Chicot the Jester

“And what should I reply? Do you take me for an ancient oracle? It is you who are tiresome with your foolish suppositions.”

“M. Chicot?”

“M. Henri.”

“Chicot, my friend, you see my grief and you laugh at me.”

“Do not have any grief.”

“But everyone betrays me.”

“Who knows? Ventre de biche! who knows?”

Henri went down to his cabinet, where, at the news of his return, a number of gentlemen had assembled, who were looking at St. Luc with evident distrust and animosity. He, however, seemed quite unmoved by this. He had brought his wife with him also, and she was seated, wrapped in her traveling-cloak, when the king entered in an excited state.

“Ah, monsieur, you here!” he cried.

“Yes, sire,” replied St. Luc.

“Really, your presence at the Louvre surprises me.”

“Sire, I am only surprised that, under the circumstances, your majesty did not expect me.”

“What do you mean, monsieur?”

“Sire, your majesty is in danger.”

“Danger!” cried the courtiers.

“Yes, gentlemen, a real, serious danger, in which the king has need of the smallest as well as the greatest of those devoted to him; therefore I come to lay at his feet my humble services.”

“Ah!” said Chicot, “you see, my son, that I was right to say, ‘who knows.’”

Henri did not reply at once; he would not yield immediately. After a pause, he said, “Monsieur, you have only done your duty; your services are due to us.”

“The services of all the king’s subjects are due to him, I know, sire; but in these times many people forget to pay their debts. I, sire, come to pay mine, happy that your majesty will receive me among the number of your creditors.”

“Then,” said Henri, in a softer tone, “you return without any other motive than that which you state; without any mission, or safe-conduct?”

“Sire, I return simply and purely for that reason. Now, your majesty may throw me into the Bastile, or have me shot, but I shall have done my duty. Sire, Anjou is on fire; Touraine is about to revolt; Guienne is rising. M. le Duc d’Anjou is hard at work.”

“He is well supported, is he not?”

“Sire, M. de Bussy, firm as he is, cannot make your brother brave.”

“Ah! he trembles, then, the rebel.”

“Let me go and shake St. Luc’s hand,” said Chicot, advancing.

The king followed him, and going up to his old favorite, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said, —

“You are welcome, St. Luc!”

“Ah! sire,” cried St. Luc, kissing the king’s hand, “I find again my beloved master.”

“Yes, but you, my poor St. Luc, you have grown thin.”

“It is with grief at having displeased your majesty,” said a feminine voice. Now, although the voice was soft and respectful, Henri frowned, for it was as distasteful to him as the noise of thunder was to Augustus.

“Madame de St. Luc!” said he. “Ah! I forgot.”

Jeanne threw herself at his feet.

“Rise, madame,” said he, “I love all that bear the name of St. Luc.” Jeanne took his hand and kissed it, but he withdrew it quickly.

“You must convert the king,” said Chicot to the young woman, “you are pretty enough for it.”

But Henri turned his back to her, and passing his arm round St. Luc’s neck, said, —

“Then we have made peace, St. Luc?”

“Say rather, sire, that the pardon is granted.”

“Madame!” said Chicot, “a good wife should not leave her husband,” and he pushed her after the king and St. Luc.

CHAPTER LXXII.

IN WHICH WE MEET TWO IMPORTANT PERSONAGES WHOM WE HAVE LOST SIGHT OF FOR SOME TIME

There are two of the personages mentioned in this story, about whom the reader has the right to ask for information. We mean an enormous monk, with thick eyebrows and large lips, whose neck was diminishing every day; and a large donkey whose sides were gradually swelling out like a balloon. The monk resembled a hogshead; and the ass was like a child’s cradle, supported by four posts.

The one inhabited a cell at St. Genevieve, and the other the stable at the same convent. The one was called Gorenflot, and the other Panurge. Both were enjoying the most prosperous lot that ever fell to a monk and an ass.

The monks surrounded their illustrious brother with cares and attentions, and Panurge fared well for his master’s sake.

If a missionary arrived from foreign countries, or a secret legate from the Pope, they pointed out to him Brother Gorenflot, that double model of the church preaching and militant; they showed Gorenflot in all his glory, that is to say, in the midst of a feast, seated at a table in which a hollow had been cut on purpose for his sacred stomach, and they related with a noble pride that Gorenflot consumed the rations of eight ordinary monks. And when the newcomer had piously contemplated this spectacle, the prior would say, “See how he eats! And if you had but heard his sermon one famous night, in which he offered to devote himself for the triumph of the faith. It is a mouth which speaks like that of St. Chrysostom, and swallows like that of Gargantua.”

Every time that any one spoke of the sermon, Gorenflot sighed and said:

“What a pity I did not write it!

“A man like you has no need to write,” the prior would reply. “No, you speak from inspiration; you open your mouth, and the words of God flow from your lips.”

“Do you think so?” sighed Gorenflot.

However, Gorenflot was not perfectly happy. He, who at first thought his banishment from the convent an immense misfortune, discovered in his exile infinite joys before unknown to him. He sighed for liberty; liberty with Chicot, the joyous companion, with Chicot, whom he loved without knowing why. Since his return to the convent, he had never been allowed to go out. He never attempted to combat this decision, but he grew sadder from day to day. The prior saw this, and at last said to him:

“My dear brother, no one can fight against his vocation; yours is to fight for the faith; go then, fulfil your mission, only watch well over your precious life, and return for the great day.”