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What M. De Monsoreau Came to Announce.
As M. de Monsoreau approached, he remarked the dilapidation of the wall; it was almost in steps, and the brambles had been torn away, and were lying about. He looked at the horse standing there. The animal had a saddle-cloth embroidered in silver, and in one corner an F. and an A. There was no doubt, then, that it came from the prince’s stables; the letters stood for Fran?ois d’Anjou. The count’s suspicions at this sight became real alarm; the duke had come here, and had come often, for, besides the horse waiting there, there was a second that knew the way. He tied up his horse near to the other, and began to scale the wall. It was an easy task; there were places for both feet and hands, and the branches of an oak-tree, which hung over, had been carefully cut away. Once up, he saw at the foot of a tree a blue mantilla and a black cloak, and not far off a man and woman, walking hand in hand, with their backs turned to the wall, and nearly hidden by the trees. Unluckily, with M. de Monsoreau’s weight a stone fell from the wall on the crackling branches with a great noise.
At this noise the lovers must have turned and seen him, for the cry of a woman was heard, and a rustling of the branches as they ran away like startled deer. At this cry, Monsoreau felt cold drops on his forehead, for he recognized Diana’s voice. Full of fury, he jumped over the wall, and with his drawn sword in his hand, tried to follow the fugitives, but they had disappeared, and, there was not a trace or a sound to guide him. He stopped, and considered that he was too much under the influence of passion to act with prudence against so powerful a rival. Then a sublime idea occurred to him; it was to climb back again over the wall, and carry off with his own the horse he had seen there. He retraced his steps to the wall and climbed up again; but on the other side no horse was to be seen; his idea was so good, that before it came to him it had come to his adversary. He uttered a howl of rage, clenching his fists, but started off at once on foot. In two hours and a half, he arrived at the gates of the city, dying with hunger and fatigue, but determined to interrogate every sentinel, and find out by what gate a man had entered with two horses. The first sentinel he applied to said that, about two hours before, a horse without a rider had passed through the gate, and had taken the road to the palace; he feared some accident must have happened to his rider. Monsoreau ground his teeth with passion, and went on to the castle. There he found great life and gaiety, windows lighted up, and animation everywhere. He went first to the stable, and found his horse in the stall he had taken him from; then, without changing his dress, he went to the dining-room. The prince and all his gentlemen were sitting round a table magnificently served and lighted. The duke, who had been told of his arrival, received him without surprise, and told him to sit down and sup with him.
“Monseigneur,” replied he, “I am hungry, tired, and thirsty; but I will neither eat, drink, nor sit down till I have delivered my important message.”
“You come from Paris?”
“Yes, in great haste.”
“Well, speak.”
Monsoreau advanced, with a smile on his lips and hatred In his heart, and said, “Monseigneur, your mother is advancing hastily to visit you.”
The duke looked delighted. “It is well,” said he; “M. de Monsoreau, I find you today, as ever, a faithful servant; let us continue our supper, gentlemen.”
Monsoreau sat down with them, but gloomy and preoccupied. He still seemed to see the two figures among the trees, and to hear the cry of Diana.
“You are overcome with weariness,” said the prince to him, “really, you had better go to bed.”
“Yes,” said Livarot, “or he will go to sleep in his chair.”
“Pardon, monseigneur, I am tired out.”
“Get tipsy,” said Antragues; “there is nothing so good when you are tired. To your health, count!”
“You must give us some good hunts,” said Ribeirac, “you know the country.”
“You have horses and woods here,” said Antragues.
“And a wife,” added Livarot.
“We will hunt a boar, count,” said the prince.
“Oh, yes, tomorrow!” cried the gentlemen.
“What do you say, Monsoreau?”
“I am always at your highness’s orders, but I am too much fatigued to conduct a chase tomorrow; besides which, I must examine the woods.”
“And we must leave him time to see his wife,” cried the duke.
“Granted,” cried the young men; “we give him twenty-four hours to do all he has to do.”
“Yes, gentlemen, I promise to employ them well.”
“Now go to bed,” said the duke, and M. de Monsoreau bowed, and went out, very happy to escape.
How the King Learned the Flight of His Beloved Brother, and what Followed.
When Monsoreau had retired, the repast continued, and was more gay and joyous than ever.
“Now, Livarot,” said the duke, “finish the recital of your flight from Paris, which Monsoreau interrupted.”
Livarot began again, but as our title of historian gives us the privilege of knowing better than Livarot himself what had passed, we will substitute our recital for that of the young man.
Towards the middle of the night Henri III. was awoke by an unaccustomed noise in the palace. It was oaths, blows on the wall, rapid steps in the galleries, and, amidst all, these words continually sounding, “What will the king say?”
Henri sat up and called Chicot, who was asleep on the couch.
Chicot opened one eye.
“Ah, you were wrong to call me, Henri,” said he; “I was dreaming that you had a son.”
“But listen.”
“To what? You say enough follies to me by day, without breaking in on my nights.”
“But do you not hear?”
“Oh, oh! I do hear cries.”
“Do you hear, ‘What will the king say?’”
“It is one of two things — either your dog Narcissus is ill, or the Huguenots are taking their revenge for St. Bartholomew.”
“Help me to dress.”
“If you will first help me to get up.”
“What a misfortune!” sounded from the antechamber.
“Shall we arm ourselves?” said the king.
“We had better go first and see what is the matter.”
And almost immediately they went out by the secret door into the gallery. “I begin to guess,” said Chicot; “your unlucky prisoner has hanged himself.”
“Oh, no; it cannot be that.”
“So much the worse.”
“Come on;” and they entered the duke’s chamber.
The window was open, and the ladder still hung from it. Henri grew as pale as death.
“Oh, my son, you are not so blasé as I thought!” said Chicot.
“Escaped!” cried Henri, in such a thundering voice that all the gentlemen who were crowded round the window turned in terror. Schomberg tore his hair, Quelus and Maugiron struck themselves like madmen; as for D’Epernon, he had vanished. This sight calmed the king.
“Gently, my son,” said he, laying hold of Maugiron.
“No! mordieu!” cried he, “I will kill myself!” and he knocked his head against the wall.
“Hola! help me to hold him.”
“It would be an easier death to pass your sword through your body!” said Chicot.
“Quelus, my child,” said the king, “you will be as blue as Schomberg when he came out of the indigo.”
Quelus stopped, but Schomberg still continued to tear at his hair.
“Schomberg, Schomberg, a little reason, I beg.”
“It is enough to drive one mad!”
“Indeed, it is a dreadful misfortune; there will be a civil war in my kingdom. Who did it — who furnished the ladder? Mordieu! I will hang all the city! Who was it? Ten thousand crowns to whoever will tell me his name, and one hundred thousand to whoever will bring him to me, dead or alive!”
“It must have been some Angevin,” said Maugiron.
“Oh yes! we will kill all the Angevins!” cried Quelus. However, the king suddenly disappeared; he had thought of his mother, and, without saying a word, went to her. When he entered, she was half lying in a great armchair: She heard the news without answering.
“You say nothing, mother. Does not this flight seem to you criminal, and worthy of punishment?”
“My dear son, liberty is worth as much as a crown; and remember, I advised you to fly in order to gain a crown.”
“My mother, he braves me — he outrages me!”
“No; he only saves himself.”
“Ah! this is how you take my part.”
“What do you mean, my son?”
“I mean that with age the feelings grow calm — that you do not love me as much as you used to do.”
“You are wrong, my son,” said Catherine coldly; “you are my beloved son, but he of whom you complain is also my son.”
“Well, then, madame, I will go to find other counselors capable of feeling for me and of aiding me.”
“Go, my son; and may God guide your counselors, for they will have need of it to aid you in this strait.”
“Adieu, then, madame!”
“Adieu, Henri! I do not pretend to counsel you — you do not need me, I know — but beg your counselors to reflect well before they advise, and still more before they execute.”
“Yes, madame, for the position is difficult.”
“Very grave,” replied she, raising her eyes to heaven.
“Have you any idea who it was that carried him off?” Catherine did not reply.
“I think it was the Angevins,” continued the king.
Catherine smiled scornfully.
“The Angevins!”
“You do not think so?”
“Do you, really?”
“Tell me what you think, madame.”
“Why should I?”
“To enlighten me.”
“Enlighten you! I am but a doting old woman, whose only influence lies in her prayers and repentance.”
“No, mother; speak, you are the cleverest of us all.”
“Useless; I have only ideas of the last century; at my age it is impossible I should give good counsel.”
“Well, then, mother, refuse me your counsel, deprive me of your aid. In an hour I will hang all the Angevins in Paris.”
“Hang all the Angevins!” cried Catherine, in amazement.
“Yes, hang, slay, massacre, burn; already, perhaps, my friends are out to begin the work.”
“They will ruin themselves, and you with them.”
“How so?”
“Blind! Will kings eternally have eyes, and not see?”
“Kings must avenge their injuries, it is but justice, and in this case all my subjects will rise to defend me.”
“You are mad.”
“Why so?”
“You will make oceans of blood flow. The standard of revolt will soon be raised; and you will arm against you a host who never would rise for Fran?ois.”
“But if I do not revenge myself they will think I am afraid.”
“Did any one ever think I was afraid? Besides, it was not the Angevins.”
“Who was it then? it must have been my brother’s friends.”
“Your brother has no friends.”
“But who was it then?”
“Your enemy.”
“What enemy?”
“O! my son, you know you have never had but one; yours, mine, your brother Charles’s; always the same.”
“Henri of Navarre, you mean?”
“Yes, Henri of Navarre.”
“He is not at Paris.”
“Do you know who is at Paris, and who is not? No, you are all deaf and blind.”
“Can it have been he?”
“My son, at every disappointment you meet with, at every misfortune that happens to you of which the author is unknown, do not seek or conjecture; it is useless. Cry out, it is Henri of Navarre, and you will be sure to be right. Strike on the side where he is, and you will be sure to strike right. Oh! that man, that man; he is the sword suspended over the head of the Valois.”
“Then you think I should countermand my orders about the Angevins?”
“At once, without losing an instant. Hasten; perhaps you are already too late.”
Henry flew out of the Louvre to find his friends, but found only Chicot drawing figures in the sand with a stone.
How, as Chicot and the Queen Mother Were Agreed, the King Began to Agree with Them.
“Is this how you defend your king?” cried Henri.
“Yes, it is my manner, and I think it is a good one.”
“Good, indeed!”
“I maintain it, and I will prove it.”
“I am curious to hear this proof.”
“It is easy; but first, we have committed a great folly.”
“How so?” cried Henri, struck by the agreement between Chicot and his mother.
“Yes,” replied Chicot, “your friends are crying through the city, ‘Death to the Angevins!’ and now that I reflect, it was never proved that they had anything to do with the affair. And your friends, crying thus through the city, will raise that nice little civil war of which MM. de Guise have so much need, and which they did not succeed in raising for themselves. Besides which, your friends may get killed, which would not displease me, I confess, but which would afflict you, or else they will chase all the Angevins from the city, which will please M. d’Anjou enormously.”
“Do you think things are so bad?”
“Yes, it not worse.”
“But all this does not explain what you do here, sitting on a stone.”
“I am tracing a plan of all the provinces that your brother will raise against you, and the number of men each will furnish to the revolt.”
“Chicot, Chicot, you are a bird of bad augury.”
“The owl sings at night, my son, it is his hour. Now it is dark, Henri, so dark that one might take the day for the night, and I sing what you ought to hear. Look!”
“At what?”
“My geographical plan. Here is Anjou, something like a tartlet, you see; there your brother will take refuge. Anjou, well managed, as Monsoreau and Bussy will manage it, will alone furnish to your brother ten thousand combatants.”
“Do you think so?”
“That is the minimum; let us pass to Guyenne; here it is, this figure like a calf walking on one leg. Of course, you will not be astonished to find discontent in Guyenne; it is an old focus for revolt, and will be enchanted to rise. They can furnish 8,000 soldiers; that is not much, but they are well trained. Then we have Béarn and Navarre; you see these two compartments, which look like an ape on the back of an elephant — they may furnish about 16,000. Let us count now — 10,000 for Anjou, 8,000 for Guyenne, 16,000 for Béarn and Navarre; making a total of 34,000.”
“You think, then, that the King of Navarre will join my brother?”
“I should think so.”
“Do you believe that he had anything to do with my brother’s escape?”
Chicot looked at him. “That is not your own idea, Henri.”
“Why not?”
“It is too clever, my son.”
“Never mind whose idea it was; answer my question.”
“Well! I heard a ‘Ventre St. Gris’ in the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”
“You heard a ‘Ventre St. Gris!’ But it might not have been he.”
“I saw him.”
“You saw Henri of Navarre in Paris?”
“Yes.”
“You saw my mortal enemy here, and did not tell me?”
“I am not a spy. Then there are the Guises; 20,000 or 25,000 men under the orders of the Duc de Guise will make up altogether a nice little army.”
“But Henri of Navarre and the Duc de Guise are enemies.”
“Which will not prevent them from uniting against you; they will be free to fight with each other when they have conquered you.”
“You are right, Chicot, and my mother is right. I will call the Swiss.”
“Oh, yes! Quelus has got them.”
“My guards, then.”
“Schomberg has them.”
“My household at least.”
“They have gone with Maugiron.”
“Without my orders?”
“And when do you ever give orders, except, perhaps, to flagellate either your own skin, or that of others? — But about government. — Bah! allow me to observe that you have been a long time finding out that you rank seventh or eighth in this kingdom.”
“Here they are!” cried the king, as three cavaliers approached, followed by a crowd of men on foot and on horseback.
“Schomberg! Quelus! come here,” cried the king. They approached.
“I have been seeking you, and waiting for you impatiently. What have you done? Do not go away again without my permission.”
“There is no more need,” said Maugiron, who now approached, “since all is finished.”
“All is finished?”
“Heaven be praised,” said D’Epernon, appearing all at once, no one knew from whence.
“Then you have killed them?” cried the king; “well, at least the dead do not return.”
“Oh! we had not that trouble; the cowards ran away, we had scarcely time to cross our swords with them.”
Henri grew pale. “With whom?” said he.
“With Antragues?”
“On the contrary, he killed a lackey of Quelus’s.”
“Oh!” murmured the king, “here is a civil war lighted up.”
Quelus started. “It is true,” said he.
“Ah” said Chicot. “You begin to perceive it, do you?”
“But, M. Chicot, you cried with us, ‘Death to the Angevins!’”
“Oh! that is a different thing; I am a fool, and you are clever men.”
“Come, peace, gentlemen; we shall have enough of war soon.”
“What are your majesty’s orders?”
“That you employ the same ardor in calming the people as you have done in exciting them, and that you bring back all the Swiss, my guards, and my household, and have the doors of the Louvre closed, so that perhaps tomorrow the bourgeois may take the whole thing for a sortie of drunken people.”
The young men went off, and Henri returned to his mother.
“Well,” said she, “what has passed?”
“All you foresaw, mother.”
“They have escaped?”
“Alas! yes.”
“What else?”
“Is not that enough?”
“The city?”
“Is in tumult; but that is not what disquiets me.”
“No, it is the provinces.”
“Which will revolt.”
“What shall you do?”
“I see but one thing.”
“What is that?”
“To withdraw the army from La Charité, and march on Anjou.”
“And M. de Guise?”
“Oh, I will arrest him if necessary.”
“And you think violent measures will succeed?”
“What can I do, then?”
“Your plan will not do.”
“Well, what is your idea?”
“Send an ambassador.”
“To whom?”
“To your brother.”
“An ambassador to that traitor! You humiliate me, mother.”
“This is not a moment to be proud.”
“An ambassador will ask for peace?”
“Who will buy it if necessary.”
“With what? mon Dieu!”
“If it were only to secure quietly, afterwards, those who have gone to make war on you.”
“I would give much for that.”
“Well, then, the end is worth the means.”
“I believe you are right, mother; but whom shall I send?”
“Seek among your friends.”
“My mother, I do not know a single man to whom I could confide such a mission.”
“Confide it to a woman, then.”
“My mother, would you consent?”
“My son, I am very old, and very weak, and death will perhaps await me on my return; but I will make this journey so rapidly that your brother and his friends will not have had time to learn their own power.”
“Oh, my good mother!” cried Henri, kissing her hands, “you are my support, my benefactress!”
“That means that I am still Queen of France,” murmured she.
In which it is Proved that Gratitude was One of St. Luc’s Virtues.
The next morning, M. de Monsoreau rose early, and descended into the courtyard of the palace. He entered the stable, where Roland was in his place.
“Are the horses of monseigneur taught to return to their stable alone?” asked he of the man who stood there.
“No, M. le Comte.”
“But Roland did so yesterday.”
“Oh, he is remarkably intelligent.”
“Has he ever done it before?”
“No, monsieur; he is generally ridden by the Duc d’Anjou, who is a good rider, and never gets thrown.”
“I was not thrown,” replied the count, “for I also am a good rider; no, I tied him to a tree while I entered a house, and at my return he had disappeared. I thought he had been stolen, or that some passer-by had played a bad joke by carrying him away; that was why I asked how he returned to the stable.”
“He returned alone, as monsieur said just now.”
“It is strange. Monseigneur often rides this horse, you say?”
“Nearly every day.”
“His highness returned late last night?”
“About an hour before you.”
“And what horse did he ride? was it a bay with a white star on his forehead?”
“No, monsieur, he rode Isolin, which you see here.”
“And in the prince’s escort is there any one who rides such a horse as I describe?”
“I know of no one.”
“Well,” said Monsoreau, impatiently, “saddle me Roland.”
“Roland?”
“Yes, are there any orders against it?”
“No; on the contrary, I was told to let you have any horse you pleased.”
When Roland was saddled, Monsoreau said to the man, “What are your wages?”
“Twenty crowns, monsieur.”
“Will you earn ten times that sum at once?”
“I ask no better. But how?”
“Find out who rode yesterday the horse I described.”
“Ah, monsieur, what you ask is very difficult, there are so many gentlemen come here.”
“Yes, but two hundred crowns are worth some trouble.”
“Certainly, M. le Comte, and I will do my best to discover.”
“That is right, and here are ten crowns to encourage you.”
“Thanks, M. le Comte.”
“Well, tell the prince I have gone to reconnoiter the wood for the chase.”
As he spoke he heard steps behind him, and turned.
“Ah, M. de Bussy!” he cried.
“Why, M. le Comte, who would have thought of seeing you here!”
“And you, who they said was so ill.”
“So I am; my doctor orders absolute rest, and for a week I have not left the city. Ah! you are going to ride Roland; I sold him to the duke, who is very fond of him.”
“Yes, he is an excellent animal; I rode him yesterday.”
“Which makes you wish for him again today?”
“Yes.”
“You were speaking of a chase.”
“Yes, the prince wishes for one.”
“Whereabouts is it to be?”
“Near Méridor. Will you come with me?”
“No, thank you, I do not feel well.”
“Oh!” cried a voice from behind, “there is M. de Bussy out without permission.”
“Ah! there is my doctor scolding. Adieu, comte.”
Bussy went away, and Monsoreau jumped into the saddle.
“What is the matter?” said Rémy; “you look so pale, I believe you are really ill.”
“Do you know where he is going?”
“No.”
“To Méridor.”
“Well, did you hope he would not?”
“Mon Dieu! what will happen, after what he saw yesterday?”
“Madame de Monsoreau will deny everything.”
“But he saw her.”
“She will say he did not.”
“She will never have the courage.”
“Oh, M. de Bussy, is it possible you do not know women better than that!”
“Rémy, I feel very ill.”
“So I see. Go home, and I will prescribe for you.”
“What?”
“A slice of fowl and ham, and some lobster.”
“Oh, I am not hungry.”
“The more reason I should order you to eat.”
“Rémy, I fear that that wretch will make a great scene at Méridor. I ought to have gone with him when he asked me.”
“What for?”
“To sustain Diana.”
“Oh, she will sustain herself. Besides, you ought not to be out; we agreed you were too ill.”
“I could not help it, Rémy, I was so unquiet.”
Rémy carried him off, and made him sit down to a good breakfast.
M. de Monsoreau wished to see if it were chance or habit that had led Roland to the park wall; therefore he left the bridle on his neck. Roland took precisely the same road as on the previous day, and before very long M. de Monsoreau found himself in the same spot as before. Only now the place was solitary, and no horse was there. The count climbed the wall again, but no one was to be seen; therefore, judging that it was useless to watch for people on their guard, he went on to the park gates. The baron, seeing his son-inlaw coming over the drawbridge, advanced ceremoniously to meet him. Diana, seated under a magnificent sycamore, was reading poetry, while Gertrude was embroidering at her side. The count, seeing them, got off his horse, and approached them.
“Madame,” said he, “will you grant me the favor of an interview?”
“Willingly, monsieur.”
“What calm, or rather what perfidy!” thought the count.
“Do you do us the honor of remaining at the chat?” asked the baron.
“Yes, monsieur, until tomorrow, at least.”
The baron went away to give orders, and Diana reseated herself, while Monsoreau took Gertrude’s chair, and, with a look sufficient to intimidate most people, said:
“Madame, who was in the park with you yesterday?”
“At what time?” said Diana, in a firm voice.
“At six.”
“Where?”
“Near the copse.”
“It must have been some one else, it was not I.”
“It was you, madame.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Tell me the man’s name!” cried Monsoreau, furiously.
“What man?”
“The man who was walking with you.”
“I cannot tell, if it was some other woman.”
“It was you, I tell you.”
“You are wrong, monsieur.”
“How dare you deny it? I saw you.”
“You, monsieur?”
“Yes, madame, myself. And there is no other lady here.”
“You are wrong again; there is Jeanne de Brissac.”
“Madame de St. Luc?”
“Yes, my friend.”
“And M. de St. Luc?”
“Never leaves her; theirs was a love-match; you must have seen them.”
“It was not them; it was you, with some man whom I do not know, but whom I will know, I swear. I heard your cry.”
“When you are more reasonable, monsieur, I shall be ready to hear you; at present I will retire.”
“No, madame, you shall stay.”
“Monsieur, here are M. and Madame de St. Luc, I trust you will contain yourself.”
Indeed, M. and Madame de St. Luc approached. She bowed to Monsoreau, and St. Luc gave him his hand; then, leaving his wife to Monsoreau, took Diana, and after a walk they returned, warned by the bell for dinner, which was early at Méridor, as the baron preserved the old customs. The conversation was general, and turned naturally on the Duc d’Anjou, and the movement his arrival had caused. Diana sat far from her husband, between St. Luc and the baron.
The Project of M. De St. Luc.
When the repast was over, Monsoreau took St. Luc’s arm and went out. “Do you know,” said he, “that I am very happy to have found you here, for the solitude of Méridor frightened me.”
“What, with your wife? As for me, with such a companion I should find a desert delightful.”
“I do not say no, but still ——”
“Still, what?”
“I am very glad to have met you here.”
“Really, monsieur, you are very polite, for I cannot believe that you could possibly fear ennui with such a companion, and such a country.”
“Bah! I pass half my life in the woods.”
“The more reason for being fond of them, it seems to me. I know I shall be very sorry to leave them; unluckily, I fear I shall be forced to do so before long.”
“Why so?”
“Oh! monsieur, when is man the arbiter of his own destiny? He is like the leaf of the tree, which the wind blows about. You are very fortunate.”
“Fortunate; how?”
“To live amongst these splendid trees.”
“Oh! I do not think I shall stay here long; I am not so fond of nature, and I fear these woods; I think they are not safe.”
“Why? on account of their loneliness, do you mean?”
“No, not that, for I suppose you see friends here.”
“Not a soul.”
“Ah! really. How long is it since you had any visitor?”
“Not since I have been here.”
“Not one gentleman from the court at Angers?”
“Not one.”
“Impossible.”
“It is true.”
“Then I am wrong.”
“Perfectly; but why is not the park safe, are there bears here?”
“Oh, no.”
“Wolves?”
“No.”
“Robbers?”
“Perhaps. Tell me, monsieur, Madame de St. Luc seemed to me very pretty; is she not?”
“Why, yes.”
“Does she often walk in the park?”
“Often; she adores the woods, like myself.”
“And do you accompany her?”
“Always.”
“Nearly always?”
“What the devil are you driving at?”
“Oh; mon Dieu, nothing; or, at least, a trifle.”
“I listen.”
“They told me ——”
“Well?”
“You will not be angry?”
“I never am so.”
“Besides, between husbands, these confidences are right; they told me a man had been seen wandering in the park.”
“A man.”
“Yes.”
“Who came for my wife?”
“Oh! I do not say that.”
“You would be wrong not to tell me, my dear Monsoreau. Who saw him? pray tell me.”
“Oh! to tell you the truth, I do not think it was for Madame de St. Luc that he came.”
“For whom, then?”
“Ah! I fear it is for Diana.”
“Oh! I should like that better.”
“What?”
“Certainly; you know we husbands are an egotistical set. Everyone for himself, and God for us all.”
“The devil rather.”
“Then you think a man entered here?”
“I think so.”
“And I do more than think,” said St. Luc, “for I saw him.”
“You saw a man in the park?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Alone?”
“With Madame de Monsoreau.”
“Where?”
“Just here to the left.” And as they had walked down to the old copse, St. Luc pointed out the spot where Bussy always came over.
“Ah!” continued he, “here is a wall in a bad state; I must warn the baron.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
“Of what?”
“Of climbing over here to talk to my wife.” St. Luc seemed to reflect.
“Diable!” said he, “it could only have been ——”
“Whom?”
“Why, yourself.”
“Are you joking, M. de St. Luc?”
“Ma foi, no; when I was first married I did such things.”
“Come! you are trying to put me off; but do not fear, I have courage. Help me to seek, you will do me an immense favor.”
St. Luc shook his head. “It must have been you,” said he.
“Do not jest, I beg of you; the thing is serious.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Oh! and how does this man come?”
“Secretly.”
“Often?”
“I fear so; look at the marks in the wall.”
“Well, I suspected it, but I always fancied it was you.”
“But I tell you, no!”
“Oh, I believe you, my dear sir.”
“Well, then ——”
“It must have been some one else.”
Monsoreau began to look black, but St. Luc preserved his easy nonchalance.
“I have an idea,” said he.
“Tell me.”
“If it were ——”
“Well!”
“But, no.”
“Pray speak.”
“The Duc d’Anjou.”
“I thought so at first, but I have made inquiries, and it could not have been he.”
“Oh! he is very cunning.”
“Yes, but it was not he.”
“Wait, then.”
“Well!”
“I have another idea; if it was neither you nor the duke, it must have been I.”
“You?”
“Why not?”
“You to come on horseback to the outside of the park, when you live inside!”
“Oh, mon Dieu! I am such a capricious being.”
“You, who fled away when you saw me!”
“Oh! any one would do that.”
“Then you were doing wrong,” cried the count, no longer able to keep in his anger.
“I do not say so.”
“You are mocking me,” cried the count, growing very pale, “and have been doing so for a quarter of an hour.”
“You are wrong, monsieur,” said St. Luc, drawing out his watch, and looking steadily at him; “it has been twenty minutes.”
“You insult me.”
“And you insult me with your questions like a constable.”
“Ah! now I see clearly.”
“How wonderful, at ten o’clock in the morning. But what do you see?”
“I see that you act in concert with the traitor, the coward, whom I saw yesterday.”
“I should think so; he is my friend.”
“Then I will kill you in his place.”
“Bah! in your own house, and without crying, gare. Ah! M. de Monsoreau, how badly you have been brought up, and how living among beasts spoils the manners.”
“Do you not see that I am furious?” howled the count.
“Yes, indeed, I do see it, and it does not become you at all; you look frightful.”
The count drew his sword.
“Ah!” said St. Luc, “you try to provoke me; you see I am perfectly calm.”
“Yes, I do provoke you.”
“Take the trouble to get over the wall; on the other side we shall be on neutral ground.”
“What do I care!”
“I do; I do not want to kill you in your own house.”
“Very well!” said Monsoreau, climbing over.
“Take care; pray do not hurt yourself, my dear count; those stones are loose,” said St. Luc. Then he also got over.
How M. De St. Luc Showed M. De Monsoreau the Thrust that the King had Taught Him.
“Are you ready?” cried Monsoreau.
“No; I have the sun in my eyes.”
“Move then; I warn you I shall kill you.”
“Shall you really? Well, man proposes, and God disposes. Look at that bed of poppies and dandelions.”
“Well!”
“Well, I mean to lay you there.” And he laughed as he drew his sword. Monsoreau began the combat furiously, but St. Luc parried his thrusts skilfully.
“Pardieu! M. de Monsoreau,” said he, “you use your sword very well; you might kill any one but Bussy or me.”
Monsoreau grew pale.
“As for me,” continued St. Luc, “the king, who loves me, took the trouble to give me a great many lessons, and showed me, among other things, a thrust, which you shall see presently. I tell you, that you may have the pleasure of knowing you are killed by the king’s method; it is very flattering.” And then suddenly he rushed furiously on Monsoreau, who, half wild with rage as he was, parried five thrusts, but received the sixth full in his chest.
“Ah!” said St. Luc, “you will fall just where I told you,” as Monsoreau sank down on the poppies. Then, wiping his sword, he stood quietly by, watching the changes which came over the face of the dying man.
“Ah, you have killed me!” cried Monsoreau.
“I intended to do so, but now I see you dying, devil take me if I am not sorry for what I have done. You are horribly jealous, it is true, but you were brave. Have you any last wish? If so, tell it to me; and, on the faith of a gentleman, it shall be executed. Are you thirsty? Shall I get you water?”
Monsoreau did not reply. He turned over with his face to the earth, biting the ground, and struggling in his blood. Then he tried to raise his head, but fell back with a groan.
“Come, he is dead; let me think no more about him. Ah! but that is not so easy, when you have killed a man.” And jumping back over the wall, he went to the chateau. The first person he saw was Diana talking to his wife.
“How well she will look in black,” thought he. Then, approaching them, “Pardon me,” said he, “but may I say a few words to Jeanne?”
“Do so; I will go to my father,”
“What is it?” said Jeanne, when Diana was gone; “you look rather gloomy.”
“Why, yes.”
“What has happened?”
“Oh, mon Dieu! an accident.”
“To you?”
“Not precisely to me, but to a person who was near me.”
“Who was it?”
“The person I was walking with.”
“M. de Monsoreau?”
“Alas! yes; poor dear man.”
“What has happened to him?”
“I believe he is dead.”
“Dead!” cried Jeanne, starting back in horror.
“Just so.”
“He who was here just now talking ——”
“Yes, that is just the cause of his death; he talked too much.”
“St. Luc, you are hiding something from me!” cried Jeanne, seizing his hands.
“I! Nothing; not even the place where he lies.”
“Where is it?”
“Down there behind the wall; just where Bussy used to tie his horse.”
“It was you who killed him.”
“Parbleu! that is not very difficult to discover.”
“Unlucky that you are!”
“Ah, dear friend! he provoked me, insulted me, drew the sword first.”
“It is dreadful! the poor man!”
“Good; I was sure of it; before a week is over he will be called St. Monsoreau.”
“But you cannot stay here in the house of the man you have killed.”
“So I thought at once, and that is why I came to ask you to get ready.”
“He has not wounded you?”
“No, I am perfectly unhurt.”
“Then, we will go.”
“As quickly as possible, for you know the accident may be discovered at any moment.”
“Then Diana is a widow.”
“That is just what I thought of.”
“After you killed him?”
“No, before.”
“Well, I will go and tell her.”
“Spare her feelings.”
“Do not laugh. Meanwhile you get the horses saddled. But where shall we go?”
“To Paris.”
“But the king?”
“Oh! he will have forgotten everything by this time; besides, if there is to be war, as seems probable, he will be glad of me. But I must have pen and ink.”
“For what?”
“To write to Bussy; I cannot leave Anjou without telling him why.”
“No, of course not; you will find all that you require in my room.” St. Luc went in, and wrote —
“DEAR FRIEND,
“You will learn, by report, ere long, the accident which has happened to M. de Monsoreau; we had together, by the old copse, a discussion on broken-down walls and horses that go home alone. In the heat of the argument, he fell on a bed of poppies and dandelions so hard that he died there.
“Your friend for life,
“St. Luc.
“P. S. As you may think this rather improbable, I must add that we had our swords in our hands. I set off at once for Paris to make peace with the king, Anjou not seeming to me very safe after what has occurred.”
Ten minutes after a servant set off for Angers with this letter, while M. and Madame de St. Luc went out by another door, leaving Diana much grieved at their departure, and much embarrassed how to tell the baron what had occurred. She had turned away her eyes from St. Luc as he passed.
“That is the reward for serving your friends,” said he to his wife; “decidedly all people are ungrateful excepting me.”
In which We See the Queen-Mother Enter the Town of Angers, but Not Triumphantly.
At the same time that M. de Monsoreau fell under the sword of St. Luc, a flourish of trumpets sounded at the closed gates of Angers. It was Catherine de Medicis, who arrived there with rather a large suite. They sent to tell Bussy, who rose from his bed, and went to the prince, who immediately got into his. Certainly the airs played by the trumpets were fine, but they had not the virtue of those which made the walls of Jericho fall, for the gates did not open. Catherine leaned out of her litter to show herself to the guards, hoping the sight of her would do more than the sound of the trumpets. They saw her, and saluted her courteously, but did not open the gates. Then she sent a gentleman to demand admittance, but they replied that Angers being in a state of war, the gates could not be opened without some necessary formalities. Catherine was furious. At last Bussy appeared, with five other gentlemen.
“Who is there?” cried he.
“It is her majesty the queen mother, who has come to visit Angers.”
“Very well, go to the left, and about eighty steps off you will find the postern.”
“A postern for her majesty!” cried the gentleman. But Bussy was no longer there to hear, he and his friends had ridden off towards the indicated spot.
“Did your majesty hear?” asked the gentleman.
“Oh! yes, monsieur, I heard; let us go there, if that be the only way to get in.”
The cortege turned to the left, and the postern opened.
“Your majesty is welcome to Angers,” said Bussy.
“Thank you, M. de Bussy,” said the queen, descending from her litter, and advancing towards the little door. Bussy stopped her. “Take care, madame,” said he, “the door is low, and you will hurt yourself.”
“Must I then stoop?” replied she; “it is the first time I ever entered a city so.”
Once through the gate she reentered her litter to go to the palace, Bussy and his friends escorting her.
“Where is my son?” cried she; “why do I not see M. d’Anjou?”
“Monseigneur is ill, madame, or else your majesty cannot doubt that he would have come himself to do the honors of his city.”
Catherine was sublime in hypocrisy.
“Ill — my poor child, ill!” cried she; “ah! let us hasten to him; is he well taken care of?”
“Yes, madame, we do our best.”
“Does he suffer?”
“Horribly, he is subject to these sudden indispositions.”
“It was sudden, then?”
“Mon Dieu! yes, madame.”
When they arrived at the palace, Bussy ran up first to the duke.
“Here she is!” cried he.
“Is she furious?”
“Exasperated.”
“Does she complain?”
“No, she does worse, she smiles.”
“What do the people say?”
“They looked at her in mute terror; now, monseigneur, be careful.”
“We stick to war?”
“Pardieu, ask one hundred to get ten, and with her you will only get five.”
“Bah! you think me very weak. Are you all here? Where is Monsoreau?”
“I believe he is at Méridor.”
“Her majesty the queen mother!” cried the usher at the door.
Catherine entered, looking pale. The duke made a movement to rise, but she threw herself into his arms and half stifled him with kisses. She did more — she wept.
“We must take care,” said Antragues to Ribeirac, “each tear will be paid for by blood.”
Catherine now sat down on the foot of the bed. At a sign from Bussy everyone went away but himself.
“Will you not go and look after my poor attendants, M. de Bussy? you who are at home here,” said the queen.
It was impossible not to go, so he replied, “I am happy to please your majesty,” and he also retired.
Catherine wished to discover whether her son were really ill or feigning. But he, worthy son of such a mother, played his part to perfection. She had wept, he had a fever. Catherine, deceived, thought him really ill, and hoped to have more influence over a mind weakened by suffering. She overwhelmed him with tenderness, embraced him, and wept so much that at last he asked her the reason.
“You have run so great a risk,” replied she.
“In escaping from the Louvre, mother?”
“No, after.”
“How so?”
“Those who aided you in this unlucky escape ——”
“Well?”
“Were your most cruel enemies.”
“She wishes to find out who it was,” thought he.
“The King of Navarre,” continued she, “the eternal scourge of our race ——”
“Ah! she knows.”
“He boasts of having gained much by it.”
“That is impossible, for he had nothing to do with it; and if he had, I am quite safe, as you see. I have not seen the King of Navarre for two years.”
“It was not only of danger I spoke!”
“Of what, then?” replied the duke, smiling, as he saw the tapestry shake behind the queen.
“The king’s anger,” said she, in a solemn voice; “the furious anger which menaces you ——”
“This danger is something like the other, madame; he may be furious, but I am safe here.”
“You believe so?”
“I am sure of it; your majesty has announced it to me yourself.”
“How so?”
“Because if you had been charged only with menaces, you would not have come, and the king in that case would have hesitated to place such a hostage in my hands.”
“A hostage! I!” cried she, terrified.
“A most sacred and venerable one,” replied the duke, with a triumphant glance at the wall.
Catherine was baffled, but she did not know that Bussy was encouraging the duke by signs.
“My son,” said she at length, “you are quite right; they are words of peace I bring to you.”
“I listen, mother, and I think we shall now begin to understand each other.”
Little Causes and Great Effects.
Catherine had, as we have seen, had the worst of the argument. She was surprised, and began to wonder if her son were really as decided as he appeared to be, when a slight event changed the aspect of affairs. Bussy had been, as we said, encouraging the prince secretly at every word that he thought dangerous to his cause. Now his cause was war at any price, for he wished to stay in Anjou, watch M. de Monsoreau, and visit his wife. The duke feared Bussy, and was guided by him. Suddenly, however, Bussy felt himself pulled by his cloak; he turned and saw Rémy, who drew him gently towards him.
“What is it, Rémy?” said he impatiently. “Why disturb me at such a moment?”
“A letter.”
“And for a letter you take me from this important conversation.”
“It is from Méridor.”
“Oh! thank you, my good Rémy.”
“Then I was not wrong?”
“Oh, no; where is it?”
“That is what made me think it of importance; the messenger would only give it to you yourself.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him in.”
Rémy opened the door, and a servant entered.
“Here is M. de Bussy,” said Rémy.
“Oh, I know him well,” said the man, giving the letter.
“Did she give it to you?”
“No; M. de St. Luc.”
As Bussy read, he grew first pale, then crimson. Rémy dismissed the servant, and Bussy, with a bewildered look, held out the letter to him.
“See,” said he, “what St. Luc has done for me.”
“Well,” said Rémy, “this appears to me to be very good and St. Luc is a gallant fellow.”
“It is incredible!” cried Bussy.
“Certainly; but that is nothing. Here is our position quite changed; I shall have a Comtesse de Bussy for a patient.”
“Yes, she shall be my wife. So he is dead.”
“So, you see, it is written.”
“Oh, it seems like a dream, Rémy. What! shall I see no more that specter, always coming between me and happiness? It cannot be true.”
“It is true; read again, ‘he died there.’”
“But Diana cannot stay at Méridor — I do not wish it; she must go where she will forget him.”
“Paris will be best; people soon forget at Paris.”
“You are right; we will return to the little house in the Rue des Tournelles, and she shall pass there her months of widowhood in obscurity.”
“But to go to Paris you must have ——”
“What?”
“Peace in Anjou.”
“True; oh, mon Dieu! what time lost.”
“That means that you are going at once to Méridor.”
“No, not I, but you; I must stay here; besides, she might not like my presence just now.”
“How shall I see her? Shall I go to the castle?”
“No; go first to the old copse and see if she is there; if she is not then go to the castle.”
“What shall I say to her?”
“Say that I am half mad.” And pressing the young man’s hand, he returned to his place behind the tapes try.
Catherine had been trying to regain her ground.
“My son,” she had said, “it seemed to me that a mother and son could not fail to understand each other.”
“Yet you see that happens sometimes.”
“Never when she wishes it.”
“When they wish it, you mean,” said the duke, seeking a sign of approbation from Bussy for his boldness.
“But I wish it, my son, and am willing to make any sacrifices to attain peace.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, my dear child. What do you ask? — what do you demand? Speak.”
“Oh, my mother!” said Fran?ois, almost embarrassed at his own easy victory.
“Listen, my son. You do not wish to drown the kingdom in blood — it is not possible; you are neither a bad Frenchman nor a bad brother.”
“My brother insulted me, madame, and I owe him nothing, either as my brother or king.”
“But I, Fran?ois — you cannot complain of me?”
“Yes, madame, you abandoned me.”
“Ah! you wish to kill me. Well, a mother does not care to live to see her children murder each other!” cried Catherine, who wished very much to live.
“Oh, do not say that, madame, you tear my heart!” cried Fran?ois, whose heart was not torn at all.
Catherine burst into tears. The duke took her hands, and tried to reassure her, not without uneasy glances towards the tapestry.
“But what do you want or ask for, mother? I will listen,” said he.
“I wish you to return to Paris, dear child, to return to your brother’s court, who will receive you with open arms.”
“No, madame, it is not he whose arms are open to receive me — it is the Bastile.”
“No; return, and on my honor, on my love as a mother, I solemnly swear that you shall be received by the king as though you were king and he the Duc d’Anjou.”
The duke looked to the tapestry.
“Accept, my son; you will have honors, guards.”
“Oh, madame, your son gave me guards — his four minions!”
“Do not reply so; you shall choose your own guards, and M. de. Bussy shall be their captain, if you like.”
Again the duke glanced to the wall, and, to his surprise, saw Bussy smiling and applauding by every possible method.
“What is the meaning of this change?” thought the duke; “is it that he may be captain of my guards? Then must I accept?” said he aloud, as though talking to himself.
“Yes, yes!” signed Bussy, with head and hands.
“Quit Anjou, and return to Paris?”
“Yes!” signed Bussy, more decidedly than ever.
“Doubtless, dear child,” said Catherine, “it is not disagreeable to return to Paris.”
“Well, I will reflect,” said the duke, who wished to consult with Bussy.
“I have won,” thought Catherine.
They embraced once more, and separated.