CHAPTER LI.
HOW PEOPLE DO NOT ALWAYS LOSE THEIR TIME BY SEARCHING EMPTY DRAWERS
The scene which the duke had just had with the king made him regard his position as desperate. The minions had not allowed him to be ignorant of what had passed, and he had heard the people cry, “Vive le roi!” He felt himself abandoned by the other chiefs, who had themselves to save. In his quarrels with his brother Charles he had always had for confidants, or rather dupes, those two devoted men, Coconnas and La Mole, and, for the first time in his life, feeling himself alone and isolated, he felt a kind of remorse at having sacrificed them. During that time his sister Marguerite loved and consoled him. How had he recompensed her?
He had recently had near him a brave and valiant heart and sword – Bussy, the brave Bussy. And he had offended him to please Monsoreau, who had his secret, with which he always threatened him, and which was now known to the king. He had therefore quarreled with Bussy gratuitously, and, above all, uselessly, which as a great politician once said, “was more than a crime, it was a mistake!” How he would have rejoiced in his present situation, to know that Bussy was watching over him; Bussy the loyal, Bussy the universal favorite. It would have been probable liberty and certain vengeance.
But as we have said, Bussy, wounded to the heart, kept away from the prince, so the prisoner remained fifty feet above the ground, with the four favorites in the corridor, without counting the court full of Swiss. Besides this, one or other of the young men entered from time to time, and, without seeming even to notice the prince, went round the room, examined the doors and windows, looked under the beds and tables, and glanced at the curtains and sheets.
“Ma foi!” said Maugiron, after one of these visits, “I have done; I am not going to look after him any more to-night.”
“Yes,” said D’Epernon, “as long as we guard him, there is no need of going to look at him.”
“And he is not handsome to look at,” said Quelus.
“Still,” said Schomberg, “I think we had better not relax our vigilance, for the devil is cunning.”
“Yes, but not cunning enough to pass over the bodies of four men like us.”
“That is true,” said Quelus.
“Oh!” said Schomberg, “do you think, if he wants to fly, he will choose our corridor to come through? He would make a hole in the wall.”
“With what?”
“Then he has the windows.”
“Ah! the windows, bravo, Schomberg; would you jump forty-five feet?”
“I confess that forty-five feet – ”
“Yes, and he who is lame, and heavy, and timid as – ”
“You,” said Schomberg.
“You know I fear nothing but phantoms – that is an affair of the nerves.”
“The last phantom was,” said Quelus, “that all those whom he had killed in duels appeared to him one night.”
“However,” said Maugiron, “I have read of wonderful escapes; with sheets, for instance.”
“Ah! that is more sensible. I saw myself, at Bordeaux, a prisoner who escaped by the aid of his sheets.”
“You see, then?”
“Yes, but he had his leg broken, and his neck, too; his sheets were thirty feet too short, and he had to jump, so that while his body escaped from prison, his soul escaped from his body.”
“Besides,” said Quelus, “if he escapes, we will follow him, and in catching him some mischief might happen to him.”
So they dismissed the subject. They were perfectly right that the duke was not likely to attempt a perilous escape. From time to time his pale face was at the window which overlooked the fosses of the Louvre, beyond which was an open space about fifteen feet broad, and then the Seine rolled calm as a mirror. On the other side rose, like a giant, the tower of Nesle.
He had watched the sunset and the gradual extinction of all the lights. He had contemplated the beautiful spectacle of old Paris, with its roofs gilded by the last rays of the sun, and silvered by the first beams of the moon; then little by little he was seized with a great terror at seeing immense clouds roll over the sky and announce a storm. Among his other weaknesses, the Duc d’Anjou was afraid of thunder, and he would have given anything to have had his guardians with him again, even if they insulted him. He threw himself on his bed, but found it impossible to sleep. Then he began to swear, and break everything near him. It was a family failing, and they were accustomed to it at the Louvre. The young men had opened the door to see what the noise meant, and seeing that it was the duke amusing himself, they had shut it again, which redoubled his anger. He had just broken a chair, when a crashing of glass was heard at the window, and he felt a sharp blow on his thigh. His first idea was that he was wounded by some emissary of the king’s.
“Ah! I am dead!” he cried, and fell on the carpet. But as he fell his hand came in contact with a larger and rougher substance than a ball.
“Oh! a stone,” thought he, and feeling his leg, he found it uninjured. He picked up the stone and looked at it, and saw that it was wrapped in a piece of paper. Then the duke’s ideas began to change. Might not this stone come from a friend as well as an enemy. He approached the light, cut the silk which tied the paper round the stone and read, —
“Are you tired of keeping your room? Do you love open air and liberty? Enter the little room where the Queen of Navarre hid your poor friend, M. de la Mole, open the cupboard, and, by displacing the lowest bracket, you will find a double bottom; in this there is a silk ladder; attach it yourself to the balcony, two vigorous arms will hold it at the bottom. A horse, swift as thought, will lead you to a safe place.
“A FRIEND.”
“A friend!” cried the prince; “oh! I did not know I had a friend. Who is this friend who thinks of me?” And the duke ran to the window, but could see no one.
“Can it be a snare?” thought he; “but first let me see if there is a double bottom and a ladder.”
The duke then, leaving the light where it was for precaution, groped his way to the cabinet, which he knew so well. He opened it, felt for the bottom shelf, and, to his great joy, found what he looked for. As a thief escapes with his booty, the duke rushed into the next room with his prey. Ten o’clock struck; the duke thought of his hourly visitors, and hid his ladder under a cushion, on which he sat down. Indeed, five minutes had not passed before Maugiron appeared in a dressing-gown, with a sword in one hand and a light in the other. As he came in one of his friends said to him, “The bear is furious, he was breaking everything just now; take care he does not devour you, Maugiron.”
Maugiron made his usual examination; he saw a broken window, but thought the duke had done it in his rage.
“Maugiron!” cried Schomberg, from outside, “are you already eaten that you do not speak? In that case, sigh, at least, that we may know and avenge you.”
The duke trembled with impatience.
“No, no,” said Maugiron, “on the contrary, my bear is quite conquered.”
And so saying he went out and locked the door. When the key had ceased to turn in the lock the duke murmured, —
“Take care, gentlemen, or the duke will be too much for you.”
CHAPTER LII.
VENTRE ST. GRIS
Left alone, the duke, knowing he had at least an hour before him, drew out his ladder and carefully examined the fastenings.
“The ladder is good,” said he, at length, “and will not break.”
Then he unrolled it all, and counted thirty-eight rounds of fifteen inches each.
“The length is sufficient,” said he, “there is nothing to fear on that point. Ah! but if it were some of those cursed minions who sent me to the ladder? If I attach it to the balcony they will let me do it, and while I am descending they will cut the cords. But, no; they could not be foolish enough to think I would fly without barricading the door, and I should have time to fly before they could force it. But what person in the world, except my sister herself, could know of a ladder hidden in her dressing-room? What friend of mine can it be?”
Suddenly an idea struck him, and he cried, “Bussy!”
Indeed, Bussy, whom so many ladies adored, Bussy was a hero to the Queen of Navarre, and his only true friend – was it Bussy? Everything made him think so. The duke, of course, did not know all his motives for being angry with him, for he did not know his love for Diana, and believed him to be too noble to think of resentment when his master was a prisoner. He approached the window again, and fancied he could see in the fog the indistinct forms of three horses and two men by the river. Two men. These must be Bussy and Rémy. He then looked through the keyhole, and saw his four guardians; two were asleep, and two had inherited Chicot’s chessboard and were playing. He extinguished his light.
Then he opened his window, and looked over the balcony; the gulf below him looked dreadful in the darkness, and he drew back. But air and liberty have an attraction so irresistible to a prisoner, that François, on withdrawing from the window, felt as if he were being stifled, and for an instant something like disgust of life and indifference to death passed through his mind. He fancied he was growing courageous, and, profiting by this moment of excitement, he seized the ladder, fixed it to the balcony, then barricaded the door as well as he could, and returned to the window. The darkness was now great, and the first growlings of the storm began to make themselves heard; a great cloud with silver fringes extended itself like a recumbent elephant from one side to the other of the river. A flash of lightning broke the immense cloud for a moment, and the prince fancied that he saw below him in the fosse the same figures he had imagined before. A horse neighed; there was no more doubt – he was waited for.
He shook the ladder to see if it was firm, then he put his leg over the balustrade and placed his foot on the first step. Nothing can describe the anguish of the prisoner at this moment, placed between a frail silk cord on the one hand and his brother’s cruel menaces on the other. But as he stood there he felt the ladder stiffened; some one held it. Was it a friend or an enemy? Were they open arms or armed ones which waited for him? An irresistible terror seized him; he still held the balcony with his left hand, and made a movement to remount, when a very slight pull at the ladder came to him like a solicitation. He took courage, and tried the second step. The ladder was held as firm as a rock, and he found a steady support for his foot. He descended rapidly, almost gliding down, when all at once, instead of touching the earth, which he knew to be near, he felt himself seized in the arms of a man who whispered, “You are saved.” Then he was carried along the fosse till they came to the end, when another man seized him by the collar and drew him up, and after having aided his companion in the same way, they ran to the river, where stood the horses. The prince knew he was at, the mercy of his saviours, so he jumped at once on a horse, and his companions did the same. The same voice now said, “Quick!” And they set off at a gallop.
“All goes well at present,” thought the prince, “let us hope it will end so. Thanks, my brave Bussy,” said he to his companion on the right, who was entirely covered with a large cloak.
“Quick!” replied the other.
They arrived thus at the great ditch of the Bastile, which they crossed on a bridge improvised by the Leaguers the night before. The three cavaliers rode towards Charenton, when all at once the man on the right entered the forest of Vincennes, saying only, “Come.” The prince’s horse neighed, and several others answered from the depths of the forest. François would have stopped if he could, for he feared they were taking him to an ambush, but it was too late, and in a few minutes he found himself in a small open space, where eight or ten men on horseback were drawn up.
“Oh! oh!” said the prince, “what does this mean, monsieur?”
“Ventre St. Gris! it means that we are saved.”
“You! Henri!” cried the duke, stupefied, “you! my liberator?”
“Does that astonish you? Are we not related, Agrippa?” continued he, looking round for his companion.
“Here I am,” said D’Aubigné.
“Are there two fresh horses, with which we can go a dozen leagues without stopping?”
“But where are you taking me, my cousin?”
“Where you like, only be quick, for the King of France has more horses than I have, and is rich enough to kill a dozen if he wishes to catch us.”
“Really, then, I am free to go where I like?”
“Certainly, I wait your orders.”
“Well, then, to Angers.”
“To Angers; so be it, there you are at home.”
“But you?”
“I! when we are in sight of Angers I shall leave you, and ride on to Navarre, where my good Margot expects me, and must be much ennuyée at my absence.”
“But no one knew you were here?”
“I came to sell three diamonds of my wife’s.”
“Ah! very well.”
“And also to know if this League was really going to ruin me.”
“You see there is nothing in it.”
“Thanks to you, no.”
“How! thanks to me?”
“Certainly. If, instead of refusing to be chief of the League, when you knew it was directed against me, you had accepted, I was ruined. Therefore, when I heard that the king had punished your refusal with imprisonment, I swore to release you, and I have done so.”
“Always so simple-minded,” thought François, “really, it is easy to deceive him.”
“Now for Anjou,” thought the king. “Ah! M. de Guise, I send you a companion you do not want.”
CHAPTER LIII.
THE FRIENDS
While Paris was in this ferment, Madame de Monsoreau, escorted by her father and two servants, pursued their way to Méridor. She began to enjoy her liberty, precious to those who have suffered. The azure of the sky, compared to that which hung always menacingly over the black towers of the Bastile, the trees already green, all appeared to her fresh and young, beautiful and new, as if she had really come out of the tomb where her father had believed her. He, the old baron, had grown young again. We will not attempt to describe their long journey, free from incidents. Several times the baron said to Diana, —
“Do not fear, my daughter.”
“Fear what?”
“Were you not looking if M. de Monsoreau was following us?”
“Yes, it was true, I did look,” replied she, with a sigh and another glance behind.
At last, on the eighth day, they reached the château of Méridor, and were received by Madame de St. Luc and her husband. Then began for these four people one of those existences of which every man has dreamed in reading Virgil or Theocritus. The baron and St. Luc hunted from morning till evening; you might have seen troops of dogs rushing from the hills in pursuit of some hare or fox, and startling Diana and Jeanne, as they sat side by side on the moss, under the shade of the trees.
“Recount to me,” said Jeanne, “all that happened to you in the tomb, for you were dead to us. See, the hawthorn is shedding on us its last flowers, and the elders send out their perfume. Not a breath in the air, not a human being near us; recount, little sister.”
“What can I say?”
“Tell me, are you happy? That beautiful eye often swimming in tears, the paleness of your cheeks, that mouth which tries a smile which it never finishes – Diana, you must have many things to tell me.”
“No, nothing.”
“You are, then, happy with M. de Monsoreau?”
Diana shuddered.
“You see!” said Jeanne.
“With M. de Monsoreau! Why did you pronounce that name? why do you evoke that phantom in the midst of our woods, our flowers, our happiness?”
“You told me, I think,” said Jeanne, “that M. de Bussy showed much interest in you.”
Diana reddened, even to her round pretty ears.
“He is a charming creature,” continued Jeanne, kissing Diana.
“It is folly,” said Diana; “M. de Bussy thinks no more of Diana de Méridor.”
“That is possible; but I believe he pleases Diana de Monsoreau a little.”
“Do not say that.”
“Does it displease you?”
“I tell you he thinks no more of me; and he does well – oh, I was cowardly.”
“What do you say?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Now, Diana, do not cry, do not accuse yourself. You cowardly! you, my heroine! you were constrained.”
“I believed it; I saw dangers, gulfs under my feet. Now, Jeanne, these dangers seem to me chimerical, these gulfs as if a child could cross them. I was cowardly, I tell you; oh, I had no time to reflect.”
“You speak in enigmas.”
“No,” cried Diana, rising, “it was not my fault, it was his. The Duc d’Anjou was against him; but when one wishes a thing, when one loves, neither prince nor master should keep you back. See, Jeanne, if I loved – ”
“Be calm, dear friend.”
“I tell you,
we
were cowardly.”
“‘We!’ of whom do you speak? That ‘we’ is eloquent, my dearest Diana.”
“I mean my father and I; you did not think anything else, did you? My father is a nobleman – he might have spoken to the king; I am proud, and do not fear a man when I hate him. But
he
did not love me.”
“You lie to yourself! you know the contrary, little hypocrite!”
“You may believe in love, Jeanne, you, whom M. de St. Luc married in spite of the king; you, whom he carried away from Paris; you, who pay him by your caresses for proscription and exile.”
“And he thinks himself richly repaid.”
“But I – reflect a little, do not be egotistical – I, whom that fiery young man pretended to love – I, who fixed the regards of that invincible Bussy, he who fears no one – I was alone with him in the cloister of l’Egyptienne – we were alone; but for Gertrude and Rémy, our accomplices, he could have carried me off. At that moment I saw him suffering because of me; I saw his eyes languishing, his lips pale and parched with fever. If he had asked me to die to restore the brightness to his eyes, and the freshness to his lips, I should have died. Well, I went away, and he never tried to detain me. Wait still. He knew that I was leaving Paris, that I was returning to Méridor; he knew that M. de Monsoreau – I blush as I tell it – was only my husband in name; he knew that I traveled alone; and along the road, dear Jeanne, I kept turning, thinking I heard the gallop of his horse behind us. But no, it was only the echo of my own. I tell you he does not think of me. I am not worth a journey to Anjou while there are so many beautiful women at the court of France, whose smiles are worth a hundred confessions from the provincial, buried at Méridor. Do you understand now? Am I forgotten, despised – ”
She had not finished when the foliage of the oak rustled, a quantity of mortar and moss fell from the old wall, and a man threw himself at the feet of Diana, who uttered an affrighted cry.
Jeanne ran away – she recognized him.
“Here I am!” cried Bussy, kissing the dress of Diana.
She too recognized him, and, overcome by this unexpected happiness, fell unconscious into the arms of him whom she had just accused of indifference.
CHAPTER LIV.
BUSSY AND DIANA
Faintings from love seldom last any length of time, nor are they very dangerous. Diana was not long in opening her eyes, and finding herself supported by Bussy.
“Oh!” murmured she, “it was shocking, count, to surprise us thus.”
Bussy expected other words, men are so exacting, but Diana said no more, and, disengaging herself gently from his arms, ran to her friend, who, seeing her faint, had returned softly, and stood a little way off.
“Is it thus that you receive me, madame?”
“No, M. de Bussy, but – ”
“Oh! no ‘but,’ madame,” sighed Bussy, drawing near again.
“No, no, not on your knees!”
“Oh! let me pray to you an instant, thus!” cried the count. “I have so longed for this place.”
“Yes, but to come to it, you jumped over the wall. Not only is it not suitable for a man of your rank, but it is very imprudent.”
“How so?”
“If you had been seen?”
“Who could have seen me?”
“Our hunters, who, a quarter of an hour ago, passed by this wall.”
“Do not be uneasy, madame, I hide myself too carefully to be seen.”
“Hidden! really!” said Jeanne, “tell us how, M. de Bussy.”
“Firstly, if I did not join you on the road, it was not my fault, I took one route and you another. You came by Rambouillet, and I by Chartres. And then judge if your poor Bussy be not in love; I did not dare to join you. It was not in the presence of your father and your servants that I wished to meet you again, for I did not desire to compromise you, so I made the journey stage by stage, devoured by impatience. At last you arrived. I had taken a lodging in the village, and, concealed behind the window, I saw you pass.”
“Oh! mon Dieu! are you then at Angers under your own name?”
“For what do you take me? I am a traveling merchant; look at my costume, it is of a color much worn among drapers and goldsmiths. I have not been remarked.”
“Bussy, the handsome Bussy, two days in a provincial town and not remarked; who would believe that at court?” said Jeanne.
“Continue, count,” said Diana, blushing; “how do you come here from the town?”
“I have two horses of a chosen race; I leave the village on one, stopping to look at all the signs and writings, but when out of sight my horse takes to a gallop, which brings him the four miles in half an hour. Once in the wood of Méridor I ride to the park wall, but it is very long, for the park is large. Yesterday I explored this wall for more than four hours, climbing up here and there, hoping to see you. At last, when I was almost in despair, I saw you in the evening returning to the house; the two great dogs of the baron were jumping round you. When you had disappeared, I jumped over, and saw the marks on the grass where you had been sitting. I fancied you might have adopted this place, which is charming, during the heat of the sun, so I broke away some branches that I might know it again, and sighing, which hurts me dreadfully – ”
“From want of habit,” said Jeanne.
“I do not say no, madame; well, then, sighing, I retook my way to the town. I was very tired, I had torn my dress in climbing trees, but I had seen you, and I was happy.”
“It is an admirable recital,” said Jeanne, “and you have surmounted dreadful obstacles; it is quite heroic; but in your place I would have preserved my doublet, and above all, have taken care of my white hands. Look at yours, how frightful they are with scratches.”
“Yes, but then I should not have seen her whom I came to see.”
“On the contrary, I should have seen her better than you did.”
“What would you have done then?”
“I would have gone straight to the Château de Méridor. M. le Baron would have pressed me in his arms, Madame de Monsoreau would have placed me by her at table, M. de St. Luc would have been delighted to see me, and his wife also. It was the simplest thing in the world, but lovers never think of what is straight before them.”
Bussy smiled at Diana. “Oh, no,” he said, “that would not have done for me.”
“Then I no longer understand what good manners are.”
“No,” said Bussy, “I could not go to the castle; M. le Baron would watch his daughter.”
“Good!” said Jeanne, “here is a lesson for me,” and kissing Diana on the forehead, she ran away. Diana tried to stop her, but Bussy seized her hands, and she let her friend go. They remained alone.
“Have I not done well, madame,” said Bussy, “and do you not approve?”
“I do not desire to feign,” said Diana, “besides, it would be useless; you know I approve; but here must stop my indulgence; in calling for you as I did just now I was mad – I was guilty.”
“Mon Dieu! What do you say?”
“Alas I count, the truth; I have a right to make M. de Monsoreau unhappy, to withhold from him my smiles and my love, but I have no right to bestow them on another: for, after all, he is my master.”
“Now, you will let me speak, will you not?”
“Speak!”
“Well! of all that you have just said, you do not find one word in your heart.”
“How!”
“Listen patiently; you have overwhelmed me with sophisms. The commonplaces of morality do not apply here; this man is your master, you say, but did you choose him? No; fate imposed him on you, and you submitted. Now, do you mean to suffer all your life the consequences, of this odious constraint? I will deliver you from it.”
Diana tried to speak, but Bussy stopped her.
“Oh! I know what you are going to say; that if I provoke M. de Monsoreau and kill him, you will see me no more. So be it; I may die of grief, but you will live free and happy, and you may render happy some gallant man, who in his joy will sometimes bless my name, and cry, ‘Thanks, Bussy, thanks, for having delivered us from that dreadful Monsoreau;’ and you, yourself, Diana, who will not dare to thank me while living, will thank me dead.”
Diana seized his hand.
“You have not yet implored me, Bussy; you begin with menaces.”
“Menace you! oh! could I have such an intention, I, who love you so ardently, Diana. I know you love me; do not deny it, I know it, for you have avowed it. Here, on my knees before you, my hand on my heart, which has never lied, either from interest or from fear, I say to you, Diana, I love you, for my whole life. Diana, I swear to you, that if I die for you, it will be in adoring you. If you still say to me, ‘go,’ I will go without a sigh, or complaint, from this place where I am so happy, and I should say, ‘this woman does not love me, and never will love me.’ Then I should go away, and you would see me no more, but as my devotion for you is great, my desire to see you happy would survive the certainty that I could never be happy myself.”
Bussy said this with so much emotion, and, at the same time firmness, that Diana felt sure that he would do all he said, and she cried, —
“Thanks, count, for you take from me all remorse by your threats.”
Saying these words, she gave him her hand, which he kissed passionately. Then they heard the light steps of Jeanne, accompanied by a warning cough. Instinctively the clasped hands parted. Jeanne saw it.
“Pardon, my good friends, for disturbing you,” said she, “but we must go in if we do not wish to be sent for. M. le Comte, regain, if you please, your excellent horse, and let us go to the house. See what you lose by your obstinacy, M. de Bussy, a dinner at the château, which is not to be despised by a man who has had a long ride, and h