CHAPTER LXX.
THE INCONVENIENCE OF LARGE LITTERS AND NARROW DOORS
Bussy did not quit Diana; the smiles of Monsoreau gave him a liberty which he was only too glad to make use of.
“Madame,” said he to Diana, “I am in truth the most miserable of men. On the news of his death, I advised the prince to return to Paris, and to come to terms with his mother; he did so, and now you remain in Anjou.”
“Oh, Louis,” replied she, “we dare not say that we are unhappy; so many happy days, so many joys – do you forget them all?”
“I forget nothing, madame; on the contrary, I remember but too much, and that is why I suffer as I do at losing this happiness. What shall I do if I return to Paris, a hundred leagues from you? My heart sinks at the thought, Diana.”
Diana looked at him, and saw so much grief in his eyes, that she said, “Well, if you go to Paris, I will go also.”
“How! will you quit M. de Monsoreau?”
“No, he would not allow me to do so; he must come with us.”
“Wounded, ill as he is? Impossible!”
“He will come, I tell you.” And, leaving Bussy, she went to the prince. The count frowned dreadfully.
“Monseigneur,” said she, “they say your highness is fond of flowers; if you will come with me, I will show you the most beautiful in Anjou.”
The duke offered her his hand.
“Where are you about to take monseigneur?” asked Monsoreau uneasily.
“Into the greenhouse.”
“Ah! well, carry me there.”
“Ma foi!” thought Rémy, “I was right not to kill him, for he will soon kill himself.”
Diana smiled on Bussy, and said to him, in a low voice, “Do not let M. de Monsoreau suspect that you are about to leave Anjou, and I will manage all.”
“Good!” said Bussy, and approaching the prince, he whispered, “Do not let Monsoreau know that we intend to make peace.”
“Why not?”
“Because he might tell the queen-mother, to make a friend of her.”
“You suspect him, then?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, so do I; I believe he only counterfeited death to deceive us.”
“No, he really received a sword-thrust through his body, and but for that fool of a Rémy, he would have died; I believe his soul must be glued to his body.”
They arrived at the conservatory, and Diana continued to smile charmingly on the prince. He passed first, then Diana, and Monsoreau wished to follow, but it was impossible. His litter was too large to go through the door. At this sight he uttered a groan. Diana went on quietly, without looking at him, but Bussy, who understood her, said to him:
“It is useless to try, M. le Comte, your litter will not pass.”
“Monseigneur!” cried Monsoreau, “do not go into that conservatory, some of the flowers exhale dangerous perfumes.”
Then he fainted, and was carried to his room.
Bussy went to tell Diana what had happened, and she left the duke to go to the castle.
“Have we succeeded?” said Bussy to her as she passed.
“I hope so; do not go away without having seen Gertrude.”
When Monsoreau opened his eyes again, he saw Diana standing at his bedside.
“Ah! it is you, madame,” said he, “to-night we leave for Paris.”
Rémy cried out in horror, but Monsoreau paid no attention.
“Can you think of such a thing, with your wound?” said Diana, quietly.
“Madame, I would rather die than suffer, and were I to die on the road, we start to-night.”
“As you please, monsieur.”
“Then make your preparations.”
“My preparations are soon made, but may I ask the reason of this sudden determination?”
“I will tell you, madame, when you have no more flowers to show to the prince, and when my doors are large enough to admit litters.”
Diana bowed.
“But, madame – ” said Rémy.
“M. le Comte wishes it,” replied she, “and my duty is to obey.” And she left the room.
As the duke was making his adieux to the Baron de Méridor, Gertrude appeared, and said aloud to the duke that her mistress regretted that she could not have the honor of saying farewell to his highness; and softly to Bussy that Diana would set off for Paris that evening. As they went home again, the duke felt unwilling to leave Anjou now that Diana smiled on him. Therefore he said, “I have been reflecting, Bussy,” said he.
“On what, monseigneur?”
“That it is not wise to give in at once to my mother.”
“You are right, she thinks herself clever enough without that.”
“But by dragging it on for a week, and giving fêtes, and calling the liability around us, she will see how strong we are.”
“Well reasoned, but still – ”
“I will stay here a week; depend upon it I shall draw new concessions from the queen.”
Bussy appeared to reflect. “Well, monseigneur,” said he, “perhaps you are right, but the king, not knowing your intentions, may become annoyed; he is very irascible.”
“You are right, but I shall send some one to the king to announce my return in a week.”
“Yes, but that some one will run great risks.”
“If I change my mind, you mean.”
“Yes, and in spite of your promise, you would do so if you thought it your interest.”
“Perhaps.”
“Then they will send your messenger to the Bastile.”
“I will give him a letter, and not let him know what he is carrying.”
“On the contrary, give him no letter, and let him know.”
“Then no one will go.”
“Oh! I know some one.”
“Who?”
“I, myself.”
“You!”
“Yes, I like difficult negotiations.”
“Bussy, my dear Bussy, if you will do that, I shall be eternally grateful.”
Bussy smiled. The duke thought he hesitated.
“And I will give you ten thousand crowns for your journey,” added he.
“Thanks, monseigneur, but these things cannot be paid for.”
“Then you will go?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Whenever you like.”
“The sooner the better.”
“This evening if you wish it.”
“Dear Bussy.”
“You know I would do anything for your highness. I will go to-night; you stay here and enjoy yourself, and get me something good from the queen-mother.”
“I will not forget.”
Bussy then prepared to depart as soon as the signal arrived from Méridor. It did not come till the next morning, for the count had felt himself so feeble that he had been forced to take a night’s rest. But early in the morning a messenger came to announce to Bussy that the count had set off for Paris in a litter, followed on horseback by Rémy, Diana, and Gertrude. Bussy jumped on his horse, and took the same road.
CHAPTER LXXI.
WHAT TEMPER THE KING WAS IN WHEN ST. LUC REAPPEARED AT THE LOUVRE
Since the departure of Catherine, Henri, however, confident in his ambassador, had thought only of arming himself against the attacks of his brother. He amused, or rather ennuyéd, himself by drawing up long lists of proscriptions, in which were inscribed in alphabetical order all who had not shown themselves zealous for his cause. The lists became longer every day, and at the S – and the L – , that is to say, twice over, was inscribed the name of M. de St. Luc. Chicot, in the midst of all this, was, little by little, and man by man, enrolling an army for his master. One evening Chicot entered the room where the king sat at supper.
“What is it?” asked the king.
“M. de St. Luc.”
“M. de St. Luc?”
“Yes.”
“At Paris?”
“Yes.”
“At the Louvre?”
“Yes.”
The king rose, red and agitated.
“What has he come for? The traitor!”
“Who knows?”
“He comes, I am sure, as deputy from the states of Anjou – as an envoy from my rebellious brother. He makes use of the rebellion as a safe conduct to come here and insult me.”
“Who knows?”
“Or perhaps he comes to ask me for his property, of which I have kept back the revenues, which may have been rather an abuse of power, as, after all, he has committed no crime.”
“Who knows?”
“Ah, you repeat eternally the same thing; mort de ma vie! you tire my patience out with your eternal ‘Who knows?’”
“Eh! mordieu! do you think you are very amusing with your eternal questions?”
“At least you might reply something.”
“And what should I reply? Do you take me for an ancient oracle? It is you who are tiresome with your foolish suppositions.”
“M. Chicot?”
“M. Henri.”
“Chicot, my friend, you see my grief and you laugh at me.”
“Do not have any grief.”
“But everyone betrays me.”
“Who knows? Ventre de biche! who knows?”
Henri went down to his cabinet, where, at the news of his return, a number of gentlemen had assembled, who were looking at St. Luc with evident distrust and animosity. He, however, seemed quite unmoved by this. He had brought his wife with him also, and she was seated, wrapped in her traveling-cloak, when the king entered in an excited state.
“Ah, monsieur, you here!” he cried.
“Yes, sire,” replied St. Luc.
“Really, your presence at the Louvre surprises me.”
“Sire, I am only surprised that, under the circumstances, your majesty did not expect me.”
“What do you mean, monsieur?”
“Sire, your majesty is in danger.”
“Danger!” cried the courtiers.
“Yes, gentlemen, a real, serious danger, in which the king has need of the smallest as well as the greatest of those devoted to him; therefore I come to lay at his feet my humble services.”
“Ah!” said Chicot, “you see, my son, that I was right to say, ‘who knows.’”
Henri did not reply at once; he would not yield immediately. After a pause, he said, “Monsieur, you have only done your duty; your services are due to us.”
“The services of all the king’s subjects are due to him, I know, sire; but in these times many people forget to pay their debts. I, sire, come to pay mine, happy that your majesty will receive me among the number of your creditors.”
“Then,” said Henri, in a softer tone, “you return without any other motive than that which you state; without any mission, or safe-conduct?”
“Sire, I return simply and purely for that reason. Now, your majesty may throw me into the Bastile, or have me shot, but I shall have done my duty. Sire, Anjou is on fire; Touraine is about to revolt; Guienne is rising. M. le Duc d’Anjou is hard at work.”
“He is well supported, is he not?”
“Sire, M. de Bussy, firm as he is, cannot make your brother brave.”
“Ah! he trembles, then, the rebel.”
“Let me go and shake St. Luc’s hand,” said Chicot, advancing.
The king followed him, and going up to his old favorite, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said, —
“You are welcome, St. Luc!”
“Ah! sire,” cried St. Luc, kissing the king’s hand, “I find again my beloved master.”
“Yes, but you, my poor St. Luc, you have grown thin.”
“It is with grief at having displeased your majesty,” said a feminine voice. Now, although the voice was soft and respectful, Henri frowned, for it was as distasteful to him as the noise of thunder was to Augustus.
“Madame de St. Luc!” said he. “Ah! I forgot.”
Jeanne threw herself at his feet.
“Rise, madame,” said he, “I love all that bear the name of St. Luc.” Jeanne took his hand and kissed it, but he withdrew it quickly.
“You must convert the king,” said Chicot to the young woman, “you are pretty enough for it.”
But Henri turned his back to her, and passing his arm round St. Luc’s neck, said, —
“Then we have made peace, St. Luc?”
“Say rather, sire, that the pardon is granted.”
“Madame!” said Chicot, “a good wife should not leave her husband,” and he pushed her after the king and St. Luc.
CHAPTER LXXII.
IN WHICH WE MEET TWO IMPORTANT PERSONAGES WHOM WE HAVE LOST SIGHT OF FOR SOME TIME
There are two of the personages mentioned in this story, about whom the reader has the right to ask for information. We mean an enormous monk, with thick eyebrows and large lips, whose neck was diminishing every day; and a large donkey whose sides were gradually swelling out like a balloon. The monk resembled a hogshead; and the ass was like a child’s cradle, supported by four posts.
The one inhabited a cell at St. Genevieve, and the other the stable at the same convent. The one was called Gorenflot, and the other Panurge. Both were enjoying the most prosperous lot that ever fell to a monk and an ass.
The monks surrounded their illustrious brother with cares and attentions, and Panurge fared well for his master’s sake.
If a missionary arrived from foreign countries, or a secret legate from the Pope, they pointed out to him Brother Gorenflot, that double model of the church preaching and militant; they showed Gorenflot in all his glory, that is to say, in the midst of a feast, seated at a table in which a hollow had been cut on purpose for his sacred stomach, and they related with a noble pride that Gorenflot consumed the rations of eight ordinary monks. And when the newcomer had piously contemplated this spectacle, the prior would say, “See how he eats! And if you had but heard his sermon one famous night, in which he offered to devote himself for the triumph of the faith. It is a mouth which speaks like that of St. Chrysostom, and swallows like that of Gargantua.”
Every time that any one spoke of the sermon, Gorenflot sighed and said:
“What a pity I did not write it!
“A man like you has no need to write,” the prior would reply. “No, you speak from inspiration; you open your mouth, and the words of God flow from your lips.”
“Do you think so?” sighed Gorenflot.
However, Gorenflot was not perfectly happy. He, who at first thought his banishment from the convent an immense misfortune, discovered in his exile infinite joys before unknown to him. He sighed for liberty; liberty with Chicot, the joyous companion, with Chicot, whom he loved without knowing why. Since his return to the convent, he had never been allowed to go out. He never attempted to combat this decision, but he grew sadder from day to day. The prior saw this, and at last said to him:
“My dear brother, no one can fight against his vocation; yours is to fight for the faith; go then, fulfil your mission, only watch well over your precious life, and return for the great day.”
“What great day?”
“That of the Fête Dieu.”
“Ita,” replied Gorenflot; it was the only Latin word he knew, and used it on all occasions. “But give me some money to bestow in alms in a Christian manner.”
“You have your text, have you not, dear brother?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Confide it to me.”
“Willingly, but to you alone; it is this: ‘The flail which threshes the corn.’”
“Oh, magnificent! sublime!” cried the prior.
“Now, my father, am I free?”
“Yes, my son, go and walk in the way of the Lord.”
Gorenflot saddled Panurge, mounted him with the aid of two vigorous monks, and left the convent about seven in the evening. It was the same day on which St. Luc arrived at Paris from Méridor.
Gorenflot, having passed through the Rue St. Etienne, was going to have turned to the right, when suddenly Panurge stopped; a strong hand was laid on his croup.
“Who is there?” cried Gorenflot, in terror.
“A friend.”
Gorenflot tried to turn, but he could not.
“What do you want?” said he.
“Will my venerable brother show me the way to the Corne d’Abondance?”
“Morbleu! it is M. Chicot,” cried Gorenflot, joyfully.
“Just so; I was going to seek you at the convent, when I saw you come out, and followed you until we were alone. Ventre de biche! how thin you are!”
“But what are you carrying, M. Chicot?” said the monk, “you appear laden.”
“It is some venison which I have stolen from the king.”
“Dear M. Chicot! and under the other arm?”
“A bottle of Cyprus wine sent by a king to my king.”
“Let me see!”
“It is my wine, and I love it much; do not you, brother?”
“Oh! oh!” cried Gorenflot, raising his eyes and hands to Heaven, and beginning to sing in a voice which shook the neighboring windows. It was the first time he had sung for a month.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
DIANA’S SECOND JOURNEY TO PARIS
Let us leave the two friends entering the Corne d’Abondance, and return to the litter of M. Monsoreau and to Bussy, who set out with the intention of following them. Not only is it not difficult for a cavalier well mounted to overtake foot travelers, but it is difficult not to pass them. This happened to Bussy.
It was the end of May, the heat was great, and about noon M. de Monsoreau wished to make a halt in a little wood, which was near the road, and as they had a horse laden with provisions, they remained there until the great heat of the day had gone by. During this time Bussy passed them, but he had not traveled, as we may imagine, without inquiring if a party on horseback, and a litter carried by peasants, had been seen. Until he had passed the village of Durtal, he had obtained the most satisfactory information, and, convinced that they were before him, had ridden on quickly. But he could see nothing of them, and suddenly all traces of them vanished, and on arriving at La Flèche he felt certain he must have passed them on the road. Then he remembered the little wood, and doubted not that they had been resting there when he passed. He installed himself at a little inn, which had the advantage of being opposite the principal hotel, where he doubted not that Monsoreau would stop; and he remained at the window watching. About four o’clock he saw a courier arrive, and half an hour afterwards the whole party. He waited till nine o’clock, and then he saw the courier set out again, and after him the litter, then Diana, Rémy, and Gertrude on horseback. He mounted his horse and followed them, keeping them in sight. Monsoreau scarcely allowed Diana to move from his side, but kept calling her every instant. After a little while, Bussy gave a long, shrill whistle, with which he had been in the habit of calling his servants at his hotel. Rémy recognized it in a moment. Diana started, and looked at the young man, who made an affirmative sign; then he came up to her and whispered:
“It is he!”
“Who is speaking to you, madame?” said Monsoreau.
“To me, monsieur?”
“Yes, I saw a shadow pass close to you, and heard a voice.”
“It is M. Rémy; are you also jealous of him?”
“No, but I like people to speak out, it amuses me.”
“There are some things which cannot be said aloud before M. le Comte, however,” said Gertrude, coming to the rescue.
“Why not?”
“For two reasons; firstly, because some would not interest you, and some would interest you too much.”
“And of which kind is what M. Rémy has just whispered?”
“Of the latter.”
“What did Rémy say to you, madame?”
“I said, M. le Comte, that if you excite yourself so much, you will be dead before we have gone a third of the way.”
Monsoreau grew deadly pale.
“He is expecting you behind,” whispered Rémy, again, “ride slowly, and he will overtake you.”
Monsoreau, who heard a murmur, tried to rise and look back after Diana.
“Another movement like that, M. le Comte, and you will bring on the bleeding again,” said Rémy.
Diana turned and rode back a little way, while Rémy walked by the litter to occupy the count. A few seconds after, Bussy was by her side.
“You see I follow you,” said he, after their first embrace.
“Oh! I shall be happy, if I know you are always so near to me.”
“But by day he will see us.”
“No; by day you can ride afar off; it is only I who will see you, Louis. From the summit of some hill, at the turn of some road, your plume waving, your handkerchief fluttering in the breeze, would speak to me in your name, and tell me that you love me.”
“Speak on, my beloved Diana; you do not know what music I find in your voice.”
“And when we travel by night, which we shall often do, for Rémy has told him that the freshness of the evening is good for his wounds, then, as this evening, from time to time, I will stay behind, and we will tell each other, with a rapid pressure of the hands, all our thoughts of each other during the day.”
“Oh! I love you! I love you!” murmured Bussy. “Oh! to see you, to press your hand, Diana.”
Suddenly they heard a voice which made them both tremble, Diana with fear, and Bussy with anger.
“Diana!” it cried, “where are you? Answer me.”
“Oh! it is he! I had forgotten him,” said Diana. “Sweet dream, frightful awaking.”
“Listen, Diana; we are together. Say one word, and nothing can separate us more; Diana, let us fly! What prevents us? Before us is happiness and liberty. One word, and we go; one word, and lost to him, you belong to me forever.”
“And my father?”
“When he shall know how I love you?”
“Oh! a father!”
“I will do nothing by violence, dear Diana; order, and I obey.”
“It is our destiny, Bussy; but be strong, and you shall see if I know how to love.”
“Must we then separate?”
“Comtesse!” cried the voice, “reply, or, if I kill myself in doing it, I will jump from this infernal litter.”
“Adieu, Bussy, he will do as he says.”
“You pity him?”
“Jealous!” said Diana, with an adorable smile.
Bussy let her go.
In a minute she was by the litter, and found the count half fainting.
“Ah!” cried he, “where were you, madame?”
“Where should I have been? Behind you.”
“At my side, madame; do not leave me again.”
From time to time this scene was renewed. They all hoped he would die with rage; but he did not die: on the contrary, at the end of ten days, when they arrived at Paris, he was decidedly better. During these ten days Diana had conquered all Bussy’s pride, and had persuaded him to come and visit Monsoreau, who always showed him much friendship. Rémy watched the husband and gave notes to the wife.
“Esculapius and Mercury,” said he; “my functions accumulate.”