Volume 11 — Volume XI.

ASCANIO

PART SECOND

NEW YORK

GEORGE D. SPROUL

Publisher

1898

Copyright, 1895,

By Little, Brown, and Company.

University Press:

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.

CONTENTS

Chapter I. The Trafficker in his own Honor II. Four Varieties of Brigands III. An Autumn Night's Dream IV. Stefana V. Domiciliary Visits VI. Charles the Fifth at Fontainebleau VII. The Ghostly Monk VIII. What One sees at Night from the Top of a Poplar IX. Mars and Venus X. The Rivals XI. Benvenuto at Bay XII. Of the Difficulty which an Honest Man experiences in Procuring his own Committal to Prison XIII. In which Jacques Aubry rises to Epic Proportions XIV. Of the Difficulty which an Honest Man experiences in Securing his Release from Prison XV. An Honest Theft XVI. Wherein it is proved that a Grisette's Letter, when it is burned, makes as much Flame and Ashes as a Duchess's XVII. Wherein it is proved that True Friendship is capable of carrying devotion to the Marrying Point XVIII. The Casting XIX. Jupiter and Olympus XX. A Prudent Marriage XXI. Resumption of Hostilities XXII. A Love Match XXIII. Mariage de Convenance

ASCANIO

I THE TRAFFICKER IN HIS OWN HONOR

It was the day on which Colombe was to be presented to the queen.

The whole court was assembled in one of the state apartments at the Louvre. After hearing mass the court was to depart for Saint-Germain, and they were awaiting the coming of the king and queen to go to the chapel. Except a few ladies who were seated, everybody was moving about from place to place, laughing and talking. There was the rustle of silks and brocades, and the clash of swords; loving and defiant glances were exchanged, together with arrangements for future meetings, of amorous or deadly purport. It was a dazzling, bewildering scene of confusion and splendor; the costumes were superb, and cut in the latest style; among them, adding to the rich and interesting variety, were pages, dressed in the Italian or Spanish fashion, standing like statues, with arms akimbo, and swords at their sides. It was a picture overflowing with animation and magnificence, of which all that we could say would be but a very feeble and colorless description. Bring to life all the dandified, laughing cavaliers, all the sportive easy-mannered ladies who figure in the pages of Brantôme and the "Heptameron," put in their mouths the crisp, clever, outspoken, idiomatic, eminently French speech of the sixteenth century, and you will have an idea of this seductive court, especially if you recall the saying of François I.: "A court without women is a year without spring, or a spring without flowers." The court of François I. was a perpetual spring, where the loveliest and noblest of earthly flowers bloomed.

After the first bewilderment caused by the confusion and uproar, it was easy to see that there were two hostile camps in the throng: one, distinguished by lilac favors, was that of Madame d'Etampes; the other, whose colors were blue, hoisted the flag of Diane de Poitiers. Those who secretly adhered to the Reformed religion belonged to the first faction, the unadulterated Catholics to the other. Among the latter could be seen the dull, uninteresting countenance of the Dauphin; the intelligent, winning, blonde features of Charles d'Orléans, the king's second son, flitted here and there through the ranks of the faction of Madame d'Etampes. Conceive these political and religious antipathies to be complicated by the jealousy of women and the rivalry of artists, and the result will be a grand total of hatred, which will sufficiently explain, if you are surprised at them, a myriad of scornful glances and threatening gestures, which all the courtier-like dissembling in the world cannot conceal from the observation of the spectator.

The two deadly enemies, Anne and Diane, were seated at the opposite ends of the room, but, notwithstanding the distance between them, not five seconds elapsed before every stinging quip uttered by one of them found its way to the ears of the other, and the retort, forwarded by the same couriers, returned as quickly by the same road.

Amid all these silk and velvet-clad noblemen, in an atmosphere of clever sayings, in his long doctor's robe, stern-featured but indifferent, walked Henri Estienne, devotedly attached to the cause of the Reformation, while not two steps away, and equally oblivious of his surroundings, stood the Florentine refugee, Pietro Strozzi, pale and melancholy, leaning against a pillar, and gazing doubtless in his heart at far-off Italy, whither he was destined to return in chains, there to have no repose save in the tomb. We need not say that the nobly born Italian, a kinsman, through his mother, of Catherine de Medicis, was heart and soul devoted to the Catholic party.

There, too, talking together of momentous affairs of state, and stopping frequently to look each other in the face as if to give more weight to what they were saying, were old Montmorency, to whom the king had given less than two years before the office of Constable, vacant since the fall of Bourbon, and the chancellor, Poyet, bursting with pride over the new tax he had imposed, and the ordinance of Villers-Cotterets, just countersigned by him.[8]

Mingling with none of the various groups, taking part in no conversation, the Benedictine and Cordelier François Rabelais, with a smile which showed his white teeth, watched and listened and sneered, while Triboulet, his Majesty's favorite jester, rolled his humpback and his biting jests around between the legs of the guests, taking advantage of his pygmy-like stature to bite here and there without danger, if not without pain.

Clement Marot, resplendent in a brand-new coat as valet-de-chambre to the king, seemed fully as uncomfortable as on the day of his reception at the Hôtel d'Etampes. It was evident that he had in his pocket some poor fatherless sonnet, which he was seeking to dress in the guise of an impromptu conception. But alas! we all know that inspiration comes from on high, and we cannot control it. A ravishing idea had come to his mind unbidden upon the name of Madame Diane. He struggled against it, but the Muse is a mistress, not a lover; the lines formed themselves without his assistance, the rhymes matched themselves to one another as if by some magic power which he could not control. In fine, the wretched verses tormented him more than we can say. He was devoted to Madame d'Etampes beyond question, and to Marguerite de Navarre,—that too, was incontestable,—as was the fact that the Protestant party was the one toward which his sympathies leaned. It may even be that he was in search of an epigram against Madame Diane, when this madrigal in her honor came to his mind; but come it did. And how, we pray to know, when such superb lines were evolved in his brain in laudation of a Catholic, could he forbear, despite his zeal for the Protestant cause, to confide them in a whisper to some appreciative friend of literary tastes?

That is what poor Marot did. But the injudicious Cardinal de Tournon, to whose bosom he intrusted his verses, deemed them so beautiful, so magnificent, that, in spite of himself, he passed them on to M. le Duc de Lorraine, who lost no time in telling Madame Diane of them. Instantly there was a great whispering among the partisans of the blue, in the midst of which Marot was imperatively summoned, and called upon to repeat them. The lilacs, when they saw Marot making his way through the crowd toward Madame Diane, hastened in the same direction, and crowded around the poet, enchanted and terrified at the same time. At last the Duchesse d'Etampes herself left her place, being curious, as she said, to see how "that knave Marot,[9] who had so much wit, would set about praising Madame Diane."

Poor Clement Marot, as he was about to begin, after bowing low to Diane de Poitiers, who smiled upon him, turned his head slightly to glance about and caught the eye of Madame d'Etampes; she also smiled upon him, but the smile of the one was gracious, and of the other awe-inspiring. And so it was with a trembling and uncertain voice that poor Marot, burning up on one side, and frozen on the other, repeated the following verses:—

Marot had barely littered the last syllable of this charming madrigal, when the blues applauded vociferously, while the lilacs preserved a deathly silence. Thereupon, emboldened by the applause on the one hand, and chagrined by the frigid reception accorded his effusion on the other, he boldly presented the chef-d'œuvre to Madame de Poitiers.

"To 'Diane the fair,'" he said in an undertone, bowing to the ground before her; "you understand, madame, fair in your own right and by contrast."

Diane thanked him with her sweetest smile, and Marot turned away.

"One may venture to write verses in praise of a fair one, after having done the same in honor of the fairest," said the ill-fated poet apologetically as he passed Madame d'Etampes; "you remember, madame, 'De France la plus belle.'"

Anne replied with a withering glance.

Two groups, composed of acquaintances of the reader, stood aloof from the throng during this incident. In one were Ascanio and Cellini: Benvenuto was weak enough to prefer the "Divina Commedia" to airy conceits. The other group consisted of Comte d'Orbec, the Vicomte de Marmagne, Messire d'Estourville, and Colombe, who had implored her father not to mingle with the crowd, with which she then came in contact for the first time, and which caused her no other sensation than terror. Comte d'Orbec gallantly refused to leave his fiancée, who was to be presented by the provost to the queen after mass.

Ascanio and Colombe, although they were equally bewildered by their strange surroundings, had spied each other at once, and from time to time stealthily exchanged glances. The two pure-hearted, timid children, both of whom had been reared in the solitude which makes noble hearts, would have been isolated and lost indeed in that gorgeous and corrupt throng, had they not been so situated that they could see and thereby mutually strengthen and encourage each other.

They had not met since the day they confessed their love. Half a score of times Ascanio had tried to gain admission to the Petit-Nesle, but always in vain. The new servant, presented to Colombe by Comte d'Orbec, invariably answered his knock instead of Dame Perrine, and dismissed him unceremoniously. Ascanio was neither rich enough nor bold enough to try to buy the woman. Furthermore he had naught but sad news, which she would learn only too soon, to impart to his beloved; the news of the master's avowal of his own passion for Colombe, and the consequent necessity, not only of doing without his support, but perhaps of having to contend against him.

As to the course to be pursued, Ascanio felt, as he had said to Cellini, that God alone could now save him. And being left to his own resources he had, in his innocence, resolved to attempt to soften Madame d'Etampes. When a hope upon which one has confidently relied is blasted, one is always tempted to have recourse to the most desperate expedients. The all-powerful energy of Benvenuto not only had failed Ascanio, but would undoubtedly be turned against him. Ascanio determined, therefore, with the trustfulness of youth, to appeal to what he believed he had discovered of grandeur and nobleness and generosity in the character of Madame d'Etampes, in an attempt to arouse the sympathy of her by whom he was beloved with his suffering. Afterward, if that last fragile branch slipped from his hand, what could he do, a poor, weak friendless child, but wait? That was why he had accompanied Benvenuto to court.

The Duchesse d'Etampes had returned to her place. He joined the throng of her courtiers, reached a position behind her, and finally succeeded in making his way to her chair. Chancing to turn her head, she saw him.

"Ah, is it you, Ascanio?" she said, coldly.

"Yes, Madame la Duchesse. I came hither with my master, Benvenuto, and my excuse for venturing to address you is my desire to know if you were hopelessly dissatisfied with the drawing of the lily which you kindly ordered me to prepare, and which I left at the Hôtel d'Etampes the other day."

"No, in very truth, I think it most beautiful," said Madame d'Etampes, somewhat mollified, "and connoisseurs to whom I have shown it, notably Monsieur de Guise here, are entirely of my opinion. But will the completed work be as perfect as the drawing? and if you think that you can promise that it will, will my gems be sufficient?"

"Yes, madame, I hope so. I should have liked, however, to place on the heart of the flower a large diamond, which would glisten there like a drop of dew; but it would be too great an expense perhaps to incur for a work intrusted to an humble artist like myself."

"Oh, we can indulge in that extravagance, Ascanio."

"But a diamond of that size would be worth some two hundred thousand crowns, madame."

"Very well, we will reflect thereon. But," added the duchess, lowering her voice, "confer a favor upon me, Ascanio."

"I am at your service, madame."

"A moment since, while listening to Marot's insipid trash, I spied Comte d'Orbec at the other end of the room. Find him out, if you please, and say to him that I would speak with him."

"What, madame!" exclaimed Ascanio, turning pale at the count's name.

"Did you not say that you were at my service?" continued Madame d'Etampes haughtily. "Moreover, my reason for asking you to undertake this commission is that you are interested in the subject of the conversation I wish to have with Comte d'Orbec, and it may well give you food for reflection, if they who are in love do ever reflect."

"I will obey you, madame," said Ascanio, apprehensive lest he should displease her at whose hands he hoped to obtain salvation.

"Very good. Pray address the count in Italian,—I have my reasons for requesting you to do so,—and return to me with him."

Ascanio, to avoid the danger of any further collision with his redoubtable foe, walked away, and asked a young nobleman wearing a lilac favor if he had seen Comte d'Orbec, and where he was.

"There he is," was the reply, "that old ape whispering with the Provost of Paris, and standing so near that lovely girl."

The lovely girl was Colombe, at whom all the dandies were gazing with admiring curiosity. The old ape seemed to Ascanio as repulsive a creature as a rival could desire. After scrutinizing him for a moment he walked up to him, and to Colombe's unbounded amazement accosted him in Italian, requesting him to go with himself to Madame d'Etampes. The count excused himself to his fiancée and friends, and made haste to obey the duchess's command, followed by Ascanio, who did not take his leave until he had bestowed a significant reassuring glance upon poor Colombe, who was confounded by the extraordinary message, and more than all else by the sight of the messenger.

"Ah, count, good morning," said Madame d'Etampes, as her eye fell upon D'Orbec; "I am charmed to see you, for I have matters of importance to discuss with you. Messieurs," she added, addressing those who were standing near, "we have still a quarter of an hour to await the coming of their Majesties, and if you will allow me I will seize the opportunity to talk with my old friend Comte d'Orbec."

All the noblemen who had crowded about the duchess hastened to stand discreetly aside; in obedience to this unceremonious dismissal, and left her with the king's treasurer in one of the window embrasures, as large as one of our salons of to-day. Ascanio was about to do as the rest did, but, at a sign from the duchess, he remained.

"Who is this young man?" queried the count.

"An Italian page who does not understand a word of French; you may speak before him exactly as if we were alone."

"Very well, madame," rejoined D'Orbec; "I have obeyed your orders blindly, without even seeking to know your motives. You expressed a wish that my future wife should be presented to the queen to-day. Colombe is here with her father; but, now that I have complied with your command, I confess that I should be glad to understand it. Do I presume too much, madame, in asking you for some little explanation?"

"You are the most devoted of my faithful friends, D'Orbec; happily there is still much that I can do for you, but I do not know if I shall ever be able to pay my debt to you: however, I will try. This treasurership which I have given you is simply the corner stone upon which I propose to build your fortune, count."

"Madame!" said D'Orbec, bowing to the ground.

"I am about to speak frankly to you, therefore; but before all let me offer my congratulations. I saw your Colombe just now: she is truly ravishingly beautiful; a little awkward, but that adds to her charm. And yet, between ourselves, I have racked my brain in vain,—I know you, and I cannot understand with what object you, a serious, prudent man, but slightly enamored, I fancy, of youth and beauty, are entering into this marriage. I say, with what object, for there must necessarily be something underneath it: you are not the man to take such a step at random."

"Dame! one must settle down, madame; and the father is an old villain who has ducats to leave to his daughter."

"But how old is he, pray?"

"Oh, some fifty-five or six years."

"And you, count?"

"About the same age; but he is so used up."

"I begin to understand, and to recognize your fine hand. I knew that you were above mere vulgar sentiment, and that yonder child's fascinations did not constitute the attraction for you."

"Fie, madame! I have never even thought of them; if she had been ugly it would have been all the same; she happens to be pretty, so much the better."

"Oh, that's all right, count, otherwise I should despair of you."

"And now that you have found me, madame, will you deign to inform me—"

"Oh, it is simply that I am indulging in some beautiful dreams for you," the duchess interposed. "Where I would like to see you, D'Orbec, do you know, is in Poyet's place, for I detest him," she added, with a malevolent glance at the chancellor, who was still walking with the constable.

"What, madame, one of the most exalted posts in the realm?"

"Well, are you not yourself an eminent man, count? But alas! my power is so precarious; my throne is upon the brink of an abyss. Even at this moment I am in mortal terror. The king has for a mistress the wife of a nobody, a petty judge named Féron. If the woman were ambitious we should be ruined. I ought to have taken the initiative myself in this whim of his Majesty's. Ah! I shall never find another like the little Duchesse de Brissac, whom I presented to him; a sweet woman of no force of character, a mere child. I shall always weep for her; she was not dangerous, and talked to the king of nothing but my perfections. Poor Marie! she assumed all the burdens of my position, and left me all the benefits. But this Féronnière, as they call her, why, it requires all my power to draw François I. away from her. I have exhausted my whole arsenal of seductions, and am driven, alas! to my last intrenchment, habit."

"How so, madame?"

"Mon Dieu, yes, I devote myself almost exclusively to his mind now, for his heart is elsewhere; you can understand how much I need an auxiliary. Where can I find her,—a devoted, sincere friend, of whom I can be sure? Ah! I would repay her with such quantities of gold and such a host of honors! Seek out such a one for me, D'Orbec. You know how closely the king and the man are allied in the person of our sovereign, and to what lengths the man can lead the king on. If we could be, not rivals but allies, not mistresses but friends; if, while one held sway over François, the other might hold sway over François I., France would be ours, count, and at what a moment! just as Charles V. is about to plunge into our net of his own free will, when we can hold him to ransom on such terms as we choose, and take advantage of his imprudence to assure ourselves a magnificent future in case of accident. I will explain my plans to you, D'Orbec. This Diane who pleases you so much would no longer threaten our fortunes, and the Chevalier de France might become—But here is the king."

Such was the way of Madame d'Etampes; she rarely explained her meaning, but left it to be guessed. She would sow ideas in a man's mind, and set avarice, ambition, and natural perversity at work; and then she would conveniently interrupt herself. A great and useful art, which cannot be too highly commended to many poets and innumerable lovers.

So it was that Comte d'Orbec, eager in the pursuit of gain and honors, corrupt to the last degree and worn out by years and dissipation, perfectly understood the duchess, whose eyes more than once during the interview had wandered toward Colombe.

Ascanio's noble and straightforward nature was quite incapable of sounding the depths of this mystery of iniquity and infamy, but he had a vague foreboding that this strange and ominous conversation concealed some terrible peril for his beloved, and he gazed at Madame d'Etampes in terror.

An usher announced the king and queen. In an instant everybody was standing, hat in hand.

"God have you in his keeping, messieurs," said François as he entered the room. "I have some weighty news which I must make known to you at once. Our dear brother, the Emperor Charles V., is at this moment en route for France, if he has not already passed the frontier. Let us prepare, messieurs, to welcome him worthily. I need not remind my loyal nobility of the obligations imposed upon us by the laws of hospitality at such a time. We proved at the Field of the Cloth of Gold, that we knew how kings should be received. Within the month Charles V., will be at the Louvre."

"And I, my lords," said Queen Eleanora in her sweet voice, "thank you in advance in my royal brother's name for the welcome you will accord him."

The nobles replied with shouts of "Vive le Roi! Vive la Reine! Vive l'Empereur!"

At that moment something wriggled its way along between the legs of the courtiers toward the king; it was Triboulet.

"Sire," said the fool, "will you permit me to dedicate to your Majesty a work I am about to print?"

"With all the pleasure in the world, fool," the king replied; "but I must first know the title of the work, and how far advanced it is."

"Sire, the work will be entitled the 'Almanac of Fools,' and will contain a list of the greatest idiots that the world has ever seen. As to the progress I have made with it, I have already inscribed upon the first page the name of the king of all fools past and to come."

"Who might this illustrious worthy be, whom you give me for cousin, and select for king of fools?"

"Charles V., Sire."

"Charles V.," cried the king; "and why Charles V.?"

"Because there is no other than Charles V. in the world, who, after detaining you a prisoner at Madrid as he did, would be insane enough to pass through your Majesty's dominions."

"But suppose that he does pass through the very heart of my dominions without accident?"

"In that case," said Triboulet, "I promise to erase his name and put another in its place."

"Whose name will that be?" queried the king.

"Yours, Sire; for in allowing him to pass you will show yourself a greater fool than he."

The king roared with laughter. The courtiers echoed his merriment. Poor Eleanora alone turned pale.

"Very good!" said François, "put my name in place of the Emperor's at once, for I have given my word of honor, and I'll stand to it. As to the dedication, I accept it, and here is the price of the first copy that appears."

With that the king tossed a well filled purse to Triboulet, who caught it in his teeth, and hopped away on all fours, growling like a dog with a bone.

"Madame," said the Provost of Paris to the queen, as he stepped forward with Colombe, "will your Majesty permit me to avail myself of this joyful moment to present to you under happy auspices my daughter Colombe, whom you have condescended to receive as one of your maids of honor?"

The kindly queen addressed a few words of congratulation and encouragement to poor abashed Colombe, at whom the king meanwhile was gazing in admiration.

"By my halidome, Messire le Prévôt," said François, smiling, "do you know that it's nothing less than high treason to have kept such a pearl so long buried and out of sight,—a pearl so well adapted to shine in the garland of beauties who surround the majesty of our queen. If you are not punished, for the felony, Messire Robert, you may thank the mute intercession of those lovely downcast eyes."

Thereupon the king, with a graceful salutation to the charming girl, passed on to the chapel followed by the whole court.

"Madame," said the Duke of Medina-Sidonia, offering his hand to the Duchesse d'Etampes, "shall we not allow the throng to pass, and remain a little behind? We shall be more conveniently situated here than elsewhere for a word or two of importance which I have to say to you in private."

"I am at your service, Monsieur l'Ambassadeur," replied the duchess. "Do not go, Comte d'Orbec; you may say anything, Monsieur de Medina, before this old friend, who is my second self, and this young man, who speaks nothing but Italian."

"Their discretion is of no less consequence to you than to me, madame, and if you feel sure of them—But we are alone, and I will go straight to the point without digression or concealment. You understand that his Sacred Majesty has determined to pass through France,—that he is in all probability already within her boundaries. He is well aware, however, that his path lies between two long lines of enemies, but he relies upon the chivalrous loyalty of the king. You have yourself advised him so to rely, madame, and I frankly admit that, having vastly more power than any titular minister, you have enough influence over François to set a trap for the Emperor, or guarantee his safety, according as your advice is friendly or unfriendly. But why should you turn against us? It is neither for the state's interest nor your own to do so."

"Go on, monseigneur; you have not said all that you have to say, I fancy?"

"No, madame. Charles V. is a worthy successor of Charlemagne, and what a disloyal ally might demand from him as ransom he proposes to bestow as a gift, and to leave neither hospitality nor friendly counsel unrewarded?"

"Superb! he will act with no less discretion than grandeur."

"King François I. has always ardently desired the Duchy of Milan, madame, and Charles will consent to cede that province, a never-ending subject of contention between France and Spain, in consideration of an annual rent charge."

"I understand," said the duchess, "the Emperor's finances are in a straitened condition, as everybody knows; on the other hand, the Milanese is ruined by a score of wars, and his Sacred Majesty would not be sorry to transfer his claim from a poor to an opulent debtor. I refuse, Monsieur de Medina; you must yourself understand that such a proposition could not be acceptable."

"But, madame, overtures have already been made to his Majesty on the subject of this investiture, and he seemed delighted with the idea."

"I know it; but I refuse. If you can dispense with my consent, so much the better for you."

"Madame, the Emperor is especially desirous to know that you are in his interest, and whatever you may desire—"

"My influence is not merchandise to be bought and sold, Monsieur l'Ambassadeur."

"O madame, who implied such a thing?"

"Hark ye! you assure me that your master desires my support, and between ourselves he is wise. Very well! to promise it to him I demand less than he offers. Follow me closely. This is what he must do. He must promise François I. the investiture of the Duchy of Milan, but as soon as he has left France behind, he must remember the violated treaty of Madrid, and forget his promise."

"Why, that would mean war, madame!"

"Stay a moment, Monsieur de Medina. His Majesty will cry out and threaten, no doubt. Thereupon Charles will consent to make the Milanese an independent state, and will give it, free of all tribute, to Charles d'Orléans, the king's second son; in that way the Emperor will not aggrandize a rival. That will be worth a few crowns to him, monseigneur, and I think that you can have nothing to say against it. As to any personal desires I may have, as you suggested a moment since, if his Sacred Majesty enters into my plans, he may let fall in my presence, at our first interview, a bauble of more or less brilliancy, which I will pick up, if it is worth the trouble, and retain as a souvenir of the glorious alliance concluded between the successor of the Cæsars, King of Spain and the Indies, and myself."

The duchess turned to Ascanio, who was as terrified by her dark and mysterious schemes as the Duke of Medina was disturbed by them, and as Comte d'Orbec seemed delighted.

"All this for you, Ascanio," she whispered. "To win your heart I would sacrifice France. Well, Monsieur l'Ambassadeur," she continued aloud, "what have you to say to that?"

"The Emperor alone can decide upon a matter of such gravity, madame; nevertheless, everything leads me to believe that he will acquiesce in an arrangement which almost terrifies me, it seems so favorable to us."

"If it will set your mind at rest, I will say to you that it is in reality equally favorable to me, and that is why I undertake to make the king accept it. We women have our own political schemes, more profound sometimes than yours. But I can promise you that mine are in no wise inimical to your interests: indeed, how could they be? Meanwhile, however, pending the decision of Charles V., you may be sure that I shall not lose an opportunity to act against him, and that I shall do my utmost to induce his Majesty to detain him as a prisoner."

"What! Madame, is this your way of beginning an alliance?"

"Go to, Monsieur l'Ambassadeur. Can a statesman like yourself fail to see that the most essential thing for me is to put aside all suspicion of undue influence, and that to espouse your cause openly would be the surest method of ruining it? Moreover, I do not propose that any one shall ever be able to betray me or denounce me. Let me be your enemy, Monsieur le Duc, and let me talk against you. What does it matter to you? Do you not know what mere words amount to? If Charles V. refuses to accept my terms I will say to the king, 'Sire, trust to my generous womanly instinct. You must not recoil before just and necessary reprisals.' And if the Emperor accepts, I will say, 'Sire, trust to my feminine, that is to say, feline sharpness; you must resign yourself to commit an infamous but advantageous act."

"Ah, madame!" said the Duke of Medina, bowing low, "what a pity it is that you should be a queen, you would have made such a perfect ambassador!"

With that the duke took leave of Madame d'Etampes, and walked away, enchanted with the unexpected turn the negotiations had taken.

"Now it is my purpose to speak plainly and without circumlocution," said the duchess to Comte d'Orbec, when she was alone with Ascanio and him. "You know three things, count: first, that it is most important for my friends and myself that my power should at this moment be put beyond question and beyond the reach of attack; secondly, that when this arrangement is once carried through, we shall have no occasion to dread the future, that Charles d'Orléans will fill the place of François I., and that the Duke of Milan, whom I shall have made what he is, will owe me much more gratitude than the King of France, who has made me what I am; thirdly, that your Colombe's beauty has made a vivid impression upon his Majesty. Very well! I address myself now, count, to the superior individual, who is not influenced by vulgar prejudices. You hold your fate in your own hands at this moment: do you choose that Trésorier d'Orbec should succeed Chancelier Poyet, or, in more positive terms, that Colombe d'Orbec should succeed Marie de Brissac?"

Ascanio in his horror made a movement which D'Orbec did not notice, as he met the searching gaze of Madame d'Etampes with a villanous leer.

"I desire to be chancellor," he replied briefly.

"Good! then we are both saved. But what of the provost?"

"Oh," said the count, "you can find some fat office for him; only let it be lucrative rather than honorable, I beg; it will all fall to me when the gouty old rascal dies."

Ascanio could contain himself no longer.

"Madame!" he exclaimed in a voice of thunder, stepping forward.

He had no time to say more, the count had no time to be astonished, for the folding doors were thrown open and the whole court flocked in.

Madame d'Etampes roughly seized Ascanio's hand, and drew him aside with her, as she said in his ear, in a suppressed voice, trembling with passion,—

"Now do you see, young man, how one becomes a king's plaything, and whither life sometimes leads us, in our own despite?"

She said no more. Her words were interrupted by the uproarious good humor and witty sallies of the king and courtiers.

François I. was radiant, for Charles V. was coming. There would be receptions, fêtes, surprises,—a glorious part for him to play. The whole world would have its eyes fixed upon Paris and its king. He looked forward with childish joy to the performance of the drama of which he held all the threads. It was his nature to look at everything on the brilliant rather than on the serious side, to aim more at effect than anything else, and to look upon battles as tournaments, and upon royalty as an art. With a mind well stored with strange, poetic, adventurous ideas, François I. made of his reign a theatrical performance, with the world for play-house.

On this day, as he was on the eve of dazzling a rival and Europe, his clemency and benignity were more charming than ever.

As if reassured by his smiling face, Triboulet rolled up to him just as he passed through the door.

"O Sire, Sire!" cried the fool dolefully, "I come to take my leave of you; your Majesty must make up your mind to lose me, and I weep for you more than for myself. What will become of your Majesty without poor Triboulet, whom you love so dearly?"

"What! you are going to leave me, fool, at this moment when there is but one fool for two kings?"

"Yes, Sire, at this moment, when there are two kings for one fool."

"But I do not propose to have it so, Triboulet. I order you to remain."

"In that case pray see that Monsieur de Vieilleville is informed of your royal pleasure, for I but told him what people say of his wife, and for so simple a matter he swore that he would cut off my ears in the first place, and then tear out my soul—if I had one, added the impious villain, whose tongue your Majesty should order to be cut out for such blasphemy."

"La, la!" rejoined the king; "have no fear, my poor fool; the man who should take your life would be very sure to be hanged a quarter of an hour after."

"O Sire, if it makes no difference to you—"

"Well! what?"

"Have him hanged a quarter of an hour before. I much prefer that."

The whole assemblage roared with laughter, the king above all the others. As he walked on he passed Pietro Strozzi, the noble Florentine exile.

"Signor Pietro Strozzi," he said, "it is a long time, altogether too long, I confess, since you requested letters of naturalization at our hands: it is a disgrace to us that, after having fought so valiantly in Piedmont for the French and like a true Frenchman, you do not yet belong to us, since your country by birth denies you. This evening, Signor Pietro, Messire Le Maçon, my secretary, will take steps to hasten the issuance of your letters of naturalization. Do not thank me: for my honor and your own Charles V. must find you a Frenchman.—Ah! there you are, Cellini, and you never come empty-handed. What have you under your arm, my friend? But stay a moment; it shall not be said, i' faith, that I did not surpass you in munificence. Messire Antoine Le Maçon, you will see that letters of naturalization are issued to my good friend Benvenuto at the same time with the great Pietro Strozzi's, and you will issue them without expense to him; a goldsmith cannot put his hand upon five hundred ducats so readily as a Strozzi."

"Sire," said Benvenuto, "I thank your Majesty, but I pray you to forgive my ignorance; what are these letters of naturalization?"

"What!" exclaimed Antoine Le Maçon, with great gravity, while the king laughed like a madman at the question; "do you not know, Master Benvenuto, that letters of naturalization are the greatest honor his Majesty can bestow upon a foreigner,—that you thereby become a Frenchman?"

"I begin to understand, Sire, and I thank you again," said Cellini. "But pardon me; as I am already at heart your Majesty's subject, of what use are these letters?"

"Of what use are the letters?" rejoined François, still in the best of humor; "why they are of this use, Benvenuto, that now that you are a Frenchman, I can make you Seigneur du Grand-Nesle, which was not possible before. Messire Le Maçon, you will add to the letters of naturalization the definitive deed of the château. Do you understand now, Benvenuto, of what use the letters of naturalization are?"

"Yes, Sire, and I thank you a thousand times. One would say that our hearts understood each other without words, for this favor which you bestow upon me to-day is a step toward a very, very great favor which I shall perhaps dare to ask at your hands some day, and is, so to say, a part of it."

"You know what I promised you, Benvenuto. Bring me my Jupiter, and ask what you will."

"Yes, your Majesty has a good memory, and I hope your word will prove to be as good. Yes, your Majesty, you have it in your power to gratify a wish, upon which my life in a measure depends, and you have already, by a sublime instinct worthy of a king, made its gratification more easy."

"It shall be done, my eminent artist, according to your wish; but, meanwhile, allow us to see what you have in your hands."

"It is a silver salt dish, Sire, to go with the ewer and the basin."

"Show it me quickly, Benvenuto."

The king scrutinized, carefully and silently as always, the marvellous piece of work which Cellini handed him.

"What a blunder!" he said at last; "what a paradox!"

"What! Sire," cried Benvenuto, disappointed beyond measure, "your Majesty is not pleased with it?"

"Certainly not, monsieur. Why, you spoil a lovely idea by executing it in silver! it must be done in gold, Cellini. I am very sorry for you, but you must begin again."

"Alas! Sire," said Benvenuto sadly, "be not so ambitious for my poor works. The richness of the material will destroy these treasures of my thought, I greatly fear. More lasting glory is to be attained by working in clay than in gold, Sire, and the names of us goldsmiths survive us but a little while. Necessity is sometimes a cruel master, Sire, and men are always greedy and stupid. Who can say that a silver cup for which your Majesty would give ten thousand ducats, might not be melted down for ten crowns?"

"How now! do you think that the King of France will ever pawn the dishes from his table?"

"Sire, the Emperor of Constantinople pawned Our Saviour's crown of thorns with the Venetians."

"But a King of France took it out of pawn, monsieur."

"Very true; but think of the possible risks, revolution and exile. I come from a country whence the Medicis have been thrice expelled and thrice recalled, and it is only kings like your Majesty, who are glorious in themselves, from whom their treasures cannot be taken away."

"No matter, Benvenuto, no matter, I desire my salt dish in gold, and my treasurer will hand you to-day a thousand gold crowns of the old weight for that purpose. You hear, Comte d'Orbec, to-day, for I do not wish Cellini to lose a minute. Adieu, Benvenuto, go on with your work, the king does not forget his Jupiter; adieu, messieurs, think of Charles V."

While François was descending the staircase to join the queen, who was already in her carriage, and whom he was to accompany on horseback, divers incidents occurred which we must not omit to mention.

Benvenuto walked up to Comte d'Orbec and said to him: "Be good enough to have the gold ready for me, Messire le Trésorier. In obedience to his Majesty's commands I go at once to my house for a bag, and shall be at your office in a half-hour." The count bowed in token of acquiescence, and Cellini took his departure alone, after looking around in vain for Ascanio.

At the same time Marmagne was speaking in an undertone with the provost, who still held Colombo's hand.

"This is a magnificent opportunity," he said, "and I shall go at once and summon my men. Do you tell D'Orbec to detain Cellini as long as possible."

With that he disappeared, and Messire d'Estourville went to D'Orbec and whispered a few words in his ear, after which he said aloud,—

"Meanwhile, count, I will take Colombe back to the Hôtel de Nesle."

"Very good," said D'Orbec, "and come and let me know the result this evening."

They separated, and the provost slowly walked away with his daughter toward the Hôtel de Nesle, followed without their knowledge by Ascanio, who did not lose sight of them, but kept his eyes fixed fondly upon his Colombe.

Meanwhile the king was mounting a superb sorrel, his favorite steed, presented to him by Henry VIII.

"We are to make a long journey together to-day," he said,

Faith, there are the first two lines of a quatrain," he added; "cap them for me, Marot, or you, Master Melin de Saint-Gelais."

Marot scratched his head, but Saint-Gelais anticipated him, and with extraordinary promptness and success continued:—

He was applauded on all sides, and the king, already in the saddle, waved his hand gracefully in acknowledgment of the poet's swift and happy inspiration.

Marot returned to the apartments of the Queen of Navarre, more out of sorts than ever.

"I don't know what the matter was with them at court to-day," he grumbled, "but they were all extremely stupid."

II FOUR VARIETIES OF BRIGANDS

Benvenuto crossed the Seine in all haste, and procured, not a bag as he had told Comte d'Orbec that he should, but a small wicker basket given him by one of his cousins, a nun at Florence. As he was determined to make an end of the affair that day, and it was already two o'clock, he did not wait for Ascanio, whom he had completely lost sight of, nor his workmen, who had gone to dinner; but started at once for Rue Froid-Manteau, where Comte d'Orbec had his official residence; and although he kept his eyes open he saw nothing on the way to cause him the least uneasiness.

When he reached the treasurer's abode that dignitary informed him that he could not deliver his gold to him at once, as there were certain indispensable formalities to be gone through with, a notary to be summoned, and a contract to be drawn up. The count apologized with a thousand expressions of regret, knowing Cellini's impatient nature, and was so courteous withal that it was impossible to be angry; and Benvenuto resigned himself to wait, believing in the reality of these obstacles to a speedy delivery of the gold.

Cellini desired to take advantage of the delay to send for some of his workmen, that they might accompany him home, and help him to carry the gold. D'Orbec quickly volunteered to send one of his servants to the Hôtel de Nesle with the message; then he led the conversation around to Cellini's work, and the king's evident partiality for him,—to anything in short likely to incline Benvenuto to be patient,—which was the less difficult of accomplishment as he had no reason for wishing ill to the count, and no suspicion that the count had any reason for being hostile to him. There was his desire to supplant him with Colombe, but no one knew of that desire save Ascanio and himself. He therefore met the treasurer's friendly overtures graciously enough.

Further time was necessary to select gold of the degree of fineness which the king desired him to have. The notary was very slow in coming. A contract is not drawn up in a moment. In short, when, after the final exchange of courtesies, Benvenuto made ready to return to his studio, night was beginning to fall. He questioned the servant who was sent for his companions, and was told that they were unable to come, but that he would gladly carry the gold for him. Benvenuto's suspicions were aroused, and he declined the offer, courteous as it was.

He placed the gold in his little basket, then passed his arm through the two handles, and as there was barely room for his arm, the cover was securely pressed down, and he carried it much more easily than if it had been in a bag. He had a stout coat of mail with sleeves beneath his coat, a short sword at his side, and a dagger in his belt. He set out on his homeward journey at a quick pace, but cautiously nevertheless. Just before he started he noticed several servants speaking together in low tones, and that they left the house in a great hurry, but they made a show of going in a different direction from that taken by him.

To-day, when one can go from the Louvre to the Institute by the Pont des Arts, Benvenuto's homeward journey would be but a stride, but at that time it was a long walk. He was obliged, starting from Rue Froid-Manteau, to follow the quay as far as the Châtelet, cross the Pont des Meuniers, go across the city by Rue Saint-Barthélemy, cross to the left bank by the Pont Saint-Michel, and from there go down the river to the Grand-Nesle by the deserted quay. The reader need not wonder that, in those days of thieves and cut-throats, Benvenuto, notwithstanding his courage, felt some anxiety touching so considerable a sum as that he carried upon his arm; and if he will go forward with us two or three hundred yards in advance of Benvenuto he will see that his anxiety was not unjustifiable.

When it began to grow dark, about an hour before, four men of forbidding appearance, wrapped in great cloaks, stationed themselves upon the Quai des Augustins, at a point abreast of the church. The river bank was bordered with walls only at that spot, and was absolutely deserted at that moment. While they stood there they saw no one pass but the provost, on his way back to the Châtelet after escorting Colombe to the Petit-Nesle, and him they saluted with the respect due the constituted authorities.

They were talking in low tones in a recess formed by the church, and their hats were pulled well down over their eyes. Two of them are already known to us: the bravos employed by Vicomte de Marmagne in his ill-fated expedition against the Grand-Nesle. Their names were Ferrante and Fracasso. Their companions, who earned their livelihood at the same honorable calling, were named Procope and Maledent. In order that posterity may not quarrel over the nationality of these four valiant captains, as it has done for three thousand years over that of old Homer, we will add that Maledent was a Picard, Procope a Bohemian, and that Ferrante and Fracasso first saw the light beneath the soft skies of Italy. As to their distinctive callings in time of peace, Procope was a jurist, Ferrante a pedant, Fracasso a dreamer of dreams, and Maledent a fool. It will be seen that the fact that we are ourselves a Frenchman does not blind us to the character of the only one of these four toilers who happened to be our compatriot.

In battle all four were demons.

Let us listen for a moment to their friendly and edifying conversation. We may be able to judge therefrom what manner of men they were, and what danger was impending over our good friend, Benvenuto.

"At all events, Fracasso," said Ferrante, "we shan't be hampered to-day with that great red-faced viscount, and our poor swords can leave their scabbards without his crying, 'Retreat!'—the coward,—and forcing us to turn tail."

"Very true," rejoined Fracasso, "but as he leaves us all the risk of the combat, for which I thank him, he ought to leave us all the profit too. By what right does the red-haired devil reserve five hundred crowns for his own part? I admit that the five hundred that remain make a very pretty prize. A hundred and twenty-five for each of us does us honor,—indeed, when times are hard, I sometimes find it necessary to kill a man for two crowns."

"For two crowns! Holy Virgin!" cried Maledent; "shame! that brings discredit on the profession. Don't say such things when I am with you, for any one who overheard you might confound us with each other, my dear fellow."

"What would you have, Maledent?" said Fracasso, in a melancholy tone; "life has its crosses, and there are times when one would kill a man for a bit of bread. It seems to me, my good friends, that two hundred and fifty crowns are worth just twice as much as a hundred and twenty-five. Suppose that after we have killed our man we refuse to settle with that great thief of a Marmagne?"

"You forget, brother," rejoined Procope seriously, "that would be to disregard our agreement, to defraud our patron, and we must be loyal in everything. Let us hand the viscount the five hundred crowns to the last sou, as agreed, that is my advice. But distinguamus, let us make a distinction; when he has pocketed them, and when he realizes that we are honorable men, I fail to see why we shouldn't fall upon him and take them from him."

"Well thought of!" exclaimed Ferrante in a judicial tone. "Procope was always distinguished for uprightness of character conjoined with a vivid imagination."

"Mon Dieu! that is because I have studied law a little," said Procope modestly.

"But," continued Ferrante, with the air of pedantry which was habitual to him, "let us not involve ourselves in too many plans at once. Secte ad terminum eamus. Let the viscount sleep in peace; his turn will come. This Florentine goldsmith is the one we have to deal with at the moment; for greater security, it was desired that four of us should set upon him. Strictly speaking one only should have done the deed and pocketed the price, but the concentration of capital is a social plague, and 't is much better that the money be divided among several friends. Let us despatch him swiftly and cleanly. He is no ordinary man, as Fracasso and I have learned. Let us resign ourselves, therefore, for greater security, to attack him all four at once. It cannot be long now before he comes. Attention! be cool, quick of foot and eye, and beware of the Italian thrusts he'll be sure to try on you."

"I know what it is, Ferrante," said Maledent disdainfully, "to receive a sword-cut, whether with the edge or the point. Once on a time I made my way at night into a certain château in the Bourbonnais on business of a personal nature. Being surprised by the dawn before I had fully completed it, I had no choice but to conceal myself until the following night. No place seemed to me so appropriate for that purpose as the arsenal of the château: there were quantities of stands of arms and trophies there, and helmets, cuirasses, armlets and cuisses, shields and targets. I removed the upright upon which one of the suits of armor hung, put myself in its place, and stood there, motionless upon my pedestal, with lowered visor."

"This is very interesting," interposed Ferrante; "go on, Maledent; how can we better employ this period of waiting to perform one exploit, than in listening to tales of other feats of arms. Go on."

"I did not know," continued Maledent, "that accursed suit of armor was used by the young men of the family to practise fencing upon. But soon two strapping fellows of twenty came in, took down a lance and a sword each, and began to cut and thrust at my casing with all their heart. Well, my friends, you may believe me or not, but under all their blows with lance and sword, I never flinched: I stood there as straight and immovable as if I had really been of wood, and riveted to my base. Fortunately the young rascals were not of the first force. The father arrived in due time and urged them to aim at the joints in my armor; but Saint Maledent, my patron, whom I invoked in a whisper, turned their blows aside. At last that devil of a father, in order to show the youngsters how to carry away a visor, took a lance himself, and at the first blow uncovered my pale and terrified face. I thought I was lost."

"Poor fellow!" said Fracasso sadly, "how could it be otherwise."

"Fancy, if you please, that when they saw my colorless face they took me for the ghost of their great-grandfather; and father and sons scuttled away as if the devil was at their heels. Need I say more? I turned my back, and did as much for my own part; and you see I came out of it with a whole skin."

"Very good, but the important thing in our trade, friend Maledent," said Procope, "is not only to receive blows manfully, but to deal them handsomely. It's a fine thing when the victim falls without a sound. In one of my expeditions in Flanders I had to rid one of my customers of four of his intimate friends, who were travelling in company. He proposed at first that I should take three comrades, but I told him that I would undertake it alone, or not at all. It was agreed that I should do as I chose, and that I should have the stipend four times over provided that I delivered four dead bodies. I knew the road they were to take, and I awaited their coming at an inn which they must of necessity pass.

"The inn-keeper had formerly belonged to the fraternity, and had left it for his present occupation, which allowed him to plunder travellers without risk; but he retained some kindly sentiments for his former brethren, so that I had no great difficulty in winning him over to my interest in consideration of a tenth of the reward. With that understanding we awaited our four horsemen, who soon appeared around a bend in the road, and alighted in front of the inn, preparatory to filling their stomachs and resting their horses. The landlord said to them that his stable was so small that, unless they went in one at a time, they could hardly move there, and would be in each other's way. The first who entered was so slow about coming out, that the second lost patience and went to see what he was doing. He also was in no hurry to reappear, whereupon the third, weary of waiting, followed the other two. After some little time, as the fourth was expressing his astonishment at their delay, mine host remarked: 'Ah! I see what it is: the stable is so extremely small, that they have gone out through the door at the rear.'

"This explanation encouraged my last man to join his companions and myself, for you will have guessed that I was in the stable. I allowed him, however, the satisfaction of uttering one little cry, to say farewell to the world, as there was no longer any danger.

"In Roman law, Ferrante, would not that he called trucidatio per divisionem necis? But, deuce take it!" added Procope, changing his tone, "our man doesn't come. God grant that nothing has happened to him! It will he pitch dark very soon."

"Suadentque cadentia sidera somnos," added Fracasso. "And by the way, my friends, take care that Benvenuto doesn't in the dark resort to a trick which I once put in practice myself: it was during my sojourn on the banks of the Rhine. I always loved the banks of the Rhine, the country there is so picturesque and at the same time so melancholy. The Rhine is the river of dreamers. I was dreaming then upon the banks of the Rhine, and this was the subject of my dreams.

"A nobleman named Schreckenstein, if my memory serves me, was to be put to death. It was no easy matter, for he never went out without a strong escort. This is the plan upon which I finally resolved.

"I donned a costume like that worn by him, and one dark evening I lay in wait for him and his escort. When I saw them coming through the solitude and darkness, obscuri sub nocte, I made a desperate attack upon Schreckenstein, who was walking a little ahead; but I was clever enough to strike off his hat with its waving plumes, and then to change my position so that I was standing where he should have been. Thereupon I stunned him with a violent blow with my sword hilt, and began to shout amid the clashing of swords and the shouts of the others, 'Help! help! death to the brigands!' so that Schreckenstein's men fell furiously upon their master and left him dead upon the spot, while I glided away into the bushes. The worthy nobleman could at least say that he was killed by his friends."

"It was a bold stroke," said Ferrante, "but if I were to cast a backward glance upon my vanished past I could find a still more audacious exploit there. Like you, Fracasso, I had to deal with a chief of partisans, always well mounted and escorted. It was in a forest in the Abruzzi. I stationed myself in an enormous oak tree upon a great branch which stretched out over the road at a point which the personage in question must pass; and there I waited, musing. The sun was rising and its first rays fell in long shafts of pale light down through the moss-grown branches; the morning air was fresh and keen, enlivened by the songs of birds. Suddenly—"

"Sh!" Procope interrupted him. "I hear footsteps: attention! it's our man."

"Good!" muttered Maledent, glancing furtively about; "all is silent and deserted hereabout; fortune is on our side."

They stood without speaking or moving; their dark, threatening faces could not be distinguished in the gathering gloom, but one might have seen their gleaming eyes, their hands playing nervously with their rapiers, and their attitude of breathless suspense; in the half-darkness they formed a striking dramatic group, which no pencil but Salvator Rosa's could adequately reproduce.

It was in fact Benvenuto coming on at a rapid pace; as we have said, his suspicions were aroused, and with his piercing glance he maintained a constant watch in the darkness. As his eyes were accustomed to the uncertain light he saw the four bandits issue from their ambush when he was still twenty yards away, and had time to throw his cloak over his basket, and draw his sword, before they were upon him. Furthermore, with the self-possession which never abandoned him, he backed against the church wall, and thus faced all of his assailants.

They attacked him savagely. He could not retreat, and it was useless to cry out as the château was five hundred yards away. But Benvenuto was no novice in deeds of arms, and he received the cut-throats with vigor.

His mind remained perfectly clear, and a sudden thought flashed through it as he plied his sword. It was evident that this ambuscade was directed against him, and no other. If therefore he could succeed in throwing them off the track, he was saved. He began therefore, as the blows rained down upon him, to joke them upon their pretended mistake.

"What fit has seized you, my fine fellows? Are you mad? What do you expect to make out of an old soldier like me? Is it my cloak that you want? Does my sword tempt you? Stay, stay, you! If you want my good sword, you must earn it! Sang-Dieu! By my soul, for thieves who seem to have served their apprenticeship, your scent is bad, my children."

With that he charged upon them, instead of falling back before them, but only took one or two steps away from the wall, and immediately placed his back against it once more, incessantly slashing and thrusting, taking pains to throw aside his cloak several times, so that, if they had been warned by Comte d'Orbec's servants, whom he had seen leave the house, and who had seen him count the money, they would at least conclude that he had not the gold upon him. Indeed, his assured manner of speaking, and the ease with which he handled his sword with a thousand crowns under his arm, caused the bravos to entertain some doubts.

"Damnation! do you suppose we have made a mistake, Ferrante?" said Fracasso!

"I fear so. The man seemed not so tall to me; or even if it is he, he hasn't the gold, and that damned viscount deceived us."

"I have gold!" cried Benvenuto, thrusting and parrying vigorously all the while. "I have no gold save a handful of gilded copper; but if you are ambitious to secure that, my children, you will pay dearer for it than if it were gold belonging to another, I promise you."

"Deuce take him!" said Procope, "he's really a soldier. Could any goldsmith fence so cleverly as he? Expend all your wind on him, if you choose, you fellows; I don't light for glory."

And Procope began to heat a retreat, grumbling to himself, while the attack of the others relaxed in vigor, by reason of their doubts, as well as of his absence. Benvenuto, with no such motive for weakening, seized the opportunity to drive them back, and to start for the château, backing before his assailants, but fighting all the time, and defending himself manfully. The savage boar was luring the hounds with him to his den.

"Come, my brave fellows, come with me," he said "bear me company as far as the entrance to the Pré-aux-Clercs, the Maison Rouge, where my sweetheart, whose father sells wine, is expecting me to-night. The road isn't very safe, so they say, and I should be glad to have an escort."

Upon that pleasantry, Fracasso also abandoned the chase, and went to join Procope.

"We are fools, Ferrante!" said Maledent; "this isn't your Benvenuto."

"Yes, yes, I say it is himself," cried Ferrante, who had at last discovered the basket bulging out with money under Benvenuto's arm, as a too sudden movement disarranged his cloak.

But it was too late: the château was within a hundred feet or less, and Benvenuto was shouting in his powerful voice: "Hôtel de Nesle! ho! help! help!"

Fracasso had barely time to retrace his steps, Procope to hasten up, and Ferrante and Maledent to redouble their efforts; the workmen who were expecting their master, were on the alert. The door of the château was flung open at his first shout, and Hermann the colossus, little Jehan, Simon-le-Gaucher, and Jacques Aubry came running out armed with pikes.

At that sight the bravos turned and fled.

"Wait, wait, my dear young friends," Benvenuto shouted to the fugitives; "won't you escort me a little farther? O the bunglers! who couldn't take from one lone man a thousand golden crowns which tired his arm!"

The brigands had in fact succeeded in inflicting no other injury than a slight scratch upon their opponent's hand, and they made their escape shamefaced, and Fracasso howling with pain. Poor Fracasso at the very last lost his right eye, and was one-eyed for the rest of his days, a circumstance which accentuated the tinge of melancholy which was the most prominent characteristic of his pensive countenance.

"Well, my children," said Benvenuto to his companions, when the footsteps of the bravos had died away in the distance, "we must have some supper after that exploit. Come all and drink to my escape, my dear rescuers. But God help inc! I do not see Ascanio among you. Where is Ascanio?"

The reader will remember that Ascanio left the Louvre before his master.

"I know where he is?" said little Jehan.

"Where is he, my boy?" asked Benvenuto.

"Down at the end of the garden, where he has been walking for half an hour; the student and I went there to talk with him, but he begged us to leave him alone."

"Strange!" said Benvenuto. "How did he fail to hear my shout? How is it that he did not hasten to me with the others? Do not wait for me, but sup without me, my children. Ah, there you are, Scozzone!"

"O mon Dieu! what is this they tell me,—that some one tried to murder you, master?"

"Yes, yes, there was something like that."

"Mon Dieu!" cried Scozzone.

"It was nothing, my dear girl, nothing," said Benvenuto consolingly, for poor Catherine had become as pale as death. "Go now and bring wine, of the best, for these gallant fellows. Take the keys of the cellar from Dame Ruperta, Scozzone, and select it yourself."

"Why, you are not going out again?" said Scozzone.

"No, never fear: I am going to find Ascanio in the garden. I have important matters to discuss with him."

Scozzone and the others returned to the studio, and Benvenuto walked toward the gate leading to the garden.

The moon was just rising, and the master saw Ascanio very plainly; but, instead of walking, the young man was climbing a ladder set against the wall between the gardens of the Grand and Petit-Nesle. When he reached the top, he pulled the ladder up after him, lowered it on the other side, and disappeared.

Benvenuto passed his hand over his eyes like a man who cannot believe what he sees. Forming a sudden resolution, he went straight to the foundry and up into his cell, stepped to the window sill, and leaped to the wall of the Petit-Nesle; from there, with the aid of a stout vine, he dropped noiselessly into Colombe's garden; it had rained in the morning, and the ground was so damp that his footfalls were deadened.

He put his ear to the ground, and questioned the silence for some moments. At last he heard subdued voices in the distance, which guided his steps; he at once rose, and crept cautiously forward, feeling his way, and stopping from moment to moment. Soon the voices became more distinct.

Benvenuto walked toward them, and at last, when he reached the second path which crossed the garden, he recognized Colombe, or rather divined her presence in the shadow, dressed in white, and sitting beside Ascanio on the bench we already know. They were talking in low tones, but distinctly, and with animation.

Hidden from their observation by a clump of trees, Benvenuto drew near and listened.

III AN AUTUMN NIGHT'S DREAM

It was a beautiful autumn evening, calm and clear. The moon had driven away almost all the clouds, and the few which remained were scattered here and there over the star-strewn sky. Around the group talking and listening in the garden of the Petit-Nesle, everything was calm and silent, but within their hearts all was sadness and agitation.

"My darling Colombe," said Ascanio, while Benvenuto, standing cold and pale behind him, seemed to be listening with his heart rather than with his ears, "my dearest love, why, alas! did our paths meet? When you know all that I have to tell you of misery and horror, you will curse me for being the bearer of such news."

"Nay, my dear," replied Colombe, "whatever you may have to tell me, I shall bless you, for in my eyes you are as one sent by God. I never heard my mother's voice, but I feel that I should have listened to her as I listen to you. Go on, Ascanio, and if you have terrible things to tell me, your voice will at least comfort me a little."

"Summon all your courage and all your strength," said Ascanio.

Thereupon he told her all that had taken place in his presence between Madame d'Etampes and Comte d'Orbec; he described the whole plot, a combination of treason against the kingdom and designs upon the honor of an innocent child; he subjected himself to the agony of explaining the infamous bargain made by the treasurer to that ingenuous soul, aghast at this revelation of wickedness; he must needs to make the maiden, whose heart was so pure that she did not blush at his words, understand the cruel refinements of torture and ignominy which hatred and baffled love suggested to the favorite. All that was perfectly clear to Colombe's mind was that her lover was filled with loathing and dismay, and, like the slender vine which has no other support than the sapling to which it clings, she trembled and shuddered with him.

"My dear," she said, "you must make known this fearful plot against my honor to my father. My father does not suspect our love, he owes you his life, and he will listen to you. Oh, never fear! he will rescue me from the clutches of Comte d'Orbec."

"Alas!" was Ascanio's only reply.

"O my love!" cried Colombe, who understood all the apprehension contained in her lover's exclamation. "Oh! can you suspect my father of complicity in so hateful a design? That would be too wicked, Ascanio. No, my father knows nothing, suspects nothing, I am sure, and although he has never shown me any great affection, he would never with his own hand plunge me into shame and misery."

"Forgive me, Colombe," rejoined Ascanio, "but your father is not accustomed to see misery in increased wealth. A title would conceal the shame, and in his courtier-like pride he would deem you happier as a king's mistress than as an artist's wife. It is my duty to hide nothing from you, Colombe: Comte d'Orbec told Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes that he would answer for your father."

"Just God, is it possible!" cried the poor girl. "Was such a thing ever seen, Ascanio, as a father who sold his daughter?"

"Such things are seen in all countries and at all times, my poor angel, and more than ever at this time and in this country. Do not picture to yourself the world as fashioned after the image of your heart, or society as taking pattern by your virtue. Yes, Colombe, the noblest names of France have shamelessly farmed out the youth and beauty of their wives and daughters to the royal lust: it is looked upon as a matter of course at court, and your father, if he cares to take the trouble to justify himself, will not lack illustrious precedents. I beg you to forgive me, my beloved, for bringing your chaste and spotless soul so abruptly in contact with this hideous reality; but I cannot avoid the necessity of showing you the snare that is laid for you."

"Ascanio, Ascanio!" cried Colombe, hiding her face against the young man's shoulder; "my father also turns against me. Oh, simply to repeat it kills me with shame! Where can I fly for shelter? Where but to your arms, Ascanio? Yes, it is for you to save me now. Have you spoken to your master, to Benvenuto, who is so strong and great and kindly, judging by your description of him, and whom I love because you love him?"

"Nay, do not love him, do not love him, Colombe!" cried Ascanio.

"Why not?" whispered the girl.

"Because he loves you, because, instead of the friend upon whom we thought we could rely, he is one enemy the more we have to contend against: an enemy, you understand, and the most formidable of all our enemies. Listen."

Thereupon he told her how, as he was on the point of making a confidant of Benvenuto, the goldsmith described to him his ideal love, and added that the favorite sculptor of François I. by virtue of the king's word of honor to which he had never proved false, could obtain whatever he chose to ask after the statue of Jupiter was cast. As we know, the boon that Benvenuto proposed to ask was Colombe's hand.

"O God! we have none to look to for succor but thee," said Colombe, raising her white hands and her lovely eyes to heaven. "All our friends are changed to enemies, every haven of refuge becomes a dangerous reef. Are you certain that we are so utterly abandoned?"

"Only too certain," replied Ascanio. "My master is as dangerous to us as your father, Colombe. Yes," he continued, wringing his hands, "I am almost driven to hate him, Benvenuto, my friend, my master, my protector, my father, my God! And yet I ask you, Colombe, why I should hear him ill will? Because he has fallen under the spell to which every exalted mind that comes in contact with yours must yield; because he loves you as I love you. His crime is my own, after all. But you love me, Colombe, and so I am absolved. What shall we do? For two days I have been asking myself the question, and I do not know whether I begin to detest him, or whether I love him still. He loves you, it is true; but he has loved me so dearly, too, that my poor heart wavers and trembles in its perplexity like a reed shaken in the wind. What will he do? First of all, I shall tell him of Comte d'Orbec's designs, and I hope that he will deliver us from them. But after that, when we find ourselves face to face as enemies, when I tell him that his pupil is his rival, Colombe, his will, which is omnipotent as fate, will perhaps be as blind; he will forget Ascanio to think only of Colombe; he will turn his eyes away from the man he once loved, to see only the woman he loves, for I feel myself that between him and you I should not hesitate. I feel that I would remorselessly sacrifice my heart's past for its future, earth for heaven! And why should he act differently? he is a man, and to renounce his love would be more than human. We must therefore, fight it out, but how can I, feeble and alone as I am, resist him. But no matter, Colombe: even if I should come some day to hate him I have loved so long and so well, I tell you now that I would not for all the world subject him to the torture he inflicted upon me the other morning when he declared his love for you."

Meanwhile Benvenuto, standing like a statue behind his tree, felt the drops of icy sweat roll down his forehead, and his hand clutched convulsively at his heart.

"Poor Ascanio! dear heart!" returned Colombe, "you have suffered bitterly already, and have much to suffer still. But let us face the future calmly. Let us not exaggerate our griefs, for the prospect is not altogether desperate. Including God there are three of us to make head against misfortune. You would rather see me Benvenuto's wife than Comte d'Orbec's, would you not? But you would also prefer to see me wedded to the Lord than to Benvenuto? Very well! if I am not yours, I will belong to none but the Lord, be sure of that, Ascanio. Your wife in this world, or your betrothed in the other. That is my promise to you, Ascanio, and that promise I will keep: never fear."

"Thanks, thou angel from heaven, thanks!" said Ascanio. "Let us forget the great world around us, and concentrate our lives upon this little thicket where we now are. Colombe, you haven't told me yet that you love me. Alas! it would almost seem that you are mine because you could not do otherwise."

"Hush! Ascanio, hush! do you not see that I am trying to sanctify my happiness by making it a duty? I love you, Ascanio, I love you!"

Benvenuto could no longer find strength to stand; he fell upon his knees with his head against a tree; his haggard eyes were fixed vacantly on space, while, with his ear turned toward the young people, he listened with feverish intentness.

"Dear Colombe," echoed Ascanio, "I love you, and something tells me that we shall be happy, and that the Lord will not abandon the loveliest of all his angels. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! in this atmosphere of joy which surrounds me, I forget the circle of grief which I must enter when I leave you."

"We must think of to-morrow," said Colombe: "let us help ourselves, Ascanio, so that God may help us. It would be disloyal, I think, to leave your master Benvenuto in ignorance of our love, for he would perhaps incur great risk in contending against Madame d'Etampes and Comte d'Orbec. It would not be fair: you must tell him everything, Ascanio."

"I will obey you, dearest Colombe, for a word from you, as you must know, is law to me. My heart also tells me that you are right, always right. But it will be a terrible blow for him. Alas! I judge from my own heart. It is possible that his love for me may turn to hatred, it is possible that he will turn me out of doors. In that case how can I, a stranger, without friends or shelter, resist such powerful enemies as the Duchesse d'Etampes and the king's treasurer. Who will help me to defeat the plans of that terrible couple? Who will fight on my side in this unequal struggle? Who will hold out a helping hand to me?"

"I!" said a deep, grave voice behind them.

"Benvenuto!" cried the apprentice, without even turning round.

Colombe shrieked and sprang to her feet. Ascanio gazed at his master, wavering between affection and wrath.

"Yes, it is I, Benvenuto Cellini," continued the goldsmith,—"I, whom you do not love, mademoiselle,—I, whom you no longer love, Ascanio, and who come to save you both, nevertheless."

"What do you say?" cried Ascanio.

"I say that you must come and sit down again, here by my side, for we must understand one another. You have no need to tell me aught. I have not lost a word of your conversation. Forgive me for listening after I came upon you by chance, but you understand: it is much better that I should know all. You have said some things very sad and terrible for me to hear; but some kind things too. Ascanio was sometimes right and sometimes wrong. It is very true, Mademoiselle, that I would have disputed you with him. But since you love him, that's the end of it, be happy; he has forbidden you to love me, but I will force you to it by giving you to him."

"Dear master!" cried Ascanio.

"You suffer, monsieur, do you not?" said Colombe clasping her hands.

"Ah, thanks, thanks!" said Benvenuto, as his eyes filled with tears, but restraining his feelings with a mighty effort. "You see that I suffer. He would not have noticed it, ungrateful boy! But nothing escapes a woman's eyes. Yes, I will not tell you a falsehood; I do suffer! and why not, since you are lost to me? But at the same time I am happy, because I am able to serve you; you will owe everything to me, and that thought comforts me a little. You were wrong, Ascanio; my Beatrice is jealous, and will brook no rival; you, Ascanio, must finish the statue of Hebe. Adieu, my sweetest dream,—the last!"

Benvenuto spoke with effort, in a broken voice. Colombe leaned gracefully toward him, and put her hand in his.

"Weep, my friend, weep," she said softly.

"Yes, yes," said Cellini, bursting into tears.

He stood for some time without speaking, weeping bitterly, and trembling with emotion from head to foot. His forceful nature gladly sought relief in tears too long held back. Ascanio and Colombe looked on in respectful silence at this exhibition of bitter grief.

"Except on the day when I wounded you, Ascanio, except at the moment when I saw your blood flow, I have not wept for twenty years," he said at last, recovering his self-control; "but it has been a hard blow to me. I was in such agony just now behind those trees that I was tempted for a moment to plunge my dagger in my heart, and end it all. The only thing that held my hand was your need of me, and so you saved my life. All is as it should be, after all. Ascanio has twenty years more of happiness to give you than I have, Colombe. And then he is my child: you will be very happy together, and it will rejoice my father's heart. Benvenuto will succeed in triumphing over Benvenuto himself, as well as over his enemies. It is the lot of us creators to suffer, and perhaps each one of my tears will cause some lovely statue to spring up, as each of Dante's tears became a sublime strain. You see, Colombe, I am already returning to my old love, my cherished sculpture: that love will never forsake me. You did well to bid me weep: all the bitterness has been washed from my heart by my tears. I am sad still, but I am kind once more, and I will forget my pain in my efforts to save you."

Ascanio took one of the master's hands, and pressed it warmly in his own. Colombe took the other, and put it to her lips. Benvenuto breathed more heavily than he had yet done. Shaking his head, he said with a smile:—

"Do not make it harder for me, but spare me, my children. It will be better never to speak of this again. Henceforth, Colombe, I will be your friend, nothing more; I will be your father. The rest is all a dream. How let us talk of the danger which threatens you, and of what we are to do. I overheard you a moment since discussing your plans. Mon Dieu! you are very young, and neither of you has an idea of what life really is. You offer yourselves, in the innocence of your heart, to the cruel blows of destiny, unarmed, and you hope to vanquish malignity, avarice, all the vile passions of which man is capable with your kind hearts and your smiles! Dear fools! I will be strong and cunning and implacable in your stead. I am wonted to it, but you,—God created you for happiness and tranquillity, my lovely cherubs, and I will see to it that you fulfil your destiny.

"Ascanio, anger shall not furrow thy calm brow: grief, Colombe, shall not disturb the pure outlines of thy face. I will take you in my arms, soft-eyed, charming pair; I will bear you so through all the mire and misery of life, and will not set you down until you have arrived safe and sound at perfect joy; and then I'll gaze at you, and be happy in your happiness. But you must have blind confidence in me; I have my own peculiar ways, abrupt and hard to understand, and which may perhaps alarm you a little, Colombe. I conduct myself somewhat after the manner of artillery, and I go straight to my goal, heedless of what I may meet on the road. Yes, I think more of the purity of my intentions, I confess, than of the morality of the means I use. When I set about modelling a beautiful figure I care but little whether the clay soils my fingers. The figure finished, I wash my hands, and that's the end of it. Do you then, mademoiselle, with your refined and timorous heart, leave me to answer to God for my acts. He and I understand each other. I have a powerful combination to deal with. The count is ambitious, the provost avaricious, and the duchess very subtle. They are each and all very powerful. You are in their power, and in their hands, and two of them have rights over you: it may perhaps be necessary to resort to craft and violence. I shall arrange it, however, so that you and Ascanio will have no part in a contest in every way beneath you. Come, Colombe, are you ready to close your eyes, and allow yourself to be led? When I say, 'Do this,' will you do it?—'Remain there,' will you remain?—'Go,' will you go?"

"What does Ascanio say? asked Colombe.

"Colombe," returned the apprentice, "Benvenuto is great and good: he loves us and forgives the injury we have done him. Let us obey him, I implore you."

"Command me, master," said Colombe, "and I will obey you as if you were sent by God himself.

"Very well, my child. I have but one thing more to ask you; it will cost you dear, perhaps, but you must make up your mind to it; thereafter your part will be confined to waiting, and allowing circumstances and myself to do our work. In order that both of you may have more perfect faith in me, and that you may confide unhesitatingly in one whose life may not be unspotted, but whose heart has remained pure, I am about to tell you the story of my youth. All stories resemble one another, alas! and sorrow lies at the heart of every one. Ascanio, I propose to tell you how my Beatrice, the angel of whom I have spoken to you, came to be associated with my existence; you shall know who she was, and you will wonder less no doubt at my determination to abandon Colombe to you, when you realize that by that sacrifice I am but beginning to pay to the child the debt I owe the mother. Your mother! a saint in paradise, Ascanio! Beatrice would say blessed; Stefana would say crowned."

"You have always told me, master, that you would tell me your whole story some day."

"Yes, and the moment has come to redeem my promise. You will have even more confidence in me, Colombe, when you know all the reasons I have for loving our Ascanio."

Thereupon Benvenuto took a hand of each of his children in his own, and told them what follows, in his grave, melodious voice, beneath the glimmering stars in the peaceful silence of the night.

IV STEFANA

"Twenty years since, I was twenty years old, as you are now, Ascanio, and I was at work with a Florentine goldsmith named Raphael del Moro. He was a good workman and did not lack taste; but he cared more for rest than for work, allowing himself to be inveigled into attending parties with disheartening facility, and, although he had little money, himself leading astray those who were in his studio. Very often I was left alone in the house, singing over some piece of work I had in hand. In those days I sang as Scozzone does. All the sluggards in the city came as a matter of course to Master Raphael for employment, or rather in quest of pleasure, for he had the reputation of being too weak ever to quarrel. One grows rich slowly with such habits as his; so he was always hard up, and soon came to be the most discredited goldsmith in Florence.

"I am wrong. He had a confrère who had even less custom than he, although he was of a noble family. But it was not for irregularity in meeting his obligations that Gismondo Gaddi was cried down, but for his notorious lack of talent and his sordid avarice. As everything intrusted to him left his hands imperfect or spoiled, and not a customer, unless he happened to be a stranger, ventured into his shop, Gismondo undertook to earn his living by usury, and to loan money at enormous interest to young men desirous of discounting their future prospects. This profession succeeded better than the other, as Gaddi always demanded good security, and went into nothing without reliable guaranties. With that exception, he was, as he himself said, very considerate and long-suffering; he loaned to everybody, compatriots and foreigners, Jews and Christians. He would have loaned to St. Peter upon the keys of paradise, or to Satan upon his estates in hell.

"Need I say that he loaned to my poor Raphael del Moro, who consumed every day his provision for the morrow, but whose sterling integrity never wavered. Their constant connection in business, and the social ostracism to which both were subjected, tended to bring the two goldsmiths together. Del Moro was deeply grateful for his confrère's untiring amiability in the matter of advancing money. Gaddi thoroughly esteemed an honest and accommodating debtor. They were, in a word, the best friends in the world, and Gismondo would not have missed for an empire one of the parties with which Del Moro regaled him.

"Del Moro was a widower, but he had a daughter of sixteen, named Stefana. From a sculptor's point of view Stefana was not beautiful, and yet her appearance was most striking. Beneath her forehead, which was almost too high and not smooth enough for a woman, one could see her brain at work, so to speak. Her great, moist eyes, of a velvety black hue, moved you to respect and deep emotion as they rested upon you. An ivory pallor overspread her face, which was lightened by a melancholy yet charming expression, like the faint sunshine of an autumn morning. I forget a crown of luxurious raven locks, and hands a queen might have envied.

"Stefana ordinarily stood bending slightly forward, like a lily swayed by the wind. You might at times have taken her for a statue of Melancholy. When she stood erect, when her lovely eyes sparkled, when her nostrils dilated, when her arm was outstretched to emphasize a command, you would have adored her as the Archangel Gabriel. She resembled you, Ascanio, but you have less weakness of resolution and capacity for suffering. The immortality of the soul was never more clearly revealed to my eyes than in that slender, graceful body. Del Moro, who feared his daughter almost as much as he loved her, was accustomed to say that he had consigned to the tomb only the body of his wife, that Stefana was her dead mother's soul.

"I was at this time an adventurous youth, an impulsive giddy-pated creature. I loved liberty before everything. I was bubbling over with life, and I expended my surplus energy in foolish quarrels and foolish love affairs. I worked nevertheless with no less passion than I put into my pleasures, and despite my vagaries I was Raphael's best workman, and the only one in the establishment who earned any money. But what I did well, I did by instinct, almost by chance. I had studied the ancients to good purpose. For whole days I had gazed upon the bas-reliefs and statues of Athens and Rome, making studies with pencil and chisel, and constant contact with these sublime artists of former days gave me purity and precision of outline; but I was simply a successful imitator; I did not create. Still, I say again, I was incontestably and easily the cleverest and most hardworking of Del Moro's comrades. I have since learned that the master's secret wish was that I should marry his daughter.

"But I was thinking little of settling down; i' faith, I was enamored of independence, freedom from care, and an outdoor life. I was absent from the workshop whole days at a time. I would return completely overdone with fatigue, and yet in a few hours I would have overtaken and passed Raphael's other workmen. I would fight for a word, fall in love at a glance. A fine husband I should have made!

"Moreover, my feelings when I was with Stefana in no wise resembled those aroused by the pretty girls of Porta del Prato or Borgo Pinti. She almost overawed me; if I had been told that I loved her otherwise than as an elder sister I should have laughed. When I returned from one of my escapades I dared not look Stefana in the face. She was more than stern, she was sad. On the other hand, when fatigue or a praiseworthy zealous impulse had detained me at home, I always sought Stefana's companionship, her sweet face, and her sweet voice; my affection for her had in it something serious and sacred, which I did not at the time fully understand, but which was very pleasant to me. Very often, amid my wildest excesses, the thought of Stefana would pass through my mind, and my companions would ask me why I had suddenly become thoughtful. Sometimes, when I was in the act of drawing my sword or my dagger, I would pronounce her name as it were that of my patron saint, and I noticed that whenever that occurred I retired from the contest unhurt. But this tender feeling for the dear child, innocent, lovely, and affectionate as she was, lay dormant at the bottom of my heart as in a sanctuary.