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"Chicot, you will be always dear to me, and, after Henri of France, you
will have Henri of Navarre for a friend."

"Yes, sire," said Chicot simple, kissing his hand.

The siege was soon over after this. M. de Vezin was taken, and the
garrison surrendered.

Then Henri dictated to Mornay a letter, which Chicot was to carry to
the king of France. It was written in bad Latin, and finished with these
words:

"Quod mihi dixisti profuit multum. Cognosco meos devotos; nosce tuos.
Chicotos caetera expedit."

Which means, "What you told me was very useful. I know my faithful
followers; know yours. Chicot will tell you the rest."

"And now, friend Chicot," said Henri, "embrace me; but take care not to
soil yourself, for, mordieu, I am as bloody as a butcher. Take my ring,
and adieu, Chicot; I keep you no longer, gallop to France, and tell all
you have seen."




CHAPTER LIV.

WHAT WAS PASSING AT THE LOUVRE ABOUT THE TIME CHICOT ENTERED NERAC.


The necessity of following Chicot to the end of his mission has kept us
a long time away from the Louvre. The king, after having passed so
bravely through his adventurous return from Vincennes, experienced that
retrospective emotion which sometimes is felt by the bravest heart after
the danger is over. He entered the Louvre without saying anything, made
his prayers longer than usual, forgetting to thank the officers and
guards who had served him so well. Then he went to bed, astonishing his
valets by the rapidity of his toilet; and D'Epernon, who remained in his
room to the last, expecting thanks at least, went away in a very bad
humor.

At two o'clock every one slept in the Louvre. The next day, Henri took
four bouillons in bed instead of two, and then sent for MM. de Villeguie
and D'O to come to his room, to speak about a new financial edict. The
queen received the order to dine alone, but it was added that in the
evening the king would receive. All day he played with Love, saying,
every time that the animal showed his white teeth, "Ah, rebel! you want
to bite me also; you attack your king also; but you are conquered, M.
Love--conquered, wretched leaguer--conquered." His secretaries of state
were somewhat astonished at all this, particularly as he said nothing
else, and signed everything without looking at it. At three o'clock in
the afternoon he asked for D'Epernon. They replied that he was reviewing
the light horse; then he inquired for De Loignac, but he also was
absent. He asked for lunch, and, while he ate, had an edifying discourse
read to him, which he interrupted by saying to the reader, "Was it not
Plutarch who wrote the life of Sylla?"

"Yes, sire," said the reader, much astonished at being interrupted in
his pious reading by this profane question.

"Do you remember that passage where the historian recounts how the
dictator avoided death?"

The reader hesitated.

"Not precisely, sire; it is a long time since I read Plutarch."

At this moment, the Cardinal de Joyeuse was announced.

"Ah! here is a learned man, he will tell me at once!" cried the king.

"Sire," said the cardinal, "am I lucky enough to arrive apropos--it is a
rare thing in this world."

"Ma foi! yes; you heard my question?"

"Your majesty asked, I think, in what manner, and when, Sylla narrowly
escaped death?"

"Just so--can you answer me, cardinal?"

"Nothing more easy, sire."

"So much the better."

"Sylla, who had killed so many men, never risked his life but in
combats; did your majesty mean in one of those?"

"Yes; in one in which I think I recollect he was very near death. Open a
Plutarch, cardinal; there should be one there translated by Amyot, and
read me the passage where he escaped the javelins of his enemies, thanks
to the swiftness of his white horse."

"Sire, there is no need of opening Plutarch; the event took place in the
combat with Telescrius the Samnite, and Lamponius the Lucanian."

"You are so learned, my dear cardinal."

"Your majesty is too good."

"Now explain to me how this Roman lion, who was so cruel, was never
annoyed by his enemies."

"Sire, I will reply to your majesty in the words of this same Plutarch."

"Go on, Joyeuse."

"Carbon, the enemy of Sylla, said often, 'I have to fight at once a lion
and a fox who inhabit the soul of Sylla, but it is the fox who gives me
most trouble.'"

"Ah! it was the fox?"

"Plutarch says so, sire."

"And he is right, cardinal. But apropos of combats, have you any news of
your brother?"

"Of which brother, sire? I have two."

"Of the Duc d'Arques, my friend."

"Not yet, sire."

"If M. d'Anjou, who always plays the fox, will only play the lion a
little for once."

The cardinal did not reply, so Henri, signing to him to remain, dressed
himself sumptuously, and passed into the room where the court waited for
him. He entered, looking full of good humor, kissed the hands of his
wife and mother, paid all sorts of compliments to the ladies, and even
offered them sweetmeats.

"We were unquiet about your health, my son," said Catherine.

"You were wrong, madame; I have never been better."

"And to what happy influence do you owe this amelioration, my son?"

"To having laughed much, madame."

Every one looked astonished.

"Laughed! you can laugh much, my son; then you are very happy?"

"It is true, madame."

"And about what were you so much amused?"

"I must tell you, mother, that yesterday I went to Vincennes."

"I knew it."

"Oh! you knew it; well, my people told me, before my return, of an
enemy's army whose muskets shone on the road."

"An enemy's army on the road to Vincennes?"

"Yes, mother."

"And where?"

"In front of the Jacobins, near the house of our good cousin."

"Near Madame de Montpensier's?"

"Precisely so, near Bel-Esbat. I approached, bravely to give battle, and
I perceived--"

"What, sire?" cried the queen, in alarm.

"Reassure yourself, madame, I perceived an entire priory of good monks,
who presented arms to me with acclamations."

Every one laughed, and the king continued:

"Yes, you are right to laugh; I have in France more than ten thousand
monks, of whom I can make, if necessary, ten thousand musketeers; then I
will create a Grand-Master of the Tonsured Musketeers, and give the
place to you, cardinal."

"Sire, I accept."

The ladies now, according to etiquette, rose, and, bowing to the king,
retired. The queen followed with her ladies of honor. The queen-mother
remained: the king's gayety was a mystery that she wished to fathom.

"Cardinal," said the king, "what has become of your brother, Du
Bouchage?"

"I do not know, sire."

"How! you do not know?"

"No; I never see him, now."

A grave, sad voice from the end of the room said, "Here I am, sire."

"Ah! it is he," cried Henri. "Approach, comte; approach."

The young man obeyed.

"Mon Dieu!" cried the king, "he is no longer a man, but a shade."

"Sire, he works hard," said the cardinal, stupefied himself at the
change in his brother during the last week. He was as pale as wax, and
looked thin and wan.

"Come here, young man," said the king. "Thanks, cardinal, for your
quotation from Plutarch; in a similar case I shall apply to you again."

The cardinal saw that Henri wished to be left alone with his brother,
and took his leave.

There only remained the queen-mother, D'Epernon, and Du Bouchage. The
king beckoned to the latter, and said:

"Why do you hide thus behind the ladies; do you not know it gives me
pleasure to see you?"

"Your kind words do me honor, sire," said the young man, bowing.

"Then how is it that we never see you here now?"

"If your majesty has not seen me, it is because you have not deigned to
cast an eye on the corner of the room. I am here every day regularly; I
never have failed, and never will, as long as I can stand upright: it is
a sacred duty to me."

"And is it that that makes you so sad?"

"Oh! your majesty cannot think so?"

"No, for you and your brother love me, and I love you. Apropos, do you
know that poor Anne has written to me from Dieppe?"

"I did not, sire."

"Yes; but you know he did not like going?"

"He confided to me his regrets at leaving Paris."

"Yes; but do you know what he said? That there existed a man who would
have regretted Paris much more; and that if I gave you this order you
would die."

"Perhaps, sire."

"He said yet more, for your brother talks fast when he is not sulky; he
said that if I had given such an order you would have disobeyed it."

"Your majesty was right to place my death before my disobedience; it
would have been a greater grief to me to disobey than to die, and yet I
should have disobeyed."

"You are a little mad, I think, my poor comte," said Henri.

"I am quite so, I believe."

"Then the case is serious."

Joyeuse sighed.

"What is it? tell me."

Joyeuse tried to smile. "A great king like you, sire, would not care for
such confidences."

"Yes, Henri, yes; tell me. It will amuse me," said the king.

"Sire, you deceive yourself; there is nothing in my grief that could
amuse a noble heart like yours."

The king took the young man's hand.

"Do not be angry, Du Bouchage," said he; "you know that your king also
has known the griefs of an unrequited love."

"I know it, sire, formerly."

"Therefore, I feel for your sufferings."

"Your majesty is too good."

"Not so; but when I suffered what you suffer, no one could aid me,
because no one was more powerful than myself, whereas I can aid you."

"Sire?"

"And, consequently, hope soon for an end of your sorrows."

The young man shook his head.

"Du Bouchage, you shall be happy, or I am no longer king of France!"
cried Henri.

"Happy! alas, sire, it is impossible," said the young man with a bitter
smile.

"And why so?"

"Because my happiness is not of this world."

"Henri, your brother, when he went, recommended you to my friendship. I
wish, since you consult neither the experience of your father, nor the
wisdom of your brother the cardinal, to be an elder brother to you.
Come, be confiding, and tell me all. I assure you, Du Bouchage, that for
everything except death my power and love shall find you a remedy."

"Sire," replied the young man, falling at the king's feet, "do not
confound me by the expression of a goodness to which I cannot reply. My
misfortune is without remedy, for it is that which makes my only
happiness."

"Du Bouchage, you are mad; you will kill yourself with fancies."

"I know it well, sire."

"But," cried the king, impatiently, "is it a marriage you wish for?"

"Sire, my wish is to inspire love. You see that the whole world is
powerless to aid me in this; I alone can obtain it for myself."--"Then
why despair?"

"Because I feel that I shall never inspire it."

"Try, try, my child; you are young and rich. Where is the woman that can
resist at once beauty, youth and wealth? There are none, Du Bouchage."

"Sire, your goodness is great."

"If you wish to be discreet, and tell me nothing, do so; I will find
out, and then act. You know what I have done for your brother, I will do
as much for you; a hundred thousand crowns shall not stop me."

Du Bouchage seized the king's hand, and pressed his lips to it.

"May your majesty ask one day for my blood, and I will shed it to the
last drop to show you how grateful I am for the protection that I
refuse!"

Henri III. turned on his heel angrily.

"Really," said he, "these Joyeuses are more obstinate than a Valois.
Here is one who will bring me every day his long face and eyes circled
with black; that will be delightful."

"Oh! sire, I will smile so, when I am here, that every one shall think
me the happiest of men."

"Yes, but I shall know the contrary, and that will sadden me."

"Does your majesty permit me to retire?" asked Du Bouchage.

"Go, my child, and try to be a man."

When he was gone the king approached D'Epernon, and said:

"Lavalette, have money distributed this evening to the Forty-five, and
give them holiday for a night and a day to amuse themselves. By the
mass! they saved me like Sylla's white horse."

"Saved?" said Catherine.

"Yes, mother."

"From what?"

"Ah! ask D'Epernon."

"I ask you, my son."

"Well, madame, our dear cousin, the sister of your good friend M. de
Guise--oh! do not deny it; you, know he is your good friend--laid an
ambush for me."

"An ambush!"

"Yes, madame, and I narrowly escaped imprisonment or assassination."

"By M. de Guise?"

"You do not believe it?"

"I confess I do not."

"D'Epernon, my friend, relate the adventure to my mother. If I go on
speaking, and she goes on shrugging her shoulders, I shall get angry,
and that does not suit my health. Adieu, madame; cherish M. de Guise as
much as you please, but I would advise them not to forget Salcede."




CHAPTER LV.

RED PLUME AND WHITE PLUME.


It was eight in the evening, and the house of Robert Briquet, solitary
and sad-looking, formed a worthy companion to that mysterious house of
which we have already spoken to our readers. One might have thought that
these two houses were yawning in each other's face. Not far from there
the noise of brass was heard, mingled with confused voices, vague
murmurs, and squeaks.

It was probably this noise that attracted a young and handsome cavalier,
with a violet cap, red plume, and gray mantle, who, after stopping for
some minutes to hear this noise, went on slowly and pensively toward the
house of Robert Briquet. Now this noise of brass was that of saucepans;
these vague murmurs, those of pots boiling on fires and spits turned by
dogs; those cries, those of M. Fournichon, host of the "Brave
Chevalier," and of Madame Fournichon, who was preparing her rooms. When
the young man with the violet hat had well looked at the fire, inhaled
the smell of the fowls, and peeped through the curtains, he went away,
then returned to recommence his examinations. He continued to walk up
and down, but never passed Robert Briquet's house, which seemed to be
the limit of his walk. Each time that he arrived at this limit he found
there, like a sentinel, a young man about his own age, with a black cap,
a white plume, and a violet cloak, who, with frowning brow and his hand
on his sword, seemed to say, "Thou shalt go no further." But the other
took twenty turns without observing this, so preoccupied was he.
Certainly he saw a man walking up and down like himself: but, as he was
too well dressed to be a robber, he never thought of disquieting himself
about him. But the other, on the contrary, looked more and more black at
each return of the red plume, till at last it attracted his attention,
and he began to think that his presence there must be annoying to the
other; and wondering for what reason, he looked first at Briquet's
house, then at the one opposite, and seeing nothing, turned round and
recommenced his walk from west to east. This continued for about five
minutes, until, as they once again came face to face, the young man in
the white plume walked straight up against the other, who, taken
unawares, with difficulty saved himself from falling.

"Monsieur," cried he, "are you mad, or do you mean to insult me?"

"Monsieur, I wish to make you understand that you annoy me much. It
seems to me that you might have seen that without my telling you."

"Not at all, monsieur; I never see what I do not wish to see."

"There are, however, certain things which would attract your attention,
I hope, if they shone before your eyes;" and he drew his sword as he
spoke, which glittered in the moonlight.

The red plume said quietly, "One would think, monsieur, that you had
never drawn a sword before, you are in such a hurry to attack one who
does not attack you."

"But who will defend himself, I hope."

"Why so?" replied the other smiling. "And what right have you to prevent
me from walking in the street?"

"Why do you walk in this street?"

"Parbleu! because it pleases me."

"Ah! it pleases you."

"Doubtless; are you not also walking here? Have you a license from the
king to keep to yourself the Rue de Bussy?"

"What is that to you?"

"A great deal, for I am a faithful subject of the king's, and would not
disobey him."

"Ah! you laugh!"

"And you threaten."

"Heaven and earth! I tell you, you annoy me, monsieur, and that if you
do not go away willingly I will make you."

"Oh! oh! we shall see that."

"Yes, we shall see."

"Monsieur, I have particular business here. Now, if you will have it, I
will cross swords with you, but I will not go away."

"Monsieur, I am Comte Henri du Bouchage, brother of the Duc de Joyeuse.
Once more, will you yield me the place, and go away?"

"Monsieur," replied the other, "I am the Vicomte Ernanton de Carmainges.
You do not annoy me at all, and I do not ask you to go away."

Du Bouchage reflected a moment, and then put his sword back in its
sheath.

"Excuse me, monsieur," said he; "I am half mad, being in love."

"And I also am in love, but I do not think myself mad for that."

Henri grew pale.

"You are in love!" said he.

"Yes, monsieur."

"And you confess it?"

"Is it a crime?"

"But with some one in this street?"

"Yes, for the present."

"In Heaven's name tell me who it is!"

"Ah! M. du Bouchage, you have not reflected on what you are asking me;
you know a gentleman cannot reveal a secret, of which only half belongs
to him."

"It is true; pardon, M. de Carmainges; but, in truth, there is no one so
unhappy as I am under heaven."

There was so much real grief and eloquent despair in these words, that
Ernanton was profoundly touched.

"Oh! mon Dieu! I understand," said he; "you fear that we are rivals."

"I do."

"Well; monsieur, I will be frank."

Joyeuse grew pale again.

"I," continued Ernanton, "have a rendezvous."

"A rendezvous?"

"Yes."

"In this street?"

"Yes."

"Written?"

"Yes; in very good writing."

"A woman's?"

"No; a man's."

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. I have an invitation to a rendezvous with a woman, written
by a man; it seems she has a secretary."

"Ah! go on, monsieur."

"I cannot refuse you, monsieur. I will tell you the tenor of the note."

"I listen."

"You will see if it is like yours."

"Oh! monsieur, I have no rendezvous--no note."

Ernanton then drew out a little paper. "Here is the note, monsieur,"
said he; "it would be difficult to read it to you by this obscure light:
but it is short, and I know it by heart, if you will trust to me."

"Oh! entirely."

"This is it, then: 'M. Ernanton, my secretary is charged by me to tell
you that I have a great desire to talk with you for an hour; your merit
has touched me.' I pass over another phrase still more flattering."

"Then you are waited for?"

"No; I wait, as you see."

"Are they to open the door to you?"

"No; to whistle three times from the window."

Henri, trembling all over, placed one hand on Ernanton's arm and with
the other pointed to the opposite house.

"From there?" said he.

"Oh! no; from there," said Ernanton, pointing to the "Brave Chevalier."

Henri uttered a cry of joy. "Oh! a thousand thanks, monsieur," said he;
"pardon my incivility--my folly. Alas! you know, for a man who really
loves, there exists but one woman, and, seeing you always return to this
house, I believed that it was here you were waited for."

"I have nothing to pardon, monsieur; for really I half-thought you had
come on the same errand as myself."

"And you had the incredible patience to say nothing! Ah! you do not
love, you do not love."

"Ma foi! I have no great rights as yet; and these great ladies are so
capricious, and would, perhaps, enjoy playing me a trick."

"Oh! M. de Carmainges, you do not love as I do; and yet--"

"Yet what?"

"You are more happy."

"Ah! are they cruel in that house?"

"M. de Carmainges, for three months I have loved like a madman her who
lives there, and I have not yet had the happiness of hearing the sound
of her voice."

"Diable! you are not far advanced. But stay."

"What is it?"

"Did not some one whistle?"

"Indeed, I think I heard something."

A second whistle was now distinctly heard.

"M. le Comte," said Ernanton, "you will excuse me for taking leave, but
I believe that is my signal."

A third whistle sounded.

"Go, monsieur," said Joyeuse; "and good luck to you."

Ernanton made off quickly, while Joyeuse began to walk back more
gloomily than ever.

"Now for my accustomed task," said he; "let me knock as usual at this
cursed door which never opens to me."




CHAPTER LVI.

THE DOOR OPENS.


On arriving at the door of the house, poor Henri was seized by his usual
hesitation.

"Courage!" said he to himself.

But before knocking, he looked once more behind him, and saw the bright
light shining through the windows of the hotel.

"There," said he, "enter for love and joy, people who are invited almost
without desiring; why have I not a tranquil and careless heart? Perhaps
I might enter there also, instead of vainly trying here."

Ten o'clock struck. Henri lifted the knocker and struck once, then
again.

"There," said he, listening, "there is the inner door opening, the
stairs creaking, the sound of steps approaching, always the same thing."

And he knocked again.

"There," said he, "he peeps through the trellis-work, sees my pale face,
and goes away, always without opening. Adieu, cruel house, until
to-morrow."

And he turned to go; but scarcely had he taken two steps, when the key
turned in the lock, and, to his profound surprise, the door opened, and
a man stood bowing on the threshold. It was the same whom he had seen
before.

"Good-evening, monsieur," said he, in a harsh voice, but whose sound
appeared to Du Bouchage sweeter than the song of birds.

Henri joined his hands and trembled so that the servant put out a hand
to save him from falling, with a visible expression of respectful pity.

"Come, monsieur," said he, "here I am: explain to me, I beg, what you
want."

"I have loved so much," replied the young man; "my heart has beat so
fast, that I hardly know if it still beats."

"Will it please you, monsieur, to sit down and talk to me?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Speak, then, monsieur, and tell me what you desire."

"My friend, you already know. Many times, you know, I have waited for
you and surprised you at the turn of a street, and have offered you gold
enough to enrich you, had you been the greediest of men; at other times
I have threatened you, but you have never listened to me, and have
always seen me suffer without seeming to pity me. To-day you tell me to
speak--to express my wishes; what then has happened, mon Dieu?"

The servant sighed. He had evidently a pitying heart under a rough
covering. Henry heard this sigh, and it encouraged him.

"You know," continued he, "that I love, and how I love; you have seen me
pursue a woman and discover her, in spite of her efforts to fly me: but
never in my greatest grief has a bitter word escaped me, or have I given
heed to those violent thoughts which are born of despair and the fire of
youth."

"It is true, monsieur; and in this my mistress renders you full
justice."

"Could I not," continued Henri, "when you refused me admittance, have
forced the door, as is done every day by some lad, tipsy, or in love?
Then, if but for a minute, I should have seen this inexorable woman, and
have spoken to her."

"It is true."

"And," continued the young count, sadly, "I am something in this world;
my name is great as well as my fortune, the king himself protects me;
just now he begged me to confide to him my griefs and to apply to him
for aid."

"Ah!" said the servant, anxiously.

"I would not do it," continued Joyeuse; "no, no, I refused all, to come
and pray at this door with clasped hands--a door which never yet opened
to me."

"M. le Comte, you have indeed a noble heart, and worthy to be loved."

"Well, then, he whom you call worthy, to what do you condemn him? Every
morning my page brings a letter; it is refused. Every evening I knock
myself at the door, and I am disregarded. You let me suffer, despair,
die in the street, without having the compassion for me that you would
have for a dog that howled. Ah! this woman has no woman's heart, she
does not love me. Well! one can no more tell one's heart to love than
not to love. But you may pity the unfortunate who suffers, and give him
a word of consolation--reach out your hand to save him from falling; but
no, this woman cares not for my sufferings. Why does she not kill me,
either with a refusal from her mouth, or some blow from a poniard? Dead,
I should suffer no more."

"M. le Comte," replied the man, "the lady whom you accuse is, believe
me, far from having the hard, insensible heart you think; she has seen
you, and understood what you suffer, and feels for you the warmest
sympathy."

"Oh! compassion, compassion!" cried the young man; "but may that heart
of which you boast some day know love--love such as I feel, and may they
offer her compassion in exchange; I shall be well avenged."

"M. le Comte, not to reply to love is no reason for never having loved.
This woman has perhaps felt the passion more than ever you will--has
perhaps loved as you can never love."

"When one loves like that, one loves forever," cried Henri, raising his
eyes to heaven.