NASA - "Images of Comet Wild 2"

Anonymous, Arranged for piano by Percy Grainger - "British Folk Music Settings Nr. 4, Shepherd's Hey"

Charles Lamb - "The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4"

Various - "Punch, or The London Charivari, Vol. 101, August 15, 1891"

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The Forty Five Guardsmen written by Alexandre Dumas

A >> Alexandre Dumas >> The Forty Five Guardsmen




"Ventre de biche!" murmured Chicot, sitting down in the middle of his
room, after he had removed the flagstone, and with the small piece of
board by his side, and his treasure under his eyes, "ventre de biche!
that excellent young man is a most invaluable neighbor, for he has made
others respect my money, and has himself respected it too; in sober
truth, such an action is wonderful in such times as the present.
Mordieux! I owe some thanks to that excellent young fellow, and he shall
have them this evening."

Thereupon Chicot replaced the plank over the joist, the flagstone over
the plank, approached the window, and looked toward the opposite side of
the street.

The house still retained that gray and somber aspect which the
imagination bestows as their natural color upon buildings whose
character it seems to know.

"It cannot yet be their time for retiring to rest," said Chicot; "and
besides, those fellows, I am sure, are not very sound sleepers; so let
us see."

He descended his staircase, crossed the road--forming, as he did so, his
features into their most amiable and gracious expression--and knocked at
his neighbor's door.

He remarked the creaking of the staircase, the sound of a hurried
footstep, and yet he waited long enough to feel warranted in knocking
again.

At this fresh summons the door opened, and the outline of a man appeared
in the gloom.

"Thank you, and good-evening," said Chicot, holding out his hand; "here
I am back again, and I am come to return you my thanks, my dear
neighbor."

"I beg your pardon," inquiringly observed a voice, in a tone of
disappointment, the accent of which greatly surprised Chicot.

At the same moment the man who had opened the door drew back a step or
two.

"Stay, I have made a mistake," said Chicot, "you were not my neighbor
when I left, and yet I know who you are."

"And I know you too," said the young man.

"You are Monsieur le Vicomte Ernanton de Carmainges."

"And you are 'The Shade.'"

"Really," said Chicot, "I am quite bewildered."

"Well, and what do you want, monsieur?" inquired the young man, somewhat
churlishly.

"Excuse me, but I am interrupting you, perhaps, my dear monsieur?"

"No, only you will allow me to ask you what you may want."

"Nothing, except that I wished to speak to the master of this house."

"Speak, then."

"What do you mean?"

"I am the master of the house, that is all."

"You? since when, allow me to ask?"

"Diable! since the last three days."

"Good! the house was for sale then?"

"So it would seem, since I have bought it."

"But the former proprietor?"

"No longer lives here, as you see."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

"Come, come, let us understand each other," said Chicot.

"There is nothing I should like better," replied Ernanton, with visible
impatience, "only let us do so without losing any time."

"The former proprietor was a man between five-and-twenty and thirty
years of age, but who looked as if he were forty."

"No; he was a man of about sixty-five or sixty-six years old, who looked
his age quite."

"Bald?"

"No, on the contrary, a perfect forest of white hair."

"With an enormous scar on the left side of the head, had he not?"

"I did not observe the scar, but I did a good number of furrows."

"I cannot understand it at all," said Chicot.

"Well," resumed Ernanton, after a moment's silence, "what did you want
with that man, my dear Monsieur l'Ombre?"

Chicot was on the point of acknowledging what had just happened;
suddenly, however, the mystery of the surprise which Ernanton had
exhibited, reminded him of a certain proverb very dear to all discreet
people.

"I wished to pay him a neighborly visit," he said, "that is all."

In this way, Chicot did not tell a falsehood, and yet admitted nothing.

"My dear monsieur," said Ernanton politely, but reducing considerably
the opening of the door which he held half-closed, "I regret I am unable
to give you more precise information."

"Thank you, monsieur," said Chicot, "I must look elsewhere, then."

"But," continued Ernanton, as he gradually closed the door, "that does
not interfere with my congratulating myself upon the chance which has
brought me again into personal communication with you."

"You would like to see me at the devil, I believe," murmured Chicot, as
he returned bow for bow.

However, as, notwithstanding this mental reply, Chicot, in his
preoccupation, forgot to withdraw, Ernanton, shutting his face between
the door and the doorway, said to him:

"I wish you a very good-evening, monsieur."--"One moment, Monsieur de
Carmainges," said Chicot.

"Monsieur, I exceedingly regret I am unable to wait," replied Ernanton,
"but the fact is, I am expecting some one who will come and knock at
this very door, and this person will be angry with me if I do not show
the greatest possible discretion in receiving him."

"That is quite sufficient, monsieur, I understand," said Chicot; "I am
sorry to have been so importunate, and I now retire."--"Adieu, dear
Monsieur l'Ombre."

"Adieu, excellent Monsieur Ernanton."

And as Chicot drew back a step, he saw the door quietly shut in his
face.

He listened to satisfy himself if the suspicious young man was watching
his departure, but he heard Ernanton's footsteps as he ascended the
staircase; Chicot could therefore return to his own house without
uneasiness, and shut himself up in it, thoroughly determined not to
interfere with his new neighbor's habits, but, in accordance with his
usual custom, equally resolved not to lose sight of him altogether.

In fact, Chicot was not a man to slumber on a circumstance which, in his
opinion, seemed to be important, without having handled and dissected
it, with the patience of a first-rate anatomist; in spite of all he
could do (and it was a privilege or defect of his organization), every
material impression that his mind received presented itself for
analysis, by its most prominent features, in such a manner that poor
Chicot's brain suffered considerably on account of such peculiarity,
called upon as it was for an immediate investigation of its master's
thought.

Chicot, whose mind up to that moment had been occupied with that phrase
of the Duc de Guise's letter, namely, "I entirely approve of your plan
with regard to the Forty-five," consequently abandoned that phrase, the
examination of which he promised himself to return to at a later period,
in order that he might forthwith thoroughly exhaust this fresh subject
of preoccupation, which had just taken the place of the older one.

Chicot reflected, that nothing could possibly be more singular than the
fact of Ernanton installing himself, as if he were its master, in that
mysterious house whose inhabitants had suddenly disappeared.

And the more so, since to these original inhabitants a phrase of the Duc
de Guise's letter relative to the Duc d'Anjou might possibly have some
reference.

That was a chance which deserved attentive consideration, and Chicot
was in the habit of believing in providential chances.

He developed, even, whenever he was begged to do so, some very ingenious
theories on the subject.

The basis of these theories was an idea, which, in our opinion, was
quite as good as any other; it was as follows:

Chance is a kind of reserve held in bond by the Deity. Heaven never
communicates that reserve except in momentous circumstances,
particularly since He has observed that men are sagacious enough to
study and foresee the chances which may befall them in accordance with
natural causes and regularly organized principles of existence.

Moreover, Heaven likes to counteract the combinations of those proud
members of the human race whose pride in by-gone times He has already
punished by drowning them, and whose future pride He surely will punish
in destroying them by fire.

Heaven, therefore we say, or Chicot said, Heaven is pleased to
counteract the combinations of those proud and haughty human beings by
means with which they are unacquainted, and whose intervention they
cannot foresee.

This theory, as may be perceived, includes some very specious arguments,
and might possibly furnish some very brilliant theses; but the reader,
anxious, as Chicot was, to know what Carmainges' object was in that
house, will feel obliged to us by tracing the development of them.

Chicot, accordingly, began to think, that it was strange to see Ernanton
in the very house where he bad seen Remy.

He considered it was strange for two reasons; the first, because of the
perfect ignorance in which the two men lived with respect to each other,
which led to the supposition that there must have been an intermediary
between them unknown to Chicot; and the second reason, because the house
must have been sold to Ernanton, who possessed no means of purchasing
it.

"It is true," said Chicot, as he installed himself as comfortably as he
could on his gutter, which was his usual place of observation; "it is
true that the young man pretends he is expecting a visit, and that the
visit is from a lady; in these days, ladies are wealthy, and allow
themselves an indulgence in fancies of all kinds. Ernanton is handsome,
young, and graceful; Ernanton has taken some one's fancy, a rendezvous
has been arranged, and he has been directed to purchase this house; he
has bought the house, and she has accepted the rendezvous.

"Ernanton," continued Chicot, "lives at court; it must be some lady
belonging to the court, then, with whom he has this affair. Poor fellow,
will he love her? Heaven preserve him from such a thing! he is going to
fall headlong into that gulf of perdition. Very good! ought I not to
read him a moral lecture thereupon?

"A moral lecture, which would be both useless and absurd, doubly so the
former, and tenfold the latter.

"Useless, because he won't understand it, and, even if he did understand
it, would refuse to listen to it.

"Absurd, because I should be doing far better to go to bed, and to think
a little about that poor Borromee.

"On this latter subject," continued Chicot, who had suddenly become
thoughtful, "I perceive one thing; namely, that remorse does not exist,
and is only a relative feeling; the fact is, I do not feel any remorse
at all for having killed Borromee, since the manner in which Monsieur de
Carmainges' affair occupies my mind makes me forget that I have killed
the man; and if he, on his side, had nailed me to the table as I nailed
him to the wainscot, he would certainly have had no more remorse than I
have about it myself, at the present moment."

Chicot had reached so far in his reasonings, his inductions, and his
philosophy, which had consumed a good hour and a half altogether, when
he was drawn from his train of thought by the arrival of a litter
proceeding from the direction of the inn of the "Brave Chevalier."

This litter stopped at the threshold of the mysterious house.

A veiled lady alighted from it, and disappeared within the door which
Ernanton held half open.

"Poor fellow!" murmured Chicot, "I was not mistaken; and it was indeed
a lady he was waiting for, and so now I shall go to bed."

Whereupon Chicot rose, but remained motionless, although standing up.

"I am mistaken," he said, "I shall not be able to go to sleep; but I
maintain what I was saying, that if I don't sleep it will not be remorse
which will prevent me, it will be curiosity; and that is so true what I
say in that respect, that if I remain here in my observatory, my mind
will only be occupied about one thing, and that is to learn which of our
noble ladies honors the handsome Ernanton with her affection.

"Far better, then, to remain where I am; since, if I went to bed, I
should certainly get up again to return here."

And thereupon Chicot resumed his seat.

An hour had nearly passed away without our being able to state whether
Chicot was engaged in thinking of the unknown lady or Borromee, or
whether he was occupied by curiosity or tormented by feelings of
remorse, when he fancied he heard the gallop of a horse at the end of
the street.

Such was indeed the case, for soon after a cavalier, wrapped in his
cloak, made his appearance.

The cavalier drew up in the middle of the street, and seemed to be
looking about him to see where he was.

The cavalier then perceived the group which was formed by the litter and
its bearers.

He drove his horse against them. He was armed, for the rattling of his
sword against his spurs could be distinctly heard.

The bearers of the litter seemed desirous of barring his passage, but he
addressed a few words to them in a low tone of voice, and not only did
they withdraw with every mark of respect, but one of them, as he sprang
to the ground from his horse, even received the bridle from his hand.
The unknown advanced toward the door and knocked loudly.

"Well," said Chicot, "I was right in remaining, after all; my
presentiments, which told me that something was going to take place,
have not deceived me. Here is the husband, poor Ernanton; we shall
presently be witness of something serious.

"If, however, it be the husband he is very kind to announce his return
in so riotous a manner."

Notwithstanding the magisterial manner in which the unknown thundered at
the door, some hesitation seemed to be shown in opening it.

"Open!" cried he who was knocking.

"Open! open!" repeated the bearers.

"There is no doubt it is the husband," resumed Chicot; "he has
threatened the men that he will have them whipped or hanged, and they
have declared themselves on his side.

"Poor Ernanton, he will be flayed alive.

"Oh! oh! I shall not suffer such a thing, however," added Chicot.

"For in fact," he resumed, "he assisted me; and consequently, when an
opportunity presents itself, I ought to help him. And it seems to me
that the opportunity has now arrived, or it never will do so."

Chicot was resolute and generous, and curious into the bargain; he
unfastened his long sword, placed it under his arm, and hurriedly ran
down the staircase.

He could open his door noiselessly, which is an indispensable piece of
knowledge for any one who may wish to listen with advantage.

Chicot glided under the balcony, then behind a pillar, and waited.

Hardly had he installed himself there, when the door opposite was opened
immediately the unknown had whispered a word through the keyhole, and
yet he did not venture beyond the threshold.

A moment afterward the lady appeared within the doorway.

She took hold of the cavalier's arm, who led her to the litter, closed
the door of it, and then mounted his horse.

"There is no doubt on the subject," said Chicot, "it is the husband, a
good-natured fellow of a husband after all, since he does not think it
worth his while to explore the house in order to be revenged on my
friend Carmainges."

The litter then moved off, the cavalier walking his horse beside the
door of it.

"Pardieu!" said Chicot, "I must follow those people and learn who they
are, and where they are going; I shall at all events draw some solid
counsel from my discovery for my friend Carmainges."

Chicot accordingly followed the cortege, observing the precaution,
however, of keeping in the shadow of the walls, and taking care that the
noise made by the footsteps of the men and of the horses should render
the sound of his own inaudible.

Chicot's surprise was by no means slight when he saw the litter stop at
the door of the "Brave Chevalier."

Almost immediately afterward, as if some one had been on the watch, the
door was opened.

The lady, still veiled, alighted; entered and mounted to the turret, the
window of the first story of which was lighted.

The husband followed her, both being respectfully preceded by Dame
Fournichon, who carried a flambeau in her hand.

"Decidedly," said Chicot, crossing his arms on his chest, "I cannot
understand a single thing of the whole affair."




CHAPTER LXXXIII.

SHOWING HOW CHICOT BEGAN TO UNDERSTAND THE PURPORT OF MONSIEUR DE
GUISE'S LETTER.


Chicot fancied that he had already certainly seen, somewhere or another,
the figure of this courteous cavalier; but his memory, having become a
little confused during his journey from Navarre, where he had met with
so many different figures, did not, with its usual facility, furnish him
with the cavalier's name on the present occasion.

While, concealed in the shade, he was interrogating himself, with his
eyes fixed upon the lighted window, as to the object of this lady and
gentleman's tete-a-tete at the "Brave Chevalier," our worthy Gascon,
forgetting Ernanton in the mysterious house, observed the door of the
hostelry open, and in the stream of light which escaped through the
opening, he perceived something resembling the dark outline of a monk's
figure.

The outline in question paused for a moment to look up at the same
window at which Chicot had been gazing.

"Oh! oh!" he murmured; "if I am not mistaken, that is the frock of a
Jacobin friar. Is Maitre Gorenflot so lax, then, in his discipline as to
allow his sheep to go strolling about at such an hour of the night as
this, and at such a distance from the priory?"

Chicot kept his eye upon the Jacobin, who was making his way along the
Rue des Augustins, and something seemed instinctively to assure him that
he should, through this monk, discover the solution of the problem which
he had up to that moment been vainly endeavoring to ascertain.

Moreover, in the same way that Chicot had fancied he had recognized the
figure of the cavalier, he now fancied he could recognize in the monk a
certain movement of the shoulder, and a peculiar military movement of
the hips, which only belong to persons in the habit of frequenting
fencing-rooms and gymnastic establishments.

"May the devil seize me," he murmured, "if that frock yonder does not
cover the body of that little miscreant whom I wished them to give me
for a traveling companion, and who handles his arquebuse and sword so
cleverly."

Hardly had the idea occurred to Chicot, when, to convince himself of its
value, he stretched out his long legs, and in a dozen strides rejoined
the little fellow, who was walking along holding up his frock above his
thin and sinewy legs in order to be able to get along all the faster.

This was not very difficult, however, inasmuch as the monk paused every
now and then to glance behind him, as if he was going away with great
difficulty and with feelings of profound regret.

His glance was invariably directed toward the brilliantly-lighted
windows of the hostelry.

Chicot had not gone many steps before he felt sure that he had not been
mistaken in his conjectures.

"Hallo! my little master," he said; "hallo! my little Jacquot; hallo! my
little Clement. Halt!"

And he pronounced this last word in so thoroughly military a tone, that
the monk started at it.

"Who calls me?" inquired the young man rudely, with something rather
antagonistic than cordial in his tone of voice.

"I!" replied Chicot, drawing himself up in front of the monk; "I! don't
you recognize me?"

"Oh! Monsieur Robert Briquet!" exclaimed the monk.

"Myself, my little man. And where are you going like that, so late,
darling child?"

"To the priory, Monsieur Briquet."

"Very good; but where do you come from?"

"I?"

"Of course, little libertine."

The young man started.

"I don't know what you are saying, Monsieur Briquet," he replied; "on
the contrary, I have been sent with a very important commission by Dom
Modeste, who will himself assure you that such is the case, if there be
any occasion for it."

"Gently, gently, my little Saint Jerome; we take fire like a match, it
seems."

"And not without reason, too, when one hears such things said as you
were saying just now."

"Diable! when one sees a frock like yours leaving a tavern at such an
hour--"

"A tavern, I!"

"Oh! of course not; the house you left just now was not the 'Brave
Chevalier,' I suppose? Ah! you see I have caught you!"

"You were right in saying that I left that house, but it was not a
tavern I was leaving."

"What!" said Chicot; "is not the hostelry of the sign of the 'Brave
Chevalier' a tavern?"

"A tavern is a house where people drink, and as I have not been drinking
in that house, that house is not a tavern for me."

"Diable! that is a subtle distinction, and I am very much mistaken if
you will not some day become a very forcible theologian; but, at all
events, if you did not go into that house to drink there, what did you
go there for?"

Clement made no reply, and Chicot could read in his face,
notwithstanding the darkness of the night, a resolute determination not
to say another word.

This resolution annoyed our friend extremely, for it had almost grown a
habit with him to become acquainted with everything.

It must not be supposed that Clement showed any ill-feeling in his
silence; for, on the contrary, he had appeared delighted to meet, in so
unexpected a manner, his learned fencing-master, Maitre Robert Briquet,
and had given him the warmest reception that could be expected from the
close and rugged character of the youth.

The conversation had completely ceased. Chicot, for the purpose of
starting it again, was on the point of pronouncing the name of Frere
Borromee; but, although Chicot did not feel any remorse, or fancied he
did not feel any, he could not summon up courage to pronounce that name.

His young companion, still preserving the same unbroken silence, seemed
as if he were awaiting something; it seemed, too, as if he considered it
a happiness to remain as long as possible in the neighborhood of the
hostelry of the "Brave Chevalier."

Robert Briquet tried to speak to him about the journey which the boy had
for a moment entertained the hope of making with him.

Jacques Clement's eyes glistened at the words space and liberty.

Robert Briquet told him that in the countries through which he had just
been traveling, the art of fencing was held greatly in honor; he added,
with an appearance of indifference, that he had even brought away with
him several wonderful passes and thrusts.

This was placing Jacques upon slippery ground. He wished to know what
these passes were; and Chicot, with his long arm, indicated a few of
them upon the little monk's arm.

But all these delicacies and refinements on Chicot's part in no way
affected little Clement's obstinate determination; and while he
endeavored to parry these unknown passes, which his friend Maitre Robert
Briquet was showing him, he preserved an obstinate silence with respect
to what had brought him into that quarter.

Thoroughly annoyed, but keeping a strong control over himself, Chicot
resolved to try the effect of injustice; injustice is one of the most
powerful provocatives ever invented to make women, children, and
inferiors speak, whatever their nature or disposition may be.

"It does not matter," he said, as if he returned to his original idea;
"it does not matter, you are a delightful little monk; but that you
visit hostelries is certain, and what hostelries too! Those where
beautiful ladies are to be found, and you stop outside in a state of
ecstasy before the window, where you can see their shadow. Oh! little
one, little one, I shall tell Dom Modeste all about it."

The bolt hit its mark, more truly so even than Chicot had supposed; for
when he began, he did not suspect that the wound had been so deep.

Jacques turned round like a serpent that had been trodden on.

"That is not true," he cried, crimson with shame and anger, "I don't
look at women."

"Yes, yes," pursued Chicot; "on the contrary, there was an exceedingly
pretty woman at the 'Brave Chevalier' when you left it, and you turned
round to look at her again; and I know that you were waiting for her in
the turret, and I know, too, that you spoke to her."

Chicot proceeded by the inductive process.

Jacques could not contain himself any longer.

"I certainty have spoken to her!" he exclaimed; "is it a sin to speak to
women?"

"No, when one does not speak to them of one's own accord, and yielding
to the temptation of Satan."

"Satan has nothing whatever to do with the matter; it was absolutely
necessary that I should speak to that lady, since I was desired to hand
her a letter."

"Desired by Dom Modeste!" cried Chicot.

"Yes, go and complain to him now, if you like."

Chicot, bewildered, and feeling his way as it were in the dark,
perceived, at these words, a gleam of light traversing the obscurity of
his brain.

"Ah!" he said, "I knew it perfectly well."

"What did you know?"

"What you did not wish to tell me."

"I do not tell my own secrets, and, for a greater reason, the secrets of
others."

"Yes, but to me."

"Why should I to you?"

"You should tell them to me because I am a friend of Dom Modeste, and,
for another reason, you should tell them to me because--"

"Well?"

"Because I know beforehand all you could possibly have to tell me."

Jacques looked at Chicot and shook his head with an incredulous smile.

"Very good!" said Chicot, "would you like me to tell you what you do not
wish to tell me?"

"I should indeed."

Chicot made an effort.