We dare not affirm that Dame Fournichon was as discreet as she had promised to be, for she interrogated the first soldier whom she saw pass as to the name of the captain who had conducted the review. The soldier, more cautious than she, asked her why she wished to know.
"Because he has just been here," she replied, "and one likes to know to whom one has been talking."
The soldier laughed. "The captain who conducted the review would not have entered this hotel," said he.
"Why not; is he too great for that?"
"Perhaps so."
"Well, but it is not for himself that he wanted the hotel."
"For whom then?"
"For his friends."
"He would not lodge his friends here, I am sure."
"Peste! why, who can he be, then?"
"Well, my good woman, he who conducted the review is simply Monsieur le Duc Nogaret de Lavalette d'Epernon, peer of France, and colonel-general of infantry. What do you say to that?"
"That if it was he, he did me great honor."
"Did you hear him say 'parfandious'?"
"Oh! yes."
We may now judge if the 26th of October was impatiently expected. On the evening of the 25th a man entered, bearing a heavy bag, which he placed on Fournichon's table.
"It is the price of the repast ordered for to-morrow," said he.
"At how much a head?"
"At six livres."
"Will they have only one meal here?"
"That is all."
"Has the captain found them a lodging, then?"
"It appears so," said the messenger, who went, and declined to answer any more questions.
At last the much-desired day arrived; half-past twelve had just struck when some cavaliers stopped at the door of the hotel. One, who appeared to be their chief, came with two well-mounted lackeys. Each of them produced the seal of Cleopatra's head, and were received with all sorts of courtesies, especially the young man with the lackeys. Nevertheless, excepting this young man, they all seemed timid and preoccupied. Most of them dispersed, however, until supper-time, either to swell the crowd at the execution of Salcede, or to see Paris.
About two o'clock, others began to arrive. One man came in alone, without a hat, a cane in his hand, and swearing at Paris, where he said the thieves were so adroit that they had stolen his hat as he had passed through a crowd, without his being able to see who had taken it. However, he said, it was his own fault, for wearing a hat ornamented with such a superb diamond. At four o'clock, forty people had arrived.
"Is it not strange," said Fournichon to his wife, "they are all Gascons?"
"Well, what of that? The captain said they were all countrymen, and he is a Gascon. M. d'Epernon is from Toulouse."
"Then you still believe it was M. d'Epernon?"
"Did he not say three times the famous 'parfandious'?"
Very soon the five other Gascons arrived; the number of guests was complete. Never was such surprise painted on so many faces; for an hour nothing was heard but "saudioux," "mordioux!" and "cap de Bious!" and such noisy joy, that it seemed to the Fournichons that all Poitou and Languedoc were collected in their room. Some knew, and greeted each other.
"Is it not singular to find so many Gascons here?" asked one.
"No," replied Perducas de Pincornay, "the sign is tempting for men of honor."
"Ah! is it you?" said St. Maline, the gentleman with the lackeys, "you have not yet explained to me what you were about to do, when the crowd separated us."
"What was that?" asked Pincornay, reddening.
"How it happens that I met you on the road between Angoulême and Angers without a hat, as you are now?"
"It seems to interest you, monsieur?"
"Ma foi! yes. Poitiers is far from Paris, and you came from beyond Poitiers."
"Yes, from St. Andre de Cubsac."
"And without a hat?"
"Oh! it is very simple. My father has two magnificent horses, and he is quite capable of disinheriting me for the accident that has happened to one of them."
"What is that?"
"I was riding one of them when it took fright at the report of a gun that was fired close to me, and ran away; it made for the bank of the Dordogne and plunged in."
"With you?"
"No; luckily I had time to slip off, or I should have been drowned with him."
"Ah! then the poor beast was drowned?"
"Pardioux! you know the Dordogne—half a league across."
"And then?"
"Then I resolved not to return home, but to go away as far as possible from my father's anger."
"But your hat?"
"Diable! my hat had fallen."
"Like you."
"I did not fall; I slipped off."
"But your hat?"
"Ah! my hat had fallen. I sought for it, being my only resource, as I had come out without money."
"But how could your hat be a resource?"
"Saudioux! it was a great one, for I must tell you that the plume of this hat was fastened by a diamond clasp, that his majesty the emperor Charles V. gave to my grandfather, when, on his way from Spain to Flanders, he stopped at our castle."
"Ah! ah! and you have sold the clasp, and the hat with it. Then, my dear friend, you ought to be the richest of us all, and you should have bought another glove; your hands are not alike; one is as white as a woman's, and the other as black as a negro's."
"But listen; as I turned to seek my hat I saw an enormous crow seize hold of it."
"Of your hat!"
"Or rather of the clasp; attracted by the glitter, and in spite of my cries, he flew away with it, and I saw it no more. So that, overwhelmed by this double loss, I did not dare to return home, but came to seek my fortune in Paris."
"Good!" cried a third, "the wind has changed into a crow. I heard you tell M. de Loignac that the wind had carried it away while you were reading a letter from your mistress."
"Now," cried St. Maline, "I have the honor of knowing M. d'Aubigne, who, though a brave soldier, writes well, and I recommend you to tell him the history of your hat; he will make a charming story of it."
Several stifled laughs were heard.
"Ah! gentlemen," cried the Gascon, "do you laugh at me?"
They turned away to laugh again.
Perducas threw a glance around him, and saw a young man near the fireplace hiding his face in his hands. He thought it was to laugh, and, going up to him, struck him on the shoulder, saying—
"Eh! monsieur, if you laugh, at all events show your face."
The young man looked up; it was our friend Ernanton de Carmainges.
"I beg you will leave me alone," said he, "I was not thinking of you."
Pincornay turned away, grumbling; but at this moment an officer entered.
"M. de Loignac!" cried twenty voices.
At this name, known through all Gascony, every one rose and kept silence.
"Supper!" cried M. de Loignac; "and from this moment let all be friends, and love each other like brothers."
"Hum!" said St. Maline.
"That would be difficult," added Ernanton.
"See," cried Pincornay, "they laugh at me because I have no hat, and they say nothing to M. Montcrabeau, who is going to supper in a cuirass of the time of the Emperor Pertinax, from whom it probably came. See what it is to have defensive arms."
"Gentlemen," cried Montcrabeau, "I take it off; so much the worse for those who prefer seeing me with offensive instead of defensive arms;" and he gave his cuirass to his lackey, a man about fifty years of age.
"Peace! peace!" cried De Loignac, "and let us go to table."
Meanwhile the lackey whispered to Pertinax, "And am I not to sup? Let me have something, Pertinax. I am dying of hunger."
Pertinax, instead of being offended at this familiar address, replied, "I will try, but you had better see for something for yourself."
"Hum! that is not reassuring."
"Have you no money?"
"We spent our last crown at Sens."
"Diable! then try to sell something."
A few minutes after a cry was heard in the street of "Old iron! who wants to sell old iron?"
Madame Fournichon ran to the door, while M. Fournichon placed the supper on the table, and to judge by its reception it must have been exquisite. As his wife did not return, however, the host asked a servant what she was doing.
"Oh, master," he replied, "she is selling all your old iron for new money."
"I hope not my cuirass and arms," said he, running to the door.
"No," said De Loignac, "it is forbidden to buy arms."
Madame Fournichon entered triumphantly.
"You have not been selling my arms?" cried her husband.
"Yes, I have."
"I will not have them sold."
"Bah! in time of peace; and I have got ten crowns instead of an old cuirass."
"Ten crowns! Samuel, do you hear?" said Pertinax, looking for his valet, but he was not to be seen.
"It seems to me that this man carries on a dangerous trade. But what does he do with them?"
"Sells them again by weight."
"By weight! and you say he gave you ten crowns—for what?"
"A cuirass and a helmet."
"Why, even if they weighed twenty pounds, that is half-a-crown a pound. This hides some mystery."
Voices rose, and the mirth grew loud with all, except Carmainges, who still thought of the mysterious page. He sat by M. de Loignac, who said to him:
"Here are a number of joyful people, and they do not know what for."
"Nor I, neither; but at least I am an exception."
"You are wrong, for you are one of those to whom Paris is a paradise."
"Do not laugh at me, M. de Loignac."
"I do not; I distinguished you at once, and that other young man also who looks so grave."
"Who?"
"M. de St. Maline."
"And why this distinction, if this question be not too curious?"
"I know you, that is all."
"Me! you know me?"
"You, and he, and all here."
"It is strange."
"Yes, but necessary."
"Why?"
"Because a chief should know his soldiers."
"And all these men—"
"Will be my soldiers to-morrow."
"But I thought that M. d'Epernon—"
"Hush! do not pronounce that name here."
Then rising, M. de Loignac said, "Gentlemen, since chance unites here forty-five compatriots, let us empty a glass of wine to the prosperity of all."
This proposal gave rise to frantic applause. "They are almost all half drunk," said De Loignac; "it would be a good opportunity to make them repeat their histories, only time does not permit of it." Then he added aloud, "Hola! M. Fournichon, dismiss from the room all women, children and lackeys."
Lardille retired grumbling, but Militor did not move. "Did you not hear, M. Militor," said De Loignac; "to the kitchen!"
There remained only forty-five men, and M. de Loignac then said, "Now, gentlemen, each knows who called him to Paris. Good! that will do; do not call out his name. You know also that you have come to obey him."
A murmur of assent came from all, mingled with astonishment, for each one knew only what concerned himself, and was ignorant that his neighbor had been moved by the same influence.
"Well, then!" continued De Loignac, "you will have time to become acquainted with each other afterward. You agree that you have come here to obey him?"
"Yes, yes," they cried.
"Then, to begin; go quietly out of this hotel to the lodgings prepared for you."
"For all?" asked St. Maline.
"Yes, for all."
"We are all equal here," cried Perducas, whose limbs felt rather doubtful under him.
"Yes," replied De Loignac; "all are equal before the will of the master."
"Oh!" cried Carmainges, coloring; "I do not know that M. d'Epernon would be called my master."
"Wait!"
"I did not expect that."
"Wait, hot head! I did not tell you who was to be your master."
"No; but you said we should have one."
"Every one has a master; and if you are too proud to acknowledge him we spoke of, you may look higher; I authorize you."
"The king!" murmured Carmainges.
"Silence!" said De Loignac. "But first will you do me the favor to read aloud this parchment."
Ernanton took it and read these words:
"Order to M. de Loignac to take the command of the forty-five gentlemen whom I have sent for to Paris with the consent of his majesty."NOGARET DE LAVALETTE."Duc d'Epernon."
"Order to M. de Loignac to take the command of the forty-five gentlemen whom I have sent for to Paris with the consent of his majesty.
"NOGARET DE LAVALETTE.
"Duc d'Epernon."
They all bowed at this.
"Thus," continued De Loignac, "you have to follow me at once; your equipages and servants will remain here, M. Fournichon will take care of them: we will send for them; but now, be quick! the boats are ready."
"The boats!" cried they.
"Certainly; to go to the Louvre, we must go by water."
"To the Louvre!" cried they, joyfully. "Cap de Bious! we are going to the Louvre."
De Loignac made them all pass before him, counting them as they went, and then conducted them to the place where three large boats were waiting for them.
As soon as the valet of Pertinax heard the words of Madame Fournichon, he ran after the dealer, but as it was night and he was doubtless in a hurry, he had gone some little way and Samuel was obliged to call to him. He appeared to hesitate at first, but seeing that Samuel was laden with merchandise, he stopped.
"What do you want, my friend?" said he.
"Pardieu! I want to do a little business with you."—"Well, be quick!"
"Are you in a hurry?"
"Yes."
"When you have seen what I bring you, you will be willing to wait."
"What is it?"
"A magnificent piece, of which the work—but you do not listen."
"Yes; but I am also looking round."
"Why?"
"Do you not know that it is forbidden to buy arms?"
Samuel thought it best to feign ignorance, and said, "I know nothing; I have just arrived from Mont-de-Marsan."
"Oh! that is another thing; but how did you know that I bought arms?"
"I was at the door of 'The Brave Chevalier.'"
"Well, come under that portico; it is too public here. Now, let me see this cuirass," said he, when they were there.
"It is so heavy."
"It is old and out of date."
"A work of art."
"I will give you six crowns."
"What! six crowns! and you gave ten just now for an old thing—"
"Six, or none."
"But look at the chasing."
"Of what use is the chasing, when I sell by weight?"
"The gilding alone is worth ten crowns—"
"Well, I will give you seven."
"You bargain here, and at the inn you gave anything; you go against the law and then endeavor to cheat honest people."—"Do not call out so loud."
"Oh! I am not afraid."
"Come, then, take ten crowns and begone."
"I told you the gold was worth more. Ah! you want to escape; I will call the guard," and he raised his voice.
At the noise, a window opposite was opened.
"Come," said the dealer; "I see I must give you what you want. Here are fifteen crowns; now go."
"That will do," said Samuel; "only these are for my master: I want something for myself."
The dealer half drew his dagger.
"Yes, yes, I see your dagger," said Samuel; "but I also see the figure in that balcony, watching you."
The dealer, white with terror, looked up, and saw a man who had witnessed the whole scene. "Oh!" said he, affecting to laugh; "you get all you want out of me: here is another crown. And may the devil take you," he added to himself.
"Thanks, my good friend," said Samuel, and he made off.
The dealer began to take up his wares and was also going, when the bourgeois opposite cried out:
"It seems, monsieur, that you buy armor."
"No, monsieur," replied the unlucky dealer; "this was a mere chance."
"A chance that suits me."
"In what respect, monsieur?"
"I have a heap of old things that I want to get rid of."
"I have as much as I can carry."
"But let me show them to you."
"It is useless; I have no more money."
"Never mind, I will give you credit; you look like an honest man."
"Thank you; but I cannot wait."
"It is odd how I seem to know you."
"Know me!" cried the dealer, trembling.
"Look at this helmet," said the bourgeois, showing it from the window.
"You say you know me?" asked the dealer.
"I thought so. Are you not—" he seemed seeking for the name. "Are you not Nicholas—"
The dealer looked frightened.
"Nicholas Trouchon, ironmonger, Rue de la Cossonnerie?"
"No, no!" cried the man, breathing more freely again.
"Never mind; will you buy all my armor, cuirass, sword, and all?"
"It is a forbidden commerce."
"I know that; he whom you dealt with just now called it out loud enough."
"You heard!"
"Yes, all; and you were liberal. But be easy, I will not be hard upon you; I have been a trader myself."
"What did you sell?"
"Never mind; I have made my fortune."—"I congratulate you."
"Well, will you buy all my armor?"
"No, I only want the cuirass."
"Do you only buy cuirasses?"
"Yes."
"That is odd, for if you buy and sell by weight, one sort of iron is as good as another."
"That is true, but I have preferences."
"Well, then, buy only the cuirass, or rather—now I think again—buy nothing at all."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that in these times every one wants his arms."
"What! in perfect peace?"
"My good friend, if we were in perfect peace, you would not buy so many cuirasses, and so secretly, too. But really, the longer I look at you, the more I think I know your face. You are not Nicholas Trouchon, but still I know you."
"Silence!"
"And if you buy cuirasses—"
"Well!"
"I am sure it is for a work agreeable to God."
"Hold your tongue!"
"You enchant me!" cried the bourgeois, stretching out a long arm over the balcony and seizing the hand of the dealer.
"Then who the devil are you?" cried he, who felt his hand held as if in a vise.
"I am Robert Briquet, the terror of schismatics, the friend of the Union, and a fierce Catholic; and you are not Nicholas Gimbelot, the currier."
"No, no! good-by."
"What! are you going?"
"Yes!" and he ran off.
But Robert Briquet was not a man to be foiled; he jumped from his balcony and ran after him.
"You are mad!" said he. "If I were your enemy, I have but to cry out, and the watch is in the next street; but you are my friend, and now I know your name. You are Nicholas Poulain, lieutenant to the provost of Paris. I knew it was Nicholas something."
"I am lost!" murmured the man.
"No; you are saved. I will do more for the good cause than ever you would; you have found a brother. Take one cuirass, and I will take another; I give you my gloves and the rest of my armor for nothing. Come on, and Vive l'Union!"
"You accompany me?"
"I will help you to carry these cuirasses which are to conquer the Philistines. Go on, I follow."
A spark of suspicion lingered in the soul of the lieutenant, but he thought; "If he wished me ill, he would not have acknowledged he knew me. Come on then!" he added aloud, "if you will."
"To life or death!" cried Briquet, and he continued to talk in this strain till they arrived near the Hotel Guise, where Nicholas Poulain stopped.
"I fancied it would be here," thought Briquet.
"Now," said Nicholas, with a tragic air, "there is still time to retire before entering the lion's den."
"Bah! I have entered many.Et non intermuit medulla mea!" exclaimed Briquet; "but pardon me, perhaps you do not understand Latin?"
"Do you?"—"As you see."
"What a catch?" thought Poulain, "learned, strong, bold, and rich!" Then he added aloud, "Well! let us enter," and he conducted Briquet to the door of the hotel. The court was full of guards and men wrapped in cloaks, and eight horses, saddled and bridled, waited in a corner; but there was not a light to be seen. Poulain whispered his name to the porter, and added, "I bring a good companion."—"Pass on."
"Take these to the magazine," said Poulain, handing the cuirasses to a soldier. "Now I will present you," said he to Briquet.
"No, I am very timid. When I have done some work, I will present myself."
"As you please. Then wait here for me."—"What are we waiting for?" asked a voice.
"For the master," replied another.
At this moment, a tall man entered. "Gentlemen," said he, "I come in his name."
"Ah! it is M. de Mayneville," said Poulain.
"Ah, really!" said Briquet, making a hideous grimace, which quite altered him.
"Let us go, gentlemen," said M. de Mayneville, and he descended a staircase leading to a vault. All the others followed, and Briquet brought up the rear, murmuring: "But the page! where the devil is the page?"
At the moment when Robert Briquet was about to enter, he saw Poulain waiting for him.
"Pardon," said he, "but my friends do not know you, and decline to admit you to their councils till they know more of you."
"It is just, and I retire, happy to have seen so many brave defenders of the Holy Union."
"Shall I re-conduct you?"
"No, I thank you, I will not trouble you."
"But perhaps they will not open for you; yet I am wanted."
"Have you not a password?"
"Yes."
"Then give it to me. I am a friend, you know."
"True. It is 'Parma and Lorraine!'"
"And they will open?"
"Yes."
"Thanks; now return to your friends."
Briquet took some steps as if to go out, and then stopped to explore the locality. The result of his observations was, that the vault ran parallel to the exterior wall, and terminated in a hall destined for the mysterious council from which he had been excluded. What confirmed him in this supposition was that he saw a light at a barred window, pierced in the wall, and guarded by a sort of wooden pipe, such as they placed at the windows of convents and prisons to intercept the view from without, while the air was still admitted. Briquet imagined this to be the window of the hall, and thought that if he could gain this place he could see all. He looked round him; the court had many soldiers and servants in it, but it was large, and the night was dark; besides, they were not looking his way, and the porter was busy, preparing his bed for the night.
Briquet rapidly climbed on to the cornice which ran toward the window in question, and ran along the wall like a monkey, holding on with his hands and feet to the ornaments of the sculpture. Had the soldiers seen in the dark this figure gliding along the wall without apparent support, they would not have failed to cry, "Magic!" but they did not see him. In four bounds he reached the window, and established himself between the bars and the pipe, so that from the inside he was concealed by the one, and from the outside by the other.
He then saw a great hall, lighted by a torch, and filled with armor of all sorts. There were enough pikes, swords, halberds, and muskets to arm four regiments. He gave less attention, however, to the arms than to the people engaged in distributing them, and his piercing eyes sought eagerly to distinguish their faces.
"Oh! oh!" thought he, "there is M. Cruce, little Brigard and Leclerc, who dares to call himself Bussy. Peste! the bourgeoisie is grandly represented; but the nobility—ah! M. de Mayneville presses the hand of Nicholas Poulain; what a touching fraternity! An orator, too!" continued he, as M. de Mayneville prepared to harangue the assembly.
Briquet could not hear a word, but he thought that he did not make much impression on his audience, for one shrugged his shoulders, and another turned his back. But at last they approached, seized his hand, and threw up their hats in the air. But though Briquet could not hear, we must inform our readers of what passed.
First, Cruce, Marteau, and Bussy had complained of the inaction of the Duc de Guise.
Marteau was spokesman, and said, "M. de Mayneville, you come on the part of M. le Duc de Guise, and we accept you as his ambassador; but the presence of the duke himself is indispensable. After the death of his glorious father, he, when only eighteen years of age, made all good Frenchmen join this project of the Union, and enrolled us under this banner. We have risked our lives, and sacrificed our fortunes, for the triumph of this sacred cause, according to our oaths, and yet, in spite of our sacrifices, nothing progresses—nothing is decided. Take care, M. de Mayneville, Paris will grow tired, and then what will you do?"
This speech was applauded by all the leaguers.
M. de Mayneville replied, "Gentlemen, if nothing is decided, it is because nothing is ripe. Consider our situation; M. le Duc and his brother the cardinal are at Nancy—the one is organizing an army to keep in check the Huguenots of Flanders, whom M. d'Anjou wishes to oppose to us, the other is expediting courier after courier to the clergy of France and to the pope, to induce them to adopt the Union. The Duc de Gruise knows, what you do not, that the old alliance between the Duc d'Anjou and the Béarnais is ready to be renewed, and he wishes, before coming to Paris, to be in a position to crush both heresy and usurpation."
"They are everywhere where they are not wanted," said Bussy. "Where is Madame de Montpensier, for instance?"
"She entered Paris this morning."
"No one has seen her."
"Yes, monsieur."
"Who was it?"
"Salcede."
"Oh! oh!" cried all.
"But where is she?" cried Bussy. "Has she disappeared? how did you know she was here?"
"Because I accompanied her to the Porte St. Antoine."
"I heard that they had shut the gates."
"Yes, they had."
"Then, how did she pass."
"In her own fashion. Something took place at the gates of Paris this morning, gentlemen, of which you appear to be ignorant. The orders were to open only to those who brought a card of admission—signed by whom I know not. Immediately before us five or six men, some of whom were poorly clothed, passed with these cards, before our eyes. Now, who were those men? What were the cards? Reply, gentlemen of Paris, who promised to learn everything concerning your city."
Thus Mayneville, from the accused, became the accuser, which is the great art of an orator.
"Cards and exceptional admissions!" cried Nicholas Poulain, "what can that mean?"
"If you do not know, who live here, how should I know, who live in Lorraine?"
"How did these people come?"
"Some on foot, some on horseback; some alone, and some with lackeys."
"Were they soldiers?"
"There were but two swords among the six; I think they were Gascons. This concerns you, M. Poulain, to find out. But to return to the League. Salcede, who had betrayed us, and would have done so again, not only did not speak, but retracted on the scaffold—thanks to the duchess, who, in the suite of one of these card-bearers, had the courage to penetrate the crowd even to the place of execution, and made herself known to Salcede, at the risk of being pointed out. At this sight Salcede stopped his confession, and an instant after, the executioner stopped his repentance. Thus, gentlemen, you have nothing to fear as to our enterprise in Flanders; this secret is buried in the tomb."
It was this last speech which had so pleased all the conspirators. Their joy seemed to annoy Briquet; he slipped down from his place, and returning to the court, said to the porter, "Parma and Lorraine." The gate was opened, and he left.
History tells us what passed afterward. M. de Mayneville brought from the Guises the plan of an insurrection which consisted of nothing less than to murder all the principal people of the city who were known to be in favor with the king, and then to go through the streets crying, "Vive la Messe! death to our enemies!" In fact, to enact a second St. Bartholomew; in which, however, all hostile Catholics were to be confounded with the Protestants.
In a great room at the Louvre sat Henri, pale and unquiet. Since his favorites, Schomberg, Quelus and Maugiron had been killed in a duel, St. Megrin had been assassinated by M. de Mayenne, and the wounds left by their deaths were still fresh and bleeding. The affection he bore his new favorites was very different from what he had felt for the old. He had overwhelmed D'Epernon with benefits, but he only loved him by fits and starts, and at certain times he even hated him, and accused him of cowardice and avarice.
D'Epernon knew how to hide his ambition, which was indeed vague in its aspirations; but his cupidity governed him completely. When he was rich, he was laughing and good-tempered; but when he was in want of money, he used to shut himself up in one of his castles, where, frowning and sad, he bemoaned his fate, until he had drawn from the weakness of the king some new gift.
Joyeuse was very different. He loved the king, who, in turn, had for him almost a fatherly affection. Young and impulsive, he was, perhaps, somewhat egotistical, and cared for little but to be happy. Handsome, brave and rich, Nature had done so much for him that Henri often regretted that she had left so little for him to add. The king knew his men well, for he was remarkably clear-sighted: and though often betrayed, was never deceived. But ennui was the curse of his life; he was ennuyé now, and was wondering if any one would come and amuse him, when M. le Duc d'Epernon was announced. Henri was delighted.
"Ah! good-evening, duke; I am enchanted to see you. Why were you not present at the execution of Salcede?—I told you there would be room in my box."
"Sire, I was unable to avail myself of your majesty's kindness."
"Unable?"
"Yes, sire; I was busy."
"One would think that you were my minister, coming to announce, with a long face, that some subsidy had not been paid."
"Ma foi! your majesty is right; the subsidy has not been paid, and I am penniless. But it was not that which occupied me."
"What then?"
"Your majesty knows what passed at the execution of Salcede?"
"Parbleu! I was there."
"They tried to carry off the criminal."
"I did not see that."
"It is the rumor all through the city, however."
"A groundless one."
"I believe your majesty is wrong."
"On what do you found your belief?"
"Because Salcede denied before the people what he had confessed to the judges."
"Ah! you know that, already."
"I try to know all that interests your majesty."
"Thanks; but what do you conclude from all this?"
"That a man who dies like Salcede was a good servant, sire."
"Well?"
"And the master who has such followers is fortunate."
"You mean to say that I have none such; or, rather, that I no longer have them. You are right, if that be what you mean."
"I did not mean that; your majesty would find, I am sure, were there occasion, followers as devoted as Salcede."
"Well, duke, do not look gloomy; I am sad enough already. Do be gay."
"Gayety cannot be forced, sire."
The king struck the table angrily. "You are a bad friend," said he; "I lost all, when I lost my former ones."
"May I dare to say to your majesty that you hardly encourage the new ones."
The king looked at him with an expression which he well understood.
"Ah! your majesty reproaches me with your benefits," said he, "but I do not reproach you with my devotion."
"Lavalette," cried Henri, "you make me sad; you who are so clever, and could so easily make me joyful. It is not your nature to fight continually, like my old favorites; but you are facetious and amusing, and give good counsel. You know all my affairs, like that other more humble friend, with whom I never experienced a moment's ennui."
"Of whom does your majesty speak?"
"Of my poor jester, Chicot. Alas! where is he?"
D'Epernon rose, piqued. "Your majesty's souvenirs, to-day, are not very amusing for other people," said he.
"Why so?"
"Your majesty, without intending it, perhaps, compared me to Chicot, which is not very flattering."
"You are wrong, D'Epernon; I could only compare to Chicot a man who loves me, and whom I love."
"It was not to resemble Chicot, I suppose, that your majesty made me a duke?"
"Chicot loved me, and I miss him; that is all I can say. Oh! when I think that in the same place where you now are have been all those young men, handsome, brave, and faithful—that there, on that very chair on which you have placed your hat, Chicot has slept more than a hundred times—"
"Perhaps that was very amusing," interrupted the duke, "but certainly not very respectful."
"Alas! he has now neither mind nor body."—"What became of him?"
"He died, like all who loved me."
"Well, sire, I think he did well to die; he was growing old, and I have heard that sobriety was not one of his virtues. Of what did he die—indigestion?"
"Of grief."
"Oh! he told you so, to make you laugh once more."
"You are wrong; he would not sadden me with the news of his illness. He knew how I regretted my friends—he, who had so often seen me weep for them."
"Then it was his shade that came to tell you?"
"No; I did not even see his shade. It was his friend, the worthy prior Gorenflot, who wrote me this sad news."
"I see that if he lived your majesty would make him chancellor."
"I beg, duke, that you will not laugh at those who loved me, and whom I loved."
"Oh! sire, I do not desire to laugh, but just now you reproached me with want of gayety, parfandious!"
"Well, now I am in the mood to hear bad news, if you have any to tell. Luckily I have strength to bear it, or I should be dead ten times a day."
"Which would not displease certain people of our acquaintance."
"Oh! against them I have the arms of my Swiss."
"I could find you a better guard than that."
"You?"—"Yes, sire."
"What is it?"
"Will your majesty be so good as to accompany me to the old buildings of the Louvre?"
"On the site of the Rue de l'Astruce?"
"Precisely."
"What shall I see there?"
"Oh! come first."
"It is a long way, duke."
"We can go in five minutes through the galleries."
"D'Epernon—"
"Well, sire?"
"If what you are about to show me be not worth seeing, take care."
"I answer for it, sire."
"Come, then," said the king, rising.
The duke took his cloak, presented the king's sword to him, then, taking a light, preceded his majesty.