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- Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
Amidst the conspiracy of the Holy League to make the Duke of Anjou king, Bussy d’Amboise falls in love with a lady of the court of Henry III – a lady with a very jealous husband! This sequel to Dumas’ „Marguerite de Valois” begins four years after the sudden death of King Charles IX and succession of his brother Henry III. Bristling with political plots, secret assignations, mysteries, daring escapes, duels, surprising alliances and betrayals, Dumas orchestrates two plotlines: one of the love ignited between le Comte de Bussy and la Dame de Monsoreau, and another of the friendship between King Henry III and his truly unique jester, Chicot (Jean-Antoine d’Anglerais). All these come together in a very scene-driven, absolutely over-the-top novel. Concerning one of Dumas’s most well-known and marvelously crafted characters, „Chicot the Jester” is a must-read for fans of Dumas’s seminal work, and is not to be missed by the discerning collector.
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Contents
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER XXXII
CHAPTER XXXIII
CHAPTER XXXIV
CHAPTER XXXV
CHAPTER XXXVI
CHAPTER XXXVII
CHAPTER XXXVIII
CHAPTER XXXIX
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XLI
CHAPTER XLII
CHAPTER XLIII
CHAPTER XLIV
CHAPTER XLV
CHAPTER XLVI
CHAPTER XLVII
CHAPTER XLVIII
CHAPTER XLIX
CHAPTER L
CHAPTER LI
CHAPTER LII
CHAPTER LIII
CHAPTER LIV
CHAPTER LV
CHAPTER LVI
CHAPTER LVII
CHAPTER LVIII
CHAPTER LIX
CHAPTER LX
CHAPTER LXI
CHAPTER LXII
CHAPTER LXIII
CHAPTER LXIV
CHAPTER LXV
CHAPTER LXVI
CHAPTER LXVII
CHAPTER LXVIII
CHAPTER LXIX
CHAPTER LXX
CHAPTER LXXI
CHAPTER LXXII
CHAPTER LXXIII
CHAPTER LXXIV
CHAPTER LXXV
CHAPTER LXXVI
CHAPTER LXXVII
CHAPTER LXXVIII
CHAPTER LXXIX
CHAPTER LXXX
CHAPTER LXXXI
CHAPTER LXXXII
CHAPTER LXXXIII
CHAPTER LXXXIV
CHAPTER LXXXV
CHAPTER LXXXVI
CHAPTER LXXXVII
CHAPTER LXXXVIII
CHAPTER LXXXIX
CHAPTER XC
CHAPTER XCI
CHAPTER XCII
CHAPTER XCIII
CHAPTER XCIV
CHAPTER XCV
CHAPTER XCVI
CHAPTER XCVII
CHAPTER I
THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC
On the evening of a Sunday, in the year 1578, a splendid fête was given in the magnificent hotel just built opposite the Louvre, on the other side of the water, by the family of Montmorency, who, allied to the royalty of France, held themselves equal to princes. This fête was to celebrate the wedding of François d’Epinay de St. Luc, a great friend and favorite of the king, Henri III., with Jeanne de Crossé-Brissac, daughter of the marshal of that name.
The banquet had taken place at the Louvre, and the king, who had been with much difficulty induced to consent to the marriage, had appeared at it with a severe and grave countenance. His costume was in harmony with his face; he wore that suit of deep chestnut, in which Clouet described him at the wedding of Joyeuse; and this kind of royal specter, solemn and majestic, had chilled all the spectators, but above all the young bride, at whom he cast many angry glances. The reason of all this was known to everyone, but was one of those court secrets of which no one likes to speak.
Scarcely was the repast finished, when the king had risen abruptly, thereby forcing everyone to do the same. Then St. Luc approached him, and said: “Sire, will your majesty do me the honor to accept the fête, which I wish to give to you this evening at the Hôtel Montmorency?” This was said in an imploring tone, but Henri, with a voice betraying both vexation and anger, had replied:
“Yes, monsieur, we will go, although you certainly do not merit this proof of friendship on our part.”
Then Madame de St. Luc had humbly thanked the king, but he turned his back without replying.
“Is the king angry with you?” asked the young wife of her husband.
“I will explain it to you after, mon amie, when this anger shall have passed away.”
“And will it pass away?”
“It must.”
Mademoiselle de Brissac was not yet sufficiently Madame de St. Luc to insist further; therefore she repressed her curiosity, promising herself to satisfy it at a more favorable time.
They were, therefore, expecting St. Luc at the Hôtel Montmorency, at the moment in which our story commences. St. Luc had invited all the king’s friends and all his own; the princes and their favorites, particularly those of the Duc d’Anjou. He was always in opposition to the king, but in a hidden manner, pushing forward those of his friends whom the example of La Mole and Coconnas had not cured. Of course, his favorites and those of the king lived in a state of antagonism, which brought on rencontres two or three times a month, in which it was rare that some one was not killed or badly wounded.
As for Catherine, she was at the height of her wishes; her favorite son was on the throne, and she reigned through him, while she pretended to care no more for the things of this world. St. Luc, very uneasy at the absence of all the royal family, tried to reassure his father-in-law, who was much distressed at this menacing absence. Convinced, like all the world, of the friendship of Henri for St. Luc, he had believed he was assuring the royal favor, and now this looked like a disgrace. St. Luc tried hard to inspire in them a security which he did not feel himself; and his friends, Maugiron, Schomberg, and Quelus, clothed in their most magnificent dresses, stiff in their splendid doublets, with enormous frills, added to his annoyance by their ironical lamentations.
“Eh! mon Dieu! my poor friend,” said Jacques de Levis, Comte de Quelus, “I believe now that you are done for. The king is angry that you would not take his advice, and M. d’Anjou because you laughed at his nose.”
“No, Quelus, the king does not come, because he has made a pilgrimage to the monks of the Bois de Vincennes; and the Duc d’Anjou is absent, because he is in love with some woman whom I have forgotten to invite.”
“But,” said Maugiron, “did you see the king’s face at dinner? And as for the duke, if he could not come, his gentlemen might. There is not one here, not even Bussy.”
“Oh! gentlemen,” said the Duc de Brissac, in a despairing tone, “it looks like a complete disgrace. Mon Dieu! how can our house, always so devoted to his majesty, have displeased him?”
The young men received this speech with bursts of laughter, which did not tend to soothe the marquis. The young bride was also wondering how St. Luc could have displeased the king. All at once one of the doors opened and the king was announced.
“Ah!” cried the marshal, “now I fear nothing; if the Duc d’Anjou would but come, my satisfaction would be complete.”
“And I,” murmured St. Luc; “I have more fear of the king present than absent, for I fear he comes to play me some spiteful tricks.”
But, nevertheless, he ran to meet the king, who had quitted at last his somber costume, and advanced resplendent in satin, feathers, and jewels. But at the instant he entered another door opened just opposite, and a second Henri III., clothed exactly like the first, appeared, so that the courtiers, who had run to meet the first, turned round at once to look at the second.
Henri III. saw the movement, and exclaimed:
“What is the matter, gentlemen?”
A burst of laughter was the reply. The king, not naturally patient, and less so that day than usual, frowned; but St. Luc approached, and said:
“Sire, it is Chicot, your jester, who is dressed exactly like your majesty, and is giving his hand to the ladies to kiss.”
Henri laughed. Chicot enjoyed at his court a liberty similar to that enjoyed thirty years before by Triboulet at the court of François I., and forty years after by Longely at the court of Louis XIII. Chicot was not an ordinary jester. Before being Chicot he had been “De Chicot.” He was a Gascon gentleman, who, ill-treated by M. de Mayenne on account of a rivalry in a love affair, in which Chicot had been victorious, had taken refuge at court, and prayed the king for his protection by telling him the truth.
“Eh, M. Chicot,” said Henri, “two kings at a time are too much.”
“Then,” replied he, “let me continue to be one, and you play Duc d’Anjou; perhaps you will be taken for him, and learn something of his doings.”
“So,” said Henri, looking round him, “Anjou is not here.”
“The more reason for you to replace him. It is settled, I am Henri, and you are François. I will play the king, while you dance and amuse yourself a little, poor king.”
“You are right, Chicot, I will dance.”
“Decidedly,” thought De Brissac, “I was wrong to think the king angry; he is in an excellent humor.”
Meanwhile St. Luc had approached his wife. She was not a beauty, but she had fine black eyes, white teeth, and a dazzling complexion.
“Monsieur,” said she to her husband, “why did they say that the king was angry with me; he has done nothing but smile on me ever since he came?”
“You did not say so after dinner, dear Jeanne, for his look then frightened you.”
“His majesty was, doubtless, out of humor then, but now–”
“Now, it is far worse; he smiles with closed lips. I would rather he showed me his teeth. Jeanne, my poor child, he is preparing for us some disagreeable surprise. Oh! do not look at me so tenderly, I beg; turn your back to me. Here is Maugiron coming; converse with him, and be amiable to him.”
“That is a strange recommendation, monsieur.”
But St. Luc left his wife full of astonishment, and went to pay his court to Chicot, who was playing his part with a most laughable majesty.
The king danced, but seemed never to lose sight of St. Luc. Sometimes he called him to repeat to him some pleasantry, which, whether droll or not, made St. Luc laugh heartily. Sometimes he offered him out of his comfit box sweetmeats and candied fruits, which St. Luc found excellent. If he disappeared for an instant, the king sent for him, and seemed not happy if he was out of his sight. All at once a voice rose above all the tumult.
“Oh!” said Henri, “I think I hear the voice of Chicot; do you hear, St. Luc?–the king is angry.”
“Yes, sire, it sounds as though he were quarreling with some one.”
“Go and see what it is, and come back and tell me.”
As St. Luc approached he heard Chicot crying:
“I have made sumptuary laws, but if they are not enough I will make more; at least they shall be numerous, if they are not good. By the horn of Beelzebub, six pages, M. de Bussy, are too much.”
And Chicot, swelling out his cheeks, and putting his hand to his side, imitated the king to the life.
“What does he say about Bussy?” asked the king, when St. Luc returned. St. Luc was about to reply, when the crowd opening, showed to him six pages, dressed in cloth of gold, covered with chains, and bearing on their breasts the arms of their masters, sparkling in jewels. Behind them came a young man, handsome and proud; who walked with his head raised and a haughty look, and whose simple dress of black velvet contrasted with the splendor of his pages. This was Bussy d’Amboise. Maugiron, Schomberg, and Quelus had drawn near to the king.
“See,” said Maugiron, “here is the servant, but where is the master? Are you also in disgrace with him, St. Luc?”
“Why should he follow Bussy?” said Quelus.
“Do you not remember that when his majesty did M. de Bussy the honor to ask him if he wished to belong to him, he replied that, being of the House of Clermont, he followed no one, and belonged to himself.”
The king frowned.
“Yes,” said Maugiron, “whatever you say, he serves the Duc d’Anjou.”
“Then it is because the duke is greater than the king.”
No observation could have been more annoying to the king than this, for he detested the Duc d’Anjou. Thus, although he did not answer, he grew pale.
“Come, come, gentlemen,” said St. Luc, trembling, “a little charity for my guests, if you please; do not spoil my wedding day.”
“Yes,” said the king, in a mocking tone; “do not spoil St. Luc’s wedding-day.”
“Oh!” said Schomberg, “is Bussy allied to the Brissacs?–since St. Luc defends him.”
“He is neither my friend nor relation, but he is my guest,” said St. Luc. The king gave an angry look. “Besides,” he hastened to add, “I do not defend him the least in the world.”
Bussy approached gravely behind his pages to salute the king, when Chicot cried:
“Oh, la! Bussy d’Amboise, Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy, do you not see the true Henri, do you not know the true king from the false? He to whom you are going is Chicot, my jester, at whom I so often laugh.”
Bussy continued his way, and was about to bow before the king, when he said:
“Do you not hear, M. de Bussy, you are called?” and, amidst shouts of laughter from his minions, he turned his back to the young captain. Bussy reddened with anger, but he affected to take the king’s remark seriously, and turning round towards Chicot:
“Ah! pardon, sire,” said he, “there are kings who resemble jesters so much, that you will excuse me, I hope, for having taken a jester for a king.”
“Hein,” murmured Henri, “what does he say?”
“Nothing, sire,” said St. Luc.
“Nevertheless, M. Bussy,” said Chicot; “it was unpardonable.”
“Sire, I was preoccupied.”
“With your pages, monsieur,” said Chicot; “you ruin yourself in pages, and, par la mordieu, it is infringing our prerogatives.”
“How so? I beg your majesty to explain.”
“Cloth of gold for them, while you a gentleman, a colonel, a Clermont, almost a prince, wear simple black velvet.”
“Sire,” said Bussy, turning towards the kings’ minions, “as we live in a time when lackeys dress like princes, I think it good taste for princes to dress like lackeys.”
And he returned to the young men in their splendid dress the impertinent smiles which they had bestowed on him a little before. They grew pale with fury, and seemed only to wait the king’s permission to fall upon Bussy.
“Is it for me and mine that you say that?” asked Chicot, speaking like the king.
Three friends of Bussy’s now drew near to him. These were Charles d’Antragues, François, Vicomte de Ribeirac, and Livarot. Seeing all this, St. Luc guessed that Bussy was sent by Monsieur to provoke a quarrel. He trembled more than ever, for he feared the combatants were about to take his house for a battle-field. He ran to Quelus, who already had his hand on his sword, and said, “In Heaven’s name be moderate.”
“Parbleu, he attacks you as well as us.”
“Quelus, think of the Duc d’Anjou, who supports Bussy; you do not suppose I fear Bussy himself?”
“Eh! Mordieu, what need we fear; we belong to the king. If we get into peril for him he will help us.”
“You, yes; but me,” said St. Luc, piteously.
“Ah dame, why do you marry, knowing how jealous the king is in his friendships?”
“Good,” thought St. Luc, “everyone for himself; and as I wish to live tranquil during the first fortnight of my marriage, I will make friends with M. Bussy.” And he advanced towards him. After his impertinent speech, Bussy had looked round the room to see if any one would take notice of it. Seeing St. Luc approach, he thought he had found what he sought.
“Monsieur,” said he, “is it to what I said just now, that I owe the honor of the conversation you appear to desire?”
“Of what you have just said, I heard nothing. No, I saw you, and wished to salute you, and thank you for the honor you have done me by your presence here.”
Bussy, who knew the courage of St. Luc, understood at once that he considered the duties of a host paramount, and answered him politely.
Henri, who had seen the movement said, “Oh, oh! I fear there is mischief there; I cannot have St. Luc killed. Go and see, Quelus; no, you are too rash–you, Maugiron.”
But St. Luc did not let him approach Bussy, but came to meet him and returned with him to the king.
“What have you been saying to that coxcomb?” asked the king.
“I, sire?”
“Yes, you.”
“I said, good evening.”
“Oh! was that all?”
St. Luc saw he was wrong. “I said, good evening; adding, that I would have the honor of saying good morning to-morrow.”
“Ah! I suspected it.”
“Will your majesty keep my secret?” said St. Luc.
“Oh! parbleu, if you could get rid of him without injury to yourself–”
The minions exchanged a rapid glance, which Henri III. seemed not to notice.
“For,” continued he, “his insolence is too much.”
“Yes, yes,” said St. Luc, “but some day he will find his master.”
“Oh!” said the king, “he manages the sword well. Why does he not get bit by some dog?” And he threw a spiteful glance on Bussy, who was walking about, laughing at all the king’s friends.
“Corbleu!” cried Chicot, “do not be so rude to my friends, M. Bussy, for I draw the sword, though I am a king, as well as if I was a common man.”
“If he continue such pleasantries, I will chastise Chicot, sire,” said Maugiron.
“No, no, Maugiron, Chicot is a gentleman. Besides, it is not he who most deserves punishment, for it is not he who is most insolent.”
This time there was no mistaking, and Quelus made signs to D’O and D’Epernon, who had been in a different part of the room, and had not heard what was going on. “Gentlemen,” said Quelus, “come to the council; you, St. Luc, go and finish making your peace with the king.”
St. Luc approached the king, while the others drew back into a window.
“Well,” said D’Epernon, “what do you want? I was making love, and I warn you, if your recital be not interesting I shall be very angry.”
“I wish to tell you that after the ball I set off for the chase.”
“For what chase?”
“That of the wild boar.”
“What possesses you to go, in this cold, to be killed in some thicket?”
“Never mind, I am going.”
“Alone?”
“No, with Maugiron and Schomberg. We hunt for the king.”
“Ah! yes, I understand,” said Maugiron and Schomberg.
“The king wishes a boar’s head for breakfast to-morrow.”
“With the neck dressed à l’Italienne,” said Maugiron, alluding to the turn-down collar which Bussy wore in opposition to their ruffs.
“Ah, ah,” said D’Epernon, “I understand.”
“What is it?” asked D’O, “for I do not.”
“Ah! look round you.”
“Well!”
“Did any one laugh at us here?”
“Yes, Bussy.”
“Well, that is the wild boar the king wants.”
“You think the king–”
“He asks for it.”
“Well, then, so be it. But how do we hunt?”
“In ambush; it is the surest.”
Bussy remarked the conference, and, not doubting that they were talking of him, approached, with his friends.
“Look, Antragues, look, Ribeirac,” said he, “how they are grouped; it is quite touching; it might be Euryale and Nisus, Damon and Pythias, Castor and–. But where is Pollux?”
“Pollux is married, so that Castor is left alone.”
“What can they be doing?”
“I bet they are inventing some new starch.”
“No, gentlemen,” said Quelus, “we are talking of the chase.”
“Really, Signor Cupid,” said Bussy; “it is very cold for that. It will chap your skin.”
“Monsieur,” replied Maugiron, politely, “we have warm gloves, and doublets lined with fur.”
“Ah! that reassures me,” said Bussy; “do you go soon?”
“To-night, perhaps.”
“In that case I must warn the king; what will he say to-morrow, if he finds his friends have caught cold?”
“Do not give yourself that trouble, monsieur,” said Quelus, “his majesty knows it.”
“Do you hunt larks?” asked Bussy, with an impertinent air.
“No, monsieur, we hunt the boar. We want a head. Will you hunt with us, M. Bussy?”
“No, really, I cannot. To-morrow I must go to the Duc d’Anjou for the reception of M. de Monsoreau, to whom monseigneur has just given the place of chief huntsman.”
“But, to-night?”
“Ah! To-night, I have a rendezvous in a mysterious house of the Faubourg St. Antoine.”
“Ah! ah!” said D’Epernon, “is the Queen Margot here, incognito, M. de Bussy?”
“No, it is some one else.”
“Who expects you in the Faubourg St. Antoine?”
“Just so, indeed I will ask your advice, M. de Quelus.”
“Do so, although I am not a lawyer, I give very good advice.”
“They say the streets of Paris are unsafe, and that is a lonely place. Which way do you counsel me to take?”
“Why, I advise you to take the ferry-boat at the Pré-aux-Clercs, get out at the corner, and follow the quay until you arrive at the great Châtelet, and then go through the Rue de la Tixanderie, until you reach the faubourg. Once at the corner of the Rue St. Antoine, if you pass the Hôtel des Tournelles without accident, it is probable you will arrive safe and sound at your mysterious house.”
“Thanks for your route, M. de Quelus, I shall be sure to follow it.” And saluting the five friends, he went away.
As Bussy was crossing the last saloon where Madame de St. Luc was, her husband made a sign to her. She understood at once, and going up, stopped him.
“Oh! M. de Bussy,” said she, “everyone is talking of a sonnet you have made.”
“Against the king, madame?”
“No, in honor of the queen; do tell it to me.”
“Willingly, madame,” and, offering his arm to her, he went off, repeating it.
During this time, St. Luc drew softly near his friends, and heard Quelus say:
“The animal will not be difficult to follow; thus then, at the corner of the Hôtel des Tournelles, opposite the Hôtel St. Pol.”
“With each a lackey?” asked D’Epernon.
“No, no, Nogaret, let us be alone, and keep our own secret, and do our own work. I hate him, but he is too much a gentleman for a lackey to touch.”
“Shall we go out all six together?”
“All five if you please,” said St. Luc.
“Ah! it is true, we forgot your wife.”
They heard the king’s voice calling St. Luc.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “the king calls me. Good sport, au revoir.”
And he left them, but instead of going straight to the king, he ran to where Bussy stood with his wife.
“Ah! monsieur, how hurried you seem,” said Bussy. “Are you going also to join the chase; it would be a proof of your courage, but not of your gallantry.”
“Monsieur, I was seeking you.”
“Really.”
“And I was afraid you were gone. Dear Jeanne, tell your father to try and stop the king, whilst I say a few words tête-à-tête to M. Bussy.” Jeanne went.
“I wish to say to you, monsieur,” continued St. Luc, “that if you have any rendezvous to-night, you would do well to put it off, for the streets are not safe, and, above all, to avoid the Hôtel des Tournelles, where there is a place where several men could hide. This is what I wished to say; I know you fear nothing, but reflect.”
At this moment they heard Chicot’s voice crying, “St. Luc, St. Luc, do not hide yourself, I am waiting for you to return to the Louvre.”
“Here I am, sire,” cried St. Luc, rushing forward. Near Chicot stood the king, to whom one page was giving his ermine mantle, and another a velvet mask lined with satin.
“Sire,” said St. Luc, “I will have the honor of lighting your majesties to your litters.”
“No,” said Henri, “Chicot goes one way, and I another. My friends are good-for-nothings, who have run away and left me to return alone to the Louvre. I had counted on them, and you cannot let me go alone. You are a grave married man, and must take me back to the queen. Come, my friend, my litter is large enough for two.”
Madame de St. Luc, who had heard this, tried to speak, and to tell her father that the king was carrying away her husband, but he, placing his fingers on his month, motioned her to be silent.
“I am ready, sire,” said he, “to follow you.”
When the king took leave, the others followed, and Jeanne was left alone. She entered her room, and knelt down before the image of a saint to pray, then sat down to wait for her husband’s return. M. de Brissac sent six men to the Louvre to attend him back. But two hours after one of them returned, saying, that the Louvre was closed and that before closing, the captain of the watch had said, “It is useless to wait longer, no one will leave the Louvre to-night; his majesty is in bed.”
The marshal carried this news to his daughter.
CHAPTER II
HOW IT IS NOT ALWAYS HE WHO OPENS THE DOOR, WHO ENTERS THE HOUSE
The Porte St. Antoine was a kind of vault in stone, similar to our present Porte St. Denis, only it was attached by its left side to buildings adjacent to the Bastile. The space at the right, between the gate and the Hôtel des Tournelles, was large and dark, little frequented by day, and quite solitary at night, for all passers-by took the side next to the fortress, so as to be in some degree under the protection of the sentinel. Of course, winter nights were still more feared than summer ones.
That on which the events which we have recounted, and are about to recount took place, was cold and black. Before the gate on the side of the city, was no house, but only high walls, those of the church of St. Paul, and of the Hôtel des Tournelles. At the end of this wall was the niche of which St. Luc had spoken to Bussy. No lamps lighted this part of Paris at that epoch. In the nights when the moon charged herself with the lighting of the earth, the Bastile rose somber and majestic against the starry blue of the skies, but on dark nights, there seemed only a thickening of the shadows where it stood. On the night in question, a practised eye might have detected in the angle of the wall of the Tournelles several black shades, which moved enough to show that they belonged to poor devils of human bodies, who seemed to find it difficult to preserve their natural warmth as they. stood there. The sentinel from the Bastile; who could not see them on account of the darkness, could not hear them either, for they talked almost in whispers. However, the conversation did not want interest.
“This Bussy was right,” said one; “it is a night such as we had at Warsaw, when Henri was King of Poland, and if this continues we shall freeze.”
“Come, Maugiron, you complain like a woman,” replied another: “it is not warm, I confess; but draw your mantle over your eyes, and put your hands in your pockets, and you will not feel it.”
“Really, Schomberg,” said a third, “it is easy to see you are German. As for me, my lips bleed, and my mustachios are stiff with ice.”
“It is my hands,” said a fourth; “on my honor, I would not swear I had any.”
“You should have taken your mamma’s muff, poor Quelus,” said Schomberg.
“Eh! mon Dieu, have patience,” said a fifth voice; “you will soon be complaining you are hot.”
“I see some one coming through the Rue St. Paul,” said Quelus.
“It cannot be him; he named another route.”
“Might he not have suspected something, and changed it?”
“You do not know Bussy; where he said he should go, he would go, if he knew that Satan himself were barring his passage.”
“However, here are two men coming.”
“Ma foi! yes.”
“Let us charge,” said Schomberg.
“One moment,” said D’Epernon; “do not let us kill good bourgeois, or poor women. Hold! they stop.”
In fact, they had stopped, and looked as if undecided. “Oh, can they have seen us?”
“We can hardly see ourselves!”
“See, they turn to the left; they stop before a house they are seeking–they are trying to enter; they will escape us!”
“But it is not him, for he was going to the Faubourg St. Antoine.”
“Oh! how do you know he told you right?”
At this supposition they all rushed out, sword in hand, towards the gentlemen.
One of the men had just introduced a key into the lock; the door had yielded and was about to open, when the noise of their assailants made them turn.
“What is this? Can it be against us, Aurilly?” said one.
“Ah, monseigneur,” said the other, who had opened the door, “it looks like it. Will you name yourself, or keep incognito?”
“Armed men–an ambush!”
“Some jealous lover; I said the lady was too beautiful not to be watched.”
“Let us enter quickly, Aurilly; we are safer within doors.”
“Yes, monseigneur, if there are not enemies within; but how do you know–”
He had not time to finish. The young men rushed up; Quelus and Maugiron made for the door to prevent their entering, while Schomberg, D’O, and D’Epernon prepared to attack in front. But he who had been called monseigneur turned towards Quelus, who was in front, and crossing his arms proudly, said:
“You attack a son of France, M. Quelus!”
Quelus drew back, trembling, and thunderstruck.
“Monseigneur le Duc d’Anjou!” he cried.
“The Duc d’Anjou!” repeated the others.
“Well, gentlemen,” cried the duke.
“Monseigneur,” stammered D’Epernon, “it was a joke; forgive us.”
“Monseigneur,” said D’O, “we did not dream of meeting your highness here!”
“A joke!” said the duke; “you have an odd manner of joking, M. d’Epernon. Since it was not intended for me, whom did your jest menace?”
“Monseigneur,” said Schomberg; “we saw St. Luc quit the Hôtel Montmorency and come this way; it seemed strange to us, and we wished to see what took him out on his wedding night.”
“M. de St. Luc–you took me for him?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
“M. de St. Luc is a head taller then I am.”
“It is true, monseigneur; but he is just the height of M. Aurilly.”
“And seeing a man put a key in a lock, we took him for the principal,” added D’O.
“Monseigneur cannot suppose that we had the shadow of an ill-will towards him, even to disturb his pleasures?”
As he listened, the duke, by a skilful movement, had, little by little, quitted the door, followed by Aurilly, and was now at some distance off.
“My pleasures!” said he, angrily; “what makes you think I was seeking pleasure?”
“Ah, monseigneur, in any case pardon us, and let us retire,” said Quelus.
“It is well; adieu, gentlemen; but first listen. I was going to consult the Jew Manasses, who reads the future; he lives, as you know, in Rue de la Tournelle. In passing, Aurilly saw you and took you for the watch, and we, therefore, tried to hide ourselves in a doorway. And now you know what to believe and say; it is needless to add, that I do not wish to be followed,” and he turned away.
“Monseigneur,” said Aurilly, “I am sure these men have bad intentions; it is near midnight, and this is a lonely quarter; let us return home, I beg.”
“No, no; let us profit by their departure.”
“Your highness is deceived; they have not gone, but have returned to their retreat: look in the angle of the Hôtel des Tournelles.”
François looked, and saw that Aurilly was right; it was evident that they waited for something, perhaps to see if the duke were really going to the Jew.
“Well, Monseigneur,” continued Aurilly, “do you not think it will be more prudent to go home?”
“Mordieu! yet it is annoying to give up.”
“Yes; but it can be put off. I told your highness that the house is taken for a year; we know the lady lodges on the first story. We have gained her maid, and have a key which opens the door: you may wait safely.”
“You are sure that the door yielded?”
“Yes, at the third key I tried.”
“Are you sure you shut it again?”
“Yes, monseigneur.”
Aurilly did not feel sure, as he said, but he did not choose to admit it.
“Well, I will go; I shall return some other time.” And the duke went away, promising to payoff the gentlemen for their interruption.
They had hardly disappeared, when the five companions saw approach a cavalier wrapped in a large cloak. The steps of his horse resounded on the frozen ground, and they went slowly and with precaution, for it was slippery.
“This time,” said Quelus, “it is he.”
“Impossible,” said Maugiron.
“Why?”
“Because he is alone, and we left him with Livarot, Antragues, and Ribeirac, who would not have let him run such a risk.”
“It is he, however; do you not recognize his insolent way of carrying his head?”
“Then,” said D’O, “it is a snare.”
“In any case, it is he; and so to arms!”
It was, indeed, Bussy, who came carelessly down the Rue St. Antoine, and followed the route given him by Quelus; he had, as we have seen, received the warning of St. Luc, and, in spite of it, had parted from his friends at the Hôtel Montmorency. It was one of those bravadoes delighted in by the valiant colonel, who said of himself, “I am but a simple gentleman, but I bear in my breast the heart of an emperor; and when I read in Plutarch the exploits of the ancient Romans, I think there is not one that I could not imitate.” And besides, he thought that St. Luc, who was not ordinarily one of his friends, merely wished to get him laughed at for his precautions; and Bussy feared ridicule more than danger.
He had, even in the eyes of his enemies, earned a reputation for courage, which could only be sustained by the rashest adventures. Therefore, alone, and armed only with a sword and poniard, he advanced towards the house where waited for him no person, but simply a letter, which the Queen of Navarre sent him every month on the same day, and which he, according to his promise to the beautiful Marguerite, went to fetch himself, alone, and at night.
When he arrived at the Rue St. Catherine, his active eye discerned in the shade the forms of his adversaries. He counted them: “Three, four, five,” said he, “without counting the lackeys, who are doubtless within call. They think much of me, it seems; all these for one man. That brave St. Luc did not deceive me; and were his even the first sword to pierce me I would cry, “Thanks for your warning, friend.’” So saying, he continued to advance, only his arm held his sword under his cloak, of which he had unfastened the clasp.
It was then that Quelus cried, “To arms.”
“Ah, gentlemen,” said Bussy, “it appears you wish to kill me: I am the wild boar you had to hunt. Well, gentlemen, the wild boar will rip up a few of you; I swear it to you, and I never break my word.”
“Possibly,” said Schomberg; “but it is not right, M. Bussy d’Amboise, that you should be on horseback and we on foot.” And as he spoke, the arm of the young man, covered with white satin, which glistened in the moonlight, came from under his cloak, and Bussy felt his horse give way under him. Schomberg had, with an address peculiar to himself, pierced the horse’s leg with a kind of cutlass, of which the blade was heavier than the handle and which had remained in the wound. The animal gave a shrill cry and fell on his knees. Bussy, always ready, jumped at once to the ground, sword in hand.
“Ah!” cried he, “my favorite horse, you shall pay for this.” And as Schomberg approached incautiously, Bussy gave him a blow which broke his thigh. Schomberg uttered a cry.
“Well!” said Bussy, “have I kept my word? one already. It was the wrist of Bussy, and not his horse’s leg, you should have cut.”
In an instant, while Schomberg bound up his thigh with his handkerchief, Bussy presented the point of his long sword to his four other assailants, disdaining to cry for help, but retreating gradually, not to fly, but to gain a wall, against which to support himself, and prevent his being attacked behind, making all the while constant thrusts, and feeling sometimes that soft resistance of the flesh which showed that his blows had taken effect. Once he slipped for an instant. That instant sufficed for Quelus to give him a wound in the side.
“Touched,” cried Quelus.
“Yes, in the doublet,” said Bussy, who would not even acknowledge his hurt. And rushing on Quelus, with a vigorous effort, he made his sword fly from his hand. But he could not pursue his advantage, for D’O, D’Epernon, and Maugiron attacked him, with fresh fury. Schomberg had bound his wound, and Quelus picked up his sword. Bussy made a bound backwards, and reached the wall. There he stopped, strong as Achilles, and smiling at the tempest of blows which rained around him. All at once he felt a cloud pass over his eyes. He had forgotten his wound, but these symptoms of fainting recalled it to him.
“Ah, you falter!” cried Quelus.
“Judge of it!” cried Bussy. And with the hilt of his sword he struck him on the temple. Quelus fell under the blow. Then furious–wild, he rushed forward, uttering a terrible cry. D’O and D’Epernon drew back, Maugiron was raising Quelus, when Bussy broke his sword with his foot, and wounded the right arm of D’Epernon. For a moment he was conqueror, but Quelus recovered himself, and four swords flashed again. Bussy felt himself lost. He gathered all his strength to retreat once more step by step. Already the perspiration was cold on his brow, and the ringing in his ears and the cloud over his eyes warned him that his strength was giving way. He sought for the wall with his left hand; to his astonishment, it yielded. It was a door not quite closed. Then he regained hope and strength for a last effort. For a second his blows were rapid and violent. Then he let himself glide inside the door, and pushed it to with a violent blow. It shut, and Bussy was saved. He heard the furious blows of his enemies on the door, their cries of rage, and wrathful imprecations. Then, the ground seemed to fail under his feet, and the walls to move. He made a few steps forward, and fell on the steps of a staircase. He knew no more, but seemed to descend into the silence and obscurity of the tomb.
CHAPTER III
HOW IT IS SOMETIMES DIFFICULT TO DISTINGUISH A DREAM FROM THE REALITY
Bussy had had time, before falling, to pass his handkerchief under his shirt, and to buckle the belt of his sword over it, so as to make a kind of bandage to the open wound whence the blood flowed, but he had already lost blood enough to make him faint. However, during his fainting fit, this is what Bussy saw, or thought he saw. He found himself in a room with furniture of carved wood, with a tapestry of figures, and a painted ceiling. These figures, in all possible attitudes, holding flowers, carrying arms, seemed to him to be stepping from the walls. Between the two windows a portrait of a lady was hung. He, fixed to his bed, lay regarding all this. All at once the lady of the portrait seemed to move, and an adorable creature, clothed in a long white robe, with fair hair falling over her shoulders, and with eyes black as jet, with long lashes, and with a skin under which he seemed to see the blood circulate, advanced toward the bed. This woman was so beautiful, that Bussy made a violent effort to rise and throw himself at her feet. But he seemed to be confined in there by bonds like those which keep the dead body in the tomb, while the soul mounts to the skies. This forced him to look at the bed on which he was lying, and it seemed to him one of those magnificent beds sculptured in the reign of Francis I., to which were suspended hangings of white damask, embroidered in gold.
At the sight of this woman, the people of the wall and ceiling ceased to occupy his attention; she was all to him, and he looked to see if she had left a vacancy in the frame. But suddenly she disappeared; and an opaque body interposed itself between her and Bussy, moving slowly, and stretching its arms out as though it were playing blindman’s buff. Bussy felt in such a passion at this, that, had he been able, he would certainly have attacked this importunate vision; but as he made a vain effort, the newcomer spoke:
“Well,” said he, “have I arrived at last?”
“Yes, monsieur,” said a voice so sweet that it thrilled through Bussy, “and now you may take off your bandage.” Bussy made an effort to see if the sweet voice belonged to the lady of the portrait, but it was useless. He only saw the pleasant face of a young man, who had just, as he was told, taken off his bandage, and was looking curiously about him.
“To the devil with this man,” thought Bussy, and he tried to speak, but fruitlessly.
“Ah, I understand now,” said the young man, approaching the bed; “you are wounded, are you not, my dear sir? Well, we will try to cure you.”
“Is the wound mortal?” asked the sweet voice again, with a sad accent, which brought tears into the eyes of Bussy.
“I do not know yet, I am going to see; meanwhile, he has fainted.”
This was all Bussy heard, he seemed to feel a red-hot iron in his side, and then lost all consciousness. Afterwards, it was impossible for Bussy to fix the duration of this insensibility.
When he woke, a cold wind blew over his face, and harsh voices sounded in his ears; he opened his eyes to see if it were the people of the tapestry speaking, and hoping to see the lady again, looked round him. But there was neither tapestry nor ceiling visible, and the portrait had also disappeared. He saw at his right only a man with a white apron spotted with blood; at his left, a monk, who was raising his head; and before him, an old woman mumbling her prayers. His wondering eyes next rested on a mass of stone before him, in which he recognized the Temple, and above that, the cold white sky, slightly tinted by the rising sun. He was in the street.
“Ah, thank you, good people,” said he, “for the trouble you have taken in bringing me here. I wanted air, but you might have given it to me by opening the window, and I should have been better on my bed of white damask and gold than on the bare ground. But never mind, there is in my pocket, unless you have paid yourselves, which would have been prudent, some twenty golden crowns; take, my friends, take.”
“But, my good gentleman,” said the butcher, “we did not bring you here, but found you here as we passed.”
“Ah, diable! and the young doctor, was he here?”
The bystanders looked at each other.
“It is the remains of delirium,” said the monk. Then, turning to Bussy, “I think you would do well to confess,” said he, “there was no doctor, poor young man; you were here alone, and as cold as death.”
Bussy then remembered having received a sword stroke, glided his hand under his doublet, and felt his handkerchief in the same place, fixed over his wound by his sword-belt.
“It is singular,” said he.
Already profiting by his permission, the lookers-on were dividing his purse.
“Now, my friends,” said he, “will you take me to my hôtel?”
“Ah, certainly,” said the old woman, “poor dear young man, the butcher is strong, and then he has his horse, on which you can ride.”
“Yes, my gentleman, my horse and I are at your service.”
“Nevertheless, my son,” said the monk, “I think you would do well to confess.”
“What are you called?” asked Bussy.
“Brother Gorenflot.”
“Well Brother Gorenflot, I trust my hour has not yet arrived and as I am cold, I wish to get quickly home and warm myself.”
“What is your hotel called?”
“Hôtel de Bussy.”
“How!” cried all, “you belong to M. de Bussy?”
“I am M. de Bussy himself.”
“Bussy,” cried the butcher, “the brave Bussy, the scourge of the minions!” And raising him, he was quickly carried home, whilst the monk went away, murmuring, “If it was that Bussy, I do not wonder he would not confess!”
When he got home, Bussy sent for his usual doctor, who found the wound not dangerous.
“Tell me,” said Bussy, “has it not been already dressed?”
“Ma foi,” said the doctor, “I am not sure.”
“And was it serious enough to make me delirious?”
“Certainly.”
“Ah!” thought Bussy, “was that tapestry, that frescoed ceiling, that bed, the portrait between the windows, the beautiful blonde woman with black eyes, the doctor blindfolded, was this all delirium? Is nothing true but my combat? Where did I fight? Ah, yes, I remember; near the Bastile, by the Rue St. Paul. I leaned against a door, and it opened; I shut it–and then I remember no more. Have I dreamed or not? And my horse! My horse must have been found dead on the place. Doctor, pray call some one.”
The doctor called a valet. Bussy inquired, and heard that the animal, bleeding and mutilated, had dragged itself to the door of the hotel, and had been found there.
“It must have been a dream,” thought he again: “how should a portrait come down from the wall and talk to a doctor with a bandage on his eyes? I am a fool; and yet when I remember she was so charming,” and he began to describe her beauties, till he cried out, “It is impossible it should have been a dream; and yet I found myself in the street, and a monk kneeling by me. Doctor,” said he, “shall I have to keep the house a fortnight again for this scratch, as I did for the last?”
“We shall see; can you walk?”
“I seem to have quicksilver in my legs.”
“Try.”
Bussy jumped out of bed, and walked quickly round his room.
“That will do,” said the doctor, “provided that you do not go on horseback, or walk ten miles the first day.”
“Capital! you are a doctor; however, I have seen another to-night. Yes, I saw him, and if ever I meet him, I should know him.”
“I advise you not to seek for him, monsieur; one has always a little fever after a sword wound; you should know that, who have had a dozen.”
“Ah, mon Dieu!” cried Bussy, struck with a new idea, “did my dream begin outside the door instead of inside? Was there no more a staircase and a passage, than there was a bed with white and gold damask, and a portrait? Perhaps those wretches, thinking me dead, carried me to the Temple, to divert suspicion, should any one have seen them hiding. Certainly, it must be so, and I have dreamed the rest. Mon Dieu! if they have procured for me this dream which torments me so, I swear to make an end of them all.”
“My dear seigneur,” said the doctor, “if you wish to get well, you must not agitate yourself thus.”
“Except St. Luc,” continued Bussy, without attending; “he acted as a friend, and my first visit shall be to him.”
“Not before five this evening.”
“If you wish it; but, I assure you, it is not going out and seeing people which will make me ill, but staying quietly at home.”
“Well, it is possible; you are always a singular patient; act as you please, only I recommend you not to get another wound before this one is healed.”
Bussy promised to do his best to avoid it, and, after dressing, called for his litter to take him to the Hôtel Montmorency.
CHAPTER IV
HOW MADAME DE ST. LUC HAD PASSED THE NIGHT
Louis de Clermont, commonly called Bussy d’Amboise, was a perfect gentleman, and a very handsome man. Kings and princes had sought for his friendship; queens and princesses had lavished on him their sweetest smiles. He had succeeded La Mole in the affections of Queen Marguerite, who had committed for him so many follies, that even her husband, insensible so long, was moved at them; and the Duke François would never have pardoned him, had it not gained over Bussy to his interests, and once again he sacrificed all to his ambition. But in the midst of all his successes of war, ambition, and intrigue, he had remained insensible; and he who had never known fear, had never either known love.
When the servants of M. de St. Luc saw Bussy enter, they ran to tell M. de Brissac.
“Is M. de St. Luc at home?” asked Bussy.
“No, monsieur.”
“Where shall I find him?”
“I do not know, monsieur. We are all very anxious about him, for he has not returned since yesterday.”
“Nonsense.”
“It is true, monsieur.”
“But Madame de St. Luc?”
“Oh, she is here.”
“Tell her I shall be charmed if she will allow me to pay my respects to her.”
Five minutes after, the messenger returned, saying Madame de St. Luc would be glad to see M. de Bussy.
When Bussy entered the room, Jeanne ran to meet him. She was very pale, and her jet black hair made her look more so; her eyes were red from her sleepless night, and there were traces of tears on her cheeks.
“You are welcome, M. de Bussy,” said she, “in spite of the fears your presence awakens.”
“What do you mean, madame? how can I cause you fear?”
“Ah! there was a meeting last night between you and M. de St. Luc? confess it.”
“Between me and St. Luc!”
“Yes, he sent me away to speak to you; you belong to the Duc d’Anjou, he to the king. You have quarrelled–do not hide it from me. You must understand my anxiety. He went with the king, it is true–but afterwards?”
“Madame, this is marvelous. I expected you to ask after my wound–”
“He wounded you; he did fight, then?”
“No, madame; not with me at least; it was not he who wounded me. Indeed, he did all he could to save me. Did he not tell you so?”
“How could he tell me? I have not seen him.”
“You have not seen him? Then your porter spoke the truth.”
“I have not seen him since eleven last night.”
“But where can he be?”
“I should rather ask you.”
“Oh, pardieu, tell me about it, it is very droll.”
The poor woman looked at him with astonishment.
“No, it is very sad, I mean. I have lost much blood, and scarcely know what I am saying. Tell me this lamentable story, madame.”
Jeanne told all she knew; how the king had carried him off, the shutting of the doors of the Louvre, and the message of the guards.
“Ah! very well, I understand,” said Bussy.
“How! you understand.”
“Yes; his majesty took him to the Louvre and once there he could not come out again.”
“And why not?”
“Ah! that is a state secret.”
“But my father went to the Louvre, and I also, and the guards said they did not know what we meant.”
“All the more reason that he should be there.”
“You think so?”
“I am sure of it, and if you wish to be so also–”
“How?”
“By seeing.”
“Can I?”
“Certainly.”
“But if I go there, they win send me away, as they did before.”
“Would you like to go in?”
“But if he is not there?”
“I tell you he is there. Come; but they will not let in the wife of St. Luc.”
“You laugh at me, and it is very cruel in my distress.”
“No, dear lady, listen. You are young, you are tall, and have black eyes; you are like my youngest page, who looked so well in the cloth of gold yesterday.”
“Ah I what folly, M. Bussy,” cried Jeanne, blushing.
“I have no other method but this. If you wish to see St. Luc–”
“Oh! I would give all the world to see him.”
“Well, I promise that you shall without giving anything.”
“Oh, but–”
“I told you how.”
“Well, I will do it; shall I send for the dress?”
“No, I will send you a new one I have at home; then you must join me this evening at the Rue St. Honoré. and we will go together to the Louvre.” Jeanne began to laugh, and gave her hand to Bussy.
“Pardon my suspicions,” said she.
“Willingly,” and taking leave he went home to prepare.
Bussy and Madame de St. Luc met at the appointed time; Jeanne looked beautiful in her disguise. At the end of the Rue St. Germain-l’Auxerrois they met a large party in which Bussy recognized the Duc d’Anjou and his train.
“Ah,” said he, “we will make a triumphal entry into the Louvre.”
“Eh! monseigneur,” cried he to the duke.
The prince turned. “You, Bussy!” cried he joyfully, “I heard you were badly wounded, and I was going to your hotel.”
“Ma foi, monseigneur, if I am not dead, it is thanks to no one but myself. You get me into nice situations; that ball at St. Luc’s was a regular snare, and they have nearly drained all the blood out of my body.”
“They shall pay for it, Bussy; they shall pay dearly.”
“Yes, you say so,” said Bussy, with his usual liberty, “and you will smile on the first you meet.”
“Well! accompany me to the Louvre, and you shall see.”
“What shall I see, monseigneur?”
“How I will speak to my brother.”
“You promise me reparation?”
“I promise you shall be content. You hesitate still, I believe.”
“Monseigneur, I know you so well.”
“Come, I tell you.”
“This is good for you,” whispered Bussy to Jeanne. “There will be a quarrel between the brothers, and meanwhile you can find St. Luc.”
“Well,” said he to the prince, “I follow you; if I am insulted, at least I can always revenge myself.”
And he took his place near the duke, while his page kept close to him.
“Revenge yourself; no, Bussy,” said the prince, “I charge myself with it. I know your assassins,” added he, in a low tone.
“What! your highness has taken the trouble to inquire?”
“I saw them.”
“How so?” cried Bussy, astonished.
“Oh! I had business myself at the Porte St. Antoine. They barely missed killing me in your place. Ah! I did not know it was you they were waiting for, or else–”
“Well?”
“Had you this new page with you?” asked the prince, without finishing his sentence.
“No, I was alone, and you?”
“I had Aurilly with me; and why were you alone?”
“Because I wish to preserve my name of the brave Bussy.”
“And they wounded you?”
“I do not wish to give them the pleasure of knowing it, but I had a severe wound in the side.”
“Ah! the wretches; Aurilly said he was sure they were bent on mischief.”
“How! you saw the ambush, you were with Aurilly, who uses his sword as well as his lute, you thought they had bad intentions, and you did not watch to give aid?”
“I did not know who they were waiting for.”
“Mort diable! when you saw the king’s friends, you might have known it was against some friends of yours. Now, as there is hardly any one but myself who has courage to be your friend, you might have guessed that it was I.”
“Oh! perhaps you are right, my dear Bussy, but I did not think of all that.”
When they entered, “Remember your promise,” said Bussy, “I have some one to speak to.”
“You leave me, Bussy?”
“Yes, I must, but if I hear a great noise I will come to you, so speak loud.”
Then Bussy, followed by Jeanne, took a secret staircase, traversed two or three corridors, and arrived at an antechamber.
“Wait here for me,” said he to Jeanne.
“Ah, mon Dieu! you leave me alone.”
“I must, to provide for your entrance.”
CHAPTER V
HOW MADAME DE ST. LUC PASSED THE SECOND NIGHT OF HER MARRIAGE
Bussy went straight to the sleeping-room of the king. There were in it two beds of velvet and satin, pictures, relics, perfumed sachets from the East, and a collection of beautiful swords. Bussy knew the king was not there, as his brother had asked to see him, but he knew that there was next to it a little room which was occupied in turn by all the king’s favorites, and which he now expected to find occupied by St. Luc, whom the king in his great affection had carried off from his wife. Bussy knocked at the antechamber common to the two rooms. The captain of the guards opened.
“M. de Bussy!” cried he.
“Yes, myself, dear M. de Nancey; the king wishes to speak to M. de St. Luc.”
“Very well, tell M. de St. Luc the king wants him.”
“What is he doing?”
“He is with Chicot, waiting for the king’s return from his brother.”
“Will you permit my page to wait here?”
“Willingly, monsieur.”
“Enter, Jean,” said Bussy, and he pointed to the embrasure of a window, where she went to hide herself. St. Luc entered, and M. de Nancey retired.
“What does the king want now?” cried St. Luc, angrily; “ah! it is you, M. de Bussy.”
“I, and before everything, let me thank you for the service you rendered me.”
“Ah! it was quite natural; I could not bear to see a brave gentleman assassinated: I thought you killed.”
“It did not want much to do it, but I got off with a wound, which I think I repaid with interest to Schomberg and D’Epernon. As for Quelus, he may thank the bones of his head: they are the hardest I ever knew.”
“Ah! tell me about it, it will amuse me a little.”
“I have no time now, I come for something else. You are ennuyé–”
“To death.”
“And a prisoner?”
“Completely. The king pretends no one can amuse him but me. He is very good, for since yesterday I have made more grimaces than his ape, and been more rude than his jester.”
“Well, it is my turn to render you a service: can I do it?”
“Yes, go to the Marshal de Brissac’s, and reassure my poor little wife, who must be very uneasy, and must think my conduct very strange.”
“What shall I say to her?”
“Morbleu! tell her what you see; that I am a prisoner, and that the king talks to me of friendship like Cicero, who wrote on it; and of virtue like Socrates, who practised it. It is in vain I tell him I am ungrateful for the first, and incredulous as to the last: he only repeats it over again.”
“Is that all I can do for you?”
“Ah, mon Dieu! I fear so.”
“Then it is done.”
“How so?”
“I guessed all this, and told your wife so.”
