Day broke at last, and with its coming Benvenuto shook himself clear of all symptoms of drowsiness: in an instant he was on his feet and fully dressed, and hastened at once to the foundry.
The bronze was evidently still too hot to be exposed to the air, but Benvenuto was in such haste to ascertain what he had still to fear, or what he might hope, that he could not contain himself, and began to uncover the head. When he put his hand to the mould he was so pale that one would have thought him at the point of death.
"Are you still sick, master?" inquired a voice, which he recognized as Hermann's; "you vould do much petter to stay in your ped."
"You are wrong, Hermann, my boy," said Benvenuto, amazed to find him astir so early, "for I should die in my bed. But how happens it that you are out of bed at this hour?"
"I vas taking a valk," said Hermann, blushing to the whites of his eyes; "I like much to valk. Shall I help you, master?"
"No, no!" cried Benvenuto; "no one but myself is to touch the mould! Wait, wait!"
And he began gently to uncover the head. By a miraculous chance there was just the necessary amount of metal. If it had not occurred to him to throw all his silver plate and other objects into the furnace, the head would have been missing and the casting a failure.
Fortunately the head was not missing, and was wonderfully beautiful.
The sight of it encouraged Benvenuto to expose the other portions of the body one after another. Little by little the mould fell away like bark, and at last Jupiter, freed from head to foot from his trammels, appeared in all the majesty befitting the sovereign of Olympus. In no part of the work had the bronze betrayed the artist, and when the last morsel of clay fell away, all the workmen joined in a shout of admiration; for they had come out one by one and gathered about Cellini, who did not even notice their presence, so absorbed was he by the thoughts to which this complete success gave rise.
But at the shout, which made him too a god, he raised his head, and said with a proud smile:—
"We shall see if the King of France will refuse the first boon asked by the man who has made such a statue!"
The next instant, as if he repented his first impulse of pride, which was entirely characteristic of him, he fell upon his knees, and with clasped hands rendered thanks to the Lord aloud.
As he was finishing his prayer Scozzone ran out to say thatMadameJacques Aubry desired to speak to him in private, having a letter from her husband, which she could hand to none but Benvenuto.
Benvenuto made Scozzone repeat the name twice, for he had no idea that the student was in the hands of a lawful wife.
He obeyed the summons none the less, leaving his companions swollen with pride in their master's renown. Pagolo meanwhile, on scrutinizing the statue more closely, observed that there was an imperfection in the heel, some accident having prevented the metal from filling every part of the mould.
On the same day that Benvenuto removed his statue from the mould, he sent word to François I. that his Jupiter was cast, and asked him on what day it was his pleasure that the King of Olympus should appear before the King of France.
François replied that his cousin, the Emperor, and he were to hunt in the forest of Fontainebleau on the following Thursday, and that he need do nothing more than have his statue transported to the grand gallery of the château on that day.
The reply was very short; it was evident that Madame d'Etampes had strongly prejudiced the king against his favorite artist. But Benvenuto—was it through pride or confidence in God?—said simply, with a smile,—
"It is well."
It was Monday. Benvenuto caused the Jupiter to be loaded upon a wagon, and rode beside it, not leaving it for an instant, lest some mishap might befall it. On Thursday, at ten o'clock, statue and artist were at Fontainebleau.
To any one who saw Benvenuto, though it were only to see him ride by, it was evident that pride and radiant hope were triumphant in his heart. His conscience as an artist told him that he had executed achef-d'œuvre, and his honest heart that he was about to perform a meritorious action. He was doubly joyous, therefore, and carried his head high, like a man who, having no hatred in his heart, was equally without fear. The king was to see his Jupiter, and could not fail to be pleased with it; Montmorency and Poyet would remind him of his promise; the Emperor and the whole court would be present, and François could not do otherwise than as he had given his word to do.
Madame d'Etampes, with less innocent delight, but with quite as much ardent passion, was maturing her plans. She had triumphed over Benvenuto at the time of his first attempt to confound her by presenting himself at her own hôtel and at the Louvre. The first danger was safely past, but she felt that the king's promise to Benvenuto was a second equally great danger, and it was her purpose, at any cost, to induce his Majesty to disregard it. She therefore repaired to Fontainebleau one day in advance of Cellini, and laid her wires with the profound feminine craft which in her case almost amounted to genius.
Cellini was destined very soon to feel its effects.
He had no sooner crossed the threshold of the gallery where his Jupiter was to be exhibited, than he felt the blow, recognized the hand that had dealt it, and stood for a moment overwhelmed.
This gallery, ordinarily resplendent with paintings by Rosso, which were in themselves enough to distract the attention from almost any masterpiece, had been embellished during the last three days by statues sent from Rome by Primaticcio,—that is to say, the marvels of antique sculpture, the types sanctified by the admiration of twenty centuries, were there before him, challenging comparison, crushing all rivalry. Ariadne, Venus, Hercules, Apollo, even Jupiter himself, the great Olympian Jove,—ideal figures, dreams of genius, eternities in bronze,—formed, as it were, a supernatural assemblage which it was impious to approach, a sublime tribunal whose judgment every artist should dread.
There was something like profanation and blasphemy in the thought of another Jupiter insinuating himself into that Olympus, of Benvenuto throwing down the gauntlet to Phidias, and, notwithstanding his trust in his own merit, the devout artist recoiled.
Furthermore, the immortal statues had taken possession of all the best places, as it was their right to do, and there was no place left for Cellini's poor Jupiter but some dark corner which could only be reached by passing under the stately and imposing glances of the ancient gods.
Benvenuto stood in the doorway with bowed head, and with an expression in which sadness and artistic gratification were mingled.
"Messire Antoine Le Maçon," he said to the king's secretary, who stood beside him, "I ought to and will send my Jupiter back instantly; the disciple will not attempt to contend with the masters; the child will not attempt to contend with his parents; my pride and my modesty alike forbid!"
"Benvenuto," replied the secretary, "take the advice of a sincere friend,—if you do that, you are lost. I tell you this between ourselves, that your enemies hope to discourage you, and then to allege your discouragement as a proof of your lack of skill. It will be useless for me to make excuses for you to the king. His Majesty, who is impatient to see your work, would refuse to listen, and, with Madame d'Etampes continually urging him to do it, would withdraw his favor from you forever. She anticipates that result, and I fear it. It's with the living, not with the dead, Benvenuto, that you have to contend."
"You are right, messire," the goldsmith rejoined, "and I understand you perfectly. Thank you for reminding me that I have no right to have any self-esteem here."
"That's all right, Benvenuto. But let me give you one more bit of advice. Madame d'Etampes is too fascinating to-day not to have some perfidious scheme in her head: she took the king and the Emperor off for a ride in the forest with irresistible playfulness and charm; I am afraid for your sake that she will find a way to keep them there until dark."
"Do you think it?" cried Benvenuto, turning pale. "Why, if she succeeds in doing that, I am lost; for my statue would then have to be exhibited by artificial light, which would deprive it of half its merit."
"Let us hope that I am mistaken," said Le Maçon, "and see what comes to pass."
Cellini waited in painful suspense. He placed his Jupiter in as favorable a light as possible, but he did not conceal from himself the fact that its effect would be comparatively slight by twilight, and that after nightfall it would be positively bad. The duchess's hatred had reckoned no less accurately than the artist's skill; she anticipated in 1541 a trick of the critics of the nineteenth century.
Benvenuto watched the sun sink toward the horizon with despair at his heart, and listened eagerly to every sound without the château. Except for the servants the vast structure was deserted.
Three o'clock struck; thenceforth the purpose of Madame d'Etampes could not be mistaken, and her success was beyond question. Benvenuto fell upon a chair, utterly crushed. All was lost: his renown first of all. That feverish struggle, in which he had been so near succumbing, and which he had already forgotten because he had thought that it made his triumph sure, would have no other result than to put him to shame. He gazed sorrowfully at his statue, around which the shadows of night were already beginning to fall, and whose lines began to appear less pure.
Suddenly an inspiration came to him; he sprang to his feet, called little Jehan, whom he had brought with him, and rushed hastily from the gallery. Nothing had yet occurred to suggest the king's return. Benvenuto hurried to a cabinet-maker in the town, and with his assistance and that of his workmen made, in less than an hour, a stand of light-colored oak, with four rollers, which turned in every direction, like casters.
He trembled now lest the king should return too soon: but at five o'clock the work was completed, night had fallen, and the crowned heads had not returned to the château. Madame d'Etampes, wherever she was, was in a fair way to triumph.
In a very short time Benvenuto had the statue in place upon the almost invisible stand. Jupiter held in his left hand the sphere representing the world, and in his right, a little above his head, the thunderbolt, which he seemed to be on the point of launching into space: amid the tongues of the thunderbolt the goldsmith concealed a lamp.
These preparations were hardly completed when a flourish of trumpets announced the return of the king and the Emperor. Benvenuto lighted the lamp, stationed little Jehan behind the statue, by which he was entirely concealed, and awaited the king's coming, not without trepidation, evidenced by the violent beating of his heart.
Ten minutes later the folding doors were thrown wide open, and François I. appeared, leading Charles V. by the hand.
The Dauphin, Dauphine, the King of Navarre, and the whole court followed the two monarchs; the provost, his daughter, and D'Orbec were among the last. Colombe was pale and dejected, but as soon as she espied Cellini, she raised her head, and a smile of sublime confidence appeared upon her lips and lighted up her face.
Cellini met her glance with one which seemed to say, "Have no fear; whatever happens, do not despair, for I am watching over you."
As the door opened, little Jehan, at a signal from his master, gave the statue a slight push, so that it moved softly forward upon its smoothly rolling stand, and, leaving the antique statues behind, went to meet the king, so to speak, as if it were alive. Every eye was at once turned in its direction. The soft light of the lamp falling from above produced an effect much more agreeable than daylight.
Madame d'Etampes bit her lips.
"Methinks, Sire," said she, "that the flattery is a little overdone, and that it was for the king of earth to go to meet the king of heaven."
The king smiled, but it was easy to see that the flattery did not offend him; as his wont was, he forgot the artist for his art, saved the statue half the journey by walking to meet it, and examined it for a long time in silence. Charles V., who was by nature an astute politician rather than a great artist, although he did one day, in a moment of good humor, pick up Titian's pencil,—Charles V. and the courtiers, who were not entitled to an opinion, waited respectfully to hear that of François before pronouncing their own.
There was a moment of silent suspense, during which Benvenuto and the duchess exchanged a glance of bitter hatred.
Suddenly the king cried,—
"It is beautiful! it is very beautiful! and I confess that my expectations are surpassed."
Thereupon every one overflowed in compliments and extravagant praise, the Emperor first of all.
"If one could conquer artists like cities," said he to the king, "I would declare war on you instantly, to win this one, my cousin."
"But, after all," interrupted Madame d'Etampes, in a rage, "we do not even look at the beautiful antique statues a little farther on, which have somewhat more merit, perhaps, than our modern gewgaws."
The king thereupon walked toward the antique statues, which were lighted from below by the torches, so that the upper portions were in shadow; they were beyond question much less effective than the Jupiter.
"Phidias is sublime," said the king, "but there may be a Phidias in the age of François I. and Charles V., as there was in the age of Pericles."
"Oh, we must see it by daylight," said Anne, bitterly; "to appear to be is not to be: an artificial light is not art. And what is that veil? is it to conceal some defect, Master Cellini, tell us frankly?"
She referred to a very light drapery thrown over the statue to give it more majesty.
Thus far Benvenuto had remained beside his statue, silent, and apparently as cold as it; but at the duchess's words, he smiled disdainfully, shot lightning from his black eyes, and, with the sublime audacity of a heathen artist, snatched the veil away with his powerful hand.
He expected that the duchess would burst forth with renewed fury.
But by an incredible exertion of her will power, she smiled with ominous affability, and graciously held out her hand to Cellini, who was amazed beyond measure by this sudden change of tactics.
"I was wrong," she said aloud, in the tone of a spoiled child; "you are a great sculptor, Cellini; forgive my critical remarks; give me your hand, and let us be friends henceforth. What say you?"
She added in an undertone, with extreme volubility: "Think well of what you are about to ask, Cellini. Let it not be the marriage of Colombe and Ascanio, or I swear that Colombe, Ascanio, and yourself, all three, are undone forever!"
"And suppose I request something else, madame," said Benvenuto, in the same tone; "will you second my request?"
"Yes," said she, eagerly; "and I swear that, whatever it may be, the king will grant it."
"I have no need to request the king's sanction to the marriage of Colombe and Ascanio, for you will request it yourself, madame."
The duchess smiled disdainfully.
"What are you whispering there?" said François.
"Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes," Benvenuto replied, "was obliging enough to remind me that your Majesty had promised to grant me a boon in case you were content with my work."
"And the promise was made in my presence, Sire," said the constable, coming forward; "in my presence and Chancelier Poyet's. Indeed, you bade my colleague and myself remind you—"
"True, constable," interposed the king, good-humoredly; "true, if I failed to remember myself; but I remember famously, on my word! So your intervention, while it is perfectly agreeable to me, is quite useless. I promised Benvenuto to grant whatever boon he might ask when his Jupiter was cast. Was not that it, constable? Have I a good memory, chancellor? It is for you to speak, Master Cellini: I am at your service; but I beg you to think less of your own merit, which is immense, than of our power, which is limited; we make no reservations, saving our crown and our mistress."
"Very good, Sire," said Cellini, "since your Majesty is so well disposed toward your unworthy servitor, I will ask for the pardon of a poor student, who fell into a dispute upon the Quai du Châtelet with the Vicomte de Marmagne, and in self-defence passed his sword through the viscount's body."
Every one marvelled at the moderation of his request, and Madame d'Etampes most of all; she gazed at Benvenuto with an air of stupefaction, and as if she thought that she could not have heard aright.
"By Mahomet's belly!" exclaimed François, "you do well to invoke my right of pardon in that matter, for I heard the chancellor himself say yesterday that it was a hanging affair."
"Oh, Sire!" cried the duchess, "I intended to speak to you myself concerning that young man. I have had news of Marmagne, who is improving, and who sent word to me that he sought the quarrel, and the student—What is the student's name, Master Benvenuto?"
"Jacques Aubry, Madame la Duchesse."
"And the student," continued Madame d'Etampes, hurriedly, "was in no wise in the wrong; and so, Sire, instead of rebuking Benvenuto, or cavilling at him, grant his request promptly, lest he repent of having been of modest."
"Very well," said François; "what you desire shall be done, master; and as he gives twice who gives quickly,—so says the proverb,—let the order to set this young man at liberty be despatched to-night. Do you hear, my dear chancellor?"
"Yes, Sire; and your Majesty shall be obeyed."
"As to yourself, Master Benvenuto," said François, "come to me on Monday at the Louvre, and we will adjust certain matters of detail in which you are interested, and which have been somewhat neglected of late by my treasurer."
"But your Majesty knows that admission to the Louvre—"
"Very good! very good! the person who gave the order can rescind it. It was a war measure, and as you now have none but friends at court, everything will be re-established upon a peace footing."
"As your Majesty is in a granting mood," said the duchess, "I pray you to grant a trifling request which I prefer, although I did not make the Jupiter."
"No," said Benvenuto in an undertone, "but you have often acted the part of Danaë."
"What is your request?" said François, who did not hear Benvenuto's epigram. "Say on, Madame la Duchesse, and be sure that the solemnity of the occasion can add nothing to my desire to be agreeable to you."
"Very well, Sire; your Majesty might well confer upon Messire d'Estourville the great honor of signing on Monday next the marriage contract of my young friend, Mademoiselle d'Estourville, with Comte d'Orbec."
"Why, I should be conferring no favor upon you by so doing," rejoined the king, "but I should afford myself a very great pleasure, and should still remain your debtor, I swear."
"So it is agreed, Sire, for Monday?" asked the duchess.
"For Monday," said the king.
"Madame la Duchesse," said Benvenuto, under his breath, "do you not regret that the beautiful lily you ordered Ascanio to execute is not finished, that you might wear it upon such an occasion?"
"Of course I regret it," was the reply; "but it's impossible, for Ascanio is in prison."
"Very true, but I am free; I will finish it and bring it to Madame la Duchesse."
"Oh! upon my honor! if you do that I will say—"
"You will say what, madame?"
"I will say that you are a delightful man."
She gave her hand to Benvenuto, who gallantly imprinted a kiss upon it, after asking the king's permission with a glance.
At that moment a slight shriek was heard.
"What is that?" the king asked.
"Sire, I ask your Majesty's pardon," said the provost, "but my daughter is ill."
"Poor child!" murmured Benvenuto; "she thinks that I have abandoned her."
Benvenuto would have returned to Paris the same evening, but the king was so persistent that he could not avoid remaining at the château until the following morning.
With the rapidity of conception and promptness of decision which were characteristic of him, he determined to arrange for the next day thedénouementof a transaction which he began long before. It was a collateral matter which he wished to have off his hands altogether before devoting himself entirely to Ascanio and Colombe.
He remained at the château to supper on that evening and until after breakfast on the Friday, and not until noon did he set out on his return journey, accompanied by little Jehan, after taking leave of the king and Madame d'Etampes.
Both were well mounted, and yet, contrary to his wont, Cellini did not urge his horse. It was evident that he did not wish to enter Paris before a certain hour, and it was seven o'clock in the evening when he alighted at Rue de la Harpe.
Furthermore, instead of betaking himself at once to the Hôtel de Nesle, he called upon one of his friends named Guido, a physician from Florence; and when he had made sure that his friend was at home, and could conveniently entertain him at supper, he ordered little Jehan to return alone, to say that he had remained at Fontainebleau and would not return until the next day, and to be ready to open the door when he should knock. Little Jehan at once set out for the Hôtel de Nesle, promising to abide by his instructions.
The supper was served,—but before they took their places at the table Cellini asked his host if he did not know some honest and skilful notary whom he could send for to prepare a contract that could not be assailed. He recommended his son-in-law, who was immediately summoned.
He arrived as they were finishing their supper, some half-hour later. Benvenuto at once left the table, closeted himself with him, and bade him draw up a marriage contract leaving the names in blank. When they had read and re-read the contract, as drawn up, to make sure that there was no flaw in it, Benvenuto paid him handsomely, put the contract in his pocket, borrowed from his friend a second sword of just the length of his own, put it under his cloak, and, as it had become quite dark, started for the Hôtel de Nesle.
When he reached his destination, he knocked once; but though he knocked very gently, the door immediately opened. Little Jehan was at his post.
Cellini questioned him: the workmen were at supper and did not expect him until the morrow. He bade the child maintain the most absolute silence as to his arrival, then crept up to Catherine's room, to which he had retained a key, entered softly, closed the door, concealed himself behind the hangings, and waited.
After a short time, he heard a light footstep on the staircase. The door opened a second time, and Scozzone entered, lamp in hand; she took the key from the outside, locked the door, placed the lamp on the chimneypiece, and sat down in a large arm-chair, so placed that Benvenuto could see her face.
To his vast astonishment, that face, formerly so open and joyous and animated, was sad and thoughtful. The fact was that poor Scozzone was in the throes of something very like remorse.
We have seen her when she was happy and thoughtless: then Benvenuto loved her. So long as she was conscious of that love, or rather of that kindly feeling in her lover's heart, so long as the hope of becoming the sculptor's wife some day was present like a golden cloud in all her dreams, so long she maintained herself at the level of her anticipations, and made atonement for her past by her love. But as soon as she discovered that she had been deceived by appearances, and that what she had mistaken for passion on Cellini's part was at most a mere whim, she descended the ladder of hope round by round. Benvenuto's smile, which had made that faded heart blossom anew, was taken from her, and the heart lost its freshness once more.
With her childish light-heartedness her childish purity had gradually vanished; her old nature, powerfully assisted by ennui, gently recovered the upper hand. A newly painted wall keeps its colors in the sun and loses them in the rain: Scozzone, abandoned by Cellini for some unknown mistress, was no longer held to him save by a remnant of her pride. Pagolo had long paid court to her: she spoke to Cellini of his love, thinking that his jealousy would be aroused. Her expectation was not realized: Cellini, instead of losing his temper, began to laugh, and, instead of forbidding her to see Pagolo, actually ordered her to receive him. Thereafter she felt that she was entirely lost; thereafter she abandoned her life to chance with her former indifference, and let it blow about in the wind of circumstances like a poor, fallen withered leaf.
Then it was that Pagolo triumphed over her indifference. After all was said, Pagolo was young; Pagolo, aside from his hypocritical expression, was a handsome youth; Pagolo was in love, and was forever repeating to her that he loved her, while Benvenuto had long since ceased to tell her so. The words, "I love you," are the language of the heart, and the heart always feels the need of speaking that language more or less ardently with some one.
Thus, in a moment of idleness, of anger, perhaps of illusion, Scozzone had told Pagolo that she loved him; she had told him so without really loving him; she had told him so with Cellini's image in her heart and his name upon her lips.
Then it immediately occurred to her that the day might come when Cellini, weary of his mysterious, unavailing passion, would return to her, and, if he found her constant, notwithstanding his express orders, would reward her devotion, not by marriage, for the poor girl had lost her last illusion in that regard, but by some remnant of esteem and compassion which she might take for a resurrection of his former love.
It was such thoughts as these which made Scozzone sad and thoughtful, and caused her to feel remorse.
In the midst of her silent reverie, she started and raised her head. She heard a light step on the stairway, and the next moment a key was rapidly turned in the lock, and the door opened.
"How did you come in? Who gave you that key, Pagolo?" she cried, rising from her chair. "There are only two keys to that door,—one is in my possession and the other in Cellini's."
"Ah! my dear Catherine," laughed Pagolo, "you're a capricious creature: sometimes you open your door to a fellow, and again you keep it closed; and when one attempts to enter by force, even though you have given him a right to do it, you threaten to call for help. So you see I had to resort to stratagem."
"Oh yes! tell me that you stole the key from Cellini, without his knowledge; tell me that he doesn't know you have it, for if he gave it to you I should die of shame and chagrin."
"Set your mind at rest, my lovely Catherine," said Pagolo, locking the door, and sitting down near the girl, whom he forced to a seat beside him. "No, Benvenuto doesn't love you, it is true: but he's like those misers who have a treasure of which they make no use themselves, but which they won't allow anybody else to touch. No, I made the key myself. He who can do great things can do small things. Tell me if I love you, Catherine, when my hands, which are accustomed to making pearls and diamonds bloom on golden stalks, consented to shape an ignoble piece of iron. It is true, wicked one, that the ignoble piece of iron was a key, and that the key unlocked the door of paradise."
With that, Pagolo would have taken Catherine's hand, but, to the vast amazement of Cellini, who did not lose a word or a gesture of this scene, Catherine repulsed him.
"Well, well," said Pagolo, "is this whim likely to last long, pray?"
"Look you, Pagolo," said Catherine, in a melancholy tone, which went to Cellini's heart; "I know that when a woman has once yielded she has no right to draw back afterward; but if the man for whom she has been so weak has a generous heart,—when she says to him that she was acting in good faith at the time, because she had lost her reason, but that she was mistaken,—it is that man's duty, believe me, not to take an unfair advantage of her momentary error. Well, Pagolo, I tell you this: I yielded to you, and yet I did not love you; I loved another, and that other Cellini. Despise me you may,—indeed you ought,—but torment me no more, Pagolo."
"Good!" exclaimed Pagolo, "good! you arrange the matter marvellously well, upon my word! After the time you compelled me to wait for the favor with which you now reproach me, you think that I will release you from a definite engagement which you entered into of your own free will? No, no! And when I think that you are doing all this for Benvenuto, for a man who is twice your age or mine, for a man who doesn't love you, for a man who despises you, for a man who treats you as a courtesan!"
"Stop, Pagolo, stop!" cried Scozzone, blushing with shame and jealousy and rage. "Benvenuto doesn't love me any more, that is true; but he did love me once, and he esteems me still."
"Very good! Why doesn't he marry you, as he promised to do?"
"Promised? Never. No, Benvenuto never promised to make me his wife; for if he had promised, he would have done it. I aspired to mount so high as that: the aspiration led me to hope that it might be so; and when the hope had once taken shape in my heart, I could not confine it there, it overflowed, and I boasted of a mere hope as if it were a reality. No, Pagolo, no," continued Catherine, letting her hand fall into the apprentice's with a sad smile,—"no, Benvenuto never promised me aught."
"Then, see how ungrateful you are, Scozzone!" cried Pagolo, seizing her hand, and mistaking what was simply a mark of dejection for a return to him; "you repulse me, who have promised you and offered you all that Benvenuto, by your own admission, never promised or offered you, while I am convinced that if he were standing there—he who betrayed you—you would freely make to him the confession you so bitterly regret having made to me, who love you so dearly."
"Oh if he were here!" cried Scozzone, "if he were here, Pagolo, you would remember that you betrayed him through hatred, while I betrayed him because I loved him, and you would sink into the ground!"
"Why so?" demanded Pagolo, bold as a lion because he believed Benvenuto to be far away; "why so, if you please? Hasn't every man the right to win a woman's love when that woman doesn't belong to another? If he were here, I would say to him: 'You abandoned Catherine,—poor Catherine, who loved you so well. She was in despair at first, until she fell in with a kind-hearted, worthy fellow, who appreciated her at her true worth, who loved her, and who promised her what you would never promise her,—to make her his wife. He has inherited your rights, and that woman belongs to him.' Tell me, Catherine, what reply your Cellini could make to that?"
"None at all," said a stern, manly voice behind the enthusiastic Pagolo,—"absolutely none at all."
At the same instant a powerful hand fell upon his shoulder, nipped his eloquence in the bud, and threw him to the floor, as pale and terrified as he had been boastful and rash a moment before.
It was a strange picture: Pagolo on his knees, bent double, with colorless cheeks, and deadly terror depicted on his features; Scozzone, half risen from her chair, motionless and dumfounded, like a statue of Astonishment; and lastly, Benvenuto standing with folded arms, a sword in its sheath in one hand, a naked sword in the other, with an expression in which irony and menace struggled for the mastery.
There was a moment of awful silence, Pagolo and Scozzone being equally abashed beneath the master's frown.
"Treachery!" muttered Pagolo, "treachery!"
"Yes, treachery on your part, wretch!" retorted Cellini.
"You asked to see him, Pagolo," said Scozzone; "here he is."
"Yes, here he is," said the apprentice, ashamed to be thus treated before the woman he was so anxious to please; "but he is armed, and I have no weapon."
"I have brought you one," said Cellini, stepping back, and throwing down the sword he held in his left hand at Pagolo's feet.
Pagolo looked at the sword, but made no movement.
"Come," said Cellini, "pick up the sword and stand up yourself. I am waiting."
"A duel?" muttered the apprentice, whose teeth were chattering with terror; "am I able to fight a duel on equal terms with you?"
"Very well," said Cellini, passing his weapon from one hand to the other, "I will fight with my left hand, and that will make us equal."
"I fight with you, my benefactor?—you, to whom I owe everything? Never! never!"
A smile of profound contempt overspread Benvenuto's face, while Scozzone recoiled without seeking to conceal the disgust which showed itself in her expression.
"You should have remembered my benefactions before stealing from me the woman I intrusted to your honor and Ascanio's," said Benvenuto. "Your memory has come back to you too late. On guard, Pagolo! on guard!"
"No! no!" murmured the coward, falling back upon his knees.
"As you refuse to fight like an honest man," said Benvenuto, "I propose to punish you as a scoundrel."
He replaced his sword in its sheath, drew his dagger, and walked slowly toward the apprentice without the slightest indication either of anger or compassion upon his impassive features.
Scozzone rushed between them with a shriek; but Benvenuto, without violence, with a motion of his arm as irresistible as that of a bronze statue endowed with life, put her aside, and the poor girl fell back half dead upon her chair. Benvenuto walked on toward Pagolo, who receded as far as the wall. There the master overtook him, and said, putting his dagger to his throat,—
"Commend your soul to God: you have five minutes to live."
"Mercy!" cried Pagolo in an inarticulate voice; "do not kill me! mercy! mercy!"
"What!" said Cellini, "you know me, and, knowing me, seduced the woman who belonged to me. I know all, I have discovered everything, and you hope that I will spare you! You are laughing at me, Pagolo, you are laughing at me."
Benvenuto himself laughed aloud as he spoke; but it was a strident, terrible laugh, which made the apprentice shudder to his marrow.
"Master! master!" cried Pagolo, as he felt the point of the dagger pricking his throat; "it was she, not I: yes, she led me into it."
"Treachery, cowardice, and slander! I will make a group of those three monsters some day," said Benvenuto, "and it will be a hideous thing to see. She led you into it, you reptile! Do you forget that I was here and heard all that you said?"
"O Benvenuto," murmured Catherine, "you know that he lies when he says that, do you not?"
"Yes, yes," said Benvenuto, "I know that he lies when he says that, as he lied when he said that he was ready to marry you; but never fear, he shall be punished for the double lie."
"Yes, punish me," cried Pagolo, "but be merciful: punish me, but do not kill me."
"You lied when you said that she led you into it?"
"Yes, I lied; yes, I am the guilty one. I loved her madly; and you know, master, what love will lead a man to do."
"You lied when you said that you were ready to marry her?"
"No, no, master; then I didn't lie."
"So you really love Scozzone?"
"Oh, yes, indeed I love her!" replied Pagolo, realizing that the only way of lessening his guilt in Cellini's eyes was to attribute his crime to the violence of his passion; "yes, I love her."
"And you say again that you were not lying when you proposed to marry her?"
"I was not lying, master."
"You would have made her your wife?"
"If she had not belonged to you, yes."
"Very well, then, take her: I give her to you."
"What do you say? You are joking, are you not?"
"No, I never spoke more seriously: look at me if you doubt it."
Pagolo glanced furtively at Cellini, and saw plainly in his face that the judge might at any moment give place to the executioner; he bowed his head, therefore, with a groan.
"Take that ring from your finger, Pagolo, and put it on Catherine's."
Pagolo passively obeyed the first portion of the order, and Benvenuto motioned to Scozzone to draw near. She obeyed.
"Put out your hand, Scozzone," continued Benvenuto.
Again she obeyed.
"Now do the rest."
Pagolo placed the ring upon Scozzone's finger.
"Now," said Benvenuto, "that the betrothal is duly accomplished, we will pass to the marriage."
"Marriage!" muttered Pagolo; "we can't be married in this way; we must have notaries and a priest."
"We must have a contract," rejoined Benvenuto, producing the one prepared under his orders. "Here is one all ready, in which the names only need to be inserted."
He placed the contract upon a table, took up a pen and handed it to Pagolo.
"Sign, Pagolo," said he, "sign."
"Ah! I have fallen into a trap," muttered the apprentice.
"Eh? what's that?" exclaimed Benvenuto, without raising his voice, but imparting to it an ominous accent. "A trap? Where is the trap in this? Did I urge you to come to Scozzone's room? Did I advise you to tell her that you wished to make her your wife? Very good! make her your wife, Pagolo, and when you are her husband ourrôleswill be changed; if I come to her room, it will be your turn to threaten, and mine to be afraid."
"Oh, that would be too absurd!" cried Catherine, passing from extreme terror to hysterical gayety, and laughing aloud at the idea which the master's words evoked.
Somewhat reassured by the turn Cellini's threats had taken, and by Catherine's peals of laughter, Pagolo began to look at matters a little more reasonably. It became plain to him that Cellini wished to frighten him into a marriage for which he felt but little inclination: he considered, therefore, that would be rather too tragic a termination of the comedy, and that he might perhaps, with a little resolution, make a better bargain.
"Yes," he muttered, translating Scozzone's gayety into words, "yes, it would be very amusing, I agree, but unfortunately it cannot be."
"What! it cannot be!" cried Benvenuto, as amazed as a lion might be to find a fox demurring to his will.
"No, it cannot be," Pagolo repeated; "I prefer to die: kill me!"
The words were hardly out of his mouth when Cellini was upon him. Pagolo saw the dagger gleaming in the air, and threw himself to one side, so swiftly and successfully that the blow which was intended for him simply grazed his shoulder, and the blade, impelled by the goldsmith's powerful hand, penetrated the wainscoting to the depth of several inches.
"I consent," cried Pagolo. "Mercy! Cellini, I consent; I am ready to do anything." And while the master was withdrawing the dagger, which had come in contact with the wall behind the wainscoting, he ran to the table where the contract lay, seized the pen, and wrote his name. The whole affair had taken place so rapidly that Scozzone had no time to take part in it.
"Thanks, Pagolo," said she, wiping away the tears which terror had brought to her eyes, and at the same time repressing an inclination to smile; "thanks, dear Pagolo, for the honor you consent to confer upon me; but it's better that we should understand each other thoroughly now, so listen to me. Just now you would have none of me, and now I will have none of you. I don't say this to mortify you, Pagolo, but I do not love you, and I desire to remain as I am."
"In that case," said Benvenuto, with the utmost coolness, "if you won't have him, Scozzone, he must die."
"Why," cried Catherine, "it is I who refuse him."
"He must die," rejoined Benvenuto; "it shall not be said that a man insulted me, and went unpunished. Are you ready, Pagolo?"
"Catherine," cried the apprentice, "Catherine, in Heaven's name take pity on me! Catherine, I love you! Catherine, I will love you always! Sign, Catherine! Catherine be my wife, I beg you on my knees!"
"Come, Scozzone, decide quickly," said Cellini.
"Oh!" said Catherine, pouting, "tell me, master, don't you think you are rather hard on me, who have loved you so dearly, and who have dreamed of something so different? But," cried the fickle child, passing suddenly from melancholy to merriment once more, "Mon Dieu! Cellini, see what a piteous face poor Pagolo is making! Oh, for Heaven's sake, put aside that lugubrious expression, Pagolo, or I will never consent to take you for my husband! Really, you are too absurd!"
"Save me first, Catherine," said Pagolo; "then we will laugh, if you choose."
"Oh well! my poor boy, if you really and truly wish it—"
"Yes, indeed I do!"
"You know what I have been, you know what I am?"
"Yes, I know."
"You are not deceived in me?"
"No."
"You will not regret it?"
"No! no!"
"Then give me your hand. It's very ridiculous, and I hardly expected it; but, no matter, I am your wife."
She took the pen and signed, as a dutiful wife should do, below her husband's signature.
"Thanks, Catherine, thanks!" cried Pagolo; "you will see how happy I will make you."
"If he is false to that promise," said Benvenuto, "write to me, Scozzone, and wherever I may be I will come in person to remind him of it."
As he spoke, Cellini slowly pushed his dagger back into its sheath, keeping his eyes fixed upon the apprentice; then he took the contract, folded it neatly, and put it in his pocket, and said to Pagolo, with the withering sarcasm which was characteristic of him:—
"Now, friend Pagolo, although you and Scozzone are duly married according to the laws of men, you are not in God's sight, and the Church will not sanctify your union until to-morrow. Until then your presence here would be in contravention of all laws, divine and human. Good night, Pagolo."
Pagolo turned pale as death; but as Benvenuto pointed imperatively to the door, he backed out of the room.
"No one but you, Cellini, would ever have had such an idea as that," said Catherine, laughing as if she would die. "Hark ye, my poor Pagolo," she said, as he opened the door, "I let you go because the law requires it; but never fear, Pagolo, I swear by the Blessed Virgin, that when you are my husband no man, not even Benvenuto himself, will find me anything but a virtuous wife.
"O Cellini!" she added, gayly, when the door was closed, "you give me a husband, but relieve me of his presence for to-day. It is so much time gained: you owed me this reparation."
Three days after the scene we have described, a scene of quite another sort was in preparation at the Louvre.
Monday, the day appointed for signing the contract, had arrived. It was eleven o'clock in the morning when Benvenuto left the Hôtel de Nesle, went straight to the Louvre, and with anxious heart but firm step ascended the grand staircase.
In the reception-room, into which he was first ushered, he found the provost and D'Orbec, who were conferring with a notary in the corner. Colombe, pale and motionless as a statue, was seated on the other side of the room, staring into vacancy. They had evidently moved away from her so that she could not hear, and the poor child had remained where they placed her.
Cellini passed in front of her, and let these words fall upon her bowed head:—
"Have courage: I am here."
Colombe recognized his voice, and raised her head with a cry of joy; but before she had time to question her protector, he had already entered the adjoining room.
An usher drew aside a tapestry portière, and the goldsmith passed into the king's cabinet.
Nothing less than these words of cheer would have availed to revive Colombo's courage: the poor child believed that she was abandoned, and consequently lost. Messire d'Estourville had dragged her thither, half dead, despite her faith in God and in Benvenuto. As they were setting out, she was conscious of such a feeling of despair at her heart, that she implored Madame d'Etampes to allow her to enter a convent, promising to renounce Ascanio provided that she might be spared Comte d'Orbec. But the duchess wanted no half victory; in order that her purpose might be attained, it was essential that Ascanio should believe in the treachery of his beloved, and so she sternly refused to listen to poor Colombe's prayers. Thereupon, Colombe summoned all her courage, remembering that Benvenuto bade her be strong and brave, even at the altar's foot, and with occasional sinkings of the heart allowed herself to be taken to the Louvre, where the king was to sign the contract at noon.
There again her strength failed her for a moment; for but three chances now remained, to touch the king's heart with her prayers, to see Benvenuto arrive, or to die of grief.
Benvenuto had come; Benvenuto had told her to hope, and Colombe's courage revived once more.
On entering the king's cabinet, Cellini found Madame d'Etampes alone: it was all that he desired; he would have solicited the honor of seeing her had she not been there.
The duchess was thoughtful in her hour of triumph, and yet, with the fatal letter burned—burned by herself—she was fully convinced that she had nothing to fear. But although she was reassured as to her power, she contemplated with dismay the perils that threatened her love. It was always thus with the duchess: when the anxiety attendant upon her ambition was at rest, the ardent passions of her heart devoured her. Her dream, in which pride and passion were mingled, was to make Ascanio great while making him happy. But she knew now that Ascanio, although of noble origin, (for the Gaddis, to which family he belonged, were patricians of long standing at Florence,) aspired to no other glory than that of being a great artist.
If his hopes were ever fixed upon anything, it was some beautifully shaped vase, or ewer, or statue; if he ever longed for diamonds or pearls, it was so that he might make of them, by setting them in chased gold, lovelier flowers than those which heaven waters with its dew. Titles and honors were nothing to him if they did not flow from his own talent, and were not the guerdon of his personal renown; what part could such a useless dreamer play in the active, agitated life of the duchess? In the first storm the delicate plant would be destroyed, with the flowers which it already bore and the fruit of which it gave promise. It might be that he would allow himself to be drawn into the schemes of his royal mistress through discouragement or through indifference; but in that case, a pale and melancholy shadow, he would live only in his memories of the past. Ascanio, in fine, appeared to the Duchesse d'Etampes, as he really was, an exquisite, fascinating personality, so long as he remained in a pure, untroubled atmosphere; he was an adorable child, who would never become a man. He could devote himself to sentiments, but never to ideas; born to enjoy the outpourings of a mutual affection, he would inevitably go down in the first terrific onset of the struggle for supremacy and power. He was the man needed to satisfy Madame d'Etampes's passion, but not to keep pace with her in her ambitious schemes.
Such was the tenor of her reflections when Benvenuto entered: the clouds of her thought hovering about her darkened her brow.
The two adversaries eyed each other narrowly: the same satirical smile appeared upon their lips at the same time; the glances they exchanged were twin brothers, and indicated that they were equally prepared for the struggle, and that 'the struggle would be a desperate one.
"Well and good! he is a rough fighter," thought Anne, "whom it will be a pleasure to overcome, a foeman worthy of my steel. But to-day there are, in truth, too many chances against him, and there will be no great glory in overthrowing him."
"Beyond question, Madame d'Etampes," said Benvenuto to himself, "you are a masterful woman, and more than one contest with a strong man has given me less trouble than this I have entered upon with you. You may be sure, therefore, that, while fighting courteously, I shall none the less fight with all the weapons at my disposal."
There was a moment's silence while the combatants delivered themselves of these brief monologues aside. The duchess was the first to break the silence.
"You are punctual, Master Cellini," said she. "His Majesty is to sign Comte d'Orbec's contract at noon, and it is now only a quarter past eleven. Permit me to make his Majesty's excuses: he is not behindhand, but you are beforehand."
"I am very happy, madame, that I arrived too early, as my impatience procures me the honor of atête-à-têtewith you,—an honor I should have requested most urgently, had not chance, to which I return my thanks, anticipated my wishes."
"Good lack, Benvenuto!" said the duchess; "does defeat incline you to flattery?"
"Not my own defeat, madame, but that of other persons. I have always considered it peculiarly meritorious to pay my court to one in disgrace; and here is the proof of it, madame."
As he spoke, Benvenuto drew from beneath his cloak Ascanio's golden lily, which he had completed that morning. The duchess exclaimed with wonder and delight. Never had her eyes beheld such a marvellous jewel, never did one of the flowers found in the enchanted gardens of the "Thousand and One Nights" so dazzle the eyes of peri or fairy.
"Ah!" cried the duchess, putting forth her hand to take the flower, "you promised me, Benvenuto, but I confess that I did not rely upon your promise."
"Why should you not rely upon it, madame?" laughed Benvenuto. "You insult me."
"Oh! if you had promised to perform a revengeful, instead of a gallant act, I should have been much more certain that you would redeem your promise punctually."
"Who told you that I did not promise both?" retorted Benvenuto, drawing back his hand, so that the lily was still in his control.
"I do not understand you," said the duchess.
"Do you not think," said Benvenuto, pointing to the diamond shimmering in the heart of the flower—the diamond which she owed to the corrupting munificence of Charles V.—"that when mounted in the guise of a dewdrop, the earnest given to bind a certain bargain which is to set off the Duchy of Milan from France has a fine effect?"
"You speak in enigmas, my dear goldsmith; unfortunately the king will soon be here, and I haven't time to guess them."
"I will tell you the answer, then. It is an old proverb,Verba, volant, scripta manent, which, being interpreted, means, 'What is written is written.'"
"Ah! that's where you are in error, my dear goldsmith; what is written is burned: so do not think to frighten me as you would a child, and give me the lily which belongs to me."
"One instant, madame; I ought to warn you that while it is a magic talisman in my hands, it will lose all its virtue in yours. My work is even more valuable than you think. Where the multitude sees only a jewel, we artists sometimes conceal an idea. Do you wish me to show you this idea, madame? Nothing is easier: look, all that is necessary is to press this invisible spring. The stalk opens, as you see, and in the heart of the flower we find, not a gnawing worm, as in some natural flowers and some false hearts, but something similar, worse it may be,—the dishonor of the Duchesse d'Etampes, written with her own hand and signed by her."
As he spoke, Benvenuto pressed the spring, opened the stalk, and took out the letter. He slowly unfolded it, and showed it, open, to the duchess, pale with wrath, and stricken dumb with dismay.
"You hardly expected this, did you, madame?" said Benvenuto, coolly, folding the letter once more, and replacing it in the lily. "If you knew my ways, madame, you would be less surprised. A year ago I concealed a ladder in a statuette; a month ago I concealed a maiden in a statue. What was there that I could hide away in a flower to-day? A bit of paper, that was all, and that is what I have done."
"But that letter," cried the duchess, "that infernal letter I burned with my own hands: I saw the flame and touched the ashes!"
"Did you read the letter you burned?"
"No! no! madwoman that I was, I did not read it!"
"That is too bad, for you would be convinced now that the letter of a grisette will make as much flame and ashes as the letter of a duchess."
"Why, then, Ascanio, the dastard, deceived me!"
"Oh madame! pray pause! Do not suspect that pure and innocent child, who, even if he had deceived you, would have done no more than turn against you the weapons you used against him. Oh no, no! he did not deceive you; he would not purchase his own life or Colombe's by deceit! No, he was himself deceived."
"By whom? Pray tell me that."
"By a mere boy, a student, the same who wounded your trusty retainer, Vicomte de Marmagne; by one Jacques Aubry, in short, whom it is likely that the Vicomte de Marmagne has mentioned to you."
"Yes," murmured the duchess, "yes, Marmagne did tell me that this student, this Jacques Aubry, was seeking to gain access to Ascanio in order to secure that letter."
"And it was after that you paid Ascanio a visit. But students are active, you know, and ours had already anticipated you. As you left the Hôtel d'Etampes, he was creeping into his friend's cell, and as you entered it, he went out."
"But I didn't see him; I saw nobody."
"One doesn't think to look everywhere; if you had done so, you would, in due course, have raised a certain mat, and under that mat would have found a hole communicating with the adjoining cell."
"But Ascanio, Ascanio?"
"When you entered he was asleep, was he not?"
"Yes."
"Very good! during his sleep, Aubry, to whom he had refused to give the letter, took it from his coat pocket, and put a letter of his own in its place. You were misled by the envelope, and thought that you were burning a note from Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes. Not so, madame; you burned an epistle penned by Mademoiselle Gervaise-Perrette Popinot."
"But this Aubry, who wounded Marmagne, this clown, who almost murdered a nobleman, will pay dear for his insolence; he is in prison and condemned to death."
"He is free, madame, and owes his freedom in great measure to you."
"How so?"
"Why, who but he was the poor prisoner whose pardon you joined me in urging upon King François?"
"Oh insane fool that I was!" muttered the duchess, biting her lips till the blood ran. She looked Benvenuto squarely in the eye for a moment, then continued, in a panting voice,—
"On what condition will you give me that letter?"
"I think I have allowed you to guess, madame."
"I am not skilled in guessing: tell me."
"You must ask the king to bestow Colombe's hand upon Ascanio."
"Go to!" rejoined Anne with a forced laugh; "you little know the Duchesse d'Etampes, Master Goldsmith, if you fancy that my love will yield to threats."
"You did not reflect before answering me, madame."
"I stand by my answer, however."
"Kindly permit me to sit down unceremoniously, madame, and to talk plainly with you a moment," said Benvenuto, with the dignified familiarity peculiar to superior men. "I am only an humble sculptor, and you are a great duchess; but let me tell you that, notwithstanding the distance which separates us, we were made to understand each other. Do not assume those queenly airs: they will have no effect. It is not my purpose to insult you, but to enlighten you, and your haughty manner is out of place because your pride is not at stake."
"You are a strange man, upon my word," said Anne, laughing in spite of herself. "Say on, I am listening."
"I was saying, Madame la Duchesse," continued Benvenuto, coolly, "that, despite the difference in our fortunes, our positions are almost the same, and that we could understand each other, and perhaps mutually assist each other. You cried out when I suggested that you should renounce Ascanio; it seemed to you impossible and mad, and yet I had set you an example, madame."
"An example?"
"Yes, as you love Ascanio, I loved Colombe."
"You?"
"I. I loved her as I had never loved but once. I would have given my blood, my life, my soul for her, and yet I gave her to Ascanio."
"Truly a most unselfish passion," sneered the duchess.
"Oh! do not make my suffering matter for raillery, madame; do not mock at my agony. I have suffered keenly; but I realized that the child was no more made for me than Ascanio for you. Listen, madame: we are both, if I may be pardoned for the comparison, of those exceptional and uncommon natures which lead an existence of their own, have feelings and emotions peculiar to themselves, and rarely find themselves in accord with others. We both obey, madame, a sovereign idol, the worship of which has expanded our hearts and placed us higher than mankind. To you, madame, ambition is all in all; to me, art. Now our divinities are jealous, and exert their sway always and everywhere. You desired Ascanio as a crown, I desired Colombe as a Galatea. You loved as a duchess, I as an artist. You have persecuted, I have suffered. Oh! do not think that I wrong you in my thoughts; I admire your energy, and sympathize with your audacity. Let the vulgar think what they will: from your point of view it is a great thing to turn the world upside down in order to make a place for the person one loves. I recognize therein a strong and masterful passion, and I admire characters capable of such heroic crimes; but I also admire superhuman characters, for everything which eludes foresight, everything outside the beaten paths, has an attraction for me. Even while I loved Colombe, madame, I considered that my domineering, unruly nature would be ill mated with that pure angelic soul. Colombe loved Ascanio, my harmless, sweet-natured pupil; my rough, vigorous temperament would have frightened her. Thereupon, in a loud, imperative tone, I bade my love hold its peace, and as it remonstrated I called to my assistance my art divine, and by our united efforts we floored the rebellious passion and held it down. Then Sculpture, my true, my only mistress, touched my brow with her burning lips, and I was comforted. Do as I have done, Madame la Duchesse, leave these children to their angel loves and do not disturb them in their heaven. Our domain is earth, with its sorrows, its conflicts, and its intoxicating triumphs. Seek a refuge against suffering in ambition; unmake empires to distract your thoughts; play with the kings and masters of the world to amuse yourself. That would be well done, and I would applaud your efforts. But do not wreck the peace and happiness of these poor innocents, who love each other with such a pure, sweet love, before the face of God and the Virgin Mary."
"Who are you, Master Benvenuto Cellini? I do not know you," said the duchess in blank amazement. "Who are you?"
"Vrai Dieu! a man among men, as you are a woman among women," rejoined the goldsmith, laughing with his customary frankness; "and if you do not know me, you see that I have a great advantage over you, for I do know you, madame."
"It may be so," said the duchess, "but it is my opinion that a woman among women loves better and more earnestly than a man among men, for she snaps her fingers at your superhuman abnegation, and defends her lover with beak and claws to the last gasp."
"You persist, then, in refusing to give Ascanio to Colombe?"
"I persist in loving him myself."
"So be it. But if you will not yield with good grace, beware! I am somewhat rough when I am roused, and may make you cry out a little in themêlée. You have reflected fully, have you not? You refuse once for all your consent to the union of Ascanio and Colombe."
"Most emphatically, yes."
"Very good! to our posts!" cried Benvenuto, "for the battle is on."
At that moment the door opened and an usher announced the king.
François appeared on the threshold, giving his hand to Diane de Poitiers, with whom he had come from the bedside of his sick son. Diane, inspired by her hatred, had a vague feeling that her rival was threatened with humiliation, and did not choose to miss the gratifying spectacle.
As for the king, he saw nothing, suspected nothing; he believed Madame d'Etampes and Benvenuto to be entirely reconciled, and as he saw them talking together when he entered, he saluted them both at once, with the same smile, and the same inclination of the head.
"Good morrow, my queen of beauty; good morrow, my king of artists," he said; "what are you talking about so confidentially? You seem both to be deeply interested."
"Mon Dieu! Sire, we are talking politics," said Benvenuto.
"And what particular subject exercises your faculties? Tell me, I beg."
"The question which engrosses everybody at present, Sire," continued the goldsmith.
"Ah! the Duchy of Milan."
"Yes, Sire."
"Well, what were you saying of it?"
"We do not agree, Sire; one of us maintains that the Emperor might well refuse to give you the Duchy of Milan, and yet redeem his promise by giving it to your son Charles."
"Which of you makes that suggestion?"
"I think that it was Madame d'Etampes, Sire."
The duchess became pale as death.
"If the Emperor should do that, it would be infamous treachery," said François; "but he'll not do it."
"In any event, even if he does not do it," said Diane, joining in the conversation, "it will not be, I am assured, for lack of advice given him to that effect."
"Given by whom?" cried the king. "By Mahomet's belly! I would be glad to know by whom?"
"Bon Dieu! do not be so disturbed, Sire," rejoined Benvenuto; "we said that as we said other things,—simple conjectures, put forward by us in desultory talk. Madame la Duchesse and I are but bungling politicians, Sire. Madame la Duchesse is too much of a woman to think of aught beside her toilet, although she has no need to think of that; and I, Sire, am too much of an artist to think of aught beside art. Is it not so, Madame la Duchesse?"
"The truth is, my dear Cellini," said François, "that each of you has too glorious a part to play to envy others aught that they may have, even though it were the Duchy of Milan. Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes is queen by virtue of her beauty, and you are king by virtue of your talent."
"King, Sire?"
"Yes, king; and although you haven't, as I have, three lilies in your crest, you have one in your hand, which seems to me to be lovelier than any that ever blossomed in the brightest sunlight or upon the fairest field in all heraldry."
"This lily is not mine, Sire; it belongs to Madame d'Etampes, who commissioned my pupil Ascanio to make it; but as he could not finish it, and as I realized Madame d'Etampes's desire to have so rich a jewel in her possession, I set to work myself and finished it, wishing with all my heart to make it the symbol of the treaty of peace which we ratified the other day in your Majesty's presence."
"It is marvellously beautiful," said the king, putting out his hand to take it.
"Is it not, sire?" rejoined Benvenuto, withdrawing it as if without design, "and the young artist, whosechef-d'œuvreit is, certainly deserves to be magnificently rewarded."
"Such is my purpose," interposed the duchess; "I have in store for him a recompense which a king might envy him."
"But you know, madame, that the recompense to which you refer, splendid as it is, is not that upon which his heart is fixed. What would you have, madame? We artists are whimsical creatures, and often the thing which would, as you say, arouse a king's envy, is viewed by us with disdainful eye."
"Nevertheless," said Madame d'Etampes, as an angry flush overspread her face, "he must be content with what I have set apart for him; for I have already told you, Benvenuto, that I would accord him no other save at the last extremity."
"Very well, you may confide to me what his wishes are," said François to Benvenuto, once more putting out his hand for the lily, "and if it's not too difficult a matter, we will try to arrange it."
"Observe the jewel carefully, Sire," said Benvenuto, placing the stalk of the flower in the king's hand; "examine it in detail, and your Majesty will see that any compensation whatsoever must fall short of the value of such a masterpiece."
As he spoke, Benvenuto darted a keen glance at the duchess; but her self-control was so perfect, that not a muscle of her face moved as she saw the lily pass from the artist's hand to the king's.
"'T is really miraculous," said the king. "But where did you find this superb diamond which glistens in the heart of the flower?"
"I did not find it, Sire," replied Cellini, with charming affability; "Madame d'Etampes furnished it to my pupil."
"I was not aware that you owned this diamond, madame; whence came it to your hands, pray?"
"Why, probably from the place where most diamonds come from, Sire; from the mines of Guzarate or Golconda."
"There is a long story connected with that diamond, Sire, and if your Majesty cares to hear it, I will tell it you. The diamond and I are old acquaintances, for this is the third time it has passed through my hands. In the first place, I set it in the tiara of our Holy Father, the Pope, where its effect was marvellous; then, by order of Clement VII., I mounted it upon a missal which his Holiness presented to the Emperor Charles V.; and as the Emperor desired to carry it constantly about him, as a resource doubtless in an emergency, I set the diamond, which is worth more than a million, in a ring, Sire. Hid not your Majesty observe it on the hand of your cousin, the Emperor?"
"Yes, I remember," cried the king; "yes, on the day of our first interview he had it on his finger. How comes the diamond in your possession, duchess!"