When the repast was over, Monsoreau took St. Luc’s arm and went out. “Do you know,” said he, “that I am very happy to have found you here, for the solitude of Méridor frightened me.”
“What, with your wife? As for me, with such a companion I should find a desert delightful.”
“I do not say no, but still——”
“Still, what?”
“I am very glad to have met you here.”
“Really, monsieur, you are very polite, for I cannot believe that you could possibly fear ennui with such a companion, and such a country.”
“Bah! I pass half my life in the woods.”
“The more reason for being fond of them, it seems to me. I know I shall be very sorry to leave them; unluckily, I fear I shall be forced to do so before long.”
“Why so?”
“Oh! monsieur, when is man the arbiter of his own destiny? He is like the leaf of the tree, which the wind blows about. You are very fortunate.”
“Fortunate; how?”
“To live amongst these splendid trees.”
“Oh! I do not think I shall stay here long; I am not so fond of nature, and I fear these woods; I think they are not safe.”
“Why? on account of their loneliness, do you mean?”
“No, not that, for I suppose you see friends here.”
“Not a soul.”
“Ah! really. How long is it since you had any visitor?”
“Not since I have been here.”
“Not one gentleman from the court at Angers?”
“Not one.”
“Impossible.”
“It is true.”
“Then I am wrong.”
“Perfectly; but why is not the park safe, are there bears here?”
“Oh, no.”
“Wolves?”
“No.”
“Robbers?”
“Perhaps. Tell me, monsieur, Madame de St. Luc seemed to me very pretty; is she not?”
“Why, yes.”
“Does she often walk in the park?”
“Often; she adores the woods, like myself.”
“And do you accompany her?”
“Always.”
“Nearly always?”
“What the devil are you driving at?”
“Oh; mon Dieu, nothing; or, at least, a trifle.”
“I listen.”
“They told me——”
“Well?”
“You will not be angry?”
“I never am so.”
“Besides, between husbands, these confidences are right; they told me a man had been seen wandering in the park.”
“A man.”
“Yes.”
“Who came for my wife?”
“Oh! I do not say that.”
“You would be wrong not to tell me, my dear Monsoreau. Who saw him? pray tell me.”
“Oh! to tell you the truth, I do not think it was for Madame de St. Luc that he came.”
“For whom, then?”
“Ah! I fear it is for Diana.”
“Oh! I should like that better.”
“What?”
“Certainly; you know we husbands are an egotistical set. Everyone for himself, and God for us all.”
“The devil rather.”
“Then you think a man entered here?”
“I think so.”
“And I do more than think,” said St. Luc, “for I saw him.”
“You saw a man in the park?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Alone?”
“With Madame de Monsoreau.”
“Where?”
“Just here to the left.” And as they had walked down to the old copse, St. Luc pointed out the spot where Bussy always came over.
“Ah!” continued he, “here is a wall in a bad state; I must warn the baron.”
“Whom do you suspect?”
“Of what?”
“Of climbing over here to talk to my wife.” St. Luc seemed to reflect.
“Diable!” said he, “it could only have been——”
“Whom?”
“Why, yourself.”
“Are you joking, M. de St. Luc?”
“Ma foi, no; when I was first married I did such things.”
“Come! you are trying to put me off; but do not fear, I have courage. Help me to seek, you will do me an immense favor.”
St. Luc shook his head. “It must have been you,” said he.
“Do not jest, I beg of you; the thing is serious.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Oh! and how does this man come?”
“Secretly.”
“Often?”
“I fear so; look at the marks in the wall.”
“Well, I suspected it, but I always fancied it was you.”
“But I tell you, no!”
“Oh, I believe you, my dear sir.”
“Well, then——”
“It must have been some one else.”
Monsoreau began to look black, but St. Luc preserved his easy nonchalance.
“I have an idea,” said he.
“Tell me.”
“If it were——”
“Well!”
“But, no.”
“Pray speak.”
“The Duc d’Anjou.”
“I thought so at first, but I have made inquiries, and it could not have been he.”
“Oh! he is very cunning.”
“Yes, but it was not he.”
“Wait, then.”
“Well!”
“I have another idea; if it was neither you nor the duke, it must have been I.”
“You?”
“Why not?”
“You to come on horseback to the outside of the park, when you live inside!”
“Oh, mon Dieu! I am such a capricious being.”
“You, who fled away when you saw me!”
“Oh! any one would do that.”
“Then you were doing wrong,” cried the count, no longer able to keep in his anger.
“I do not say so.”
“You are mocking me,” cried the count, growing very pale, “and have been doing so for a quarter of an hour.”
“You are wrong, monsieur,” said St. Luc, drawing out his watch, and looking steadily at him; “it has been twenty minutes.”
“You insult me.”
“And you insult me with your questions like a constable.”
“Ah! now I see clearly.”
“How wonderful, at ten o’clock in the morning. But what do you see?”
“I see that you act in concert with the traitor, the coward, whom I saw yesterday.”
“I should think so; he is my friend.”
“Then I will kill you in his place.”
“Bah! in your own house, and without crying, gare. Ah! M. de Monsoreau, how badly you have been brought up, and how living among beasts spoils the manners.”
“Do you not see that I am furious?” howled the count.
“Yes, indeed, I do see it, and it does not become you at all; you look frightful.”
The count drew his sword.
“Ah!” said St. Luc, “you try to provoke me; you see I am perfectly calm.”
“Yes, I do provoke you.”
“Take the trouble to get over the wall; on the other side we shall be on neutral ground.”
“What do I care!”
“I do; I do not want to kill you in your own house.”
“Very well!” said Monsoreau, climbing over.
“Take care; pray do not hurt yourself, my dear count; those stones are loose,” said St. Luc. Then he also got over.
“Are you ready?” cried Monsoreau.
“No; I have the sun in my eyes.”
“Move then; I warn you I shall kill you.”
“Shall you really? Well, man proposes, and God disposes. Look at that bed of poppies and dandelions.”
“Well!”
“Well, I mean to lay you there.” And he laughed as he drew his sword. Monsoreau began the combat furiously, but St. Luc parried his thrusts skilfully.
“Pardieu! M. de Monsoreau,” said he, “you use your sword very well; you might kill any one but Bussy or me.”
Monsoreau grew pale.
“As for me,” continued St. Luc, “the king, who loves me, took the trouble to give me a great many lessons, and showed me, among other things, a thrust, which you shall see presently. I tell you, that you may have the pleasure of knowing you are killed by the king’s method; it is very flattering.” And then suddenly he rushed furiously on Monsoreau, who, half wild with rage as he was, parried five thrusts, but received the sixth full in his chest.
“Ah!” said St. Luc, “you will fall just where I told you,” as Monsoreau sank down on the poppies. Then, wiping his sword, he stood quietly by, watching the changes which came over the face of the dying man.
“Ah, you have killed me!” cried Monsoreau.
“I intended to do so, but now I see you dying, devil take me if I am not sorry for what I have done. You are horribly jealous, it is true, but you were brave. Have you any last wish? If so, tell it to me; and, on the faith of a gentleman, it shall be executed. Are you thirsty? Shall I get you water?”
Monsoreau did not reply. He turned over with his face to the earth, biting the ground, and struggling in his blood. Then he tried to raise his head, but fell back with a groan.
“Come, he is dead; let me think no more about him. Ah! but that is not so easy, when you have killed a man.” And jumping back over the wall, he went to the château. The first person he saw was Diana talking to his wife.
“How well she will look in black,” thought he. Then, approaching them, “Pardon me,” said he, “but may I say a few words to Jeanne?”
“Do so; I will go to my father,”
“What is it?” said Jeanne, when Diana was gone; “you look rather gloomy.”
“Why, yes.”
“What has happened?”
“Oh, mon Dieu! an accident.”
“To you?”
“Not precisely to me, but to a person who was near me.”
“Who was it?”
“The person I was walking with.”
“M. de Monsoreau?”
“Alas! yes; poor dear man.”
“What has happened to him?”
“I believe he is dead.”
“Dead!” cried Jeanne, starting back in horror.
“Just so.”
“He who was here just now talking——”
“Yes, that is just the cause of his death; he talked too much.”
“St. Luc, you are hiding something from me!” cried Jeanne, seizing his hands.
“I! Nothing; not even the place where he lies.”
“Where is it?”
“Down there behind the wall; just where Bussy used to tie his horse.”
“It was you who killed him.”
“Parbleu! that is not very difficult to discover.”
“Unlucky that you are!”
“Ah, dear friend! he provoked me, insulted me, drew the sword first.”
“It is dreadful! the poor man!”
“Good; I was sure of it; before a week is over he will be called St. Monsoreau.”
“But you cannot stay here in the house of the man you have killed.”
“So I thought at once, and that is why I came to ask you to get ready.”
“He has not wounded you?”
“No, I am perfectly unhurt.”
“Then, we will go.”
“As quickly as possible, for you know the accident may be discovered at any moment.”
“Then Diana is a widow.”
“That is just what I thought of.”
“After you killed him?”
“No, before.”
“Well, I will go and tell her.”
“Spare her feelings.”
“Do not laugh. Meanwhile you get the horses saddled. But where shall we go?”
“To Paris.”
“But the king?”
“Oh! he will have forgotten everything by this time; besides, if there is to be war, as seems probable, he will be glad of me. But I must have pen and ink.”
“For what?”
“To write to Bussy; I cannot leave Anjou without telling him why.”
“No, of course not; you will find all that you require in my room.” St. Luc went in, and wrote,—
“You will learn, by report, ere long, the accident which has happened to M. de Monsoreau; we had together, by the old copse, a discussion on broken-down walls and horses that go home alone. In the heat of the argument, he fell on a bed of poppies and dandelions so hard that he died there.
“Your friend for life,
“St. Luc.
“P. S. As you may think this rather improbable, I must add that we had our swords in our hands. I set off at once for Paris to make peace with the king, Anjou not seeming to me very safe after what has occurred.”
Ten minutes after a servant set off for Angers with this letter, while M. and Madame de St. Luc went out by another door, leaving Diana much grieved at their departure, and much embarrassed how to tell the baron what had occurred. She had turned away her eyes from St. Luc as he passed.
“That is the reward for serving your friends,” said he to his wife; “decidedly all people are ungrateful excepting me.”
At the same time that M. de Monsoreau fell under the sword of St. Luc, a flourish of trumpets sounded at the closed gates of Angers. It was Catherine de Medicis, who arrived there with rather a large suite. They sent to tell Bussy, who rose from his bed, and went to the prince, who immediately got into his. Certainly the airs played by the trumpets were fine, but they had not the virtue of those which made the walls of Jericho fall, for the gates did not open. Catherine leaned out of her litter to show herself to the guards, hoping the sight of her would do more than the sound of the trumpets. They saw her, and saluted her courteously, but did not open the gates. Then she sent a gentleman to demand admittance, but they replied that Angers being in a state of war, the gates could not be opened without some necessary formalities. Catherine was furious. At last Bussy appeared, with five other gentlemen.
“Who is there?” cried he.
“It is her majesty the queen mother, who has come to visit Angers.”
“Very well, go to the left, and about eighty steps off you will find the postern.”
“A postern for her majesty!” cried the gentleman. But Bussy was no longer there to hear, he and his friends had ridden off towards the indicated spot.
“Did your majesty hear?” asked the gentleman.
“Oh! yes, monsieur, I heard; let us go there, if that be the only way to get in.”
The cortege turned to the left, and the postern opened.
“Your majesty is welcome to Angers,” said Bussy.
“Thank you, M. de Bussy,” said the queen, descending from her litter, and advancing towards the little door. Bussy stopped her. “Take care, madame,” said he, “the door is low, and you will hurt yourself.”
“Must I then stoop?” replied she; “it is the first time I ever entered a city so.”
Once through the gate she re-entered her litter to go to the palace, Bussy and his friends escorting her.
“Where is my son?” cried she; “why do I not see M. d’Anjou?”
“Monseigneur is ill, madame, or else your majesty cannot doubt that he would have come himself to do the honors of his city.”
Catherine was sublime in hypocrisy.
“Ill—my poor child, ill!” cried she; “ah! let us hasten to him; is he well taken care of?”
“Yes, madame, we do our best.”
“Does he suffer?”
“Horribly, he is subject to these sudden indispositions.”
“It was sudden, then?”
“Mon Dieu! yes, madame.”
When they arrived at the palace, Bussy ran up first to the duke.
“Here she is!” cried he.
“Is she furious?”
“Exasperated.”
“Does she complain?”
“No, she does worse, she smiles.”
“What do the people say?”
“They looked at her in mute terror; now, monseigneur, be careful.”
“We stick to war?”
“Pardieu, ask one hundred to get ten, and with her you will only get five.”
“Bah! you think me very weak. Are you all here? Where is Monsoreau?”
“I believe he is at Méridor.”
“Her majesty the queen mother!” cried the usher at the door.
Catherine entered, looking pale. The duke made a movement to rise, but she threw herself into his arms and half stifled him with kisses. She did more—she wept.
“We must take care,” said Antragues to Ribeirac, “each tear will be paid for by blood.”
Catherine now sat down on the foot of the bed. At a sign from Bussy everyone went away but himself.
“Will you not go and look after my poor attendants, M. de Bussy? you who are at home here,” said the queen.
It was impossible not to go, so he replied, “I am happy to please your majesty,” and he also retired.
Catherine wished to discover whether her son were really ill or feigning. But he, worthy son of such a mother, played his part to perfection. She had wept, he had a fever. Catherine, deceived, thought him really ill, and hoped to have more influence over a mind weakened by suffering. She overwhelmed him with tenderness, embraced him, and wept so much that at last he asked her the reason.
“You have run so great a risk,” replied she.
“In escaping from the Louvre, mother?”
“No, after.”
“How so?”
“Those who aided you in this unlucky escape——”
“Well?”
“Were your most cruel enemies.”
“She wishes to find out who it was,” thought he.
“The King of Navarre,” continued she, “the eternal scourge of our race——”
“Ah! she knows.”
“He boasts of having gained much by it.”
“That is impossible, for he had nothing to do with it; and if he had, I am quite safe, as you see. I have not seen the King of Navarre for two years.”
“It was not only of danger I spoke!”
“Of what, then?” replied the duke, smiling, as he saw the tapestry shake behind the queen.
“The king’s anger,” said she, in a solemn voice; “the furious anger which menaces you——”
“This danger is something like the other, madame; he may be furious, but I am safe here.”
“You believe so?”
“I am sure of it; your majesty has announced it to me yourself.”
“How so?”
“Because if you had been charged only with menaces, you would not have come, and the king in that case would have hesitated to place such a hostage in my hands.”
“A hostage! I!” cried she, terrified.
“A most sacred and venerable one,” replied the duke, with a triumphant glance at the wall.
Catherine was baffled, but she did not know that Bussy was encouraging the duke by signs.
“My son,” said she at length, “you are quite right; they are words of peace I bring to you.”
“I listen, mother, and I think we shall now begin to understand each other.”
Catherine had, as we have seen, had the worst of the argument. She was surprised, and began to wonder if her son were really as decided as he appeared to be, when a slight event changed the aspect of affairs. Bussy had been, as we said, encouraging the prince secretly at every word that he thought dangerous to his cause. Now his cause was war at any price, for he wished to stay in Anjou, watch M. de Monsoreau, and visit his wife. The duke feared Bussy, and was guided by him. Suddenly, however, Bussy felt himself pulled by his cloak; he turned and saw Rémy, who drew him gently towards him.
“What is it, Rémy?” said he impatiently. “Why disturb me at such a moment?”
“A letter.”
“And for a letter you take me from this important conversation.”
“It is from Méridor.”
“Oh! thank you, my good Rémy.”
“Then I was not wrong?”
“Oh, no; where is it?”
“That is what made me think it of importance; the messenger would only give it to you yourself.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him in.”
Rémy opened the door, and a servant entered.
“Here is M. de Bussy,” said Rémy.
“Oh, I know him well,” said the man, giving the letter.
“Did she give it to you?”
“No; M. de St. Luc.”
As Bussy read, he grew first pale, then crimson. Rémy dismissed the servant, and Bussy, with a bewildered look, held out the letter to him.
“See,” said he, “what St. Luc has done for me.”
“Well,” said Rémy, “this appears to me to be very good and St. Luc is a gallant fellow.”
“It is incredible!” cried Bussy.
“Certainly; but that is nothing. Here is our position quite changed; I shall have a Comtesse de Bussy for a patient.”
“Yes, she shall be my wife. So he is dead.”
“So, you see, it is written.”
“Oh, it seems like a dream, Rémy. What! shall I see no more that specter, always coming between me and happiness? It cannot be true.”
“It is true; read again, ‘he died there.’”
“But Diana cannot stay at Méridor—I do not wish it; she must go where she will forget him.”
“Paris will be best; people soon forget at Paris.”
“You are right; we will return to the little house in the Rue des Tournelles, and she shall pass there her months of widowhood in obscurity.”
“But to go to Paris you must have——”
“What?”
“Peace in Anjou.”
“True; oh, mon Dieu! what time lost.”
“That means that you are going at once to Méridor.”
“No, not I, but you; I must stay here; besides, she might not like my presence just now.”
“How shall I see her? Shall I go to the castle?”
“No; go first to the old copse and see if she is there; if she is not then go to the castle.”
“What shall I say to her?”
“Say that I am half mad.” And pressing the young man’s hand, he returned to his place behind the tapes try.
Catherine had been trying to regain her ground.
“My son,” she had said, “it seemed to me that a mother and son could not fail to understand each other.”
“Yet you see that happens sometimes.”
“Never when she wishes it.”
“When they wish it, you mean,” said the duke, seeking a sign of approbation from Bussy for his boldness.
“But I wish it, my son, and am willing to make any sacrifices to attain peace.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, my dear child. What do you ask?—what do you demand? Speak.”
“Oh, my mother!” said François, almost embarrassed at his own easy victory.
“Listen, my son. You do not wish to drown the kingdom in blood—it is not possible; you are neither a bad Frenchman nor a bad brother.”
“My brother insulted me, madame, and I owe him nothing, either as my brother or king.”
“But I, François—you cannot complain of me?”
“Yes, madame, you abandoned me.”
“Ah! you wish to kill me. Well, a mother does not care to live to see her children murder each other!” cried Catherine, who wished very much to live.
“Oh, do not say that, madame, you tear my heart!” cried François, whose heart was not torn at all.
Catherine burst into tears. The duke took her hands, and tried to reassure her, not without uneasy glances towards the tapestry.
“But what do you want or ask for, mother? I will listen,” said he.
“I wish you to return to Paris, dear child, to return to your brother’s court, who will receive you with open arms.”
“No, madame, it is not he whose arms are open to receive me—it is the Bastile.”
“No; return, and on my honor, on my love as a mother, I solemnly swear that you shall be received by the king as though you were king and he the Duc d’Anjou.”
The duke looked to the tapestry.
“Accept, my son; you will have honors, guards.”
“Oh, madame, your son gave me guards—his four minions!”
“Do not reply so; you shall choose your own guards, and M. de. Bussy shall be their captain, if you like.”
Again the duke glanced to the wall, and, to his surprise, saw Bussy smiling and applauding by every possible method.
“What is the meaning of this change?” thought the duke; “is it that he may be captain of my guards? Then must I accept?” said he aloud, as though talking to himself.
“Yes, yes!” signed Bussy, with head and hands.
“Quit Anjou, and return to Paris?”
“Yes!” signed Bussy, more decidedly than ever.
“Doubtless, dear child,” said Catherine, “it is not disagreeable to return to Paris.”
“Well, I will reflect,” said the duke, who wished to consult with Bussy.
“I have won,” thought Catherine.
They embraced once more, and separated.
Rémy rode along, wondering in what humor he should find Diana, and what he should say to her. He had just arrived at the park wall, when his horse, which had been trotting, stopped so suddenly that, had he not been a good rider, he would have been thrown over his head. Rémy, astonished, looked to see the cause, and saw before him a pool of blood, and a little further on, a body, lying against the wall. “It is Monsoreau!” cried he; “how strange! he lies dead there, and the blood is down here. Ah! there is the track; he must have crawled there, or rather that good M. de St. Luc leaned him up against the wall that the blood might not fly to his head. He died with his eyes open, too.”
All at once Rémy started back in horror; the two eyes, that he had seen open, shut again, and a paleness more livid than ever spread itself over the face of the defunct. Rémy became almost as pale as M. de Monsoreau, but, as he was a doctor, he quickly recovered his presence of mind, and said to himself that if Monsoreau moved his eyes, it showed he was not dead. “And yet I have read,” thought he, “of strange movements after death. This devil of a fellow frightens one even after death. Yes, his eyes are quite closed; there is one method of ascertaining whether he is dead or not, and that is to shove my sword into him, and if he does not move, he is certainly dead.” And Rémy was preparing for this charitable action, when suddenly the eyes opened again. Rémy started back, and the perspiration rolled off his forehead as he murmured, “He is not dead; we are in a nice position. Yes, but if I kill him he will be dead.” And he looked at Monsoreau, who seemed also to be looking at him earnestly.
“Oh!” cried Rémy, “I cannot do it. God knows that if he were upright before me I would kill him with all my heart; but as he is now, helpless and three parts dead, it would be an infamy.”
“Help!” murmured Monsoreau, “I am dying.”
“Mordieu!” thought Rémy, “my position is embarrassing. I am a doctor, and, as such, bound to succor my fellow-creatures when they suffer. It is true that Monsoreau is so ugly that he can scarcely be called a fellow-creature, still he is a man. Come, I must forget that I am the friend of M. de Bussy, and do my duty as a doctor.”
“Help!” repeated the wounded man.
“Here I am,” said Rémy.
“Fetch me a priest and a doctor.”
“The doctor is here, and perhaps he will dispense with the priest.”
“Rémy,” said Monsoreau, “by what chance—”
Rémy understood all the question might mean. This was no beaten road, and no one was likely to come without particular business.
“Pardieu!” he replied, “a mile or two off I met M. de St. Luc——”
“Ah! my murderer.”
“And he said, ‘Rémy, go to the old copse, there you will find a man dead.’”
“Dead?”
“Yes, he thought so; well, I came here and saw you.”
“And now, tell me frankly, am I mortally wounded?”
“I will try to find out.”
Rémy approached him carefully, took off his cloak, his doublet and shirt. The sword had penetrated between the sixth and seventh ribs.
“Do you suffer much?”
“In my back, not in my chest.”
“Ah, let me see; where?”
“Below the shoulder bone.”
“The steel must have come against a bone.” And he began to examine. “No, I am wrong,” said he, “the sword came against nothing, but passed right through.” Monsoreau fainted after this examination.
“Ah! that is all right,” said Rémy, “syncope, low pulse, cold in the hands and legs: Diable! the widowhood of Madame de Monsoreau will not last long, I fear.”
At this moment a slight bloody foam rose to the lips of the wounded man.
Rémy drew from his pocket his lancet case; then tearing off a strip from the patient’s shirt, bound it round his arm.
“We shall see,” said he, “if the blood flows. Ah, it does! and I believe that Madame de Monsoreau will not be a widow. Pardon, my dear M. de Bussy, but I am a doctor.”
Presently the patient breathed, and opened his eyes.
“Oh!” stammered he, “I thought all was over.”
“Not yet, my dear monsieur; it is even possible——”
“That I live!”
“Oh, mon Dieu! yes; but let me close the wound. Stop; do not move; nature at this moment is aiding my work. I make the blood flow, and she stops it. Ah! nature is a great doctor, my dear sir. Let me wipe your lips. See the bleeding has stopped already. Good; all goes well, or rather badly.”
“Badly!”
“No, not for you; but I know what I mean.”
“You think I shall get well?”
“Alas! yes.”
“You are a singular doctor, M. Rémy.”
“Never mind, as long as I cure you,” said he, rising.
“Do not abandon me,” said the count.
“Ah! you talk too much. Diable! I ought to tell him to cry out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind; your wound is dressed. Now I will go to the castle and fetch assistance.”
“And what must I do meanwhile?”
“Keep quite still; do not stir; breathe lightly, and try not to cough. Which is the nearest house?”
“The château de Méridor.”
“Which is the way to it?” said Rémy, affecting ignorance.
“Get over the wall, and you will find yourself in the park.”
“Very well; I go.”
“Thanks, generous man.”
“Generous, indeed, if you only knew all.”
He soon arrived at the château, where all the inhabitants were busy looking for the body of the count; for St. Luc had given them a wrong direction. Rémy came among them like a thunderbolt, and was so eager to bring them to the rescue, that Diana looked at him with surprise, “I thought he was Bussy’s friend,” murmured she, as Rémy disappeared, carrying with him a wheelbarrow, lint and water.