THE VALOIS SAGA: Queen Margot, Chicot de Jester & The Forty-Five Guardsmen (Historical Novels). Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
sweeping glance around, to see whose brows might be frowning.
Perhaps of all that cortège, the person who was looked at with the greatest curiosity was that motherless son, that kingless king, that Huguenot turned Catholic. His long and marked countenance, his somewhat vulgar figure, his familiarity with his inferiors, which he carried to a degree almost derogatory to a king — a familiarity acquired by the mountaineer habits of his youth, and which he preserved till his death — marked him out to the spectators, some of whom cried:
“To mass, Harry, to mass!”
To which Henry replied:
“I attended it yesterday, today, and I shall attend it again tomorrow. Ventre saint gris! surely that is sufficient.”
Marguerite was on horseback — so lovely, so fresh, so elegant that admiration made a regular concert around her, though it must be confessed that a few notes of it were addressed to her companion, the Duchesse de Nevers, who had just joined her on a white horse so proud of his burden that he kept tossing his head.
“Well, duchess!” said the Queen of Navarre, “what is there new?”
“Why, madame,” replied the duchess, aloud, “I know of nothing.”
Then in a lower tone:
“And what has become of the Huguenot?”
“I have found him a retreat almost safe,” replied Marguerite. “And the wholesale assassin, what have you done with him?”
“He wished to take part in the festivity, and so we mounted him on Monsieur de Nevers’ war-horse, a creature as big as an elephant. He is a fearful cavalier. I allowed him to be present at the ceremony today, as I felt that your Huguenot would be prudent enough to keep his chamber and that there was no fear of their meeting.”
“Oh, faith!” replied Marguerite, smiling, “if he were here, and he is not here, I do not think a collision would take place. My Huguenot is remarkably handsome, but nothing more — a dove, and not a hawk; he coos, but does not bite. After all,” she added, with a gesture impossible to describe, and shrugging her shoulders slightly, “after all, perhaps our King thought him a Huguenot while he is only a Brahmin, and his religion forbids him to shed blood.”
“But where, pray, is the Duc d’Alençon?” inquired Henriette; “I do not see him.”
“He will join us later; his eyes troubled him this morning and he was inclined not to come, but as it is known that because he holds a different opinion from Charles and his brother Henry he inclines toward the Huguenots, he became convinced that the King might put a bad interpretation on his absence and he changed his mind. There, hark! people are gazing and shouting yonder; it must be that he is coming by the Porte Montmartre.”
“You are right; ’tis he; I recognize him. How elegant he looks today,” said Henriette. “For some time he has taken particular pains with his appearance; he must be in love. See how nice it is to be a prince of the blood, he gallops over every one, they all draw on one side.”
“Yes,” said Marguerite, laughing, “he will ride over us. For Heaven’s sake draw your attendants to one side, duchess, for there is one of them who will be killed if he does not give way.”
“It is my hero!” cried the duchess; “look, only look!”
Coconnas had left his place to approach the Duchesse de Nevers, but just as his horse was crossing the kind of exterior boulevard which separates the street from the Faubourg Saint Denis, a cavalier of the Duc d’Alençon’s suite, trying in vain to rein in his excited horse, dashed full against Coconnas. Coconnas, shaken by the collision, reeled on his colossal mount, his hat nearly fell off; he put it on more firmly and turned round furiously.
“Heavens!” said Marguerite, in a low tone, to her friend, “Monsieur de la Mole!”
“That handsome, pale young man?” exclaimed the duchess, unable to repress her first impression.
“Yes, yes; the very one who nearly upset your Piedmontese.”
“Oh,” said the duchess, “something terrible will happen! they look at each other — recollect each other!”
Coconnas had indeed recognized La Mole, and in his surprise dropped his bridle, for he believed he had killed his old companion, or at least put him hors de combat for some time. La Mole had also recognized Coconnas, and he felt a fire mount up into his face. For some seconds, which sufficed for the expression of all the sentiments these two men harbored, they gazed at each other in a way which made the two women shudder.
After which, La Mole, having looked about him, and doubtless seeing that the place was ill chosen for an explanation, spurred his horse and rejoined the Duc d’Alençon. Coconnas remained stationary for a moment, twisting his mustache until the point almost entered his eye; then seeing La Mole dash off without a word, he did the same.
“Ah, ha!” said Marguerite, with pain and contempt, “so I was not mistaken — it is really too much;” and she bit her lips till the blood came.
“He is very handsome,” added the Duchesse de Nevers, with commiseration.
Just at this moment the Duc d’Alençon reached his place behind the King and the queen mother, so that his suite, in following him, were obliged to pass before Marguerite and the Duchesse de Nevers. La Mole, as he rode before the two princesses, raised his hat, saluted the queen, and, bowing to his horse’s neck, remained uncovered until her majesty should honor him with a look.
But Marguerite turned her head aside disdainfully.
La Mole, no doubt, comprehended the contemptuous expression of the queen’s features, and from pale he became livid, and that he might not fall from his horse was compelled to hold on by the mane.
“Oh, oh!” said Henriette to the queen; “look, cruel that you are! — he is going to faint.”
“Good,” said the queen, with a cruel smile; “that is the only thing we need. Where are your salts?”
Madame de Nevers was mistaken. La Mole, with an effort, recovered himself, and sitting erect on his horse took his place in the Duc d’Alençon’s suite.
Meantime they kept on their way and at length saw the lugubrious outline of the gibbet, erected and first used by Enguerrand de Marigny. Never before had it been so adorned.
The ushers and guards went forward and made a wide circle around the enclosure. As they drew near, the crows perched on the gibbet flew away with croakings of despair.
The gibbet erected at Montfaucon generally offered behind its posts a shelter for the dogs that gathered there attracted by frequent prey, and for philosophic bandits who came to ponder on the sad chances of fortune.
That day at Montfaucon there were apparently neither dogs nor bandits. The ushers and guards had scared away the dogs together with the crows, and the bandits had mingled with the throng so as to make some of the lucky hits which are the more cheerful vicissitudes of their profession.
The procession moved forward; the King and Catharine arrived first, then came the Duc d’Anjou, Duc d’Alençon, the King of Navarre, Monsieur de Guise, and their followers, then Madame Marguerite, the Duchesse de Nevers, and all the women who composed what was called the queen’s flying squadron; then the pages, squires, attendants, and people — in all ten thousand persons.
From the principal gibbet hung a misshapen mass, a black corpse stained with coagulated blood and mud, whitened by layers of dust. The carcass was headless, and it was hung by the legs, and the populace, ingenious as it always is, had replaced the head with a bunch of straw, to which was fastened a mask; and in the mouth of this mask some wag, knowing the admiral’s habit, had introduced a toothpick.
At once appalling and singular was the spectacle of all these elegant lords and handsome ladies like a procession painted by Goya, riding along in the midst of those blackened carcasses and gibbets, with their long lean arms.
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