Chicot the Jester

CHAPTER LXXVIII.
THE PRECAUTIONS OF M. DE MONSOREAU

St. Luc was right, and Jeanne was right, and Bussy soon acknowledged it. As for Diana, she gave herself up to the two instincts that Figaro recognizes as inborn in mankind, to love and to deceive. M. de Monsoreau grew better and better. He had escaped from fever, thanks to the application of cold water, that new remedy which Providence had discovered to Ambrose Paré, when all at once he received a great shock at hearing of the arrival in Paris of the duke with the queen-mother. The day after his arrival, the duke, under the pretext of asking after him, presented himself at his hotel, and it was impossible to close his door against a prince who showed so much interest in him. M. de Monsoreau therefore was obliged to receive the prince, who was most amiable to him and to his wife. As soon as he was gone, M. de Monsoreau took Diana’s arm, and in spite of Rémy’s remonstrances walked three times round his armchair; and, from his satisfied air, Diana was sure he was meditating on some project.

The next day the duke came again, and this time Monsoreau walked round his room. That evening Diana warned Bussy that her husband had certainly some project in his head. A few minutes after, when Bussy and Monsoreau were alone, “When I think,” said Monsoreau, “that this prince, who smiles on me, is my mortal enemy, and tried to have me assassinated by M. de St. Luc – ”

“Oh, assassinated! take care, M. le Comte. St. Luc is a gentleman, and you confess yourself that you provoked him, drew the sword first, and received your wound in fair fight.”

“Certainly; but it is not the less true that he obeyed the wishes of M. d’Anjou.”

“Listen! I know M. de St. Luc, and I can assure you he is devoted to the king, and hates the duke. If your wound had come from Antragues, Livarot, or Ribeirac, it might be so; but not from St. Luc.”

“You do not know,” replied Monsoreau, obstinate in his opinion. At last he was able to go down into the garden. “That will do,” said he; “now we will move.”

“Why move?” said Rémy. “The air is good here, and there is plenty of amusement.”

“Too much; M. d’Anjou fatigues me with his visits, and he always brings with him a crowd of gentlemen, and the noise of their spurs destroys my nerves.”

“But where are you going?”

“I have ordered them to get ready my little house at the Tournelles.”

Bussy and Diana exchanged a look of loving remembrance.

“What, that little place?” cried Rémy, imprudently.

“What! do you know it?”

“Who does not know the houses of the chief huntsman? particularly I, who lived in the Rue Beautrellis.”

“Yes, yes, I will go there. It is a fortress, and one can see from the window, three hundred yards off, who is coming to visit you, and avoid them if you like, particularly when you are well!”

Bussy bit his lips; he feared a time might come when Monsoreau might avoid him. Diana thought of the time when she had seen Bussy in that house, lying fainting on the bed.

“You cannot do it,” said Rémy.

“Why not, if you please, monsieur?”

“Because the chief huntsman of France must hold receptions – must keep valets and equipages. Let him have a palace for his dogs, if he likes, but not a dog-kennel for himself.”

“It is true, but – ”

“But I am the doctor of the mind as of the body; it is not your residence here that displeases you.”

“What then?”

“That of madame; therefore send her away.”

“Separate?” cried Monsoreau, fixing on Diana a look, more of anger than love.

“Then give up your place – send in your resignation. I believe it would be wise; if you do not do your duty, you will displease the king, and if you do – ”

“I will do anything but quit the countess,” said Monsoreau, with closely-shut teeth. As he spoke, they heard in the courtyard a noise of voices and horses’ feet.

“The duke again!” cried he.

“Yes,” said Rémy.

Immediately after the prince entered, and Monsoreau saw his first glance given to Diana. He brought to her, as a present, one of those masterpieces, of which the artists of that day were in the habit of producing two or three in the course of a lifetime. It was a poniard, with a handle of chased gold. This handle was a smelling-bottle, and on the blade a chase was carved with admirable skill; horses, dogs, trees, game, and hunters, mingled together in an harmonious pêle-mêle, on this blade of azure and gold.

“Let me see,” cried Monsoreau, who feared there was a note hidden in the handle.

The prince separated the two parts. “To you, who are a hunter,” said he, “I give the blade: to the countess, the handle. Good-morning, Bussy, you are then a friend of the count’s, now?”

Diana reddened, but Bussy said:

“Your highness forgets that you asked me to inquire after M. de Monsoreau.”

“It is true.”

The prince sat down, and began to talk to Diana. In a few minutes he said, “Count, it is dreadfully warm in your rooms. I see the countess is stifling. I will give her my arm for a turn in the garden.”

The husband looked furious.

“Give me an arm,” said he to Bussy, and he got up and followed his wife.

“Ah!” said the duke, “it seems you are better.”

“Yes, monseigneur, and I hope soon to be able to accompany Madame de Monsoreau wherever she goes.”

“Good; but meanwhile, do not fatigue yourself.”

Monsoreau was obliged to sit down, but he kept them in view.

“Count,” said he to Bussy, “will you be amiable enough to escort Madame de Monsoreau this evening to my house at the Tournelles?”

“You cannot do that, monsieur,” said Rémy.

“Why not?”

“Because M. d’Anjou would never forgive you if you helped to play him such a trick.”

Bussy was about to cry, “What do I care?” but a glance from Rémy stopped him.

“Rémy is right,” said Monsoreau, “it would injure you; to-morrow I will go myself.”

“You will lose your place.”

“It is possible; but I shall keep my wife.”

The next day they went to the old house; Diana took her old room, with the bed of white and gold damask. A corridor only separated it from that of the count. Bussy tore his hair with rage.

CHAPTER LXXIX.
A VISIT TO THE HOUSE AT LES TOURNELLES

The duke became more and more in love with Diana, as she seemed always to escape him, and with his love for her, his hatred of Monsoreau increased. On the other side he had not renounced his political hopes, but had recommenced his underhand machinations. The moment was favorable, for many wavering conspirators had been encouraged by the kind of triumph which the weakness of the king, and the cunning of Catherine, had given to the duke; however, he no longer confided his projects to Bussy, and showed him only a hypocritical friendship. He was vaguely uneasy at seeing him at Monsoreau’s house, and envious of the confidence that Monsoreau, so suspicious of himself, placed in him. He was frightened also at the joy and happiness which shone in Diana’s face. He knew that flowers only bloom in the light of the sun, and women in that of love. She was visibly happy, and this annoyed him. Determined to use his power, both for love and vengeance, he thought it would be absurd to be stayed in this purpose by such ridiculous obstacles as the jealousy of a husband, and the repugnance of a wife. One day he ordered his equipages, intending to visit Monsoreau. He was told that he had moved to his house in the Rue St. Antoine.

“Let us go there,” said he to Bussy. Soon the place was in commotion at the arrival of the twenty-four handsome cavaliers, each with two lackeys, who formed the prince’s suite. Both Bussy and the prince knew the house well; they both went in, but while the prince entered the room, Bussy remained on the staircase. It resulted from this arrangement that the duke was received by Monsoreau alone, while Bussy was received by Diana, while Gertrude kept watch. Monsoreau, always pale, grew livid at sight of the prince.

“Monseigneur, here! really it is too much honor for my poor house!” cried he, with a visible irony.

The prince smiled. “Wherever a suffering friend goes, I follow him,” replied he. “How are you?”

“Oh, much better; I can already walk about, and in a week I shall be quite well.”

“Was it your doctor who prescribed for you the air of the Bastile?” asked the prince, with the most innocent air possible.

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“Did you not like the Rue des Petits-Pères?”

“No, monseigneur; I had too much company there – they made too much noise.”

“But you have no garden here.”

“I did not like the garden.”

The prince bit his lips. “Do you know, comte,” said he, “that many people are asking the king for your place?”

“On what pretext, monseigneur?”

“They say you are dead.”

“Monseigneur, you can answer for it that I am not.”

“I answer for nothing; you bury yourself as though you were dead.”

It was Monsoreau’s turn to bite his lips.

“Well, then, I must lose my place,” said he.

“Really?”

“Yes; there are things I prefer to it.”

“You are very disinterested.”

“It is my character, monseigneur.”

“Then of course you will not mind the king’s knowing your character?”

“Who will tell him?”

“Diable! if he asks me about you, I must repeat our conversation.”

“Ma foi! monseigneur, if all they say in Paris were reported to the king, his two ears would not be enough to listen with.”

“What do they say at Paris, monsieur?” asked the prince sharply.

Monsoreau tried to calm himself. “How should a poor invalid, as I am, know?” said he. “If the king is angry at seeing his work badly done, he is wrong.”

“How so?”

“Because, doubtless, my accident proceeds, to some extent, from him.”

“Explain yourself.”

“M. de St. Luc, who wounded me, is a dear friend of the king’s. It was the king who taught him the thrust by which he wounded me, and it might have been the king who prompted him.”

“You are right; but still the king is the king.”

“Until he is so no longer.”

The duke trembled. “Is not Madame de Monsoreau here?” said he.

“Monseigneur, she is ill, or she would have come to present her respects to you.”

“Ill! poor woman! it must be grief at seeing you suffer.”

“Yes, and the fatigue of moving.”

“Let us hope it will be a short indisposition. You have so skilful a doctor.”

“Yes, that dear Rémy – ”

“Why, he is Bussy’s doctor.”

“He has lent him to me.”

“You are, then, great friends?”

“He is my best, I might say my only, friend.”

“Adieu, come!”

As the duke raised the tapestry, he fancied he saw the skirt of a dress disappear into the next room, and immediately Bussy appeared at his post in the middle of the corridor. Suspicion grew stronger with the duke.

“We are going,” said he to Bussy, who ran down-stairs without replying; while the duke, left alone, tried to penetrate the corridor where he had seen the silk dress vanish. But, turning, he saw that Monsoreau had followed, and was standing at the door.

“Your highness mistakes your way,” said he.

“True,” said the duke, “thank you.” And he went down with rage in his heart. When he returned home, Aurilly glided into his room.

“Well,” said the duke, “I am baffled by the husband!”

“And, perhaps, also by the lover, monseigneur.”

“What do you say?”

“The truth.”

“Speak, then.”

“I hope your highness will pardon me – it was in your service.”

“I pardon you in advance. Go on.”

“After your highness had gone up-stairs, I watched under a shed in the courtyard.”

“Ah! What did you see?”

“I saw a woman’s dress; I saw this woman lean forward, and then I heard the sound of along and tender kiss.”

“But who was the man?”

“I cannot recognize arms.”

“No, but you might gloves.”

“Indeed, it seemed to me – ”

“That you recognized them?”

“It was only a guess.”

“Never mind.”

“Well, monseigneur, they looked like the gloves of M. de Bussy.”

“Buff, embroidered with gold, were they not?”

“Yes, monseigneur.”

“Ah! Bussy! yes, it was Bussy. Oh, I was blind and yet not blind; but I could not believe in so much audacity.”

“But your highness must not believe it too lightly; might there not have been a man hidden in her room?”

“Yes, doubtless, but Bussy, who was in the corridor, would have seen him.”

“That is true.”

“And then the gloves – ”

“Yes, and besides the kiss, I heard – ”

“What?”

“Three words, ‘Till to-morrow evening.’”

“Oh! mon Dieu!”

“So that, if you like, we can make sure.”

“Aurilly, we will go.”

“Your highness knows I am at your orders.”

“Ah! Bussy, a traitor! Bussy, the honest man – Bussy, who does not wish me to be King of France;” and the duke, smiling with an infernal joy, dismissed Aurilly.

CHAPTER LXXX.
THE WATCHERS

The duke kept Bussy near him all day, so as not to lose sight of his movements. Bussy did not care, so that he had his evenings free. At ten o’clock he wrapped himself in his cloak, and with a rope ladder under his arm went towards the Bastile. The duke, who did not know that he had a ladder, and could not believe in any one walking alone at night through the streets of Paris, thought Bussy would certainly call at his hotel for a horse and a servant, and lost ten minutes in preparations. During those ten minutes, Bussy, active and in love, had already gone three-fourths of the distance. He was lucky, as brave people generally are, and met with no accident by the way, and on arriving saw a light in the windows. It was the signal agreed on between him and Diana. He threw his ladder up to the balcony, it had six hooks to it, and was sure to fasten itself somewhere. At the noise, Diana put out her light and opened the window to fasten the ladder. The thing was done in a moment. Diana looked all around; the street seemed deserted. Then she signed to Bussy to mount, and he was up in five seconds. The moment was happily chosen, for while he got in at the window, M. de Monsoreau, after having listened patiently for a quarter of an hour at his wife’s door, descended the stairs painfully, leaning on the arm of a confidential valet, and it so happened that he opened the street-door just as the ladder was drawn up, and the window closed. He looked around, but the streets were deserted.

“You have been badly informed,” said he to the servant.

“No, monsieur, I have just left the Hôtel d’Anjou, and they told me that the duke had ordered two horses for this evening. But perhaps it was not to come here.”

“Where else should he go?” said Monsoreau, with a somber air. He, like all jealous persons, thought the whole world had nothing to do but to torment him.

“Perhaps I should have done better to stay in her room,” murmured he. “But they probably have signals for corresponding; she would have warned him of my presence, and I should have learned nothing. It is better to watch outside. Come, conduct me to the hiding-place, whence you say one can see everything.”

“Come, monsieur.”

About twenty-five steps from the door was an enormous heap of stones belonging to demolished houses, and serving for fortifications to the children of the neighborhood when they played at battles. In the midst was a space, which could contain two people. The valet spread a cloak, on which Monsoreau sat down, while his servant sat at his feet, with a loaded musket placed beside him. Diana had prudently drawn her thick curtains, so that scarcely a ray of light showed through, to betray that there was life in this gloomy house.

They had been watching about ten minutes, when two horses appeared at the end of the street. The valet pointed to them.

“I see,” said Monsoreau.

The two men got off their horses, and tied them up at the corner of the Hôtel des Tournelles.

“Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “I believe we have arrived too late; he must have gone straight from your hotel and must have entered.”

“Perhaps so; but if we did not see him go in, we can see him come out.”

“Yes, but when?”

“When we please.”

“Would it be too curious to ask how you mean to manage?”

“Nothing is more easy; we have but to knock at the door, and ask after M. de Monsoreau. Our lover will be frightened at the noise, and as you enter the house he will come out at the window, and I, who am hidden outside, shall see him.”

“And Monsoreau?”

“What can he say? I am his friend, and was uneasy about him, as he looked so ill yesterday; nothing can be more simple.”

“It is very ingenious, monseigneur.”

“Do you hear what they say?” asked Monsoreau of his valet.

“No, monsieur, but we soon shall, for they are coming nearer.”

“Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “here is a heap of stones which seems made on purpose for us.”

“Yes, but wait a moment, perhaps we can see through the opening of the curtain.” And they stood for some minutes trying to find a place to peep through. Meanwhile, Monsoreau was boiling with impatience, and his hand approached the musket.

“Oh! shall I suffer this?” murmured he, “shall I devour this affront also? No, my patience is worn out. Mordieu! that I can neither sleep, nor wake, nor even suffer quietly, because a shameful caprice has lodged in the idle brain of this miserable prince. No, I am not a complaisant valet; I am the Comte de Monsoreau, and if he comes near, on my word, I will blow his brains out. Light the match, René.”

At this moment, just as the prince was about to seek his hiding-place, leaving his companion to knock at the door, Aurilly touched his arm.

“Well, monsieur, what is it?” asked the prince.

“Come away, monseigneur, come.”

“Why so?”

“Do you not see something shining there to the left?”

“I see a spark among that heap of stones.”

“It is the match of a musket, or arquebuse.”

“Ah! who the devil can be in ambush there?”

“Some friend or servant of Bussy’s. Let us go and make a detour, and return another way. The servant will give the alarm, and we shall see Bussy come out of the window.”

“You are right; come;” and they went to their horses.

“They are going,” said the valet.

“Yes. Did you recognize them?”

“They seemed to me to be the prince and Aurilly.”

“Just so. But I shall soon be more sure still.”

“What will monsieur do?”

“Come.”

Meanwhile, the duke and Aurilly turned into the Rue St. Catherine, intending to return by the boulevard of the Bastile.

Monsoreau went in, and ordered his litter.

What the duke had foreseen happened. At the noise that Monsoreau made, Bussy took the alarm, the light was extinguished, the ladder fixed, and Bussy, to his great regret, was obliged to fly, like Romeo, but without having, like him, seen the sun rise and heard the lark sing. Just as he touched the ground, and Diana had thrown him the ladder, the duke and Aurilly arrived at the corner of the Bastile. They saw a shadow suspended from Diana’s window, but this shadow disappeared almost instantaneously at the corner of the Rue St. Paul.

“Monsieur,” said the valet to Monsoreau, “we shall wake up the household.”

“What do I care?” cried Monsoreau, furiously. “I am master here, I believe, and I have at least the right to do what M. d’Anjou wished to do.”

The litter was got ready, and, drawn by two stout horses, it was soon at the Hôtel d’Anjou.

The duke and Aurilly had so recently come in that their horses were not unsaddled. Monsoreau, who had the entree, appeared on the threshold just as the duke, after having thrown his hat on a chair, was holding out his boots to a valet to pull off. A servant, preceding him by some steps, announced M. de Monsoreau. A thunderbolt breaking his windows, could not have astonished the prince more.

“M. de Monsoreau!” cried he, with an uneasiness he could not hide.

“Myself, monseigneur,” replied he, trying to repress his emotion, but the effort he made over himself was so violent that his legs failed him, and he fell on to a chair which stood near.

“But you will kill yourself, my dear friend,” said the duke; “you are so pale, you look as though you were going to faint.”

“Oh, no; what I have to say to your highness is of too much importance; I may faint afterwards.”

“Speak, then, my dear comte.”

“Not before your people, I suppose.”

The duke dismissed everyone.

“Your highness has just come in?” said Monsoreau.

“As you see, comte.”

“It is very imprudent of your highness to go by night in the street.”

“Who told you I had been in the streets?”

“The dust on your clothes.”

“M. de Monsoreau, have you another employment besides that of chief huntsman?”

“Yes, that of spy, monseigneur; all the world follow that calling now, more or less, and I, like the rest.”

“And what does this profession bring you, monsieur?”

“Knowledge.”

“It is curious.”

“Very curious.”

“Well, tell me what you have to say.”

“I came for that.”

“You permit me to sit down?” said the duke.

“No irony, monseigneur, towards an old and faithful servant, who comes at this hour and in this state to do you a service. If I sat down, on my honor, it was because I could not stand.”

“A service! to do me a service?”

“Yes.”

“Speak, then.”

“Monseigneur, I come on the part of a great prince.”

“From the king?”

“No; M. le Duc de Guise.”

“Ah! that is quite a different thing. Approach, and speak low.”