THE FORTY-FIVE GUARDSMEN, page 20
“Oh no, sire!”
“Have you come 200 leagues for me to leave you standing? No, no; sit down; one cannot talk standing.”
“But, sire, respect — ”
“Respect! here in Navarre! You are mad, my poor Chicot.”
“No, sire, I am not mad, but I am an ambassador.”
A slight frown contracted Henri’s brow, but disappeared at once.
“Ambassador, from whom?”
“From Henri III. I come from Paris and the Louvre, sire.”
“Oh! that is different. Come with me,” said the king, rising, with a sigh.
“Page, take wine up to my room. Come, Chicot, I will conduct you.”
Chicot followed the king, thinking, “How disagreeable! to come and trouble this honest man in his peace and his ignorance. Bah! he will be philosophical.”
CHAPTER XLIV.
HOW THE KING OF NAVARRE GUESSES THAT “TURENNIUS” MEANS TURENNE, AND “MARGOTA” MARGOT.
The king of Navarre’s room was not very sumptuous, for he was not rich, and did not waste the little he had. It was large, and, with his bedroom, occupied all the right wing of the castle. It was well, though not royally furnished, and had a magnificent view over meadows and rivers. Great trees, willows, and planes hid the course of the stream every here and there, which glanced between, golden in the sunlight, or silver by that of the moon. This beautiful panorama was terminated by a range of hills, which looked violet in the evening light. The windows on the other side looked on to the court of the castle.
All these natural beauties interested Chicot less than the arrangements of the room, which was the ordinary sitting-room of Henri.
The king seated himself, with his constant smile, in a great armchair of leather with gilt nails, and Chicot, at his command, sat down on a stool similar in material. Henri looked at him smilingly, but with curiosity.
“You will think I am very curious, dear M. Chicot,” began the king, “but I cannot help it. I have so long looked on you as dead, that in spite of the pleasure your resurrection causes me, I can hardly realize the idea. Why did you so suddenly disappear from this world?”
“Oh, sire!” said Chicot, with his usual freedom, “you disappeared from Vincennes. Every one eclipses himself according to his need.”
“I recognize by your ready wit that it is not to your ghost I am speaking.” Then, more seriously, “But now we must leave wit and speak of business.”
“If it does not too much fatigue your majesty, I am ready.”
Henri’s eyes kindled.
“Fatigue me! It is true I grow rusty here. I have to-day exercised my body much, but my mind little.”
“Sire, I am glad of that; for, ambassador from a king, your relation and friend, I have a delicate commission to execute with your majesty.”
“Speak quickly — you pique my curiosity.”
“Sire — ”
“First, your letters of credit. I know it is needless, since you are the ambassador: but I must do my duty as king.”
“Sire, I ask your majesty’s pardon; but all the letters of credit that I had I have drowned in rivers, or scattered in the air.”
“And why so?”
“Because one cannot travel charged with an embassy to Navarre as if you were going to buy cloth at Lyons; and if one has the dangerous honor of carrying royal letters, one runs a risk of carrying them only to the tomb.”
“It is true,” said Henri, “the roads are not very safe, and in Navarre we are reduced, for want of money, to trust to the honesty of the people; but they do not steal much.”
“Oh, no, sire; they behave like lambs or angels, but that is only in Navarre; out of it one meets wolves and vultures around every prey. I was a prey, sire; so I had both.”
“At all events, I am glad to see they did not eat you.”
“Ventre de biche! sire, it was not their faults; they did their best, but they found me too tough, and could not get through my skin. But to return to my letter.”
“Since you have none, dear M. Chicot, it seems to me useless to return to it.”
“But I had one, sire, but I was forced to destroy it, for M. de Mayenne ran after me to steal it from me.”
“Mayenne?”
“In person.”
“Luckily he does not run fast. Is he still getting fatter?”
“Ventre de biche! not just now, I should think.”
“Why not?”
“Because, you understand, sire, he had the misfortune to catch me, and unfortunately got a sword wound.”
“And the letter?”
“He had not a glimpse of it, thanks to my precautions.”
“Bravo! your journey is interesting; you must tell me the details. But one thing disquiets me — if the letter was destroyed for M. de Mayenne, it is also destroyed for me. How, then, shall I know what my brother Henri wrote?”
“Sire, it exists in my memory.”
“How so?”
“Sire, before destroying it I learned it by heart.”
“An excellent idea, M. Chicot. You will recite it to me, will you not?”
“Willingly, sire.”
“Word for word.”
“Yes, sire, although I do not know the language, I have a good memory.”
“What language?”
“Latin.”
“I do not understand you; was my brother Henri’s letter written in Latin?”
“Yes, sire.”
“And why?”
“Ah! sire, doubtless because Latin is an audacious language — a language which may say anything, and in which Persius and Juvenal have immortalized the follies and errors of kings.”
“Kings?”
“And of queens, sire.”
The king began to frown.
“I mean emperors and empresses,” continued Chicot.
“You know Latin, M. Chicot?”
“Yes and no, sire.”
“You are lucky if it is ‘yes,’ for you have an immense advantage over me, who do not know it, but you — ”
“They taught me to read it, sire, as well as Greek and Hebrew.”
“You are a living book, M. Chicot.”
“Your majesty has found the exact word — ’a book.’ They print something on my memory, they send me where they like, I arrive, I am read and understood.”
“Or not understood.”
“How so, sire?”
“Why, if one does not know the language in which you are printed.”
“Oh, sire, kings know everything.”
“That is what we tell the people, and what flatterers tell us.”
“Then, sire, it is useless for me to recite to your majesty the letter which I learned by heart, since neither of us would understand it.”
“Is Latin not very much like Italian?”
“So they say, sire.”
“And Spanish?”
“I believe so.”
“Then let us try. I know a little Italian, and my Gascon patois is something like Spanish: perhaps I may understand Latin without ever having learned it.”
“Your majesty orders me to repeat it, then?”
“I beg you, dear M. Chicot.”
Chicot began.
“Frater carissime,
“Sincerus amo quo te prosequebatur germanus noster Carolus Nonus, functus nuper, colet usque regiam nostram et pectori meo pertinaciter adhoeret.”
“If I am not mistaken,” said Henri, interrupting, “they speak in this phrase of love, obstinacy, and of my brother, Charles IX.”
“Very likely,” said Chicot; “Latin is such a beautiful language, that all that might go in one sentence.”
“Go on,” said the king.
Chicot began again, and Henri listened with the utmost calm to all the passages about Turenne and his wife, only at the word “Turennius,” he said:
“Does not ‘Turennius’ mean Turenne?”
“I think so, sire.”
“And ‘Margota’ must be the pet name which my brothers gave to their sister Marguerite, my beloved wife.”
“It is possible,” said Chicot; and he continued his letter to the end without the king’s face changing in the least.
“Is it finished?” asked Henri, when he stopped.
“Yes, sire.”
“It ought to be superb.”
“I think so, also, sire.”
“How unlucky that I only understood two words, ‘Turennius’ and ‘Margota.’“
“An irreparable misfortune, sire, unless your majesty decides on having it translated by some one.”
“Oh! no; you yourself, M. Chicot, who were so discreet in destroying the autograph, you would not counsel me to make this letter public?”
“But I think that the king’s letter to you, recommended to me so carefully, and sent to your majesty by a private hand, must contain something important for your majesty to know.”
“Yes, but to confide these important things to any one, I must have great confidence in him.”
“Certainly.”
“Well, I have an idea. Go and find my wife. She is learned, and will understand it if you recite it to her; then she can explain it to me.”
“That is an excellent plan.”
“Is it not? Go.”
“I will, sire.”
“Mind not to alter a word of the letter.”
“That would be impossible, sire. To do that I must know Latin.”
“Go, then, my friend.”
Chicot took leave and went, more puzzled with the king than ever.
CHAPTER XLV.
THE AVENUE THREE THOUSAND FEET LONG.
The queen inhabited the other wing of the castle. The famous avenue began at her very window, and her eyes rested only on grass and flowers. A native poet (Marguerite, in the provinces as in Paris, was always the star of the poets) had composed a sonnet about her.
“She wishes,” said he, “by all these agreeable sights to chase away painful souvenirs.”
Daughter, sister, and wife of a king as she was, she had indeed suffered much. Her philosophy, although more boasted of than that of the king, was less solid; for it was due only to study, while his was natural. Therefore, stoical as she tried to be, time and grief had already begun to leave their marks on her countenance. Still she was remarkably beautiful. With her joyous yet sweet smile, her brilliant and yet soft eyes, Marguerite was still an adorable creature. She was idolized at Nerac, where she brought elegance, joy, and life. She, a Parisian princess, supported patiently a provincial life, and this alone was a virtue in the eyes of the inhabitants. Every one loved her, both as queen and as woman.
Full of hatred for her enemies, but patient that she might avenge herself better — feeling instinctively that under the mask of carelessness and long-suffering worn by Henri of Navarre he had a bad feeling toward her — she had accustomed herself to replace by poetry, and by the semblance of love, relations, husband, and friends.
No one, excepting Catherine de Medicis, Chicot, or some melancholy ghosts returned from the realms of death, could have told why Marguerite’s cheeks were often so pale, why her eyes often filled with tears, or why her heart often betrayed its melancholy void. Marguerite had no more confidantes; she had been betrayed too often.
However, the bad feeling which she believed Henri to have for her was only an instinct, and came rather from the consciousness of her own faults than from his behavior. He treated her like a daughter of France, always spoke to her with respectful politeness, or grateful kindness, and was always the husband and friend.
When Chicot arrived at the place indicated to him by Henri, he found no one; Marguerite, they said, was at the end of the famous avenue. When he had gone about two-thirds down it, he saw at the end, in an arbor covered with jasmine, clematis, and broom, a group covered with ribbons, feathers, velvets, and swords. Perhaps all this finery was slightly old-fashioned, but for Nerac it was brilliant, and even Chicot, coming straight from Paris, was satisfied with the coup d’oeil. A page preceded Chicot.
“What do you want, D’ Aubiac?” asked the queen, when she saw him.
“Madame, a gentleman from Paris, an envoy from the Louvre to the king of Navarre, and sent by his majesty to you, desires to speak to your majesty.”
A sudden flush passed over Marguerite’s face, and she turned quickly. Chicot was standing near; Marguerite quitted the circle, and waving an adieu to the company, advanced toward the Gascon.
“M. Chicot!” cried she in astonishment.
“Here I am at your majesty’s feet,” said he, “and find you ever good and beautiful, and queen here, as at the Louvre.”
“It is a miracle to see you here, monsieur; they said you were dead.”
“I pretended to be so.”
“And what do you want with us, M. Chicot? Am I happy enough to be still remembered in France?”
“Oh, madame,” said Chicot, smiling, “we do not forget queens of your age and your beauty. The king of France even writes on this subject to the king of Navarre.”
Marguerite colored. “He writes?”
“Yes, madame.”
“And you have brought the letter?”
“I have not brought it, madame, for reasons that the king of Navarre will explain to you, but learned it by heart and repeated it.”
“I understand. This letter was important, and you feared to lose it, or have it stolen.”
“That is the truth, madame; but the letter was written in Latin.”
“Oh, very well; you know I know Latin.”
“And the king of Navarre, does he know it?”
“Dear M. Chicot, it is very difficult to find out what he does or does not know. If one can believe appearances, he knows very little of it, for he never seems to understand when I speak to any one in that language. Then you told him the purport of the letter?”
“It was to him it was addressed.”
“And did he seem to understand?”
“Only two words.”
“What were they?”
“Turennius et Margota.”
“Turennius et Margota?”
“Yes; those two words were in the letter.”
“Then what did he do?”
“He sent me to you, madame.”
“To me?”
“Yes, saying that the letter contained things of too much importance to be confided to a stranger, and that it was better to take it to you, who were the most beautiful of learned ladies, and the most learned of beautiful ones.”
“I will listen to you, M. Chicot, since such are the king’s orders.”
“Thank you, madame; where would you please it to be?”
“Come to my room.”
Marguerite looked earnestly at Chicot, who, through pity for her, had let her have a glimpse of the truth. Perhaps she felt the need of a support, for she turned toward a gentleman in the group, and said: “M. de Turenne, your arm to the castle. Precede us, M. Chicot.”
CHAPTER XLVI.
MARGUERITE’S ROOM.
Marguerite’s room was fashionably furnished; and tapestries, enamels, china, books and manuscripts in Greek, Latin and French covered all the tables; while birds in their cages, dogs on the carpet, formed a living world round Marguerite.
The queen was a woman to understand Epicurus, not in Greek only, but she occupied her life so well that from a thousand griefs she drew forth a pleasure.
Chicot was invited to sit down in a beautiful armchair of tapestry, representing a Cupid scattering a cloud of flowers; and a page, handsome and richly dressed, offered to him refreshment. He did not accept it, but as soon as the Vicomte de Turenne had left them, began to recite his letter. We already know this letter, having read it in French with Chicot, and therefore think it useless to follow the Latin translation. Chicot spoke with the worst accent possible, but Marguerite understood it perfectly, and could not hide her rage and indignation. She knew her brother’s dislike to her, and her mind was divided between anger and fear. But as he concluded, she decided on her part.
“By the Holy Communion,” said she, when Chicot had finished, “my brother writes well in Latin! What vehemence! what style! I should never have believed him capable of it. But do you not understand it, M. Chicot? I thought you were a good Latin scholar.”
“Madame, I have forgotten it; all that I remember is that Latin has no article, that it has a vocative, and that the head belongs to the neuter gender.”
“Really!” said some one, entering noiselessly and merrily. It was the king of Navarre. “The head is of the neuter gender, M. Chicot? Why is it not masculine?”
“Ah, sire, I do not know; it astonishes me as much as it does your majesty.”
“It must be because it is sometimes the man, sometimes the woman that rules, according to their temperaments.”
“That is an excellent reason, sire.”
“I am glad to be a more profound philosopher than I thought — but to return to the letter. Madame, I burn to hear news from the court of France, and M. Chicot brings them to me in an unknown tongue.”
“Do you not fear, sire, that the Latin is a bad prognostic?” said Chicot.
“M. Chicot is right, sire,” said the queen.
“What!” said Henri, “does the letter contain anything disagreeable, and from your brother, who is so clever and polite?”
“Even when he had me insulted in my litter, as happened near Sens, when I left Paris to rejoin you, sire.”
“When one has a brother whose own conduct is irreproachable,” said Henri, in an indefinable tone between jest and earnest, “a brother a king, and very punctilious — ”
“He ought to care for the true honor of his sister and of his house. I do not suppose, sire, that if your sister, Catherine d’Albret, occasioned some scandal, you would have it published by a captain of the guards.”
“Oh! I am like a good-natured bourgeois, and not a king; but the letter, the letter; since it was addressed to me, I wish to know what it contains.”
“It is a perfidious letter, sire.”
“Bah!”
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