The king, highly exasperated, could hardly read the letter which Chicot gave to him. While he deciphered the Latin with every sign of impatience, Chicot, before a great Venetian mirror, which hung over a gilt table, was admiring the infinite grace of his own person under his military dress.
"Oh! I am betrayed," cried Henri, when he had finished the letter; "the Béarnais had a plan, and I never suspected it."
"My son," said Chicot, "you know the proverb, 'Still waters run deepest'?"
"Go to the devil with your proverbs."
Chicot went to the door as if to obey.
"No, remain."
Chicot stopped.
"Cahors taken!" continued Henri.
"Yes, and very well done, too."
"Then he has generals and engineers?"
"No, he is too poor for that; he could not pay them; he does it all himself."
"He fight!" said Henri, disdainfully.
"I do not say that he rushes into it with enthusiasm; no, he resembles those people who try the water before they bathe; he just dips the ends of his fingers with a little shudder, which augurs badly, then his breast; all this takes him about ten minutes, and then he rushes into action, and through fire, like a salamander."
"Diable!"
"And I assure you, Henri, the fire was hot there."
The king rose and walked up and down the room.
"Here is a misfortune for me," cried he; "they will laugh at it: they will sing about it. Mordieu! it is lucky I thought of sending the promised aid to Antwerp; Antwerp will compensate for Cahors; the north will blot out the south."
"Amen!" said Chicot, plunging his hands into the king's sweetmeat-box to finish his desert.
At this moment the door opened, and the usher announced "M. le Comte du Bouchage."
"Ah!" cried Henri, "I told you so; here are news. Enter, comte, enter."
The usher opened the door, and Henri du Bouchage entered slowly and bent a knee to the king.
"Still pale and sad," said the king. "Come, friend, take a holiday air for a little while, and do not tell me good news with a doleful face: speak quickly, Du Bouchage, for I want to hear. You come from Flanders?"
"Yes, sire."
"And quickly?"
"As quickly, sire, as a man can ride."
"You are welcome. And now, what of Antwerp?"
"Antwerp belongs to the Prince of Orange."
"To the Prince of Orange!"
"Yes, to William."
"But did not my brother attack Antwerp?"
"Yes, sire; but now he is traveling to Chateau-Thierry."
"He has left the army?"
"Sire, there is no longer an army."
"Oh!" cried the king, sinking back in his armchair, "but Joyeuse—"
"Sire, my brother, after having done wonders with his sailors, after having conducted the whole of the retreat, rallied the few men who escaped the disaster, and sent me home with an escort for M. le Duc d'Anjou."
"A defeat!" murmured the king.
But all at once, with a strange look.
"Then Flanders is lost to my brother?"
"Absolutely, sire."
"Without hope?"
"I fear so, sire."
The clouds gradually cleared from the king's brow.
"That poor Francois," said he, smiling; "he is unlucky in his search for a crown. He missed that of Navarre, he has stretched out his hand for that of England, and has touched that of Flanders; I would wager, Du Bouchage, that he will never reign, although he desires it so much. And how many prisoners were taken?"
"About two thousand."
"How many killed?"
"At least as many; and among them M. de St. Aignan."
"What! poor St. Aignan dead!"
"Drowned."
"Drowned! Did you throw yourselves into the Scheldt?"
"No, the Scheldt threw itself upon us."
The comte then gave the king a description of the battle, and of the inundations. Henri listened silently. When the recital was over, he rose, and kneeling down on his prie-Dieu, said some prayers, and then returned with a perfectly calm face.
"Well," said he, "I trust I bear things like a king; and you, comte, since your brother is saved, like mine, thank God, and smile a little."
"Sire, I am at your orders."
"What do you ask as payment for your services, Du Bouchage?"
"Sire, I have rendered no service."
"I dispute that; but at least your brother has."—"Immense, sire."
"He has saved the army, you say, or rather, its remnants?"
"There is not a man left who does not say that he owes his life to my brother."
"Well! Du Bouchage, my will is to extend my benefits to both, and I only imitate in that Him who made you both rich, brave, and handsome; besides, I should imitate those great politicians who always rewarded the bearers of bad news."
"Oh!" said Chicot, "I have known men hung for bringing bad news."
"That is possible," said the king; "but remember the senate that thanked Varron."
"You cite republicans, Valois; misfortune makes you humble."
"Come, Du Bouchage, what will you have—what would you like?"
"Since your majesty does me the honor to speak to me so kindly, I will dare to profit by your goodness. I am tired of life, sire, and yet have a repugnance to shortening it myself, for God forbids it, and all the subterfuges that a man of honor employs in such a case are mortal sins. To get one's self killed in battle or to let one's self die of hunger are only different forms of suicide. I renounce the idea, therefore, of dying before the term which God has fixed for my life, and yet the world fatigues me, and I must leave it."
"My friend!" said the king.
Chicot looked with interest at the young man, so beautiful, so brave, so rich, and yet speaking in this desponding tone.
"Sire," continued the comte, "everything that has happened to me for some time has strengthened my resolution. I wish to throw myself into the arms of God, who is the sovereign consoler of the afflicted, as he is of the happy. Deign then, sire, to facilitate my entrance into a religious life, for my heart is sad unto death."
The king was moved at this doleful request.
"Ah! I understand," said he; "you wish to become a monk, but you fear the probation."
"I do not fear the austerities, sire, but the time they leave one in indecision. It is not to soften my life, nor to spare my body any physical suffering, or my mind any moral privation, but it is to pass at once from this world to the grating which separates me from it, and which one generally attains so slowly."
"Poor boy!" said the king. "I think he will make a good preacher; will he not, Chicot?"
Chicot did not reply. Du Bouchage continued:
"You see, sire, that it is with my own family that the struggle will take place, and with my relations that I shall meet with the greatest opposition. My brother, the cardinal, at once so good and so worldly, will find a thousand reasons to persuade me against it. At Rome your majesty is all-powerful; you have asked me what I wish for, and promised to grant it; my wish is this, obtain from Rome an authority that my novitiate be dispensed with."
The king rose smiling, and taking the comte's hand, said—
"I will do what you ask, my son. You wish to serve God, and you are right; he is a better master than I am. You have my promise, dear comte."
"Your majesty overwhelms me with joy," cried the young man, kissing Henri's hand as though he had made him duke, peer, or marshal of France. "Then it is settled?"
"On my word as a king and a gentleman."
Something like a smile passed over the lips of Du Bouchage; he bowed respectfully to the king and took leave.
"What a happy young man," said Henri.
"Oh!" said Chicot, "you need not envy him; he is not more doleful than yourself."
"But, Chicot, he is going to give himself up to religion."
"And who the devil prevents you from doing the same? I know a cardinal who will give all necessary aid, and he has more interest at Rome than you have; do you not know him? I mean the Cardinal de Guise."
"Chicot!"
"And if the tonsure disquiets you, for it is rather a delicate operation, the prettiest hands and the prettiest scissors—golden scissors, ma foi!—will give you this precious symbol, which would raise to three the number of the crowns you have worn, and will justify the device, 'Manet ultima coelo.'"
"Pretty hands, do you say?"
"Yes, do you mean to abuse the hands of Madame de Montpensier? How severe you are upon your subjects."
The king frowned, and passed over his eyes a hand as white as those spoken of, but more trembling.
"Well!" said Chicot, "let us leave that, for I see that the conversation does not please you, and let us return to subjects that interest me personally."
The king made a gesture, half indifferent, half approving.
"Have you heard, Henri," continued Chicot, "whether those Joyeuses carried off any woman?"
"Not that I know of."
"Have they burned anything?"
"What?"
"How should I know what a great lord burns to amuse himself; the house of some poor devil, perhaps."
"Are you mad, Chicot? Burn a house for amusement in my city of Paris!"
"Oh! why not?"
"Chicot!"
"Then they have done nothing that you know of?"
"Ma foi, no."
"Oh! so much the better," said Chicot, drawing a long breath like a man much relieved.
"Do you know one thing, Chicot?" said Henri.
"No, I do not."
"It is that you have become wicked."
"I?"
"Yes, you."
"My sojourn in the tomb had sweetened me, but your presence, great king, has destroyed the effect."
"You become insupportable, Chicot; and I now attribute to you ambitious projects and intrigues of which I formerly believed you incapable."
"Projects of ambition! I ambitious! Henriquet, my son, you used to be only foolish, now you are mad; you have progressed."
"And I tell you, M. Chicot, that you wish to separate from me all my old friends, by attributing to them intentions which they have not, and crimes of which they never thought; in fact, you wish to monopolize me."
"I monopolize you! what for? God forbid! you are too tiresome, without counting the difficulty of pleasing you with your food. Oh! no, indeed! Explain to me whence comes this strange idea."
"You began by listening coldly to my praises of your old friend, Dom Modeste, to whom you owe much."
"I owe much to Dom Modeste! Good."
"Then you tried to calumniate the Joyeuses, my true friends."
"I do not say no."
"Then you launched a shaft at the Guises."
"Ah! you love them now; you love all the world to-day, it seems."
"No, I do not love them; but, as just now they keep themselves close and quiet, and do not do me the least harm, I do not fear them, and I cling to all old and well-known faces. All these Guises, with their fierce looks and great swords, have never done me any harm, after all, and they resemble—shall I tell you what?"
"Do, Henri; I know how clever you are at comparisons."
"They resemble those perch that they let loose in the ponds to chase the great fish and prevent them growing too fat; but suppose that the great fish are not afraid?"
"Well!"
"Then the teeth of the perch are not strong enough to get through their scales."
"Oh! Henri! my friend, how clever you are!"
"While your Béarnais—"
"Well, have you a comparison for him also?"
"While your Béarnais, who mews like a cat, bites like a tiger."
"Well, my son, I will tell you what to do; divorce the queen and marry Madame de Montpensier; was she not once in love with you?"
"Yes, and that is the source of all her menaces, Chicot; she has a woman's spite against me, and she provokes me now and then, but luckily I am a man, and can laugh at it."
As Henri finished these words, the usher cried at the door, "A messenger from M. le Duc de Guise for his majesty."
"Is it a courier or a gentleman?" asked the king.
"It is a captain, sire."
"Let him enter; he is welcome."
Chicot, at this announcement, sat down and turned his back to the door; but the first words pronounced by the duke's messenger made him start. He opened his eyes. The messenger could see nothing but the eye of Chicot peering from behind the chair, while Chicot could see him altogether.
"You come from Lorraine?" asked the king of the new comer, who had a fine and warlike appearance.
"Not so, sire; I come from Soissons, where M. le Duc, who has been a month in that city, gave me this letter to deliver to your majesty."
The messenger then opened his buff coat, which was fastened by silver clasps, and drew from a leather pouch lined with silk not one letter, but two; for they had stuck together by the wax, and as the captain advanced to give the king one letter, the other fell on the carpet. Chicot's eyes followed the messenger, and saw the color spread over his cheeks as he stooped to pick up the letter he had let fall. But Henri saw nothing, he opened his own letter and read, while the messenger watched him closely.
"Ah! M. Borromée," thought Chicot, "so you are a captain, are you?"
"Good," said the king, after reading the duke's letter with evident satisfaction. "Go, captain, and tell M. de Guise that I am grateful for his offer."
"Your majesty will not honor me with a written answer?"
"No, I shall see the duke in a month or six weeks, and can thank him myself."
The captain bowed and went out.
"You see, Chicot," then said the king, "that M. de Guise is free from all machinations. This brave duke has learned the Navarre business, and he fears that the Huguenots will raise up their heads, for he has also ascertained that the Germans are about to send re-enforcements to Henri. Now, guess what he is about to do."
As Chicot did not reply, Henri went on.
"Well! he offers me the army that he has just raised in Lorraine to watch Flanders, and says that in six weeks it will be at my command, with its general. What do you say to that, Chicot?"
No answer.
"Really, my dear Chicot," continued the king, "you are as absurdly obstinate as a Spanish mule; and if I happen to convince you of some error, you sulk; yes, sulk."
Not a sound came to contradict Henri in this frank opinion of his friend. Now silence displeased Henri more than contradiction.
"I believe," said he, "that the fellow has had the impertinence to go to sleep. Chicot!" continued he, advancing to the armchair; "reply when your king speaks."
But Chicot did not reply, for he was not there; and Henri found the armchair empty.
He looked all round the room, but Chicot was not to be seen. The king gave a superstitious shudder; it sometimes came into his mind that Chicot was a supernatural being—a diabolic incarnation, of a good kind, it was true, but still diabolical.
He called Nambu the usher, and questioned him, and he assured his majesty that he had seen Chicot go out five minutes before the duke's messenger left.
"Decidedly," thought Henri, "Chicot was vexed at being in the wrong. How ill-natured men are, even the best of them."
Nambu was right; Chicot had traversed the antechambers silently, but still he was not able to keep his spurs from sounding, which made several people turn, and bow when they saw who it was.
The captain came out five minutes after Chicot, went down the steps across the court proudly and with a satisfied air; proud of his person, and pleased that the king had received him so well, and without any suspicions of M. de Guise. As he crossed the drawbridge, he heard behind him steps which seemed to be the echo of his own. He turned, thinking that the king had sent some message to him, and great was his stupefaction to see behind him the demure face of Robert Briquet. It may be remembered that the first feeling of these two men about one another had not been exactly sympathetical.
Borromée opened his mouth, and paused; and in an instant was joined by Chicot.
"Corboeuf!" said Borromée.
"Ventre de biche!" cried Chicot.
"The bourgeois!"
"The reverend father!"
"With that helmet!"
"With that buff coat!"
"I am surprised to see you."
"I am delighted to meet you again."
And they looked fiercely at each other, but Borromée, quickly assuming an air of amiable urbanity, said, "Vive Dieu, you are cunning, M. Robert Briquet."
"I, reverend father; and why do you say so?"
"When you were at the convent of the Jacobins, you made me believe you were only a simple bourgeois."
"Ah!" replied Chicot, "and what must we say of you, M. Borromée?"
"Of me?"
"Yes, of you."
"And why?"
"For making me believe you were only a monk. You must be more cunning than the pope himself; but you took me in the snare."
"The snare?"
"Yes, doubtless; a brave captain like you does not change his cuirass for a frock without grave reasons."
"With a soldier like you, I will have no secrets. It is true that I have certain personal interests in the convent of the Jacobins; but you?"
"And I, also."
"Let us chat about it."
"I am quite ready."
"Do you like wine?"
"Yes, when it is good."
"Well! I know a little inn, which I think has no rival in Paris."
"And I know one also; what is yours called?"
"The 'Corne d'Abondance.'"
"Ah!"
"Well, what is it?"
"Nothing."
"Do you know anything against this house?"
"Not at all."
"You know it?"
"No; and that astonishes me."
"Shall we go there, compère?"
"Oh! yes, at once."
"Come, then."
"Where is it?"
"Near the Porte Bourdelle. The host appreciates well the difference between palates like yours and mine, and those of every thirsty passer-by."
"Can we talk there?"
"Perfectly at our ease."
"Oh! I see you are well known there."
"Ma foi, no; this time you are wrong. M. Bonhomet sells me wine when I want it, and I pay when I can; that is all."
"Bonhomet! that is a name that promises well."
"And keeps its promise. Come, compère."
"Oh! oh!" said Chicot to himself; "now I must choose among my best grimaces; for if Bonhomet recognizes me at once, it is all over."
The way along which Borromée led Chicot, never suspecting that he knew it as well as himself, recalled to our Gascon the happy days of his youth. How many times had he in those days, under the rays of the winter sun, or in the cool shade in summer, sought out this house, toward which a stranger was now conducting him. Then a few pieces of gold, or even of silver, jingling in his purse, made him happier than a king; and he gave himself up to the delightful pleasures of laziness, having no wife nor children starving, or scolding and suspicious, at home. Then Chicot used to sit down carelessly on the wooden bench, waiting for Gorenflot, who, however, was always exact to the time fixed for dinner; and then he used to study, with intelligent curiosity, Gorenflot in all his different shades of drunkenness.
Soon the great street of St. Jacques appeared to his eyes, the cloister of St. Benoit, and nearly in front of that the hotel of the Corne d'Abondance, rather dirty, and rather dilapidated, but still shaded by its planes and chestnuts, and embellished inside by its pots of shining copper, and brilliant saucepans, looking like imitations of gold and silver, and bringing real gold and silver into the pockets of the innkeeper. Chicot bent his back until he seemed to lose five or six inches of his height, and making a most hideous grimace, prepared to meet his old friend Bonhomet. However, as Borromée walked first, it was to him that Bonhomet spoke, and he scarcely looked at Chicot, who stood behind. Time had left its traces on the face of Bonhomet, as well as on his house. Besides the wrinkles which seem to correspond on the human face to the cracks made by time on the front of buildings, M. Bonhomet had assumed airs of great importance since Chicot had seen him last. These, however, he never showed much to men of a warlike appearance, for whom he had always a great respect.
It seemed to Chicot that nothing was changed excepting the tint of the ceiling, which from gray had turned to black.
"Come, friend," said Borromée, "I know a little nook where two men may talk at their ease while they drink. Is it empty?" continued he, turning to Bonhomet.
Bonhomet answered that it was, and Borromée then led Chicot to the little room already so well known to all readers of "Chicot, the Jester."
"Now," said Borromée, "wait here for me while I avail myself of a privilege granted to the habitués of this house."
"What is that?"
"To go to the cellar and fetch one's own wine."
"Ah! a jolly privilege. Go, then."
Borromée went out. Chicot watched him disappear, and then went to the wall and raised a picture, representing Credit killed by bad paymasters, behind which was a hole, through which you could see into the public room. Chicot knew this hole well, for it was his own making.
On looking through, he perceived Borromée, after placing his finger on his lips, as a sign of caution, say something to Bonhomet, who seemed to acquiesce by a nod of the head, after which Borromée took a light, which was always kept burning in readiness, and descended to the cellar. Then Chicot knocked on the wall in a peculiar manner. On hearing this knock, which seemed to recall to him some souvenir deeply rooted in his heart, Bonhomet started, and looked round him. Chicot knocked again impatiently, like a man angry at his first call not being answered. Bonhomet ran to the little room, and found Chicot standing there upright. At this sight Bonhomet, who, like the rest of the world, had believed Chicot dead, uttered a cry, for he believed he saw a ghost.
"Since when," said Chicot, "has a person like me been obliged to call twice?"
"Oh! dear M. Chicot, is it you or your shade?" cried Bonhomet.
"Whichever it be, since you recognize me, I hope you will obey me."
"Oh! certainly, dear M. Chicot."
"Then whatever noise you hear in this room, and whatever takes place here, do not come until I call you."
"Your directions will be the easier to obey, since they are exactly the same as your companion has just given to me."
"Yes, but if he calls, do not come—wait until I call."—"I will, M. Chicot."
"Good! now send away every one else from your inn, and in ten minutes let us be as free and as solitary here as if we came to fast on Good Friday."
"In ten minutes, M. Chicot, there shall not be a soul in the hotel excepting your humble servant."
"Go, Bonhomet; you are not changed, I see."
"Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" said Bonhomet, as he retired, "what is about to take place in my poor house?"
As he went, he met Borromée returning from the cellar with his bottles.
We do not know how Bonhomet managed, but when the ten minutes had expired, the last customer was crossing the threshold of the door, muttering:
"Oh! oh! the weather is stormy here to-day; we must avoid the storm."
When the captain re-entered the room with a basket in his hand containing a dozen bottles, he was received by Chicot with smiles. Borromée was in haste to uncork his bottles, but his haste was nothing to Chicot's; thus the preparations did not take long, and the two companions began to drink. At first, as though their occupation was too important to be interrupted, they drank in silence. Chicot uttered only these words:
"Par ma foi! this is good Burgundy."
They drank two bottles in this way; at the third, Chicot raised his eyes to heaven, and said:
"Really, we are drinking as though we wished to intoxicate ourselves."
"It is so good," replied Borromée.
"Ah! it pleases you. Go on, friend; I have a strong head."
And each of them swallowed another bottle. The wine produced on each of them an opposite effect—it unloosened Chicot's tongue, and tied that of Borromée.
"Ah!" murmured Chicot, "you are silent; then you doubt yourself."
"Ah!" said Borromée to himself, "you chatter; then you are getting tipsy." Then he asked Chicot, "How many bottles does it take you?"
"For what?"
"To get lively."
"About four."
"And to get tipsy?"
"About six."
"And dead drunk?"
"Double."
"Boaster!" thought Borromée, "he stammers already, and has only drunk four. Come, then, we can go on," said he, and he drew out a fifth for Chicot and one for himself.
But Chicot remarked that of the five bottles ranged beside Borromée some were half full, and others two-thirds; none were empty. This confirmed him in his suspicions that the captain had bad intentions with regard to him. He rose as if to fetch his fifth bottle, and staggered as he did so.
"Oh!" said he, "did you feel?"
"What?"
"The earth trembling."
"Bah!"
"Yes, ventre de biche! Luckily the hotel of the Corne d'Abondance is solid, although it is built on a pivot."
"What! built on a pivot?"
"Doubtless, since it turns."
"True," said Borromée, "I felt the effects, but did not guess the cause."
"Because you are not a Latin scholar, and have not read the 'De Natura Rerum.' If you had, you would know that there is no effect without a cause."
"Well, my dear captain, for you are a captain like me, are you not?"
"Yes, from the points of my toes to the roots of my hair."
"Well, then, my dear captain, tell me, since there is no effect without a cause, as you say, what was the cause of your disguise?"
"What disguise?"
"That which you wore when you came to visit Dom Modeste."
"How was I disguised?"
"As a bourgeois."
"Ah! true."
"Will you tell me?"
"Willingly, if you will tell me why you were disguised as a monk. Confidence for confidence."
"Agreed," said Borromée.
"You wish to know, then, why I was disguised," said Chicot, with an utterance which seemed to grow thicker and thicker.
"Yes, it puzzles me."
"And then you will tell me?"
"Yes, that was agreed."
"Ah! true; I forgot. Well, the thing is very simple; I was a spy for the king."
"A spy?"
"Yes."
"Is that, then, your profession?"
"No, I am an amateur."
"What were you spying there?"
"Every one. Dom Modeste himself, then Brother Borromée, little Jacques, and the whole convent."
"And what did you discover, my friend?"
"First, that Dom Modeste is a great fool."
"It does not need to be very clever to find that out."
"Pardon me; his majesty Henri the Third, who is no fool, regards him as one of the lights of the Church, and is about to make a bishop of him."
"So be it; I have nothing to say against that promotion; on the contrary, it will give me a good laugh. But what else did you discover?"
"I discovered that Brother Borromée was not a monk but a captain."
"Ah! you discovered that?"
"At once."
"Anything else?"
"I discovered that Jacques was practicing with the foils before he began with the sword."
"Ah! you discovered that also. Anything else."
"Give me more to drink, or I shall remember nothing."
"Remember that you are beginning your sixth bottle," said Borromée laughing.
"Did we not come here to drink?"
"Certainly we did."
"Let us drink then."
"Well," said Borromée, "now do you remember?"
"What?"
"What else you saw in the convent."
"Well, I saw that the monks were really soldiers, and instead of obeying Dom Modeste, obeyed you."
"Ah, truly: but doubtless that was not all?"
"No; but more to drink, or my memory will fail me."
And as his bottle was empty, he held out his glass for more.
"Well, now do you remember?"
"Oh, yes, I should think so."
"Well, what else?"
"I saw that there was a plot."
"A plot!" cried Borromée, turning pale.
"Yes, a plot."
"Against whom?"
"Against the king."
"Of what nature?"
"To try and carry him off."
"When?"
"When he was returning from Vincennes."
"Sacre!"
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. And you found out that?"
"Yes."
"And warned the king?"
"Parbleu! that was what I came for."
"Then you were the cause of the attempt failing?"
"Yes, I."
"Hang him!" murmured Borromée.
"What did you say?"
"I said that you have good eyes, my friend."
"Bah! I have seen more than that; pass me one of your bottles, and I will tell you what I have seen."
Borromée hastened to comply with Chicot's desire.
"Let me hear," said he.
"Firstly, I have seen M. de Mayenne wounded."
"Bah!"
"No wonder, he was on my route. And then I have seen the taking of Cahors."
"How? the taking of Cahors?"
"Certainly. Ah! captain, it was a grand thing to see, and a brave man like you would have been delighted."
"I do not doubt it. You were, then, near the king of Navarre?"
"Side by side, my friend, as we are now."
"And you left him?"
"To announce this news to the king of France."
"Then you have been at the Louvre?"
"Yes, just before you."
"Then, as we have not quitted each other since, I need not ask you what you have done."
"On the contrary, ask; for that is the most curious of all."
"Tell me, then."
"Tell! oh, it is very easy to say tell."
"Try."
"One more glass of wine, then, to loosen my tongue. Quite full; that will do. Well, I saw, comrade, that when you gave the king the Duc de Guise's letter, you let another fall."
"Another!" cried Borromée, starting up. "Yes, it is there."
And having tried two or three times, with an unsteady hand, he put his finger on the buff doublet of Borromée, just where the letter was. Borromée started, as though Chicot's finger had been a hot iron, and had touched his skin instead of his doublet.
"Oh, oh!" said he, "there is but one thing wanting."
"What is that?"
"That you should know to whom the letter is addressed."
"Oh, I know quite well; it is addressed to the Duchesse de Montpensier."
"Good heavens! I hope you have not told that to the king."
"No; but I will tell him."
"When?"
"When I have had a nap." And he let his arms fall on the table, and his head on them.
"Then as soon as you can walk you will go to the Louvre?"
"I will."
"You will denounce me."
"I will denounce you."
"Is it not a joke?"
"What?"
"That you will tell the king after your nap."
"Not at all. You see, my dear friend," said Chicot, half raising his head, "you are a conspirator, and I am a spy; you have a plot, and I denounce you; we each follow our business."
And Chicot laid his head down again, so that his face was completely hidden by his hands, while the back of his head was protected by his helmet.
"Ah!" cried Borromée, "you will denounce me when you wake!" and, rising, he made a furious blow with his dagger on the back of his companion, thinking to pierce him through and nail him to the table. But he had not reckoned on the shirt of mail which Chicot had carried away from the priory. The dagger broke upon it like glass, and for the second time Chicot owed his life to it.
Before Borromée had time to recover from his astonishment, Chicot's right fist struck him a heavy blow in the face, and sent him bleeding and stunned against the wall.
In a minute, however, he was up, and sword in hand; but this minute had sufficed for Chicot to draw his sword also, and prepare himself. He seemed to shake off, as if by enchantment, all the fumes of the wine, and stood with a steady hand to receive his adversary. The table, like a field of battle, covered with empty bottles, lay between them, but the blood flowing down his face infuriated Borromée, who lunged at his adversary as fiercely as the intervening table permitted.
"Dolt!" cried Chicot, "you see that it is decidedly you who are drunk, for you cannot reach me across the table, while my arm is six inches longer than yours, and my sword as much longer than your sword; and here is the proof."
As he spoke, he stretched out his arm and wounded Borromée in the forehead. Borromée uttered a cry, still more of rage than of pain, and as he was brave enough, attacked with double fury.
Chicot, however, still on the other side of the table, took a chair and sat down, saying, "Mon Dieu! how stupid these soldiers are; they pretend to know how to manage their swords, and any bourgeois, if he liked, could kill them like flies. Ah! now you want to put out my eye. And now you mount on the table; but, ventre de biche! take care, donkey." And he pricked him with his sword in the stomach, as he had already done in the forehead.
Borromée roared with anger and leaped from the table to the floor.
"That is as it should, be," said Chicot; "now we are on the same level, and we can talk while we are fencing. Ah! captain, captain, and so we sometimes try our hand a little at assassination in our spare moments, do we?"
"I do for my cause what you do for yours," said Borromée, now brought back to the seriousness of his position, and terrified, in spite of himself, at the smothered fire which seemed gleaming in Chicot's eyes.
"So much for talking," said Chicot; "and yet, my friend, it is with no little pleasure I find that I am a better hand than you are. Ah! that was not bad."
Borromée had just made a lunge at Chicot, which had slightly touched his breast.
"Not bad, but I know the thrust—it is the very same you showed little Jacques. I was just saying, then, that I have the advantage of you, for I did not begin this quarrel, however anxiously disposed I might have been to do so. More than that, even, I have allowed you to carry out your project by giving you every latitude you required, and yet at this very moment even, I have only been acting on the defensive, and this, because I have something to propose to you."
"Nothing," cried Borromée, exasperated at Chicot's imperturbability, "nothing."
And he gave a thrust which would have run the Gascon completely through the body, if the latter had not, with his long legs, sprung back a step, which placed him out of his adversary's reach.
"I am going to tell you what this arrangement is, all the same, so that I shall have nothing left to reproach myself for."
"Hold your tongue," said Borromée; "hold your tongue; it will be useless."
"Listen," said Chicot; "it is to satisfy my own conscience. I have no wish to shed your blood, you understand, and I don't want to kill you until I am driven to extremes."
"Kill me, kill me, I say, if you can!" exclaimed Borromée, exasperated.
"No, no; I have already once in my life killed another such swordsman as you are; I will even say a better swordsman than you. Pardieu! you know him; he, too, was one of De Guise's retainers—a lawyer, too."
"Ah! Nicolas David!" said Borromée, terrified at the incident, and again placing himself on the defensive.
"Exactly so."
"It was you who killed him?"
"Oh! yes, with a pretty little thrust which I will presently show you, if you decline the arrangement I propose."
"Well, let me hear what the arrangement is."
"You will pass from the Duc de Guise's service to that of the king, without, however, quitting that of the duc."
"In other words, that I should become a spy like yourself?"
"No, for there will be a difference; I am not paid, but you will be. You will begin by showing me the Duc de Guise's letter to Madame la Duchesse de Montpensier; you will let me take a copy of it, and I will leave you quiet until another occasion. Well, am I not considerate?"—"Here," said Borromée, "is my answer."
Borromée's reply was "un coupé sur les armes," so rapidly dealt that the point of his sword slightly touched Chicot's shoulder.
"Well, well," said Chicot, "I see I must positively show you Nicolas David's thrust. It is very simple and pretty."
And Chicot, who had up to that moment been acting on the defensive, made one step forward and attacked in his turn.
"This is the thrust," said Chicot; "I make a feint in quartrebasse."
And he did so; Borromée parried by giving way; but, after this first step backward he was obliged to stop, as he found that he was close to the partition.
"Good! precisely so; you parry in a circle; that's wrong, for my wrist is stronger than yours. I catch your sword in mine, thus. I return to the attack by a tierce haute, I fall upon you, so, and you are hit, or, rather, you are a dead man!"
In fact, the thrust had followed, or rather had accompanied, the demonstration, and the slender rapier, penetrating Borromée's chest, had glided like a needle completely through him, penetrating deeply, and with a dull, heavy sound, the wooden partition behind him.
Borromée flung out his arms, letting his sword fall to the ground; his eyes became fixed and injected with blood, his mouth opened wide, his lips were stained with a red-colored foam, his head fell on his shoulder with a sigh, which sounded like a death-rattle; then his limbs refused their support, and his body as it sunk forward enlarged the aperture of the wound, but could not free itself from the partition, supported as it was by Chicot's terrible wrist, so that the miserable wretch, like a gigantic insect, remained fastened to the wall, which his feet kicked convulsively.
Chicot, cold and impassible as he always was in positions of great difficulty, especially when he had a conviction at the bottom of his heart that he had done everything his conscience could require of him—Chicot, we say, took his hand from his sword, which remained in a horizontal position, unfastened the captain's belt, searched his doublet, took the letter, and read the address:
"Duchesse de Montpensier."
All this time the blood was welling copiously from the wound, and the agony of death was depicted on the features of the wounded man.
"I am dying, I am dying!" he murmured. "O Heaven! have pity on me."
This last appeal to the divine mercy, made by a man who had most probably rarely thought of it until this moment of his direst need, touched Chicot's feeling.
"Let us be charitable," he said; "and since this man must die, let him at least die as quietly as possible."
He then advanced toward the partition, and by an effort withdrew his sword from the wall, and supporting Borromée's body, he prevented it from falling heavily to the ground.
This last precaution, however, was useless; the approach of death had been rapid and certain, and had already paralyzed the dying man's limbs. His legs gave way beneath him, he fell into Chicot's arms, and then rolled heavily on the floor.
The shock of his fall made a stream of blood flow from his wound, with which the last remains of life ebbed away.
Chicot then went and opened the door of communication, and called Bonhomet.
He had no occasion to call twice, for the innkeeper had been listening at the door, and had successively heard the noise of tables and stools, the clashing of swords, and the fall of a heavy body; besides, the worthy M. Bonhomet had particularly, after the confidence which had been reposed in him, too extensive an experience of the character of gentlemen of the sword in general, and of that of Chicot in particular, not to have guessed, step by step, what had taken place.
The only thing of which he was ignorant was, which of the two adversaries had fallen.
It must, however, be said in praise of Maître Bonhomet that his face assumed an expression of real satisfaction when he heard Chicot's voice, and when he saw that it was the Gascon who, safe and sound, opened the door.
Chicot, whom nothing escaped, remarked the expression of his countenance, and was inwardly pleased at it.
Bonhomet, tremblingly, entered the apartment.
"Good heavens!" he exclaimed, as he saw the captain's body bathed in blood.
"Yes, my poor Bonhomet," said Chicot; "this is what we have come to; our dear captain here is very ill, as you see."
"Oh! my good Monsieur Chicot, my good Monsieur Chicot!" exclaimed Bonhomet, ready to faint.
"Well, what?" inquired Chicot.
"It is very unkind of you to have chosen my inn for this execution; such a handsome captain, too!"
"Would you sooner have seen Chicot lying there, and Borromée alive?"
"No, oh no!" cried the host, from the very bottom of his heart.
"Well, that would have happened, however, had it not been for a miracle of Providence."—"Really?"
"Upon the word of Chicot, just look at my back, for it pains me a good deal, my dear friend."
And he stooped down before the innkeeper, so that both his shoulders might be on a level with the host's eye.
Between the two shoulders the doublet was pierced through, and a spot of blood as large and round as a silver crown piece reddened the edges of the hole.
"Blood!" cried Bonhomet, "blood! Ah, you are wounded!"
"Wait, wait."
And Chicot unfastened his doublet and his shirt. "Now look!" he said.
"Oh! you wore a cuirass! What a fortunate thing, dear Monsieur Chicot; and you were saying that the ruffian wished to assassinate you."
"Diable! it hardly seems likely I should have taken any pleasure in giving myself a dagger thrust between my own shoulders. Now, what do you see?"
"A link broken."
"That dear captain was in good earnest then; is there much blood?"
"Yes, a good deal under the links."
"I must take off the cuirass, then," said Chicot.
Chicot took off his cuirass, and bared the upper part of his body, which seemed to be composed of nothing else but bones, of muscles spread over the bones, and of skin merely covering the muscles.
"Ah! Monsieur Chicot," exclaimed Bonhomet, "you have a wound as large as a plate."
"Yes, I suppose the blood has spread; there is what doctors call ecchymosis; give me some clean linen, pour into a glass equal parts of good olive oil and wine dregs, and wash that stain for me."
"But, dear M. Chicot, what am I to do with this body?"
"That is not your affair."
"What! not my affair?"
"No. Give me some ink, a pen, and a sheet of paper."
"Immediately, dear Monsieur Chicot," said Bonhomet, as he darted out of the room.
Meanwhile Chicot, who probably had no time to lose, heated at the lamp the point of a small dagger, and cut in the middle of the wax the seal of the letter. This being done, and as there was nothing else to retain the dispatch, Chicot drew it from its envelope, and read it with the liveliest marks of satisfaction.
Just as he had finished reading it, Maître Bonhomet returned with the oil, the wine, the paper, and the pen.
Chicot arranged the pen, ink, and paper before him, sat himself down at the table, and turned his back with stoical indifference toward Bonhomet for him to operate upon. The latter understood the pantomime, and began to rub it.
However, as if, instead of irritating a painful wound, some one had been tickling him in the most delightful manner, Chicot, during the operation, copied the letter from the Duc de Guise to his sister, and made his comments thereon at every word.