Chicot the Jester. Dumas Alexandre

approached he heard Chicot crying:

      “I have made sumptuary laws, but if they are not enough I will make more; at least they shall be numerous, if they are not good. By the horn of Beelzebub, six pages, M. de Bussy, are too much.”

      And Chicot, swelling out his cheeks, and putting his hand to his side, imitated the king to the life.

      “What does he say about Bussy?” asked the king, when St. Luc returned. St. Luc was about to reply, when the crowd opening, showed to him six pages, dressed in cloth of gold, covered with chains, and bearing on their breasts the arms of their masters, sparkling in jewels. Behind them came a young man, handsome and proud; who walked with his head raised and a haughty look, and whose simple dress of black velvet contrasted with the splendor of his pages. This was Bussy d’Amboise. Maugiron, Schomberg, and Quelus had drawn near to the king.

      “See,” said Maugiron, “here is the servant, but where is the master? Are you also in disgrace with him, St. Luc?”

      “Why should he follow Bussy?” said Quelus.

      “Do you not remember that when his majesty did M. de Bussy the honor to ask him if he wished to belong to him, he replied that, being of the House of Clermont, he followed no one, and belonged to himself.”

      The king frowned.

      “Yes,” said Maugiron, “whatever you say, he serves the Duc d’Anjou.”

      “Then it is because the duke is greater than the king.”

      No observation could have been more annoying to the king than this, for he detested the Duc d’Anjou. Thus, although he did not answer, he grew pale.

      “Come, come, gentlemen,” said St. Luc, trembling, “a little charity for my guests, if you please; do not spoil my wedding day.”

      “Yes,” said the king, in a mocking tone; “do not spoil St. Luc’s wedding-day.”

      “Oh!” said Schomberg, “is Bussy allied to the Brissacs? – since St. Luc defends him.”

      “He is neither my friend nor relation, but he is my guest,” said St. Luc. The king gave an angry look. “Besides,” he hastened to add, “I do not defend him the least in the world.”

      Bussy approached gravely behind his pages to salute the king, when Chicot cried:

      “Oh, la! Bussy d’Amboise, Louis de Clermont, Comte de Bussy, do you not see the true Henri, do you not know the true king from the false? He to whom you are going is Chicot, my jester, at whom I so often laugh.”

      Bussy continued his way, and was about to bow before the king, when he said:

      “Do you not hear, M. de Bussy, you are called?” and, amidst shouts of laughter from his minions, he turned his back to the young captain. Bussy reddened with anger, but he affected to take the king’s remark seriously, and turning round towards Chicot:

      “Ah! pardon, sire,” said he, “there are kings who resemble jesters so much, that you will excuse me, I hope, for having taken a jester for a king.”

      “Hein,” murmured Henri, “what does he say?”

      “Nothing, sire,” said St. Luc.

      “Nevertheless, M. Bussy,” said Chicot; “it was unpardonable.”

      “Sire, I was preoccupied.”

      “With your pages, monsieur,” said Chicot; “you ruin yourself in pages, and, par la mordieu, it is infringing our prerogatives.”

      “How so? I beg your majesty to explain.”

      “Cloth of gold for them, while you a gentleman, a colonel, a Clermont, almost a prince, wear simple black velvet.”

      “Sire,” said Bussy, turning towards the kings’ minions, “as we live in a time when lackeys dress like princes, I think it good taste for princes to dress like lackeys.”

      And he returned to the young men in their splendid dress the impertinent smiles which they had bestowed on him a little before. They grew pale with fury, and seemed only to wait the king’s permission to fall upon Bussy.

      “Is it for me and mine that you say that?” asked Chicot, speaking like the king.

      Three friends of Bussy’s now drew near to him. These were Charles d’Antragues, François, Vicomte de Ribeirac, and Livarot. Seeing all this, St. Luc guessed that Bussy was sent by Monsieur to provoke a quarrel. He trembled more than ever, for he feared the combatants were about to take his house for a battle-field. He ran to Quelus, who already had his hand on his sword, and said, “In Heaven’s name be moderate.”

      “Parbleu, he attacks you as well as us.”

      “Quelus, think of the Duc d’Anjou, who supports Bussy; you do not suppose I fear Bussy himself?”

      “Eh! Mordieu, what need we fear; we belong to the king. If we get into peril for him he will help us.”

      “You, yes; but me,” said St. Luc, piteously.

      “Ah dame, why do you marry, knowing how jealous the king is in his friendships?”

      “Good,” thought St. Luc, “everyone for himself; and as I wish to live tranquil during the first fortnight of my marriage, I will make friends with M. Bussy.” And he advanced towards him. After his impertinent speech, Bussy had looked round the room to see if any one would take notice of it. Seeing St. Luc approach, he thought he had found what he sought.

      “Monsieur,” said he, “is it to what I said just now, that I owe the honor of the conversation you appear to desire?”

      “Of what you have just said, I heard nothing. No, I saw you, and wished to salute you, and thank you for the honor you have done me by your presence here.”

      Bussy, who knew the courage of St. Luc, understood at once that he considered the duties of a host paramount, and answered him politely.

      Henri, who had seen the movement said, “Oh, oh! I fear there is mischief there; I cannot have St. Luc killed. Go and see, Quelus; no, you are too rash – you, Maugiron.”

      But St. Luc did not let him approach Bussy, but came to meet him and returned with him to the king.

      “What have you been saying to that coxcomb?” asked the king.

      “I, sire?”

      “Yes, you.”

      “I said, good evening.”

      “Oh! was that all?”

      St. Luc saw he was wrong. “I said, good evening; adding, that I would have the honor of saying good morning to-morrow.”

      “Ah! I suspected it.”

      “Will your majesty keep my secret?” said St. Luc.

      “Oh! parbleu, if you could get rid of him without injury to yourself – ”

      The minions exchanged a rapid glance, which Henri III. seemed not to notice.

      “For,” continued he, “his insolence is too much.”

      “Yes, yes,” said St. Luc, “but some day he will find his master.”

      “Oh!” said the king, “he manages the sword well. Why does he not get bit by some dog?” And he threw a spiteful glance on Bussy, who was walking about, laughing at all the king’s friends.

      “Corbleu!” cried Chicot, “do not be so rude to my friends, M. Bussy, for I draw the sword, though I am a king, as well as if I was a common man.”

      “If he continue such pleasantries, I will chastise Chicot, sire,” said Maugiron.

      “No, no, Maugiron, Chicot is a gentleman. Besides, it is not he who most deserves punishment, for it is not he who is most insolent.”

      This time there was no mistaking, and Quelus made signs to D’O and D’Epernon, who had been in a different part of the room, and had not heard what was going on. “Gentlemen,” said Quelus, “come to the council; you, St. Luc, go and finish