed with joy, “you told me he was traveling.”
“Diable! they persuaded me so, but now I have good reason to think that if the poor prince be traveling, it is to another world.”
“What gives you these mournful ideas?”
“He entered the Louvre yesterday, did he not?”
“Certainly; I came in with him.”
“Well! he has never been seen to come out.”
“From the Louvre?”
“No.”
“Where is Aurilly?”
“Disappeared.”
“But his people?”
“Disappeared.”
“You are joking, are you not, M. Chicot?”
“Ask!”
“Whom?”
“The king.”
“I cannot question his majesty.”
“Oh! yes, if you go about it in the right way.”
“Well,” said the count. “I cannot remain in this uncertainty.” And leaving Chicot, he went to the king’s apartment.
“Where is the king?” he asked: “I have to render an account to him of the execution of some orders he gave me.”
“With M. le Duc d’Anjou,” replied the man.
“With the Duke; then he is not dead?”
“I am not so sure of that.”
M. de Monsoreau was thoroughly bewildered; for if M. d’Anjou were in the Louvre, his absence on such a day was unaccountable.
Immediately after the sitting, Quelus, Maugiron, Schomberg, and D’Epernon, in spite of the ennui they experienced there, were so anxious to be disagreeable to the duke that they returned to him. He, on his part, was mortally ennuyé, as well as anxious, which, it must be confessed, the conversation of these gentlemen was not calculated to remove.
“Do you know, Quelus,” said Maugiron, “that it is only now I begin to appreciate our friend Valois; really he is a great politician.”
“Explain yourself,” said Quelus, who was lounging on a chair.
“While he was afraid of the conspiracy, he kept it quiet; now he speaks of it openly, therefore he is no longer afraid of it.”
“Well?”
“If he no longer fears it, he will punish it; you know Valois, he has certainly many good qualities, but clemency is not one of them.”
“Granted.”
“Then if he punishes these conspirators there will be a trial, and we shall have a fine spectacle.”
“Unless, which is possible, on account of the rank of the accused, they arrange it all quietly.”
“That would be my advice, certainly; it is better in family affairs.”
Aurilly glanced at the prince.
“Ma foi,” said Maugiron, “I know one thing; that in the king’s place I would not spare the high heads, which are always the most guilty. I would make an example of one or two — one, at all events.”
“I think it would be well to revive the famous invention of sacks.”
“What was that?”
“A royal fancy in the year 1550; they shut up a man in a sack, in company with three or four cats, and threw them into the water. The minute the cats felt the water they attacked the man, and there passed in the sack things which unluckily could never be seen.”
“Really, Quelus, you are a well of science, and your conversation is most interesting.”
“They could not apply this invention to the chiefs; they have the right to be beheaded; but to the small fry, I mean the favorites, squires, and lute-players.”
“Gentlemen ——” stammered Aurilly.
“Do not reply to them, Aurilly,” said Fran?ois, “it cannot be addressed to me.” As he spoke the king appeared on the threshold. The duke rose. “Sire,” cried he, “I appeal against the unworthy treatment I meet with from your followers.”
Henri did not seem to hear. “Good morning, Quelus,” said he kissing his favorite on both cheeks; “good morning, the sight of you rejoices my soul, and you, my poor Maugiron, how are you?”
“I am terribly ennuyé, sire; when I undertook to guard your brother, I thought he was more amusing. Oh I the tiresome prince; are you sure he is the son of your father and mother?”
“Sire! you hear,” cried the prince, “is it your wish that your brother should be insulted?”
“Silence, monsieur,” said Henri, “I do not like my prisoners to complain.”
“Prisoner, or not, I am your ——”
“The title which you are about to invoke,” interrupted the king, “is fatal to you. My brother guilty, is doubly guilty.”
“But if he is not?”
“He is.”
“Of what crime?”
“Of having displeased me.”
“Sire, have our family quarrels need of witnesses?”
“You are right, monsieur. My friends, let, me speak a little to my brother.”
“I will take Aurilly,” said Maugiron.
“Now we are alone, monsieur,” said the king, when they were gone.
“I waited for this moment impatiently.”
“And I also; ah, you want my crown, my worthy Eteocles; you made of the League a means, and of the throne an aim, and were consecrated in a corner of Paris, to be able to proclaim yourself to the Parisians shining with holy oil.”
“Alas! your majesty will not let me speak.”
“What for? — to lie, or to tell me things which I know already? But no, you would lie; for to confess what you have done, would be to confess that you merit death. You would lie, and I would spare you that shame.”
“My brother, is it your intention to overwhelm me with outrages?”
“If what I say is an outrage, it is I who lie, and I ask no better. Speak then, I listen; tell me you are not disloyal, and at the same time unskilful.”
“I do not know what your majesty means; you speak enigmas.”
“Then I will explain my words; you have conspired against me, as formerly you conspired against my brother Charles, only then it was by the aid of Henri of Navarre, and now it is with the assistance of the Duc de Guise. It is true that formerly you crawled like a serpent; now you wish to spring like the lion; after perfidy, open force; after poison, the sword.”
“Poison! what do you mean?” cried Fran?ois, with flashing eyes.
“The poison with which you assassinated our brother Charles, which you destined for Henry of Navarre, your associate. That fatal poison is known; our mother has used it so often, which is doubtless the reason why you renounced it on this occasion, and preferred rather the part of captain of the League. But look me in the face, Fran?ois, and learn that a man like you shall never kill me. A sword! Ah! I should like to see you here in this room alone with me, holding a sword. I have conquered you in cunning, and in a combat you would be killed. Dream no longer of struggling against me in any manner, for from this moment I act as king — as master — as despot; I shall watch you everywhere, follow you everywhere, and, at the least suspicion, I will throw you to the axe of my executioner. This is what I had to say to you in private, and I will order you to be left alone to-night to ponder over my words.”
“Then, sire, for a suspicion, I have fallen into disgrace with you?”
“Say, under my justice.”
“But, at least, sire, fix a term to my captivity, that I may know what to expect?”
“You will know when you hear your sentence read.”
“Can I not see my mother?”
“What for? There were but three copies in the world of the famous hunting-book which killed my poor brother, and of the two others, one is in London and the other at Florence. Besides, I am not a Nimrod, like my poor brother; adieu, Fran?ois.”
“Gentlemen,” said the king, opening the door, “the Duc d’Anjou has requested to be alone to-night to reflect on an answer he has to make to me tomorrow morning. Leave him then alone, except occasional visits of precaution. If he be troublesome, call me; I have the Bastile ready, and the governor, M. Laurent Testu, is the best man in the world to conquer ill tempers.”
“Sire,” cried Fran?ois, trying a last effort, “remember I am your ——”
“You were also the brother of Charles IX., I think.”
“At least restore me to my friends.”
“I deprive myself of mine to give them to you.” And Henri shut the door, while the duke fell in despair into his armchair.
How People Do Not Always Lose Their Time by Searching Empty Drawers.
The scene which the duke had just had with the king made him regard his position as desperate. The minions had not allowed him to be ignorant of what had passed, and he had heard the people cry, “Vive le roi!” He felt himself abandoned by the other chiefs, who had themselves to save. In his quarrels with his brother Charles he had always had for confidants, or rather dupes, those two devoted men, Coconnas and La Mole, and, for the first time in his life, feeling himself alone and isolated, he felt a kind of remorse at having sacrificed them. During that time his sister Marguerite loved and consoled him. How had he recompensed her?
He had recently had near him a brave and valiant heart and sword — Bussy, the brave Bussy. And he had offended him to please Monsoreau, who had his secret, with which he always threatened him, and which was now known to the king. He had therefore quarreled with Bussy gratuitously, and, above all, uselessly, which as a great politician once said, “was more than a crime, it was a mistake!” How he would have rejoiced in his present situation, to know that Bussy was watching over him; Bussy the loyal, Bussy the universal favorite. It would have been probable liberty and certain vengeance.
But as we have said, Bussy, wounded to the heart, kept away from the prince, so the prisoner remained fifty feet above the ground, with the four favorites in the corridor, without counting the court full of Swiss. Besides this, one or other of the young men entered from time to time, and, without seeming even to notice the prince, went round the room, examined the doors and windows, looked under the beds and tables, and glanced at the curtains and sheets.
“Ma foi!” said Maugiron, after one of these visits, “I have done; I am not going to look after him any more to-night.”
“Yes,” said D’Epernon, “as long as we guard him, there is no need of going to look at him.”
“And he is not handsome to look at,” said Quelus.
“Still,” said Schomberg, “I think we had better not relax our vigilance, for the devil is cunning.”
“Yes, but not cunning enough to pass over the bodies of four men like us.”
“That is true,” said Quelus.
“Oh!” said Schomberg, “do you think, if he wants to fly, he will choose our corridor to come through? He would make a hole in the wall.”
“With what?”
“Then he has the windows.”
“Ah! the windows, bravo, Schomberg; would you jump forty-five feet?”
“I confess that forty-five feet ——”
“Yes, and he who is lame, and heavy, and timid as ——”
“You,” said Schomberg.
“You know I fear nothing but phantoms — that is an affair of the nerves.”
“The last phantom was,” said Quelus, “that all those whom he had killed in duels appeared to him one night.”
“However,” said Maugiron, “I have read of wonderful escapes; with sheets, for instance.”
“Ah! that is more sensible. I saw myself, at Bordeaux, a prisoner who escaped by the aid of his sheets.”
“You see, then?”
“Yes, but he had his leg broken, and his neck, too; his sheets were thirty feet too short, and he had to jump, so that while his body escaped from prison, his soul escaped from his body.”
“Besides,” said Quelus, “if he escapes, we will follow him, and in catching him some mischief might happen to him.”
So they dismissed the subject. They were perfectly right that the duke was not likely to attempt a perilous escape. From time to time his pale face was at the window which overlooked the fosses of the Louvre, beyond which was an open space about fifteen feet broad, and then the Seine rolled calm as a mirror. On the other side rose, like a giant, the tower of Nesle.
He had watched the sunset and the gradual extinction of all the lights. He had contemplated the beautiful spectacle of old Paris, with its roofs gilded by the last rays of the sun, and silvered by the first beams of the moon; then little by little he was seized with a great terror at seeing immense clouds roll over the sky and announce a storm. Among his other weaknesses, the Duc d’Anjou was afraid of thunder, and he would have given anything to have had his guardians with him again, even if they insulted him. He threw himself on his bed, but found it impossible to sleep. Then he began to swear, and break everything near him. It was a family failing, and they were accustomed to it at the Louvre. The young men had opened the door to see what the noise meant, and seeing that it was the duke amusing himself, they had shut it again, which redoubled his anger. He had just broken a chair, when a crashing of glass was heard at the window, and he felt a sharp blow on his thigh. His first idea was that he was wounded by some emissary of the king’s.
“Ah! I am dead!” he cried, and fell on the carpet. But as he fell his hand came in contact with a larger and rougher substance than a ball.
“Oh! a stone,” thought he, and feeling his leg, he found it uninjured. He picked up the stone and looked at it, and saw that it was wrapped in a piece of paper. Then the duke’s ideas began to change. Might not this stone come from a friend as well as an enemy. He approached the light, cut the silk which tied the paper round the stone and read —
“Are you tired of keeping your room? Do you love open air and liberty? Enter the little room where the Queen of Navarre hid your poor friend, M. de la Mole, open the cupboard, and, by displacing the lowest bracket, you will find a double bottom; in this there is a silk ladder; attach it yourself to the balcony, two vigorous arms will hold it at the bottom. A horse, swift as thought, will lead you to a safe place.
“A FRIEND.”
“A friend!” cried the prince; “oh! I did not know I had a friend. Who is this friend who thinks of me?” And the duke ran to the window, but could see no one.
“Can it be a snare?” thought he; “but first let me see if there is a double bottom and a ladder.”
The duke then, leaving the light where it was for precaution, groped his way to the cabinet, which he knew so well. He opened it, felt for the bottom shelf, and, to his great joy, found what he looked for. As a thief escapes with his booty, the duke rushed into the next room with his prey. Ten o’clock struck; the duke thought of his hourly visitors, and hid his ladder under a cushion, on which he sat down. Indeed, five minutes had not passed before Maugiron appeared in a dressing-gown, with a sword in one hand and a light in the other. As he came in one of his friends said to him, “The bear is furious, he was breaking everything just now; take care he does not devour you, Maugiron.”
Maugiron made his usual examination; he saw a broken window, but thought the duke had done it in his rage.
“Maugiron!” cried Schomberg, from outside, “are you already eaten that you do not speak? In that case, sigh, at least, that we may know and avenge you.”
The duke trembled with impatience.
“No, no,” said Maugiron, “on the contrary, my bear is quite conquered.”
And so saying he went out and locked the door. When the key had ceased to turn in the lock the duke murmured —
“Take care, gentlemen, or the duke will be too much for you.”