CHAPTER LXVI.
IN WHICH WE SEE THE QUEEN-MOTHER ENTER THE TOWN OF ANGERS, BUT NOT TRIUMPHANTLY
At the same time that M. de Monsoreau fell under the sword of St. Luc, a flourish of trumpets sounded at the closed gates of Angers. It was Catherine de Medicis, who arrived there with rather a large suite. They sent to tell Bussy, who rose from his bed, and went to the prince, who immediately got into his. Certainly the airs played by the trumpets were fine, but they had not the virtue of those which made the walls of Jericho fall, for the gates did not open. Catherine leaned out of her litter to show herself to the guards, hoping the sight of her would do more than the sound of the trumpets. They saw her, and saluted her courteously, but did not open the gates. Then she sent a gentleman to demand admittance, but they replied that Angers being in a state of war, the gates could not be opened without some necessary formalities. Catherine was furious. At last Bussy appeared, with five other gentlemen.
“Who is there?” cried he.
“It is her majesty the queen mother, who has come to visit Angers.”
“Very well, go to the left, and about eighty steps off you will find the postern.”
“A postern for her majesty!” cried the gentleman. But Bussy was no longer there to hear, he and his friends had ridden off towards the indicated spot.
“Did your majesty hear?” asked the gentleman.
“Oh! yes, monsieur, I heard; let us go there, if that be the only way to get in.”
The cortege turned to the left, and the postern opened.
“Your majesty is welcome to Angers,” said Bussy.
“Thank you, M. de Bussy,” said the queen, descending from her litter, and advancing towards the little door. Bussy stopped her. “Take care, madame,” said he, “the door is low, and you will hurt yourself.”
“Must I then stoop?” replied she; “it is the first time I ever entered a city so.”
Once through the gate she re-entered her litter to go to the palace, Bussy and his friends escorting her.
“Where is my son?” cried she; “why do I not see M. d’Anjou?”
“Monseigneur is ill, madame, or else your majesty cannot doubt that he would have come himself to do the honors of his city.”
Catherine was sublime in hypocrisy.
“Ill – my poor child, ill!” cried she; “ah! let us hasten to him; is he well taken care of?”
“Yes, madame, we do our best.”
“Does he suffer?”
“Horribly, he is subject to these sudden indispositions.”
“It was sudden, then?”
“Mon Dieu! yes, madame.”
When they arrived at the palace, Bussy ran up first to the duke.
“Here she is!” cried he.
“Is she furious?”
“Exasperated.”
“Does she complain?”
“No, she does worse, she smiles.”
“What do the people say?”
“They looked at her in mute terror; now, monseigneur, be careful.”
“We stick to war?”
“Pardieu, ask one hundred to get ten, and with her you will only get five.”
“Bah! you think me very weak. Are you all here? Where is Monsoreau?”
“I believe he is at Méridor.”
“Her majesty the queen mother!” cried the usher at the door.
Catherine entered, looking pale. The duke made a movement to rise, but she threw herself into his arms and half stifled him with kisses. She did more – she wept.
“We must take care,” said Antragues to Ribeirac, “each tear will be paid for by blood.”
Catherine now sat down on the foot of the bed. At a sign from Bussy everyone went away but himself.
“Will you not go and look after my poor attendants, M. de Bussy? you who are at home here,” said the queen.
It was impossible not to go, so he replied, “I am happy to please your majesty,” and he also retired.
Catherine wished to discover whether her son were really ill or feigning. But he, worthy son of such a mother, played his part to perfection. She had wept, he had a fever. Catherine, deceived, thought him really ill, and hoped to have more influence over a mind weakened by suffering. She overwhelmed him with tenderness, embraced him, and wept so much that at last he asked her the reason.
“You have run so great a risk,” replied she.
“In escaping from the Louvre, mother?”
“No, after.”
“How so?”
“Those who aided you in this unlucky escape – ”
“Well?”
“Were your most cruel enemies.”
“She wishes to find out who it was,” thought he.
“The King of Navarre,” continued she, “the eternal scourge of our race – ”
“Ah! she knows.”
“He boasts of having gained much by it.”
“That is impossible, for he had nothing to do with it; and if he had, I am quite safe, as you see. I have not seen the King of Navarre for two years.”
“It was not only of danger I spoke!”
“Of what, then?” replied the duke, smiling, as he saw the tapestry shake behind the queen.
“The king’s anger,” said she, in a solemn voice; “the furious anger which menaces you – ”
“This danger is something like the other, madame; he may be furious, but I am safe here.”
“You believe so?”
“I am sure of it; your majesty has announced it to me yourself.”
“How so?”
“Because if you had been charged only with menaces, you would not have come, and the king in that case would have hesitated to place such a hostage in my hands.”
“A hostage! I!” cried she, terrified.
“A most sacred and venerable one,” replied the duke, with a triumphant glance at the wall.
Catherine was baffled, but she did not know that Bussy was encouraging the duke by signs.
“My son,” said she at length, “you are quite right; they are words of peace I bring to you.”
“I listen, mother, and I think we shall now begin to understand each other.”
CHAPTER LXVII.
LITTLE CAUSES AND GREAT EFFECTS
Catherine had, as we have seen, had the worst of the argument. She was surprised, and began to wonder if her son were really as decided as he appeared to be, when a slight event changed the aspect of affairs. Bussy had been, as we said, encouraging the prince secretly at every word that he thought dangerous to his cause. Now his cause was war at any price, for he wished to stay in Anjou, watch M. de Monsoreau, and visit his wife. The duke feared Bussy, and was guided by him. Suddenly, however, Bussy felt himself pulled by his cloak; he turned and saw Rémy, who drew him gently towards him.
“What is it, Rémy?” said he impatiently. “Why disturb me at such a moment?”
“A letter.”
“And for a letter you take me from this important conversation.”
“It is from Méridor.”
“Oh! thank you, my good Rémy.”
“Then I was not wrong?”
“Oh, no; where is it?”
“That is what made me think it of importance; the messenger would only give it to you yourself.”
“Is he here?”
“Yes.”
“Bring him in.”
Rémy opened the door, and a servant entered.
“Here is M. de Bussy,” said Rémy.
“Oh, I know him well,” said the man, giving the letter.
“Did she give it to you?”
“No; M. de St. Luc.”
As Bussy read, he grew first pale, then crimson. Rémy dismissed the servant, and Bussy, with a bewildered look, held out the letter to him.
“See,” said he, “what St. Luc has done for me.”
“Well,” said Rémy, “this appears to me to be very good and St. Luc is a gallant fellow.”
“It is incredible!” cried Bussy.
“Certainly; but that is nothing. Here is our position quite changed; I shall have a Comtesse de Bussy for a patient.”
“Yes, she shall be my wife. So he is dead.”
“So, you see, it is written.”
“Oh, it seems like a dream, Rémy. What! shall I see no more that specter, always coming between me and happiness? It cannot be true.”
“It is true; read again, ‘he died there.’”
“But Diana cannot stay at Méridor – I do not wish it; she must go where she will forget him.”
“Paris will be best; people soon forget at Paris.”
“You are right; we will return to the little house in the Rue des Tournelles, and she shall pass there her months of widowhood in obscurity.”
“But to go to Paris you must have – ”
“What?”
“Peace in Anjou.”
“True; oh, mon Dieu! what time lost.”
“That means that you are going at once to Méridor.”
“No, not I, but you; I must stay here; besides, she might not like my presence just now.”
“How shall I see her? Shall I go to the castle?”
“No; go first to the old copse and see if she is there; if she is not then go to the castle.”
“What shall I say to her?”
“Say that I am half mad.” And pressing the young man’s hand, he returned to his place behind the tapes try.
Catherine had been trying to regain her ground.
“My son,” she had said, “it seemed to me that a mother and son could not fail to understand each other.”
“Yet you see that happens sometimes.”
“Never when she wishes it.”
“When they wish it, you mean,” said the duke, seeking a sign of approbation from Bussy for his boldness.
“But I wish it, my son, and am willing to make any sacrifices to attain peace.”
“Oh!”
“Yes, my dear child. What do you ask? – what do you demand? Speak.”
“Oh, my mother!” said François, almost embarrassed at his own easy victory.
“Listen, my son. You do not wish to drown the kingdom in blood – it is not possible; you are neither a bad Frenchman nor a bad brother.”
“My brother insulted me, madame, and I owe him nothing, either as my brother or king.”
“But I, François – you cannot complain of me?”
“Yes, madame, you abandoned me.”
“Ah! you wish to kill me. Well, a mother does not care to live to see her children murder each other!” cried Catherine, who wished very much to live.
“Oh, do not say that, madame, you tear my heart!” cried François, whose heart was not torn at all.
Catherine burst into tears. The duke took her hands, and tried to reassure her, not without uneasy glances towards the tapestry.
“But what do you want or ask for, mother? I will listen,” said he.
“I wish you to return to Paris, dear child, to return to your brother’s court, who will receive you with open arms.”
“No, madame, it is not he whose arms are open to receive me – it is the Bastile.”
“No; return, and on my honor, on my love as a mother, I solemnly swear that you shall be received by the king as though you were king and he the Duc d’Anjou.”
The duke looked to the tapestry.
“Accept, my son; you will have honors, guards.”
“Oh, madame, your son gave me guards – his four minions!”
“Do not reply so; you shall choose your own guards, and M. de. Bussy shall be their captain, if you like.”
Again the duke glanced to the wall, and, to his surprise, saw Bussy smiling and applauding by every possible method.
“What is the meaning of this change?” thought the duke; “is it that he may be captain of my guards? Then must I accept?” said he aloud, as though talking to himself.
“Yes, yes!” signed Bussy, with head and hands.
“Quit Anjou, and return to Paris?”
“Yes!” signed Bussy, more decidedly than ever.
“Doubtless, dear child,” said Catherine, “it is not disagreeable to return to Paris.”
“Well, I will reflect,” said the duke, who wished to consult with Bussy.
“I have won,” thought Catherine.
They embraced once more, and separated.
CHAPTER LXVIII.
HOW M. DE MONSOREAU OPENED AND SHUT HIS EYES, WHICH PROVED THAT HE WAS NOT DEAD
Rémy rode along, wondering in what humor he should find Diana, and what he should say to her. He had just arrived at the park wall, when his horse, which had been trotting, stopped so suddenly that, had he not been a good rider, he would have been thrown over his head. Rémy, astonished, looked to see the cause, and saw before him a pool of blood, and a little further on, a body, lying against the wall. “It is Monsoreau!” cried he; “how strange! he lies dead there, and the blood is down here. Ah! there is the track; he must have crawled there, or rather that good M. de St. Luc leaned him up against the wall that the blood might not fly to his head. He died with his eyes open, too.”
All at once Rémy started back in horror; the two eyes, that he had seen open, shut again, and a paleness more livid than ever spread itself over the face of the defunct. Rémy became almost as pale as M. de Monsoreau, but, as he was a doctor, he quickly recovered his presence of mind, and said to himself that if Monsoreau moved his eyes, it showed he was not dead. “And yet I have read,” thought he, “of strange movements after death. This devil of a fellow frightens one even after death. Yes, his eyes are quite closed; there is one method of ascertaining whether he is dead or not, and that is to shove my sword into him, and if he does not move, he is certainly dead.” And Rémy was preparing for this charitable action, when suddenly the eyes opened again. Rémy started back, and the perspiration rolled off his forehead as he murmured, “He is not dead; we are in a nice position. Yes, but if I kill him he will be dead.” And he looked at Monsoreau, who seemed also to be looking at him earnestly.
“Oh!” cried Rémy, “I cannot do it. God knows that if he were upright before me I would kill him with all my heart; but as he is now, helpless and three parts dead, it would be an infamy.”
“Help!” murmured Monsoreau, “I am dying.”
“Mordieu!” thought Rémy, “my position is embarrassing. I am a doctor, and, as such, bound to succor my fellow-creatures when they suffer. It is true that Monsoreau is so ugly that he can scarcely be called a fellow-creature, still he is a man. Come, I must forget that I am the friend of M. de Bussy, and do my duty as a doctor.”
“Help!” repeated the wounded man.
“Here I am,” said Rémy.
“Fetch me a priest and a doctor.”
“The doctor is here, and perhaps he will dispense with the priest.”
“Rémy,” said Monsoreau, “by what chance – ”
Rémy understood all the question might mean. This was no beaten road, and no one was likely to come without particular business.
“Pardieu!” he replied, “a mile or two off I met M. de St. Luc – ”
“Ah! my murderer.”
“And he said, ‘Rémy, go to the old copse, there you will find a man dead.’”
“Dead?”
“Yes, he thought so; well, I came here and saw you.”
“And now, tell me frankly, am I mortally wounded?”
“I will try to find out.”
Rémy approached him carefully, took off his cloak, his doublet and shirt. The sword had penetrated between the sixth and seventh ribs.
“Do you suffer much?”
“In my back, not in my chest.”
“Ah, let me see; where?”
“Below the shoulder bone.”
“The steel must have come against a bone.” And he began to examine. “No, I am wrong,” said he, “the sword came against nothing, but passed right through.” Monsoreau fainted after this examination.
“Ah! that is all right,” said Rémy, “syncope, low pulse, cold in the hands and legs: Diable! the widowhood of Madame de Monsoreau will not last long, I fear.”
At this moment a slight bloody foam rose to the lips of the wounded man.
Rémy drew from his pocket his lancet case; then tearing off a strip from the patient’s shirt, bound it round his arm.
“We shall see,” said he, “if the blood flows. Ah, it does! and I believe that Madame de Monsoreau will not be a widow. Pardon, my dear M. de Bussy, but I am a doctor.”
Presently the patient breathed, and opened his eyes.
“Oh!” stammered he, “I thought all was over.”
“Not yet, my dear monsieur; it is even possible – ”
“That I live!”
“Oh, mon Dieu! yes; but let me close the wound. Stop; do not move; nature at this moment is aiding my work. I make the blood flow, and she stops it. Ah! nature is a great doctor, my dear sir. Let me wipe your lips. See the bleeding has stopped already. Good; all goes well, or rather badly.”
“Badly!”
“No, not for you; but I know what I mean.”
“You think I shall get well?”
“Alas! yes.”
“You are a singular doctor, M. Rémy.”
“Never mind, as long as I cure you,” said he, rising.
“Do not abandon me,” said the count.
“Ah! you talk too much. Diable! I ought to tell him to cry out.”
“What do you mean?”
“Never mind; your wound is dressed. Now I will go to the castle and fetch assistance.”
“And what must I do meanwhile?”
“Keep quite still; do not stir; breathe lightly, and try not to cough. Which is the nearest house?”
“The château de Méridor.”
“Which is the way to it?” said Rémy, affecting ignorance.
“Get over the wall, and you will find yourself in the park.”
“Very well; I go.”
“Thanks, generous man.”
“Generous, indeed, if you only knew all.”
He soon arrived at the château, where all the inhabitants were busy looking for the body of the count; for St. Luc had given them a wrong direction. Rémy came among them like a thunderbolt, and was so eager to bring them to the rescue, that Diana looked at him with surprise, “I thought he was Bussy’s friend,” murmured she, as Rémy disappeared, carrying with him a wheelbarrow, lint and water.
CHAPTER LXIX.
HOW M. LE DUC D’ANJOU WENT TO MÉRIDOR TO CONGRATULATE MADAME DE MONSOREAU ON THE DEATH OF HER HUSBAND, AND FOUND HIM THERE BEFORE HIM
As soon as the duke left his mother, he hastened to Bussy to know the meaning of all his signs. Bussy, who was reading St. Luc’s letter for the fifth time, received the prince with a gracious smile.
“How! monseigneur takes the trouble to come to my house to seek me.”
“Yes mordieu, I want an explanation.”
“From me?”
“Yes, from you.”
“I listen, monseigneur.”
“You tell me to steel myself against the suggestions of my mother, and to sustain the attack valiantly. I do so; and in the hottest of the fight you tell me to surrender.”
“I gave you all those charges, monseigneur, because I was ignorant of the object for which your mother came; but now that I see that she has come to promote your highness’s honor and glory – ”
“How! what do you mean?”
“Doubtless: what does your highness want? To triumph over your enemies, do you not? For I do not believe, as some people say, that you wish to become King of France.”
The duke looked sullen.
“Some might counsel you to it, but believe me they are your most cruel enemies. Consider for yourself, monseigneur; have you one hundred thousand men – ten millions of livres – alliance with foreigners – and, above all, would you turn against your king?”
“My king did not hesitate to turn against me.”
“Ah! there you are right. Well! declare yourself – get crowned – take the title of King of France – and if you succeed, I ask no better; I should grow great with you.”
“Who speaks of being king?” cried the duke, angrily; “you discuss a question which I have never proposed, even to myself.”
“Well, then, that is settled. Let them give you a guard and five hundred thousand livres. Obtain, before peace is signed, a subsidy from Anjou, to carry on the war. Once you have it, you can keep it. So, we should have arms and money, and we could do – God knows what.”
“But once they have me at Paris, they will laugh at me.”
“Oh! impossible, monseigneur; did you not hear what the queen mother offered you?”
“She offered me many things.”
“That disquiets you?”
“Yes.”
“But, among other things, she offered you a company of guards, even if I commanded it.”
“Yes, she offered that.”
“Well, accept; I will be captain; Antragues and Livarot lieutenants; and Ribeirac ensign. Let us get up your company for you, and see if they dare to laugh at you then.”
“Ma foi! I believe you are right, Bussy; I will think of it.”
“Do so, monseigneur.”
“What were you reading so attentively when I came in?”
“Oh! a letter, which interests you still more than me. Where the devil were my brains, that I did not show it to you?”
“What is it?”
“Sad news, monseigneur; Monsoreau is dead.”
“What!” cried the duke, with a surprise which Bussy thought was a joyful one.
“Dead, monseigneur.”
“M. de Monsoreau!”
“Mon Dieu! yes; are we not all mortal?”
“Yes; but so suddenly.”
“Ah! but if you are killed?”
“Then, he was killed?”
“So it seems; and by St. Luc, with whom he quarreled.”
“Oh, that dear St. Luc!”
“I did not think he was one of your highness’s friends.”
“Oh, he is my brother’s, and, since we are to be reconciled, his friends are mine. But are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be. Here is a letter from St. Luc, announcing it; and I have sent Rémy, my doctor, to present my condolences to the old baron.”
“Oh, Monsoreau!” cried the prince, with his malignant smile.
“Why monseigneur, one would say you hated the poor count.”
“No, it was you.”
“Of course I did; did he not humiliate me through you?”
“You remember it still.”
“But you, monseigneur, whose friend and tool he was – ”
“Well, well, get my horse saddled, Bussy.”
“What for?”
“To go to Méridor; I wish to pay a visit to Madame Monsoreau. I have been projecting one for some time, and I do not know why it has not taken place sooner.”
“Now Monsoreau is dead,” thought Bussy, “I do not care; I will protect Diana. I will go with him, and see her.”
A quarter of an hour after, the prince, Bussy, and ten gentlemen rode to Méridor, with that pleasure which fine weather, turf, and youth always inspire in men on horseback.
The porter at the château came to ask the names of the visitors.
“The Duc d’Anjou,” replied the prince.
The porter blew his horn, and soon windows were opened, and they heard the noise of bolts and bars as the door was unfastened, and the old baron appeared on the threshold, holding in his hand a bunch of keys. Immediately behind him stood a lady.
“Ah, there is the beautiful Diana!” cried the duke; “do you see her, Bussy?”
Diana, indeed, came out of the house, and behind her came a litter, on which lay Monsoreau, his eyes shining with fever and jealousy as he was carried along.
“What does this mean?” cried the duke to his companion, who had turned whiter than the handkerchief with which he was trying to hide his emotion.
“Long live the Duc d’Anjou!” cried Monsoreau, raising his hand in the air by a violent effort.
“Take care, you will hurt yourself,” said a voice behind him. It was Rémy.
Surprise does not last long at court, so, with a smile, the duke said, “Oh, my dear count, what a happy surprise! Do you know we heard you were dead?”
“Come near, monseigneur, and let me kiss your hand. Thank God, not only I am not dead, but I shall live; I hope to serve you with more ardor than ever.”
As for Bussy, he felt stunned, and scarcely dared to look at Diana. This treasure, twice lost to him, belonged still to his rival.
“And you, M. de Bussy,” said Monsoreau, “receive my thanks, for it is almost to you that I owe my life.”
“To me!” stammered the young man, who thought the count was mocking him.
“Yes, indirectly, it is true, for here is my saviour,” said he, turning to Rémy, who would willingly have sunk into the earth. Then, in spite of his signs, which he took for precautions to himself, he recounted the care and skill which the young doctor had exhibited towards him.
The duke frowned, and Bussy looked thunders. The poor fellow raised his hands to heaven.
“I hear,” continued the count, “that Rémy one day found you dying, as he found me. It is a tie of friendship between us, M. de Bussy, and when Monsoreau loves, he loves well; it is true that when he hates, it is also with all his heart.”
“Come, then,” said the duke, getting off his horse, “deign, beautiful Diana, to do us the honors of the house, which we thought to find in grief, but which we find still the abode of joy. As for you, Monsoreau, rest – you require it.”
“Monseigneur!” said the count, “it shall never be said that Monsoreau, while he lived, allowed another to do the honors of his house to you; my servants will carry me, and wherever you go, I shall follow.”
Bussy approached Diana, and Monsoreau smiled; he took her hand, and he smiled again. It was only the duke he feared.
“Here is a great change, M. le Comte,” said Diana.
“Alas! why is it not greater!”