Chicot the Jester

CHAPTER XLVIII.
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 to-day.”

“He is gone to-day, 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.

CHAPTER XLIX.
HOW THE KING ANNEXED 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:

“François; 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 François 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-de-lys 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.”

CHAPTER L.
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 François, “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 François, 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, François, 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, François.”

“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 to-morrow 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 François, 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.