Chicot the Jester

“I feared so,” said the duke to his sister. Then, turning to his brother, “Let everyone arm and prepare,” said he.

“For what?” cried the king, in a miserable tone.

“For anything.”

The king’s despair redoubled.

“Corbleu!” cried Gorenflot, “I hated you before, Valois, but now I despise you! Sign, or you shall perish by my hand!”

“Have patience,” said the king; “let me pray to my divine Master for resignation.”

“He wishes to reflect again,” said Gorenflot.

“Give him till midnight,” said the cardinal.

“Thanks, charitable Christian!” cried the king:

“His brain is weak,” said the duke; “we serve France by dethroning him.”

“I shall have great pleasure in clipping him!” said the duchess.

Suddenly a noise was heard outside, and soon they distinguished blows struck on the door of the abbey, and Mayenne went to see what it was. “My brothers,” said he, “there is a troop of armed men outside.”

“They have come to seek him,” said the duchess.

“The more reason that he should sign quickly.”

“Sign, Valois, sign!” roared Gorenflot.

“You gave me till midnight,” said the king, piteously.

“Ah! you hoped to be rescued.”

“He shall die if he does not sign!” cried the duchess. Gorenflot offered him the pen. The noise outside redoubled.

“A new troop!” cried a monk; “they are surrounding the abbey!”

“The Swiss,” cried Foulon, “are advancing on the right!”

“Well, we will defend ourselves; with such a hostage in our hands, we need not surrender.”

“He has signed!” cried Gorenflot, tearing the paper from Henri, who buried his face in his hands.

“Then you are king!” cried the cardinal to the duke; “take the precious paper.”

The king overturned the little lamp which alone lighted the scene, but the duke already held the parchment.

“What shall we do?” said a monk. “Here is Crillon, with his guards, threatening to break in the doors!”

“In the king’s name!” cried the powerful voice of Crillon.

“There is no king!” cried Gorenflot through the window.

“Who says that?” cried Crillon.

“I! I!”

“Break in the doors, Monsieur Crillon!” said, from outside, a voice which made the hair of all the monks, real and pretended, stand on end.

“Yes, sire,” replied Crillon, giving a tremendous blow with a hatchet on the door.

“What do you want?” said the prior, going to the window.

“Ah! it is you, M. Foulon,” replied the same voice, “I want my jester, who is in one of your cells. I want Chicot, I am ennuyé at the Louvre.”

“And I have been much amused, my son,” said Chicot, throwing off his hood, and pushing his way through the crowd of monks, who recoiled, with a cry of terror.

At this moment the Duc de Guise, advancing to a lamp, read the signature obtained with so much labor. It was “Chicot I.”

“Chicot!” cried he; “thousand devils!”

“Let us fly!” said the cardinal, “we are lost.”

“Ah!” cried Chicot, turning to Gorenflot, who was nearly fainting, and he began to strike him with the cord he had round his waist.

CHAPTER LXXXIX.

INTEREST AND CAPITAL

As the king spoke and the conspirators listened, they passed from astonishment to terror. Chicot I. relinquished his role of apparent terror, threw back his hood, crossed his arms, and, while Gorenflot fled at his utmost speed, sustained, firm and smiling, the first shock. It was a terrible moment, for the gentlemen, furious at the mystification of which they had been the dupes, advanced menacingly on the Gascon. But this unarmed man, his breast covered only by his arms – this laughing face, stopped them still more than the remonstrance of the cardinal, who said to them that Chicot’s death could serve no end, but, on the contrary, would be terribly avenged by the king, who was the jester’s accomplice in this scene of terrible buffoonery.

The result was, that daggers and rapiers were lowered before Chicot, who continued to laugh in their faces.

However, the king’s menaces and Crillon’s blows became more vehement, and it was evident that the door could not long resist such an attack. Thus, after a moment’s deliberation, the Duc de Guise gave the order for retreat. This order made Chicot smile, for, during his nights with Gorenflot, he had examined the cave and found out the door, of which he had informed the king, who had placed there Torquenot, lieutenant of the Swiss guards. It was then evident that the leaguers, one after another, were about to throw themselves into the trap. The cardinal made off first, followed by about twenty gentlemen. Then Chicot saw the duke pass with about the same number, and afterwards Mayenne. When Chicot saw him go he laughed outright. Ten minutes passed, during which he listened earnestly, thinking to hear the noise of the leaguers sent back into the cave, but to his astonishment, the sound continued to go further and further off. His laugh began to change into oaths. Time passed, and the leaguers did not return; had they seen that the door was guarded and found another way out? Chicot was about to rush from the cell, when all at once the door was obstructed by a mass which fell at his feet, and began to tear its hair.

“Ah! wretch that I am!” cried the monk. “Oh! my good M. Chicot, pardon me, pardon me!”

How did Gorenflot, who went first, return now alone? was the question that presented itself to Chicot’s mind.

“Oh! my good M. Chicot!” he continued to cry, “pardon your unworthy friend, who repents at your knees.”

“But how is it you have not fled with the others?”

“Because the Lord in His anger has struck me with obesity, and I could not pass where the others did. Oh! unlucky stomach! Oh! miserable paunch!” cried the monk, striking with his two hands the part he apostrophized. “Ah! why am not I thin like you, M. Chicot?”

Chicot understood nothing of the lamentations of the monk.

“But the others are flying, then?” cried he, in a voice of thunder.