The next morning, about nine, Bussy was eating his breakfast, and talking with Rémy over the events of the previous day.
“Rémy,” said he, “did you not think you had seen somewhere that gentleman whom they were dipping in a vat in the Rue Coquillière?”
“Yes, M. le Comte, but I cannot think of his name.”
“I ought to have helped him,” said Bussy, “it is a duty one gentleman owes to another; but, really, Rémy, I was too much occupied with my own affairs.”
“But he must have recognized us, for we were our natural color, and it seemed to me that he rolled his eyes frightfully, and shook his fist at us.”
“Are you sure of that, Rémy? We must find out who it was; I cannot let such an insult pass.”
“Oh!” cried Rémy, “I know now who he was.”
“How so?”
“I heard him swear.”
“I should think so; any one would have sworn in such a situation.”
“Yes, but he swore in German.”
“Bah!”
“Yes, he said, ‘Gott verdomme.’”
“Then it was Schomberg?”
“Himself, M. le Comte.”
“Then, my dear Rémy, get your salves ready.”
“Why so, monsieur?”
“Because, before long, you will have to apply them either to his skin or to mine.”
“You would not be so foolish as to get killed, now you are so well and so happy; St. Marie l’Egyptienne has cured you once, but she will get tired of working miracles for you.”
“On the contrary, Rémy, you cannot tell how pleasant it feels to risk your life when you are happy. I assure you I never fought with a good heart when I had lost large sums at play, when things had gone wrong, or when I had anything to reproach myself with; but when my purse is full, my heart light, and my conscience clear, I go boldly to the field, for I am sure of my hand; it is then I am brilliant. I should fight well to-day, Rémy, for, thanks to you,” said he, extending his hand to the young man, “I am very happy.”
“Stay a moment, however; you will, I hope, deprive yourself of this pleasure. A beautiful lady of my acquaintance made me swear to keep you safe and sound, under pretext that your life belongs to her.”
“Good Rémy!”
“You call me good Rémy, because I brought you to see Madame de Monsoreau, but shall you call me so when you are separated from her? and unluckily the day approaches, if it be not come.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you not know that she is going to Anjou, and that I myself have the grief of being separated from Gertrude. Ah——”
Bussy could not help smiling at the pretended grief of the young man.
“You love her, then?” he said.
“I should think so; you should see how she beats me.”
“And you let her do it?”
“Oh! yes.”
“But to return to Diana, Rémy; when shall we set off?”
“Ah! I expected that. On the latest possible day I should say.”
“Why so?”
“Firstly, because it seems to me that M. le Duc d’Anjou will want you here.”
“After?”
“Because M. de Monsoreau, by a special blessing, does not suspect you in the least, and would suspect something immediately if he saw you disappear from Paris at the same time as his wife.”
“What do I care for that?”
“No; but I care. I charge myself with curing the sword strokes received in duels, for, as you manage your sword well, you never receive very serious ones; but not the blows given secretly by jealous husbands; they are animals, who, in such cases, strike hard.”
“Well! my dear friend, if it is my destiny to be killed by M. de Monsoreau.”
“Well!”
“Well! he will kill me.”
“And then, a week after, Madame de Monsoreau will be reconciled to her husband, which will dreadfully enrage your poor soul, which will see it from above or below, without being able to prevent it.”
“You are right, Rémy; I will live.”
“Quite right; but that is not all, you must be charmingly polite to him; he is frightfully jealous of the Duc d’Anjou, who, while you were ill in bed, promenaded before the house with his Aurilly. Make advances, then, to this charming husband, and do not even ask him what has become of his wife, since you know quite well.”
“You are right, Rémy, I believe. Now I am no longer jealous of the bear, I will be civil to him.”
At this moment some one knocked at the door.
“Who is there?” cried Bussy.
“Monsieur,” replied a page, “there is a gentleman below who wishes to speak to you.”
“To speak to me so early; who is it?”
“A tall gentleman, dressed in green velvet.”
“Can it be Schomberg?”
“He said a tall man.”
“True, then Monsoreau, perhaps; well, let him enter.” After a minute the visitor entered.
“M. Chicot!” cried Bussy.
“Himself, M. le Comte.”
Rémy retired into another room, and then Chicot said, “Monsieur, I come to propose to you a little bargain.”
“Speak, monsieur,” said Bussy, in great surprise.
“What will you promise me if I render you a great service?”
“That depends on the service, monsieur,” replied Bussy, disdainfully.
Chicot feigned not to remark this air of disdain. “Monsieur,” said he, sitting down and crossing his long legs, “I remark that you do not ask me to sit down.”
The color mounted to Bussy’s face.
“Monsieur,” continued Chicot, “have you heard of the League?”
“I have heard much of it,” said Bussy.
“Well, monsieur, you ought to know that it is an association of honest Christians, united for the purpose of religiously massacring their neighbors, the Huguenots. Are you of the League, monsieur? I am.”
“But—monsieur——”
“Say only yes, or no.”
“Allow me to express my astonishment——”
“I did myself the honor of asking you if you belonged to the League.”
“M. Chicot, as I do not like questions whose import I do not understand, I beg you to change the conversation before I am forced to tell you that I do not like questioners. Come, M. Chicot, we have but a few minutes left.”
“Well! in a few minutes one can say a great deal; however, I might have dispensed with asking you the question, as if you do not belong to the League now, you soon will, as M. d’Anjou does.”
“M. d’Anjou! Who told you that?”
“Himself, speaking to me in person, as the gentlemen of the law say, or rather write; for example, that dear M. Nicolas David, that star of the Forum Parisiense. Now you understand that as M. d’Anjou belongs to the League, you cannot help belonging to it also; you, who are his right arm. The League knows better than to accept a maimed chief.”
“Well, M. Chicot, what then?”
“Why, if you do belong to it, or they think you are likely to do so, what has happened to his royal highness will certainly happen to you.”
“And what has happened to him?”
“Monsieur,” said Chicot, rising and imitating M. de Bussy’s manner of a little before, “I do not love questions, nor questioners, therefore I have a great mind to let them do to you what they have done to-night to the duke.”
“M. Chicot,” said Bussy, with a smile, “speak, I beg of you; where is the duke?”
“He is in prison?”
“Where?”
“In his own room. Four of my good friends guard him. M. de Schomberg, who was dyed blue yesterday, as you know, since you passed during the operation; M. d’Epernon, who is yellow from the fright he had; M. de Quelus, who is red with anger; and M. de Maugiron, who is white with ennui; it is beautiful to see; not to speak of the duke, who is going green with terror, so that we shall have a perfect rainbow to delight our eyes.”
“Then, monsieur, you think my liberty in danger?”
“Danger! monsieur; suppose that they are already on the way to arrest you.”
Bussy shuddered.
“Do you like the Bastile, M. de Bussy? it is a good place for meditation, and M. Laurent Testu, the governor, keeps a good cook.”
“They would send me to the Bastile?”
“Ma foi! I ought to have in my pocket something like an order to conduct you there. Would you like to see it?” and Chicot drew from his pocket an order from the king in due form, to apprehend, wherever he might be, M. Louis de Clermont, Seigneur de Bussy. “Written very nicely by M. Quelus,” continued Chicot.
“Then, monsieur,” cried Bussy, “you are really rendering me a service?”
“I think so; do you agree with me?”
“Monsieur, I beg you to tell me why you do it; for you love the king, and he hates me.”
“M. le Comte, I save you; think what you please of my action. But do you forget that I asked for a recompense?”
“Ah, true.”
“Well?”
“Most willingly, monsieur.”
“Then some day you will do what I ask you?”
“On my honor, if possible.”
“That is enough. Now mount your horse and disappear; I go to carry this order to those who are to use it.”
“Then you were not to arrest me yourself?”
“I! for what do you take me?”
“But I should abandon my master.”
“Have no scruples; he abandons you.”
“You are a gentleman, M. Chicot.”
Bussy called Rémy. To do him justice, he was listening at the door.
“Rémy, our horses!”
“They are saddled, monsieur.”
“Ah!” said Chicot, “this young man knows what he is about.”
Bussy thanked Chicot once more, and went down.
“Where are we going?” said Rémy.
“Well——” said Bussy, hesitating.
“What do you say to Normandy?” said Chicot.
“It is too near.”
“Flanders, then?”
“Too far.”
“Anjou is a reasonable distance, monsieur,” said Rémy.
“Well, then, Anjou,” said Bussy, coloring.
“Adieu, monsieur!” said Chicot.
“It is destiny,” said Rémy, when he was gone.
“Let us be quick, and perhaps we may overtake her,” said Bussy.
Chicot returned joyfully to the Louvre. It was a great satisfaction to him to have saved a brave gentleman like Bussy.
M. de Guise, after having received in the morning the principal Leaguers, who came to bring him the registers filled with signatures, and after having made them all swear to recognize the chief that the king should appoint, went out to visit M. d’Anjou, whom he had lost sight of about ten the evening before. The duke found the prince’s valet rather unquiet at his master’s absence, but he imagined that he had slept at the Louvre.
The Due de Guise asked to speak to Aurilly, who was most likely to know where his master was. Aurilly came, but stated he had been separated from the prince the evening before by a pressure of the crowd, and had come to the Hôtel d’Anjou to wait for him, not knowing that his highness had intended to sleep at the Louvre. He added that he had just sent to the Louvre to inquire, and that a message had been returned that the duke was still asleep.
“Asleep at eleven o’clock! not likely. You ought to go to the Louvre, Aurilly.”
“I did think of it, monseigneur, but I feared that this was only a tale invented to satisfy my messenger, and that the prince was seeking pleasure elsewhere, and might be annoyed at my seeking him.”
“Oh, no; the duke has too much sense to be pleasure-seeking on a day like this. Go to the Louvre; you will be sure to find him there.”
“I will if you wish it; but what shall I say to him?”
“Say that the convocation at the Louvre is fixed for two o’clock, and that it is necessary that we should have a conference first. It is not at the time when the king is about to choose a chief for the League that he should be sleeping.”
“Very well, monseigneur, I will beg his highness to come here.”
“And say that I am waiting impatiently for him. Meanwhile I will go and seek M. de Bussy.”
“But if I do not find his highness, what am I to do?”
“Then make no further search for him. In any event I shall be at the Louvre at a quarter before two.”
Aurilly passed through the courtiers who crowded the Louvre, and made his way to the duke’s apartments. At the door he found Chicot playing chess. Aurilly tried to pass, but Chicot, with his long legs blocked up the doorway. He was forced to touch him on the shoulder.
“Ah, it is you, M. Aurilly.”
“What are you doing, M. Chicot?”
“Playing chess, as you see.”
“All alone?”
“Yes, I am studying; do you play?”
“Very little.”
“Yes, I know you are a musician, and music is so difficult an art, that those who give themselves to it must sacrifice all their time.”
“You seem very serious over your game.”
“Yes, it is my king who disquiets me; you must know, M. Aurilly, that at chess the king is a very insignificant person, who has no will, who can only go one step forward or back, or one to the right or left, while he is surrounded by active enemies, by knights who jump three squares at a time, by a crowd of pawns who surround him, so that if he be badly counseled he is a ruined king in no time, ma foi.”
“But, M. Chicot, how does it happen that you are studying this at the door of his royal highness’ room?”
“Because I am waiting for M. Quelus, who is in there.”
“Where?”
“With his highness.”
“With his highness! What is he doing there? I did not think they were such friends.”
“Hush!” then he whispered in Aurilly’s ear “he is come to ask pardon of the duke for a little quarrel they had yesterday.”
“Really!”
“It was the king who insisted on it; you know on what excellent terms the brothers are just now. The king would not suffer an impertinence of Quelus’s to pass, and ordered him to apologize.”
“Really!”
“Ah! M. Aurilly, I think that we are entering the golden age; the Louvre is about to become Arcadia, and the two brothers Arcades ambo.”
Aurilly smiled, and passed into the ante-chamber, where he was courteously saluted by Quelus, between whose hands a superb cup and ball of ebony inlaid with ivory was making rapid evolutions.
“Bravo! M. Quelus,” said Aurilly.
“Ah! my dear M. Aurilly, when shall I play cup and ball as well as you play the lute?”
“When you have studied your plaything as long as I have my instrument. But where is monseigneur? I thought you were with him.”
“I have an audience with him, but Schomberg comes first.”
“What! M. de Schomberg, also!”
“Oh! mon Dieu; yes. The king settled all that. He is in the next room. Enter, M. Aurilly, and remind the prince that we are waiting for him.”
Aurilly opened the second door and saw Schomberg reclining on a kind of couch, from which he amused himself by sending from a tube little balls of earth through a gold ring, suspended from the ceiling by a silk thread, while a favorite dog brought him back the balls as they fell.
“Ah! guten morgen, M. Aurilly, you see I am amusing myself while I wait for my audience.”
“But where is monseigneur?”
“Oh! he is occupied in pardoning D’Epernon and Maugiron. But will you not enter, you who are privileged?”
“Perhaps it would be indiscreet.”
“Not at all; enter, M. Aurilly, enter.” And he pushed him into the next room, where the astonished musician perceived D’Epernon before a mirror, occupied in stiffening his mustachios, while Maugiron, seated near the window, was cutting out engravings, by the side of which the bas-reliefs on the temple of Venus Aphrodite would have looked holy.
The duke, without his sword, was in his armchair between these two men, who only looked at him to watch his movements, and only spoke to him to say something disagreeable: seeing Aurilly, he got up to meet him.
“Take care monseigneur,” said Maugiron, “you are stepping on my figures.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried the musician, “he insults my master!”
“Dear M. Aurilly,” said D’Epernon, still arranging his mustachois, “how are you?”
“Be so kind as to bring me here your little dagger,” said Maugiron.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, do you not remember where you are?”
“Yes, yes, my dear Orpheus, that is why I ask for your dagger; you see M. le Duc has none.”
“Aurilly!” cried the duke, in a tone full of grief and rage, “do you not see that I am a prisoner?”
“A prisoner! to whom?”
“To my brother; you might know that by my jailers.”
“Oh! if I had but guessed it.”
“You would have brought your lute to amuse his highness,” said a mocking voice behind them, “but I thought of it, and sent for it; here it is.”
“How does your chess go on, Chicot?” said D’Epernon.
“I believe I shall save the king, but it is not without trouble. Come, M. Aurilly, give me your poniard in return for the lute; a fair exchange.”
The astonished musician obeyed.
“There is one rat in the trap,” said Quelus, who returned to his post in the antechamber, only exchanging his cup and ball for Schomberg’s shooting tube.
“It is amusing to vary one’s pleasures,” said Chicot; “so for a change I will go and sign the League.”
The time for the great reception drew near. Paris, nearly as tumultuous as the evening before, had sent towards the Louvre its deputation of leaguers, its bodies of workmen, its sheriffs, its militia, and its constantly-increasing masses of spectators.
The king, on his throne in the great hall, was surrounded by his officers, his friends, his courtiers, and his family, waiting for all the corporations to defile before him, when M. de Monsoreau entered abruptly.
“Look, Henriquet,” said Chicot, who was standing near the king.
“At what?”
“At your chief huntsman; pardieu, he is well worth it. See how pale and dirty he is!”
Henri made a sign to M. de Monsoreau, who approached.
“How is it that you are at the Louvre, monsieur? I thought you at Vincennes.”
“Sire, the stag was turned off at seven o’clock this morning, but when noon came, and I had no news, I feared that some misfortune had happened to your majesty, and I returned.”
“Really!”
“Sire, if I have done wrong, attribute it to an excess of devotion.”
“Yes, monsieur, and I appreciate it.”
“Now,” said the count, hesitatingly, “if your majesty wishes me to return to Vincennes, as I am reassured——”
“No, no, stay; this chase was a fancy which came into our head, and which went as it came; do not go away, I want near me devoted subjects, and you have just classed yourself as such.”
Monsoreau bowed, and said, “Where does your majesty wish me to remain?”
“Will you give him to me for half an hour?” said Chicot to the king, in a low voice.
“What for?”
“To torment him a little. You owe me some compensation for obliging me to be present at this tiresome ceremony.”
“Well, take him.”
“Where does your majesty wish me to stand?” again asked M. de Monsoreau.
“Where you like; go behind my armchair, that is where I put my friends.”
“Come here,” said Chicot, making room for M. de Monsoreau, “come and get the scent of these fellows. Here is game which can be tracked without a hound. Here are the shoemakers who pass, or rather, who have passed; then here are the tanners. Mort de ma vie! if you lose their scent, I will take away your place.”
M. de Monsoreau listened mechanically; he seemed preoccupied, and looked around him anxiously.
“Do you know what your chief huntsman is hunting for now?” said Chicot, in an undertone, to the king.
“No.”
“Your brother.”
“The game is not in sight.”
“Just ask him where his countess is.”
“What for?”
“Just ask.”
“M. le Comte,” said Henri, “what have you done with Madame de Monsoreau? I do not see her here.”
The count started, but replied, “Sire, she is ill, the air of Paris did not agree with her; so having obtained leave from the queen, she set out last night, with her father, for Méridor.”
“Paris is not good for women in her situation,” said Chicot.
Monsoreau grew pale and looked furiously at him.
“This poor countess!” continued Chicot, “she will die of ennui by the way.”
“I said that she traveled with her father.”
“A father is very respectable, I allow, but not very amusing; and if she had only that worthy baron to amuse her it would be sad; but luckily——”
“What!” cried the count.
“What?”
“What do you mean by ‘luckily’?”
“Ah, it was an ellipsis I used.”
The count shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, but it was. Ask Henri, who is a man of letters.”
“Yes,” said the king; “but what did your adverb mean?”
“What adverb?”
“‘Luckily.’”
“‘Luckily’ means luckily. Luckily, then, there exist some of our friends, and very amusing ones, who, if they meet the countess, will amuse her, and as they are going the same way, it is probable they will. Oh, I see them from here; do you not, Henri; you, who are a man of imagination? There they go, on a good road, well mounted, and saying sweet things to Madame la Comtesse, which she likes very much, dear lady.”
M. de Monsoreau was furious, but he could not show it before the king; so he said as mildly as he could, “What, have you friends traveling to Anjou?”
“Good; pretend to be mysterious.”
“I swear to you——”
“Oh! you know they are there, although I saw you just now seeking for them mechanically among the crowd.”
“You saw me?”
“Yes, you, the palest of all chief huntsmen, past, present, and future, from Nimrod to M. d’Aulefort, your predecessor.”
“M. Chicot!”
“The palest, I repeat.”
“Monsieur, will you return to the friends of whom you spoke, and be so good as to name them, if your super-abundant imagination will let you.”
“Seek, monsieur. Morbleu, it is your occupation to hunt out animals, witness the unlucky stag whom you deranged this morning, and who thought it very unkind of you. Seek.”
The eyes of M. de Monsoreau wandered anxiously again.
“What!” cried he, seeing a vacant place by the king, “not the Duc d’Anjou?”
“Taint! Taint! the beast is found.”
“He is gone to-day.”
“He is gone to-day, but it is possible that he set out last night. When did your brother disappear, Henri?”
“Last night.”
“The duke gone!” murmured Monsoreau, paler than ever.
“I do not say he is gone, I say only that he disappeared last night, and that his best friends do not know where he is,” said the king.
“Oh!” cried the count, “if I thought so——”
“Well; what should you do? Besides, what harm if he does talk nonsense to Madame de Monsoreau? He is the gallant of the family, you know.”
“I am lost!” murmured the count, trying to go away. But Chicot detained him.
“Keep still; mordieu! you shake the king’s chair. Mort de ma vie, your wife will be quite happy with the prince to talk to, and M. Aurilly to play the lute to her.” Monsoreau trembled with anger.
“Quietly, monsieur,” continued Chicot; “hide your joy, here is the business beginning; you should not show your feelings so openly; listen to the discourse of the king.”
M. de Monsoreau was forced to keep quiet. M. de Guise entered and knelt before the king, not without throwing an uneasy glance of surprise on the vacant seat of M. d’Anjou. The king rose, and the heralds commanded silence.
“Gentlemen,” said the king, after assuring himself that his four friends, now replaced by ten Swiss, were behind him, “a king hears equally the voices which come to him from above and from below, that is to say, what is commanded by God, or asked by his people. I understand perfectly that there is a guarantee for my people, in the association of all classes which has been formed to defend the Catholic faith, and therefore I approve of the counsels of my cousin De Guise. I declare, then, the Holy League duly constituted, and as so great a body must have a powerful head, and as it is necessary that the chief called to sustain the Church should be one of its most zealous sons, I choose a Christian prince for the chief, and declare that this chief shall be”—he made a slight pause—“Henri de Valois, King of France and Poland.”
The Duc de Guise was thunderstruck. Large drops stood on his forehead, and he looked from one to the other of his brothers. All the leaguers uttered a murmur of surprise and discontent. The cardinal stole up to his brother, and whispered:
“François; I fear we are no longer in safety here. Let us haste to take leave, for the populace is uncertain, and the king whom they execrated yesterday, will be their idol for two or three days.”
During this time the king had signed the act prepared beforehand by M. de Morvilliers, the only person, with the exception of the queen mother, who was in the secret, then he passed the pen to the Duc de Guise, saying:
“Sign, my cousin; there, below me, now pass it to M. le Cardinal and M. de Mayenne.”
But these two had already disappeared. The king remarked their absence, and added, “Then pass the pen to M. de Monsoreau.”
The duke did so, and was about to retire, but the king said, “Wait.”
And while the others signed, he added, “My cousin, it was your advice, I believe, to guard Paris with a good army, composed of all the forces of the League. The army is made, and the natural general of the Parisians is the king.”
“Assuredly, sire.”
“But I do not forget that there is another army to command, and that this belongs of right to the bravest soldier in my kingdom; therefore go and command the army.”
“And when am I to set out, sire?”
“Immediately.”
“Henri, Henri!” whispered Chicot; but, in spite of his signs and grimaces, the king gave the duke his brevet ready signed. He took it and retired, and was soon out of Paris. The rest of the assembly dispersed gradually, crying, “Vive le Roi! and Vive la Ligue!”
“Oh, sire!” cried the favorites, approaching the king, “what a sublime idea you have had!”
“They think that gold is going to rain on them like manna,” said Chicot, who followed his master about everywhere with lamentations. As soon as they were left alone, “Ah! M. Chicot!” said Henri, “you are never content. Diable! I do not ask even for complaisance, but for good sense.”
“You are right, Henri; it is what you want most.”
“Confess I have done well.”
“That is just what I do not think.”
“Ah! you are jealous, M. Roi de France.”
“I! Heaven forbid. I shall choose better subjects for jealousy.”
“Corbleu.”
“Oh! what self-love.”
“Am I or not king of the League?”
“Certainly you are; but——”
“But what?”
“You are no longer King of France.”
“And who is king then?”
“Everybody, except you; firstly, your brother——”
“My brother!”
“Yes, M. d’Anjou.”
“Whom I hold prisoner.”
“Yes, but prisoner as he is, he was consecrated.”
“By whom was he consecrated?”
“By the Cardinal de Guise. Really, Henri, you have a fine police. They consecrate a king at Paris before thirty-three people, in the church of St. Genevieve, and you do not know of it!”
“Oh! and you do?”
“Certainly I do.”
“How can you know what I do not?”
“Ah! because M. de Morvilliers manages your police, and I am my own.”
The king frowned.
“Well, then, without counting Henri de Valois, we have François d’Anjou for king,” continued Chicot; “and then there is the Duc de Guise.”
“The Duc de Guise!”
“Yes, Henri de Guise, Henri le Balfré.”
“A fine king! whom I exile, whom I send to the army.”
“Good! as if you were not exiled to Poland; and La Charité is nearer to the Louvre than Cracow is. Ah, yes, you send him to the army—that is so clever; that is to say, you put thirty thousand men under his orders, ventre de biche! and a real army, not like your army of the League; no, no, an army of bourgeois is good for Henri de Valois, but Henri de Guise must have an army of soldiers—and what soldiers? hardened warriors, capable of destroying twenty armies of the League; so that if, being king in fact, Henri de Guise had the folly one day to wish to be so in name, he would only have to turn towards the capital, and say, ‘Let us swallow Paris, and Henri de Valois and the Louvre at a mouthful,’ and the rogues would do it. I know them.”
“You forget one thing in your argument, illustrious politician.”
“Ah, diable! it is possible! If you mean a fourth king——”
“No; you forget that before thinking of reigning in France, when a Valois is on the throne, it would be necessary to look back and count your ancestors. That such an idea might come to M. d’Anjou is possible; his ancestors are mine, and it is only a question of primogeniture. But M. de Guise!”
“Ah! that is just where you are in error.”
“How so?”
“M. de Guise is of a better race than you think.”
“Better than me, perhaps,” said Henri, smiling.
“There is no perhaps in it.”
“You are mad. Learn to read, my friend.”
“Well, Henri, you who can read, read this;” and he drew from his pocket the genealogy which we know already, handing it to Henri, who turned pale as he recognized, near to the signature of the prelate, the seal of St. Peter.
“What do you say, Henri? Are not your fleur-de-lys thrown a little in the background?”
“But how did you get this genealogy?”
“I! Do I seek these things? It came to seek me.”
“Where?”
“Under the bolster of a lawyer.”
“And what was his name?”
“M. Nicolas David.”
“Where was he?”
“At Lyons.”
“And who took it from under the bolster?”
“One of my good friends.”
“Who is he?”
“A monk.”
“His name?”
“Gorenflot.”
“What! that abominable leaguer, who uttered those incendiary discourses at St. Genevieve, and again yesterday in the streets of Paris?”
“You remember the history of Brutus, who pretended to be a fool?”
“He is, then, a profound politician? Did he take it from the advocate?”
“Yes, by force.”
“Then he is brave?”
“Brave as Bayard.”
“And having done this, he has not asked for any recompense?”
“He returned humbly to his convent, and only asks me to forget that he ever came out.”
“Then he is modest?”
“As St. Crepin.”
“Chicot, your friend shall be made a prior on the first vacancy.”
“Thanks for him, Henri.”
“Ma foi!” said Chicot to himself, “if he escapes being hung by Mayenne, he will have an abbey.”