"And you will offer to allow Charles V. to pass through France on his way to Ghent to chastise the rebels?" asked Poyet.
"Yes, Monsieur le Chancelier," was the king's reply; "despatch M. de Fréjus to-day to extend the invitation in my name. Let us show him that we are disposed to go any length to maintain peace. But if he prefers war—"
A majestic, awe-inspiring gesture accompanied this phrase, interrupted for an instant as François caught sight of his artist standing modestly near the door.
"But if he prefers war," he resumed, "by my Jupiter, of whom Benvenuto brings me news, I swear that it shall be war bloody, desperate, and terrible! Well, Benvenuto, where is my Jupiter?"
"Sire," replied Cellini, "I bring you the model of your Jupiter: but do you know of what I was dreaming as I looked at you and listened to you? I was dreaming of a fountain for your Fontainebleau,—a fountain to be surmounted by a colossal statue sixty feet high, holding a broken lance in its right hand, and with the left resting on its sword hilt. This statue, Sire, should represent Mars,—that is to say, your Majesty; for your nature is all courage, and you use your courage judiciously, and for the defence of your glory. Stay, Sire, that is not all: at the four corners of the base of the statue there should be four seated figures,—Poetry, Painting, Sculpture, and Generosity. Of that I was dreaming as I looked at you and listened to you, Sire."
"And you shall cause your dream to live in marble or bronze, Benvenuto: such is my wish," said the king in a commanding tone, but with a cordial, kindly smile.
All the members of the council applauded, for all deemed the king worthy of the statue, and the statue worthy of the king.
"Meanwhile," said the king, "let us see our Jupiter."
Benvenuto drew the model from beneath his cloak, and placed it upon the table, around which the destiny of the world had so recently been debated.
François gazed at it for a moment with undisguised admiration.
"At last!" he cried, "at last I have found a man after my own heart. My friend," he continued, laying his hand upon Benvenuto's shoulder, "I know not which of the two experiences the greater happiness, the prince who finds an artist who thoroughly sympathizes with and understands all his ideas, such an artist as yourself in short, or the artist who meets a prince capable of appreciating him. I think that my pleasure is the greater, upon my word."
"Oh no, Sire, permit me!" cried Cellini; "surely mine is much the greater."
"No, mine, Benvenuto."
"I dare not contradict your Majesty, and yet—"
"Let us say that we experience an equal amount of pleasure, my friend."
"You have called me your friend, Sire," said Benvenuto; "that is a word which pays me a hundred times over for all that I have done or can ever do for your Majesty."
"Very well! it is my purpose to prove to you, Benvenuto, that it was no empty, meaningless word that escaped me, and that I called you my friend because you are my friend in fact. Bring me my Jupiter completed as soon as possible, and whatever you may ask of me when you bring it, upon my honor as a gentleman, you shall have if a king's hand can procure it for you. Do you hear, messieurs? If I forget my promise, remind me of it."
"Sire," cried Benvenuto, "you are a great and a noble king, and I am ashamed that I am able to do so little for you, who do so much for me."
Having kissed the hand the king held out to him, Cellini replaced the statue of Jupiter under his cloak, and left the council chamber with his heart overflowing with pride and joy.
As he left the Louvre, he met Primaticcio about to go in.
"Whither go you so joyously, my dear Benvenuto?" he said, as Cellini hastened along without seeing him.
"Ah! Francesco, is it you?" cried Cellini. "Yes, you are quite right. I am joyous indeed, for I have just seen our great, our sublime, our divine François I.—"
"And did you see Madame d'Etampes?" queried Primaticcio.
"Who said things to me, Francesco, that I dare not repeat, although they say that modesty is not my strong point."
"But what did Madame d'Etampes say to you?"
"He called me his friend, Francesco, do you understand? He talked to me as familiarly as he talks to his marshals. Finally, he said that when my Jupiter is finished I may ask whatever favor I choose, and it is accorded in advance."
"But what did Madame d'Etampes promise you?"
"What a strange man you are, Francesco!"
"Why so?"
"You persist in talking about Madame d'Etampes when I speak of the king."
"Because I know the court better than you do, Benvenuto; because you are my countryman and my friend: because you have brought me a breath of air from our dear Italy, and in my gratitude I desire to save you from a great danger. Mark what I say, Benvenuto: the Duchesse d'Etampes is your enemy, your mortal enemy. I have told you this before, when I only feared it; I repeat it to-day, when I am perfectly sure of it. You have offended her, and if you do not appease her, Benvenuto, she will ruin you. Benvenuto, mark well what I say: Madame d'Etampes is the king's queen."
"Mon Dieu, what is all this?" cried Cellini, with a laugh. "I have offended Madame d'Etampes! how so, in God's name?"
"Oh, I know you, Benvenuto, and I supposed that you knew no more than I or the woman herself as to the cause of her aversion to you. But what can we do? Women are so constituted; they hate as they love, without knowing why, and the Duchesse d'Etampes hates you."
"What would you have me do?"
"What would I have you do! I would have the courtier rescue the sculptor."
"I, the courtier of a courtesan!"
"You are wrong, Benvenuto," said Primaticcio, smiling: "Madame d'Etampes is very beautiful, as every artist must admit."
"I admit it," said Benvenuto.
"Very well, go and say so to herself, and not to me. I ask nothing more than that to make you the best friends in the world. You have wounded her by some artist's whim, and it is your place to make the first advances toward her.
"If I wounded her," said Cellini, "I did it unintentionally, or rather without malice. She said some hitter words to me which I did not deserve; I put her back where she belonged, and she did deserve it."
"Never mind, never mind! forget what she said, Benvenuto, and make her forget your reply. I tell you again she is imperious and vindictive, and she has the king's heart in her hand,—a king who loves art, it is true, but who loves love more. She will make you repent your audacity, Benvenuto; she will make enemies for you; she it was who inspired the provost with courage to resist you. And listen: I am just setting out for Italy; I am going to Rome by her command; and my journey, Benvenuto, is aimed at you,—I, your friend, am compelled to become the instrument of her spleen."
"What are you to do at Rome?"
"What am I to do there? You have promised the king to emulate the ancients, and I know that you are a man to keep your promise. But the duchess thinks you a braggart, and with a view of crushing you by the comparison no doubt, she is sending me, a painter, to Rome to make casts of the most beautiful of the ancient statues, the Laocoön, the Venus, the Knife-Grinder, and God knows what!"
"That is, indeed, refinement of hatred," said Benvenuto, who, notwithstanding his good opinion of himself, was not altogether confident of the result of a comparison of his work with that of the great masters; "but to yield to a woman," he added, clenching his fists, "never! never!"
"Who spoke of yielding? I will show you an excellent way to accomplish it. She is pleased with Ascanio; she wishes to employ him, and has instructed me to bid him call upon her. Now, nothing could be simpler than for you to accompany your pupil to the Hôtel d'Etampes and introduce him yourself to the fair duchess. Seize the opportunity; take with you one of those marvellous jewels which you alone can make, Benvenuto; show it to her first, and when you see her eyes glisten as she looks at it, offer it to her as an unworthy tribute to her beauty. She will accept, will thank you gracefully, and will in return make you some present worthy of you and take you back into favor. If, on the other hand, you have that woman for an enemy, abandon henceforth all the great things of which you are dreaming. Alas! I too have been compelled to stoop for a moment, only to rise to my full stature immediately. Until then that dauber Rosso was preferred to me; he was put forward everywhere, and always over my head. They made him Intendant of the Crown."
"You are unjust to him, Francesco," said Cellini, unable to conceal his real thought; "he is a great painter."
"Do you think so?"
"I am sure of it."
"And so am I sure of it," said Primaticcio, "and that is just why I hate him. They were using him to crush me; I flattered their wretched vanity, and now I am the great Primaticcio, and they are using me to crush you. Do as I did, therefore, Benvenuto; you will never repent having followed my advice. I implore you for your own sake and mine, I implore you in the name of your renown and your future, both of which you will compromise if you persist in your obstinacy."
"It is hard," said Cellini, who was, however, perceptibly weakening in his determination.
"If not for yourself, Benvenuto, for the sake of our great king. Do you wish to tear his heart by compelling him to choose between a mistress he adores, and an artist he admires?"
"Very well! so be it! For the king's sake I will do it!" cried Cellini, overjoyed to find a pretext which would spare his self-esteem.
"À la bonne heure!" said Primaticcio. "You understand, of course, that if a single word of this conversation should be repeated to the duchess, it would cause my ruin."
"Oh! I trust that you have no fears on that score."
"If Benvenuto gives his word, all is said."
"You have it."
"In that case, adieu, brother."
"A pleasant journey to you."
"And good luck to you."
The two friends, having exchanged a cordial grasp of the hand, parted, each with a gesture which summarized their whole conversation.
The Hôtel d'Etampes was not far from the Hôtel de Nesle. Our readers will not be surprised therefore at our rapid flight from one to the other.
It was located near the Quai des Augustins, and extended the whole length of Rue Gilles-le-Gueux, which was at a later date sentimentally christened Rue Gît-le-Cœur. The principal entrance was upon Rue de l'Hirondelle. François I. had presented it to his mistress to induce her to become the wife of Jacques Desbrosses, Comte de Penthièvre, as he had given the dukedom of Etampes and the government of Bretagne to Jacques Desbrosses, Comte de Penthièvre, to induce him to marry his mistress.
The king had spared no pains to render his gift worthy of the lovely Anne d'Heilly. He had caused the old edifice to be refurbished and made over according to the latest style.
Upon its frowning façade the delicate flowers of the Renaissance sprang into life by magic, like so many thoughts of love. It was evident from the zeal displayed by the king in the decoration of this princely abode, that he anticipated passing almost as much of his time there as the duchess herself. The apartments were furnished with royal magnificence, and the whole establishment was upon the footing of that of a real queen, much more extensive and luxurious, indeed, than that of the chaste and kindly Eleanora, sister of Charles V. and the lawful wife of François I., who was a personage of so little importance in the world, as well as at the French court.
If we are so indiscreet as to make our way into the duchess's sleeping apartment early in the morning, we shall find her half reclining upon a couch, her charming head supported by one of her lovely hands, and passing the other carelessly through her chestnut locks, which shone with a golden light. Her bare feet seem even smaller and whiter than they really are in her wide black velvet slippers, and her floating,négligéemorning gown lends an irresistible charm to the coquette's fascinations.
The king is in the room, standing by a window, but he is not looking at his duchess. He is tapping his fingers rhythmically against the glass, and seems to be deep in meditation. He is thinking, no doubt, of the momentous question of Charles V.'s journey through France.
"Pray what are you doing there, Sire, with your back turned?" the duchess finally asks, petulantly.
"Making verses for you, my love, and they are finished at last, I believe."
"Oh, repeat them to me quickly, I pray you, my gallant crowned poet!"
"That I will," the king replies, with the confidence of a laurel-crowned rhymer. "Listen:—
'Étant seul et auprès d'une fenêtre,Par un matin comme le jour peignait,Je regardais Aurore à main senestre,Qui à Phœbus le chemin enseignait,Et d'autre part ma mie qui peignaitSon chef doré, et vis ses luisans yeux,Dont un jeta un trait si gracieux,Qu'à haute voix je fus contraint de dire;Dieux immortels! rentrez dedans vos cieux,Car la beauté de ceste vous empire!'"[5]
'Étant seul et auprès d'une fenêtre,Par un matin comme le jour peignait,Je regardais Aurore à main senestre,Qui à Phœbus le chemin enseignait,Et d'autre part ma mie qui peignaitSon chef doré, et vis ses luisans yeux,Dont un jeta un trait si gracieux,Qu'à haute voix je fus contraint de dire;Dieux immortels! rentrez dedans vos cieux,Car la beauté de ceste vous empire!'"[5]
"Oh, the lovely verses!" says the duchess, clapping her hands. "Look at Aurora to your heart's content: henceforth I'll not be jealous of her, since to her I owe such charming verses. Say them to me once again, I beg."
François obligingly repeated his flattering lines, for his own benefit as well as hers, but this time Anne said nothing.
"What is the matter, my fair siren?" said François, who expected a second compliment.
"The matter is, Sire, that I am considering whether I will say to you again even more emphatically what I said last evening: a poet has even less pretext than a knightly king for allowing his mistress to be insulted, for she is at the same time his mistress and his Muse."
"Again, naughty one!" rejoined the king with an impatient gesture: "an insult indeed, bon Dieu! Your wrath is implacable, in good sooth, my nymph of nymphs, when it leads you to neglect my verses."
"Monseigneur, I hate as warmly as I love."
"And yet suppose I were to beg you to lay aside your animosity to Benvenuto,—a great fool, who knows not what he says, who talks just as he fights, heedless of consequences, and who had not, I swear, the slightest purpose to wound you. You know, moreover, that clemency's the attribute of goddesses, dear goddess mine, so pray forgive the simpleton for love of me!"
"Simpleton, indeed!" muttered Anne.
"Oh, a sublime simpleton, I grant you!" said François: "I saw him yesterday, and he promised to do marvellous things. He is a man, I verily believe, who has no rival in his art, and will hereafter shed as much lustre on my reign as Andrea del Sarto, Titian, and Leonardo da Vinci. You know how I love my artists, dearest duchess, so be complaisant and indulgent to him, I beg you. Mon Dieu! an April shower, a woman's caprice, and an artist's whim have more of fascination than of ennui for me. Come, come, do you, whom I do love so dearly, pardon at my bidding."
"I am your servant, Sire, and I will obey you."
"Thanks. In return for this favor accorded by the woman's kindly heart, you may demand such gift as pleases you that lies within the prince's power to bestow. But, alas! 't is growing late, and I must leave you. The council meets again to-day. 'T is an insufferable bore! Ah! my good brother Charles makes the king's trade most irksome to me. With him cunning replaces chivalry, the pen the sword; and 't is a burning shame. Upon my soul, I think we need new words to be devised for all this science and erudition of government. Adieu! my poor beloved. I will do my best to be adroit and clever. You are very fortunate, my dear, for you have only to remain beautiful, and Heaven has made that an easy task for you. Adieu! nay, do not rise, my page is waiting for me in the antechamber.Au revoir, and think of me."
"As always, Sire."
François waved a last farewell to her with his hand, raised the hangings, and went out, leaving the fair duchess alone; and she, true to her promise, began at once, if we must say it, to think of other things.
Madame d'Etampes was of an impulsive, active, ambitious nature. Having eagerly sought and gallantly won the king's love, it was not long before that love ceased to satisfy her restless spirit, and she began to suffer from ennui. Neither Admiral Biron, nor the Comte de Longueval, whom she loved for some time, nor Diane de Poitiers, whom she always hated, furnished a sufficient amount of excitement for her needs; but within a week the void in her heart had been measurably filled, and she had begun to live again, thanks to a new hate and a new love. She hated Cellini and loved Ascanio, and she was thinking of one or the other while her women were completing her toilet.
When she was fully dressed except as to her headgear, the Provost of Paris and the Vicomte de Marmagne were announced.
They were among the most devoted partisans of the duchess in the warfare which existed at court between the Dauphin's mistress, Diane de Poitiers, and herself. One is naturally glad to see one's friends when thinking of one's enemies, and the manner of Madame d'Etampes was infinitely gracious as she gave the scowling provost and the smiling viscount her hand to kiss.
"Messire le Prévôt," she began, in a tone in which unfeigned wrath was blended with compassion that contained no suggestion of offence, "we have been informed of the infamous treatment you have received from this Italian clown,—you, our best friend,—and we are extremely indignant."
"Madame," replied D'Estourville, neatly turning his misfortune into an occasion for flattery, "I should have been ashamed if one of my years and character had been spared by the villain who was not deterred by your beauty and charm."
"Oh!" said Anne, "I think only of you; as to the insult to me personally, the king, who is really too indulgent to these insolent foreigners, has begged me to forget it, and I have done so."
"In that case, madame, the request we have to make will doubtless be but ill received, and we ask your permission to withdraw without stating it."
"What, Messire d'Estourville! am I not at your service at all times, and whatever may happen? Speak! speak! or I shall lose my temper with so distrustful a friend."
"Very well, madame, this is what we have to say. I had believed that I might dispose of this grant of lodgings which I owe to your munificence in favor of the Vicomte de Marmagne, and naturally we cast our eyes upon the Hôtel de Nesle, which has fallen into such bad hands."
"Aha!" said the duchess. "You interest me immensely."
"The viscount, madame, accepted my suggestion in the first place with the utmost enthusiasm; but now, upon reflection, he hesitates, and thinks with terror of the redoubtable Benvenuto."
"Pardon me, my good friend," the viscount interposed,—"pardon me, you explain the matter very ill. I am not afraid of Benvenuto, but of the anger of the king. I have no fear of being killed by the Italian clown, to use madame's words,—no, no! What I fear, so to speak, is that I may kill him, and that some ill may come to me for having deprived our lord and master of a servitor by whom he seems to set great store."
"I ventured to hope, madame, that, in case of need, your protection would not fail him."
"It has never yet failed my friends," said the duchess; "and, furthermore, have you not on your side a better friend than I,—justice? Are you not acting in accordance with the king's will?"
"His Majesty," Marmagne replied, "did not himself designate the Hôtel de Nesle as the abode of any other than Benvenuto, and our choice, under those circumstances, would seem very much like revenge,—there's no denying it. And then, suppose that I kill this Cellini, as I can promise to do, for I shall have two sure men with me?"
"Oh! mon Dieu!" exclaimed the duchess, showing her white teeth as she smiled, "the king's protection extends to living men, but I fancy that he takes but little thought to avenge the dead, and when his admiration for art is deprived of this particular subject, he will remember naught save his affection for me, I trust. The man insulted me publicly and outrageously, Marmagne! do you forget it?"
"But, madame," rejoined the prudent viscount, "be very sure that you know all you will have to defend."
"Oh, you are perfectly clear, viscount."
"Nay, madame, if you will permit me, I do not wish to leave you in ignorance upon any point. It may be that force will fail to effect our purpose with this devil of a man. In that event, we shall have recourse to stratagem; if he escapes my bravos in his Hôtel in broad daylight, they will meet him again some night by accident in a lonely street, and—they have daggers, madame, as well as swords."
"I understand," said the duchess, nor did she turn a shade paler while listening to this little scheme of assassination.
"Well, madame?"
"Well, viscount, I see that you are a man of precautions, and that it's not well to be numbered among your enemies, deuce take me!"
"But touching the affair itself, madame?"
"'T is serious, in very truth, and is perhaps worth reflecting upon; but what was I saying? Every one knows, the king himself included, that this man has wounded me grievously in my pride. I hate him as bitterly as I hate my husband or Madame Diane, and i' faith I think that I can promise you—What is it, Isabeau? why do you interrupt us?"
The duchess's last words were addressed to one of her women, who entered hurriedly in a state of intense excitement.
"Mon Dieu! madame," said she, "I ask madame's pardon, but the Florentine artist, Benvenuto Cellini, is below with the loveliest little golden vase you can imagine. He said very courteously that he has come to present it to your ladyship, and he requests the favor of speaking with you a moment."
"Aha!" exclaimed the duchess, with an expression of gratified pride; "what reply did you make to him, Isabeau?"
"That madame was not dressed, and that I would go and inform her of his presence."
"Very good. It would seem," the duchess added, turning to the dismayed provost, "that our enemy sees the error of his ways, and begins to realize who we are, and what we can do. All the same, he will not come off so cheaply as he thinks, and I don't propose to accept his excuses all in a moment. He must be made to feel the enormity of his offence and the weight of our indignation a little more sensibly. Say to him, Isabeau, that you have informed me, and that I bid him wait."
Isabeau went out.
"I was saying, Vicomte de Marmagne," resumed the duchess, with a perceptible softening in her tone, "that what you were speaking of is a very serious matter, and that I could hardly promise to give my countenance to what is, after all, nothing less than ambuscade and murder."
"But the insult was so pronounced!" the provost ventured, to say.
"The reparation will be no less so, I trust, messire. This famous pride, which has resisted the will of sovereigns, is yonder in my antechamber awaiting the good pleasure of a woman, and two hours of this purgatory will, in all conscience, sufficiently atone for an impertinent word. We must not be altogether pitiless, provost. Forgive him, as I shall forgive him two hours hence. Ought my influence over you to be less than the king's over me?"
"Kindly permit us to take leave now, madame," said the provost, bowing, "for I prefer not to make a promise to my real sovereign which I could not keep."
"Take your leave! oh no!" said the duchess, who was determined to have witnesses of her triumph. "I intend, Messire le Prévôt, that you shall be present at the humiliation of your enemy, and thus we shall both be avenged by the same stroke. I devote the next two hours to you and the viscount; nay, do not thank me. They say that you are marrying your daughter to Comte d'Orbec, I believe?—a beautifulparti, in sooth. Fine, I should have said, not beautiful.[6]Pray, sit you down, messire! Do you know that my consent is needful for this marriage, and you've not asked it yet, but I will give it you. D'Orbec is as devoted to me as yourself. I hope that we are at last to see your lovely child, and have her for our own, and that her husband will not be so ill advised as not to bring her to court. What is her name, messire?"
"Colombe, madame."
"A sweet, pretty name. 'T is said that one's name has an influence upon one's destiny: if it be so, the poor child should have a tender heart, and be foredoomed to suffer. Well, Isabeau, what is it now?"
"Nothing, madame; he said that he would wait."
"Ah, yes! 't is well. I had forgotten him already. Yes, yes, messire, I say again, keep your eye on Colombe; the count's a husband of the same sort as mine, as ambitious as the Duc d'Etampes is avaricious, and quite capable of exchanging his wife for some duchy. And then you must be beware of me as well, especially if she's as pretty as she's said to be! You will present her to me, will you not, messire? 'T will be no more than fair, so that I may be prepared to defend myself."
The duchess, exultant in anticipation of her triumph, ran on thus for a long while with apparent unconcern, although her impatient joy could be discerned in her every movement.
"Well, well," she said at last, "another half-hour and the two hours will have passed; then we will release poor Benvenuto from his agony. Put yourselves in his place; he must suffer terribly, for he is little wonted to this sort of sentry-go. To him the Louvre is always open, and the king always visible. In truth, I pity him, although he well deserves it. He must be gnashing his teeth, must be not? And then to be unable to give vent to his anger. Ha! ha! ha! I shall have many a hearty laugh over this. But what is that I hear? Bon Dieu! all that shouting and uproar!"
"May it not be that the soul of the damned is wearying of Purgatory?" suggested the provost, with renewed hope.
"I propose to go and see," said the duchess, turning pale. "Come with me, my masters, come."
Benvenuto, persuaded by the arguments we have heard to make his peace with the all-powerful favorite, on the day following his conversation with Primaticcio took the little golden vase as a peace-offering, and repaired to the Hôtel d'Etampes, with Ascanio leaning on his arm, still very weak and very pale after a night of suffering. In the first place, the footmen refused to announce him at so early an hour, and he lost a good half-hour parleying with them. He had already begun to lose his temper, when Isabeau at last made her appearance, and consented to announce him to her mistress. She returned to say to Benvenuto that the duchess was dressing, and he must wait a short time. He took patience, therefore, and sat himself down upon a stool beside Ascanio, who was considerably overdone, by the walk, in conjunction with his fever and his painful thoughts.
An hour passed. Benvenuto began to count the minutes. "After all," he thought, "the toilette of a duchess is the most important function of the day, and I don't propose to lose the benefit of the step I have taken for a quarter of an hour more or less."
Nevertheless, in the face of this philosophical reflection, he began to count the seconds.
Meanwhile Ascanio turned paler and paler; he was determined to say nothing to his master of his sufferings, and had accompanied him without a word; but he had eaten nothing that morning, and, although he refused to acknowledge it, he felt that his strength was failing him.
Benvenuto could not remain seated, but began to stalk up and down the room.
A quarter of an hour passed.
"Are you suffering, my child?" he asked.
"No, master, indeed I'm not: you are the one who is suffering. Be patient, I beg you, for she cannot be long now."
At that moment Isabeau appeared again.
"Your mistress is very slow," said Benvenuto.
The mischievous girl went to the window, and looked at the clock in the courtyard.
"Why, you have waited only an hour and a half," she said; "why do you complain, pray?"
As Cellini frowned, she laughed in his face, and tripped away.
Benvenuto, by a violent effort, subdued his wrath once more. But in order to do it he was obliged to resume his seat, and sat with folded arms, silent and stem. He seemed calm; but his wrath was fermenting silently. Two servants stood like statues at the door, observing him with a serious expression, which seemed to him derisory.
The clock struck the quarter. Benvenuto glanced at Ascanio, and saw that he was paler than ever, and almost ready to faint.
"Ah ça!" he cried, throwing his self-restraint to the winds, "so this is done designedly! I chose to believe what I was told, and wait good-naturedly: but if an insult is intended—and I am so little wonted to them, that the thought did not occur to me—if an insult is intended, I am not the man to allow myself to be insulted, even by a woman, and I go. Come, Ascanio."
As he spoke, Benvenuto, raising in his powerful hand the unhospitable stool, on which the duchess in her wrath had humiliated him for two mortal hours without his knowledge, let it fall to the floor and shattered it. The valets made a movement toward him, but he half drew his dagger and they stopped. Ascanio, terrified for his master, essayed to rise, but his excitement had exhausted what remained of his strength, and he fell to the floor unconscious. Benvenuto at first did not see him.
At that moment the duchess appeared in the doorway, pale and trembling with wrath.
"Yes, I go," Benvenuto repeated in a voice of thunder, perfectly well aware of her presence, but addressing the valets: "do you tell the woman that I take my present with me to give to somebody, I know not whom, who'll be more worthy of it than herself. Tell her that, if she took me for one of her valets, like yourselves, she made a sad mistake, and that we artists do not sell our loyalty and homage as she sells her love! And now make way for me! Follow me, Ascanio!"
As he spoke, he turned toward his beloved pupil, and saw that his eyes were closed, and that his head had fallen back against the wall.
"Ascanio!" he cried, "Ascanio, my child, fainting, perhaps dying! O Ascanio, my beloved! and 't is this woman again—" And Benvenuto turned with a threatening gesture to Madame d'Etampes, at the same time starting to carry Ascanio away in his arms.
The duchess meanwhile, transfixed with rage and terror, had not moved or spoken. But when she saw Ascanio with his head thrown back, and his long hair dishevelled, as white as marble, and so beautiful in his pallor, she rushed to him in obedience to an irresistible impulse, and fell on her knees opposite Benvenuto, seizing one of Ascanio's hands in her own.
"Why, the child is dying! If you take him away, monsieur, you will kill him. He may need immediate attention. Jerome, run and fetch Master André. I do not mean that he shall go from here in this condition, do you understand? You may go or stay, as you please, but leave him."
Benvenuto cast a penetrating glance at the duchess, and one of deep anxiety at Ascanio. He realized that there could be no danger in leaving his cherished pupil in the care of Madame d'Etampes, while there might be very serious danger in removing him without proper precaution. His mind was soon made up, as always, for swift and inexorable decision was one of Cellini's most striking good or had qualities.
"You will answer for him, madame?" he said.
"Oh, with my life!" cried the duchess.
He softly kissed his apprentice on the forehead, and, wrapping his cloak about him, stalked proudly from the room, with his hand upon his dagger, not without exchanging a glance of hatred and disdain with the duchess. As for the two men, he did not deign to look at them.
Anne followed her enemy so long as she could see him with eyes blazing with wrath; then, with an entire change of expression, her eyes rested sadly and anxiously upon the comely invalid; love took the place of anger, the tigress became a gazelle once more.
"Master André," she said to her physician, who entered hurriedly, "save him; he is wounded and dying."
"It is nothing," said Master André, "a mere passing weakness."
He poured upon Ascanio's lips a few drops of a cordial which he always carried about him.
"He is coming to himself," cried the duchess, "he moved. Now, master, he must be kept quiet, must he not? Take him into yonder room," she said to the valets, "and lay him upon a couch.—But, hark ye," she added, lowering her voice, so that none but they could hear: "if one word escapes you as to what you have seen and heard, your neck shall pay for your tongue. Go."
The trembling lackeys bowed, and, gently lifting Ascanio, bore him away.
Remaining alone with the provost and the Vicomte de Marmagne, prudent and passive spectators of the outrage upon her, Madame d'Etampes eyed them both, especially the latter, with a scornful glance, but she speedily repressed the inclination to express her contempt in words.
"I was saying, viscount," she began in a bitter tone, but calmly, "I was saying that the thing you proposed was very serious; but I did not reflect sufficiently upon it. I have sufficient power, I think, to permit me to strike down a traitor, even as I should have sufficient, if need were, to deal with indiscreet friends. The king would condescend to punish him this time, I trust; but I choose to avenge myself. Punishment would make the insult public; vengeance will bury it. You have been cool and clever enough, messieurs, to postpone my vengeance, in order not to compromise its success, and I congratulate you upon it. Be shrewd enough now, I conjure you, not to let it escape you, and do not compel me to have recourse to others than yourselves. Vicomte de Marmagne, it is necessary to speak plainly to you. I guarantee you equal impunity with the executioner; but if you care for my advice, I advise you and your sbirri to lay aside the sword, and trust to the dagger. Say nothing, but act, and that promptly; that is the most satisfactory response. Adieu, messieurs."
With these words, uttered in a short, abrupt tone, the duchess extended her hand as if to point out the door to the two noblemen. They bowed awkwardly, too confused to find words in which to frame an excuse, and left the room.
"Oh, to think that I am only a woman, and am obliged to resort to such dastards!" exclaimed Anne, looking after them while her lips curled disdainfully. "Oh how I despise them all, royal lover, venal husband, valet in silken doublet, valet in livery,—all save a single one whom in my own despite I admire, and another whom I delight to love!"
She entered the room to which the interesting invalid had been carried. As she approached the couch Ascanio opened his eyes.
"It was nothing," said Master André to the duchess. "The young man has received a wound in the shoulder, and fatigue, some mental shock, or hunger, it may be, caused a momentary faintness, from which he has completely recovered, as you see, by the use of cordials. He is fully restored now, and may safely be taken home in a litter."
"Very good," said the duchess, handing a purse to Master André, who bowed low and went out.
"Where am I?" said Ascanio, seeking to collect his thoughts.
"You are with me, at my home, Ascanio," the duchess replied.
"At your home, madame? Ah! yes, I recognize you; you are Madame d'Etampes, and I remember too—Where is Benvenuto? Where is my master?"
"Do not stir, Ascanio; your master is safe, never fear. He is dining peaceably at home at the present moment."
"But how does it happen that he left me here?"
"You lost consciousness, and he trusted you to my care."
"And you assure me, madame, that he is in no danger; that he went from here unharmed?"
"I tell you again, I promise you, Ascanio, that he has never been less exposed to danger than at this moment. Ungrateful boy, when I, Duchesse d'Etampes, am watching over him and caring for him with the tender solicitude of a sister, to persist in speaking of his master!"
"O madame, I pray you pardon me, and accept my thanks!" said Ascanio.
"Indeed, it's high time!" rejoined the duchess, shaking her pretty head with a sly smile.
Thereupon she began to speak, giving to every word a tender intonation, and to the simplest phrases the subtlest of meanings, asking every question greedily and at the same time with respect, and listening to every reply as if her destiny depended upon it. She was humble, soft and caressing as a cat, quick to grasp every cue, like a consummate actress, leading Ascanio gently back to the subject if he wandered from it, and giving him all the credit for ideas which she evolved and cunningly led up to; seeming to distrust herself, and listening to him as if he were an oracle; exerting to the utmost the cultivated, charming intellect which, as we have said, caused her to be called the loveliest of blue-stockings and the most learned of beauties. In short, this interview became in her hands the most cajoling flattery, and the cleverest of seductions. As the youth for the third or fourth time made ready to take his leave, she said, still detaining him:—
"You speak, Ascanio, with so much eloquence and fire of your goldsmith's art, that it is a perfect revelation to me, and henceforth I shall see the conception of a master where I have hitherto seen only an ornament. In your opinion Benvenuto is the great master of the art?"
"Madame, he has surpassed the divine Michel-Angelo himself."
"I am pleased to hear it. You lessen the ill will I bear him on account of his rude behavior to me.
"Oh! you must not mind his roughness, madame. His brusque manner conceals a most ardent and devoted heart; but Benvenuto is at the same time the most impatient and fiery of men. He thought that you were making him wait in mere sport, and the insult—"
"Say the mischief," rejoined the duchess with the simulated confusion of a spoiled child. "It is the truth that I was not dressed when your master arrived, and I simply prolonged my toilet a little. It was wrong, very wrong. You see that I confess my sins to you freely. I knew not that you were with him," she added eagerly.
"True, madame, but Cellini, who is not very sagacious, I admit, and whose confidence has been sadly abused, deems you to be—I may say it to you who are so gracious and kind—very wicked and very terrible, and he thought that he detected an insult in what was nothing more than child's play."
"Do you think so?" queried the duchess, unable wholly to repress a mocking smile.
"Oh, forgive him, madame! he is noble-hearted and generous, and if he knew you as you are, believe me, he would ask your pardon for his error on his knees."
"Say no more, I pray you! Do you think to make me love him now? I bear him a grudge, I tell you, and, to begin with, I propose to raise up a rival."
"That will be difficult, madame."
"No, Ascanio, for you, his pupil, shall be the rival. Allow me, at least, if I must do homage to this great genius who detests me, to do it indirectly. Say, will you, of whose charming inventive talent Cellini himself boasts, refuse to place your talent at my service? And since you do not share your master's prejudices against my person, will you not prove it to me by consenting to assist in embellishing it?"
"Madame, all that I am and all the power I have is at your service. You are so kind to me, you have inquired with so much interest concerning my past and my hopes for the future, that I am henceforth devoted to you heart and soul."
"Child, I have done nothing yet, and I ask nothing from you at present except a little of your talent. Tell me, have you not seen some jewel of surpassing beauty in your dreams? I have superb pearls; into what marvellous creation would you like to transform them, my pretty wizard? Shall I confide to you an idea of my own? A moment since, as you lay in yonder room with pale cheeks and head thrown back, I fancied that I saw a beautiful lily whose stalk was bending in the wind. Make me a lily of pearls and silver to wear in my corsage," said the enchantress, placing her hand upon her heart.
"Ah! madame, such kindness—"
"Ascanio, do you care to repay my kindness, as you call it? Promise me that you will take me for your confidante, your friend, that you will hide nothing from me of your acts, your plans, your sorrows, for I see that you are unhappy. Promise to come to me when you stand in need of help or counsel."
"Why, madame, you bestow one favor more upon me, rather than ask a proof of my gratitude."
"However that may be, you promise?"
"Alas! I would have given you the promise yesterday, madame; for yesterday I might have thought that I might some day need your help or counsel; but to-day it is in no one's power to help me."
"Who knows?"
"I know, madame."
"Ah me! Ascanio, you are unhappy, you are unhappy, you cannot deceive me."
Ascanio sadly shook his head.
"You are disingenuous with a friend, Ascanio; 't is not well done of you," the duchess continued, taking the young man's hand, and softly pressing it.
"My master must be anxious, madame, and I am afraid that my presence discommodes you. I feel quite well again. Allow me to withdraw."
"How eager you are to leave me! Wait at least until a litter is prepared for you. Do not resist; it is the doctor's order, and my own."
Anne called a servant, and gave him the necessary orders, then bade Isabeau bring her pearls and some of her jewels, which she handed to Ascanio.
"How I restore your freedom," she said; "but when you are fully restored to health, my lily will be the first thing you give your mind to, will it not? Meanwhile, think upon it, I beg you, and as soon as you have finished your design come and show it to me."
"Yes, Madame la Duchesse."
"And do you not wish me to think upon how I can be of service to you, and to do whatever you wish, since you are doing for me what I wish? Come, Ascanio, come, my child, and tell me what you sigh for? For at your age one seeks in vain to still the heating of his heart, turn his eyes away, and close his lips,—one always sighs for something. Do you deem me to be so devoid of power and influence that you disdain to make me your confidante?"
"I know, madame," rejoined Ascanio, "that you enjoy all the power which you deserve. But no human power will avail to help me in my present plight."
"Tell me all the same," said the duchess; "I insist!" Then, with fascinating coquetry, softening her voice and her expression, she added, "I beseech you!"
"Alas! alas! madame," cried Ascanio, as his grief overflowed. "Alas! since you speak so kindly to me, and since my departure will cover my shame and tears, I will do, not as I should have done yesterday, address a prayer to the duchess, but make a confidante of the woman. Yesterday I would have said, 'I love Colombe, and I am happy!' To-day I will say, 'Colombe does not love me, and there is nothing left for me to do but to die!' Adieu, madame, and pity me!"
Ascanio hurriedly kissed Madame d'Etampes's hand, as she stood mute and motionless, and vanished.
"A rival! a rival!" said Anne, as if awaking from a dream; "but she does not love him, and he shall love me, for I will have it so! Oh yes! I swear that he shall love me, and that I will kill Benvenuto!"