The duchess seized the letter, opened it, and read it eagerly, while various expressions passed over her face, like clouds over the sky. When she had finished, she gave it to Mayneville to read. It was as follows:
"MY SISTER—I tried to do myself the work I should have left to others, and I have been punished for it. I have received a sword wound from the fellow whom you know. The worst of it is, that he has killed five of my men, and among them Boularon and Desnoises, who are my best, after which he fled. I must tell you that he was aided by the bearer of this letter, a charming young man, as you may see. I recommend him to you; he is discretion itself."One merit which he will have, I presume, in your eyes, my dear sister, is having prevented my conqueror from killing me, as he much wished, having pulled off my mask when I had fainted, and recognized me."I recommend you, sister, to discover the name and profession of this discreet cavalier; for I suspect him, while he interests me. To my offers of service, he replied that the master whom he served let him want for nothing."I can tell you no more about him, but that he pretends not to know me. I suffer much, but believe my life is not in danger. Send me my surgeon at once; I am lying like a horse upon straw, the bearer will tell you where."Your affectionate brother,"MAYENNE."
"MY SISTER—I tried to do myself the work I should have left to others, and I have been punished for it. I have received a sword wound from the fellow whom you know. The worst of it is, that he has killed five of my men, and among them Boularon and Desnoises, who are my best, after which he fled. I must tell you that he was aided by the bearer of this letter, a charming young man, as you may see. I recommend him to you; he is discretion itself.
"One merit which he will have, I presume, in your eyes, my dear sister, is having prevented my conqueror from killing me, as he much wished, having pulled off my mask when I had fainted, and recognized me.
"I recommend you, sister, to discover the name and profession of this discreet cavalier; for I suspect him, while he interests me. To my offers of service, he replied that the master whom he served let him want for nothing.
"I can tell you no more about him, but that he pretends not to know me. I suffer much, but believe my life is not in danger. Send me my surgeon at once; I am lying like a horse upon straw, the bearer will tell you where.
"Your affectionate brother,
"MAYENNE."
When they had finished reading, the duchess and Mayneville looked at each other in astonishment. The duchess broke the silence first.
"To whom," said she, "do we owe the signal service that you have rendered us, monsieur?"
"To a man who, whenever he can, helps the weak against the strong."
"Will you give me some details, monsieur?"
Ernanton told all he had seen, and named the duke's place of retreat.
Madame de Montpensier and Mayneville listened with interest. When he had finished, the duchess said:
"May I hope, monsieur, that you will continue the work so well begun, and attach yourself to our house?"
These words, said in the gracious tone that the duchess knew so well how to use, were very flattering to Ernanton, after the avowal which he had made; but the young man, putting vanity aside, attributed them to simple curiosity.
He knew well that the king, in making it a condition that he should reveal the duchess's place of abode, had some object in view. Two interests contended within him—his love,thathe might sacrifice; and his honor, which he could not. The temptation was all the stronger, that by avowing his position near the king, he should gain an enormous importance in the eyes of the duchess; and it was not a light consideration for a young man to be important in the eyes of the Duchesse de Montpensier. St. Maline would not have resisted a minute. All these thoughts rushed through Ernanton's mind, but ended by making him stronger than before.
"Madame," said he, "I have already had the honor of telling M. de Mayenne that I serve a good master, who treats me too well for me to desire to seek another."
"My brother tells me in his letter, monsieur, that you seemed not to recognize him. How, if, you did not know him, then, did you use his name to penetrate to me?"
"M. de Mayenne seemed to wish to preserve his incognito, madame; and I, therefore, did not think I ought to recognize him; and it might have been disagreeable for the peasants to know what an illustrious guest they were entertaining. Here there was no reason for secrecy; on the contrary, the name of M. de Mayenne opened the way to you; so I thought that here, as there, I acted rightly."
The duchess smiled, and said, "No one could extricate himself better from an embarrassing question: and you are, I must confess, a clever man."
"I see no cleverness in what I have had the honor of telling you, madame."
"Well, monsieur," said the duchess, impatiently, "I see clearly that you will tell nothing. You do not reflect that gratitude is a heavy burden for one of my house to bear; that you have twice rendered me a service, and that if I wished to know your name, or rather who you are—"
"I know, madame, you would learn it easily; but you would learn it from some one else, and I should have told nothing."
"He is always right," cried the duchess, with a look which gave Ernanton more pleasure than ever a look had done before. Therefore he asked no more, but like the gourmand who leaves the table when he thinks he has had the best bit, he bowed, and prepared to take leave.
"Then, monsieur, that is all you have to tell me?" asked the duchess.
"I have executed my commission, and it only remains for me to present my humble respects to your highness."
The duchess let him go, but when the door shut behind him, she stamped her foot impatiently.
"Mayneville," said she, "have that young man followed."
"Impossible, madame; all our household are out, I myself am waiting for the event. It is a bad day on which to do anything else than what we have decided to do."
"You are right, Mayneville; but afterward—"
"Oh! afterward, if you please, madame."
"Yes; for I suspect him, as my brother does."
"He is a brave fellow, at all events; and really we are lucky, a stranger coming to render us such a service."
"Nevertheless, Mayneville, have him watched. But night is falling, and Valois must be returning from Vincennes."
"Oh! we have time before us; it is not eight o'clock, and our men have not arrived."
"All have the word, have they not?"
"All."—"They are trustworthy?"
"Tried, madame."
"How many do you expect?"
"Fifty; it is more than necessary, for besides them we have two hundred monks, as good as soldiers, if not better."
"As soon as our men have arrived, range your monks on the road."
"They are all ready, madame; they will intercept the way, our men will push the carriage toward them, the gates of the convent will be open, and will have but to close behind the carriage."
"Let us sup, then, Mayneville, it will pass the time. I am so impatient, I should like to push the hands of the clock."
"The hour will come; be easy."
"But our men?"
"They will be here; it is hardly eight."
"Mayneville, my poor brother asks for his surgeon; the best surgeon, the best cure for his wound, will be a lock of the Valois's shaved head, and the man who should carry him that present, Mayneville, would be sure to be welcome."
"In two hours, madame, that man shall set out to find our dear duke in his retreat; he who went out of Paris as a fugitive shall return triumphantly."
"One word more, Mayneville; are our friends in Paris warned?"
"What friends?"—"The leaguers."
"Heaven forbid, madame; to tell a bourgeois is to tell all Paris. Once the deed is done, and the prisoner safe in the cloister, we can defend ourselves against an army. Then we should risk nothing by crying from the roof of the convent, 'We have the Valois!'"
"You are both skillful and prudent, Mayneville. Do you know, though, that my responsibility is great, and that no woman will ever have conceived and executed such a project?"
"I know it, madame; therefore I counsel you in trembling."
"The monks will be armed under their robes?"
"Yes."
"Mind you kill those two fellows whom we saw pass, riding at the sides of the carriage, then we can describe what passes as pleases us best."
"Kill those poor devils, madame! do you think that necessary?"
"De Loignac! would he be a great loss?"
"He is a brave soldier."
"A parvenu, like that other ill-looking fellow who pranced on the left, with his fiery eyes and his black skin."
"Oh! that one I do not care so much about; I do not know him, and I agree with your highness in disliking his looks."
"Then you abandon him to me?" laughed the duchess.
"Oh! yes, madame. What I said was only for your renown, and the morality of the party that we represent."
"Good; Mayneville, I know you are a virtuous man, and I will sign you a certificate of it if you like. You need have nothing to do with it; they will defend the Valois and get killed. To you I recommend that young man."
"Who?"
"He who just left us; see if he be really gone, and if he be not some spy sent by our enemies."
Mayneville opened the window, and tried to look out.
"Oh! what a dark night," said he.
"An excellent night: the darker the better. Therefore, good courage, my captain."
"Yes, but we shall see nothing."
"God, whom we fight for, will see for us."
Mayneville, who did not seem quite so sure of the intervention of Providence in affairs of this nature, remained at the window looking out.
"Do you see any one?" asked the duchess.
"No, but I hear the tramp of horses."
"It is they; all goes well." And the duchess touched the famous pair of golden scissors at her side.
Ernanton went away with a full heart but a quiet conscience; he had had the singular good fortune to declare his love to a princess, and to get over the awkwardness which might have resulted from it by the important conversation which followed. He had neither betrayed the king, M. de Mayenne, nor himself. Therefore he was content, but he still wished for many things, and, among others, a quick return to Vincennes, where the king expected him; then to go to bed and dream. He set off at full gallop as soon as he left Bel-Esbat, but he had scarcely gone a hundred yards when he came on a body of cavaliers who stretched right across the road. He was surrounded in a minute, and half a dozen swords and pistols presented at him.
"Oh!" said Ernanton, "robbers on the road, a league from Paris—"
"Silence, if you please," said a voice that Ernanton thought he recognized. "Your sword, your arms; quick."
And one man seized the bridle of the horse, while another stripped him of his arms.
"Peste! what clever thieves!" said Ernanton. "At least, gentlemen, do me the favor to tell me—"
"Why it is M. de Carmainges!" said the man who had seized his sword.
"M. de Pincornay!" cried Ernanton. "Oh, fie; what a bad trade you have taken up."
"I said silence," cried the voice of the chief; "and take this man to the depot."
"But, M. de St. Maline, it is our companion, Ernanton de Carmainges."
"Ernanton here!" cried St. Maline, angrily; "what is he doing here?"
"Good-evening, gentlemen," said Carmainges; "I did not, I confess, expect to find so much good company."
"Diable!" growled St. Maline; "this is unforeseen."
"By me also, I assure you," said Ernanton, laughing.
"It is embarrassing; what were you doing here?"
"If I asked you that question, would you answer?"
"No."
"Then let me act as you would."
"Then you will not tell me?"
"No."
"Nor where you were going?"
Ernanton did not answer.
"Then, monsieur, since you do not explain, I must treat you like any other man."
"Do what you please, monsieur; only I warn you, you will have to answer for it."
"To M. de Loignac?"
"Higher than that."
"M. d'Epernon?"
"Higher still."
"Well, I have my orders, and I shall send you to Vincennes."
"That is capital; it is just where I was going."
"It is lucky that this little journey pleases you so much."
Ernanton was then conducted by his companions to the courtyard of Vincennes. Here he found fifty disarmed cavaliers, who, looking pale and dispirited, and surrounded by fifty light horse, were deploring their bad fortune, and anticipating a disastrous ending to an enterprise so well planned. The Forty-five had taken all these men, either by force or cunning, as they had, for precaution, come to the rendezvous either singly, or two or three together at most. Now all this would have rejoiced Ernanton had he understood it, but he saw without understanding.
"Monsieur," said he to St. Maline, "I see that you were told of the importance of my mission, and that, fearing some accident for me, you were good enough to take the trouble to escort me here: now I will tell you that you were right; the king expects me, and I have important things to say to him. I will tell the king what you have done for his service."
St. Maline grew red and then pale; but he understood, being clever when not blinded by passion, that Ernanton spoke the truth, and that he was expected. There was no joking with MM. de Loignac and d'Epernon; therefore he said, "You are free, M. Ernanton; I am delighted to have been agreeable to you."
Ernanton waited for no more, but began to mount the staircase which led to the king's room. St. Maline followed him with his eyes, and saw De Loignac meet him on the stairs, and sign to him to come on. De Loignac then descended to see the captives with his own eyes, and pronounced the road perfectly safe and free for the king's return. He knew nothing of the Jacobin convent, and the artillery and musketry of the fathers. But D'Epernon did, being perfectly informed by Nicholas Poulain. Therefore, when De Loignac came and said to his chief, "Monsieur, the roads are free," D'Epernon replied:
"Very well, the king orders that the Forty-five guards form themselves into three compact bodies, one to go before and one on each side of the carriage, so that if there be any firing it may not reach the carriage."
"Very good!" said De Loignac, "only I do not see where firing is to come from."
"At the priory of the Jacobins, monsieur, they must draw close."
This dialogue was interrupted by the king, who descended the staircase, followed by several gentlemen, among whom St. Maline, with rage in his heart, recognized Ernanton.
"Gentlemen," said the king, "are my brave Forty-five all here?"
"Yes, sire," said D'Epernon, showing them.
"Have the orders been given?"
"Yes, sire, and will be followed."
"Let us go, then!"
The light horse were left in charge of the prisoners, and forbidden to address a word to them. The king got into his carriage with his naked sword by his side, and, as nine o'clock struck, they set off.
M. de Mayneville was still at his window, only he was infinitely less tranquil and hopeful, for none of his soldiers had appeared, and the only sound heard along the silent black road was now and then horses' feet on the road to Vincennes. When this occurred, Mayneville and the duchess vainly tried to see what was going on. At last Mayneville became so anxious that he sent off a man on horseback, telling him to inquire of the first body of cavaliers he met. The messenger did not return, so the duchess sent another, but neither reappeared.
"Our officer," said the duchess, always hopeful, "must have been afraid of not having sufficient force, and must have kept our men to help him; it is prudent, but it makes one anxious."
"Yes, very anxious," said Mayneville, whose eyes never quitted the horizon.
"Mayneville, what can have happened?"
"I will go myself, madame, and find out."
"Oh, no! I forbid that. Who would stay with me, who would know our friends, when the time comes? No, no, stay, Mayneville; one is naturally apprehensive when a secret of this importance is concerned, but, really, the plan was too well combined, and, above all, too secret, not to succeed."
"Nine o'clock!" replied Mayneville, rather to himself than to the duchess. "Well! here are the Jacobins coming-out of their convent, and ranging themselves along the walls."
"Listen!" cried the duchess. They began to hear from afar a noise like thunder.
"It is cavalry!" cried the duchess; "they are bringing him, we have him at last;" and she clapped her hands in the wildest joy.
"Yes," said Mayneville, "I hear a carriage and the gallop of horses."
And he cried out loudly, "Outside the walls, my brothers, outside!"
Immediately the gates of the priory opened, and a hundred armed monks marched out, with Borromée at their head, and they heard Gorenflot's voice crying, "Wait for me, wait for me; I must be at the head to receive his majesty."
"Go to the balcony, prior," cried Borromée, "and overlook us all."
"Ah! true; I forgot that I had chosen that place, but luckily you are here to remind me."
Borromée dispatched four monks to stand behind the prior, on the pretense of doing him honor.
Soon the road was illumined by a number of torches, thanks to which the duchess and Mayneville could see cuirasses and swords shining. Incapable of moderation, she cried—"Go down, Mayneville, and bring him to me."
"Yes, madame, but one thing disquiets me."
"What is it?"
"I do not hear the signal agreed on."
"What use is the signal, since they have him?"
"But they were to arrest him only here, before the priory."
"They must have found a good opportunity earlier."
"I do not see our officer."
"I do."
"Where?"
"See that red plume."
"Ventrebleu! that red plume—"
"Well?"
"It is M. d'Epernon, sword in hand."
"They have left him his sword."
"Mordieu! he commands."
"Our people! There has been treason."
"Oh! madame; they are not our people."
"You are mad, Mayneville!"
But at that moment De Loignac, at the head of the first body of guards, cried, brandishing his large sword, "Vive le Roi!"
"Vive le Roi!" replied enthusiastically all the Forty-five, with their Gascon accent. The duchess grew pale and sank down almost fainting. Mayneville, somber, but resolute, drew his sword, not knowing but what the house was to be attacked. The cortege advanced, and had reached Bel-Esbat. Borromée came a little forward, and as De Loignac rode straight up to him, he immediately saw that all was lost, and determined on his part.
"Room for the king!" cried De Loignac. Gorenflot, delighted with the scene, extended his powerful arm and blessed the king from his balcony. Henri saw him, and bowed smilingly, and at this mark of favor Gorenflot gave out a "Vive le Roi!" with his stentorian voice. The rest, however, remained mute: they expected a different result from their two months' training. But Borromée, feeling certain from the absence of the duchess's troops of the fate of the enterprise, knew that to hesitate a moment was to be ruined, and he answered with a "Vive le Roi!" almost as sonorous as Gorenflot's. Then all the rest took it up.
"Thanks, reverend father, thanks," cried Henri; and then he passed the convent, where his course was to have terminated, like a whirlwind of fire, noise, and glory, leaving behind him Bel-Esbat in obscurity.
From her balcony, hidden by the golden scutcheon, behind which she was kneeling, the duchess saw and examined each face on which the light of the torches fell.
"Oh!" cried she, "look, Mayneville! That young man, my brother's messenger, is in the king's service! We are lost!"
"We must fly immediately, madame, now the Valois is conqueror."
"We have been betrayed; it must have been by that young man, he must have known all."
The king had already, with all his escort, entered the Porte St. Antoine, which had opened before him and shut behind him.
Chicot, to whom our readers will now permit us to return, after his last adventure, went on as rapidly as possible. Between the duke and him would now exist a mortal struggle, which would end only with life. Mayenne, wounded in his body, and still more grievously in his self-love, would never forgive him. Skillful in all mimicry, Chicot now pretended to be a great lord, as he had before imitated a good bourgeois, and thus never prince was served with more zeal than M. Chicot, when he had sold Ernanton's horse and had talked for a quarter of an hour with the postmaster. Chicot, once in the saddle, was determined not to stop until he reached a place of safety, and he went as quickly as constant fresh relays of horses could manage. He himself seemed made of iron, and, at the end of sixty leagues, accomplished in twenty hours, to feel no fatigue. When, thanks to this rapidity, in three days he reached Bordeaux, he thought he might take breath. A man can think while he gallops, and Chicot thought much. What kind of prince was he about to find in that strange Henri, whom some thought a fool, others a coward, and all a renegade without firmness. But Chicot's opinion was rather different to that of the rest of the world; and he was clever at divining what lay below the surface. Henri of Navarre was to him an enigma, although an unsolved one. But to know that he was an enigma was to have found out much. Chicot knew more than others, by knowing, like the old Grecian sage, that he knew nothing. Therefore, where most people would have gone to speak freely, and with their hearts on their lips, Chicot felt that he must proceed cautiously and with carefully-guarded words. All this was impressed on his mind by his natural penetration, and also by the aspect of the country through which he was passing. Once within the limits of the little principality of Navarre, a country whose poverty was proverbial in France, Chicot, to his great astonishment, ceased to see the impress of that misery which showed itself in every house and on every face in the finest provinces of that fertile France which he had just left. The woodcutter who passed along, with his arm leaning on the yoke of his favorite ox, the girl with short petticoats and quiet steps, carrying water on her head, the old man humming a song of his youthful days, the tame bird who warbled in his cage, or pecked at his plentiful supply of food, the brown, thin, but healthy children playing about the roads, all said in a language clear and intelligible to Chicot, "See, we are happy here."
Often he heard the sound of heavy wheels, and then saw coming along the wagon of the vintages, full of casks and of children with red faces. Sometimes an arquebuse from behind a hedge, or vines, or fig-trees, made him tremble for fear of an ambush, but it always turned out to be a hunter, followed by his great dogs, traversing the plain, plentiful in hares, to reach the mountain, equally full of partridges and heathcocks. Although the season was advanced, and Chicot had left Paris full of fog and hoar-frost, it was here warm and fine. The great trees, which had not yet entirely lost their leaves, which, indeed, in the south they never lose entirely, threw deep shadows from their reddening tops.
The Béarnais peasants, their caps over one ear, rode about on the little cheap horses of the country, which seem indefatigable, go twenty leagues at a stretch, and, never combed, never covered, give themselves a shake at the end of their journey, and go to graze on the first tuft of heath, their only and sufficing repast.
"Ventre de biche!" said Chicot; "I have never seen Gascony so rich. I confess the letter weighs on my mind, although I have translated it into Latin. However, I have never heard that Henriot, as Charles IX. called him, knew Latin; so I will give him a free French translation."
Chicot inquired, and was told that the king was at Nerac. He turned to the left to reach this place, and found the road full of people returning from the market at Condom. He learned, for Chicot, careful in answering the questions of others, was a great questioner himself, that the king of Navarre led a very joyous life, and was always changing from one love to another.
He formed the acquaintance of a young Catholic priest, a sheep-owner, and an officer, who had joined company on the road, and were traveling together. This chance association seemed to him to represent Navarre, learned, commercial, and military.
The officer recounted to him several sonnets which had been made on the loves of the king and the beautiful La Fosseuse, daughter of Rene de Montmorency, baron de Fosseux.
"Oh!" said Chicot; "in Paris, we believe that the king is mad about Mlle. de Rebours."
"Oh! that is at Pau."
"What! has the king a mistress in every town?"
"Very likely; I know that he was the lover of Mlle. de Dayelle, while I was in garrison at Castelnaudry."
"Oh! Mlle. Dayelle, a Greek, was she not?"
"Yes," said the priest; "a Cyprian."
"I am from Agen," said the merchant; "and I know that when the king was there he made love to Mlle. de Tignonville."
"Ventre de biche!" said Chicot; "he is a universal lover. But to return to Mlle. Dayelle; I knew her family."
"She was jealous and was always threatening; she had a pretty little poniard, which she used to keep on her work-table, and one day, the king went away and carried the poniard with him, saying that he did not wish any misfortune to happen to his successor."
"And Mlle. de Rebours?"
"Oh! they quarreled."
"Then La Fosseuse is the last?"
"Oh! mon Dieu! yes; the king is mad about her."
"But what does the queen say?"
"She carries her griefs to the foot of the crucifix," said the priest.
"Besides," said the officer, "she is ignorant of all these things."
"That is not possible," said Chicot.
"Why so?"
"Because Nerac is not so large that it is easy to hide things there."
"As for that, there is a park there containing avenues more than 3,000 feet long of cypresses, plane trees, and magnificent sycamores, and the shade is so thick it is almost dark in broad daylight. Think what it must be at night."
"And then the queen is much occupied."
"Occupied?"
"Yes."
"With whom, pray?"
"With God, monsieur," said the priest.
"With God?"
"Yes, the queen is religious."
"Religious! But there is no mass at the palace, is there?"
"No mass; do you take us for heathens? Learn, monsieur, that the king goes to church with his gentlemen, and the queen hears mass in her private chapel."
"The queen?"
"Yes."
"Queen Marguerite?"
"Yes; and I, unworthy as I am, received two crowns for officiating there; I even preached a very good sermon on the text, 'God has separated the wheat from the chaff.' It is in the Bible, 'God will separate,' but as it is a long time since that was written, I supposed that the thing was done."
"And the king?"
"He heard it, and applauded."
"I must add," said the officer, "that they do something else than hear mass at the palace; they give good dinners—and the promenades! I do not believe in any place in France there are more mustaches shown than in the promenades at Nerac."
Chicot knew Queen Marguerite well, and he knew that if she was blind to these love affairs, it was when she had some motive for placing a bandage over her eyes.
"Ventre de biche!" said he, "these alleys of cypresses, and 3,000 feet of shade, make me feel uncomfortable. I am coming from Paris to tell the truth at Nerac, where they have such deep shade, that women do not see their husbands walking with other women. Corbiou! they will be ready to kill me for troubling so many charming promenades. Happily I know the king is a philosopher, and I trust in that. Besides, I am an ambassador, and sacred."
Chicot entered Nerac in the evening, just at the time of the promenades which occupied the king so much. Chicot could see the simplicity of the royal manners by the ease with which he obtained an audience. A valet opened the door of a rustic-looking apartment bordered with flowers, above which was the king's antechamber and sitting-room. An officer or page ran to find the king, wherever he might be when any one wished for an audience, and he always came at the first invitation. Chicot was pleased with this; he judged the king to be open and candid, and he thought so still more when he saw the king coming up a winding walk bordered with laurels and roses, an old hat on his head, and dressed in a dark green doublet and gray boots, and with a cup and ball in his hand. He looked gay and happy, as though care never came near him.
"Who wants me?" said he to the page.
"A man who looks to me half courtier, half soldier."
Chicot heard these words, and advanced.
"It is I, sire."
"What! M. Chicot in Navarre! Ventre St. Gris! welcome, dear M. Chicot!"
"A thousand thanks, sire."
"Quite well? Ah, parbleu! we will drink together, I am quite delighted. Chicot, sit down there." And he pointed to a grass bank.
"Oh no, sire!"
"Have you come 200 leagues for me to leave you standing? No, no; sit down; one cannot talk standing."
"But, sire, respect—"
"Respect! here in Navarre! You are mad, my poor Chicot."
"No, sire, I am not mad, but I am an ambassador."
A slight frown contracted Henri's brow, but disappeared at once.
"Ambassador, from whom?"
"From Henri III. I come from Paris and the Louvre, sire."
"Oh! that is different. Come with me," said the king, rising, with a sigh.
"Page, take wine up to my room. Come, Chicot, I will conduct you."
Chicot followed the king, thinking, "How disagreeable! to come and trouble this honest man in his peace and his ignorance. Bah! he will be philosophical."
The king of Navarre's room was not very sumptuous, for he was not rich, and did not waste the little he had. It was large, and, with his bedroom, occupied all the right wing of the castle. It was well, though not royally furnished, and had a magnificent view over meadows and rivers. Great trees, willows, and planes hid the course of the stream every here and there, which glanced between, golden in the sunlight, or silver by that of the moon. This beautiful panorama was terminated by a range of hills, which looked violet in the evening light. The windows on the other side looked on to the court of the castle.
All these natural beauties interested Chicot less than the arrangements of the room, which was the ordinary sitting-room of Henri.
The king seated himself, with his constant smile, in a great armchair of leather with gilt nails, and Chicot, at his command, sat down on a stool similar in material. Henri looked at him smilingly, but with curiosity.
"You will think I am very curious, dear M. Chicot," began the king, "but I cannot help it. I have so long looked on you as dead, that in spite of the pleasure your resurrection causes me, I can hardly realize the idea. Why did you so suddenly disappear from this world?"
"Oh, sire!" said Chicot, with his usual freedom, "you disappeared from Vincennes. Every one eclipses himself according to his need."
"I recognize by your ready wit that it is not to your ghost I am speaking." Then, more seriously, "But now we must leave wit and speak of business."
"If it does not too much fatigue your majesty, I am ready."
Henri's eyes kindled.
"Fatigue me! It is true I grow rusty here. I have to-day exercised my body much, but my mind little."
"Sire, I am glad of that; for, ambassador from a king, your relation and friend, I have a delicate commission to execute with your majesty."
"Speak quickly—you pique my curiosity."
"Sire—"
"First, your letters of credit. I know it is needless, since you are the ambassador: but I must do my duty as king."
"Sire, I ask your majesty's pardon; but all the letters of credit that I had I have drowned in rivers, or scattered in the air."
"And why so?"
"Because one cannot travel charged with an embassy to Navarre as if you were going to buy cloth at Lyons; and if one has the dangerous honor of carrying royal letters, one runs a risk of carrying them only to the tomb."
"It is true," said Henri, "the roads are not very safe, and in Navarre we are reduced, for want of money, to trust to the honesty of the people; but they do not steal much."
"Oh, no, sire; they behave like lambs or angels, but that is only in Navarre; out of it one meets wolves and vultures around every prey. I was a prey, sire; so I had both."
"At all events, I am glad to see they did not eat you."
"Ventre de biche! sire, it was not their faults; they did their best, but they found me too tough, and could not get through my skin. But to return to my letter."
"Since you have none, dear M. Chicot, it seems to me useless to return to it."
"But I had one, sire, but I was forced to destroy it, for M. de Mayenne ran after me to steal it from me."
"Mayenne?"
"In person."
"Luckily he does not run fast. Is he still getting fatter?"
"Ventre de biche! not just now, I should think."
"Why not?"
"Because, you understand, sire, he had the misfortune to catch me, and unfortunately got a sword wound."
"And the letter?"
"He had not a glimpse of it, thanks to my precautions."
"Bravo! your journey is interesting; you must tell me the details. But one thing disquiets me—if the letter was destroyed for M. de Mayenne, it is also destroyed for me. How, then, shall I know what my brother Henri wrote?"
"Sire, it exists in my memory."
"How so?"
"Sire, before destroying it I learned it by heart."
"An excellent idea, M. Chicot. You will recite it to me, will you not?"
"Willingly, sire."
"Word for word."
"Yes, sire, although I do not know the language, I have a good memory."
"What language?"
"Latin."
"I do not understand you; was my brother Henri's letter written in Latin?"
"Yes, sire."
"And why?"
"Ah! sire, doubtless because Latin is an audacious language—a language which may say anything, and in which Persius and Juvenal have immortalized the follies and errors of kings."
"Kings?"
"And of queens, sire."
The king began to frown.
"I mean emperors and empresses," continued Chicot.
"You know Latin, M. Chicot?"
"Yes and no, sire."
"You are lucky if it is 'yes,' for you have an immense advantage over me, who do not know it, but you—"
"They taught me to read it, sire, as well as Greek and Hebrew."
"You are a living book, M. Chicot."
"Your majesty has found the exact word—'a book.' They print something on my memory, they send me where they like, I arrive, I am read and understood."
"Or not understood."
"How so, sire?"
"Why, if one does not know the language in which you are printed."
"Oh, sire, kings know everything."
"That is what we tell the people, and what flatterers tell us."
"Then, sire, it is useless for me to recite to your majesty the letter which I learned by heart, since neither of us would understand it."
"Is Latin not very much like Italian?"
"So they say, sire."
"And Spanish?"
"I believe so."
"Then let us try. I know a little Italian, and my Gascon patois is something like Spanish: perhaps I may understand Latin without ever having learned it."
"Your majesty orders me to repeat it, then?"
"I beg you, dear M. Chicot."
Chicot began.
"Frater carissime,
"Sincerus amo quo te prosequebatur germanus noster Carolus Nonus, functus nuper, colet usque regiam nostram et pectori meo pertinaciter adhoeret."
"If I am not mistaken," said Henri, interrupting, "they speak in this phrase of love, obstinacy, and of my brother, Charles IX."
"Very likely," said Chicot; "Latin is such a beautiful language, that all that might go in one sentence."
"Go on," said the king.
Chicot began again, and Henri listened with the utmost calm to all the passages about Turenne and his wife, only at the word "Turennius," he said:
"Does not 'Turennius' mean Turenne?"
"I think so, sire."
"And 'Margota' must be the pet name which my brothers gave to their sister Marguerite, my beloved wife."
"It is possible," said Chicot; and he continued his letter to the end without the king's face changing in the least.
"Is it finished?" asked Henri, when he stopped.
"Yes, sire."
"It ought to be superb."
"I think so, also, sire."
"How unlucky that I only understood two words, 'Turennius' and 'Margota.'"
"An irreparable misfortune, sire, unless your majesty decides on having it translated by some one."
"Oh! no; you yourself, M. Chicot, who were so discreet in destroying the autograph, you would not counsel me to make this letter public?"
"But I think that the king's letter to you, recommended to me so carefully, and sent to your majesty by a private hand, must contain something important for your majesty to know."
"Yes, but to confide these important things to any one, I must have great confidence in him."
"Certainly."
"Well, I have an idea. Go and find my wife. She is learned, and will understand it if you recite it to her; then she can explain it to me."
"That is an excellent plan."
"Is it not? Go."
"I will, sire."
"Mind not to alter a word of the letter."
"That would be impossible, sire. To do that I must know Latin."
"Go, then, my friend."
Chicot took leave and went, more puzzled with the king than ever.