Various - "Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100, June 27, 1891"

Various - "Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science"

Ethel M. Dell - "Charles Rex"

Various - "The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, No. 486"

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




CHAPTER LXXVIII.

HOW, AFTER RECEIVING NEWS FROM THE SOUTH, HENRI RECEIVED NEWS FROM THE
NORTH.


The king, highly exasperated, could hardly read the letter which Chicot
gave to him. While he deciphered the Latin with every sign of
impatience, Chicot, before a great Venetian mirror, which hung over a
gilt table, was admiring the infinite grace of his own person under his
military dress.

"Oh! I am betrayed," cried Henri, when he had finished the letter; "the
Bearnais had a plan, and I never suspected it."

"My son," said Chicot, "you know the proverb, 'Still waters run
deepest'?"

"Go to the devil with your proverbs."

Chicot went to the door as if to obey.

"No, remain."

Chicot stopped.

"Cahors taken!" continued Henri.

"Yes, and very well done, too."

"Then he has generals and engineers?"

"No, he is too poor for that; he could not pay them; he does it all
himself."

"He fight!" said Henri, disdainfully.

"I do not say that he rushes into it with enthusiasm; no, he resembles
those people who try the water before they bathe; he just dips the ends
of his fingers with a little shudder, which augurs badly, then his
breast; all this takes him about ten minutes, and then he rushes into
action, and through fire, like a salamander."

"Diable!"

"And I assure you, Henri, the fire was hot there."

The king rose and walked up and down the room.

"Here is a misfortune for me," cried he; "they will laugh at it: they
will sing about it. Mordieu! it is lucky I thought of sending the
promised aid to Antwerp; Antwerp will compensate for Cahors; the north
will blot out the south."

"Amen!" said Chicot, plunging his hands into the king's sweetmeat-box to
finish his desert.

At this moment the door opened, and the usher announced "M. le Comte du
Bouchage."

"Ah!" cried Henri, "I told you so; here are news. Enter, comte, enter."

The usher opened the door, and Henri du Bouchage entered slowly and bent
a knee to the king.

"Still pale and sad," said the king. "Come, friend, take a holiday air
for a little while, and do not tell me good news with a doleful face:
speak quickly, Du Bouchage, for I want to hear. You come from Flanders?"

"Yes, sire."

"And quickly?"

"As quickly, sire, as a man can ride."

"You are welcome. And now, what of Antwerp?"

"Antwerp belongs to the Prince of Orange."

"To the Prince of Orange!"

"Yes, to William."

"But did not my brother attack Antwerp?"

"Yes, sire; but now he is traveling to Chateau-Thierry."

"He has left the army?"

"Sire, there is no longer an army."

"Oh!" cried the king, sinking back in his armchair, "but Joyeuse--"

"Sire, my brother, after having done wonders with his sailors, after
having conducted the whole of the retreat, rallied the few men who
escaped the disaster, and sent me home with an escort for M. le Duc
d'Anjou."

"A defeat!" murmured the king.

But all at once, with a strange look.

"Then Flanders is lost to my brother?"

"Absolutely, sire."

"Without hope?"

"I fear so, sire."

The clouds gradually cleared from the king's brow.

"That poor Francois," said he, smiling; "he is unlucky in his search for
a crown. He missed that of Navarre, he has stretched out his hand for
that of England, and has touched that of Flanders; I would wager, Du
Bouchage, that he will never reign, although he desires it so much. And
how many prisoners were taken?"

"About two thousand."

"How many killed?"

"At least as many; and among them M. de St. Aignan."

"What! poor St. Aignan dead!"

"Drowned."

"Drowned! Did you throw yourselves into the Scheldt?"

"No, the Scheldt threw itself upon us."

The comte then gave the king a description of the battle, and of the
inundations. Henri listened silently. When the recital was over, he
rose, and kneeling down on his prie-Dieu, said some prayers, and then
returned with a perfectly calm face.

"Well," said he, "I trust I bear things like a king; and you, comte,
since your brother is saved, like mine, thank God, and smile a little."

"Sire, I am at your orders."

"What do you ask as payment for your services, Du Bouchage?"

"Sire, I have rendered no service."

"I dispute that; but at least your brother has."--"Immense, sire."

"He has saved the army, you say, or rather, its remnants?"

"There is not a man left who does not say that he owes his life to my
brother."

"Well! Du Bouchage, my will is to extend my benefits to both, and I only
imitate in that Him who made you both rich, brave, and handsome;
besides, I should imitate those great politicians who always rewarded
the bearers of bad news."

"Oh!" said Chicot, "I have known men hung for bringing bad news."

"That is possible," said the king; "but remember the senate that thanked
Varron."

"You cite republicans, Valois; misfortune makes you humble."

"Come, Du Bouchage, what will you have--what would you like?"

"Since your majesty does me the honor to speak to me so kindly, I will
dare to profit by your goodness. I am tired of life, sire, and yet have
a repugnance to shortening it myself, for God forbids it, and all the
subterfuges that a man of honor employs in such a case are mortal sins.
To get one's self killed in battle or to let one's self die of hunger
are only different forms of suicide. I renounce the idea, therefore, of
dying before the term which God has fixed for my life, and yet the world
fatigues me, and I must leave it."

"My friend!" said the king.

Chicot looked with interest at the young man, so beautiful, so brave, so
rich, and yet speaking in this desponding tone.

"Sire," continued the comte, "everything that has happened to me for
some time has strengthened my resolution. I wish to throw myself into
the arms of God, who is the sovereign consoler of the afflicted, as he
is of the happy. Deign then, sire, to facilitate my entrance into a
religious life, for my heart is sad unto death."

The king was moved at this doleful request.

"Ah! I understand," said he; "you wish to become a monk, but you fear
the probation."

"I do not fear the austerities, sire, but the time they leave one in
indecision. It is not to soften my life, nor to spare my body any
physical suffering, or my mind any moral privation, but it is to pass at
once from this world to the grating which separates me from it, and
which one generally attains so slowly."

"Poor boy!" said the king. "I think he will make a good preacher; will
he not, Chicot?"

Chicot did not reply. Du Bouchage continued:

"You see, sire, that it is with my own family that the struggle will
take place, and with my relations that I shall meet with the greatest
opposition. My brother, the cardinal, at once so good and so worldly,
will find a thousand reasons to persuade me against it. At Rome your
majesty is all-powerful; you have asked me what I wish for, and promised
to grant it; my wish is this, obtain from Rome an authority that my
novitiate be dispensed with."

The king rose smiling, and taking the comte's hand, said--

"I will do what you ask, my son. You wish to serve God, and you are
right; he is a better master than I am. You have my promise, dear
comte."

"Your majesty overwhelms me with joy," cried the young man, kissing
Henri's hand as though he had made him duke, peer, or marshal of France.
"Then it is settled?"

"On my word as a king and a gentleman."

Something like a smile passed over the lips of Du Bouchage; he bowed
respectfully to the king and took leave.

"What a happy young man," said Henri.

"Oh!" said Chicot, "you need not envy him; he is not more doleful than
yourself."

"But, Chicot, he is going to give himself up to religion."

"And who the devil prevents you from doing the same? I know a cardinal
who will give all necessary aid, and he has more interest at Rome than
you have; do you not know him? I mean the Cardinal de Guise."

"Chicot!"

"And if the tonsure disquiets you, for it is rather a delicate
operation, the prettiest hands and the prettiest scissors--golden
scissors, ma foi!--will give you this precious symbol, which would raise
to three the number of the crowns you have worn, and will justify the
device, 'Manet ultima coelo.'"

"Pretty hands, do you say?"

"Yes, do you mean to abuse the hands of Madame de Montpensier? How
severe you are upon your subjects."

The king frowned, and passed over his eyes a hand as white as those
spoken of, but more trembling.

"Well!" said Chicot, "let us leave that, for I see that the conversation
does not please you, and let us return to subjects that interest me
personally."

The king made a gesture, half indifferent, half approving.

"Have you heard, Henri," continued Chicot, "whether those Joyeuses
carried off any woman?"

"Not that I know of."

"Have they burned anything?"

"What?"

"How should I know what a great lord burns to amuse himself; the house
of some poor devil, perhaps."

"Are you mad, Chicot? Burn a house for amusement in my city of Paris!"

"Oh! why not?"

"Chicot!"

"Then they have done nothing that you know of?"

"Ma foi, no."

"Oh! so much the better," said Chicot, drawing a long breath like a man
much relieved.

"Do you know one thing, Chicot?" said Henri.

"No, I do not."

"It is that you have become wicked."

"I?"

"Yes, you."

"My sojourn in the tomb had sweetened me, but your presence, great king,
has destroyed the effect."

"You become insupportable, Chicot; and I now attribute to you ambitious
projects and intrigues of which I formerly believed you incapable."

"Projects of ambition! I ambitious! Henriquet, my son, you used to be
only foolish, now you are mad; you have progressed."

"And I tell you, M. Chicot, that you wish to separate from me all my old
friends, by attributing to them intentions which they have not, and
crimes of which they never thought; in fact, you wish to monopolize me."

"I monopolize you! what for? God forbid! you are too tiresome, without
counting the difficulty of pleasing you with your food. Oh! no, indeed!
Explain to me whence comes this strange idea."

"You began by listening coldly to my praises of your old friend, Dom
Modeste, to whom you owe much."

"I owe much to Dom Modeste! Good."

"Then you tried to calumniate the Joyeuses, my true friends."

"I do not say no."

"Then you launched a shaft at the Guises."

"Ah! you love them now; you love all the world to-day, it seems."

"No, I do not love them; but, as just now they keep themselves close and
quiet, and do not do me the least harm, I do not fear them, and I cling
to all old and well-known faces. All these Guises, with their fierce
looks and great swords, have never done me any harm, after all, and they
resemble--shall I tell you what?"

"Do, Henri; I know how clever you are at comparisons."

"They resemble those perch that they let loose in the ponds to chase
the great fish and prevent them growing too fat; but suppose that the
great fish are not afraid?"

"Well!"

"Then the teeth of the perch are not strong enough to get through their
scales."

"Oh! Henri! my friend, how clever you are!"

"While your Bearnais--"

"Well, have you a comparison for him also?"

"While your Bearnais, who mews like a cat, bites like a tiger."

"Well, my son, I will tell you what to do; divorce the queen and marry
Madame de Montpensier; was she not once in love with you?"

"Yes, and that is the source of all her menaces, Chicot; she has a
woman's spite against me, and she provokes me now and then, but luckily
I am a man, and can laugh at it."

As Henri finished these words, the usher cried at the door, "A messenger
from M. le Duc de Guise for his majesty."

"Is it a courier or a gentleman?" asked the king.

"It is a captain, sire."

"Let him enter; he is welcome."




CHAPTER LXXIX.

THE TWO COMPANIONS.


Chicot, at this announcement, sat down and turned his back to the door;
but the first words pronounced by the duke's messenger made him start.
He opened his eyes. The messenger could see nothing but the eye of
Chicot peering from behind the chair, while Chicot could see him
altogether.

"You come from Lorraine?" asked the king of the new comer, who had a
fine and warlike appearance.

"Not so, sire; I come from Soissons, where M. le Duc, who has been a
month in that city, gave me this letter to deliver to your majesty."

The messenger then opened his buff coat, which was fastened by silver
clasps, and drew from a leather pouch lined with silk not one letter,
but two; for they had stuck together by the wax, and as the captain
advanced to give the king one letter, the other fell on the carpet.
Chicot's eyes followed the messenger, and saw the color spread over his
cheeks as he stooped to pick up the letter he had let fall. But Henri
saw nothing, he opened his own letter and read, while the messenger
watched him closely.

"Ah! M. Borromee," thought Chicot, "so you are a captain, are you?"

"Good," said the king, after reading the duke's letter with evident
satisfaction. "Go, captain, and tell M. de Guise that I am grateful for
his offer."

"Your majesty will not honor me with a written answer?"

"No, I shall see the duke in a month or six weeks, and can thank him
myself."

The captain bowed and went out.

"You see, Chicot," then said the king, "that M. de Guise is free from
all machinations. This brave duke has learned the Navarre business, and
he fears that the Huguenots will raise up their heads, for he has also
ascertained that the Germans are about to send re-enforcements to Henri.
Now, guess what he is about to do."

As Chicot did not reply, Henri went on.

"Well! he offers me the army that he has just raised in Lorraine to
watch Flanders, and says that in six weeks it will be at my command,
with its general. What do you say to that, Chicot?"

No answer.

"Really, my dear Chicot," continued the king, "you are as absurdly
obstinate as a Spanish mule; and if I happen to convince you of some
error, you sulk; yes, sulk."

Not a sound came to contradict Henri in this frank opinion of his
friend. Now silence displeased Henri more than contradiction.

"I believe," said he, "that the fellow has had the impertinence to go to
sleep. Chicot!" continued he, advancing to the armchair; "reply when
your king speaks."

But Chicot did not reply, for he was not there; and Henri found the
armchair empty.

He looked all round the room, but Chicot was not to be seen. The king
gave a superstitious shudder; it sometimes came into his mind that
Chicot was a supernatural being--a diabolic incarnation, of a good kind,
it was true, but still diabolical.

He called Nambu the usher, and questioned him, and he assured his
majesty that he had seen Chicot go out five minutes before the duke's
messenger left.

"Decidedly," thought Henri, "Chicot was vexed at being in the wrong. How
ill-natured men are, even the best of them."

Nambu was right; Chicot had traversed the antechambers silently, but
still he was not able to keep his spurs from sounding, which made
several people turn, and bow when they saw who it was.

The captain came out five minutes after Chicot, went down the steps
across the court proudly and with a satisfied air; proud of his person,
and pleased that the king had received him so well, and without any
suspicions of M. de Guise. As he crossed the drawbridge, he heard behind
him steps which seemed to be the echo of his own. He turned, thinking
that the king had sent some message to him, and great was his
stupefaction to see behind him the demure face of Robert Briquet. It may
be remembered that the first feeling of these two men about one another
had not been exactly sympathetical.

Borromee opened his mouth, and paused; and in an instant was joined by
Chicot.

"Corboeuf!" said Borromee.

"Ventre de biche!" cried Chicot.

"The bourgeois!"

"The reverend father!"

"With that helmet!"

"With that buff coat!"

"I am surprised to see you."

"I am delighted to meet you again."

And they looked fiercely at each other, but Borromee, quickly assuming
an air of amiable urbanity, said, "Vive Dieu, you are cunning, M. Robert
Briquet."

"I, reverend father; and why do you say so?"

"When you were at the convent of the Jacobins, you made me believe you
were only a simple bourgeois."

"Ah!" replied Chicot, "and what must we say of you, M. Borromee?"

"Of me?"

"Yes, of you."

"And why?"

"For making me believe you were only a monk. You must be more cunning
than the pope himself; but you took me in the snare."

"The snare?"

"Yes, doubtless; a brave captain like you does not change his cuirass
for a frock without grave reasons."

"With a soldier like you, I will have no secrets. It is true that I have
certain personal interests in the convent of the Jacobins; but you?"

"And I, also."

"Let us chat about it."

"I am quite ready."

"Do you like wine?"

"Yes, when it is good."

"Well! I know a little inn, which I think has no rival in Paris."

"And I know one also; what is yours called?"

"The 'Corne d'Abondance.'"

"Ah!"

"Well, what is it?"

"Nothing."

"Do you know anything against this house?"

"Not at all."

"You know it?"

"No; and that astonishes me."

"Shall we go there, compere?"

"Oh! yes, at once."

"Come, then."

"Where is it?"

"Near the Porte Bourdelle. The host appreciates well the difference
between palates like yours and mine, and those of every thirsty
passer-by."

"Can we talk there?"

"Perfectly at our ease."

"Oh! I see you are well known there."

"Ma foi, no; this time you are wrong. M. Bonhomet sells me wine when I
want it, and I pay when I can; that is all."

"Bonhomet! that is a name that promises well."

"And keeps its promise. Come, compere."

"Oh! oh!" said Chicot to himself; "now I must choose among my best
grimaces; for if Bonhomet recognizes me at once, it is all over."




CHAPTER LXXX.

THE CORNE D'ABONDANCE.


The way along which Borromee led Chicot, never suspecting that he knew
it as well as himself, recalled to our Gascon the happy days of his
youth. How many times had he in those days, under the rays of the winter
sun, or in the cool shade in summer, sought out this house, toward which
a stranger was now conducting him. Then a few pieces of gold, or even of
silver, jingling in his purse, made him happier than a king; and he gave
himself up to the delightful pleasures of laziness, having no wife nor
children starving, or scolding and suspicious, at home. Then Chicot used
to sit down carelessly on the wooden bench, waiting for Gorenflot, who,
however, was always exact to the time fixed for dinner; and then he used
to study, with intelligent curiosity, Gorenflot in all his different
shades of drunkenness.

Soon the great street of St. Jacques appeared to his eyes, the cloister
of St. Benoit, and nearly in front of that the hotel of the Corne
d'Abondance, rather dirty, and rather dilapidated, but still shaded by
its planes and chestnuts, and embellished inside by its pots of shining
copper, and brilliant saucepans, looking like imitations of gold and
silver, and bringing real gold and silver into the pockets of the
innkeeper. Chicot bent his back until he seemed to lose five or six
inches of his height, and making a most hideous grimace, prepared to
meet his old friend Bonhomet. However, as Borromee walked first, it was
to him that Bonhomet spoke, and he scarcely looked at Chicot, who stood
behind. Time had left its traces on the face of Bonhomet, as well as on
his house. Besides the wrinkles which seem to correspond on the human
face to the cracks made by time on the front of buildings, M. Bonhomet
had assumed airs of great importance since Chicot had seen him last.
These, however, he never showed much to men of a warlike appearance, for
whom he had always a great respect.

It seemed to Chicot that nothing was changed excepting the tint of the
ceiling, which from gray had turned to black.

"Come, friend," said Borromee, "I know a little nook where two men may
talk at their ease while they drink. Is it empty?" continued he, turning
to Bonhomet.

Bonhomet answered that it was, and Borromee then led Chicot to the
little room already so well known to all readers of "Chicot, the
Jester."

"Now," said Borromee, "wait here for me while I avail myself of a
privilege granted to the habitues of this house."

"What is that?"

"To go to the cellar and fetch one's own wine."

"Ah! a jolly privilege. Go, then."

Borromee went out. Chicot watched him disappear, and then went to the
wall and raised a picture, representing Credit killed by bad paymasters,
behind which was a hole, through which you could see into the public
room. Chicot knew this hole well, for it was his own making.

On looking through, he perceived Borromee, after placing his finger on
his lips, as a sign of caution, say something to Bonhomet, who seemed to
acquiesce by a nod of the head, after which Borromee took a light, which
was always kept burning in readiness, and descended to the cellar. Then
Chicot knocked on the wall in a peculiar manner. On hearing this knock,
which seemed to recall to him some souvenir deeply rooted in his heart,
Bonhomet started, and looked round him. Chicot knocked again
impatiently, like a man angry at his first call not being answered.
Bonhomet ran to the little room, and found Chicot standing there
upright. At this sight Bonhomet, who, like the rest of the world, had
believed Chicot dead, uttered a cry, for he believed he saw a ghost.

"Since when," said Chicot, "has a person like me been obliged to call
twice?"

"Oh! dear M. Chicot, is it you or your shade?" cried Bonhomet.

"Whichever it be, since you recognize me, I hope you will obey me."

"Oh! certainly, dear M. Chicot."

"Then whatever noise you hear in this room, and whatever takes place
here, do not come until I call you."

"Your directions will be the easier to obey, since they are exactly the
same as your companion has just given to me."

"Yes, but if he calls, do not come--wait until I call."--"I will, M.
Chicot."

"Good! now send away every one else from your inn, and in ten minutes
let us be as free and as solitary here as if we came to fast on Good
Friday."

"In ten minutes, M. Chicot, there shall not be a soul in the hotel
excepting your humble servant."

"Go, Bonhomet; you are not changed, I see."

"Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" said Bonhomet, as he retired, "what is about
to take place in my poor house?"

As he went, he met Borromee returning from the cellar with his bottles.

We do not know how Bonhomet managed, but when the ten minutes had
expired, the last customer was crossing the threshold of the door,
muttering:

"Oh! oh! the weather is stormy here to-day; we must avoid the storm."




CHAPTER LXXXI.

WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LITTLE ROOM.


When the captain re-entered the room with a basket in his hand
containing a dozen bottles, he was received by Chicot with smiles.
Borromee was in haste to uncork his bottles, but his haste was nothing
to Chicot's; thus the preparations did not take long, and the two
companions began to drink. At first, as though their occupation was too
important to be interrupted, they drank in silence. Chicot uttered only
these words:

"Par ma foi! this is good Burgundy."

They drank two bottles in this way; at the third, Chicot raised his eyes
to heaven, and said:

"Really, we are drinking as though we wished to intoxicate ourselves."

"It is so good," replied Borromee.

"Ah! it pleases you. Go on, friend; I have a strong head."

And each of them swallowed another bottle. The wine produced on each of
them an opposite effect--it unloosened Chicot's tongue, and tied that of
Borromee.

"Ah!" murmured Chicot, "you are silent; then you doubt yourself."

"Ah!" said Borromee to himself, "you chatter; then you are getting
tipsy." Then he asked Chicot, "How many bottles does it take you?"

"For what?"

"To get lively."

"About four."

"And to get tipsy?"

"About six."

"And dead drunk?"

"Double."

"Boaster!" thought Borromee, "he stammers already, and has only drunk
four. Come, then, we can go on," said he, and he drew out a fifth for
Chicot and one for himself.

But Chicot remarked that of the five bottles ranged beside Borromee some
were half full, and others two-thirds; none were empty. This confirmed
him in his suspicions that the captain had bad intentions with regard to
him. He rose as if to fetch his fifth bottle, and staggered as he did
so.

"Oh!" said he, "did you feel?"

"What?"

"The earth trembling."

"Bah!"

"Yes, ventre de biche! Luckily the hotel of the Corne d'Abondance is
solid, although it is built on a pivot."

"What! built on a pivot?"

"Doubtless, since it turns."

"True," said Borromee, "I felt the effects, but did not guess the
cause."

"Because you are not a Latin scholar, and have not read the 'De Natura
Rerum.' If you had, you would know that there is no effect without a
cause."

"Well, my dear captain, for you are a captain like me, are you not?"

"Yes, from the points of my toes to the roots of my hair."

"Well, then, my dear captain, tell me, since there is no effect without
a cause, as you say, what was the cause of your disguise?"