George Henry Boker - "Representative Plays by American Dramatists: 1856 1911: Francesca da Rimini"

George Sand - "La Daniella, Vol. I."

Oliver Onions - "Widdershins"

Alexandre Dumas - "Le vicomte de Bragelonne, Tome III."

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"Our officer," said the duchess, always hopeful, "must have been afraid
of not having sufficient force, and must have kept our men to help him;
it is prudent, but it makes one anxious."

"Yes, very anxious," said Mayneville, whose eyes never quitted the
horizon.

"Mayneville, what can have happened?"

"I will go myself, madame, and find out."

"Oh, no! I forbid that. Who would stay with me, who would know our
friends, when the time comes? No, no, stay, Mayneville; one is
naturally apprehensive when a secret of this importance is concerned,
but, really, the plan was too well combined, and, above all, too secret,
not to succeed."

"Nine o'clock!" replied Mayneville, rather to himself than to the
duchess. "Well! here are the Jacobins coming-out of their convent, and
ranging themselves along the walls."

"Listen!" cried the duchess. They began to hear from afar a noise like
thunder.

"It is cavalry!" cried the duchess; "they are bringing him, we have him
at last;" and she clapped her hands in the wildest joy.

"Yes," said Mayneville, "I hear a carriage and the gallop of horses."

And he cried out loudly, "Outside the walls, my brothers, outside!"

Immediately the gates of the priory opened, and a hundred armed monks
marched out, with Borromee at their head, and they heard Gorenflot's
voice crying, "Wait for me, wait for me; I must be at the head to
receive his majesty."

"Go to the balcony, prior," cried Borromee, "and overlook us all."

"Ah! true; I forgot that I had chosen that place, but luckily you are
here to remind me."

Borromee dispatched four monks to stand behind the prior, on the
pretense of doing him honor.

Soon the road was illumined by a number of torches, thanks to which the
duchess and Mayneville could see cuirasses and swords shining. Incapable
of moderation, she cried--"Go down, Mayneville, and bring him to me."

"Yes, madame, but one thing disquiets me."

"What is it?"

"I do not hear the signal agreed on."

"What use is the signal, since they have him?"

"But they were to arrest him only here, before the priory."

"They must have found a good opportunity earlier."

"I do not see our officer."

"I do."

"Where?"

"See that red plume."

"Ventrebleu! that red plume--"

"Well?"

"It is M. d'Epernon, sword in hand."

"They have left him his sword."

"Mordieu! he commands."

"Our people! There has been treason."

"Oh! madame; they are not our people."

"You are mad, Mayneville!"

But at that moment De Loignac, at the head of the first body of guards,
cried, brandishing his large sword, "Vive le Roi!"

"Vive le Roi!" replied enthusiastically all the Forty-five, with their
Gascon accent. The duchess grew pale and sank down almost fainting.
Mayneville, somber, but resolute, drew his sword, not knowing but what
the house was to be attacked. The cortege advanced, and had reached
Bel-Esbat. Borromee came a little forward, and as De Loignac rode
straight up to him, he immediately saw that all was lost, and determined
on his part.

"Room for the king!" cried De Loignac. Gorenflot, delighted with the
scene, extended his powerful arm and blessed the king from his balcony.
Henri saw him, and bowed smilingly, and at this mark of favor Gorenflot
gave out a "Vive le Roi!" with his stentorian voice. The rest, however,
remained mute: they expected a different result from their two months'
training. But Borromee, feeling certain from the absence of the
duchess's troops of the fate of the enterprise, knew that to hesitate a
moment was to be ruined, and he answered with a "Vive le Roi!" almost as
sonorous as Gorenflot's. Then all the rest took it up.

"Thanks, reverend father, thanks," cried Henri; and then he passed the
convent, where his course was to have terminated, like a whirlwind of
fire, noise, and glory, leaving behind him Bel-Esbat in obscurity.

From her balcony, hidden by the golden scutcheon, behind which she was
kneeling, the duchess saw and examined each face on which the light of
the torches fell.

"Oh!" cried she, "look, Mayneville! That young man, my brother's
messenger, is in the king's service! We are lost!"

"We must fly immediately, madame, now the Valois is conqueror."

"We have been betrayed; it must have been by that young man, he must
have known all."

The king had already, with all his escort, entered the Porte St.
Antoine, which had opened before him and shut behind him.




CHAPTER XLIII.

HOW CHICOT BLESSED KING LOUIS II. FOR HAVING INVENTED POSTING, AND
RESOLVED TO PROFIT BY IT.


Chicot, to whom our readers will now permit us to return, after his last
adventure, went on as rapidly as possible. Between the duke and him
would now exist a mortal struggle, which would end only with life.
Mayenne, wounded in his body, and still more grievously in his
self-love, would never forgive him. Skillful in all mimicry, Chicot now
pretended to be a great lord, as he had before imitated a good
bourgeois, and thus never prince was served with more zeal than M.
Chicot, when he had sold Ernanton's horse and had talked for a quarter
of an hour with the postmaster. Chicot, once in the saddle, was
determined not to stop until he reached a place of safety, and he went
as quickly as constant fresh relays of horses could manage. He himself
seemed made of iron, and, at the end of sixty leagues, accomplished in
twenty hours, to feel no fatigue. When, thanks to this rapidity, in
three days he reached Bordeaux, he thought he might take breath. A man
can think while he gallops, and Chicot thought much. What kind of prince
was he about to find in that strange Henri, whom some thought a fool,
others a coward, and all a renegade without firmness. But Chicot's
opinion was rather different to that of the rest of the world; and he
was clever at divining what lay below the surface. Henri of Navarre was
to him an enigma, although an unsolved one. But to know that he was an
enigma was to have found out much. Chicot knew more than others, by
knowing, like the old Grecian sage, that he knew nothing. Therefore,
where most people would have gone to speak freely, and with their hearts
on their lips, Chicot felt that he must proceed cautiously and with
carefully-guarded words. All this was impressed on his mind by his
natural penetration, and also by the aspect of the country through which
he was passing. Once within the limits of the little principality of
Navarre, a country whose poverty was proverbial in France, Chicot, to
his great astonishment, ceased to see the impress of that misery which
showed itself in every house and on every face in the finest provinces
of that fertile France which he had just left. The woodcutter who passed
along, with his arm leaning on the yoke of his favorite ox, the girl
with short petticoats and quiet steps, carrying water on her head, the
old man humming a song of his youthful days, the tame bird who warbled
in his cage, or pecked at his plentiful supply of food, the brown, thin,
but healthy children playing about the roads, all said in a language
clear and intelligible to Chicot, "See, we are happy here."

Often he heard the sound of heavy wheels, and then saw coming along the
wagon of the vintages, full of casks and of children with red faces.
Sometimes an arquebuse from behind a hedge, or vines, or fig-trees, made
him tremble for fear of an ambush, but it always turned out to be a
hunter, followed by his great dogs, traversing the plain, plentiful in
hares, to reach the mountain, equally full of partridges and heathcocks.
Although the season was advanced, and Chicot had left Paris full of fog
and hoar-frost, it was here warm and fine. The great trees, which had
not yet entirely lost their leaves, which, indeed, in the south they
never lose entirely, threw deep shadows from their reddening tops.

The Bearnais peasants, their caps over one ear, rode about on the
little cheap horses of the country, which seem indefatigable, go twenty
leagues at a stretch, and, never combed, never covered, give themselves
a shake at the end of their journey, and go to graze on the first tuft
of heath, their only and sufficing repast.

"Ventre de biche!" said Chicot; "I have never seen Gascony so rich. I
confess the letter weighs on my mind, although I have translated it into
Latin. However, I have never heard that Henriot, as Charles IX. called
him, knew Latin; so I will give him a free French translation."

Chicot inquired, and was told that the king was at Nerac. He turned to
the left to reach this place, and found the road full of people
returning from the market at Condom. He learned, for Chicot, careful in
answering the questions of others, was a great questioner himself, that
the king of Navarre led a very joyous life, and was always changing from
one love to another.

He formed the acquaintance of a young Catholic priest, a sheep-owner,
and an officer, who had joined company on the road, and were traveling
together. This chance association seemed to him to represent Navarre,
learned, commercial, and military.

The officer recounted to him several sonnets which had been made on the
loves of the king and the beautiful La Fosseuse, daughter of Rene de
Montmorency, baron de Fosseux.

"Oh!" said Chicot; "in Paris, we believe that the king is mad about
Mlle. de Rebours."

"Oh! that is at Pau."

"What! has the king a mistress in every town?"

"Very likely; I know that he was the lover of Mlle. de Dayelle, while I
was in garrison at Castelnaudry."

"Oh! Mlle. Dayelle, a Greek, was she not?"

"Yes," said the priest; "a Cyprian."

"I am from Agen," said the merchant; "and I know that when the king was
there he made love to Mlle. de Tignonville."

"Ventre de biche!" said Chicot; "he is a universal lover. But to return
to Mlle. Dayelle; I knew her family."

"She was jealous and was always threatening; she had a pretty little
poniard, which she used to keep on her work-table, and one day, the king
went away and carried the poniard with him, saying that he did not wish
any misfortune to happen to his successor."

"And Mlle. de Rebours?"

"Oh! they quarreled."

"Then La Fosseuse is the last?"

"Oh! mon Dieu! yes; the king is mad about her."

"But what does the queen say?"

"She carries her griefs to the foot of the crucifix," said the priest.

"Besides," said the officer, "she is ignorant of all these things."

"That is not possible," said Chicot.

"Why so?"

"Because Nerac is not so large that it is easy to hide things there."

"As for that, there is a park there containing avenues more than 3,000
feet long of cypresses, plane trees, and magnificent sycamores, and the
shade is so thick it is almost dark in broad daylight. Think what it
must be at night."

"And then the queen is much occupied."

"Occupied?"

"Yes."

"With whom, pray?"

"With God, monsieur," said the priest.

"With God?"

"Yes, the queen is religious."

"Religious! But there is no mass at the palace, is there?"

"No mass; do you take us for heathens? Learn, monsieur, that the king
goes to church with his gentlemen, and the queen hears mass in her
private chapel."

"The queen?"

"Yes."

"Queen Marguerite?"

"Yes; and I, unworthy as I am, received two crowns for officiating
there; I even preached a very good sermon on the text, 'God has
separated the wheat from the chaff.' It is in the Bible, 'God will
separate,' but as it is a long time since that was written, I supposed
that the thing was done."

"And the king?"

"He heard it, and applauded."

"I must add," said the officer, "that they do something else than hear
mass at the palace; they give good dinners--and the promenades! I do not
believe in any place in France there are more mustaches shown than in
the promenades at Nerac."

Chicot knew Queen Marguerite well, and he knew that if she was blind to
these love affairs, it was when she had some motive for placing a
bandage over her eyes.

"Ventre de biche!" said he, "these alleys of cypresses, and 3,000 feet
of shade, make me feel uncomfortable. I am coming from Paris to tell the
truth at Nerac, where they have such deep shade, that women do not see
their husbands walking with other women. Corbiou! they will be ready to
kill me for troubling so many charming promenades. Happily I know the
king is a philosopher, and I trust in that. Besides, I am an ambassador,
and sacred."

Chicot entered Nerac in the evening, just at the time of the promenades
which occupied the king so much. Chicot could see the simplicity of the
royal manners by the ease with which he obtained an audience. A valet
opened the door of a rustic-looking apartment bordered with flowers,
above which was the king's antechamber and sitting-room. An officer or
page ran to find the king, wherever he might be when any one wished for
an audience, and he always came at the first invitation. Chicot was
pleased with this; he judged the king to be open and candid, and he
thought so still more when he saw the king coming up a winding walk
bordered with laurels and roses, an old hat on his head, and dressed in
a dark green doublet and gray boots, and with a cup and ball in his
hand. He looked gay and happy, as though care never came near him.

"Who wants me?" said he to the page.

"A man who looks to me half courtier, half soldier."

Chicot heard these words, and advanced.

"It is I, sire."

"What! M. Chicot in Navarre! Ventre St. Gris! welcome, dear M. Chicot!"

"A thousand thanks, sire."

"Quite well? Ah, parbleu! we will drink together, I am quite delighted.
Chicot, sit down there." And he pointed to a grass bank.

"Oh no, sire!"

"Have you come 200 leagues for me to leave you standing? No, no; sit
down; one cannot talk standing."

"But, sire, respect--"

"Respect! here in Navarre! You are mad, my poor Chicot."

"No, sire, I am not mad, but I am an ambassador."

A slight frown contracted Henri's brow, but disappeared at once.

"Ambassador, from whom?"

"From Henri III. I come from Paris and the Louvre, sire."

"Oh! that is different. Come with me," said the king, rising, with a
sigh.

"Page, take wine up to my room. Come, Chicot, I will conduct you."

Chicot followed the king, thinking, "How disagreeable! to come and
trouble this honest man in his peace and his ignorance. Bah! he will be
philosophical."




CHAPTER XLIV.

HOW THE KING OF NAVARRE GUESSES THAT "TURENNIUS" MEANS TURENNE, AND
"MARGOTA" MARGOT.


The king of Navarre's room was not very sumptuous, for he was not rich,
and did not waste the little he had. It was large, and, with his
bedroom, occupied all the right wing of the castle. It was well, though
not royally furnished, and had a magnificent view over meadows and
rivers. Great trees, willows, and planes hid the course of the stream
every here and there, which glanced between, golden in the sunlight, or
silver by that of the moon. This beautiful panorama was terminated by a
range of hills, which looked violet in the evening light. The windows on
the other side looked on to the court of the castle.

All these natural beauties interested Chicot less than the arrangements
of the room, which was the ordinary sitting-room of Henri.

The king seated himself, with his constant smile, in a great armchair of
leather with gilt nails, and Chicot, at his command, sat down on a stool
similar in material. Henri looked at him smilingly, but with curiosity.

"You will think I am very curious, dear M. Chicot," began the king, "but
I cannot help it. I have so long looked on you as dead, that in spite of
the pleasure your resurrection causes me, I can hardly realize the idea.
Why did you so suddenly disappear from this world?"

"Oh, sire!" said Chicot, with his usual freedom, "you disappeared from
Vincennes. Every one eclipses himself according to his need."

"I recognize by your ready wit that it is not to your ghost I am
speaking." Then, more seriously, "But now we must leave wit and speak of
business."

"If it does not too much fatigue your majesty, I am ready."

Henri's eyes kindled.

"Fatigue me! It is true I grow rusty here. I have to-day exercised my
body much, but my mind little."

"Sire, I am glad of that; for, ambassador from a king, your relation and
friend, I have a delicate commission to execute with your majesty."

"Speak quickly--you pique my curiosity."

"Sire--"

"First, your letters of credit. I know it is needless, since you are the
ambassador: but I must do my duty as king."

"Sire, I ask your majesty's pardon; but all the letters of credit that I
had I have drowned in rivers, or scattered in the air."

"And why so?"

"Because one cannot travel charged with an embassy to Navarre as if you
were going to buy cloth at Lyons; and if one has the dangerous honor of
carrying royal letters, one runs a risk of carrying them only to the
tomb."

"It is true," said Henri, "the roads are not very safe, and in Navarre
we are reduced, for want of money, to trust to the honesty of the
people; but they do not steal much."

"Oh, no, sire; they behave like lambs or angels, but that is only in
Navarre; out of it one meets wolves and vultures around every prey. I
was a prey, sire; so I had both."

"At all events, I am glad to see they did not eat you."

"Ventre de biche! sire, it was not their faults; they did their best,
but they found me too tough, and could not get through my skin. But to
return to my letter."

"Since you have none, dear M. Chicot, it seems to me useless to return
to it."

"But I had one, sire, but I was forced to destroy it, for M. de Mayenne
ran after me to steal it from me."

"Mayenne?"

"In person."

"Luckily he does not run fast. Is he still getting fatter?"

"Ventre de biche! not just now, I should think."

"Why not?"

"Because, you understand, sire, he had the misfortune to catch me, and
unfortunately got a sword wound."

"And the letter?"

"He had not a glimpse of it, thanks to my precautions."

"Bravo! your journey is interesting; you must tell me the details. But
one thing disquiets me--if the letter was destroyed for M. de Mayenne,
it is also destroyed for me. How, then, shall I know what my brother
Henri wrote?"

"Sire, it exists in my memory."

"How so?"

"Sire, before destroying it I learned it by heart."

"An excellent idea, M. Chicot. You will recite it to me, will you not?"

"Willingly, sire."

"Word for word."

"Yes, sire, although I do not know the language, I have a good memory."

"What language?"

"Latin."

"I do not understand you; was my brother Henri's letter written in
Latin?"

"Yes, sire."

"And why?"

"Ah! sire, doubtless because Latin is an audacious language--a language
which may say anything, and in which Persius and Juvenal have
immortalized the follies and errors of kings."

"Kings?"

"And of queens, sire."

The king began to frown.

"I mean emperors and empresses," continued Chicot.

"You know Latin, M. Chicot?"

"Yes and no, sire."

"You are lucky if it is 'yes,' for you have an immense advantage over
me, who do not know it, but you--"

"They taught me to read it, sire, as well as Greek and Hebrew."

"You are a living book, M. Chicot."

"Your majesty has found the exact word--'a book.' They print something
on my memory, they send me where they like, I arrive, I am read and
understood."

"Or not understood."

"How so, sire?"

"Why, if one does not know the language in which you are printed."

"Oh, sire, kings know everything."

"That is what we tell the people, and what flatterers tell us."

"Then, sire, it is useless for me to recite to your majesty the letter
which I learned by heart, since neither of us would understand it."

"Is Latin not very much like Italian?"

"So they say, sire."

"And Spanish?"

"I believe so."

"Then let us try. I know a little Italian, and my Gascon patois is
something like Spanish: perhaps I may understand Latin without ever
having learned it."

"Your majesty orders me to repeat it, then?"

"I beg you, dear M. Chicot."

Chicot began.

"Frater carissime,

"Sincerus amo quo te prosequebatur germanus noster Carolus Nonus,
functus nuper, colet usque regiam nostram et pectori meo pertinaciter
adhoeret."

"If I am not mistaken," said Henri, interrupting, "they speak in this
phrase of love, obstinacy, and of my brother, Charles IX."

"Very likely," said Chicot; "Latin is such a beautiful language, that
all that might go in one sentence."

"Go on," said the king.

Chicot began again, and Henri listened with the utmost calm to all the
passages about Turenne and his wife, only at the word "Turennius," he
said:

"Does not 'Turennius' mean Turenne?"

"I think so, sire."

"And 'Margota' must be the pet name which my brothers gave to their
sister Marguerite, my beloved wife."

"It is possible," said Chicot; and he continued his letter to the end
without the king's face changing in the least.

"Is it finished?" asked Henri, when he stopped.

"Yes, sire."

"It ought to be superb."

"I think so, also, sire."

"How unlucky that I only understood two words, 'Turennius' and
'Margota.'"

"An irreparable misfortune, sire, unless your majesty decides on having
it translated by some one."

"Oh! no; you yourself, M. Chicot, who were so discreet in destroying the
autograph, you would not counsel me to make this letter public?"

"But I think that the king's letter to you, recommended to me so
carefully, and sent to your majesty by a private hand, must contain
something important for your majesty to know."

"Yes, but to confide these important things to any one, I must have
great confidence in him."

"Certainly."

"Well, I have an idea. Go and find my wife. She is learned, and will
understand it if you recite it to her; then she can explain it to me."

"That is an excellent plan."

"Is it not? Go."

"I will, sire."

"Mind not to alter a word of the letter."

"That would be impossible, sire. To do that I must know Latin."

"Go, then, my friend."

Chicot took leave and went, more puzzled with the king than ever.




CHAPTER XLV.

THE AVENUE THREE THOUSAND FEET LONG.


The queen inhabited the other wing of the castle. The famous avenue
began at her very window, and her eyes rested only on grass and flowers.
A native poet (Marguerite, in the provinces as in Paris, was always the
star of the poets) had composed a sonnet about her.

"She wishes," said he, "by all these agreeable sights to chase away
painful souvenirs."

Daughter, sister, and wife of a king as she was, she had indeed suffered
much. Her philosophy, although more boasted of than that of the king,
was less solid; for it was due only to study, while his was natural.
Therefore, stoical as she tried to be, time and grief had already begun
to leave their marks on her countenance. Still she was remarkably
beautiful. With her joyous yet sweet smile, her brilliant and yet soft
eyes, Marguerite was still an adorable creature. She was idolized at
Nerac, where she brought elegance, joy, and life. She, a Parisian
princess, supported patiently a provincial life, and this alone was a
virtue in the eyes of the inhabitants. Every one loved her, both as
queen and as woman.

Full of hatred for her enemies, but patient that she might avenge
herself better--feeling instinctively that under the mask of
carelessness and long-suffering worn by Henri of Navarre he had a bad
feeling toward her--she had accustomed herself to replace by poetry, and
by the semblance of love, relations, husband, and friends.

No one, excepting Catherine de Medicis, Chicot, or some melancholy
ghosts returned from the realms of death, could have told why
Marguerite's cheeks were often so pale, why her eyes often filled with
tears, or why her heart often betrayed its melancholy void. Marguerite
had no more confidantes; she had been betrayed too often.

However, the bad feeling which she believed Henri to have for her was
only an instinct, and came rather from the consciousness of her own
faults than from his behavior. He treated her like a daughter of France,
always spoke to her with respectful politeness, or grateful kindness,
and was always the husband and friend.

When Chicot arrived at the place indicated to him by Henri, he found no
one; Marguerite, they said, was at the end of the famous avenue. When he
had gone about two-thirds down it, he saw at the end, in an arbor
covered with jasmine, clematis, and broom, a group covered with ribbons,
feathers, velvets, and swords. Perhaps all this finery was slightly
old-fashioned, but for Nerac it was brilliant, and even Chicot, coming
straight from Paris, was satisfied with the coup d'oeil. A page preceded
Chicot.

"What do you want, D' Aubiac?" asked the queen, when she saw him.

"Madame, a gentleman from Paris, an envoy from the Louvre to the king of
Navarre, and sent by his majesty to you, desires to speak to your
majesty."

A sudden flush passed over Marguerite's face, and she turned quickly.
Chicot was standing near; Marguerite quitted the circle, and waving an
adieu to the company, advanced toward the Gascon.

"M. Chicot!" cried she in astonishment.

"Here I am at your majesty's feet," said he, "and find you ever good and
beautiful, and queen here, as at the Louvre."

"It is a miracle to see you here, monsieur; they said you were dead."