Chicot the Jester

“Sire, the confidence of which I speak refers to the proposition I am about to make to you.”

“You have a proposition to make to me! Well, speak, as you say, with confidence. What have you to propose?”

“The execution of one of the most beautiful ideas which has been originated since the Crusades.”

“Continue, duke.”

“Sire, the title of most Christian king is not a vain one; it makes an ardent zeal for religion incumbent on its possessor.”

“Is the Church menaced by the Saracens once more?”

“Sire, the great concourse of people who followed me, blessing my name, honored me with this reception only because of my zeal to defend the Church. I have already had the honor of speaking to your majesty of an alliance between all true Catholics.”

“Yes, yes,” said Chicot, “the League; ventre de biche, Henri, the League. By St. Bartholomew! how can you forget so splendid an idea, my son?”

The duke cast a disdainful glance on Chicot, while d’Anjou, who stood by, as pale as death, tried by signs, to make the duke stop.

“Look at your brother, Henri,” whispered Chicot.

“Sire,” continued the Duc de Guise, “the Catholics have indeed called this association the Holy League, and its aim is to fortify the throne against the Huguenots, its mortal enemies; but to form an association is not enough, and in a kingdom like France, several millions of men cannot assemble without the consent of the king.”

“Several millions!” cried Henri, almost with terror.

“Several millions!” repeated Chicot; “a small number of malcontents, which may bring forth pretty results.”

“Sire,” cried the duke, “I am astonished that your majesty allows me to be interrupted so often, when I am speaking on serious matters.”

“Quite right,” said Chicot; “silence there.”

“Several millions!” repeated the king; “and against these millions, how many Huguenots are there in my kingdom?”

“Four,” said Chicot.

This new sally made the king and his friends laugh, but the duke frowned, and his gentlemen murmured loudly.

Henri, becoming once more serious, said, “Well, duke, what do you wish? To the point.”

“I wish, sire – for your popularity is dearer to me than my own – that your majesty should be superior to us in your zeal for religion – I wish you to choose a chief for the League.”

“Well!” said the king, to those who surrounded him, “what do you think of it, my friends?”

Chicot, without saying a word, drew out a lion’s skin from a corner, and threw himself on it.

“What are you doing, Chicot?” asked the king.

“Sire, they say that night brings good counsel; that must be because of sleep; therefore I am going to sleep, and to-morrow I will reply to my cousin Guise.”

The duke cast a furious glance on Chicot, who replied by a loud snore.

“Well, sire!” said the duke, “what does your majesty say?”

“I think that, as usual, you are in the right, my cousin; convoke, then, your principal leaguers, come at their head, and I will choose the chief.”

“When, sire?”

“To-morrow.”

The Duc de Guise then took leave, and the Duc d’Anjou was about to do the same, when the king said, —

“Stay, my brother, I wish to speak to you.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

CASTOR AND POLLUX

The king dismissed all his favorites, and remained with his brother. The duke, who had managed to preserve a tolerably composed countenance throughout, believed himself unsuspected, and remained without fear.

“My brother,” said Henri, after assuring himself that, with the exception of Chicot, no one remained in the room, “do you know that I am a very happy prince?”

“Sire, if your majesty be really happy, it is a recompense from Heaven for your merits.”

“Yes, happy,” continued the king, “for if great ideas do not come to me, they do to my subjects. It is a great idea which has occurred to my cousin Guise.”

The duke make a sign of assent, and Chicot opened his eyes to watch the king’s face.

“Indeed,” continued Henri, “to unite under one banner all the Catholics, to arm all France on this pretext from Calais to Languedoc, from Bretagne to Burgundy, so that I shall always have an army ready to march against England, Holland, or Spain, without alarming any of them – do you know, François, it is a magnificent idea?”

“Is it not, sire?” said the duke, delighted.

“Yes, I confess I feel tempted to reward largely the author of this fine project.”

Chicot opened his eyes, but he shut them again, for he had seen on the face of the king one of his almost imperceptible smiles, and he was satisfied.

“Yes,” continued Henri, “I repeat such a project merits recompense, and I will do what I can for the author of this good work, for the work is begun – is it not, my brother?”

The duke confessed that it was.

“Better and better; my subjects not only conceive these good ideas, but, in their anxiety to be of use to me, hasten to put them in execution. But I ask you, my dear François, if it be really to the Duc de Guise that I am indebted for this royal thought?”

“No, sire, it occurred to the Cardinal de Lorraine twenty years ago, only the St. Bartholomew rendered it needless for the time.”

“Ah! what a pity he is dead; but,” continued Henri, with that air of frankness which made him the first comedian of the day, “his nephew has inherited it, and brought it to bear. What can I do for him?”

“Sire,” said François, completely duped by his brother, “you exaggerate his merits. He has, as I say, but inherited the idea, and another man has given him great help in developing it.”

“His brother the cardinal?”

“Doubtless he has been occupied with it, but I do not mean him.”