Chicot the Jester

“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.