Chicot the Jester

“Duke!” murmured François, reddening.

“Yes, monseigneur; the name of king has long brought misfortune with it. Look at Antoine de Bourbon, who died from a spot in the shoulder. Then there was Jeanne d’Albret, the mother of the Béarnais, who died from smelling a pair of perfumed gloves, an accident very unexpected although there were people who had great interest in this death. Then Charles IX., who died neither by the eye, the ear, nor the shoulder, but by the mouth – ”

“What do you say?” cried François, starting back.

“Yes, monseigneur, by the mouth. Those hunting books are very dangerous, of which the pages stick together, and can only be opened by wetting the finger constantly.”

“Duke! duke! I believe you invent crimes.”

“Crimes! who speaks of crimes? I speak of accidents. Was it not also an accident that happened to Charles IX. at the chase? You know what chase I mean; that of the boar, where, intending to kill the wild boar, which had turned on your brother, you, who never before had missed your aim, did so then, and the king would have been killed, as he had fallen from his horse, had not Henri of Navarre slain the animal which you had missed.”

“But,” said the Duc d’Anjou, trying to recover himself, “what interest could I have had in the death of Charles IX., when the next king would be Henri III.?”

“Oh! monseigneur, there was already one throne vacant, that of Poland. The death of Charles IX. would have left another, that of France; and even the kingdom of Poland might not have been despised. Besides, the death of Charles would have brought you a degree nearer the throne, and the next accident would have benefited you.”

“What do you conclude from all this, duke?” said the Duc d’Anjou.

“Monseigneur, I conclude that each king has his accident, and that you are the inevitable accident of Henri III., particularly if you are chief of the League.”

“Then I am to accept?”

“Oh! I beg you to do so.”

“And you?”

“Oh! be easy; my men are ready, and to-night Paris will be curious.”

“What are they going to do in Paris to-night?” asked Henri.

“Oh! how foolish you are, my friend; to-night they sign the League publicly.”

“It is well,” said the Duc d’Anjou, “till this evening then.”

“Yes, till this evening,” said Henri.

“How!” said Chicot, “you will not risk going into the streets to-night?”

“Yes, I shall.”

“You are wrong, Henri; remember the accidents.”

“Oh! I shall be well accompanied; will you come with me?”

“What! do you take me for a Huguenot? I shall go and sign the League ten times. However, Henri, you have a great advantage over your predecessors, in being warned, for you know your brother, do you not?”

“Yes, and, mordieu! before long he shall find it out.”

CHAPTER XI.

THE EVENING OF THE LEAGUE

Paris presented a fine sight, as through its then narrow streets thousands of people pressed towards the same point, for at eight o’clock in the evening, M. le Duc de Guise was to receive the signatures of the bourgeois to the League. A crowd of citizens, dressed in their best clothes, as for a fête, but fully armed, directed their steps towards the churches. What added to the noise and confusion was that large numbers of women, disdaining to stay at home on such a great day, had followed their husbands, and many had brought with them a whole batch of children. It was in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec that the crowd was the thickest. The streets were literally choked, and the crowd pressed tumultuously towards a bright light suspended below the sign of the Belle Etoile. On the threshold a man, with a cotton cap on his head and a naked sword in one hand and a register in the other, was crying out, “Come come, brave Catholics, enter the hotel of the Belle Etoile, where you will find good wine; come, to-night the good will be separated from the bad, and to-morrow morning the wheat will be known from the tares; come, gentlemen, you who can write, come and sign; – you who cannot write, come and tell your names to me, La Hurière; vive la messe!” A tall man elbowed his way through the crowd, and in letters half an inch high, wrote his name, ‘Chicot.’ Then, turning to La Hurière, he asked if he had not another register to sign. La Hurière did not understand raillery, and answered angrily. Chicot retorted, and a quarrel seemed approaching, when Chicot, feeling some one touch his arm, turned, and saw the king disguised as a simple bourgeois, and accompanied by Quelus and Maugiron, also disguised, and carrying an arquebuse on their shoulders.

“What!” cried the king, “good Catholics disputing among themselves; par la mordieu, it is a bad example.”

“Do not mix yourself with what does not concern you,” replied Chicot, without seeming to recognize him. But a new influx of the crowd distracted the attention of La Hurière, and separated the king and his companions from the hotel.

“Why are you here, sire?” said Chicot.

“Do you think I have anything to fear?”

“Eh! mon Dieu! in a crowd like this it is so easy for one man to put a knife into his neighbor, and who just utters an oath and gives up the ghost.”

“Have I been seen?”

“I think not; but you will be if you stay longer. Go back to the Louvre, sire.”

“Oh! oh! what is this new outcry, and what are the people running for?”

Chicot looked, but could at first see nothing but a mass of people crying, howling, and pushing. At last the mass opened, and a monk, mounted on a donkey, appeared. The monk spoke and gesticulated, and the ass brayed.

“Ventre de biche!” cried Chicot, “listen to the preacher.”

“A preacher on a donkey!” cried Quelus.

“Why not?”

“He is Silenus,” said Maugiron.

“Which is the preacher?” said the king, “for they speak both at once.”

“The underneath one is the most eloquent,” said Chicot, “but the one at the top speaks the best French; listen, Henri.”

“My brethren,” said the monk, “Paris is a superb city; Paris is the pride of France, and the Parisians a fine people.” Then he began to sing, but the ass mingled his accompaniment so loudly that he was obliged to stop. The crowd burst out laughing.

“Hold your tongue, Panurge, hold your tongue,” cried the monk, “you shall speak after, but let me speak first.”

The ass was quiet.

“My brothers,” continued the preacher, “the earth is a valley of grief, where man often pan quench his thirst only with his tears.”

“He is drunk,” said the king.

“I should think so.”

“I, who speak to you,” continued the monk, “I am returning from exile like the Hebrews of old, and for eight days Panurge and I have been living on alms and privations.”

“Who is Panurge?” asked the king.