"Yes, tell us," cried Diane, whose eyes shone with joy, "how came it about that a diamond of that value passed from the Emperor's hands to yours?"
"If the question were put to you, madame," retorted Madame d'Etampes, "the answer would not be far to seek, assuming that you confess certain matters to any other than your confessor."
"You do not answer the king's question, madame," rejoined Diane.
"Yes," said François, "how comes the diamond in your possession?"
"Ask Benvenuto," said Madame d'Etampes, hurling a last defiance at her enemy; "Benvenuto will tell you."
"Tell me, then," said the king, "and instantly: I am weary of waiting."
"Very good, Sire," said Benvenuto; "I must confess to your Majesty that at sight of this diamond strange suspicions awoke in my mind, as in yours. It was while Madame d'Etampes and myself were at enmity, you must know, and I should not have been sorry to learn some little secret which might injure her in your Majesty's eyes. So I followed the scent, and I learned—"
"You learned?"
Benvenuto glanced hastily at the duchess, and saw that she was smiling. The power of resistance which she manifested pleased him, and, instead of putting an end to the struggle brutally with one stroke, he resolved to prolong it, like au athlete, sure of victory in the end, who, having fallen in with an antagonist worthy of him, resolves to display all his strength and all his skill.
"You learned—" the king repeated.
"I learned that she purchased it of Manasseh, the Jew. Yes, Sire, know this and govern yourself accordingly: it seems that since he entered France your cousin, the Emperor, has scattered so much money along the road, that he is reduced to putting his diamonds in pawn; and Madame d'Etampes, with royal magnificence, gathers in what the imperial poverty cannot retain."
"Ah! by my honor as a gentleman, 't is most diverting!" cried François, doubly flattered in his vanity as lover, and in his jealousy as king. "But, fair lady," he added, addressing the duchess, "methinks you must have ruined yourself in order to make such an acquisition, and it is for us to repair the disordered state of your finances. Remember that we are your debtor to the value of the diamond, for it is so magnificent that I am determined that it shall come to you from a king's hand at least, if not from an emperor's."
"Thanks, Benvenuto," said the duchess in an undertone; "I begin to believe, as you claim, that we were made to understand each other."
"What are you saying?" cried the king.
"Oh, nothing, Sire! I was apologizing to the duchess for my first suspicion, which she deigns to pardon,—a favor which is the more generous on her part, in that the lily gave birth to another suspicion."
"What was that?" demanded the king, while Diane, whose hate was too keen to allow her to be deceived by this comedy, devoured her triumphant rival with her eyes.
Madame d'Etampes saw that she was not yet quit of her indefatigable foe, and a shadow of dread passed across her face, but it should be said, in justice to her courage, only to disappear immediately.
Furthermore, she availed herself of the king's preoccupation, caused by Benvenuto's words, to try to gain possession of the lily; but Benvenuto carelessly placed himself between the king and her.
"What was the suspicion? Oh!" the goldsmith said with a smile, "it was so infamous that I am not sure that I shouldn't be ashamed of having had it, and that it would not add to my offence to be so shameless as to avow it. I must have an express command from your Majesty before I should dare—"
"Dare, Cellini! I command you!" said the king.
"So be it. In the first place," said Cellini, "I confess with an artist's candid pride, that I was surprised to see Madame d'Etampes intrust the apprentice with a task which the master would have been happy and proud to execute for her. You remember my apprentice, Ascanio, Sire? He is a charming youth, who might venture to pose for Endymion, upon my word."
"Well! what then?" said the king, his brows contracting at the suspicion which began to gnaw his heart.
This time it was evident that, for all her self-control, Madame d'Etampes was on the rack. In the first place she read malicious curiosity in the eyes of Diane de Poitiers, and in the second place she was well aware that, while François might have forgiven treason to the king, he certainly would not forgive infidelity to the lover. However, as if he did not notice her agony, Benvenuto continued:—
"I reflected upon the beauty of my Ascanio, and it occurred to me—forgive me, mesdames, if there was anything in the thought which seems to cast a reflection upon the French, but I am accustomed to the ways of our Italian princesses, who, in love, it must be confessed, are very weak creatures—it occurred to me that a sentiment which had little connection with art—"
"Master," said François, frowning darkly, "reflect before you speak."
"I apologized beforehand for my temerity, and asked to be permitted to hold my peace."
"I bear witness to that," said Diane; "you yourself bade him speak, Sire; and now that he has begun—"
"It is always time to stop," said Madame d'Etampes, "when one knows that what one is about to say is a falsehood."
"I will stop if you choose, madame," said Benvenuto; "you know that you have but to say the word."
"Yes, but I choose that he shall continue. You are right, Diane; there are matters here which must be probed to the bottom. Say on, monsieur, say on," said the king, keeping his eyes fixed upon the sculptor and the duchess.
"My conjectures were taking a wide range when an incredible discovery opened a new field to them."
"What was it?" cried the king and Diane de Poitiers in the same breath.
"I am getting in very deep," whispered Cellini to the duchess.
"Sire," said she, "you do not need to hold the lily in your hand to listen to this long discourse. Your Majesty is so accustomed to hold a sceptre in a firm grasp, that I fear the fragile flower may be broken in your fingers."
As she spoke, the duchess, with one of those smiles which belonged to her alone, put out her hand to take the jewel.
"Forgive me, Madame la Duchesse," said Cellini; "but as the lily plays an important part throughout my story, permit me to enforce my words with ocular demonstration."
"The lily plays an important part in the story you have to tell, master?" cried Diane, snatching the flower from the king's hand with a movement swift as thought. "In that case, Madame d'Etampes is right, for if the story is at all what I suspect, it is much better that the lily should be in my hands than in yours, Sire; for, purposely or not, your Majesty might, by some uncontrollable impulse, break it."
Madame d'Etampes became terribly pale, for she deemed herself lost; she hastily seized Benvenuto's hand, and her lips opened to speak, but almost immediately she thought better of it. Her hand let the artist's fall, and her lips closed again.
"Say what you have to say," she muttered through her clenched teeth,—"if you dare!" she added in so low a tone that Benvenuto alone could hear.
"Yes, and measure your words, my master," said the king.
"And do you, madame, measure your silence," said Benvenuto.
"We are waiting!" cried Diane, unable to restrain her impatience.
"Fancy, Sire, and you, madame, fancy that Ascanio and Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes corresponded."
The duchess looked about to see if there were not at hand some weapon with which she could silence the goldsmith's tongue forever.
"Corresponded?" echoed the king.
"Yes, corresponded; and the most extraordinary thing is that the subject of this correspondence between Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes and the humble carver's apprentice was love."
"The proofs, master! you have proofs, I trust!" cried the king, in a rage.
"O mon Dieu! yes, Sire," replied Benvenuto. "Your Majesty must understand that I should not have allowed myself to form such suspicions without proofs."
"Produce them instantly, then," said the king.
"When I say that I have them, I am in error: your Majesty had them a moment since."
"I!" cried the king.
"And Madame de Poitiers has them now."
"I!" cried Diane.
"Yes," rejoined Benvenuto, who, amid the king's wrath, and the hatred and terror of the two most powerful women in the world, was perfectly cool and complacent. "Yes, for the proofs are in the lily."
"In the lily?" cried the king, snatching the flower from the hands of Diane de Poitiers, and examining it with a careful scrutiny, in which love of art had no share. "In this lily?"
"Yes, Sire, in the lily," Benvenuto repeated. "You know that it is so, madame," he continued in a meaning tone, toward the gasping duchess.
"Let us come to terms," she whispered; "Colombe shall not marry D'Orbec."
"That is not enough," returned Cellini; "Ascanio must marry Colombe."
"Never!" exclaimed Madame d'Etampes.
Meanwhile the king was turning the fatal lily over and over in his fingers, his suspense and wrath being the more poignant in that he dared not express them openly.
"The proofs are in the lily! in the lily!" he repeated; "but I can see nothing in the lily."
"Because your Majesty does not know the secret of opening it."
"There is a secret. Show it me, messire, on the instant, or rather—"
François made a movement as if to crush the flower, but both women cried out, and he checked himself.
"Oh Sire! it would be a pity," cried Diane; "such a charming toy! Give it to me, Sire, and I promise you that if there is a secret I will find it."
Her slender, active fingers, to which hatred lent additional subtlety, passed over all the rough places on the jewel, felt in all the hollows, while the Duchesse d'Etampes, half fainting, followed with haggard eyes her investigations, which for a moment were without result. But at last, whether by good luck, or a rival's instinct of divination, Diane touched the precise spot on the stalk.
The flower opened.
The two women cried out again at the same moment; one with joy, the other with dismay. The duchess darted forward to tear the lily from Diane's hand, but Benvenuto held her back with one hand, while with the other he showed her the letter which he had taken from its hiding place. A swift glance at the flower showed her that the hiding place was empty.
"I agree to everything," said the duchess, completely crushed, and too weak to maintain such a contest.
"On the Gospel?" said Benvenuto.
"On the Gospel."
"Well, master," said the king, impatiently, "where are the proofs? I see a recess very cleverly hollowed out in the stalk, but there is nothing within it."
"No, sire, there is nothing," said Benvenuto.
"True, but there might have been something," suggested Diane.
"Madame is right," said Benvenuto.
"Master!" cried the king through his clenched teeth "do you know that it may be dangerous for you to prolong this pleasantry, and that stronger men than you have repented playing with my anger?"
"For that reason I should be in despair were I to incur it, Sire," rejoined Cellini, without losing his composure; "but there is nothing in the present circumstances to arouse it, for I trust your Majesty did not take my words seriously. Should I have dared to bring so grave an accusation so lightly? Madame d'Etampes can show you the letters this lily contained, if you are curious to see them. They are in fact concerned with love, but it is the love of my poor Ascanio for a noble demoiselle,—a passion which at first seems insane and impossible, doubtless; but my Ascanio, like the true artist he is, fancying that a beautiful jewel falls not far short of equalling in value a beautiful maiden, applied to Madame d'Etampes as to a special providence, and made this lily his messenger. Now, you know, Sire, that Providence can do anything, and you will not be jealous of this particular one, I fancy, since, while doing a kindly action, she attributes part of the credit to you. That is the solution of the enigma, Sire, and if all the beating about the bush I have indulged in has offended your Majesty, I pray you to forgive me in consideration of the familiarity to which you have been graciously pleased to admit me."
This quasi academic harangue changed the face of affairs. As Benvenuto went on, Diane's brow grew dark, while the wrinkles vanished from that of Madame d'Etampes, and the king resumed his smiling good humor. When Benvenuto had finished,—
"Forgive me, fair duchess," said François, "for having dared to suspect you for an instant. Tell me what I can do to redeem my offence and earn my forgiveness."
"Grant the request which Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes is about to make, as your Majesty heretofore granted the one that I made."
"Speak for me, Master Cellini, since you know what it is that I wish," said the duchess with better grace than Cellini would have thought possible.
"Very well: since Madame la Duchesse appoints me to be her mouthpiece, Sire, you must know that she desires your all-powerful intervention in favor of poor Ascanio's passion."
"Yes, yes!" laughed the king; "I agree with all my heart to assist in making the comely apprentice a happy man. What is the name of his sweetheart?"
"Colombe d'Estourville, sire."
"Colombe d'Estourville!" cried François.
"I pray your Majesty to remember that it is Madame d'Etampes who proffers this request. Come, madame, add your prayers to mine," he added, causing a corner of the letter to protrude from his pocket, "for if you are silent much longer, his Majesty will think that you make the request solely from a desire to oblige me."
"Is it true that you desire this marriage, madame?" inquired François.
"Yes, Sire," murmured Madame d'Etampes; "I do desire it—earnestly."
The adverb was extracted by a fresh exhibition of the letter.
"But how do I know," said the king, "that the provost will accept for his son-in-law a nameless, penniless youth?"
"In the first place, Sire," Benvenuto replied, "the provost, being a loyal subject, will surely have no other will than his king's. In the second place, Ascanio is not nameless; he is a Gaddo Gaddi, and one of his ancestors was Podesta of Florence. He is a goldsmith, it is true, but in Italy it is no disgrace to belong to that guild. Furthermore, even if he could boast of no ancient nobility, as I am at liberty to insert his name in the letters patent which have been forwarded to me by your Majesty's directions, he will be a nobleman of recent creation. Oh, think not that it requires any sacrifice on my part to resign in his favor. To reward my Ascanio is to reward myself twice over. So it is settled, Sire, that he is Seigneur de Nesle, and I will not let him want for money. He may, if he will, lay aside his profession, and buy a company of lances, or an appointment at court. I will provide the funds."
"And we shall look to it, you may be sure, that your generosity does not lighten your purse too much."
"Then I may consider, Sire—"
"Ascanio Gaddo Gaddi, Seigneur de Nesle, let it be!" cried the king, laughing heartily: the certainty that Madame d'Etampes was faithful to him had put him in a joyous humor.
"Madame," said Cellini, in an undertone, "you cannot in conscience leave the Seigneur de Nesle at the Châtelet; it was well enough for Ascanio."
Madame d'Etampes called an officer of the guards, and whispered a few words, the concluding ones being these:—
"In the king's name!"
"What are you doing, madame?" demanded François.
"Madame d'Etampes is simply sending a messenger for the bridegroom that is to be, Sire," interposed Cellini.
"Where?"
"Where Madame d'Etampes, who knew the king's kindness of heart, bade him await your Majesty's pleasure."
Fifteen minutes later, the door of the apartment opened, in which were assembled Colombe, the provost, D'Orbec, the Spanish ambassador, and almost the whole court, except Marmagne, who was still confined to his bed. An usher cried,—
"The king!"
François I. entered, leading Diane de Poitiers, and followed by Benvenuto, upon one of whose arms was leaning the Duchesse d'Etampes, and on the other Ascanio, each of them being as pale as the other.
At the announcement made by the usher, all the courtiers turned, and all were paralyzed for a moment when they saw this strange group.
Their astonishment redoubled when the king, stepping aside to allow the sculptor to pass in front of him, said in a loud voice:—
"Master Benvenuto, take our place for the moment, and our authority; speak as if you were the king, and be obeyed as a king should be."
"Beware, Sire," replied the goldsmith: "in order to fill your place fittingly, I propose to be magnificent."
"Go on, Benvenuto," said François laughingly; "every magnificent stroke will be a bit of flattery for me."
"Very good, Sire; that puts me at my ease, and I will praise you as much as I can. Do not forget," he continued, "all you who hear me, that the king is speaking by my mouth. Messieurs les Notaires, you have prepared the contract which his Majesty deigns to sign? Insert the names of the contracting parties."
The two notaries seized their pens and made ready to write the names in the two copies of the contract, one of which was to remain in the archives and the other in their office.
"Of the one part," continued Cellini, "the noble and puissant demoiselle, Colombe d'Estourville."
"Colombe d'Estourville," repeated the notaries, mechanically, while the auditors listened in open-mouthed astonishment.
"Of the other part," continued Cellini, "the most noble and puissant Ascanio Gaddi, Seigneur de Nesle."
"Ascanio Gaddi!" cried the provost and D'Orbec in the same breath.
"A mere artisan!" added the provost bitterly, turning toward the king.
"Ascanio Gaddi, Seigneur de Nesle," repeated Benvenuto, unmoved, "upon whom his Majesty bestows letters of naturalization and the office of Superintendent of the Royal Châteaux."
"If his Majesty so commands, I will obey," said the provost; "but—"
"Ascanio Gaddi," continued Benvenuto, "out of regard for whom his Majesty grants to Messire Robert d'Estourville, Provost of Paris, the title of Chamberlain."
"Sire, I am ready to sign," said D'Estourville, vanquished at last.
"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" murmured Colombe, falling back into her chair, "is not all this a dream?"
"And what of me?" cried D'Orbec.
"As for you," rejoined Cellini, continuing his royal functions; "as for you, Comte d'Orbec, I spare you the inquiry which I should be justified in ordering into your conduct. Clemency is a kingly virtue, no less than generosity, is it not, Sire? But here are the contracts, all prepared; let us sign, messieurs, let us sign!"
"He plays the king to perfection," cried François, as happy as a monarch on a vacation.
He passed the pen to Ascanio, who signed with a trembling hand; Ascanio then passed the pen to Colombe, to whose assistance Madame Diane had gone in pure kindness of heart. The hands of the lovers met, and they almost swooned.
Next came Madame Diane, who passed the pen to the Duchesse d'Etampes, who passed it to the provost, the provost to D'Orbec, and D'Orbec to the Spanish ambassador.
Below all these great names Cellini wrote his own in a firm, distinct hand. And yet he was not the one who had made the least painful sacrifice.
After writing his name, the Spanish ambassador drew nigh the duchess.
"Our plans still hold, madame?" he asked.
"Mon Dieu!" she replied, "do what you choose: what matters France or the world to me?"
The duke bowed. As he resumed his place, his nephew, a young and inexperienced diplomat, remarked:—
"So it is the Emperor's purpose that not the King of France, but his son, shall be Duke of Milan?"
"Neither the one nor the other will be," replied the ambassador.
Meanwhile other signatures were being affixed.
When every one had written his name as a subscriber to the happiness of Colombe and Ascanio, Benvenuto walked up to the king, and knelt upon one knee before him.
"Sire," said he, "having issued commands as king I now prefer a request as your Majesty's humble and grateful servant. Will your Majesty deign to grant me one last favor?"
"Say on, Benvenuto, say on!" returned François, who was in a granting mood, and who discovered anew that it was the prerogative of royalty wherein, take it for all in all, a king finds the most pleasure; "what do you desire?"
"To return to Italy, sire," said Benvenuto.
"What does this mean?" cried the king; "you wish to leave me when you have so many masterpieces still in hand for me? I'll not have it."
"Sire," replied Benvenuto, "I will return, I give you my word. But let me go, let me see my country once more, for I feel the need of it just now. I do not talk of my suffering," he continued, lowering his voice and shaking his head sadly, "but I have many causes of sorrow which I could not describe, and nothing but the air of my native land can heal my wounded heart. You are a great and generous king, to whom I am deeply attached. I will return, Sire, but let me go now and be cured in the bright sunlight of the South. I leave with you Ascanio, my brain, and Pagolo, my hand; they will suffice to carry out your artistic dreams until my return; and when I have received the soft kisses of the breezes of Florence, my mother, I will return to you, my king, and death alone shall part us."
"Go if you will," said François, sadly; "it is fitting that art should be free as the swallows: go!"
He gave Benvenuto his hand, which the artist kissed with all the fervor of heartfelt gratitude.
As they withdrew, Benvenuto found himself by the duchess's side.
"Are you very angry with me, madame?" said he, slipping into her hand the fatal letter which, like a magic talisman, had accomplished impossibilities.
"No," said the duchess, overjoyed to have it in her possession at last; "and yet you defeated me by means—"
"Go to!" said Benvenuto; "I threatened you with them, but do you think I would have used them?"
"God in heaven!" cried the duchess, as if the light had suddenly come to her; "that is what it is to have thought that you were like myself!"
The next day, Ascanio and Colombe were married in the chapel at the Louvre, and, notwithstanding the rules of etiquette, the young people obtained permission for Jacques Aubry and his wife to be present.
It was a signal favor, but we must agree that the poor student had well merited it.
A week later, Hermann solemnly espoused Dame Perrine, who brought him as her marriage portion twenty thousand Tours livres, and the assurance that he would soon be a father.
We hasten to say that this assurance had much more to do with the honest German's determination than the twenty thousand Tours livres.
On the evening following the marriage of Colombe and Ascanio, Benvenuto set out for Florence, despite the entreaties of the young husband and wife.
During his stay in Italy, he cast the statue of Perseus, which still adorns the square of the Old Palace, and which was his most beautiful work,—for no other reason, perhaps, than that he executed it at the period of his greatest sorrow.