Chicot the Jester

“You speak in a language which I do not understand.”

Bussy smiled, and left the room to seek Rémy.

“Well! dear Hippocrates!” said he, “is there anything new?”

“Nothing; all goes well.”

“Then the husband has not returned?”

“Yes, he has, but without success. It seems there is a father who is expected to turn up to make the dénouement.”

“Good,” said Bussy, “but how do you know all this?”

“Why, monseigneur, as your absence made my position a sinecure, I thought I would try to make some little use of my time; so I took some books and a sword to a little room which I hired at the corner of the Rue St. Antoine, from whence I could see the house that you know.”

“Very good.”

“But as I feared, if I were constantly watching, to pass for a spy, I thought it better to fall in love.”

“In love?”

“Oh yes, desperately with Gertrude; she is a fine girl, only two inches taller than myself, and who recounts, capitally.”

“Recounts?”

“Yes; through her I know all that passes with her mistress. I thought you might not dislike to have communications with the house.”

“Rémy, you are a good genius, whom chance, or rather Providence, has placed in my way. Then you are received in the house?”

“Last night I made my entrance on the points of my toes, by the door you know.”

“And how did you manage it?”

“Quite naturally. The day after you left, I waited at my door till the lady of my thoughts came out to buy provisions, which she does every morning. She recognized me, uttered a cry, and ran away.”

“Then?”

“Then I ran after her, but could hardly catch her, for she runs fast; but still, petticoats are always a little in the way. ‘Mon Dieu!’ cried she. ‘Holy Virgin!’ said I. ‘The doctor!’ ‘The charming housekeeper.’ She smiled, but said, ‘You are mistaken, monsieur, I do not know you.’ ‘But I know you,’ I replied, ‘and for the last three days I have lived but for you, and I adore you so much, that I no longer live in the Rue Beautreillis, but at the corner of this street, and I changed my lodging only to see you pass in and out.’”

“So that now you are – ”

“As happy as a lover can be – with Gertrude.”

“Does she suspect you come from me?”

“Oh no, how should the poor doctor know a great lord like M. de Bussy. No, I said, ‘And how is your young master?’ ‘What young master?’ ‘The one I cured.’ ‘He is not my master.’ ‘Oh! I thought, as he was in your mistress’s bed – ’ ‘Oh! no, poor young man! we have only seen him once since.’ ‘Do you know his name?’ ‘Oh! yes; he is the Seigneur de Bussy.’ ‘What! the brave Bussy?’ ‘Yes himself.’ ‘And your mistress?’ ‘Oh! she is married!’ ‘Yes, but still she may think sometimes of a handsome young man when she has seen him lying wounded in her bed.’ ‘Oh, to be frank, I do not say she does not think of him; we talk of him very often.’ ‘What do you say about him?’ I asked. ‘I recount all I hear about his prowess, and I have even taught her a little song about him, which she sings constantly.’” Bussy pressed the young man’s hand; he felt supremely happy.

CHAPTER XXV.

THE FATHER AND DAUGHTER

On descending into the court, M. de Méridor found a fresh horse, which Bussy had had prepared for him; another waited for Bussy, and attended by Rémy, they started. As they went along, the baron could not but ask himself by what strange confidence he had accompanied, almost blindly, the friend of the prince to whom he owed all his misfortunes. Would it not have been better to have braved the Duc d’Anjou, and instead of following Bussy where it pleased him to lead, to have gone at once to the Louvre, and thrown himself at the feet of the king? What could the prince say to him? How could he console him? Could soft words heal his wound?

When they stopped, “What,” said the baron, “does the Duc d’Anjou live in this humble house?”

“Not exactly, monsieur, but if it is not his dwelling, it is that of a lady whom he has loved.”

A cloud passed over the face of the old gentleman. “Monsieur,” said he, “we provincials are not used to the easy manners of Paris; they annoy us. It seems to me that if the Duc d’Anjou wishes to see the Baron de Méridor, it ought to be at his palace, and not at the house of one of his mistresses.”

“Come, come, baron!” said Bussy, with his smile, which always carried conviction with it, “do not hazard false conjectures. On my honor, the lady who you are going to see is perfectly virtuous and worthy in all respects.”

“Who is she then?”

“She is the wife of a friend of yours.”

“Really! but then, monsieur, why did you say the duke loved her?”

“Because I always speak truth. But enter, and you shall see accomplished all I have promised you.”

“Take care; I wept for my child, and you said, ‘Console yourself, monsieur, the mercy of God is great;’ to promise me a consolation to my grief was almost to promise me a miracle.”

“Enter, monsieur,” said Bussy, with his bright smile. Bussy went in first, and, running up to Gertrude, said, “Go and tell Madame de Monsoreau that M. de Bussy is here, and desires to speak to her. But,” continued he, in a low voice, “not a word of the person who accompanies me.”

“Madame de Monsoreau!” said the old man in astonishment. But as he feebly mounted the staircase, he heard the voice of Diana crying, —

“M. de Bussy. Gertrude? Oh! let him come in!”

“That voice!” cried the baron, stopping. “Oh! mon Dieu! mon Dieu!”

At that moment, as the baron tremblingly held on to the banister, and looked around him, he saw at the top of the staircase, Diana, smiling, and more beautiful that ever. At this sight the old man uttered a cry and would have fallen, had he not caught hold of Bussy, who stood by him.

“Diana alive! Diana, oh, my God!”

“Mon Dieu! M. de Bussy!” cried Diana, running down, “what is the matter with my father?”

“He thought you dead, madame, and he wept, as a father must weep for a daughter like you.”

“How!” cried Diana; “and no one undeceived him?”

“No one.”

“No,” cried the old man, recovering a little, “no one, not even M. de Bussy.”

“Ungrateful,” said Bussy.

“Oh! yes! you are right; for this moment repays me for all my griefs. Oh! my Diana! my beloved Diana!” cried he, drawing his daughter to him with one hand, and extending the other to Bussy. But all at once he cried, “But you said I was to see Madame de Monsoreau. Where is she?”

“Alas! my father!” cried Diana.