Volume 11 — Volume XI. (continued 3)

This is what Ruperta had to tell.

Dame Perrine's narrative ran in her head all night long, and from the moment that she entered her bedroom she trembled in every limb lest Antonia's spirit should pay her a visit, notwithstanding the blessed relics which hung about her bed.

She barricaded her door, but that was a very inadequate precaution; the old servant was too well versed in the ways of phantoms not to be aware that they know nothing of closed doors. Nevertheless she would have liked also to barricade the window looking upon the garden of the Grand-Nesle, but the original proprietor had neglected to provide the window with shutters, and the present proprietor deemed it useless to burden himself with that expense.

Ordinarily there were curtains at the window; but at this time, as luck would have it, they were at the laundry. The window offered no protection, therefore, save an unpretentious pane of glass, as transparent as the air that it excluded.

On entering the room Ruperta looked under the bed, felt in all the drawers and closets, and did not leave a single corner uninspected. She knew that the devil occupies but little space when he draws in his tail and claws and horns, and that Asmodeus was corked up in a bottle for nobody knows how many years.

The room was entirely untenanted, and there was not the slightest trace of the ghostly monk.

Ruperta went to bed therefore somewhat more at ease, but she left her lamp burning none the less. She was no sooner in bed than she looked toward the window, and saw outside the window a gigantic figure, whose outlines were just discernible in the darkness, and which intercepted the light of the stars. The moon was invisible as it was in its last quarter.

Good Ruperta shivered with fear; she was on the point of crying out or knocking, when she remembered the colossal statue of Mars which reared its head before her window. She immediately looked again in that direction, and recognized perfectly all the outlines of the god of war. This reassured Ruperta for the moment, and she determined positively to go to sleep.

But sleep, the poor man's treasure so often coveted by the rich, is at no man's orders. At night God opens heaven's gates for him, and the capricious rascal visits whom he pleases, turning aside disdainfully from him who calls, and knocking at their doors who least expect him. Ruperta invoked him long before he paid heed to her.

At last, toward midnight, fatigue won the day. Little by little, the good woman's faculties became confused, her thoughts which were in general but ill connected, broke the imperceptible thread which held them, and scattered like the beads of a rosary. Her heart alone, distraught by fear, was still awake; at last it too fell fast asleep, and all was said; the lamp alone kept vigil.

But, like all things of earth, the lamp found rest two hours after Ruperta had closed her eyes in the sleep of the just. Upon the pretext that it had no oil to burn, it began to grow dim, sputtered, blazed up for an instant, and then died.

Just at that time Ruperta had a fearful dream; she dreamed that, as she was returning home from visiting Perrine, the ghostly monk pursued her; but happily, against all precedents of those who dream, Ruperta to her joy found that she had the legs of fifteen years, and fled so swiftly that the ghostly monk, although he seemed to glide and not to run over the ground, only arrived in time to have the door slammed in his face. Ruperta thought, still dreaming, that she heard him snarl and pound upon the door. But, as may be imagined, she was in no haste to let him in. She lit her lamp, ran up the stairs four at a time, jumped into bed, and put out the light.

But, just as she put out the light, she saw the monk's head outside her window; he had crawled up the wall like a lizard, and was trying to come through the glass. In her dream, she heard the grinding of his nails against it.

He sleep can be so sound as to hold out against a dream of that sort. Ruperta awoke with her hair standing on end, and dripping with icy perspiration. Her eyes were open, staring wildly around, and in spite of her they sought the window. With that she uttered a fearful shriek, for this is what she saw.

She saw the head of the colossal Mars shooting forth flame from its eyes and nose and mouth and ears.

She thought at first that she was still asleep, and that it was a continuation of her dream; but she pinched herself till the blood came to make sure that she was really awake; she crossed herself, and repeated mentally three Paters and two Aves, and the extraordinary phenomena did not disappear.

Ruperta summoned strength enough to put out her hand, seize her broom, and pound against the ceiling with the handle thereof. Hermann slept in the room above hers, and she hoped that the sturdy Teuton would be aroused and hurry to her assistance. But in vain did Ruperta knock: Hermann gave no sign of life.

Thereupon she changed the direction of her blows, and, instead of knocking on the ceiling to arouse Hermann, began to knock on the floor to arouse Pagolo, who slept in the room below.

But Pagolo was as deaf as Hermann, and Ruperta pounded to no purpose.

She then abandoned the vertical for the horizontal line. Ascanio was her neighbor, and she knocked on the partition with her broom-handle.

But all was silence in Ascanio's quarters, as in those of Hermann and Pagolo. It was evident that neither of the three was at home. In an instant it occurred to Ruperta that the monk had carried off all three of them.

As there was little consolation in this idea, Ruperta's terror waxed greater and greater, and, as she was certain that no one would come to her assistance, she thrust her head beneath the bedclothes and waited.

She waited an hour, an hour and a half, two hours perhaps, and as she heard no noise, she regained her courage in a measure, softly removed the sheet from her head, and ventured to look with one eye, then with both. The vision had disappeared. The head of Mars had gone out, and all was dark once more.

Although the silence and darkness were calculated to set her mind at rest, it will readily be understood that Dame Ruperta and slumber were at odds for the balance of the night. The poor woman lay, with her ear on the alert and both eyes wide open, until the first rays of dawn reflected on her window announced that the time for ghosts to walk had passed.

Now this is what Ruperta had to tell, and it must be said in her honor that her narrative produced an even deeper impression than that of the preceding night; its effect upon Dame Perrine and Hermann, Scozzone and Pagolo, was particularly noticeable. The two men essayed to make excuses for not hearing Ruperta, but their voices trembled so, and their embarrassment was so great, that Jacques Aubry roared with laughter. Dame Perrine and Scozzone, on the other hand, did not breathe a word. They turned red and pale by turns, so that, if it had been daylight and you could have followed upon their faces the reflection of what was taking place in their minds, you would have believed them at the point of death from apoplexy, and again from inanition, all within ten seconds.

"And so, Dame Perrrine," said Scozzone, who was the first to recover her self-possession, "you claim to have seen the monk's ghost walking in the garden of the Grand-Nesle?"

"As plainly as I see you, my child," was Dame Perrrine's reply.

"And you, Ruperta, saw the head of the Mars on fire?"

"I can see it still."

"Look you," said Dame Perrine, "the accursed ghost must have chosen the head of the statue for his domicile; and as a ghost must of course take a little exercise now and then like a natural being, he comes down at certain hours, walks hither and thither, and when he's tired goes back into the head. Idols and spirits, you see, understand one another, like thieves on market day; they live in hell together, and this horrible false god Mars naturally enough offers his hospitality to the infernal monk."

"Pelieve you zo, Dame Perrine?" queried the innocent German.

"I am sure of it, Monsieur Hermann, sure of it."

"It makes my flesh to greep, on my vord!" muttered Hermann with a shudder.

"So you believe in ghosts, Hermann?" asked Aubry.

"Ja, I do pelieve in tem."

Jacques Aubry shrugged his shoulders, but as he did so he determined to solve the mystery. It was the easiest thing in the world for one who, like himself, went in and out of the house as familiarly as if he were one of the family. He made up his mind, therefore, that he would go and see Gervaise the next day, but that on this evening he would remain at the Grand-Nesle until ten o'clock; at ten o'clock he would say good night to everybody and pretend to go away, but that he would remain within the precincts, climb a poplar, and make the acquaintance of the phantom from a hiding place among the branches.

Everything fell out as the student planned. He left the studio alone as usual, shut the door leading into the quay with a great noise to indicate that he had gone out, then ran rapidly to the foot of the poplar, seized the lowest branch, drew himself up to it by his wrists, and in an instant was at the top of the tree. There he was just on a level with the head of the statue, and overlooked both the Grand and Petit-Nesle, so that nothing could take place in the courtyard or garden of either unseen by him.

While Jacques Aubry was taking up his position on his lofty perch, a grand soirée was in progress at the Louvre, and all the windows were ablaze with light. Charles V. had finally decided to leave Fontainebleau, and venture within the walls of the capital, and the two sovereigns had entered Paris that same evening.

A gorgeous welcoming fête awaited the Emperor there. There was a banquet, gaming, and a ball. Gondolas lighted by colored lanterns glided up and down the Seine, laden with musicians, and made melodious pauses in front of the famous balcony, from which, thirty years later, Charles IX. was to fire upon his people, while boats gayly decked with flowers conveyed from one bank of the river to the other those guests who were on their way from the Faubourg Saint-Germain to the Louvre, or who were returning to the Faubourg Saint-Germain.

Among the guests the Vicomte de Marmagne was naturally included.

As we have said, the Vicomte de Marmagne, a tall, pink-cheeked, insipid dandy, claimed to be a great destroyer of hearts. On this occasion he thought that a certain pretty little countess, whose husband happened to be with the army in Savoy, cast meaning glances at him; thereupon he danced with her, and fancied that her hand was not insensible to the pressure he ventured to bestow upon it. And so, when he saw the fair object of his thoughts leave the ball-room, he imagined, from the glance she gave him as she departed, that, like Galatea, she was flying toward the willows in the hope of being pursued. Marmagne therefore set out in pursuit, and as she lived in the vicinity of Rue Hautefeuille his course lay from the Louvre to the Tour de Nesle, and thence along the quay and through Rue des Grands Augustins to Rue Saint-André. He was walking along the quay when he heard steps behind him.

It was about one o'clock in the morning. The moon, as we have said, was entering her last quarter, so that the night was quite dark. Among the rare moral qualities with which nature had endowed Marmagne, courage did not hold a prominent position. He began therefore after a while to be somewhat disturbed by these footsteps, which seemed to be following his own, and quickened his gait, wrapping himself more closely than ever in his cloak, and instinctively grasping the hilt of his sword.

But the acceleration of speed profited him not; the steps behind governed themselves by his, and even seemed to gain upon him, so that, just as he passed the doorway of the church of the Augustins he realized that he should very soon be overtaken by his fellow traveller unless he quickened his pace still more to a racing speed. He was just about to adopt that extreme course when the sound of a voice mingled with the sound of the footsteps.

"Pardieu! my fine sir, you do well to walk fast," said the voice, "for this isn't a very safe place, especially at this hour; right here, you know of course, is where my worthy friend Benvenuto was attacked,—Benvenuto, the sublime artist, who is at Fontainebleau at this moment, and has no suspicion of what is going on under his roof. But as we are going in the same direction apparently, we can walk along together, and if we meet any cut-throats they will look twice before they attack us. I offer you therefore the safeguard of my companionship, if you will give me the honor of yours."

At the first word our student uttered, Marmagne knew that it was the voice of one who wished him no ill, and at the name of Benvenuto he remembered and recognized the garrulous law student, who had on a previous occasion given him so much useful information concerning the interior of the Grand-Nesle. He at once halted, and waited for master Jacques Aubry to come up, for his society would be of advantage to him in two ways. In the first place, he would serve as a sort of body guard, and might in the mean while give him some fresh information concerning his enemy, which his hatred would enable him to turn to advantage. He therefore welcomed the student with his most agreeable manner.

"Good evening, my young friend," he said, in reply to the familiar harangue addressed to him by Jacques Aubry in the darkness. "What were you saying of our good Benvenuto, whom I hoped to meet at the Louvre, but who has remained at Fontainebleau, like the fox that he is!"

"Well, by my soul, here's luck!" cried Jacques Aubry. "What, is it you, my dear vicomte—de—You forgot to tell me your name, or I forgot to remember it. You come from the Louvre? Was it very lovely, very lively, with love-making galore? We are in good luck, my gentleman, aren't we? O you heart-breaker!"

"Faith!" said Marmagne with a simper, "you're a sorcerer, my dear fellow; yes, I come from the Louvre, where the king said some very gracious things to me, and where I should still he if a certain fascinating little countess had not signified to me that she preferred a solitude à deux to all that crush. But whence come you?"

"Whence come I?" rejoined Aubry, with a hearty laugh. "Faith! you remind me! Poor Benvenuto! On my word, he doesn't deserve it!"

"Pray what has happened to our dear friend?"

"In the first place, you must know that I come from the Grand-Nesle, where I have passed two hours clinging to the branch of a tree like any parrot."

"The devil! that was no very comfortable position!"

"Never mind, never mind! I don't regret the cramp I got there, for I saw things, my friend, I saw things—Why, simply in thinking of them I suffocate with laughter."

As he spoke Jacques Aubry did laugh, so joyously and frankly that, although Marmagne had as yet no idea what he was laughing at, he could not forbear joining in the chorus. But his ignorance of the cause of the student's amusement naturally made him the first to cease.

"Now, my young friend, that I have been drawn on by your hilarity to laugh in confidence," said Marmagne, "may I not know what wonderful things they were to amuse you so? You know that I am one of Benvenuto's faithful friends, although I have never met you at his house, as my occupation leaves me very little time to devote to society, and that little I prefer to devote to my mistresses rather than my friends, I confess. But it is none the less true that whatever affects him affects me. Dear Benvenuto! Tell me what is going on at the Grand-Nesle in his absence? That interests me more than I can explain to you."

"What is going on?" said Aubry. "No, no, that's a secret."

"A secret to me!" said Marmagne. "A secret to me, who love Benvenuto so dearly, and who this very evening outdid King François I. in eulogizing him! Ah! that is too bad," added the viscount, with an injured expression.

"If I were only sure that you would mention it to nobody, my dear—What the devil is your name, my dear friend?—I would tell you about it, for I confess that I am as anxious to tell my story as King Midas's reeds were to tell theirs."

"Tell it then, tell it," said Marmagne.

"You won't repeat it to anybody?"

"To nobody, I swear!"

"On your word of honor?"

"On the faith of a nobleman."

"Fancy then—But, in the first place, my dear friend, you know the story of the monk's ghost, don't you?"

"Yes, I've heard of it. A phantom that is said to haunt the Grand-Nesle."

"Just so. Well, well! if you know that, I can tell you the rest. Fancy that Dame Perrine—"

"Colombe's governess?"

"Just so. Well, well, it's easy to see that you're a friend of the family. Fancy then that Dame Perrine, in a nocturnal walk which she was taking for her health, thought that she saw the ghostly monk also taking a walk in the garden of the Grand-Nesle, while at the same time Dame Ruperta—You know Dame Ruperta?"

"Isn't she Cellini's old servant?"

"Just so. While Dame Ruperta, during one of her fits of sleeplessness, saw flames darting from the eyes, nose, and mouth of the great statue of Mars which you have seen in the gardens of the Grand-Nesle."

"Yes, a veritable chef-d'œuvre!" said Marmagne.

"Chef-d'œuvre is the word. Cellini makes nothing else. Flow, these two respectable ladies—I speak of Dame Perrine and Dame Ruperta—agreed between themselves that the two apparitions had the same cause, and that the demon, who stalked abroad at night in the guise of the ghostly monk, ascended at cock-crow into the head of the god Mars, a fitting retreat for a lost soul like him, and was there consumed by such fierce flames that they came out through the statue's eyes, nose, and ears."

"What sort of a fairy tale is this, my dear man?" said Marmagne, unable to tell whether the student was joking or talking seriously.

"The tale of a ghost, my friend, nothing more nor less."

"Can it be that an intelligent fellow like you believes in such stuff?"

"Why no, I don't believe in it," said Jacques Aubry. "That is just why I concluded to pass the night in a poplar tree to clear up the mystery, and find out who the demon really is who is upsetting the whole household. So I pretended to come out, but instead of closing the door of the Grand-Nesle behind me I closed it in front of me, glided back in the darkness without being seen, and got safely to the poplar upon which I had my eye: five minutes later I was snugly ensconced among the branches on a level with Mars's head. Now guess what I saw."

"How can I guess, pray?"

"To be sure, one must be a sorcerer to guess such things. In the first place I saw the great door open; the door at the top of the steps, you know?"

"Yes, yes, I know it," said Marmagne.

"I saw the door open and a man put his nose out to see if there was any one in the courtyard. It was Hermann, the fat German."

"Yes, Hermann, the fat German," echoed Marmagne.

"When he was fully assured that the courtyard was deserted, having looked about everywhere, except in the tree, where, as you can imagine, he was very far from suspecting my presence, he came out, closed the door behind him, descended the five or six steps, and went straight to the door of the Petit-Nesle, where he knocked three times. At that signal a woman came out of the Petit-Nesle and opened the door. This woman was our friend Dame Perrine, who apparently has a weakness for walking about at night with our Goliath."

"No, really? Oh the poor provost!"

"Wait a moment, wait, that's not all! I was looking after them as they went into the Petit-Nesle, when suddenly I heard the grating of a window-sash at my left. I turned; the window opened and out came Pagolo,—that brigand of a Pagolo!—who would have believed it of him with all his protestations, and his Paters and Aves?—out came Pagolo, and, after looking about as cautiously as Hermann, straddled the windowsill, slid down the gutter, and went from balcony to balcony until he reached the window—guess of whose room, viscount!"

"How can I tell? was it Dame Ruperta's?"

"Oh no! Scozzone's, nothing less! Scozzone, Benvenuto's beloved model,—a lovely brunette, my word for it. Can you believe it of the rascal, viscount?"

"Indeed, it's most diverting," said Marmagne. "Is that all you saw?"

"Wait a bit, wait a bit, my dear fellow! I have kept the best till the last, the best morsel for the bonne bouche; wait a bit, we aren't there yet, but we soon shall be, never fear!"

"I am listening," said Marmagne. "On my honor, my dear fellow, it couldn't be more diverting."

"Wait a bit, I say, wait a bit. I was watching my Pagolo running from balcony to balcony at the risk of breaking his neck, when I heard another noise, which came almost from the foot of the tree in which I was sitting. I looked down and saw Ascanio creeping stealthily along from the foundry."

"Ascanio, Benvenuto's beloved pupil?"

"Himself, my friend, himself. A sort of choir-boy, to whom one would give absolution without confession. Oh yes! that comes of trusting to appearances."

"Why had Ascanio come out?"

"Ah, that's just it! Why had he? that's what I asked myself at first, but soon I had no occasion to ask it; for Ascanio, after having made sure, as Hermann and Pagolo had done, that nobody could see him, took from the foundry a long ladder, which he rested against the shoulders of Mars, and up he climbed. As the ladder was on the opposite side from myself, I lost sight of him as he went up, and was just wondering what had become of him when I saw a light in the eyes of the statue."

"What's that you say?" cried Marmagne.

"The exact truth, my friend, and I confess that, if it had happened without any knowledge on my part of what had happened previously, I should not have been altogether at my ease. But I had seen Ascanio disappear, and I suspected that the light was caused by him."

"But what was Ascanio doing at that hour in the head of the god Mars?"

"Ah! that is just the question I asked myself, and as there was no one to answer me I determined to find out for myself. I gazed with all my eyes, and succeeded in discovering, through those of the statue, a ghost, i' faith! yes, dressed all in white; the ghost of a woman, at whose feet Ascanio was kneeling as respectfully as before a Madonna. Unfortunately, the Madonna's back was turned to me, and I could not see her face, but I saw her neck. Oh what lovely necks ghosts have, my dear viscount! Imagine a perfect swan's neck, white as snow. And Ascanio was gazing at it, the impious varlet! with a degree of adoration which convinced me that the ghost was a woman. What do you say to that, my dear fellow? Gad! it's a neat trick, eh? to conceal one's mistress in the head of a statue."

"Yes, yes, it's most ingenious," rejoined Marmagne, laughing and reflecting at the same time; "very ingenious, in good sooth. And you have no suspicion who the woman can be?"

"Upon my honor, I have no idea. And you?"

"No more than you. What did you do, pray, when you saw all this?"

"What did I do? I laughed so that I lost my balance, and if I hadn't caught on a branch I should have broken my neck. As there was nothing more to see, and I had fallen half-way to the ground, I climbed down the rest of the way, crept to the door, and was on my way home, still laughing all by myself, when I met you, and you compelled me to tell you the story. Now, give me your advice, as you are of Benvenuto's friends. What must I do about telling him? As for Dame Perrine, that doesn't concern him; the dear woman is of age, and consequently mistress of her actions; but as to Scozzone, and the Venus who lodges in the head of Mars, it's a different matter."

"And you want me to advise you as to what you ought to do?"

"Yes, I do indeed! I am much perplexed, my dear—my dear—I always forget your name."

"My advice is to say nothing to him. So much the worse for those who are foolish enough to allow themselves to be deceived. I am obliged to you, Master Jacques Aubry, for your company and your agreeable conversation; but here we are at Rue Hautefeuille, and to return confidence for confidence, this is where my charmer dwells."

"Adieu, my dear, my excellent friend," said Jacques Aubry, pressing the viscount's hand. "Your advice is good and I will follow it. Good luck, and may Cupid watch over you!"

Thereupon they parted, Marmagne taking Rue Hautefeuille, and Jacques Aubry Rue Poupée, on his way to Rue de la Harpe, at the far end of which he had taken up his abode.

The viscount lied to the unlucky student when he declared that he had no suspicion as to the identity of the female demon whom Ascanio adored on his knees. His first thought was that the inhabitant of Mars was no other than Colombe, and the more he reflected upon it, the more firmly convinced he became. As we have said, Marmagne was equally ill disposed toward the provost, D'Orbec, and Cellini, and he found himself in a very awkward position as regarded the gratification of his ill will, for he could not inflict suffering upon one without giving pleasure to the others. If he held his peace, D'Orbec and the provost would remain in their present embarrassed plight; but Benvenuto would likewise continue in his present joyous frame of mind. If, on the other hand, he disclosed what he had learned, Benvenuto would be in despair, but the provost would recover his child, D'Orbec his betrothed. He determined, therefore, to turn the thing over in his mind until it should be made clear to him what was the most advantageous course for him to follow.

His indecision did not long endure; without knowing the real motive for her interest, he was aware that Madame d'Etampes was deeply interested in the marriage of Comte d'Orbec with Colombe. He thought that, by revealing his secret to the duchess, he might gain sufficient credit for perspicacity to make up for what he had lost in the matter of courage; he resolved, therefore, to appear at her morning reception on the following day, and tell her everything. Having formed that resolution, he punctually put it in execution.

By one of those fortunate chances which sometimes serve the purpose of evil deeds so well, all the courtiers were at the Louvre, paying court to François I. and the Emperor, and there was nobody at Madame d'Etampes's reception save her two faithful servants, the provost and Comte d'Orbec, when the Vicomte de Marmagne was announced.

The viscount respectfully saluted the duchess, who acknowledged his salutation with one of those smiles which belonged to her alone, and in which she could express pride, condescension, and disdain all at the same time. But Marmagne did not worry about this smile, with which he was well acquainted from having seen it upon the duchess's lips not only for his own benefit, but for the benefit of many another. He knew moreover that he possessed a certain means of transforming that smile of contempt into a smile of good will by a single word.

"Aha! Messire d'Estourville," he said, turning to the provost, "so the prodigal child has returned?"

"Still the same pleasantry, Viscount!" cried Messire d'Estourville with a threatening gesture, and flushing with anger.

"Oh don't lose your temper, my good friend, don't lose your temper!" returned Marmagne; "I tell you this, because, if you haven't yet found your vanished dove, I know where she has built her nest."

"You do?" cried the duchess, in the most charmingly friendly way. "Where is it, pray? Tell me quickly, I beg, my dear Marmagne?"

"In the head of the statue of Mars, which Benvenuto has modelled in the garden of the Grand-Nesle."

IX MARS AND VENUS

The reader will doubtless have guessed the truth, no less accurately than Marmagne, strange as it may have appeared at first glance. The head of the colossus was Colombe's place of retreat. Mars furnished apartments for Venus, as Jacques Aubry said. For the second time Benvenuto gave his handiwork a part to play in his life, summoned the artist to the assistance of the man, and embodied his fate in his statues as well as his thought and his genius. He had on an earlier occasion concealed his means of escape in one of his figures; he was now concealing Colombe's freedom and Ascanio's happiness in another.

But, having reached this point in our narrative, it becomes necessary for greater clearness to retrace our steps a moment.

When Cellini finished the story of Stefana, there was a brief pause. Benvenuto saw, among the phantoms which stood out vividly in his painful, obtrusive memories of the past, the melancholy, but serene features of Stefana, twenty years dead. Ascanio, with head bent forward, was trying to recall the pale face of the woman who had leaned over his cradle and often awoke him in his infancy, while the tears fell from her sad eyes upon his chubby cheeks. Colombe was gazing with deep emotion at Benvenuto, whom another woman, young and pure like herself, had loved so dearly: at that moment his voice seemed to her almost as soft as Ascanio's, and between the two, both of whom loved her devotedly, she felt instinctively that she was as safe as a child could be upon its mother's knee.

Benvenuto was the first to break the silence.

"Well!" he said, "will Colombe trust herself to the man to whom Stefana intrusted Ascanio?"

"You are my father, he my brother," replied Colombe, giving a hand to each of them with modest grace and dignity, "and I place myself blindly in your hands to keep me for my husband."

"Thanks," said Ascanio, "thanks, my beloved, for your trust in him."

"You promise to obey me in everything, Colombe?" said Benvenuto.

"In everything."

"Then listen, my children. I have always been convinced that man could do what he would, but only with the assistance of God on high and time here below. To save you from Comte d'Orbec and infamy, and to give you to my Ascanio, I must have time, Colombe, and in a very few days you are to be the count's wife. First of all then the essential thing is to delay this unholy union, is it not, Colombe, my sister, my child, my daughter? There are times in this sad life when it is necessary to do wrong in order to prevent a crime. Will you be courageous and resolute? Will your love, which is so pure and devoted, be brave and strong as well? Tell me."

"Ascanio will answer for me," said Colombe, with a smile, turning to the youth. "It is his right to dispose of me."

"Have no fear, master: Colombe will be brave," said Ascanio.

"In that case, Colombe, will you, trusting in our loyalty and your own innocence, boldly leave this house and go with us?"

Ascanio started in surprise. Colombe looked at them both for a moment without speaking, then rose to her feet, and said simply,—

"Where am I to go?"

"O Colombe, Colombe!" cried Benvenuto, deeply moved by such absolute trust, "you are a noble, saintly creature, and yet Stefana made me very exacting in my ideal. Everything depended upon your reply. We are saved now, but there isn't a moment to lose. This is the decisive hour. God places it at our disposal, let us avail ourselves of it. Give me your hand, Colombe, and follow me."

The maiden lowered her veil as if to hide her blush from itself, then followed the master and Ascanio. The door between the Grand and Petit-Nesle was locked, but the key was in the lock. Benvenuto opened it noiselessly.

When they were passing through, Colombe stopped.

"Wait a moment," she said in a voice trembling with emotion; and upon the threshold of the house which she was leaving because it had ceased to be a sanctuary for her, the child knelt and prayed. Her prayer remained a secret between God and herself; but doubtless she prayed that he would forgive her father for what she was driven to do. Then she rose, calm and strong, and went on under the guidance of Cellini. Ascanio with troubled heart followed them in silence, gazing fondly at the white dress which fled before him in the shadow. They walked in this way across the garden of the Grand-Nesle; the songs and heedless, joyous laughter of the workmen at their supper, for it will be remembered that it was a holiday at the château, reached the ears of our friends, who were anxious and nervous as people ordinarily are at supreme moments.

When they reached the foot of the statue, Benvenuto left Colombe a moment, went to the foundry, and reappeared, laden with a long ladder which he leaned against the colossus. The moon, the celestial watcher, east her pale light upon the scene. Having made sure that the ladder was firmly fixed in its place, the master knelt upon one knee in front of Colombe. The most touching respect softened the sternness of his expression.

"My child," said he, "put your arms around me, and hold fast."

Colombe obeyed without a word, and Benvenuto lifted her as if she had been a feather.

"The brother," he said to Ascanio as he drew near, "must allow the father to carry his beloved daughter."

The powerful goldsmith, laden with the most precious of all burdens, started up the ladder as lightly as if he were carrying nothing heavier than a bird. As her head lay upon the master's shoulder, Colombe could watch his manly, good-humored faee, and felt a degree of filial trust in him which was unlike anything she had ever experienced. As to Cellini, so powerful was the will of this man of iron, that he was able to hold her in his arms, for whom he would have given his life two hours earlier, with a hand that did not tremble, nor did his heart heat more rapidly or a single one of his muscles of steel weaken for an instant. He had ordered his heart to be calm, and his heart had obeyed.

When he reached the neck of the statue he opened a small door, entered the head, and deposited Colombe therein.

The interior of this colossal head of a statue nearly sixty feet high formed a small round room some eight feet in diameter, and ten feet high; air and light made their way in through the openings for the eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. This miniature apartment Benvenuto made when he was working at the head; he used it as a receptacle for the tools he was using, so that he need not be at the trouble of taking them up and down five or six times a day; often too he carried up his lunch with him and set it out upon a table which stood in the centre of this unique dining-room, so that he had not to leave his scaffolding to take his morning meal. This innovation which was so convenient for him, made the place attractive to him; he followed up the table with a cot-bed, and latterly he had formed the habit of taking his noon-day siesta in the head of his Mars, as well as of breakfasting there. It was quite natural, therefore, that it should occur to him to ensconce Colombe in what was clearly the most secure hiding place of all he could offer her.

"This is where you must remain, Colombe," said Benvenuto, "and you must make up your mind to go down only after dark. Await here in this retreat, under God's eye and our watchful care, the result of my efforts. Jupiter," he added with a smile, alluding to the king's promise, "will finish, I trust, what Mars has begun. You don't understand, but I know what I mean. We have Olympus on our side, and you have Paradise. How can we not succeed? Come, smile a little, Colombe, for the future at least, if not for the present. I tell you in all seriousness that we have ground for hope. Hope therefore with confidence,—in God, if not in me. I have been in a sterner prison than yours, believe me, and my hope made me indifferent to my captivity. From now until the day that success crowns my efforts, Colombe, you will see me no more. Your brother Ascanio, who is less suspected and less closely watched than I am, will come to see you, and will stand guard over you. I rely upon him to transform this workman's chamber into a nun's cell. Now that I am about to leave you, mark well and remember my words: you have done all that you had to do, trustful and courageous child; the rest concerns me. We have now only to allow Providence time to do its part, Colombe. Now listen. Whatever happens remember this: however desperate your situation may seem to be or may really be, even though you stand at the altar and have naught left to say but the terrible Yes which would unite you forever to Comte d'Orbec, do not doubt your friend, Colombe; do not doubt your father, my child; rely upon God and upon us; I will arrive in time, I promise you. Will you have the requisite faith and resolution? Tell me."

"Yes," said the girl confidently.

"'Tis well," said Cellini. "Adieu. I leave you now in your solitude; when everybody is asleep, Ascanio will come and bring you what you need. Adieu, Colombe."

He held out his hand, but Colombe gave him her forehead to kiss as she was accustomed to do with her father. Benvenuto started, but, passing his hand over his eyes, he mastered the thoughts which came to his mind and the passions which raged in his heart, and deposited upon that spotless forehead the most paternal of kisses.

"Adieu, dear child of Stefana," he whispered, and went quickly down the ladder to Ascanio, with whom he joined the workmen, who had finished eating, but were drinking still.

A new life, a strange, dream-like life, thereupon began for Colombe, and she accommodated herself to it as she would have done to the life of a queen.

Let us see how the aerial chamber was furnished. It had already, as we know, a bed and a table. Ascanio added a low velvet chair, a Venetian mirror, a collection of religious books selected by Colombe herself, a crucifix,—a marvellous piece of carving,—and a silver vase, also from the master's hand, which was filled every night with fresh flowers. There was room for nothing more in the white shell, which contained so much of innocence and charm.

Colombe ordinarily slept during the day. Ascanio had advised that course for fear that, if she were awake, she might thoughtlessly do something that would betray her presence. She awoke with the stars and the nightingale's song, knelt upon her bed, in front of her crucifix, and remained for some time absorbed in fervent prayer; then she made her toilet, dressed her lovely, luxuriant hair, and sat and mused. Erelong a ladder would be placed against the statue and Ascanio would knock at the little door. If Colombe's toilet was completed, she would admit him and he would remain with her until midnight. At midnight, if the weather was fine, she would go down into the garden, and Ascanio would return to the Grand-Nesle for a few hours' sleep, while Colombe took her nightly walk, beginning once more the old dreams she used to dream in her favorite path, and which seemed now more likely to be fulfilled. After about two hours the white apparition would return to her snug retreat, where she would wait for daylight and her bedtime, inhaling the sweet odor of the flowers she had collected for her little nest, and listening to the singing of the nightingales in the Petit-Nesle, and the crowing of the cocks in the Pré-aux-Clercs.

Just before dawn Ascanio would return to his beloved once more, bringing her daily supply of provisions, adroitly subtracted from Dame Ruperta's larder by virtue of Cellini's complicity. Then they would sit for a while, conversing as only lovers can converse, evoking memories of the past, and forming plans for the future when they should be man and wife. Sometimes Ascanio would sit silently contemplating Colombe, and Colombe would meet his earnest gaze with her sweet smile. Often when they parted they had not exchanged a single word, but those were the occasions on which they said most. Had not each of them in his or her heart all that the other could have said, in addition to what the heart cannot say, but God reads?

Grief and solitude have this advantage in youth, that, while they make the heart nobler and greater, they preserve its freshness. Colombe, a proud, dignified maiden, was at the same time a light-hearted young madcap: so there were days when they laughed as well as days when they dreamed,—days when they played together like children; and, most astonishing thing of all, those days—or nights, for, as we have seen, the young people had inverted the order of nature—were not the ones that passed most quickly. Love, like every other shining thing, needs a little darkness to make its light shine the brighter.

Never did Ascanio utter a word that could alarm the timid, innocent child who called him brother. They were alone, and they loved each other; but for the very reason that they were alone they were the more conscious of the presence of God, whose heaven they saw nearer at hand, and for the very reason that they loved each other, they respected their love as a divinity.

As soon as the first rays of dawn began to cast a feeble light upon the roofs of the houses, Colombe regretfully sent her friend away, but called him back as many times as Juliet did Romeo. One or the other had always forgotten something of the greatest importance; however, they had to part at last, and Colombe, up to the moment, toward noon, when she committed her heart to God, and slept the sleep of the angels, would sit alone, and dream, listening to the voices whispering in her heart, and to the little birds singing under the lindens in her old garden. It goes without saying that Ascanio always carried the ladder away with him.

Every morning she strewed bread around the mouth of the statue for the little birds; the bold-faced little fellows would come and seize it, and fly quickly away again at first; but they gradually grew tame. Birds seem to understand the hearts of young girls, who are winged like themselves. They finally would remain for a long while, and would pay in song for the banquet with which Colombe regaled them. There was one audacious goldfinch who ventured within the room, and finally acquired the habit of eating from Colombe's hand at morning and evening. When the nights began to be a little cool, one night he allowed himself to be taken captive by the young prisoner, who put him in her bosom, and there he slept until morning, notwithstanding Ascanio's visit and Colombe's nightly promenade. After that the willing captive never failed to return at night. At daybreak he would begin to sing: Colombe would then hold him for Ascanio to kiss, and set him at liberty.

Thus did Colombe's days glide by in the head of the statue. Only two things occurred to disturb the tranquillity of her existence; those two things were the provost's domiciliary visits. Once Colombe awoke with a start at the sound of her father's voice. It was no dream; he was down in the garden beneath her, and Benvenuto was saying to him: "You ask what this colossal figure is, Monsieur d'Estourville? It is the statue of Mars, which his Majesty condescended to order for Fontainebleau. A little bauble sixty feet high, as you see!"

"It is of noble proportions, and very beautiful," replied D'Estourville; "but let us go on, this is not what I am in search of."

"No, it would be too easy to find."

And they passed on.

Colombe, kneeling with outstretched arms, felt an intense longing to cry out, "Father, father, I am here!" The old man was seeking his child, weeping for her perhaps; but the thought of Comte d'Orbec, the hateful schemes of Madame d'Etampes, and the memory of the conversation Ascanio overheard, paralyzed her impulse. And on the second visit the same impulse did not come to her when the voice of the odious count was mingled with the provost's.

"There's a curious statue built just like a house," said D'Orbec, as he halted at the foot of the colossus. "If it stands through the winter, the swallows will build their nests in it in the spring."

On the morning of the day when the mere voice of her fiancé so alarmed Colombe, Ascanio had brought her a letter from Cellini.

"My child," so ran the letter, "I am obliged to go away, but have no fear. I leave everything prepared for your deliverance and your happiness. The king's word guarantees my success, and the king you know has never been false to his word. From to-day your father also will be absent. Do not despair. I have now had all the time that I needed. Therefore I say to you again, dear girl, though you should be at the church door, though you should be kneeling at the altar, and on the point of uttering the words which bind you for life, let things take their course. Providence will intervene in time, I swear to you. Adieu.

"Your father,

"BENVENUTO CELLINI."

This letter, which filled Colombe's heart with joy by reviving her hopes, had the unfortunate result of causing the poor children to feel a dangerous sense of security. Youth is incapable of moderate feelings: it leaps at one bound from despair to the fullest confidence; in its eyes the sky is always black with tempests or resplendently clear. Being rendered doubly confident by the provost's absence and Cellini's letter, they neglected their precautions, and thought more of their love and less of prudence. Colombe was not so guarded in her movements, and Dame Perrine saw her, but luckily mistook her for the monk's ghost. Ascanio lighted the lamp without drawing the curtains, and the light was seen by Dame Ruperta. The tales of the two gossips taken in conjunction aroused the curiosity of Jacques Aubry, and the indiscreet student, like Horace in the "École des Femmes," revealed everything to the very person to whom he should have revealed absolutely nothing. We know the result of his disclosures.

Let us now return to the Hôtel d'Etampes.

When Marmagne was asked how he had stumbled upon his valuable discovery, he assumed an air of mystery and refused to tell. The truth was too simple, and did not reflect sufficient credit upon his penetration; he preferred to let it be understood that he had arrived at the magnificent results which aroused their wonder by dint of strategy and perseverance. The duchess was radiant; she went and came, and plied the viscount with questions. So they had her at last, the little rebel who had terrified them all! Madame d'Etampes determined to go in person to the Hôtel de Nesle to make sure of her friend's good fortune. Moreover, after what had happened after the flight, or rather the abduction, of Colombe, the girl must not be left at the Petit-Nesle. The duchess would take charge of her: she would take her to the Hôtel d'Etampes, and would keep a closer watch upon her than duenna and fiancé together had done; she would keep watch upon her as a rival, so that Colombe would surely be well guarded.

The duchess ordered her litter.

"The affair has been kept very secret," said she to the provost. "You, D'Orbec, are not the man to worry about a childish escapade of this sort? I don't see, then, what is to prevent the marriage from taking place, and our plans from being carried out."

"On the same conditions, of course, duchess?" said D'Orbec.

"To be sure, on the same conditions, my dear count. As to Benvenuto," continued the duchess, "who is guilty, either as principal or accessory, of an infamous abduction,—never fear, dear viscount, we will avenge you, while avenging ourselves."

"But I understand, madame," rejoined Marmagne, "that, the king in his artistic enthusiasm had made him a solemn promise, in case the statue of his Jupiter should be cast successfully, so that he will simply have to breathe a wish to see his wish gratified."

"Never fear, that's just where I will watch," rejoined the duchess; "I will prepare a surprise for him on that day that will be a surprise indeed. So rely upon me, and let me manage everything."

That was in truth the best thing they could do: not for a long while had the duchess seemed so eager, so animated, so charming. Her joy overflowed in spite of her. She sent the provost away in hot haste to summon his archers, and erelong that functionary, accompanied by D'Orbec and Marmagne, and preceded by a number of subordinates, arrived at the door of the Hôtel de Nesle, followed at a short distance by Madame d'Etampes, who waited upon the quay, trembling with impatience, and constantly thrusting her head out of the litter.

It was the dinner hour of the workmen, and Ascanio, Pagolo, little Jehan, and the women were the only occupants of the Grand-Nesle at the moment. Benvenuto was not expected until the evening of the following day, or the morning of the day following that. Ascanio, who received the visitors, supposed that it was a third domiciliary visit, and, as he had very positive orders from the master on that subject, he offered no resistance, but welcomed them, on the other hand, most courteously.

The provost, his friends and his retainers, went straight to the foundry.

"Open this door for us," said D'Estourville to Ascanio.

The young man's heart was oppressed with a terrible presentiment. However he might be mistaken, and as the least hesitation might awaken suspicion, he handed the provost the key without moving a muscle.

"Take that long ladder," said the provost to his archers.

They obeyed, and under Messire d'Estourville's guidance marched straight to the statue. There the provost himself put the ladder in place, and prepared to ascend, but Ascanio, pale with terror and wrath placed his foot on the first round.

"What is your purpose, messieurs?" he cried; "this statue is the master's masterpiece. It has been placed in my charge, and the first man who lays hand upon it for any purpose whatsoever is a dead man, I warn you!"

He drew from his belt a keen-edged, slender dagger, of such marvellous temper that it would cut through a gold crown at a single blow.

The provost gave a signal and his archers advanced upon Ascanio pike in hand. He made a desperate resistance and wounded two men; but he could do nothing alone against eight, leaving the provost, Marmagne, and D'Orbec out of the reckoning. He was forced to yield to superior numbers: he was thrown down, bound and gagged, and the provost started up the ladder, followed by two sergeants for fear of a surprise.

Colombe had heard and seen everything; her father found her in a swoon, for when she saw Ascanio fall she believed him to be dead.

Aroused to anger rather than anxiety by this sight, the provost threw Colombe roughly over his broad shoulders, and descended the ladder. The whole party then returned to the quay, the archers escorting Ascanio, at whom D'Orbec gazed most earnestly. Pagolo saw his comrade pass and did not stir. Little Jehan had disappeared. Scozzone alone, understanding nothing of what had taken place, tried to bar the door, crying,—

"What means this violence, messieurs? Why are you taking Ascanio away? Who is this woman?"

But at that moment the veil which covered Colombe's face fell off, and Scozzone recognized the model for the statue of Hebe.

Thereupon she stood aside, pale with jealousy, and allowed the provost and his people, as well as their prisoners, to pass without another word.

"What does this mean, and why have you abused this boy so?" demanded Madame d'Etampes, when she saw Ascanio bound, and pale and covered with blood. "Unbind him! unbind him!"

"Madame," said the provost, "this same boy resisted us desperately; he wounded two of my men; he is his master's accomplice without doubt, and it seems to me advisable to take him to some safe place."

"And furthermore," said D'Orbec in an undertone to the duchess, "he so strongly resembles the Italian page I saw at your reception, and who was present throughout our conversation, that, if he were not dressed differently, and if I had not heard him speak the language which you assured me the page could not understand, upon my honor, Madame la Duchesse, I would swear it was he!"

"You are right. Monsieur le Prévôt," said Madame d'Etampes hastily, thinking better of the order she had given to set Ascanio at liberty; "you are right, this young man may be dangerous. Make sure of his person."

"To the Châtelet with the prisoner," said the provost.

"And we," said the duchess, at whose side Colombe, still unconscious, had been placed,—"we, messieurs, will return to the Hôtel d'Etampes!"

A moment later the hoof-beats of a galloping horse rang out upon the pavement. It was little Jehan, riding off at full speed to tell Cellini what had taken place at the Hôtel de Nesle.

Ascanio, meanwhile, was committed to the Châtelet without having seen the duchess, and in ignorance of the part played by her in the event which destroyed his hopes.

X THE RIVALS

Madame d'Etampes, who had been so desirous to see Colombe at close quarters ever since she had first heard of her, had her heart's desire at last: the poor child lay there before her in a swoon.

The jealous duchess did not once cease to gaze at her throughout the whole journey to the Hôtel d'Etampes. Her eyes, blazing with anger when she saw how beautiful she was, scrutinized each of her charms, analyzed each feature, and passed in review one after another all the elements which went to make up the perfect beauty of the pale-cheeked girl who was at last in her power and under her hand. The two women, who were inspired with the same passion and disputing possession of the same heart, were face to face at last. One all-powerful and malevolent, the other weak, but beloved; one with her splendor, the other with her youth; one with her passion, the other with her innocence. Separated by so many obstacles, they had finally come roughly in contact, and the duchess's velvet robe brushed against Colombe's simple white gown.

Though Colombe was in a swoon, Anne was not the least pale of the two. Doubtless her mute contemplation of her companion's loveliness caused her pride to despair, and destroyed her hopes; for while, in her own despite, she murmured, "They told me truly, she is lovely, very lovely!" her hand, which held Colombe's, pressed it so convulsively that the young girl was brought to her senses by the pain, and opened her great eyes, saying,—

"Oh, madame, you hurt me!"

As soon as the duchess saw that Colombe's eyes were open, she let her hand fall. But the consciousness of pain preceded the return of the faculty of thought. For some seconds after she uttered the words, she continued to gaze wonderingly at the duchess, as if she could not collect her thoughts.

"Who are you, madame," she said at last, "and whither are you taking me?" Then she suddenly drew away from her, crying,—

"Ah! you are the Duchesse d'Etampes. I remember, I remember!"

"Hush!" returned Anne imperiously. "Hush! Soon we shall be alone, and you can wonder and cry out at your ease."

These words were accompanied by a stern, haughty glance; but it was a sense of her own dignity, and not the glance, which imposed silence upon Colombe. She said not another word until they reached the Hôtel d'Etampes, where, at a sign from the duchess, she followed her to her oratory.

When the rivals were at last alone and face to face, they eyed each other for one or two minutes without speaking, but with very different expressions. Colombe was calm, for her trust in Providence and in Benvenuto sustained her. Anne was furious at her calmness, but although her fury was clearly evidenced by the contortion of her features, she did not give expression to it, for she relied upon her imperious will, and her unbounded power to crush the feeble creature before her. She was the first to break the silence.

"Well, my young friend," she said, in a tone which left no doubt as to the bitterness of the thought, although the words were soft, "you are restored to your father, at last. It is well, but allow me first of all to compliment you upon your courage; you are—bold for your age, my child."

"I have God on my side, madame," rejoined Colombe simply.

"What god do you refer to, mademoiselle? Oh, the god Mars, of course!" returned the duchess with one of those impertinent winks which she so often had occasion to resort to at court.

"I know but one God, madame; the Eternal God, merciful and protecting, who teaches charity in prosperity, and humility in grandeur. Woe to them who know not the God of whom I speak, for there will come a day when He will not know them."

"Very good, mademoiselle, very good!" said the duchess. "The situation is admirably adapted for a moral lecture, and I would congratulate you upon your happy choice of a subject if I did not prefer to think that you are trying to excuse your wantonness by impudence."

"In truth, madame," replied Colombe, without bitterness, but with a slight shrug of the shoulders, "I do not seek to excuse myself to you, because I am as yet ignorant of any right on your part to accuse me. When my father chooses to question me, I shall reply with respect and sorrow. If he reproves me I will try to justify myself; but until then, Madame la Duchesse, permit me to hold my peace."

"I understand that my voice annoys you, and you would prefer, would you not, to remain alone with your thoughts and think at leisure of the man you love?"

"No noise, however annoying it may be, can prevent me from thinking of him, madame, especially when he is unhappy."

"You dare confess that you love him?"

"That is the difference between us, madame; you love him, and dare not confess it."

"Impudent hussy!" cried the duchess, "upon my word I believe she defies me."

"Alas! no," replied Colombe softly, "I do not defy you, I reply, simply because you force me to reply. Leave me alone with my thoughts, and I will leave you alone with your schemes."

"Very good! since you drive me to it, child, since you imagine that you are strong enough to contend with me, since you confess your love, I will confess mine; but at the same time I will confess my hatred. Yes, I love Ascanio, and I hate you! After all, why should I dissemble with you, the only person to whom I may say whatever I choose? for you are the only one who, whatever you say, will not be believed. Yes, I love Ascanio."

"In that case I pity you, madame," rejoined Colombe softly, "for Ascanio loves me."

"Yes, it is true, Ascanio does love you; but by seduction if I can, by falsehood if I must, by a crime if it becomes necessary, I will steal his love away from you, mark that! I am Anne d'Heilly, Duchesse d'Etampes!"

"Ascanio, madame, will love the one who loves him best."

"In God's name hear her!" cried the duchess, exasperated by such sublime confidence. "Would not one think that her love is unique, and that no other love can be compared to it?"

"I do not say that, madame. For the reason that I love, I know that other hearts may love as I do, but I doubt if yours is one of them."

"What would you do for him? Come, let us see, you who boast of this love of yours which mine can never equal. What have you sacrificed for him thus far? an obscure life and wearisome solitude?"

"No, madame, but my peace of mind."

"You have given him preference over what? Comte d'Orbec's absurd love?"

"No, madame, but my filial obedience."

"What have you to give him? Can you make him rich, powerful, feared?"

"No, madame, but I hope to make him happy."

"Ah!" exclaimed the duchess; "it's a very different matter with me, and I do much more for him: I sacrifice a king's affection; I lay wealth, titles, and honors at his feet; I bring him a kingdom to govern."

"Yes," said Colombe with a smile, "it's true that your love gives him everything that is not love."

"Enough, enough of this insulting comparison!" cried the duchess violently, feeling that she was losing ground step by step.

Thereupon ensued a momentary pause, during which Colombe seemed to feel no embarrassment, while Madame d'Etampes succeeded in concealing hers only by revealing her anger. However, her features gradually relaxed, her faee assumed a milder expression, lightened by a gleam of real or feigned benevolence. She was the first to reopen the conflict which she did not propose should end otherwise than in a triumph.

"Let us see, Colombe," said she in a tone that was almost affectionate, "if some one should bid you sacrifice your life for him, what would you do?"

"Ah! I would give it to him blissfully!"

"And so would I!" cried the duchess with an accent which proved the violence of her passion, if not the sincerity of the sacrifice.

"But your honor," she continued, "would you sacrifice that as well as your life?"

"If by my honor you mean my reputation, yes; if by my honor you mean my virtue, no."

"What! you do not belong to him? is he not your lover?"

"He is my fiancé, madame; that is all."

"Oh, she doesn't love him!" rejoined the duchess, "she doesn't love him! She prefers her honor, a mere empty word, to him."

"If some one were to say to you, madame," retorted Colombe, angered in spite of her sweet disposition, "if some one were to say to you, 'Renounce for his sake your titles and your grandeur; abandon the king for him,—not in secret, that would be too easy,—but publicly.' If some one were to say to you, 'Anne d'Heilly, Duchesse d'Etampes, leave your palace, your luxurious surroundings, and your courtiers for his humble artist's studio'?"

"I would refuse in his own interest," replied the duchess, as if it were impossible to say what was false beneath the profound, penetrating gaze of her rival.

"You would refuse?"

"Yes."

"Ah! she doesn't love him!" cried Colombe; "she prefers honors, mere chimeras, to him."

"But when I tell you that I wish to retain my position for his sake," returned the duchess, exasperated anew by this fresh triumph of her rival,—"when I tell you that I wish to retain my honors so that he may share them? All men care for them sooner or later."

"Yes," replied Colombe, smiling; "but Ascanio is not one of them."

"Hush!" cried Anne, stamping her foot in passion.

Thus had the cunning and powerful duchess signally failed to gain the upper hand over a mere girl, whom she expected to intimidate simply by raising her voice. To her questions, angry or satirical, Colombe had made answer with a modest tranquillity which disconcerted her. She realized that the blind impulsion of her hatred had led her astray, so she changed her tactics. To tell the truth, she had not reckoned upon the possession of so much beauty or so much wit by her rival, and, finding that she could not bend her, she determined to take her by surprise.

Colombe as we have seen, was not alarmed by the double explosion of Madame d'Etampes's wrath, but simply took refuge in cold and dignified silence. The duchess, however, following out the new plan she had adopted, now approached her with her most fascinating smile, and took her affectionately by the hand.

"Forgive me, my child," she said, "but I fear I lost my temper; you must not bear me ill will for it; you have the advantage of me in so many ways, that it's natural that I should be jealous. Alas! you, no doubt, like everybody else, consider me a wicked woman. But, in truth, my destiny is at fault, not I. Forgive me, therefore; because we both happen to love Ascanio is no reason why we should hate each other. And then he loves you alone, so 't is your duty to be indulgent. Let us be sisters, what say you? Let us talk frankly together, and I will try to efface from your mind the unfortunate impression which my foolish anger may have left there."

"Madame!" said Colombe, with reserve, and withdrawing her hand with an instinctive movement of repulsion; but she added at once, "Speak, I am listening."

"Oh," said Madame d'Etampes playfully, and as if she understood perfectly her companion's reserve, "have no fear, little savage, I do not ask for your friendship without a guaranty. In order that you may know what manner of woman I am, that you may know me as I know myself, I propose to tell you in two words the story of my life. My heart has little to do with my story, and we poor women, who are called great ladies, are so often slandered! Ah! envy does very wrong to speak ill of us when we are fitter subjects for compassion. For instance, what is your judgment of me, my child? Be frank. You look upon me as a lost woman, do you not?"

Colombe made a gesture indicative of the embarrassment she felt at the idea of replying to such a question.

"But if I am a lost woman, is it my fault? You in your happiness, Colombe, must not be too hard upon those who have suffered,—you who have lived hitherto in innocent solitude, and do not know what it is to be reared upon ambitious dreams: for they who are destined to that torture, like victims decked out with flowers, see only the bright side of life. There is no question of love, simply of pleading. So it was that from my earliest youth my thoughts were all bent upon fascinating the king; the beauty which God gives to woman to be exchanged for true love, I was forced to exchange for a title; they made of my charms a snare. Tell me now, Colombe, what could be the fate of a poor child, taken in hand before she has learned to know the difference between good and evil, and who is told, 'The good is evil, the evil is good'? And so, you see, although others despair of me, I do not despair of myself. Perhaps God will forgive me, for no one stood beside me to tell me of him. What was there for me to do, alone as I was, and weak and defenceless? Craft and deceit have made up my whole life from that time on. And yet I was not made to play such a hideous rôle; the proof is that I love Ascanio, and that when I found that I loved him I was happy and ashamed at the same time. Now tell me, my pure, darling child, do you understand me?"

"Yes." innocently replied Colombe, deceived by this false good faith, this lie masquerading in the guise of truth.

"Then you will have pity on me," cried the duchess; "you will let me love Ascanio from a distance, all by myself, hopelessly; and in that way I shall not be your rival, for he will not care for me; and, in return, I, who know the world and its snares, its pitfalls and deceit, will take the place of the mother you have lost. I will guide you, I will save you. Now you see that you can trust me, for you save my life. A child in whose heart the passions of a woman were sown, that in brief is my past. My present you see for yourself; it is the shame of being the declared mistress of a king. My future is my love for Ascanio,—not his for me, because, as you have said, and as I have very often told myself, Ascanio will never love me; but for the very reason that love will remain pure it will purify me. Now it is your turn, to speak, to open your heart, to tell me everything. Tell me your story, dear girl."

"My story, madame, is very brief and very simple," said Colombe; "it may all be summed up in three loves. I have loved, I love, and I shall love,—God, my father, and Ascanio. But in the past my love for Ascanio, whom I had not then met, was a dream; at present it is a cause of suffering; in the future, it is a hope."

"Very good," said the duchess, restraining her jealousy, and forcing back her tears; "but do not half confide in me, Colombe. What do you mean to do now? How can you, poor child, contend with two such powerful wills as your father's and Comte d'Orbec's? To say nothing of the king's having seen you and fallen in love with you."

"O mon Dieu!" murmured Colombe.

"But as this passion on the king's part was the work of the Duchesse d'Etampes, your rival, your friend, Anne d'Heilly will deliver you from it. So we won't disturb ourselves about the king: but your father and the count must be reckoned with. Their ambition is less easy to balk than the commonplace fancy of the king."

"Oh, do not be half kind!" cried Colombe; "save me from the others as well as from the king."

"I know but one way," said Madame d'Etampes, seeming to reflect.

"What is that?"

"You will take fright, and refuse to adopt it."

"Oh, if only courage is required, tell me what it is."

"Come here, and listen to me," said the duchess, affectionately drawing Colombe to a seat upon a stool beside her arm-chair, and passing her arm around her waist. "Don't be alarmed, I beg, at the first words I say."

"Is it very terrifying?" Colombe asked.

"Your virtue is unbending, and unspotted, my dear little one, but we live, alas! at a time and in a society where such fascinating innocence is but a danger the more, for it places you, without means of defence, at the mercy of your enemies, whom you cannot fight with the weapons they use to attack you. So make an effort, descend from the heights to which your dreams have transported you, to the lower level of reality. You said just now that you would sacrifice your reputation for Ascanio. I do not ask so much as that, but simply that you sacrifice the appearance of fidelity to him. It is pure madness for you, alone and helpless, to struggle against your destiny: for you, the daughter of a gentleman, to dream of marriage with a goldsmith's apprentice! Come, trust the advice of a sincere friend; do not resist them, but let them have their way: remain at heart the spotless fiancé, the wife of Ascanio, and give your hand to Comte d'Orbec. His ambitious schemes require that you should bear his name; but once you are Comtesse d'Orbec, you can easily overturn his detestable schemes, for you have only to raise your voice and complain. Whereas now, who would take your part in the contest? No one: even I cannot assist you against the legitimate authority of a father, while, if it were a question of foiling your husband's combinations, you would soon see me at work. Reflect upon what I say. To remain your own mistress, obey; to become independent, pretend to abandon your liberty. Strong in the thought that Ascanio is your lawful husband, and that union with any other is mere sacrilege, you may do what your heart bids you, and your conscience will be at rest, while the world, in whose eyes appearances will be preserved, will take your part."

"Madame! madame!" murmured Colombe, rising and straightening herself against the duchess's arm, as she sought to detain her, "I am not sure that I understand you aright, but it seems to me that you are advising me to do an infamous thing!"

"What do you say?" cried the duchess.

"I say that virtue is not so subtle as all that, madame; I say that your sophistries make me blush for you; I say that beneath the cloak of friendship with which you conceal your hatred, I see the net you have spread for me. You wish to dishonor me in Ascanio's eyes, do you not, because you know that Ascanio will never love or will cease to love the woman he despises?"

"Well, yes!" said the duchess, bursting forth at last; "I am weary of wearing a mask. Ah! you will not fall into the net I have spread, you say? Very good, then you will fall into the abyss I will push you into. Hear this: Whether you will or no, you shall marry D'Orbec!"

"In that case the force put upon me will be my excuse, and by yielding, if I do yield, I shall not have profaned my heart's religion."

"Pray, do you mean to resist?"

"By every means in the power of a poor girl. I warn you that I will say No! to the end. You may put my hand in that man's, I will say No! You may drag me before the altar, I will say No! You may force me to kneel at the priest's feet, and to the priest's face I will say No!"

"What matters it? Ascanio will believe that you have consented to the marriage that is forced upon you."

"For that reason I hope I may not have to submit to it, madame."

"Upon whom do you rely to come to your assistance?"

"Upon God above, and upon a man on earth."

"But the man is a prisoner."

"The man is free, madame."

"Why, who is the man, I pray to know?"

"Benvenuto Cellini."

The duchess ground her teeth when she heard the name of the man she considered her deadliest foe. But as she was on the point of repeating the name, accompanied by some terrible imprecation, a page raised the portière and announced the king.

At that announcement she darted from the room to meet François I. with a smile upon her lips, and led him to her own apartments, motioning to her people to keep watch upon Colombe.

XI BENVENUTO AT BAY

An hour after the imprisonment of Ascanio and the abduction of Colombe, Benvenuto Cellini rode along the Quai des Augustins at a footpace. He had just parted from the king and the court, whom he had amused throughout the journey by innumerable tales, told as he only could tell them, mingled with anecdotes of his own adventures. But when he was once more alone he became thoughtful and abstracted; the frivolous talker gave place to the profound dreamer. While his hand shook the rein, his brain was busily at work; he dreamed of the casting of his Jupiter, upon which depended his dear Ascanio's happiness as well as his artistic fame; the bronze was fermenting in his brain before being melted in the furnace. Outwardly he was calm.

When he reached the door of the Hôtel de Nesle he stopped for a moment, amazed not to hear the sound of hammering; the blackened walls of the château were mute and gloomy, as if no living thing were within. Twice the master rapped without obtaining a reply; at the third summons Scozzone opened the door.

"Ah, there you are, master!" she cried when she saw that it was Benvenuto. "Alas! why did you not return two hours earlier?"

"What has happened, in God's name?" demanded Cellini.

"The provost, Comte d'Orbec, and the Duchesse d'Etampes have been here."

"Well?"

"They made a search."

"And then?"

"They found Colombe in the head of the statue of Mars."

"Impossible!"

"The Duchesse d'Etampes carried Colombe home with her, and the provost ordered Ascanio to be taken to the Châtelet."

"Ah! we have been betrayed!" cried Benvenuto striking his hand against his forehead and stamping upon the ground. As his first thought on every occasion was of vengeance, he left his horse to find his own way to the stable, and darted into the studio.

"Come hither, all of you," he cried,—"all!"

Thereupon each one had to undergo an examination in due form, but they were all equally ignorant, not only of Colombe's hiding place, but of the means by which her enemies had succeeded in discovering it. There was not a single one, including Pagolo, upon whom the master's suspicion fell first of all, who did not exculpate himself in a way that left no doubt in Benvenuto's mind. It is needless to say that he did not for an instant suspect Hermann, and Simon-le-Gaucher for no more than an instant.

When he became convinced that he could learn nothing in that direction, Benvenuto, with the rapidity of decision which was usual with him, made up his mind what course to pursue; and having made sure that his sword was at his side and that his dagger moved easily in its sheath, he ordered everybody to remain at home in order to be at hand in case of need. He then left the studio, and hurried across the courtyard into the street.

His features, his gait, and his every movement, bore the stamp of intense excitement. A thousand thoughts, a thousand schemes, a thousand painful reflections, were jostling one another confusedly in his head. Ascanio failed him at the moment when his presence was most essential, for all his apprentices, with the most intelligent of them all at their head, were none too many for the casting of his Jupiter. Colombe was abducted; and Colombe in the midst of her foes might lose heart. The serene, sublime confidence which served the poor child as a bulwark against evil thoughts and perverse designs would perhaps grow weaker, or abandon her altogether, in such a maze of plots and threats. With all the rest, he remembered that one day he had spoken to Ascanio of the possibility of some cruel vengeance on the part of the Duchesse d'Etampes, whereupon Ascanio replied with a smile,—

"She will not dare to ruin me, for with a word I could ruin her."

Benvenuto sought to learn the secret, but Ascanio would make no other reply to his questions than this:—

"To-day it would be treachery, master. Wait until the day comes when it will be only a legitimate means of defence."

Benvenuto understood the delicacy which closed his mouth, and waited. How it was necessary that he should see Ascanio, and his first endeavors should be directed to that end.

With Benvenuto the wish led at once to the decision necessarily to gratify it. He had hardly said to himself that he must see Ascanio, before he was knocking at the door of the Châtelet. The wicket opened, and one of the provost's people asked Cellini who he was. Another man was standing behind him in the shadow.

"My name is Benvenuto Cellini," replied the goldsmith.

"What do you wish?"

"To see a prisoner who is confined herein."

"What is his name?"

"Ascanio."

"Ascanio is in secret and can see no one."

"Why is he in secret?"

"Because he is charged with a crime punishable with death."

"An additional reason why I should see him," cried Benvenuto.

"Your logic is most extraordinary, Signor Cellini," said the man who was standing in the background, in a jeering tone, "and doesn't pass current at the Châtelet."

"Who laughs when I proffer a request? Who jeers when I implore a favor?" cried Benvenuto.

"I," said the voice,—"I, Robert d'Estourville, Provost of Paris. To each his turn, Signor Cellini. Every contest consists of a game and revenge. You won the first bout, and the second is mine. You illegally took my property, I legally take your apprentice. You refused to return the one to me, so never fear, I will not return the other to you. You are gallant and enterprising; you have an army of devoted retainers. Come on, my stormer of citadels! Come on, my scaler of walls! Come on, my burster in of doors! Come and take the Châtelet! I am waiting for you."

With that the wicket was closed.

Benvenuto, with a roar, darted at the massive iron door, but could make no impression upon it with the united efforts of his feet and hands.

"Come on, my friend, come on, strike, strike!" cried the provost from the other side of the door; "you will only succeed in making a noise, and if you make too much, beware the watch, beware the archers! Ah! the Châtelet isn't like the Hôtel de Nesle, you'll find; it belongs to our lord the king, and we shall see if you are more powerful in France than the king."

Benvenuto cast his eyes about and saw upon the quay an uprooted mile-stone which two ordinary men would have found difficulty in lifting. He walked to where it lay picked it up and put it on his shoulder as easily as a child could do the same with a pebble. He had taken but a step or two, however, when he reflected that, when the door was broken in, he should find the guard waiting for him, and the result would be that he should himself be imprisoned,—imprisoned when Ascanio's liberty was dependent upon his own. He therefore dropped the stone, which was driven some inches into the ground by its own weight.

Doubtless the provost was watching him from some invisible loophole, for he heard a burst of laughter.

Benvenuto hurried away at full speed, lest he should yield to the desire to dash his head against the accursed door.

He went directly to the Hôtel d'Etampes.

All was not lost, if, failing to see Ascanio, he could see Colombe. Perhaps Ascanio, in the overflowing of his heart, had confided to his beloved the secret he had refused to confide to his master.

All went well at first. The gateway of the mansion was open; he crossed the courtyard and entered the reception-room, where stood a tall footman with lace on all the seams of his livery,—a sort of colossus four feet wide and six high.

"Who are you?" he demanded, eying the goldsmith from head to foot.

At another time Benvenuto would have answered his insolent stare by one of his customary violent outbursts, but it was essential that he should see Colombe. Ascanio's welfare was at stake: so he restrained himself.

"I am Benvenuto Cellini, the Florentine goldsmith," he replied.

"What do you wish?"

"To see Mademoiselle Colombe."

"Mademoiselle Colombe is not visible."

"Why is she not visible?"

"Because her father, Messire d'Estourville, Provost of Paris, gave her in charge to Madame d'Etampes, and requested her to keep an eye upon her."

"But I am a friend."

"An additional reason for suspecting you."

"I tell you that I must see her," said Benvenuto, beginning to get warm.

"And I tell you that you shall not see her," retorted the servant.

"Is Madame d'Etampes visible?"

"No more than Mademoiselle Colombe."

"Not even to me, her jeweller?"

"Less to you than to any other person."

"Do you mean that orders have been given not to admit me?"

"Just so," replied the servant; "you have put your finger on the spot."

"Do you know that I am a strange man, my friend," said Benvenuto, with the terrible laugh which ordinarily preceded his outbursts of wrath; "and that the place I am forbidden to enter is the place I am accustomed to enter?"

"How will you do it, eh? You amuse me."

"When there is a door, and a blackguard like you in front of it, for instance—"

"Well?" said the valet.

"Well!" retorted Benvenuto, suiting the action to the word, "I overturn the blackguard, and break in the door."

And with a blow of his fist he laid the valet sprawling on the floor, and burst in the door with a blow of his foot.

"Help!" cried the servant; "help!"

But the poor devil's cry of distress was not needed; as Benvenuto passed into the reception-room he found himself confronted by six others, evidently stationed there to receive him. He at once divined that Madame d'Etampes had been informed of his return, and had taken measures accordingly.

Under any other circumstances, armed as he was with dagger and sword, Benvenuto would have fallen upon them, and would probably have given a good account of himself, but such an act of violence in the abode of the king's mistress might have deplorable results. For the second time, contrary to his custom, common sense carried the day over wrath, and, being certain that he could at all events have audience of the king, to whose presence, as we know, he had the privilege of being admitted at any hour, he replaced his sword, already half drawn, in its scabbard, retraced his steps, pausing at every movement in his rear, like a lion in retreat, walked slowly across the courtyard, and bent his steps toward the Louvre.

Benvenuto once more assumed a calm demeanor, and walked with measured step, but his tranquillity was only apparent. Great drops of perspiration were rolling down his cheeks, and his wrath was rising mountain high within his breast, his superhuman efforts to master it making him suffer the more. Indeed, nothing could be more utterly antipathetic to his impulsive nature than delay, than the wretched obstacle of a closed door, or the vulgar insolence of a lackey. Strong men who command their thoughts are never so near despair as when they come in collision with some material obstacle and struggle to no purpose to surmount it. Benvenuto would have given ten years of his life to have some man jostle him, and as he walked along he raised his head from time to time and gazed threateningly at those who passed, as if he would say:—

"Isn't there some unfortunate wretch among you who is tired of life? If so, let him apply to me, I'm his man!"

A quarter of an hour later he reached the Louvre and went at once to the apartment set apart for the pages, requesting immediate speech of his Majesty. It was his purpose to tell François the whole story, and make an appeal to his loyalty, and, if he could not obtain Ascanio's release, to solicit permission to see him. As he came through the streets he considered what language he would use to the king, and as he had some pretensions to eloquence he was well content with the little speech he had prepared. The excitement, the terrible news he had learned so suddenly, the insults heaped upon him, the obstacles he could not overcome, all these had combined to set the blood on fire in the irascible artist's veins: his temples throbbed, his heart beat quickly, his hands shook. He did not himself know the extent of the feverish agitation which multiplied the energy of his body and his heart. A whole day is sometimes concentrated in one minute.

In such a frame of mind was Benvenuto when he appealed to a page for admission to the king's apartments.

"The king is not visible," was the young man's reply.

"Do you not recognize me?" asked Benvenuto in surprise.

"Perfectly."

"I am Benvenuto Cellini, and his Majesty is always visible to me."

"It is precisely because you are Benvenuto Cellini," returned the page, "that you cannot enter."

Benvenuto was thunderstruck.

"Ah! is it you, M. de Termes?" continued the page, addressing a courtier who arrived just behind the goldsmith. "Pass in, pass in, Comte de la Paye; pass in, Marquis des Prés."

"And what of me! what of me, pray?" cried Benvenuto, turning white with anger.

"You? The king, when he returned ten minutes since, said, 'If that insolent Florentine makes his appearance, let him know that I do not choose to receive him, and advise him to be submissive unless he desires to make a comparison between the Castle of San Angelo and the Châtelet."

"Help me, patience! Oh help me!" muttered Benvenuto in a hollow voice: "Vrai Dieu! I am not accustomed to being made to wait by kings. The Vatican's no less a place than the Louvre, and Leo X. is no less great a man than François I., and yet I was not kept waiting at the door of the Vatican, nor at that of Leo X. But I understand; it's like this: the king was with Madame d'Etampes,—yes, the king has just come from his mistress and has been put on his guard by her against me. Yes, that's the way it is: patience for Ascanio! patience for Colombe!"

Notwithstanding his praiseworthy resolution to be patient, however, Benvenuto was obliged to lean against a pillar for support: his heart was swollen to bursting, and his legs trembled under him. This last insult not only wounded him in his pride, but in his friendship. His soul was filled with bitterness and despair, and his clenched hands, his frown, and his tightly closed lips bore witness to the violence of his suffering.

However, in a moment or two he recovered himself, tossed back the hair which was falling over his brow, and left the palace with firm and resolute step. All who were present watched him with something very like respect as he walked away.

Benvenuto's apparent tranquillity was due to the marvellous power he possessed over himself, for he was in reality more confused and desperate than a stag at bay. He wandered through the streets for some time, heedless as to where he might be, hearing nothing but the buzzing of the blood in his ears, and vaguely wondering, as one does in intoxication, whether he was awake or asleep. It was the third time he had been shown the door within an hour. It was the third time that doors had been shut in his face,—in his face, Benvenuto's, the favorite of princes, popes, and kings, before whom all doors were thrown open to their fullest extent when his footsteps were heard approaching! And yet, notwithstanding this threefold affront, he had not the right to give way to his anger; he must dissemble, and hide his humiliation until he had rescued Colombe and Ascanio. The throng through which he passed, thoughtless or full of business, seemed to him to read upon his brow the story of the repeated insults he had undergone. It was perhaps the only moment in his whole life when his great heart lost faith in itself. But after ten or fifteen minutes of this aimless, blind wandering, his will reasserted itself, and he raised his head: his depression left him, and the fever returned.

"Go to!" he cried aloud, to such a degree did his mind dominate his body; "go to! in vain do they crowd the man, they cannot throw down the artist! Come, sculptor, and make them repent of their base deeds when they admire thy handiwork! Come, Jupiter, and prove that thou art still, not the king of the gods alone, but the master of mankind!"

As he spoke, Benvenuto, acting upon an impulse stronger than himself, bent his step toward the Tournelles, that former royal residence, where the old constable, Anne de Montmorency, still dwelt.

The effervescent artist was required to await his turn for an hour before he was admitted to the presence of the warrior minister of François I., who was besieged by a mob of courtiers and petitioners. At last he was introduced.

Anne de Montmorency was a man of great height, little if any bent by age, cold, stiff, and spare, with a piercing glance and an abrupt manner of speaking; he was forever scolding, and no one ever saw him in good humor. He would have looked upon it as a humiliation to be surprised with a laugh upon his face. How had this morose old man succeeded in making himself agreeable to the amiable and gracious prince, who then governed France? It is something that can be explained in no other way than by the law of contrasts. François I. had a way of sending away satisfied those whose petitions he refused; the constable, on the other hand, arranged matters in such a way that those whom he gratified went away in a rage. He was only moderately endowed in the way of genius, but he won the king's confidence by his military inflexibility and his dictatorial gravity.