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Chicot the Jester by Alexandre Dumas

A >> Alexandre Dumas >> Chicot the Jester



Produced by Robert J. Hall





CHICOT THE JESTER
[Abridged translation of "La dame de Monsoreau"]

BY ALEXANDRE DUMAS




CHAPTER I.

THE WEDDING OF ST. LUC.

On the evening of a Sunday, in the year 1578, a splendid fête was
given in the magnificent hotel just built opposite the Louvre,
on the other side of the water, by the family of Montmorency, who,
allied to the royalty of France, held themselves equal to princes.
This fête was to celebrate the wedding of François d'Epinay de
St. Luc, a great friend and favorite of the king, Henri III.,
with Jeanne de Crossé-Brissac, daughter of the marshal of that
name.

The banquet had taken place at the Louvre, and the king, who had
been with much difficulty induced to consent to the marriage, had
appeared at it with a severe and grave countenance. His costume
was in harmony with his face; he wore that suit of deep chestnut,
in which Clouet described him at the wedding of Joyeuse; and
this kind of royal specter, solemn and majestic, had chilled
all the spectators, but above all the young bride, at whom he
cast many angry glances. The reason of all this was known to
everyone, but was one of those court secrets of which no one likes
to speak.

Scarcely was the repast finished, when the king had risen abruptly,
thereby forcing everyone to do the same. Then St. Luc approached
him, and said: "Sire, will your majesty do me the honor to accept
the fête, which I wish to give to you this evening at the Hôtel
Montmorency?" This was said in an imploring tone, but Henri,
with a voice betraying both vexation and anger, had replied:

"Yes, monsieur, we will go, although you certainly do not merit
this proof of friendship on our part."

Then Madame de St. Luc had humbly thanked the king, but he turned
his back without replying.

"Is the king angry with you?" asked the young wife of her husband.

"I will explain it to you after, mon amie, when this anger shall
have passed away."

"And will it pass away?"

"It must."

Mademoiselle de Brissac was not yet sufficiently Madame de St.
Luc to insist further; therefore she repressed her curiosity,
promising herself to satisfy it at a more favorable time.

They were, therefore, expecting St. Luc at the Hôtel Montmorency,
at the moment in which our story commences. St. Luc had invited
all the king's friends and all his own; the princes and their
favorites, particularly those of the Duc d'Anjou. He was always
in opposition to the king, but in a hidden manner, pushing forward
those of his friends whom the example of La Mole and Coconnas
had not cured. Of course, his favorites and those of the king
lived in a state of antagonism, which brought on rencontres two
or three times a month, in which it was rare that some one was
not killed or badly wounded.

As for Catherine, she was at the height of her wishes; her favorite
son was on the throne, and she reigned through him, while she
pretended to care no more for the things of this world. St. Luc,
very uneasy at the absence of all the royal family, tried to
reassure his father-in-law, who was much distressed at this menacing
absence. Convinced, like all the world, of the friendship of
Henri for St. Luc, he had believed he was assuring the royal
favor, and now this looked like a disgrace. St. Luc tried hard
to inspire in them a security which he did not feel himself;
and his friends, Maugiron, Schomberg, and Quelus, clothed in
their most magnificent dresses, stiff in their splendid doublets,
with enormous frills, added to his annoyance by their ironical
lamentations.

"Eh! mon Dieu! my poor friend," said Jacques de Levis, Comte
de Quelus, "I believe now that you are done for. The king is
angry that you would not take his advice, and M. d'Anjou because
you laughed at his nose."

"No, Quelus, the king does not come, because he has made a pilgrimage
to the monks of the Bois de Vincennes; and the Duc d'Anjou is
absent, because he is in love with some woman whom I have forgotten
to invite."

"But," said Maugiron, "did you see the king's face at dinner?
And as for the duke, if he could not come, his gentlemen might.
There is not one here, not even Bussy."

"Oh! gentlemen," said the Duc de Brissac, in a despairing tone,
"it looks like a complete disgrace. Mon Dieu! how can our house,
always so devoted to his majesty, have displeased him?"

The young men received this speech with bursts of laughter, which
did not tend to soothe the marquis. The young bride was also
wondering how St. Luc could have displeased the king. All at once
one of the doors opened and the king was announced.

"Ah!" cried the marshal, "now I fear nothing; if the Duc d'Anjou
would but come, my satisfaction would be complete."

"And I," murmured St. Luc; "I have more fear of the king present
than absent, for I fear he comes to play me some spiteful tricks."

But, nevertheless, he ran to meet the king, who had quitted at last
his somber costume, and advanced resplendent in satin, feathers,
and jewels. But at the instant he entered another door opened
just opposite, and a second Henri III., clothed exactly like
the first, appeared, so that the courtiers, who had run to meet
the first, turned round at once to look at the second.

Henri III. saw the movement, and exclaimed:

"What is the matter, gentlemen?"

A burst of laughter was the reply. The king, not naturally patient,
and less so that day than usual, frowned; but St. Luc approached,
and said:

"Sire, it is Chicot, your jester, who is dressed exactly like
your majesty, and is giving his hand to the ladies to kiss."

Henri laughed. Chicot enjoyed at his court a liberty similar
to that enjoyed thirty years before by Triboulet at the court
of François I., and forty years after by Longely at the court
of Louis XIII. Chicot was not an ordinary jester. Before being
Chicot he had been "De Chicot." He was a Gascon gentleman, who,
ill-treated by M. de Mayenne on account of a rivalry in a love
affair, in which Chicot had been victorious, had taken refuge
at court, and prayed the king for his protection by telling him
the truth.

"Eh, M. Chicot," said Henri, "two kings at a time are too much."

"Then," replied he, "let me continue to be one, and you play Duc
d'Anjou; perhaps you will be taken for him, and learn something
of his doings."

"So," said Henri, looking round him, "Anjou is not here."

"The more reason for you to replace him. It is settled, I am
Henri, and you are François. I will play the king, while you dance
and amuse yourself a little, poor king."

"You are right, Chicot, I will dance."

"Decidedly," thought De Brissac, "I was wrong to think the king
angry; he is in an excellent humor."

Meanwhile St. Luc had approached his wife. She was not a beauty,
but she had fine black eyes, white teeth, and a dazzling complexion.

"Monsieur," said she to her husband, "why did they say that the
king was angry with me; he has done nothing but smile on me ever
since he came?"

"You did not say so after dinner, dear Jeanne, for his look then
frightened you."

"His majesty was, doubtless, out of humor then, but now--"

"Now, it is far worse; he smiles with closed lips. I would rather
he showed me his teeth. Jeanne, my poor child, he is preparing
for us some disagreeable surprise. Oh I do not look at me so
tenderly, I beg; turn your back to me. Here is Maugiron coming;
converse with him, and be amiable to him."

"That is a strange recommendation, monsieur."

But St. Luc left his wife full of astonishment, and went to pay
his court to Chicot, who was playing his part with a most laughable
majesty.

The king danced, but seemed never to lose sight of St. Luc. Sometimes
he called him to repeat to him some pleasantry, which, whether
droll or not, made St. Luc laugh heartily. Sometimes he offered
him out of his comfit box sweetmeats and candied fruits, which
St. Luc found excellent. If he disappeared for an instant, the
king sent for him, and seemed not happy if he was out of his
sight. All at once a voice rose above all the tumult.

"Oh!" said Henri, "I think I hear the voice of Chicot; do you
hear, St. Luc?--the king is angry."

"Yes, sire, it sounds as though he were quarreling with some one."

"Go and see what it is, and come back and tell me."

As St. Luc approached he heard Chicot crying:

"I have made sumptuary laws, but if they are not enough I will
make more; at least they shall be numerous, if they are not good.
By the horn of Beelzebub, six pages, M. de Bussy, are too much."

And Chicot, swelling out his cheeks, and putting his hand to his
side, imitated the king to the life.

"What does he say about Bussy?" asked the king, when St. Luc
returned. St. Luc was about to reply, when the crowd opening,
showed to him six pages, dressed in cloth of gold, covered with
chains, and bearing on their breasts the arms of their masters,
sparkling in jewels. Behind them came a young man, handsome and
proud; who walked with his head raised and a haughty look, and
whose simple dress of black velvet contrasted with the splendor
of his pages. This was Bussy d'Amboise. Maugiron, Schomberg,
and Quelus had drawn near to the king.

"See," said Maugiron, "here is the servant, but where is the master?
Are you also in disgrace with him, St. Luc?"

"Why should he follow Bussy?" said Quelus.

"Do you not remember that when his majesty did M. de Bussy the
honor to ask him if he wished to belong to him, he replied that,
being of the House of Clermont, he followed no one, and belonged
to himself."

The king frowned.

"Yes," said Maugiron, "whatever you say, he serves the Duc d'Anjou."

"Then it is because the duke is greater than the king."

No observation could have been more annoying to the king than
this, for he detested the Duc d'Anjou. Thus, although he did
not answer, he grew pale.

"Come, come, gentlemen," said St. Luc, trembling, "a little charity
for my guests, if you please; do not spoil my wedding day."

"Yes," said the king, in a mocking tone; "do not spoil St. Luc's
wedding-day."

"Oh!" said Schomberg, "is Bussy allied to the Brissacs?--since
St. Luc defends him."

"He is neither my friend nor relation, but he is my guest," said
St. Luc. The king gave an angry look. "Besides," he hastened
to add, "I do not defend him the least in the world."

Bussy approached gravely behind his pages to salute the king,
when Chicot cried:

"Oh, la! Bussy d'Amboise, Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy,
do you not see the true Henri, do you not know the true king
from the false? He to whom you are going is Chicot, my jester,
at whom I so often laugh."

Bussy continued his way, and was about to bow before the king,
when he said:

"Do you not hear, M. de Bussy, you are called?" and, amidst shouts
of laughter from his minions, he turned his back to the young
captain. Bussy reddened with anger, but he affected to take the
king's remark seriously, and turning round towards Chicot:

"Ah! pardon, sire," said he, "there are kings who resemble jesters
so much, that you will excuse me, I hope, for having taken a
jester for a king."

"Hein," murmured Henri, "what does he say?"

"Nothing, sire," said St. Luc.

"Nevertheless, M. Bussy," said Chicot; "it was unpardonable."

"Sire, I was preoccupied."

"With your pages, monsieur," said Chicot; "you ruin yourself in
pages, and, par la mordieu, it is infringing our prerogatives."

"How so? I beg your majesty to explain."

"Cloth of gold for them, while you a gentleman, a colonel, a
Clermont, almost a prince, wear simple black velvet."

"Sire," said Bussy, turning towards the kings' minions, "as we
live in a time when lackeys dress like princes, I think it good
taste for princes to dress like lackeys."

And he returned to the young men in their splendid dress the
impertinent smiles which they had bestowed on him a little before.
They grew pale with fury, and seemed only to wait the king's
permission to fall upon Bussy.

"Is it for me and mine that you say that?" asked Chicot, speaking
like the king.

Three friends of Bussy's now drew near to him. These were Charles
d'Antragues, François, Vicomte de Ribeirac, and Livarot. Seeing
all this, St. Luc guessed that Bussy was sent by Monsieur to
provoke a quarrel. He trembled more than ever, for he feared
the combatants were about to take his house for a battle-field.
He ran to Quelus, who already had his hand on his sword, and
said, "In Heaven's name be moderate."

"Parbleu, he attacks you as well as us."

"Quelus, think of the Duc d'Anjou, who supports Bussy; you do
not suppose I fear Bussy himself?"

"Eh! Mordieu, what need we fear; we belong to the king. If we
get into peril for him he will help us."

"You, yes; but me," said St. Luc, piteously.

"Ah dame, why do you marry, knowing how jealous the king is in
his friendships?"

"Good," thought St. Luc, "everyone for himself; and as I wish
to live tranquil during the first fortnight of my marriage, I
will make friends with M. Bussy." And he advanced towards him.
After his impertinent speech, Bussy had looked round the room to
see if any one would take notice of it. Seeing St. Luc approach,
he thought he had found what he sought.

"Monsieur," said he, "is it to what I said just now, that I owe
the honor of the conversation you appear to desire?"

"Of what you have just said, I heard nothing. No, I saw you,
and wished to salute you, and thank you for the honor you have
done me by your presence here."

Bussy, who knew the courage of St. Luc, understood at once that
he considered the duties of a host paramount, and answered him
politely.

Henri, who had seen the movement said, "Oh, oh! I fear there is
mischief there; I cannot have St. Luc killed. Go and see, Quelus;
no, you are too rash--you, Maugiron."

But St. Luc did not let him approach Bussy, but came to meet him
and returned with him to the king.

"What have you been saying to that coxcomb?" asked the king.

"I, sire?"

"Yes, you."

"I said, good evening."

"Oh! was that all?"

St. Luc saw he was wrong. "I said, good evening; adding, that
I would have the honor of saying good morning to-morrow."

"Ah! I suspected it."

"Will your majesty keep my secret?" said St. Luc.

"Oh! parbleu, if you could get rid of him without injury to
yourself----"

The minions exchanged a rapid glance, which Henri III. seemed
not to notice.

"For," continued he, "his insolence is too much."

"Yes, yes," said St. Luc, "but some day he will find his master."

"Oh!" said the king, "he manages the sword well. Why does he not
get bit by some dog?" And he threw a spiteful glance on Bussy,
who was walking about, laughing at all the king's friends.

"Corbleu!" cried Chicot, "do not be so rude to my friends, M.
Bussy, for I draw the sword, though I am a king, as well as if
I was a common man."

"If he continue such pleasantries, I will chastise Chicot, sire,"
said Maugiron.

"No, no, Maugiron, Chicot is a gentleman. Besides, it is not
he who most deserves punishment, for it is not he who is most
insolent."

This time there was no mistaking, and Quelus made signs to D'O
and D'Epernon, who had been in a different part of the room,
and had not heard what was going on. "Gentlemen," said Quelus,
"come to the council; you, St. Luc, go and finish making your
peace with the king."

St. Luc approached the king, while the others drew back into a
window.

"Well," said D'Epernon, "what do you want? I was making love,
and I warn you, if your recital be not interesting I shall be
very angry."

"I wish to tell you that after the ball I set off for the chase."

"For what chase?"

"That of the wild boar."

"What possesses you to go, in this cold, to be killed in some
thicket?"

"Never mind, I am going."

"Alone?"

"No, with Maugiron and Schomberg. We hunt for the king."

"Ah! yes, I understand," said Maugiron and Schomberg.

"The king wishes a boar's head for breakfast to-morrow."

"With the neck dressed à l'Italienne," said Maugiron, alluding
to the turn-down collar which Bussy wore in opposition to their
ruffs.

"Ah, ah," said D'Epernon, "I understand."

"What is it?" asked D'O, "for I do not."

"Ah! look round you."

"Well!"

"Did any one laugh at us here?"

"Yes, Bussy."

"Well, that is the wild boar the king wants."

"You think the king----"

"He asks for it."

"Well, then, so be it. But how do we hunt?"

"In ambush; it is the surest."

Bussy remarked the conference, and, not doubting that they were
talking of him, approached, with his friends.

"Look, Antragues, look, Ribeirac," said he, "how they are grouped;
it is quite touching; it might be Euryale and Nisus, Damon and
Pythias, Castor and----. But where is Pollux?"

"Pollux is married, so that Castor is left alone."

"What can they be doing?"

"I bet they are inventing some new starch."

"No, gentlemen," said Quelus, "we are talking of the chase."

"Really, Signor Cupid," said Bussy; "it is very cold for that.
It will chap your skin."

"Monsieur," replied Maugiron, politely, "we have warm gloves,
and doublets lined with fur."

"Ah! that reassures me," said Bussy; "do you go soon?"

"To-night, perhaps."

"In that case I must warn the king; what will he say to-morrow,
if he finds his friends have caught cold?"

"Do not give yourself that trouble, monsieur," said Quelus, "his
majesty knows it."

"Do you hunt larks?" asked Bussy, with an impertinent air.

"No, monsieur, we hunt the boar. We want a head. Will you hunt
with us, M. Bussy?"

"No, really, I cannot. To-morrow I must go to the Duc d'Anjou
for the reception of M. de Monsoreau, to whom monseigneur has
just given the place of chief huntsman."

"But, to-night?"

"Ah! To-night, I have a rendezvous in a mysterious house of the
Faubourg St. Antoine."

"Ah! ah!" said D'Epernon, "is the Queen Margot here, incognito,
M. de Bussy?"

"No, it is some one else."

"Who expects you in the Faubourg St. Antoine?"

"Just so, indeed I will ask your advice, M. de Quelus."

"Do so, although I am not a lawyer, I give very good advice."

"They say the streets of Paris are unsafe, and that is a lonely
place. Which way do you counsel me to take?"

"Why, I advise you to take the ferry-boat at the Pré-aux-Clercs,
get out at the corner, and follow the quay until you arrive at
the great Châtelet, and then go through the Rue de la Tixanderie,
until you reach the faubourg. Once at the corner of the Rue St.
Antoine, if you pass the Hôtel des Tournelles without accident,
it is probable you will arrive safe and sound at your mysterious
house."

"Thanks for your route, M. de Quelus, I shall be sure to follow
it." And saluting the five friends, he went away.

As Bussy was crossing the last saloon where Madame de St. Luc
was, her husband made a sign to her. She understood at once,
and going up, stopped him.

"Oh! M. de Bussy," said she, "everyone is talking of a sonnet
you have made."

"Against the king, madame?"

"No, in honor of the queen; do tell it to me."

"Willingly, madame," and, offering his arm to her, he went off,
repeating it.

During this time, St. Luc drew softly near his friends, and heard
Quelus say:

"The animal will not be difficult to follow; thus then, at the
corner of the Hôtel des Tournelles, opposite the Hôtel St. Pol."

"With each a lackey?" asked D'Epernon.

"No, no, Nogaret, let us be alone, and keep our own secret, and
do our own work. I hate him, but he is too much a gentleman for
a lackey to touch."

"Shall we go out all six together?"

"All five if you please," said St. Luc.

"Ah! it is true, we forgot your wife."

They heard the king's voice calling St. Luc.

"Gentlemen," said he, "the king calls me. Good sport, au revoir."

And he left them, but instead of going straight to the king, he
ran to where Bussy stood with his wife.

"Ah! monsieur, how hurried you seem," said Bussy. "Are you going
also to join the chase; it would be a proof of your courage,
but not of your gallantry."

"Monsieur, I was seeking you."

"Really."

"And I was afraid you were gone. Dear Jeanne, tell your father
to try and stop the king, whilst I say a few words tête-à-tête
to M. Bussy." Jeanne went.

"I wish to say to you, monsieur," continued St. Luc, "that if
you have any rendezvous to-night, you would do well to put it
off, for the streets are not safe, and, above all, to avoid the
Hôtel des Tournelles, where there is a place where several men
could hide. This is what I wished to say; I know you fear nothing,
but reflect."

At this moment they heard Chicot's voice crying, "St. Luc, St.
Luc, do not hide yourself, I am waiting for you to return to
the Louvre."

"Here I am, sire," cried St. Luc, rushing forward. Near Chicot
stood the king, to whom one page was giving his ermine mantle,
and another a velvet mask lined with satin.

"Sire," said St. Luc, "I will have the honor of lighting your
majesties to your litters."

"No," said Henri, "Chicot goes one way, and I another. My friends
are good-for-nothings, who have run away and left me to return
alone to the Louvre. I had counted on them, and you cannot let
me go alone. You are a grave married man, and must take me back
to the queen. Come, my friend, my litter is large enough for two."

Madame de St. Luc, who had heard this, tried to speak, and to
tell her father that the king was carrying away her husband, but
he, placing his fingers on his month, motioned her to be silent.

"I am ready, sire," said he, "to follow you."

When the king took leave, the others followed, and Jeanne was
left alone. She entered her room, and knelt down before the image
of a saint to pray, then sat down to wait for her husband's return.
M. de Brissac sent six men to the Louvre to attend him back. But
two hours after one of them returned, saying, that the Louvre
was closed and that before closing, the captain of the watch
had said, "It is useless to wait longer, no one will leave the
Louvre to-night; his majesty is in bed."

The marshal carried this news to his daughter.




CHAPTER II.

HOW IT IS NOT ALWAYS HE WHO OPENS THE DOOR, WHO ENTERS THE HOUSE.

The Porte St. Antoine was a kind of vault in stone, similar to
our present Porte St. Denis, only it was attached by its left
side to buildings adjacent to the Bastile. The space at the right,
between the gate and the Hôtel des Tournelles, was large and
dark, little frequented by day, and quite solitary at night,
for all passers-by took the side next to the fortress, so as
to be in some degree under the protection of the sentinel. Of
course, winter nights were still more feared than summer ones.

That on which the events which we have recounted, and are about
to recount took place, was cold and black. Before the gate on
the side of the city, was no house, but only high walls, those
of the church of St. Paul, and of the Hôtel des Tournelles. At
the end of this wall was the niche of which St. Luc had spoken
to Bussy. No lamps lighted this part of Paris at that epoch.
In the nights when the moon charged herself with the lighting
of the earth, the Bastile rose somber and majestic against the
starry blue of the skies, but on dark nights, there seemed only a
thickening of the shadows where it stood. On the night in question,
a practised eye might have detected in the angle of the wall of
the Tournelles several black shades, which moved enough to show
that they belonged to poor devils of human bodies, who seemed
to find it difficult to preserve their natural warmth as they.
stood there. The sentinel from the Bastile; who could not see
them on account of the darkness, could not hear them either,
for they talked almost in whispers. However, the conversation
did not want interest.

"This Bussy was right," said one; "it is a night such as we had
at Warsaw, when Henri was King of Poland, and if this continues
we shall freeze."

"Come, Maugiron, you complain like a woman," replied another:
"it is not warm, I confess; but draw your mantle over your eyes,
and put your hands in your pockets, and you will not feel it."

"Really, Schomberg," said a third, "it is easy to see you are
German. As for me, my lips bleed, and my mustachios are stiff
with ice."

"It is my hands," said a fourth; "on my honor, I would not swear
I had any."

"You should have taken your mamma's muff, poor Quelus," said
Schomberg.

"Eh! mon Dieu, have patience," said a fifth voice; "you will soon
be complaining you are hot."

"I see some one coming through the Rue St. Paul," said Quelus.

"It cannot be him; he named another route."

"Might he not have suspected something, and changed it?"

"You do not know Bussy; where he said he should go, he would go,
if he knew that Satan himself were barring his passage."

"However, here are two men coming."

"Ma foi! yes."

"Let us charge," said Schomberg.

"One moment," said D'Epernon; "do not let us kill good bourgeois,
or poor women. Hold! they stop."

In fact, they had stopped, and looked as if undecided. "Oh, can
they have seen us?"

"We can hardly see ourselves!"

"See, they turn to the left; they stop before a house they are
seeking--they are trying to enter; they will escape us!"

"But it is not him, for he was going to the Faubourg St. Antoine."

"Oh! how do you know he told you right?"

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One of only seven copies of The Tales of Beedle the Bard handwritten by JK Rowling is unveiled at the New York Public Library as the mass market edition goes on sale around the world

The arcane first book that's also a bestseller

Congratulations to Alex Ross, the deserving winner of the 2008 Guardian first book award. There's been a massed chorus of appreciation for this work already, so I shan't add much, except to say that what I particular enjoy about it is the connections it makes between musics and musicians. I'm the sort of person who goes to a lot of concerts, plays the violin, has some kind of grasp of how the history of music works – but frankly, it's all a bit fragmented and vague, since I have never studied the history of music properly and I can't really do the textbook musicological stuff. As I was reading Ross's book, it dawned on me that most of my knowledge of 20th-century music was based on reading the occasional Grove essay – and mostly, reading programme notes. What Ross's book does brilliantly is knit all these odd and isolated bits of knowledge together, so that everything starts to synthesise rather wonderfully, and you get to know what Sibelius thought of Stravinsky, say (not much – "stillborn affectations" was the phrase employed); or that Alban Berg was lionised by George Gershwin; or that David Bowie referenced Philip Glass and vice versa. That, and then the material is set against its historical and political background, such that this is a book for history-lovers as much as music-lovers.

By the way, there's a pungent criticism of the new-music scene by Hans Eisler in 1928, as quoted by Ross. How much have things changed, I wonder?

"The big music festivals have become downright stock exchanges, where the value of the works is assessed and contracts for the coming season are settled. Yet all this noise is carried out in the vacuum of a bell glass, so to speak, so that not a sound can be heard outside. An empty officiousness celebrates orgies of inbreeding, while there is a complete lack of interest or participation of a public of any kind."

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