The Forty Five Guardsmen written by Alexandre Dumas

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"It is Ernanton de Carmainges, a fine fellow, who is capable of much."

"He has left behind him some love, I suppose, poor fellow. But what a
queer figure his next neighbor is."

"Ah! that is M. de Chalabre. If he ruins your majesty, it will not be
without enriching himself, I answer for it."

"And that one, with such a somber air; he does not seem as though he
dreamed of love."

"What number, sire?"

"Number 12."

"M. de St. Maline, a brave fellow, with a heart of bronze."

"Well, Lavalette, you have had a good idea."

"I should think so. Imagine the effect that will be produced by these
new watch-dogs, who will follow you like your shadow."

"Yes, yes; but they cannot follow me in this guise."

"Now we return to the money. But about this, also, I have an idea."

"D'Epernon!"

"My zeal for your majesty doubles my imagination."

"Well, let us hear it."

"If it depended upon me, each of these gentlemen should find by his bed
a purse containing 1,000 crowns, as payment for the first six months."

"One thousand crowns for six months! 6,000 livres a year! You are mad,
duke; an entire regiment would not cost that."

"You forget, sire, that it is necessary they should be well dressed.
Each will have to take from his 1,000 crowns enough for arms and
equipments. Set down 1,500 livres to effect this in a manner to do you
honor, and there would remain 4,500 livres for the first year. Then for
subsequent years you could give 3,000 livres."

"That is more reasonable."

"Then your majesty accepts?"

"There is only one difficulty, duke."

"What is it?"

"Want of money."

"Sire, I have found a method. Six months ago a tax was levied on
shooting and fishing."

"Well?"

"The first payment produced 65,000 crowns, which have not yet been
disposed of."

"I destined it for the war, duke."

"The first interest of the kingdom is the safety of the king."

"Well; there still would remain 20,000 crowns for the army."

"Pardon, sire, but I had disposed of them, also."

"Ah!"

"Yes, sire; your majesty had promised me money."

"Ah! and you give me a guard to obtain it."

"Oh! sire. But look at them; will they not have a good effect?"

"Yes, when dressed, they will not look bad. Well, so be it."

"Well, then, sire, I have a favor to ask."

"I should be astonished if you had not."

"Your majesty is bitter to-day."

"Oh! I only mean, that having rendered me a service, you have the right
to ask for a return."

"Well, sire, it is an appointment."

"Why, you are already colonel-general of infantry, more would crush
you."

"In your majesty's service, I am a Samson."

"What is it, then?"

"I desire the command of these forty-five gentlemen."

"What! you wish to march at their head?"

"No; I should have a deputy; only I desire that they should know me as
their head."

"Well, you shall have it. But who is to be your deputy?"

"M. de Loignac, sire."

"Ah! that is well."

"He pleases your majesty?"

"Perfectly."

"Then it is decided?"

"Yes; let it be as you wish."

"Then I will go at once to the treasurer, and get my forty-five purses."

"To-night?"

"They are to find them to-morrow, when they wake."

"Good; then I will return."

"Content, sire?"

"Tolerably."

"Well guarded, at all events."

"By men who sleep."

"They will not sleep to-morrow, sire."

CHAPTER XIV.

THE SHADE OF CHICOT.

The king, as we have said, was never deceived as to the character of his
friends; he knew perfectly well that D'Epernon was working for his own
advantage, but as he expected to have had to give and receive nothing in
return, whereas he had got forty-five guards, he had thought it a good
idea. Besides, it was a novelty, which was a thing that a poor king of
France could not always get, and especially Henri III., who, when he had
gone through his processions, counted his dogs, and uttered his usual
number of sighs, had nothing left to do. Therefore he became more and
more pleased with the idea as he returned to his room.

"These men are doubtless brave, and will be perhaps very devoted,"
thought he; "and forty-five swords always ready to leap from their
scabbards are a grand thing."

This thought brought to his mind the other devoted swords that he
regretted so bitterly. He became sad again, and inquired for Joyeuse.
They replied that he had not returned.

"Then call my valets-de-chambre."

When he was in bed, they asked if his reader should attend, for Henri
was subject to long fits of wakefulness, and was often read to sleep.

"No," replied the king, "I want no one; only if M. de Joyeuse returns,
bring him to me."

"If he returns late, sire?"

"Alas! he is always late; but whatever be the hour, bring him here."

The servants extinguished the candles and lighted a lamp of essences,
which gave a pale blue flame, that the king liked. Henri was tired, and
soon slept, but not for long; he awoke, thinking he heard a noise in the
room.

"Joyeuse," he asked; "is it you?"

No one replied. The light burned dim, and only threw faint circles on
the ceiling of carved oak.

"Alone, still!" murmured the king. "Mon Dieu! I am alone all my life, as
I shall be after death."

"'Alone after death'; that is not certain," said a powerful voice near
the bed.

The king started up and looked round him in terror. "I know that voice,"
cried he.

"Ah! that is lucky," replied the voice.

"It is like the voice of Chicot."

"You burn, Henri: you burn."

Then the king, getting half out of bed, saw a man sitting in the very
chair which he had pointed out to D'Epernon.

"Heaven protect me!" cried he; "it is the shade of Chicot."

"Ah! my poor Henriquet, are you still so foolish?"

"What do you mean?"

"That shades cannot speak, having no body, and consequently no tongue."

"Then you are Chicot, himself?" cried the king, joyfully.

"Do not be too sure."

"Then you are not dead, my poor Chicot?"

"On the contrary; I am dead."

"Chicot, my only friend."

"You, at least, are not changed."

"But you, Chicot, are you changed?"

"I hope so."

"Chicot, my friend, why did you leave me?"

"Because I am dead."

"You said just now that you were not dead."

"Dead to some--alive to others."

"And to me?"--"Dead."

"Why dead to me?"

"It is easy to comprehend that you are not the master here."

"How?"

"You can do nothing for those who serve you."

"Chicot!"

"Do not be angry, or I shall be so, also."

"Speak then, my friend," said the king, fearful that Chicot would
vanish.

"Well, I had a little affair to settle with M. de Mayenne, you
remember?"

"Perfectly."

"I settled it; I beat this valiant captain without mercy. He sought for
me to hang me; and you, whom I thought would protect me, abandoned me,
and made peace with him. Then I declared myself dead and buried by the
aid of my friend Gorenflot, so that M. de Mayenne has ceased to search
for me."

"What a frightful courage you had, Chicot; did you not know the grief
your death would cause me?"

"I have never lived so tranquilly as since the world thought me dead."

"Chicot, my head turns; you frighten me--I know not what to think."

"Well! settle something."

"I think that you are dead and--"

"Then I lie; you are polite."

"You commence by concealing some things from me; but presently, like the
orators of antiquity, you will tell me terrible truths."

"Oh! as to that, I do not say no. Prepare, poor king!"

"If you are not a shade, how could you come unnoticed into my room,
through the guarded corridors?" And Henri, abandoning himself to new
terrors, threw himself down in the bed and covered up his head.

"Come, come," cried Chicot; "you have only to touch me to be convinced."

"But how did you come?"

"Why, I have still the key that you gave me, and which I hung round my
neck to enrage your gentlemen, and with this I entered."

"By the secret door, then?"

"Certainly."

"And why to-day more than yesterday?"

"Ah! that you shall hear."

Henri, sitting up again, said like a child, "Do not tell me anything
disagreeable, Chicot; I am so glad to see you again."

"I will tell the truth; so much the worse if it be disagreeable."

"But your fear of Mayenne is not serious?"

"Very serious, on the contrary. You understand that M. de Mayenne gave
me fifty blows with a stirrup leather, in return for which I gave him
one hundred with the sheath of my sword. No doubt he thinks, therefore,
that he still owes me fifty, so that I should not have come to you now,
however great your need, had I not known him to be at Soissons."

"Well, Chicot, I take you now under my protection, and I wish that you
should be resuscitated and appear openly."

"What folly!"

"I will protect you, on my royal word."

"Bah! I have better than that."

"What?"

"My hole, where I remain."

"I forbid it," cried the king, jumping out of bed.

"Henri, you will catch cold; go back to bed, I pray."

"You are right, but you exasperated me. How, when I have enough guards,
Swiss, Scotch, and French, for my own defense, should I not have enough
for yours?"

"Let us see: you have the Swiss--"

"Yes, commanded by Tocquenot."

"Good! then you have the Scotch--"

"Commanded by Larchant."

"Very well! and you have the French guards--"

"Commanded by Crillon. And then--but I do not know if I ought to tell
you--"

"I did not ask you."

"A novelty, Chicot!"

"A novelty?"

"Yes; imagine forty-five brave gentlemen."

"Forty-five? What do you mean?"

"Forty-five gentlemen."

"Where did you find them? Not in Paris, I suppose?"

"No, but they arrived here yesterday."

"Oh!" cried Chicot, with a sudden illumination, "I know these
gentlemen."

"Really!"

"Forty-five beggars, who only want the wallet; figures to make one die
with laughter."

"Chicot, there are splendid men among them."

"Gascons, like your colonel-general of infantry."

"And like you, Chicot. However, I have forty-five formidable swords at
command."

"Commanded by the 46th, whom they call D'Epernon."

"Not exactly."

"By whom, then?"

"De Loignac."

"And it is with them you think to defend yourself?"

"Yes, mordieu! yes."

"Well, I have more troops than you."

"You have troops?"

"Why not?"

"What are they?"

"You shall hear. First, all the army that MM. de Guise are raising in
Lorraine."

"Are you mad?"

"No; a real army--at least six thousand men."

"But how can you, who fear M. de Mayenne so much, be defended by the
soldiers of M. de Guise?"

"Because I am dead."

"Again this joke!"

"No; I have changed my name and position."

"What are you, then?"

"I am Robert Briquet, merchant and leaguer."

"You a leaguer?"

"A devoted one, so that I keep away from M. de Mayenne. I have, then,
for me, first, the army of Lorraine--six thousand men; remember that
number."

"I listen."

"Then, at least one hundred thousand Parisians."

"Famous soldiers!"

"Sufficiently so to annoy you much: 6,000 and 100,000 are 106,000; then
there is the pope, the Spaniards, M. de Bourbon, the Flemings, Henry of
Navarre, the Duc d'Anjou--"

"Have you done?" interrupted Henri, impatiently.

"There still remain three classes of people."

"What are they?"

"First the Catholics, who hate you because you only three parts
exterminated the Huguenots: then the Huguenots, who hate you because you
have three parts exterminated them; and the third party is that which
desires neither you, nor your brother, nor M. de Guise, but your
brother-in-law, Henri of Navarre."

"Provided that he abjure. But these people of whom you speak are all
France."

"Just so. These are my troops as a leaguer; now add, and compare."

"You are joking, are you not, Chicot?"

"Is it a time to joke, when you are alone, against all the world?"

Henri assumed an air of royal dignity. "Alone I am," said he, "but at
the same time I alone command. You show me an army, but where is the
chief? You will say, M. de Guise; but do I not keep him at Nancy? M. de
Mayenne, you say yourself, is at Soissons, the Duc d'Anjou is at
Brussels, and the king of Navarre at Pau; so that if I am alone, I am
free. I am like a hunter in the midst of a plain, waiting to see his
prey come within his reach."

"On the contrary; you are the game whom the hunters track to his lair."

"Chicot!"

"Well! let me hear whom you have seen come."

"No one."

"Yet some one has come."

"Of those whom I named?"

"Not exactly, but nearly."

"Who?"

"A woman."

"My sister Margot?"

"No; the Duchesse de Montpensier."

"She! at Paris?"

"Mon Dieu! yes."

"Well, if she be; I do not fear women."

"True; but she comes as the avant courier to announce the arrival of her
brother."

"Of M. de Guise?"

"Yes."

"And do you think that embarrasses me? Give me ink and paper."

"What for? To sign an order for M. de Guise to remain at Nancy?"

"Exactly; the idea must be good, since you had it also."

"Execrable, on the contrary."

"Why?"

"As soon as he receives it he will know he is wanted at Paris, and he
will come."

The king grew angry. "If you only returned to talk like this," said he,
"you had better have stayed away."

"What would you have? Phantoms never flatter. But be reasonable; why do
you think M. de Guise remains at Nancy?"

"To organize an army."

"Well; and for what purpose does he destine this army?"

"Ah, Chicot! you fatigue me with all these questions."

"You will sleep better after it. He destines this army--"

"To attack the Huguenots in the north--"

"Or rather, to thwart your brother of Anjou, who has called himself Duke
of Brabant, and wishes to build himself a throne in Flanders, for which
he solicits your aid--"

"Which I never sent."

"To the great joy of the Duc de Guise. Well, if you were to feign to
send this aid--if they only went half way--"

"Ah! yes, I understand; M. de Guise would not leave the frontier."

"And the promise of Madame de Montpensier that her brother would be here
in a week--"

"Would be broken."

"You see, then?"

"So far, good; but in the south--"

"Ah, yes; the Bearnais--"

"Do you know what he is at?"

"No."

"He claims the towns which were his wife's dowry," said the king.

"Insolent! to claim what belongs to him."

"Cahors, for example; as if it would be good policy to give up such a
town to an enemy."

"No; but it would be like an honest man."

"But to return to Flanders. I will send some one to my brother--but whom
can I trust? Oh! now I think of it, you shall go, Chicot."

"I, a dead man?"

"No; you shall go as Robert Briquet."

"As a bagman?"

"Do you refuse?"--"Certainly."

"You disobey me!"

"I owe you no obedience--"

Henri was about to reply, when the door opened and the Duc de Joyeuse
was announced.

"Ah! there is your man," said Chicot; "who could make a better
ambassador?"

Chicot then buried himself in the great chair, so as to be quite
invisible in the dim light. M. de Joyeuse did not see him. The king
uttered a cry of joy on seeing his favorite, and held out his hand.

"Sit down, Joyeuse, my child," said he; "how late you are."

"Your majesty is very good," answered Joyeuse, approaching the bed, on
which he sat down.

CHAPTER XV.

THE DIFFICULTY OF FINDING A GOOD AMBASSADOR.

Chicot was hidden in his great chair, and Joyeuse was half lying on the
foot of the bed in which the king was bolstered up, when the
conversation commenced.

"Well, Joyeuse," said Henri, "have you well wandered about the town?"

"Yes, sire," replied the duke, carelessly.

"How quickly you disappeared from the Place de Greve."

"Sire, to speak frankly, I do not like to see men suffer."

"Tender heart."

"No; egotistical heart, rather; then sufferings act on my nerves."

"You know what passed?"

"Ma foi! no."

"Salcede denied all."

"Ah!"

"You bear it very indifferently, Joyeuse."

"I confess I do not attach much importance to it; besides, I was certain
he would deny everything."

"But since he confessed before the judges--"

"All the more reason that he should deny it afterward. The confession
put the Guises on their guard, and they were at work while your majesty
remained quiet."

"What! you foresee such things, and do not warn me?"

"I am not a minister, to talk politics."

"Well, Joyeuse, I want your brother."

"He, like myself, is at your majesty's service."

"Then I may count on him?"

"Doubtless."

"I wish to send him on a little mission."

"Out of Paris?"

"Yes."

"In that case, it is impossible."

"How so?"

"Du Bouchage cannot go away just now."

The king looked astonished. "What do you mean?" said he.

"Sire," said Joyeuse quietly, "it is the simplest thing possible. Du
Bouchage is in love, but he had carried on his negotiations badly, and
everything was going wrong; the poor boy was growing thinner and
thinner."

"Indeed," said the king, "I have remarked it."

"And he had become sad, mordieu! as if he had lived in your majesty's
court."

A kind of grunt, proceeding from the corner of the room interrupted
Joyeuse, who looked round astonished.

"It is nothing, Joyeuse," said the king, laughing, "only a dog asleep on
the footstool. You say, then, that Du Bouchage grew sad?--"

"Sad as death, sire. It seems he has met with some woman of an
extraordinary disposition. However, one sometimes succeeds as well with
this sort of women as with others, if you only set the right way to
work."

"You would not have been embarrassed, libertine!"

"You understand, sire, that no sooner had he made me his confidant, than
I undertook to save him."

"So that--"

"So that already the cure commences."

"What, is he less in love?"

"No; but he has more hope of making her so. For the future, instead of
sighing with the lady, we mean to amuse her in every possible way.
To-night I stationed thirty Italian musicians under her balcony."

"Ah! ma foi! music would not have amused me when I was in love with
Madame de Conde."

"No; but you were in love, sire; and she is as cold as an icicle."

"And you think music will melt her?"

"Diable! I do not say that she will come at once and throw herself into
the arms of Du Bouchage, but she will be pleased at all this being done
for herself alone. If she do not care for this, we shall have plays,
enchantments, poetry--in fact, all the pleasures of the earth, so that,
even if we do not bring gayety back to her, I hope we shall to Du
Bouchage."

"Well, I hope so; but since it would be so trying to him to leave Paris,
I hope you are not also, like him, the slave of some passion?"

"I never was more free, sire."

"Oh! I thought you were in love with a beautiful lady?"

"Yes, sire, so I was; but imagine that this evening, after having given
my lesson to Du Bouchage, I went to see her, with my head full of his
love story, and, believing myself almost as much in love as he, I found
a trembling frightened woman, and thinking I had disturbed her somehow,
I tried to reassure her, but it was useless. I interrogated her, but she
did not reply. I tried to embrace her, and she turned her head away. I
grew angry, and we quarreled: and she told me she should never be at
home to me any more."'

"Poor Joyeuse; what did you do?"

"Pardieu, sire! I took my hat and cloak, bowed, and went out, without
once looking back."

"Bravo, Joyeuse; it was courageous."

"The more so, sire, that I thought I heard her sigh."

"But you will return?"

"No, I am proud."

"Well, my friend, this rupture is for your good."

"Perhaps so, sire; but I shall probably be horribly ennuye for a week,
having nothing to do. It may perhaps amuse me, however, as it is
something new, and I think it distingue."

"Certainly it is, I have made it so," said the king. "However, I will
occupy you with something."

"Something lazy, I hope?"

A second noise came from the chair; one might have thought the dog was
laughing at the words of Joyeuse.

"What am I to do, sire?" continued Joyeuse.

"Get on your boots."

"Oh! that is against all my ideas."

"Get on horseback."

"On horseback! impossible."

"And why?"

"Because I am an admiral, and admirals have nothing to do with horses."

"Well, then, admiral, if it be not your place to mount a horse, it is so
at all events to go on board ship. So you will start at once for Rouen,
where you will find your admiral's ship, and make ready to sail
immediately for Antwerp."

"For Antwerp!" cried Joyeuse, in a tone as despairing as though he had
received an order for Canton or Valparaiso.

"I said so," replied the king, in a cold and haughty tone, "and there is
no need to repeat it."

Joyeuse, without making the least further resistance, fastened his cloak
and took his hat.

"What a trouble I have to make myself obeyed," continued Henri.
"Ventrebleu! if I forget sometimes that I am the master, others might
remember it."

Joyeuse bowed stifly, and said, "Your orders, sire?"

The king began to melt. "Go," said he, "to Rouen, where I wish you to
embark, unless you prefer going by land to Brussels."

Joyeuse did not answer, but only bowed.

"Do you prefer the land route, duke?" asked Henri.

"I have no preference when I have an order to execute, sire."

"There, now you are sulky. Ah! kings have no friends."

"Those who give orders can only expect to find servants."

"Monsieur," replied the king, angry again, "you will go then to Rouen;
you will go on board your ship, and will take the garrisons of Caudebec,
Harfleur, and Dieppe, which I will replace afterward. You will put them
on board six transports, and place them at the service of my brother,
who expects aid from me."

"My commission, if you please, sire."

"And since when have you been unable to act by virtue of your rank as
admiral?"

"I only obey, sire; and, as much as possible, avoid responsibility."

"Well, then, M. le Duc, you will receive the commission at your hotel
before you depart."

"And when will that be?"

"In an hour."

Joyeuse bowed and turned to the door. The king's heart misgave him.
"What!" cried he, "not even the courtesy of an adieu? You are not
polite, but that is a common reproach to naval people."

"Pardon me, sire, but I am a still worse courtier than I am a seaman;"
and shutting the door violently, he went out.

"See how those love me, for whom I have done so much," cried the king;
"ungrateful Joyeuse!"

"Well, are you going to recall him?" said Chicot, advancing. "Because,
for once in your life, you have been firm, you repent it."

"Ah! so you think it very agreeable to go to sea in the month of
October? I should like to see you do it."

"You are quite welcome to do so; my greatest desire just now is to
travel."

"Then if I wish to send you somewhere you will not object to go?"

"Not only I do not object, but I request it."

"On a mission?"

"Yes."

"Will you go to Navarre?"

"I would go to the devil."

"You are joking."

"No; since my death I joke no more."

"But you refused just now to quit Paris."

"I was wrong, and I repent. I will go to Navarre, if you will send me."

"Doubtless; I wish it."

"I wait your orders, gracious prince," said Chicot, assuming the same
attitude as Joyeuse.

"But you do not know if the mission will suit you. I have certain
projects of embroiling Margot with her husband."

"Divide to reign was the A B C of politics one hundred years ago."

"Then you have no repugnance?"

"It does not concern me; do as you wish. I am ambassador, that is all;
and as long as I am inviolable, that is all I care for."

"But now you must know what to say to my brother-in-law."

"I say anything! Certainly not."

"Not?"

"I will go where you like, but I will say nothing."

"Then you refuse?"

"I refuse to give a message, but I will take a letter."

"Well, I will give you a letter."

"Give it me, then."

"What! you do not think such a letter can be written at once. It must be
well weighed and considered."

"Well, then, think over it. I will come or send for it early to-morrow."

"Why not sleep here?"

"Here?"

"Yes, in your chair."

"I sleep no more at the Louvre."

"But you must know my intentions concerning Margot and her husband. My
letter will make a noise, and they will question you; you must be able
to reply."

"Mon Dieu!" said Chicot, shrugging his shoulders, "how obtuse you are,
great king. Do you think I am going to carry a letter a hundred and
fifty leagues without knowing what is in it? Be easy, the first halt I
make I shall open your letter and read it. What! have you sent
ambassadors for ten years to all parts of the world, and know no better
than that? Come, rest in peace, and I will return to my solitude."

"Where is it?"

"In the cemetery of the Grands-Innocens, great prince."

Henri looked at him in astonishment again.

"Ah! you did not expect that," said Chicot. "Well, till to-morrow, when
I or my messenger will come--"

"How shall I know your messenger when he arrives?"

"He will say he comes from the shade." And Chicot disappeared so rapidly
as almost to reawaken the king's fears as to whether he were a shade or
not.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE SERENADE.

From the Louvre Chicot had not far to go to his home. He went to the
bank of the Seine and got into a little boat which he had left there.

"It is strange," thought he, as he rowed and looked at the
still-lighted window of the king's room, "that after so many years,
Henri is still the same. Others have risen or fallen, while he has
gained some wrinkles, and that is all. He has the same weak, yet
elevated mind--still fantastical and poetical--still the same
egotistical being, always asking for more than one has to give him,
friendship from the indifferent, love from the friendly, devotion from
the loving, and more sad than any one in his kingdom. By-the-by, he did
not speak of giving me any money for my journey; that proves at least
that he thinks me a friend." And he laughed quietly.

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