Napoleon Bonaparte - "Oeuvres de Napoleon Bonaparte, Tome II."

H. Rider Haggard - "Regeneration"

Robert Kerr - "A General History and Collection of Voyages and Travels, Volume 14"

Various - "Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 102, Jan. 9, 1892"

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The Forty Five Guardsmen written by Alexandre Dumas

A >> Alexandre Dumas >> The Forty Five Guardsmen




"What disguise?"

"That which you wore when you came to visit Dom Modeste."

"How was I disguised?"

"As a bourgeois."

"Ah! true."

"Will you tell me?"

"Willingly, if you will tell me why you were disguised as a monk.
Confidence for confidence."

"Agreed," said Borromee.

"You wish to know, then, why I was disguised," said Chicot, with an
utterance which seemed to grow thicker and thicker.

"Yes, it puzzles me."

"And then you will tell me?"

"Yes, that was agreed."

"Ah! true; I forgot. Well, the thing is very simple; I was a spy for the
king."

"A spy?"

"Yes."

"Is that, then, your profession?"

"No, I am an amateur."

"What were you spying there?"

"Every one. Dom Modeste himself, then Brother Borromee, little Jacques,
and the whole convent."

"And what did you discover, my friend?"

"First, that Dom Modeste is a great fool."

"It does not need to be very clever to find that out."

"Pardon me; his majesty Henri the Third, who is no fool, regards him as
one of the lights of the Church, and is about to make a bishop of him."

"So be it; I have nothing to say against that promotion; on the
contrary, it will give me a good laugh. But what else did you discover?"

"I discovered that Brother Borromee was not a monk but a captain."

"Ah! you discovered that?"

"At once."

"Anything else?"

"I discovered that Jacques was practicing with the foils before he began
with the sword."

"Ah! you discovered that also. Anything else."

"Give me more to drink, or I shall remember nothing."

"Remember that you are beginning your sixth bottle," said Borromee
laughing.

"Did we not come here to drink?"

"Certainly we did."

"Let us drink then."

"Well," said Borromee, "now do you remember?"

"What?"

"What else you saw in the convent."

"Well, I saw that the monks were really soldiers, and instead of obeying
Dom Modeste, obeyed you."

"Ah, truly: but doubtless that was not all?"

"No; but more to drink, or my memory will fail me."

And as his bottle was empty, he held out his glass for more.

"Well, now do you remember?"

"Oh, yes, I should think so."

"Well, what else?"

"I saw that there was a plot."

"A plot!" cried Borromee, turning pale.

"Yes, a plot."

"Against whom?"

"Against the king."

"Of what nature?"

"To try and carry him off."

"When?"

"When he was returning from Vincennes."

"Sacre!"

"What did you say?"

"Nothing. And you found out that?"

"Yes."

"And warned the king?"

"Parbleu! that was what I came for."

"Then you were the cause of the attempt failing?"

"Yes, I."

"Hang him!" murmured Borromee.

"What did you say?"

"I said that you have good eyes, my friend."

"Bah! I have seen more than that; pass me one of your bottles, and I
will tell you what I have seen."

Borromee hastened to comply with Chicot's desire.

"Let me hear," said he.

"Firstly, I have seen M. de Mayenne wounded."

"Bah!"

"No wonder, he was on my route. And then I have seen the taking of
Cahors."

"How? the taking of Cahors?"

"Certainly. Ah! captain, it was a grand thing to see, and a brave man
like you would have been delighted."

"I do not doubt it. You were, then, near the king of Navarre?"

"Side by side, my friend, as we are now."

"And you left him?"

"To announce this news to the king of France."

"Then you have been at the Louvre?"

"Yes, just before you."

"Then, as we have not quitted each other since, I need not ask you what
you have done."

"On the contrary, ask; for that is the most curious of all."

"Tell me, then."

"Tell! oh, it is very easy to say tell."

"Try."

"One more glass of wine, then, to loosen my tongue. Quite full; that
will do. Well, I saw, comrade, that when you gave the king the Duc de
Guise's letter, you let another fall."

"Another!" cried Borromee, starting up. "Yes, it is there."

And having tried two or three times, with an unsteady hand, he put his
finger on the buff doublet of Borromee, just where the letter was.
Borromee started, as though Chicot's finger had been a hot iron, and had
touched his skin instead of his doublet.

"Oh, oh!" said he, "there is but one thing wanting."

"What is that?"

"That you should know to whom the letter is addressed."

"Oh, I know quite well; it is addressed to the Duchesse de Montpensier."

"Good heavens! I hope you have not told that to the king."

"No; but I will tell him."

"When?"

"When I have had a nap." And he let his arms fall on the table, and his
head on them.

"Then as soon as you can walk you will go to the Louvre?"

"I will."

"You will denounce me."

"I will denounce you."

"Is it not a joke?"

"What?"

"That you will tell the king after your nap."

"Not at all. You see, my dear friend," said Chicot, half raising his
head, "you are a conspirator, and I am a spy; you have a plot, and I
denounce you; we each follow our business."

And Chicot laid his head down again, so that his face was completely
hidden by his hands, while the back of his head was protected by his
helmet.

"Ah!" cried Borromee, "you will denounce me when you wake!" and, rising,
he made a furious blow with his dagger on the back of his companion,
thinking to pierce him through and nail him to the table. But he had not
reckoned on the shirt of mail which Chicot had carried away from the
priory. The dagger broke upon it like glass, and for the second time
Chicot owed his life to it.

Before Borromee had time to recover from his astonishment, Chicot's
right fist struck him a heavy blow in the face, and sent him bleeding
and stunned against the wall.

In a minute, however, he was up, and sword in hand; but this minute had
sufficed for Chicot to draw his sword also, and prepare himself. He
seemed to shake off, as if by enchantment, all the fumes of the wine,
and stood with a steady hand to receive his adversary. The table, like a
field of battle, covered with empty bottles, lay between them, but the
blood flowing down his face infuriated Borromee, who lunged at his
adversary as fiercely as the intervening table permitted.

"Dolt!" cried Chicot, "you see that it is decidedly you who are drunk,
for you cannot reach me across the table, while my arm is six inches
longer than yours, and my sword as much longer than your sword; and here
is the proof."

As he spoke, he stretched out his arm and wounded Borromee in the
forehead. Borromee uttered a cry, still more of rage than of pain, and
as he was brave enough, attacked with double fury.

Chicot, however, still on the other side of the table, took a chair and
sat down, saying, "Mon Dieu! how stupid these soldiers are; they pretend
to know how to manage their swords, and any bourgeois, if he liked,
could kill them like flies. Ah! now you want to put out my eye. And now
you mount on the table; but, ventre de biche! take care, donkey." And he
pricked him with his sword in the stomach, as he had already done in the
forehead.

Borromee roared with anger and leaped from the table to the floor.

"That is as it should, be," said Chicot; "now we are on the same level,
and we can talk while we are fencing. Ah! captain, captain, and so we
sometimes try our hand a little at assassination in our spare moments,
do we?"

"I do for my cause what you do for yours," said Borromee, now brought
back to the seriousness of his position, and terrified, in spite of
himself, at the smothered fire which seemed gleaming in Chicot's eyes.

"So much for talking," said Chicot; "and yet, my friend, it is with no
little pleasure I find that I am a better hand than you are. Ah! that
was not bad."

Borromee had just made a lunge at Chicot, which had slightly touched his
breast.

"Not bad, but I know the thrust--it is the very same you showed little
Jacques. I was just saying, then, that I have the advantage of you, for
I did not begin this quarrel, however anxiously disposed I might have
been to do so. More than that, even, I have allowed you to carry out
your project by giving you every latitude you required, and yet at this
very moment even, I have only been acting on the defensive, and this,
because I have something to propose to you."

"Nothing," cried Borromee, exasperated at Chicot's imperturbability,
"nothing."

And he gave a thrust which would have run the Gascon completely through
the body, if the latter had not, with his long legs, sprung back a step,
which placed him out of his adversary's reach.

"I am going to tell you what this arrangement is, all the same, so that
I shall have nothing left to reproach myself for."

"Hold your tongue," said Borromee; "hold your tongue; it will be
useless."

"Listen," said Chicot; "it is to satisfy my own conscience. I have no
wish to shed your blood, you understand, and I don't want to kill you
until I am driven to extremes."

"Kill me, kill me, I say, if you can!" exclaimed Borromee, exasperated.

"No, no; I have already once in my life killed another such swordsman as
you are; I will even say a better swordsman than you. Pardieu! you know
him; he, too, was one of De Guise's retainers--a lawyer, too."

"Ah! Nicolas David!" said Borromee, terrified at the incident, and again
placing himself on the defensive.

"Exactly so."

"It was you who killed him?"

"Oh! yes, with a pretty little thrust which I will presently show you,
if you decline the arrangement I propose."

"Well, let me hear what the arrangement is."

"You will pass from the Duc de Guise's service to that of the king,
without, however, quitting that of the duc."

"In other words, that I should become a spy like yourself?"

"No, for there will be a difference; I am not paid, but you will be. You
will begin by showing me the Duc de Guise's letter to Madame la Duchesse
de Montpensier; you will let me take a copy of it, and I will leave you
quiet until another occasion. Well, am I not considerate?"--"Here," said
Borromee, "is my answer."

Borromee's reply was "un coupe sur les armes," so rapidly dealt that the
point of his sword slightly touched Chicot's shoulder.

"Well, well," said Chicot, "I see I must positively show you Nicolas
David's thrust. It is very simple and pretty."

And Chicot, who had up to that moment been acting on the defensive, made
one step forward and attacked in his turn.

"This is the thrust," said Chicot; "I make a feint in quartrebasse."

And he did so; Borromee parried by giving way; but, after this first
step backward he was obliged to stop, as he found that he was close to
the partition.

"Good! precisely so; you parry in a circle; that's wrong, for my wrist
is stronger than yours. I catch your sword in mine, thus. I return to
the attack by a tierce haute, I fall upon you, so, and you are hit, or,
rather, you are a dead man!"

In fact, the thrust had followed, or rather had accompanied, the
demonstration, and the slender rapier, penetrating Borromee's chest, had
glided like a needle completely through him, penetrating deeply, and
with a dull, heavy sound, the wooden partition behind him.

Borromee flung out his arms, letting his sword fall to the ground; his
eyes became fixed and injected with blood, his mouth opened wide, his
lips were stained with a red-colored foam, his head fell on his shoulder
with a sigh, which sounded like a death-rattle; then his limbs refused
their support, and his body as it sunk forward enlarged the aperture of
the wound, but could not free itself from the partition, supported as it
was by Chicot's terrible wrist, so that the miserable wretch, like a
gigantic insect, remained fastened to the wall, which his feet kicked
convulsively.

Chicot, cold and impassible as he always was in positions of great
difficulty, especially when he had a conviction at the bottom of his
heart that he had done everything his conscience could require of
him--Chicot, we say, took his hand from his sword, which remained in a
horizontal position, unfastened the captain's belt, searched his
doublet, took the letter, and read the address:

"Duchesse de Montpensier."

All this time the blood was welling copiously from the wound, and the
agony of death was depicted on the features of the wounded man.

"I am dying, I am dying!" he murmured. "O Heaven! have pity on me."

This last appeal to the divine mercy, made by a man who had most
probably rarely thought of it until this moment of his direst need,
touched Chicot's feeling.

"Let us be charitable," he said; "and since this man must die, let him
at least die as quietly as possible."

He then advanced toward the partition, and by an effort withdrew his
sword from the wall, and supporting Borromee's body, he prevented it
from falling heavily to the ground.

This last precaution, however, was useless; the approach of death had
been rapid and certain, and had already paralyzed the dying man's limbs.
His legs gave way beneath him, he fell into Chicot's arms, and then
rolled heavily on the floor.

The shock of his fall made a stream of blood flow from his wound, with
which the last remains of life ebbed away.

Chicot then went and opened the door of communication, and called
Bonhomet.

He had no occasion to call twice, for the innkeeper had been listening
at the door, and had successively heard the noise of tables and stools,
the clashing of swords, and the fall of a heavy body; besides, the
worthy M. Bonhomet had particularly, after the confidence which had been
reposed in him, too extensive an experience of the character of
gentlemen of the sword in general, and of that of Chicot in particular,
not to have guessed, step by step, what had taken place.

The only thing of which he was ignorant was, which of the two
adversaries had fallen.

It must, however, be said in praise of Maitre Bonhomet that his face
assumed an expression of real satisfaction when he heard Chicot's voice,
and when he saw that it was the Gascon who, safe and sound, opened the
door.

Chicot, whom nothing escaped, remarked the expression of his
countenance, and was inwardly pleased at it.

Bonhomet, tremblingly, entered the apartment.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, as he saw the captain's body bathed in
blood.

"Yes, my poor Bonhomet," said Chicot; "this is what we have come to; our
dear captain here is very ill, as you see."

"Oh! my good Monsieur Chicot, my good Monsieur Chicot!" exclaimed
Bonhomet, ready to faint.

"Well, what?" inquired Chicot.

"It is very unkind of you to have chosen my inn for this execution; such
a handsome captain, too!"

"Would you sooner have seen Chicot lying there, and Borromee alive?"

"No, oh no!" cried the host, from the very bottom of his heart.

"Well, that would have happened, however, had it not been for a miracle
of Providence."--"Really?"

"Upon the word of Chicot, just look at my back, for it pains me a good
deal, my dear friend."

And he stooped down before the innkeeper, so that both his shoulders
might be on a level with the host's eye.

Between the two shoulders the doublet was pierced through, and a spot of
blood as large and round as a silver crown piece reddened the edges of
the hole.

"Blood!" cried Bonhomet, "blood! Ah, you are wounded!"

"Wait, wait."

And Chicot unfastened his doublet and his shirt. "Now look!" he said.

"Oh! you wore a cuirass! What a fortunate thing, dear Monsieur Chicot;
and you were saying that the ruffian wished to assassinate you."

"Diable! it hardly seems likely I should have taken any pleasure in
giving myself a dagger thrust between my own shoulders. Now, what do you
see?"

"A link broken."

"That dear captain was in good earnest then; is there much blood?"

"Yes, a good deal under the links."

"I must take off the cuirass, then," said Chicot.

Chicot took off his cuirass, and bared the upper part of his body,
which seemed to be composed of nothing else but bones, of muscles spread
over the bones, and of skin merely covering the muscles.

"Ah! Monsieur Chicot," exclaimed Bonhomet, "you have a wound as large
as a plate."

"Yes, I suppose the blood has spread; there is what doctors call
ecchymosis; give me some clean linen, pour into a glass equal parts of
good olive oil and wine dregs, and wash that stain for me."

"But, dear M. Chicot, what am I to do with this body?"

"That is not your affair."

"What! not my affair?"

"No. Give me some ink, a pen, and a sheet of paper."

"Immediately, dear Monsieur Chicot," said Bonhomet, as he darted out of
the room.

Meanwhile Chicot, who probably had no time to lose, heated at the lamp
the point of a small dagger, and cut in the middle of the wax the seal
of the letter. This being done, and as there was nothing else to retain
the dispatch, Chicot drew it from its envelope, and read it with the
liveliest marks of satisfaction.

Just as he had finished reading it, Maitre Bonhomet returned with the
oil, the wine, the paper, and the pen.

Chicot arranged the pen, ink, and paper before him, sat himself down at
the table, and turned his back with stoical indifference toward Bonhomet
for him to operate upon. The latter understood the pantomime, and began
to rub it.

However, as if, instead of irritating a painful wound, some one had been
tickling him in the most delightful manner, Chicot, during the
operation, copied the letter from the Duc de Guise to his sister, and
made his comments thereon at every word.

"DEAR SISTER--The expedition from Anvers has succeeded for
everybody, but has failed as far as we are concerned. You will be
told that the Duc d'Anjou is dead; do not believe it--he is alive.

"_He lives_, you understand, and that is the whole question.

"There is a complete dynasty in those words; those two words
separate the house of Lorraine from the throne of France better
than the deepest abyss could do.

"Do not, however, make yourself too uneasy about that. I have
discovered that two persons whom I thought were dead are still
living, and there is a great chance of death for the prince while
those two persons are alive.

"Think then only of Paris; it will be time enough for the League to
act six weeks hence. Let our Leaguers know that the moment is
approaching, and let them hold themselves in readiness.

"The army is on foot; we number twelve thousand sure men, all well
equipped; I shall enter France with it, under the pretext of
engaging the German Huguenots, who are going to assist Henri de
Navarre. I shall defeat the Huguenots, and having entered France as
a friend, I shall act as a master."

"Oh, oh!" cried Chicot.

"Did I hurt you, dear Monsieur Chicot?" said Bonhomet, discontinuing his
frictions.

"Yes, my good fellow."

"I will rub more softly; don't be afraid."

Chicot continued:

"P.S.--I entirely approve of your plan with regard to the
Forty-five; only allow me to say, dear sister, that you will be
conferring a greater honor on those fellows than they deserve."

"Ah! diable!" murmured Chicot, "this is getting obscure."

And he read it again.

"I entirely approve of your plan with regard to the Forty-five."

"What plan?" Chicot asked himself.

"Only allow me to say, dear sister, that you will be conferring a
greater honor on those fellows than they deserve."

"What honor?"

Chicot resumed:--

"Than they deserve.

"Your affectionate brother.

"H. DE LORRAINE."

"At all events," said Chicot, "everything is clear, except the
postscript. Very good, We will look after the postscript, then."

"Dear Monsieur Chicot," Bonhomet ventured to observe, seeing that Chicot
had finished writing, if not thinking, "Dear Monsieur Chicot, you have
not told me what I am to do with this corpse."--"That is a very simple
affair."

"For you, who are full of imagination, it may be, but for me?"

"Well! suppose, for instance, that that unfortunate captain had been
quarreling with the Swiss guards or the Reiters, and he had been brought
to your house wounded, would you have refused to receive him?"

"No, certainly, unless indeed you had forbidden me, dear M. Chicot."

"Suppose that, having been placed in that corner, he had,
notwithstanding the care and attention you had bestowed upon him,
departed this life while in your charge, it would have been a great
misfortune, and nothing more, I suppose?"

"Certainly."

"And, instead of incurring any blame, you would deserve to be commended
for your humanity. Suppose, again, that while he was dying this poor
captain had mentioned the name, which you know very well, of the prior
of Les Jacobins Saint Antoine?"

"Of Dom Modeste Gorenflot?" exclaimed Bonhomet, in astonishment.

"Yes, of Dom Modeste Gorenflot. Very good! You will go and inform Dom
Modeste of it; Dom Modeste will hasten here with all speed, and, as the
dead man's purse is found in one of his pockets--you understand it is
important that the purse should be found; I mention this merely by way
of advice--and as the dead man's purse is found in one of his pockets,
and this letter in the other, no suspicion whatever can be entertained."

"I understand, dear Monsieur Chicot."

"In addition to which you will receive a reward, instead of being
punished."

"You are a great man, dear Monsieur Chicot; I will run at once to the
Priory of St. Antoine."

"Wait a minute! did I not say there was the purse and the letter?"

"Oh! yes, and you have the letter in your hand."--"Precisely."

"I must not say that it has been read and copied?"

"Pardieu! it is precisely on account of this letter reaching its
destination intact that you will receive a recompense."

"The letter contains a secret, then?"

"In such times as the present there are secrets in everything, my dear
Bonhomet."

And Chicot, with this sententious reply, again fastened the silk under
the wax of the seal by making use of the same means as he had done
before; he then fastened the wax so artistically that the most
experienced eye would not have been able to have detected the slightest
crack.

He then replaced the letter in the pocket of the dead man, had the
linen, which had been steeped in the oil and wine, applied to his wound
by way of a cataplasm, put on again the safety coat of mail next to his
skin, his shirt over his coat of mail, picked up his sword, wiped it,
thrust it into the scabbard, and withdrew.

He returned again, however, saying:

"If, after all, the story which I have invented does not seem
satisfactory to you, you can accuse the captain of having thrust his own
sword through his body."

"A suicide?"

"Well, that don't compromise any one, you understand."

"But they won't bury this ill-starred fellow in holy ground."

"Pooh," said Chicot, "will that be giving him much pleasure?"

"Why, yes, I should think so."

"In that case, do as you like, my dear Bonhomet; adieu."

Then, returning a second time, he said:

"By-the-by, I pay, since he is no more." And Chicot threw three golden
crowns on the table, and then, placing his fore-finger on his lips, in
token of silence, he departed.




CHAPTER LXXXII.

THE HUSBAND AND THE LOVER.


It was with no inconsiderable emotion that Chicot again recognized La
Rue des Augustins, so quiet and deserted, the angle formed by the block
of houses which preceded his own, and lastly, his own dear house itself,
with its triangular roof, its worm-eaten balcony, and its gutters
ornamented with waterspouts.

He had been so terribly afraid that he should find nothing but an empty
space in the place of the house, and had so strongly suspected that he
should see the street blackened by the smoke of a conflagration, that
the street and the house appeared to him miracles of neatness,
loveliness, and splendor.

Chicot had concealed the key of his beloved house in the hollow of a
stone which served as the base of one of the columns by which his
balcony was supported. At the period we are now writing about, any kind
of key belonging to a chest or piece of furniture equaled in weight and
size the very largest keys of our houses of the present day; the door
keys, therefore, following the natural proportions, were equal in size
to the keys of our modern cities.

Chicot had consequently calculated the difficulty which his pocket would
have in accommodating the heavy key, and he accordingly determined to
hide it in the spot we have indicated.

Chicot, therefore, it must be confessed, felt a slight shudder creeping
over him as he plunged his fingers in the hollow of the stone; this
shudder was succeeded by a feeling of the most unmixed delight when the
cold of the iron met his hand, for the key was really and truly in the
spot where he had left it.

It was precisely the same with regard to the furniture in the first room
he came to; the same, too, with the small board which he had nailed to
the joist; and lastly, the same with the thousand crowns, which were
still slumbering in their oaken hiding-place.

Chicot was not a miser; quite the contrary, indeed: he had very
frequently thrown gold about broadcast, thereby allowing the ideal to
triumph over the material, which is the philosophy of every man who is
of any value; but no sooner had the mind momentarily ceased to exercise
its influence over matter--in other words, whenever money was no longer
needed, nor sacrifice requisite--whenever, in a word, the senses
temporarily regained their influence over Chicot's mind, and whenever
his mind allowed the body to live and to take enjoyment, gold, that
principal, that unceasing, that eternal source of animal delights,
reassumed its value in our philosopher's eyes, and no one knew better
than he did into how many delicious particles that inestimable totality
which people call a crown is subdivided.