Harold Bindloss - "Alton of Somasco"

Ph. J. Ketner - "Een kijkje op de Tentoonstelling te Milaan"

May Sinclair - "The Divine Fire"

O.E. Fuller - "Brave Men and Women"

Books: Book review: 'The Mercy Papers' and 'Downtown Owl'
Moreover Technologies - Premier purveyor of real-time news and RSS feeds from across the Web

Book Review: The Horror, the Horror
Ad - Free Shipping on purchases over $59.95 of products online at Tennis Express.

How to live what Michael Pollan preaches
The Mercy Papers A Memoir of Three Weeks By Robin Romm 213 pages. Scribner. $22. The foundational condition of being human is that we're going to die. Almost as basic a truth is that we seem incapable of believing it. The collision of these inconsonant

A / B / C / D / E / F / G / H / I / J / K / L / M / N / O / P / R / S / T / U / V / W / Y / Z

The Forty Five Guardsmen written by Alexandre Dumas

A >> Alexandre Dumas >> The Forty Five Guardsmen




"And that is why--do you understand now?"

"No, indeed, sire."

"Why they wish me to quarrel with my wife and repudiate her. No wife, no
dowry, no more 300,000 crowns, no Cahors. It is one way of eluding a
promise, and Henri is clever in laying snares."

"You would much like to hold Cahors, sire?"

"Doubtless; for after all, what is my principality of Bearn? A poor
little place, clipped by the avarice of my mother-in-law and
brother-in-law."

"While Cahors--"

"Cahors would be my rampart, the safeguard of my religion."

"Well, sire, go into mourning for Cahors; for, whether you break with
Madame Marguerite or not, the king of France will never give it to you,
and unless you take it--"

"Oh, I would soon take it, if it was not so strong, and, above all, if I
did not hate war."

"Cahors is impregnable, sire."

"Oh! impregnable! But if I had an army, which I have not--"

"Listen, sire. We are not here to flatter each other. To take Cahors,
which is held by M. de Vesin, one must be a Hannibal or a Caesar; and
your majesty--"

"Well?" said Henri, with a smile.

"Has just said, you do not like war."

Henri sighed, and his eyes flashed for a minute; then he said:

"It is true I have never drawn the sword, and perhaps never shall. I am
a king of straw, a man of peace; but, by a singular contrast, I love to
think of warlike things--that is in my blood. St. Louis, my ancestor,
pious by education and gentle by nature, became on occasion a brave
soldier and a skillful swordsman. Let us talk, if you please, of M.
Vesin, who is a Caesar and a Hannibal."

"Sire, pardon me if I have wounded or annoyed you. I spoke only of M. de
Vesin to extinguish all hope in your heart. Cahors, you see, is so well
guarded because it is the key of the south."

"Alas! I know it well. I wished so much to possess Cahors, that I told
my poor mother to make it a sine qua non of our marriage. See, I am
speaking Latin now. Cahors, then, was my wife's dowry; they owe it to
me--"

"Sire, to owe and pay--"

"Are two different things, I know. So your opinion is, that they will
never pay me?"

"I fear not."

"Diable!"

"And frankly--"

"Well?"

"They will be right, sire."

"Why so?"

"Because you did not know your part of king; you should have got it at
once."

"Do you not, then, remember the tocsin of St. Germain l'Auxerrois?" said
Henri, bitterly. "It seems to me that a husband whom they try to murder
on the night of his marriage might think less of his dowry than of his
life."

"Yes; but since then, sire, we have had peace; and excuse me, sire, you
should have profited by it, and, instead of making love, have
negotiated. It is less amusing, I know, but more profitable. I speak,
sire, as much for my king as for you. If Henri of France had a strong
ally in Henri of Navarre, he would be stronger than any one; and if the
Protestants and Catholics of France and Navarre would unite in a common
political interest, they would make the rest of the world tremble."

"Oh, I do not pretend to make others tremble, so long as I do not
tremble myself. But if I cannot get Cahors, then, and you think I
cannot--"

"I think so, sire, for three reasons."

"Tell them to me, Chicot."

"Willingly. The first is that Cahors is a town of good produce, which
Henri III. will like to keep for himself."

"That is not very honest."

"It is very royal, sire."

"Ah! it is royal to take what you like."

"Yes; that is called taking the lion's share, and the lion is the king
of animals."

"I shall remember your lesson, Chicot. Now, your second reason."

"Madame Catherine--"

"Oh! does my good mother still mix in politics?"

"Always; and she would rather see her daughter at Paris than at
Nerac--near her than near you."

"You think so? Yet she does not love her daughter to distraction."

"No; but Madame Marguerite serves you as a hostage, sire."

"You are cunning, Chicot. Devil take me, if I thought of that! But you
may be right; a daughter of France would be a hostage in case of need.
Well, the third?"

"Between the Duc d'Anjou, who seeks to make a throne for himself in
Flanders, between MM. de Guise, who wish for a crown, and shake that of
France, and his majesty the king of Spain, who wishes for universal
monarchy, you hold the balance and maintain a certain equilibrium."

"I, without weight?"

"Just so. If you became powerful, that is to say, heavy, you would turn
the scale, and would be no longer a counterpoise, but a weight."

"Ah! I like that reason, and it is admirably argued. This is the
explanation of my situation?"

"Complete."

"And I, who did not see all this, and went on hoping."

"Well, sire, I counsel you to cease to hope."

"Then I must do for this debt what I do for those of my farmers who
cannot pay their rent; I put a P against their names."

"Which means paid."

"Just so."

"Put two P's, sire, and give a sigh."

"So be it, Chicot; you see I can live in Bearn, even without Cahors."

"I see that, and also that you are a wise and philosophical king. But
what is that noise?"

"Noise, where?"

"In the courtyard, I think."

"Look out of the window."

"Sire, there are below a dozen of poorly-clothed people."

"Ah! they are my poor," said the king, rising.

"Your majesty has poor?"

"Doubtless; does not God recommend charity? If I am not a Catholic,
Chicot, I am a Christian."

"Bravo, sire!"

"Come, Chicot, we will give alms together, and then go to supper."

"Sire, I follow you."

"Take that purse lying on the table, near my sword--do you see?"

They went down, but Henri seemed thoughtful and preoccupied. Chicot
looked at him, and thought, "What the devil made me talk politics to
this brave prince, and make him sad? Fool that I was!"

Once in the court, Henri approached the group of mendicants. There were
a dozen men in different costumes. Henri took the purse from the hands
of Chicot and made a sign, and then each man came forward and saluted
Henri with an air of humility, which did not preclude a glance full of
intelligence at the king. Henri replied by a motion of the head; then,
putting his fingers into the purse, which Chicot held open, he took out
a piece.

"Do you know that it is gold, sire?" said Chicot.

"Yes, my friend, I know."

"Peste! you are rich."

"Do you not see that each of these pieces serves for two? On the
contrary, I am so poor that I am forced to cut my gold in two."

"It is true," said Chicot, with surprise: "they are half-pieces, with
fantastic designs."

"Oh, I am like my brother Henri, who amuses himself in cutting out
images: I amuse myself with clipping my ducats."

"Nevertheless, sire, it is an odd method of giving charity," said
Chicot, who divined some hidden mystery.

"What would you do?"

"Instead of cutting the gold, I would give one piece between two."

"They would fight, and I should do harm instead of good."'

Henry then took one of the pieces, and, placing himself before the first
beggar, looked at him inquiringly.

"Agen," said the man.

"How many?" asked Henri.

"Five hundred."

"Cahors;" and he gave him the piece and took a second.

The man bowed and withdrew.

The next advanced and said, "Auch."

"How many?"

"Three hundred and fifty."

"Cahors;" and he gave him his piece.

"Narbonne," said the third.

"How many?"

"Eight hundred."

"Cahors;" and he gave him his piece.

"Montauban," said the fourth.

"How many?"

"Six hundred."--"Cahors."

Each one in this way pronounced a name and a number, and received a
piece of gold, and to each Henri replied, "Cahors."

This over, there were no pieces left in the purse.

"That is all, sire," said Chicot.

"Yes; I have finished."

"Sire, am I permitted to be curious?"

"Why not? Curiosity is natural."

"What did these beggars say, and what did you reply?"

Henri smiled.

"Indeed," continued Chicot, "all is mysterious here."

"Do you think so?"

"Yes; I have never seen alms given in that way."

"It is the custom at Nerac."

"A singular one, sire."

"No, nothing is more simple; each of those men came from a different
city."

"Well, sire?"

"Well, that I may not always give to the same, they each tell me the
name of their town, so that I can distribute my benefits equally among
all the unfortunates in my kingdom."

"Yes, sire; but why did you answer 'Cahors'?"

"Ah!" cried Henri, with a most natural air of surprise, "did I say
'Cahors'?"

"Yes, sire."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it."

"It must have been because we had been talking so much about it. I wish
for it so much that I must have spoken of it without meaning to do so."

"Hum!" said Chicot, suspiciously, "and then there was something else."

"What! something else?"

"A number that each one pronounced, and which, added together, made more
than eight thousand."

"Ah! as to that, Chicot, I did not understand it myself; unless, as the
beggars are divided into corporations, they each named the number of
members, which seems to me probable."

"Sire, sire!"

"Come and sup, my friend, nothing enlightens the mind like eating and
drinking. Let us go to table, and you shall see that if my pistoles are
cut, my bottles are full."

Then, passing his arm familiarly through Chicot's, the king went back to
his room, where supper was served. Passing by the queen's room, he
glanced at it, and saw no light.

"Page," said he, "is not her majesty at home?"

"Her majesty is gone to see Mademoiselle de Montmorency, who is ill."

"Ah! poor Fosseuse!" said Henri: "it is true, the queen has such a good
heart. Come to supper, Chicot."




CHAPTER L.

THE TRUE MISTRESS OF THE KING OF NAVARRE.


The repast was joyous. Henri seemed no longer to have any weight either
on his heart or his mind, and he was an excellent companion. As for
Chicot, he dissembled the uneasiness he had felt since the coming of the
Spanish ambassador and the scene with the mendicants. He endeavored to
drink little and keep cool, to observe everything; but this Henri would
not allow. However, Chicot had a head of iron, and as for Henri, he
said he could drink these wines of the country like milk.

"I envy you," said Chicot to the king; "your court is delightful, and
your life pleasant."

"If my wife were here, Chicot, I would not say what I am about to say,
but in her absence I will tell you that the best part of my life is that
which you do not see."

"Ah! sire, they tell, indeed, fine tales of you."

Henri leaned back in his chair to laugh. "They say I reign more over my
female than my male subjects, do they not?" said he.

"Yes, sire, and it astonishes me."

"Why so?"

"Because, sire, you have much of that restless spirit which makes great
kings."

"Ah, Chicot! you are wrong; I am lazy, and the proof of it is in my
life. If I have a love to choose, I take the nearest; if a wine, the
bottle close to my hand. To your health, Chicot."

"Sire, you do me honor," said Chicot, emptying his glass.

"Thus," continued the king, "what quarrels in my household!"

"Yes, I understand; all the ladies-in-waiting adore you, sire."

"They are my neighbors, Chicot."

"Then, sire, it might result from this, that if you lived at St. Denis
instead of Nerac, the king might not live very tranquilly."

"The king! what do you say, Chicot? Do you think I am a Guise? I wish
for Cahors, it is true, because it is near to me."

"Ventre de biche, sire, this ambition for things within the reach of
your hand resembles much that of Caesar Borgia, who gathered together a
kingdom, city by city; saying that Italy was an artichoke to be eaten
leaf by leaf."

"This Caesar Borgia was not a bad politician, it seems to me, compere."

"No, but he was a very dangerous neighbor and a bad brother."

"Ah! would you compare me to the son of a pope--I, a Huguenot chief?"

"Sire, I compare you to no one."

"Why not?"

"I believe he would be wrong who should liken you to any other than
yourself. You are ambitious, sire."

"Here is a man determined to make me want something," cried Henri.

"God forbid, sire; I desire with all my heart, on the contrary, that
your majesty should want nothing."

"Nothing calls you back to Paris, does it, Chicot?"

"No, sire."

"Then you will pass some days with me?"

"If your majesty does me the honor to wish for my company, I ask no
better than to give you a week."

"So be it; in a week you will know me like a brother. Drink, Chicot."

"Sire, I am no longer thirsty," said Chicot, who had given up all hopes
of seeing the king take too much.

"Then, I will leave you; a man should not stay at table when he does
nothing. Drink, I tell you."

"Why, sire?"

"To sleep better. Do you like the chase, Chicot?"

"Not much, sire; and you?"

"Passionately; since I lived at the court of Charles IX."

"Why did your majesty do me the honor to ask me?"

"Because I hunt to-morrow, and thought to take you with me."

"Sire, it would be a great honor, but--"

"Oh! this chase will rejoice all eyes; besides, I am a good hunter, and
I wish you to see me to advantage."

"Sire, I am at your orders."

"Good! then it is settled. Ah! here is a page to disturb us."

"Some important business, sire?"

"Business at table! You think you are still at the court of France, my
dear Chicot. Learn one thing; at Nerac, when we have supped, we go to
bed."

"But this page?"

"Well, cannot he come for anything but business?"

"Ah! I understand: and I will go to bed."

Chicot rose; the king did the same, and took his arm. This haste to
send him away appeared suspicious to Chicot, and he determined not to
leave the room if he could help it.

"Oh! oh!" said he, tottering, "it is astonishing, sire."

The king smiled. "What is astonishing?"

"Ventre de biche! my head turns; while I sat still, it was all very
well, but when I rise--"

"Bah!" said Henri, "we only tasted the wine."

"You call that tasting, sire? You are a drinker, and I do you homage, as
to my superior."

"Chicot, my friend," said Henri, endeavoring to make out by one of his
keen glances if Chicot were really drunk or pretending, "the best thing
you can do is to go to bed."

"Yes, sire; good-night."

"Good-evening, Chicot."

"Yes, sire, you are right; the best thing Chicot can do is to go to
bed." And he lay down on the floor.

Henri glanced toward the door, and then, approaching him, said, "You are
so drunk, my poor Chicot, that you have taken my floor for your bed."

"Chicot does not mind little things."

"But I expect some one."

"For supper; yes, let us sup--" And Chicot made a fruitless effort to
rise.

"Ventre St. Gris! how quickly you get drunk. But go along, mordieu! she
is getting impatient."

"She, who?"

"The lady I expect."

"A lady; why did you not say, Henriquet? Ah! pardon, I thought I was
speaking--to the king of France. He has spoiled me, that good Henriquet.
Ah! I will go."

"You are a gentleman, Chicot. Now go quickly."

"Adieu, sire; a good night to you."

"Adieu! and sleep well. You will find the page in the gallery, who will
show you your room."

Chicot went out; but, after taking a few steps, returned just in time to
see Henri let in--not a woman, but a man. Chicot put his eye to the
large keyhole.

The man took off his hat, and Chicot saw the noble but severe face of
Duplessis-Mornay, the rigid and vigilant counselor of Henri of Navarre.

"Ah!" thought Chicot, "this will annoy our lover more than I did."

But Henri's face showed only joy; and after locking the door, he sat
down eagerly to examine some maps, plans, and letters, which his
minister had brought him. The king then began to write and to mark the
maps.

"Oh! this is the way Henri of Navarre makes love," thought Chicot.

At this moment he heard steps behind him, and fearful of being
surprised, he turned hastily away, and, seeing the page, asked for his
room.

"Come with me, if you please, monsieur," said D'Aubiac, "and I will
conduct you."

Chicot began to understand the king of Navarre. Therefore, instead of
going to sleep, he sat somber and thoughtful on his bed, while the moon
shed its silver light over stream and meadows.

"Henri is a real king, and he conspires," thought Chicot. "All this
palace, park, town--the whole province--is a focus of conspiracy. All
the women make love, but it is political love; and all the men live in
the hope of a future. Henri is clever, his talent borders on genius, and
he is in communication with Spain, the land of deceit. Who knows if even
his noble answer to the ambassador was not a farce, and if he did not
warn the ambassador of it by some sign unknown to me? Henri has spies;
those beggars were nothing more nor less than gentlemen in disguise.
Those pieces of gold, so artistically cut, were pledges of
recognition--rallying signs.

"Henri feigns to care for nothing but love and pleasure, and then passes
his time working with Mornay, who never seems to sleep, and does not
know what love means. Queen Marguerite has lovers, and the king knows
it, and tolerates them, because he has need of them, or of her--perhaps
of both. Happily, God, in giving him the genius for intrigue, did not
add to it that of war; for they say he is afraid of the noise of
musketry, and that when he was taken, when quite young, to battle, he
could not stay more than a quarter of an hour in the saddle. It is
lucky, for if he had the arm, as well as the head, this man might do
anything.

"There is certainly the Duc de Guise, who has both, but he has the
disadvantage of being known as brave and skillful, so that every one is
on their guard against him, while no one fears the Bearnais. I alone
have seen through him. Well, having seen through him, I have no more to
do here; so while he works or sleeps, I will go quietly out of the city.
There are not many ambassadors, I think, who can boast of having
fulfilled their mission in one day, as I have. So I will leave Nerac,
and gallop till I am in France." And he began to put on his spurs.




CHAPTER LI.

CHICOT'S ASTONISHMENT AT FINDING HIMSELF SO POPULAR IN NERAC.


Chicot, having taken his resolution, began to prepare his little packet.
"How much time will it take me," thought he, as he did so, "to carry to
the king the news of what I have seen and fear? Two days to arrive at a
city whence the governor can send couriers; Cahors, for example, of
which Henri of Navarre thinks so much. Once there, I can rest, for after
all a man must rest some time. Come, then, Chicot, speed and sang froid.
You thought you had accomplished your mission, and you are but half-way
through it."

Chicot now extinguished the light, opened his door softly, and began to
creep downstairs on tip-toe.

He went into an antechamber, but he had hardly gone four steps before he
kicked against something. This something was D'Aubiac lying on a mat.

"Ah! good-evening, M. d'Aubiac," said Chicot, "but get out of the way a
little, I beg; I want to go for a walk."

"Ah! but it is forbidden to walk by night near this castle."

"Why so?"

"Because the king fears robbers, and the queen lovers."

"Diable!"

"None but robbers or lovers want to walk at night, when they ought to be
sleeping."

"However, dear M. d'Aubiac," said Chicot, with his most charming smile,
"I am neither the one nor the other, but an ambassador, very tired from
having talked Latin with the queen and supped with the king; let me go
out then, my friend, for I want a walk."

"In the city, M. Chicot?"

"Oh no! in the gardens."

"Peste! that is still more forbidden than in the city."

"My little friend, you are very vigilant for your age. Have you nothing
to occupy yourself with?"

"No."

"You neither gamble nor fall in love."

"To gamble one must have money, M. Chicot, and to be in love, one must
find a lady."

"Assuredly," said Chicot, and feeling in his pocket he drew out ten
pistoles and slipped them into the page's hand, saying, "Seek well in
your memory, and I bet you will find some charming woman, to whom I beg
you to make some presents with this."

"Oh, M. Chicot!" said the page, "it is easy to see that you come from
the court of France; you have manners to which one can refuse nothing:
go then, but make no noise."

Chicot went on; glided like a shadow into the corridor, and down the
staircase, but at the bottom he found an officer sleeping on a chair,
placed right against the door, so that it was impossible to pass.

"Ah! little wretch of a page," murmured Chicot, "you knew this."

Chicot looked round him to see if he could find no other way by which he
could escape with the assistance of his long legs. At last he saw what
he wanted: it was an arched window, of which the glass was broken.
Chicot climbed up the wall with his accustomed skill, and without making
more noise than a dry leaf in the autumn wind; but unluckily, the
opening was not big enough, so when he had got his head and one shoulder
through, and had taken away his foot from its resting place on the wall,
he found himself hanging between heaven and earth, without being able
either to advance or retreat.

He began then a series of efforts, of which the first result was to tear
his doublet and scratch his skin. What rendered his position more
difficult was his sword, of which the handle would not pass, making a
hook by which Chicot hung on to the sash. He exerted all his strength,
patience and industry, to unfasten the clasp of his shoulder-belt; but
it was just on this clasp that his body leaned, therefore he was obliged
to change his maneuver, and at last he succeeded in drawing his sword
from its sheath and pushing it through one of the interstices; the sword
therefore fell first on the flagstones, and Chicot now managed to get
through after it. All this, however, was not done without noise,
therefore Chicot, on rising, found himself face to face with a soldier.

[Illustration: CHICOT, ON RISING, FOUND HIMSELF FACE TO FACE WITH A
SOLDIER.]

"Ah! mon Dieu! have you hurt yourself, M. Chicot?" said he.

Chicot was surprised, but said, "No, my friend, not at all."

"That is very lucky; there are not many people who could do such a
thing."

"But how the devil did you know my name?"

"I saw you to-day at the palace, and asked who was the gentleman that
was talking with the king."

"Well! I am in a hurry; allow me to pass."

"But no one goes out of the palace by night; those are my orders."

"But you see they do come out, since I am here."

"Yes, but--"

"But what?"

"You must go back, M. Chicot."

"Oh! no."--"How! no?"

"Not by that way, at all events; it is too troublesome."

"If I were an officer instead of a soldier, I would ask you why you come
out so; but that is not my business, which is only that you should go
back again. Go in, therefore, M. Chicot, I beg you."

And the soldier said this in such a persuasive tone, that Chicot was
touched. Consequently he put his hand in his pocket and drew out another
ten pistoles.

"You must understand, my friend," said he, "that as I have torn my
clothes in passing through once, I should make them still worse by going
back again, and should have to go naked, which would be very indecent in
a court where there are so many young and pretty women; let me go then
to my tailor." And he put the money in his hand.

"Go quickly then, M. Chicot," said the man.

Chicot was in the street at last. The night was not favorable for
flight, being bright and cloudless, and he regretted the foggy nights of
Paris, where people might pass close to each other unseen. The
unfortunate fugitive had no sooner turned the corner of the street than
he met a patrol. He stopped of himself, thinking it would look
suspicious to try and pass unseen.

"Oh, good-evening, M. Chicot!" said the chief; "shall we reconduct you
to the palace? You seem as though you had lost your way."

"It is very strange," murmured Chicot, "every one knows me here." Then
aloud, and as carelessly as he could, "No, cornet, I am not going to the
palace."

"You are wrong, M. Chicot," replied the officer, gravely.

"Why so, monsieur?"

"Because a very severe edict forbids the inhabitants of Nerac to go out
at night without permission and without a lantern."

"Excuse me, monsieur, but this edict cannot apply to me, who do not
belong to Nerac."

"But you are at Nerac. Inhabitant means living at; now you cannot deny
that you live at Nerac, since I see you here."

"You are logical, monsieur. Unluckily, I am in a hurry; make an
exception to your rule, and let me pass, I beg."

"You will lose yourself, M. Chicot; Nerac is a strange town. Allow
three of my men to conduct you to the palace."

"But I am not going there, I tell you."

"Where are you going, then?"

"I cannot sleep well at night, and then I always walk. Nerac is a
charming city, and I wish to see it."

"My men shall conduct you where you please."

"Oh, monsieur, I would rather go alone."

"You will be assassinated."

"I have my sword."

"Ah, true; then you will be arrested for bearing arms."

Chicot, driven to despair, drew the officer aside, and said:

"Come, monsieur, you are young; you know what love is--an imperious
tyrant."

"Doubtless, M. Chicot."

"Well, cornet, I have a certain lady to visit."

"Where?"

"In a certain place."

"Young?"

"Twenty-three years old."