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The Forty Five Guardsmen written by Alexandre Dumas

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"In the first place," he said, "that poor Borromee--"

A dark expression passed across Jacques' face.

"Oh!" said the boy, "if I had been there--"

"Well! if you had been there?"

"The affair would not have turned out as it did."

"Would you have defended him against the Swiss with whom he got into a
quarrel?"

"I would have defended him against every one."

"So that he would not have been killed?"

"Either that, or I should have got myself killed along with him."

"At all events, you were not there, so that the poor devil breathed his
last in an obscure tavern, and in doing so pronounced Dom Modeste's
name; is not that so?"

"Yes."

"Whereupon the people there informed Dom Modeste of it?"

"A man, seemingly scared out of his wits, who threw the whole convent
into consternation."

"And Dom Modeste sent for his litter, and hastened to 'La Corne
d'Abondance.'"

"How do you know that?"

"Oh! you don't know me yet, my boy; I am somewhat of a sorcerer, I can
tell you."

Jacques drew back a couple of steps.

"That is not all," continued Chicot, who, as he spoke, began to see
clearer by the light of his own words; "a letter was found in the dead
man's pocket."

"A letter--yes, precisely so."

"And Dom Modeste charged his little Jacques to carry that letter to its
address."

"Yes."

"And the little Jacques ran immediately to the Hotel de Guise."

"Oh!"

"Where he found no one."

"Bon Dieu!"

"But Monsieur de Mayneville."

"Good gracious!"

"And which same Monsieur de Mayneville conducted Jacques to the hostelry
of the 'Brave Chevalier.'"

"Monsieur Briquet! Monsieur Briquet!" cried Jacques, "if you know
that--"

"Eh! ventre de biche! you see very well that I do know it," exclaimed
Chicot, feeling triumphant at having disentangled this secret, which was
of such importance for him to learn, from the provoking intricacies in
which it had been at first involved.

"In that case," returned Jacques, "you see very well, Monsieur Briquet,
that I am not guilty."

"No," said Chicot, "you are not guilty in act, nor in omission, but you
are guilty in thought."

"I!"

"I suppose there is no doubt you think the duchesse very beautiful?"

"I!!"

"And you turned round to look at her again through the window."

"I!!!"

The young monk colored and stammered out: "Well, it is true, she is
exactly like a Virgin Mary which was placed over the head of my mother's
bed."

"Oh!" muttered Chicot, "how much those people lose who are not curious!"

And thereupon he made little Clement, whom from this moment he held in
his power, tell him all he had himself just told him, but this time with
the details, which he could not possibly otherwise have known.

"You see," said Chicot, when he had finished, "what a poor
fencing-master you had in Frere Borromee."

"Monsieur Briquet," said little Jacques, "one ought not to speak ill of
the dead."

"No; but confess one thing."

"What?"

"That Borromee did not make such good use of his sword as the man who
killed him."--"True."

"And now that is all I had to say to you. Good-night, Jacques; we shall
meet again soon, and if you like--"

"What, Monsieur Briquet?"

"Why, I will give you lessons in fencing for the future."

"Oh! I shall be most thankful."

"And now off with you, my boy, for they are waiting for you impatiently
at the priory."

"True, true. Thank you, Monsieur Briquet, for having reminded me of it."

And the little monk disappeared, running as fast as he could.

Chicot had a reason for dismissing his companion. He had extracted from
him all he wished to know, and, on the other hand, there still remained
something further for him to learn. He returned, therefore, as fast as
he could to his own house. The litter, the bearers, and the horse were
still at the door of the "Brave Chevalier."

He regained his gutter without making a noise.

The house opposite to his own was still lighted up, and from that
moment all his attention was directed toward it.

In the first place, he observed, by a rent in the curtain, Ernanton
walking up and down, apparently waiting with great impatience.

He then saw the litter return, saw Mayneville leave, and, lastly, he saw
the duchess enter the room in which Ernanton, palpitating, and throbbing
rather than breathing, impatiently awaited her return.

Ernanton kneeled before the duchess, who gave him her white hand to
kiss. She then raised the young man from the ground, and made him sit
down before her at a table which was most elegantly served.

"This is very singular," said Chicot; "It began like a conspiracy, and
finishes by a rendezvous.

"Yes," continued Chicot, "but who appointed this rendezvous?

"Madame de Montpensier."

And then, as a fresh light flashed through his brain, he murmured, "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."

"Ventre de biche!" exclaimed Chicot, "I return to my original idea,--it
is not a love affair, but a conspiracy.

"Madame la Duchesse de Montpensier is in love with Monsieur Ernanton de
Carmainges; let us watch over this love affair of Madame la Duchesse."

And Chicot watched until midnight had long passed, when Ernanton
hastened away, his cloak concealing his face, while Madame la Duchesse
de Montpensier returned to her litter.

"Now," murmured Chicot, as he descended his own staircase, "what is that
chance of death which is to deliver the Duc de Guise from the
presumptive heir of the crown? who are those defunct persons who were
thought to be dead, but are still living?

"Mordioux! I shall trace them before long."




CHAPTER LXXXIV.

LE CARDINAL DE JOYEUSE.


Youth has its obstinate resolutions, both as regards good and evil in
the world, which are by no means inferior to the inflexibility of
purpose of maturer years.

When directed toward good purposes, instances of this dogged obstinacy
of character produce what are termed the great actions of life, and
impress on the man who enters life an impulse which bears him onward, by
a natural course, toward a heroism of character of some kind or another.

In this way Bayard and Du Gueselin became great captains, from having
been the most ill-tempered and most intractable children that ever
existed; in the same way, too, the swineherd, whom nature had made the
herdsman of Montalte, and whose genius had converted him into
Sexte-Quinte, became a great pope, because he had persisted in
performing his duties as a swineherd in an indifferent manner.

Again, in the same way were the worst Spartan natures displayed in a
heroic sense, after they had commenced life by a persistence in
dissimulation and cruelty.

All we have now to sketch is the portrait of a man of an ordinary stamp;
and yet, more than one biographer would have found in Henri du Bouchage,
at twenty years of age, the materials for a great man.

Henri obstinately persisted in his affection and in his seclusion from
the world; as his brother had begged and as the king had required him to
do, he remained for some days closeted alone with his one enduring
thought; and then, when that thought had become more and more fixed and
unchangeable in its nature, he one morning decided to pay a visit to his
brother the cardinal, an important personage, who, at the age of
twenty-six, had already for two years past been a cardinal, and who,
from the archbishopric of Narbonne, had passed to the highest degrees of
ecclesiastical dignity, a position to which he was indebted as much to
his noble descent as to his powerful intellect.

Francois de Joyeuse, whom we have already introduced with the object of
enlightening Henri de Valois respecting the doubt he had entertained
with regard to Sylla--Francois de Joyeuse, young and worldly-minded,
handsome and witty, was one of the most remarkable men of the period.
Ambitious by nature, but circumspect by calculation and position,
Francois de Joyeuse could assume as his device, "Nothing is too much,"
and justify his device.

The only one, perhaps, of all those who belonged to the court--and
Francois de Joyeuse was attached to the court in a very especial
manner--he had been able to create for himself two means of support out
of the religious and lay thrones to which he in some measure
approximated as a French gentleman, and as a prince of the church;
Sixtus protected him against Henri III., Henri III. protected him
against Sixtus. He was an Italian at Paris, a Parisian at Rome,
magnificent and able everywhere.

The sword alone of Joyeuse, the high admiral, gave the latter more
weight in the balance; but it might be noticed from certain smiles of
the cardinal, that if those temporal arms failed him, which the hand of
his brother, refined and admired as he was, wielded so successfully, he
himself knew not only how to use, but also how to abuse, the spiritual
weapons which had been intrusted to him by the sovereign head of the
Church.

The Cardinal Francois de Joyeuse had very rapidly become a wealthy man,
wealthy in the first place from his own patrimony, and then from his
different benefices. At that period the Church was richly endowed--very
richly endowed even, and when its treasures were exhausted, it knew the
sources, which at the present day are exhausted, where and whence to
renew them.

Francois de Joyeuse, therefore, lived in the most magnificent manner.
Leaving to his brother all the pageantry and glitter of a military
household, he crowded his salons with priests, bishops and archbishops;
he gratified his own individual peculiar fancies. On his attaining the
dignity of cardinal, as he was a prince of the church, and consequently
superior to his brother, he had added to his household pages according
to the Italian fashion, and guards according to that which prevailed at
the French court. But these guards and pages were used by him as a still
greater means of enjoying liberty of action. He frequently ranged his
guards and pages round a huge litter, through the curtains of which his
secretary passed his gloved hand, while he himself on horseback, his
sword by his side, rode through the town disguised with a wig, an
enormous ruff round his neck, and horseman's boots, the sound of which
delighted him beyond measure.

The cardinal lived, therefore, in the enjoyment of the greatest
consideration, for, at certain elevated positions in life, human
fortunes are absorbing in their nature, and, as if they were composed of
nothing else but of adhesive particles, oblige all other fortunes to
attend on and follow them like satellites; and on that account,
therefore, the recent and marvelous successes of his brother Anne
reflected on him all the brilliancy of those achievements. Moreover, as
he had scrupulously followed the precept of concealing his mode of life,
and of dispensing and diffusing his mental wealth, he was only known by
the better sides of his character, and in his own family was accounted a
very great man, a happiness which many sovereigns, laden with glory and
crowned with the acclamations of a whole nation, have not enjoyed.

It was to this prelate that the Comte du Bouchage betook himself after
his explanation with his brother, and after his conversation with the
king of France; but, as we have already observed, he allowed a few days
to elapse in token of obedience to the injunction which had been imposed
on him by his elder brother, as well as by the king.

Francois resided in a beautiful mansion in that part of Paris called La
Cite. The immense courtyard was never quite free from cavaliers and
litters; but the prelate, whose garden was immediately contiguous to the
bank of the river, allowed his courtyards and his antechambers to
become crowded with courtiers; and as he had a mode of egress toward the
river-bank, and a boat close thereto, which conveyed him without any
disturbance as far and as quietly as he chose, it not unfrequently
happened that the courtiers uselessly waited to see the prelate, who
availed himself of the pretext of a serious indisposition, or a rigid
penance, to postpone his reception for the day. For him it was a
realization of Italy in the bosom of the capital of the king of France,
it was Venice embraced by the two arms of the Seine.

Francois was proud, but by no means vain; he loved his friends as
brothers, and his brothers nearly as much as his friends. Five years
older than Du Bouchage, he withheld from him neither good nor evil
counsel, neither his purse nor his smile.

But as he wore his cardinal's costume with wonderful effect, Du Bouchage
thought him handsome, noble, almost formidable, and accordingly
respected him more, perhaps, than he did the elder of them both. Henri,
with his beautiful cuirass, and the glittering accessories of his
military costume, tremblingly confided his love affairs to Anne, while
he would not have dared to confess himself to Francois.

However, when he proceeded to the cardinal's hotel, his resolution was
taken, and he accosted, frankly enough, the confessor first, and the
friend afterward.

He entered the courtyard, which several gentlemen were at that moment
quitting, wearied at having solicited without having obtained the favor
of an audience.

He passed through the antechambers, salons, and then the more private
apartments. He had been told, as others had, that his brother was
engaged in conference; but the idea of closing any of the doors before
Du Bouchage never occurred to any of the attendants.

Du Bouchage, therefore, passed through all the apartments until he
reached the garden, a true garden of a Roman prelate, luxurious in its
shade, coolness, and perfume, such as, at the present day, may be found
at the Villa Pamphile or the Palais Borghese.

Henri paused under a group of trees: at this moment the gate close to
the river side rolled on its hinges, and a man shrouded in a large brown
cloak passed through, followed by a person in a page's costume. The man,
perceiving Henri, who was too absorbed in his reverie to think of him,
glided through the trees, avoiding the observation either of Du Bouchage
or of any one else.

Henri paid no attention to this mysterious entry; and it was only as he
turned round that he saw the man entering the apartments.

After he had waited about ten minutes, and as he was about to enter the
house, for the purpose of interrogating one of the attendants with the
view of ascertaining at what hour precisely his brother would be
visible, a servant, who seemed to be in search of him, observed his
approach, and advancing in his direction, begged him to have the
goodness to pass into the library, where the cardinal awaited him.

Henri complied with this invitation, but not very readily, as he
conjectured that a fresh contest would result from it; he found his
brother the cardinal engaged, with the assistance of a valet-de-chambre,
in trying on a prelate's costume, a little worldly-looking, perhaps, in
its shape and fashion, but elegant and becoming in its style.

"Good-morning, comte," said the cardinal; "what news have you?"

"Excellent news, as far as our family is concerned," said Henri. "Anne,
you know, has covered himself with glory in that retreat from Anvers,
and is alive."

"Heaven be praised! and are you too, Henri, safe and sound?"

"Yes, my brother."

"You see," said the cardinal, "that Heaven holds us in its keeping."

"I am so full of gratitude to Heaven, my brother, that I have formed the
project of dedicating myself to its service. I am come to talk seriously
to you upon this project, which is now well matured, and about which I
have already spoken to you."

"Do you still keep to that idea, Du Bouchage?" said the cardinal,
allowing a slight exclamation to escape him, which was indicative that
Joyeuse would have a struggle to encounter.

"I do."

"But it is impossible, Henri," returned the cardinal; "have you not been
told so already?"

"I have not listened to what others have said to me, my brother, because
a voice stronger than mine, which speaks within me, prevents me from
listening to anything which would turn me aside from my purpose."

"You cannot be so ignorant of the things of this world, Henri," said the
cardinal, in his most serious tone of voice, "to believe that the voice
you allude to was really that of Heaven; on the contrary--I assert it
positively, too--it is altogether a feeling of a worldly nature which
addresses you. Heaven has nothing to do in this affair; do not abuse
that holy name, therefore, and, above all, do not confound the voice of
Heaven with, that of earth."

"I do not confound, my brother; I only mean to say that something
irresistible in its nature hurries me toward retreat and solitude."

"So far, so good, Henri; we are now making use of proper expressions.
Well, my dear brother, I will tell you what is to be done. Taking what
you say for granted, I am going to render you the happiest of men."

"Thank you, oh! thank you, my brother."

"Listen to me, Henri. You must take money, a couple of attendants, and
travel through the whole of Europe, in a manner befitting a son of the
house to which we belong. You will see foreign countries; Tartary,
Russia, even the Laplanders, those fabulous nations whom the sun never
visits; you will become absorbed in your thoughts, until the devouring
germ which is at work in you becomes either extinct or satiated; and,
after that, you will return to us again."

Henri, who had been seated, now rose, more serious than his brother had
been.

"You have not understood me, monseigneur," he said.

"I beg your pardon, Henri; you made use of the words 'retreat and
solitude.'"

"Yes, I did so; but by retreat and solitude, I meant a cloister, and not
traveling; to travel is to enjoy life still. I wish almost to suffer
death, and if I do not suffer it, at least to feel it."

"That is an absurd thought, allow me to say, Henri; for whoever, in
point of fact, wishes to isolate himself, is alone everywhere. But the
cloister, let it be. Well, then, I understand that you have come to talk
to me about this project. I know of some very learned Benedictines, and
some very clever Augustines, whose houses are cheerful, adorned with
flowers, attractive, and agreeable in every respect. Amid the works of
science and art you will pass a delightful year, in excellent society,
which is of no slight importance, for one should avoid lowering one's
self in this world; and if at the end of the year you persist in your
project, well, then, my dear Henri, I will not oppose you any further,
and will myself open the door which will peacefully conduct you to
everlasting rest."

"Most certainly you still misunderstand me, my brother," replied Du
Bouchage, shaking his head, "or I should rather say your generous
intelligence will not comprehend me. I do not wish for a cheerful
residence or a delightful retreat, but a rigorously strict seclusion, as
gloomy as the grave itself. I intend to pronounce my vows, vows which
will leave me no other thought or occupation than a grave to dig for
myself, or constant prayer."

The cardinal frowned, and rose from his seat.

"Yes," he said, "I did perfectly understand you; and I endeavored by
opposition, without set phrases or discussion, to combat the folly of
your resolutions, but you oblige me to do so; and now listen to me."

"Ah!" said Henri, despondently, "do not try to convince me; it is
impossible."

"Brother, I will speak to you in the name of Heaven, in the first place;
of Heaven, which you offend in saying that this wild resolution is of
its inspiration. Heaven does not accept sacrifices hastily made. You are
weak, since you allow yourself to be conquered by a first
disappointment; how can Heaven be pleased to accept a victim as unworthy
as that you offer?"

Henri started at his brother's remark.

"Oh! I shall no longer spare you. Henri, you, who never consider any of
us," returned the cardinal; "you, who forget the grief which you will
cause our elder brother, and will cause me too--"

"Forgive me," interrupted Henri, whose cheeks were dyed with crimson,
"forgive me, monseigneur; but is the service of Heaven then so gloomy
and so dishonorable a career that all the members of a family are to be
thrown into distress by it? You, for instance, my brother, whose
portrait I observe suspended in this room, with all this gold, and
diamonds, and purple around you, are you not both the delight and honor
of our house, although you have chosen the service of Heaven, as my
eldest brother has chosen that of the kings of the earth?"

"Boy, boy!" exclaimed the cardinal impatiently, "you will make me
believe your brain is turned. What! will you venture to compare my
residence to a cloister? my hundred attendants, my outriders, the
gentlemen of my suite, and my guards, to a cell and a broom, which are
the only arms and the sole wealth of a cloister? Are you mad? Did you
not just now say that you repudiate these superfluities--these pictures,
precious vases, pomp and distinction, which I cannot do without? Have
you, as I have, the desire and hope of placing on your brow the tiara of
St. Peter? That, indeed, is a career, Henri; one presses onward toward
it, struggles for it, lives in it. But as for you! it is the miner's
pick, the trappist's spade, the gravedigger's tomb, that you desire;
utter abandonment of life, of pleasure, of hope; and all that--I blush
with shame for you, a man--all that, I say, because you love a woman who
loves you not. You do foul injustice to your race, Henri, most truly."

"Brother!" exclaimed the young man, pale as death, while his eyes blazed
with kindling fire, "would you sooner have me blow out my brains, or
plunge in my heart the sword I have the honor to wear by my side?
Pardieu, monseigneur, if you, who are cardinal and prince besides, will
give me absolution for so mortal a sin, the affair will be so quickly
done that you shall have no time to complete your odious and unworthy
thought that I am capable of dishonoring my race, which, Heaven be
praised, a Joyeuse will never do."

"Come, come, Henri," said the cardinal, drawing his brother toward him,
and pressing him in his arms; "come, forget what has passed, and think
of those who love you. I have personal motives for entreating you.
Listen to me; a rare occurrence in this world of ours, we are all happy,
some from feelings of gratified ambition, the others from blessings of
every kind with which Heaven has bedecked our existence. Do not, I
implore you, Henri, cast the mortal poison of the retreat you speak of
upon our family happiness; think how our father would be grieved at it;
think, too, how all of us would bear on our countenances the dark
reflection of the bitter mortification you are about to inflict upon us.
I beseech yon, Henri, to allow yourself to be persuaded; the cloister
will not benefit you.

"I do not say that you will die there, for, misguided man, your answer
will be a smile, which alas, would be only too intelligible for me. No,
believe me that the cloister is more fatal to you than the tomb. The
tomb annihilates but life itself, the cloister annihilates intelligence;
the cloister bows the head, instead of raising it to heaven; the cold,
humid atmosphere of the vaults passes by degrees into the blood, and
penetrates the very marrow of the bones, changing the cloistered recluse
into another granite statue in the convent. My brother, my dear brother,
take heed; our time here below is but brief; youth visits us but once in
our lives. The bright years of our earlier days will pass away too, for
you are under the influence of a deep-seated grief; but at thirty years
of age you will have become a man, the vigor of maturity will have then
arrived; it will hurry away with it all that remains of your wornout
sorrow, and then you will wish to live over again; but it will be too
late. Then, too, you will have grown melancholy in thought, plain in
person, suffering in feeling; passion will have been extinguished in
your heart, the bright light of your eye will have become quenched. They
whose society you seek will flee you as a whited sepulcher, whose
darksome depths repel every glance. Henri, I speak as a friend,
seriously, wisely; listen to me."

The young man remained unmoved and silent. The cardinal hoped that he
had touched his feelings, and had shaken his resolution.

"Try some other resource, Henri. Carry this poisoned shaft, which
rankles in your bosom, about with you wherever you may go, in the
turmoil of life; cherish its companionship at our fetes and banquets;
imitate the wounded deer, which flees through the thickets and brakes
and forests, in its efforts to draw out from its body the arrow which is
rankling in the wound; sometimes the arrow falls."

"For pity's sake," said Henri, "do not persist any more; what I solicit
is not the caprice of a moment, or the reflection of an hour; it is the
result of a laborious and painful determination. In Heaven's name,
therefore, my brother, I adjure you to accord me the favor I solicit."