CHAPTER XXXV.
WHAT PASSED BETWEEN M. DE MONSOREAU AND THE DUKE
It is time to explain the duke’s sudden change of intention with regard to M. de Monsoreau. When he first received him, it was with dispositions entirely favorable to Bussy’s wishes.
“Your highness sent for me?” said Monsoreau.
“You have nothing to fear, you who have served me so well, and are so much attached to me. Often you have told me of the plots against me, have aided my enterprises forgetting your own interests, and exposing your life.”
“Your highness – ”
“Even lately, in this last unlucky adventure – ”
“What adventure, monseigneur?”
“This carrying off of Mademoiselle de Méridor – poor young creature!”
“Alas!” murmured Monsoreau.
“You pity her, do you not?” said the duke.
“Does not your highness?”
“I! you know how I have regretted this fatal caprice. And, indeed, it required all my friendship for you, and the remembrance of all your good services, to make me forget that without you I should not have carried off this young girl.”
Monsoreau felt the blow. “Monseigneur,” said he, “your natural goodness leads you to exaggerate, you no more caused the death of this young girl than I did.”
“How so?”
“You did not intend to use violence to Mademoiselle de Méridor.”
“Certainly not.”
“Then the intention absolves you; it is a misfortune, nothing more.”
“And besides,” said the duke, looking at him, “death has buried all in eternal silence.”
The tone of his voice and his look struck Monsoreau. “Monseigneur,” said he, after a moment’s pause, “shall I speak frankly to you?”
“Why should you hesitate?” said the prince, with astonishment mingled with hauteur.
“Indeed, I do not know, but your highness has not thought fit to be frank with me.”
“Really!” cried the duke, with an angry laugh.
“Monseigneur, I know what your highness meant to say to me.”
“Speak, then.”
“Your highness wished to make me understand that perhaps Mademoiselle de Méridor was not dead, and that therefore those who believed themselves her murderers might be free from remorse.”
“Oh, monsieur, you have taken your time before making this consoling reflection to me. You are a faithful servant, on my word; you saw me sad and afflicted, you heard me speak of the wretched dreams I had since the death of this woman, and you let me live thus, when even a doubt might have spared me so much suffering. How must I consider this conduct, monsieur?”
“Monseigneur, is your highness accusing me?”
“Traitor!” cried the duke, “you have deceived me; you have taken from me this woman whom I loved – ”
Monsoreau turned pale, but did not lose his proud, calm look. “It is true,” said he.
“True, knave!”
“Please to speak lower, monseigneur; your highness forgets, that you speak to a gentleman and an old servant.”
The duke laughed.
“My excuse is,” continued he, “that I loved Mademoiselle de Méridor ardently.”
“I, also,” replied François, with dignity.
“It is true, monseigneur; but she did not love you.”
“And she loved you?”
“Perhaps.”
“You lie! you know you lie! You used force as I did; only I, the master, failed, while you, the servant, succeeded by treason.”
“Monseigneur, I loved her.”
“What do I care?”
“Monseigneur, take care. I loved her, and I am not a servant. My wife is mine, and no one can take her from me, not even the king. I wished to have her, and I took her.”
“You took her! Well! you shall give her up.”
“You are wrong, monseigneur. And do not call,” continue he, stopping him, “for if you call once – if you do me a public injury – ”
“You shall give up this woman.”
“Give her up! she is my wife before God – ”
“If she is your wife before God, you shall give her up before men. I know all, and I will break this marriage, I tell you. To-morrow, Mademoiselle de Méridor shall be restored to her father; you shall set off into the exile I impose on you; you shall have sold your place; these are my conditions, and take care, or I will break you as I break this glass.” And he threw down violently a crystal cup.
“I will not give up my wife, I will not give up my place, and I will remain in France,” replied Monsoreau.
“You will not?”
“No, I will ask my pardon of the King of France – of the king anointed at the Abbey of St. Geneviève; and this new sovereign will not, I am sure, refuse the first request proffered to him.” François grew deadly pale, and nearly fell.
“Well, well,” stammered he, “this request, speak lower – I listen.”
“I will speak humbly, as becomes the servant of your highness. A fatal love was the cause of all. Love is the most imperious of the passions. To make me forget that your highness had cast your eyes on Diana, I must have been no longer master of myself.”
“It was a treason.”
“Do not overwhelm me, monseigneur; I saw you rich, young and happy, the first Christian prince in the world. For you are so, and between you and supreme rank there is now only a shadow easy to dispel. I saw all the splendor of your future, and, comparing your proud position with my humble one, I said, ‘Leave to the prince his brilliant prospects and splendid projects, scarcely will he miss the pearl that I steal from his royal crown.’”
“Comte! comte!”
“You pardon me, monseigneur, do you not?”
At this moment the duke raised his eyes, and saw Bussy’s portrait on the wall. It seemed to exhort him to courage, and he said, “No, I cannot pardon you; it is not for myself that I hold out, it is because a father in mourning – a father unworthily deceived – cries out for his daughter; because a woman, forced to marry you, cries for vengeance against you; because, in a word, the first duty of a prince is justice.”
“Monseigneur, if justice be a duty, gratitude is not less so; and a king should never forget those to whom he owes his crown. Now, monseigneur, you owe your crown to me.”
“Monsoreau!” cried the duke, in terror.
“But I cling to those only who cling to me.”
“I cannot – you are a gentleman, you know I cannot approve of what you have done. My dear count, this one more sacrifice; I will recompense you for it; I will give you all you ask.”
“Then your highness loves her still!” cried Monsoreau, pale with jealousy.
“No, I swear I do not.”
“Then, why should I? I am a gentleman; who can enter into the secrets of my private life?”
“But she does not love you.”
“What matter?”
“Do this for me, Monsoreau.”
“I cannot.”
“Then – ” commenced the duke, who was terribly perplexed.
“Reflect, sire.”
“You will denounce me?”
“To the king dethroned for you, yes; for if my new king destroyed my honor and happiness, I would return to the old.”
“It is infamous.”
“True, sire; but I love enough to be infamous.”
“It is cowardly.”
“Yes, your majesty, but I love enough to be cowardly. Come, monseigneur, do something for the man who has served you so well.”
“What do you want?”
“That you should pardon me.”
“I will.”
“That you should reconcile me with M. de Méridor.”
“I will try.”
“That you will sign my marriage contract with Mademoiselle de Méridor.”
“Yes,” said the prince, in a hoarse voice.
“And that you shall honor my wife with a smile when I shall present her to his majesty.”
“Yes; is that all?”
“All, monseigneur.”
“You have my word.”
“And you shall keep the throne to which I have raised you. – There remains now, only,” thought Monsoreau, “to find out who told the duke.”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
CHICOT AND THE KING
That same evening M. de Monsoreau presented his wife in the queen’s circle. Henri, tired, had gone to bed, but after sleeping three or four hours, he woke, and feeling no longer sleepy, proceeded to the room where Chicot slept, which was the one formerly occupied by St. Luc; Chicot slept soundly, and the king called him three times before he woke. At last he opened his eyes and cried out, “What is it?”
“Chicot, my friend, it is I.”
“You; who?”
“I, Henri.”
“Decidedly, my son, the pheasants must have disagreed with you; I warned you at supper, but you would eat so much of them, as well as of those crabs.”
“No; I scarcely tasted them.”
“Then you are poisoned, perhaps. Ventre de biche! how pale you are!”
“It is my mask,” said the king.
“Then you are not ill?”
“No.”
“Then why wake me?”
“Because I am annoyed.”
“Annoyed! if you wake a man at two o’clock in the morning, at least you should bring him a present. Have you anything for me?”
“No; I come to talk to you.”
“That is not enough.”
“Chicot, M. de Morvilliers came here last evening.”
“What for?”
“To ask for an audience. What can he want to say to me, Chicot?”
“What! it is only to ask that, that you wake me?”
“Chicot, you know he occupies himself with the police.”
“No; I did not know it.”
“Do you doubt his watchfulness?”
“Yes, I do, and I have my reasons.”
“What are they?”
“Will one suffice you?”
“Yes, if it be good.”
“And you will leave me in peace afterwards?”
“Certainly.”
“Well, one day – no, it was one evening, I beat you in the Rue Foidmentel; you had with you Quelus and Schomberg.”
“You beat me?”
“Yes, all three of you.”
“How, it was you! wretch!”
“I, myself,” said Chicot, rubbing his hands, “do I not hit hard?”
“Wretch!”
“You confess, it was true?”
“You know it is, villain.”
“Did you send for M. de Morvilliers the next day?”
“You know I did, for you were there when he came.”
“And you told him the accident that had happened to one of your friends?”
“Yes.”
“And you ordered him to find out the criminal?”
“Yes.”
“Did he find him?”
“No.”
“Well, then, go to bed, Henri; you see your police is bad.” And, turning round, Chicot refused to say another word, and was soon snoring again.
The next day the council assembled. It consisted of Quelus, Maugiron, D’Epernon, and Schomberg. Chicot, seated at the head of the table, was making paper boats, and arranging them in a fleet. M. de Morvilliers was announced, and came in, looking grave.
“Am I,” said he, “before your majesty’s council?”
“Yes, before my best friends; speak freely.”
“Well, sire, I have a terrible plot to denounce to your majesty.”
“A plot!” cried all.
“Yes, your majesty.”
“Oh, is it a Spanish plot?”
At this moment the Duc d’Anjou, who had been summoned to attend the council, entered.
“My brother,” said Henri, “M. de Morvilliers comes to announce a plot to us.”
The duke threw a suspicious glance round him. “Is it possible?” he said.
“Alas, yes, monseigneur,” said M. de Morvilliers.
“Tell us all about it,” said Chicot.
“Yes,” stammered the duke, “tell us all about it, monsieur.”
“I listen,” said Henri.
“Sire, for some time I have been watching some malcontents, but they were shopkeepers, or junior clerks, a few monks and students.”
“That is not much,” said Chicot.
“I know that malcontents always make use either of war or of religion.”
“Very sensible!” said the king.
“I put men on the watch, and at last I succeeded in persuading a man from the provosty of Paris to watch the preachers, who go about exciting the people against your majesty. They are prompted by a party hostile to your majesty, and this party I have studied, and now I know their hopes,” added he, triumphantly. “I have men in my pay, greedy, it is true, who, for a good sum of money, promised to let me know of the first meeting of the conspirators.”
“Oh! never mind money, but let us hear the aim of this conspiracy.”
“Sire, they think of nothing less than a second St. Bartholomew.”
“Against whom?”
“Against the Huguenots.”
“What have you paid for your secret?” said Chicot.
“One hundred and sixty thousand livres.”
Chicot turned to the king, saying, “If you like, for one thousand crowns, I will tell you all the secrets of M. de Morvilliers.”
“Speak.”
“It is simply the League, instituted ten years ago; M. de Morvilliers has discovered what every Parisian knows as well as his ave.”
“Monsieur,” interrupted the chancellor.
“I speak the truth, and I will prove it,” cried Chicot.
“Tell me, then, their place of meeting.”
“Firstly, the public streets; secondly, the public streets.”
“M. Chicot is joking,” said the chancellor; “tell me their rallying sign.”
“They are dressed like Parisians, and shake their legs when they walk.”
A burst of laughter followed this speech; then M. de Morvilliers said, “They have had one meeting-place which M. Chicot does not know of.”
“Where?” asked the king.
“The Abbey of St. Geneviève.”
“Impossible!” murmured the duke.
“It is true,” said M. de Morvilliers, triumphantly.
“What did they decide?” asked the king.
“That the Leaguers should choose chiefs, that every one should arm, that every province should receive a deputy from the conspirators, and that all the Huguenots cherished by his majesty (that was their expression) – ”
The king smiled.
“Should be massacred on a given day.”
“Is that all?” said the duke.
“No, monseigneur.”
“I should hope not,” said Chicot; “if the king got only that for one hundred and sixty thousand livres, it would be a shame.”
“There are chiefs – ”
The Duc d’Anjou could not repress a start.
“What!” cried Chicot, “a conspiracy that has chiefs! how wonderful! But we ought to have more than that for one hundred and sixty thousand livres.”
“Their names?” asked the king.
“Firstly, a fanatic preacher; I gave ten thousand livres for his name.”
“Very well.”
“A monk called Gorenflot.”
“Poor devil!” said Chicot.
“Gorenflot?” said the king, writing down the name; “afterwards – ”
“Oh!” said the chancellor, with hesitation, “that is all.” And he looked round as if to say, “If your majesty were alone, you should hear more.”
“Speak, chancellor,” said the king, “I have none but friends here.”
“Oh! sire, I hesitate to pronounce such powerful names.”
“Are they more powerful than I am?” cried the king.
“No, sire; but one does not tell secrets in public.”
“Monsieur,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “we will retire.”
The king signed to the chancellor to approach him, and to the duke to remain. M. de Morvilliers had just bent over the king to whisper his communication, when a great clamor was heard in the court of the Louvre. The king jumped up, but Chicot, running to the window, called out, “It is M. de Guise entering the Louvre.”
“The Duc de Guise,” stammered the Duc d’Anjou.
“How strange that he should be in Paris,” said the king, reading the truth in M. de Morvilliers’ look. “Was it of him you were about to speak?” he asked.
“Yes, sire; he presided over the meeting.”
“And the others?”
“I know no more.”
“You need not write that name on your tablets! you will not forget it,” whispered Chicot.
The Duc de Guise advanced, smiling, to see the king.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
WHAT M. DE GUISE CAME TO DO AT THE LOUVRE
Behind M. de Guise there entered a great number of officers, courtiers, and gentlemen, and behind them a concourse of the people; an escort less brilliant, but more formidable, and it was their cries that had resounded as the duke entered the Louvre.
“Ah! it is you, my cousin,” said the king; “what a noise you bring with you! Did I not hear the trumpets sound?”
“Sire, the trumpets sound in Paris only for the king, and in campaigns for the general. Here the trumpets would make too much noise for a subject; there they do not make enough for a prince.”
Henri bit his lips. “Have you arrived from the siege of La Charité only to-day?”
“Only to-day, sire,” replied the duke, with a heightened color.
“Ma foi! your visit is a great honor to us.”
“Your majesty jests, no doubt. How can my visit honor him from whom all honor comes?”
“I mean, M. de Guise,” replied Henri, “that every good Catholic is in the habit, on returning from a campaign, to visit God first in one of his temple’s – the king only comes second. ‘Honor God, serve the king,’ you know, my cousin.”
The heightened color of the duke became now still more distinct; and the king, happening to turn towards his brother, saw with astonishment, that he was as pale as the duke was red. He was struck by this emotion in each, but he said:
“At all events, duke, nothing equals my joy to see that you have escaped all the dangers of war, although you sought them, I was told in the rashest manner; but danger knows you and flies you.”
The duke bowed.
“But I must beg you, my cousin, not to be so ambitious of mortal perils, for you put to shame sluggards like us, who sleep, eat, and invent new prayers.”
“Yes, sire,” replied the duke, “we know you to be a pious prince, and that no pleasure can make you forget the glory of God and the interests of the Church. That is why we have come with so much confidence to your majesty.”
“With confidence! Do you not always come to me with confidence, my cousin?”
“Sire, the confidence of which I speak refers to the proposition I am about to make to you.”
“You have a proposition to make to me! Well, speak, as you say, with confidence. What have you to propose?”
“The execution of one of the most beautiful ideas which has been originated since the Crusades.”
“Continue, duke.”
“Sire, the title of most Christian king is not a vain one; it makes an ardent zeal for religion incumbent on its possessor.”
“Is the Church menaced by the Saracens once more?”
“Sire, the great concourse of people who followed me, blessing my name, honored me with this reception only because of my zeal to defend the Church. I have already had the honor of speaking to your majesty of an alliance between all true Catholics.”
“Yes, yes,” said Chicot, “the League; ventre de biche, Henri, the League. By St. Bartholomew! how can you forget so splendid an idea, my son?”
The duke cast a disdainful glance on Chicot, while d’Anjou, who stood by, as pale as death, tried by signs, to make the duke stop.
“Look at your brother, Henri,” whispered Chicot.
“Sire,” continued the Duc de Guise, “the Catholics have indeed called this association the Holy League, and its aim is to fortify the throne against the Huguenots, its mortal enemies; but to form an association is not enough, and in a kingdom like France, several millions of men cannot assemble without the consent of the king.”
“Several millions!” cried Henri, almost with terror.
“Several millions!” repeated Chicot; “a small number of malcontents, which may bring forth pretty results.”
“Sire,” cried the duke, “I am astonished that your majesty allows me to be interrupted so often, when I am speaking on serious matters.”
“Quite right,” said Chicot; “silence there.”
“Several millions!” repeated the king; “and against these millions, how many Huguenots are there in my kingdom?”
“Four,” said Chicot.
This new sally made the king and his friends laugh, but the duke frowned, and his gentlemen murmured loudly.
Henri, becoming once more serious, said, “Well, duke, what do you wish? To the point.”
“I wish, sire – for your popularity is dearer to me than my own – that your majesty should be superior to us in your zeal for religion – I wish you to choose a chief for the League.”
“Well!” said the king, to those who surrounded him, “what do you think of it, my friends?”
Chicot, without saying a word, drew out a lion’s skin from a corner, and threw himself on it.
“What are you doing, Chicot?” asked the king.
“Sire, they say that night brings good counsel; that must be because of sleep; therefore I am going to sleep, and to-morrow I will reply to my cousin Guise.”
The duke cast a furious glance on Chicot, who replied by a loud snore.
“Well, sire!” said the duke, “what does your majesty say?”
“I think that, as usual, you are in the right, my cousin; convoke, then, your principal leaguers, come at their head, and I will choose the chief.”
“When, sire?”
“To-morrow.”
The Duc de Guise then took leave, and the Duc d’Anjou was about to do the same, when the king said, —
“Stay, my brother, I wish to speak to you.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
CASTOR AND POLLUX
The king dismissed all his favorites, and remained with his brother. The duke, who had managed to preserve a tolerably composed countenance throughout, believed himself unsuspected, and remained without fear.
“My brother,” said Henri, after assuring himself that, with the exception of Chicot, no one remained in the room, “do you know that I am a very happy prince?”
“Sire, if your majesty be really happy, it is a recompense from Heaven for your merits.”
“Yes, happy,” continued the king, “for if great ideas do not come to me, they do to my subjects. It is a great idea which has occurred to my cousin Guise.”
The duke make a sign of assent, and Chicot opened his eyes to watch the king’s face.
“Indeed,” continued Henri, “to unite under one banner all the Catholics, to arm all France on this pretext from Calais to Languedoc, from Bretagne to Burgundy, so that I shall always have an army ready to march against England, Holland, or Spain, without alarming any of them – do you know, François, it is a magnificent idea?”
“Is it not, sire?” said the duke, delighted.
“Yes, I confess I feel tempted to reward largely the author of this fine project.”
Chicot opened his eyes, but he shut them again, for he had seen on the face of the king one of his almost imperceptible smiles, and he was satisfied.
“Yes,” continued Henri, “I repeat such a project merits recompense, and I will do what I can for the author of this good work, for the work is begun – is it not, my brother?”
The duke confessed that it was.
“Better and better; my subjects not only conceive these good ideas, but, in their anxiety to be of use to me, hasten to put them in execution. But I ask you, my dear François, if it be really to the Duc de Guise that I am indebted for this royal thought?”
“No, sire, it occurred to the Cardinal de Lorraine twenty years ago, only the St. Bartholomew rendered it needless for the time.”
“Ah! what a pity he is dead; but,” continued Henri, with that air of frankness which made him the first comedian of the day, “his nephew has inherited it, and brought it to bear. What can I do for him?”
“Sire,” said François, completely duped by his brother, “you exaggerate his merits. He has, as I say, but inherited the idea, and another man has given him great help in developing it.”
“His brother the cardinal?”
“Doubtless he has been occupied with it, but I do not mean him.”
“Mayenne, then?”
“Oh! sire, you do him too much honor.”
“True, how could any good ideas come to such a butcher? But to whom, then, am I to be grateful for aid to my cousin Guise?”
“To me, sire.”
“To you!” cried Henri, as if in astonishment. “How! when I saw all the world unchained against me, the preachers against my vices, the poets against my weaknesses, while my friends laughed at my powerlessness, and my situation was so harassing, that it gave me gray hairs every day: such an idea came to you, François – to you, whom I confess, for man is feeble and kings are blind, I did not always believe to be my friend! Ah! François, how guilty I have been.” And Henri, moved even to tears, held out his hand to his brother.
Chicot opened his eyes again.
“Oh!” continued Henri, “the idea is triumphant. Not being able to raise troops without raising an outcry, scarcely to walk, sleep, or love, without exciting ridicule, this idea gives me at once an army, money, friends, and repose. But my cousin spake of a chief?”
“Yes, doubtless.”
“This chief, you understand, François, cannot be one of my favorites; none of them has at once the head and the heart necessary for so important a post. Quelus is brave, but is occupied only by his amours. Maugiron is also brave, but he thinks only of his toilette. Schomberg also, but he is not clever. D’Epernon is a valiant man, but he is a hypocrite, whom I could not trust, although I am friendly to him. But you know, François, that one of the heaviest taxes on a king is the necessity of dissimulation; therefore, when I can speak freely from my heart, as I do now, I breathe. Well, then, if my cousin Guise originated this idea, to the development of which you have assisted, the execution of it belongs to him.”
“What do you say, sire?” said François, uneasily.
“I say, that to direct such a movement we must have a prince of high rank.”
“Sire, take care.”
“A good captain and a skilful negotiator.”
“The last particularly.”
“Well, is not M. de Guise all this?”
“My brother, he is very powerful already.”
“Yes, doubtless; but his power makes my strength.”
“He holds already the army and the bourgeois; the cardinal holds the Church, and Mayenne is their instrument; it is a great deal of power to be concentrated in one family.”
“It is true, François; I had thought of that.”
“If the Guises were French princes, their interest would be to aggrandize France.”
“Yes, but they are Lorraines.”
“Of a house always rival to yours.”
“Yes, François; you have touched the sore. I did not think you so good a politician. Yes, there does not pass a day but one or other of these Guises, either by address or by force, carries away from me some particle of my power. Ah! François, if we had but had this explanation sooner, if I had been able to read your heart as I do now, certain of support in you, I might have resisted better, but now it is too late.”
“Why so?”
“Because all combats fatigue me; therefore I must make him chief of the League.”
“You will be wrong, brother.”
“But who could I name, François? who would accept this perilous post? Yes, perilous; for do you not see that he intended me to appoint him chief, and that, should I name any one else to the post, he would treat him as an enemy?”
“Name some one so powerful that, supported by you, he need not fear all the three Lorraine princes together.”
“Ah, my good brother, I know no such person.”
“Look round you, brother.”
“I know no one but you and Chicot who are really my friends.”
“Well, brother.”
Henri looked at the duke as if a veil had fallen from his eyes. “Surely you would never consent, brother! It is not you who could teach all these bourgeois their exercise, who could look over the discourses of the preachers, who, in case of battle, would play the butcher in the streets of Paris; for all this, one must be triple, like the duke, and have a right arm called Charles and a left called Louis. What! you would like all this? You, the first gentleman of our court! Mort de ma vie! how people change with the age!”
“Perhaps I would not do it for myself, brother, but I would do it for you.”
“Excellent brother!” said Henri, wiping away a tear which never existed.
“Then,” said the duke, “it would not displease you for me to assume this post?”
“Displease me! On the contrary, it would charm me.”
François trembled with joy. “Oh! if your majesty thinks me worthy of this confidence.”
“Confidence! When you are the chief, what have I to fear? The League itself? That cannot be dangerous can it, François?”
“Oh, sire?”
“No, for then you would not be chief, or at least, when you are chief, there will be no danger. But, François, the duke is doubtless certain of this appointment, and he will not lightly give way.”
“Sire, you grant me the command?”
“Certainly.”
“And you wish me to have it?”
“Particularly; but I dare not too much displease M. de Guise.”
“Oh, make yourself easy, sire; if that be the only obstacle, I pledge myself to arrange it.”
“When?”
“At once.”
“Are you going to him? That will be doing him too much honor.”
“No, sire; he is waiting for me.”
“Where?”
“In my room.”
“Your room! I heard the cries of the people as he left the Louvre.”
“Yes; but after going out at the great door he came back by the postern. The king had the right to the first visit, but I to the second.”
“Ah, brother, I thank you for keeping up our prerogative, which I had the weakness so often to abandon. Go, then, François, and do your best.”
François bent down to kiss the king’s hand, but he, opening his arms, gave him a warm embrace, and then the duke left the room to go to his interview with the Duc de Guise. The king, seeing his brother gone, gave an angry growl, and rapidly made his way through the secret corridor, until he reached a hiding-place whence he could distinctly hear the conversation between the two dukes.
“Ventre de biche!” cried Chicot, starting up, “how touching these family scenes are! For an instant I believed myself in Olympus, assisting at the reunion of Castor and Pollux after six months’ separation.”