Chapter XXII: A Love Match (10)

"Yes, yes," said Benvenuto, "I know that he lies when he says that, as he lied when he said that he was ready to marry you; but never fear, he shall be punished for the double lie."

"Yes, punish me," cried Pagolo, "but be merciful: punish me, but do not kill me."

"You lied when you said that she led you into it?"

"Yes, I lied; yes, I am the guilty one. I loved her madly; and you know, master, what love will lead a man to do."

"You lied when you said that you were ready to marry her?"

"No, no, master; then I didn't lie."

"So you really love Scozzone?"

"Oh, yes, indeed I love her!" replied Pagolo, realizing that the only way of lessening his guilt in Cellini's eyes was to attribute his crime to the violence of his passion; "yes, I love her."

"And you say again that you were not lying when you proposed to marry her?"

"I was not lying, master."

"You would have made her your wife?"

"If she had not belonged to you, yes."

"Very well, then, take her: I give her to you."

"What do you say? You are joking, are you not?"

"No, I never spoke more seriously: look at me if you doubt it."

Pagolo glanced furtively at Cellini, and saw plainly in his face that the judge might at any moment give place to the executioner; he bowed his head, therefore, with a groan.

"Take that ring from your finger, Pagolo, and put it on Catherine's."

Pagolo passively obeyed the first portion of the order, and Benvenuto motioned to Scozzone to draw near. She obeyed.

"Put out your hand, Scozzone," continued Benvenuto.

Again she obeyed.

"Now do the rest."

Pagolo placed the ring upon Scozzone's finger.

"Now," said Benvenuto, "that the betrothal is duly accomplished, we will pass to the marriage."

"Marriage!" muttered Pagolo; "we can't be married in this way; we must have notaries and a priest."

"We must have a contract," rejoined Benvenuto, producing the one prepared under his orders. "Here is one all ready, in which the names only need to be inserted."

He placed the contract upon a table, took up a pen and handed it to Pagolo.

"Sign, Pagolo," said he, "sign."

"Ah! I have fallen into a trap," muttered the apprentice.

"Eh? what's that?" exclaimed Benvenuto, without raising his voice, but imparting to it an ominous accent. "A trap? Where is the trap in this? Did I urge you to come to Scozzone's room? Did I advise you to tell her that you wished to make her your wife? Very good! make her your wife, Pagolo, and when you are her husband our _rôles_ will be changed; if I come to her room, it will be your turn to threaten, and mine to be afraid."

"Oh, that would be too absurd!" cried Catherine, passing from extreme terror to hysterical gayety, and laughing aloud at the idea which the master's words evoked.

Somewhat reassured by the turn Cellini's threats had taken, and by Catherine's peals of laughter, Pagolo began to look at matters a little more reasonably. It became plain to him that Cellini wished to frighten him into a marriage for which he felt but little inclination: he considered, therefore, that would be rather too tragic a termination of the comedy, and that he might perhaps, with a little resolution, make a better bargain.

"Yes," he muttered, translating Scozzone's gayety into words, "yes, it would be very amusing, I agree, but unfortunately it cannot be."

"What! it cannot be!" cried Benvenuto, as amazed as a lion might be to find a fox demurring to his will.

"No, it cannot be," Pagolo repeated; "I prefer to die: kill me!"

The words were hardly out of his mouth when Cellini was upon him. Pagolo saw the dagger gleaming in the air, and threw himself to one side, so swiftly and successfully that the blow which was intended for him simply grazed his shoulder, and the blade, impelled by the goldsmith's powerful hand, penetrated the wainscoting to the depth of several inches.

"I consent," cried Pagolo. "Mercy! Cellini, I consent; I am ready to do anything." And while the master was withdrawing the dagger, which had come in contact with the wall behind the wainscoting, he ran to the table where the contract lay, seized the pen, and wrote his name. The whole affair had taken place so rapidly that Scozzone had no time to take part in it.

"Thanks, Pagolo," said she, wiping away the tears which terror had brought to her eyes, and at the same time repressing an inclination to smile; "thanks, dear Pagolo, for the honor you consent to confer upon me; but it's better that we should understand each other thoroughly now, so listen to me. Just now you would have none of me, and now I will have none of you. I don't say this to mortify you, Pagolo, but I do not love you, and I desire to remain as I am."

"In that case," said Benvenuto, with the utmost coolness, "if you won't have him, Scozzone, he must die."

"Why," cried Catherine, "it is I who refuse him."

"He must die," rejoined Benvenuto; "it shall not be said that a man insulted me, and went unpunished. Are you ready, Pagolo?"

"Catherine," cried the apprentice, "Catherine, in Heaven's name take pity on me! Catherine, I love you! Catherine, I will love you always! Sign, Catherine! Catherine be my wife, I beg you on my knees!"

"Come, Scozzone, decide quickly," said Cellini.

"Oh!" said Catherine, pouting, "tell me, master, don't you think you are rather hard on me, who have loved you so dearly, and who have dreamed of something so different? But," cried the fickle child, passing suddenly from melancholy to merriment once more, "Mon Dieu! Cellini, see what a piteous face poor Pagolo is making! Oh, for Heaven's sake, put aside that lugubrious expression, Pagolo, or I will never consent to take you for my husband! Really, you are too absurd!"

"Save me first, Catherine," said Pagolo; "then we will laugh, if you choose."

"Oh well! my poor boy, if you really and truly wish it--"

"Yes, indeed I do!"

"You know what I have been, you know what I am?"

"Yes, I know."

"You are not deceived in me?"

"No."

"You will not regret it?"

"No! no!"

"Then give me your hand. It's very ridiculous, and I hardly expected it; but, no matter, I am your wife."

She took the pen and signed, as a dutiful wife should do, below her husband's signature.

"Thanks, Catherine, thanks!" cried Pagolo; "you will see how happy I will make you."

"If he is false to that promise," said Benvenuto, "write to me, Scozzone, and wherever I may be I will come in person to remind him of it."

As he spoke, Cellini slowly pushed his dagger back into its sheath, keeping his eyes fixed upon the apprentice; then he took the contract, folded it neatly, and put it in his pocket, and said to Pagolo, with the withering sarcasm which was characteristic of him:--

"Now, friend Pagolo, although you and Scozzone are duly married according to the laws of men, you are not in God's sight, and the Church will not sanctify your union until to-morrow. Until then your presence here would be in contravention of all laws, divine and human. Good night, Pagolo."

Pagolo turned pale as death; but as Benvenuto pointed imperatively to the door, he backed out of the room.

"No one but you, Cellini, would ever have had such an idea as that," said Catherine, laughing as if she would die. "Hark ye, my poor Pagolo," she said, as he opened the door, "I let you go because the law requires it; but never fear, Pagolo, I swear by the Blessed Virgin, that when you are my husband no man, not even Benvenuto himself, will find me anything but a virtuous wife.

"O Cellini!" she added, gayly, when the door was closed, "you give me a husband, but relieve me of his presence for to-day. It is so much time gained: you owed me this reparation."

XXI

RESUMPTION OF HOSTILITIES

Three days after the scene we have described, a scene of quite another sort was in preparation at the Louvre.

Monday, the day appointed for signing the contract, had arrived. It was eleven o'clock in the morning when Benvenuto left the Hôtel de Nesle, went straight to the Louvre, and with anxious heart but firm step ascended the grand staircase.

In the reception-room, into which he was first ushered, he found the provost and D'Orbec, who were conferring with a notary in the corner. Colombe, pale and motionless as a statue, was seated on the other side of the room, staring into vacancy. They had evidently moved away from her so that she could not hear, and the poor child had remained where they placed her.

Cellini passed in front of her, and let these words fall upon her bowed head:--

"Have courage: I am here."

Colombe recognized his voice, and raised her head with a cry of joy; but before she had time to question her protector, he had already entered the adjoining room.

An usher drew aside a tapestry portière, and the goldsmith passed into the king's cabinet.

Nothing less than these words of cheer would have availed to revive Colombo's courage: the poor child believed that she was abandoned, and consequently lost. Messire d'Estourville had dragged her thither, half dead, despite her faith in God and in Benvenuto. As they were setting out, she was conscious of such a feeling of despair at her heart, that she implored Madame d'Etampes to allow her to enter a convent, promising to renounce Ascanio provided that she might be spared Comte d'Orbec. But the duchess wanted no half victory; in order that her purpose might be attained, it was essential that Ascanio should believe in the treachery of his beloved, and so she sternly refused to listen to poor Colombe's prayers. Thereupon, Colombe summoned all her courage, remembering that Benvenuto bade her be strong and brave, even at the altar's foot, and with occasional sinkings of the heart allowed herself to be taken to the Louvre, where the king was to sign the contract at noon.

There again her strength failed her for a moment; for but three chances now remained, to touch the king's heart with her prayers, to see Benvenuto arrive, or to die of grief.

Benvenuto had come; Benvenuto had told her to hope, and Colombe's courage revived once more.

On entering the king's cabinet, Cellini found Madame d'Etampes alone: it was all that he desired; he would have solicited the honor of seeing her had she not been there.

The duchess was thoughtful in her hour of triumph, and yet, with the fatal letter burned--burned by herself--she was fully convinced that she had nothing to fear. But although she was reassured as to her power, she contemplated with dismay the perils that threatened her love. It was always thus with the duchess: when the anxiety attendant upon her ambition was at rest, the ardent passions of her heart devoured her. Her dream, in which pride and passion were mingled, was to make Ascanio great while making him happy. But she knew now that Ascanio, although of noble origin, (for the Gaddis, to which family he belonged, were patricians of long standing at Florence,) aspired to no other glory than that of being a great artist.

If his hopes were ever fixed upon anything, it was some beautifully shaped vase, or ewer, or statue; if he ever longed for diamonds or pearls, it was so that he might make of them, by setting them in chased gold, lovelier flowers than those which heaven waters with its dew. Titles and honors were nothing to him if they did not flow from his own talent, and were not the guerdon of his personal renown; what part could such a useless dreamer play in the active, agitated life of the duchess? In the first storm the delicate plant would be destroyed, with the flowers which it already bore and the fruit of which it gave promise. It might be that he would allow himself to be drawn into the schemes of his royal mistress through discouragement or through indifference; but in that case, a pale and melancholy shadow, he would live only in his memories of the past. Ascanio, in fine, appeared to the Duchesse d'Etampes, as he really was, an exquisite, fascinating personality, so long as he remained in a pure, untroubled atmosphere; he was an adorable child, who would never become a man. He could devote himself to sentiments, but never to ideas; born to enjoy the outpourings of a mutual affection, he would inevitably go down in the first terrific onset of the struggle for supremacy and power. He was the man needed to satisfy Madame d'Etampes's passion, but not to keep pace with her in her ambitious schemes.

Such was the tenor of her reflections when Benvenuto entered: the clouds of her thought hovering about her darkened her brow.

The two adversaries eyed each other narrowly: the same satirical smile appeared upon their lips at the same time; the glances they exchanged were twin brothers, and indicated that they were equally prepared for the struggle, and that 'the struggle would be a desperate one.

"Well and good! he is a rough fighter," thought Anne, "whom it will be a pleasure to overcome, a foeman worthy of my steel. But to-day there are, in truth, too many chances against him, and there will be no great glory in overthrowing him."

"Beyond question, Madame d'Etampes," said Benvenuto to himself, "you are a masterful woman, and more than one contest with a strong man has given me less trouble than this I have entered upon with you. You may be sure, therefore, that, while fighting courteously, I shall none the less fight with all the weapons at my disposal."

There was a moment's silence while the combatants delivered themselves of these brief monologues aside. The duchess was the first to break the silence.

"You are punctual, Master Cellini," said she. "His Majesty is to sign Comte d'Orbec's contract at noon, and it is now only a quarter past eleven. Permit me to make his Majesty's excuses: he is not behindhand, but you are beforehand."

"I am very happy, madame, that I arrived too early, as my impatience procures me the honor of a _tête-à-tête_ with you,--an honor I should have requested most urgently, had not chance, to which I return my thanks, anticipated my wishes."

"Good lack, Benvenuto!" said the duchess; "does defeat incline you to flattery?"

"Not my own defeat, madame, but that of other persons. I have always considered it peculiarly meritorious to pay my court to one in disgrace; and here is the proof of it, madame."

As he spoke, Benvenuto drew from beneath his cloak Ascanio's golden lily, which he had completed that morning. The duchess exclaimed with wonder and delight. Never had her eyes beheld such a marvellous jewel, never did one of the flowers found in the enchanted gardens of the "Thousand and One Nights" so dazzle the eyes of peri or fairy.

"Ah!" cried the duchess, putting forth her hand to take the flower, "you promised me, Benvenuto, but I confess that I did not rely upon your promise."

"Why should you not rely upon it, madame?" laughed Benvenuto. "You insult me."

"Oh! if you had promised to perform a revengeful, instead of a gallant act, I should have been much more certain that you would redeem your promise punctually."

"Who told you that I did not promise both?" retorted Benvenuto, drawing back his hand, so that the lily was still in his control.

"I do not understand you," said the duchess.

"Do you not think," said Benvenuto, pointing to the diamond shimmering in the heart of the flower--the diamond which she owed to the corrupting munificence of Charles V.--"that when mounted in the guise of a dewdrop, the earnest given to bind a certain bargain which is to set off the Duchy of Milan from France has a fine effect?"

"You speak in enigmas, my dear goldsmith; unfortunately the king will soon be here, and I haven't time to guess them."

"I will tell you the answer, then. It is an old proverb, _Verba, volant, scripta manent_, which, being interpreted, means, 'What is written is written.'"

"Ah! that's where you are in error, my dear goldsmith; what is written is burned: so do not think to frighten me as you would a child, and give me the lily which belongs to me."

"One instant, madame; I ought to warn you that while it is a magic talisman in my hands, it will lose all its virtue in yours. My work is even more valuable than you think. Where the multitude sees only a jewel, we artists sometimes conceal an idea. Do you wish me to show you this idea, madame? Nothing is easier: look, all that is necessary is to press this invisible spring. The stalk opens, as you see, and in the heart of the flower we find, not a gnawing worm, as in some natural flowers and some false hearts, but something similar, worse it may be,--the dishonor of the Duchesse d'Etampes, written with her own hand and signed by her."

As he spoke, Benvenuto pressed the spring, opened the stalk, and took out the letter. He slowly unfolded it, and showed it, open, to the duchess, pale with wrath, and stricken dumb with dismay.

"You hardly expected this, did you, madame?" said Benvenuto, coolly, folding the letter once more, and replacing it in the lily. "If you knew my ways, madame, you would be less surprised. A year ago I concealed a ladder in a statuette; a month ago I concealed a maiden in a statue. What was there that I could hide away in a flower to-day? A bit of paper, that was all, and that is what I have done."

"But that letter," cried the duchess, "that infernal letter I burned with my own hands: I saw the flame and touched the ashes!"

"Did you read the letter you burned?"

"No! no! madwoman that I was, I did not read it!"

"That is too bad, for you would be convinced now that the letter of a grisette will make as much flame and ashes as the letter of a duchess."

"Why, then, Ascanio, the dastard, deceived me!"

"Oh madame! pray pause! Do not suspect that pure and innocent child, who, even if he had deceived you, would have done no more than turn against you the weapons you used against him. Oh no, no! he did not deceive you; he would not purchase his own life or Colombe's by deceit! No, he was himself deceived."

"By whom? Pray tell me that."

"By a mere boy, a student, the same who wounded your trusty retainer, Vicomte de Marmagne; by one Jacques Aubry, in short, whom it is likely that the Vicomte de Marmagne has mentioned to you."

"Yes," murmured the duchess, "yes, Marmagne did tell me that this student, this Jacques Aubry, was seeking to gain access to Ascanio in order to secure that letter."

"And it was after that you paid Ascanio a visit. But students are active, you know, and ours had already anticipated you. As you left the Hôtel d'Etampes, he was creeping into his friend's cell, and as you entered it, he went out."

"But I didn't see him; I saw nobody."

"One doesn't think to look everywhere; if you had done so, you would, in due course, have raised a certain mat, and under that mat would have found a hole communicating with the adjoining cell."

"But Ascanio, Ascanio?"

"When you entered he was asleep, was he not?"

"Yes."

"Very good! during his sleep, Aubry, to whom he had refused to give the letter, took it from his coat pocket, and put a letter of his own in its place. You were misled by the envelope, and thought that you were burning a note from Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes. Not so, madame; you burned an epistle penned by Mademoiselle Gervaise-Perrette Popinot."

"But this Aubry, who wounded Marmagne, this clown, who almost murdered a nobleman, will pay dear for his insolence; he is in prison and condemned to death."

"He is free, madame, and owes his freedom in great measure to you."

"How so?"

"Why, who but he was the poor prisoner whose pardon you joined me in urging upon King François?"

"Oh insane fool that I was!" muttered the duchess, biting her lips till the blood ran. She looked Benvenuto squarely in the eye for a moment, then continued, in a panting voice,--

"On what condition will you give me that letter?"

"I think I have allowed you to guess, madame."

"I am not skilled in guessing: tell me."

"You must ask the king to bestow Colombe's hand upon Ascanio."

"Go to!" rejoined Anne with a forced laugh; "you little know the Duchesse d'Etampes, Master Goldsmith, if you fancy that my love will yield to threats."

"You did not reflect before answering me, madame."

"I stand by my answer, however."

"Kindly permit me to sit down unceremoniously, madame, and to talk plainly with you a moment," said Benvenuto, with the dignified familiarity peculiar to superior men. "I am only an humble sculptor, and you are a great duchess; but let me tell you that, notwithstanding the distance which separates us, we were made to understand each other. Do not assume those queenly airs: they will have no effect. It is not my purpose to insult you, but to enlighten you, and your haughty manner is out of place because your pride is not at stake."

"You are a strange man, upon my word," said Anne, laughing in spite of herself. "Say on, I am listening."

"I was saying, Madame la Duchesse," continued Benvenuto, coolly, "that, despite the difference in our fortunes, our positions are almost the same, and that we could understand each other, and perhaps mutually assist each other. You cried out when I suggested that you should renounce Ascanio; it seemed to you impossible and mad, and yet I had set you an example, madame."

"An example?"

"Yes, as you love Ascanio, I loved Colombe."

"You?"

"I. I loved her as I had never loved but once. I would have given my blood, my life, my soul for her, and yet I gave her to Ascanio."

"Truly a most unselfish passion," sneered the duchess.

"Oh! do not make my suffering matter for raillery, madame; do not mock at my agony. I have suffered keenly; but I realized that the child was no more made for me than Ascanio for you. Listen, madame: we are both, if I may be pardoned for the comparison, of those exceptional and uncommon natures which lead an existence of their own, have feelings and emotions peculiar to themselves, and rarely find themselves in accord with others. We both obey, madame, a sovereign idol, the worship of which has expanded our hearts and placed us higher than mankind. To you, madame, ambition is all in all; to me, art. Now our divinities are jealous, and exert their sway always and everywhere. You desired Ascanio as a crown, I desired Colombe as a Galatea. You loved as a duchess, I as an artist. You have persecuted, I have suffered. Oh! do not think that I wrong you in my thoughts; I admire your energy, and sympathize with your audacity. Let the vulgar think what they will: from your point of view it is a great thing to turn the world upside down in order to make a place for the person one loves. I recognize therein a strong and masterful passion, and I admire characters capable of such heroic crimes; but I also admire superhuman characters, for everything which eludes foresight, everything outside the beaten paths, has an attraction for me. Even while I loved Colombe, madame, I considered that my domineering, unruly nature would be ill mated with that pure angelic soul. Colombe loved Ascanio, my harmless, sweet-natured pupil; my rough, vigorous temperament would have frightened her. Thereupon, in a loud, imperative tone, I bade my love hold its peace, and as it remonstrated I called to my assistance my art divine, and by our united efforts we floored the rebellious passion and held it down. Then Sculpture, my true, my only mistress, touched my brow with her burning lips, and I was comforted. Do as I have done, Madame la Duchesse, leave these children to their angel loves and do not disturb them in their heaven. Our domain is earth, with its sorrows, its conflicts, and its intoxicating triumphs. Seek a refuge against suffering in ambition; unmake empires to distract your thoughts; play with the kings and masters of the world to amuse yourself. That would be well done, and I would applaud your efforts. But do not wreck the peace and happiness of these poor innocents, who love each other with such a pure, sweet love, before the face of God and the Virgin Mary."

"Who are you, Master Benvenuto Cellini? I do not know you," said the duchess in blank amazement. "Who are you?"

"Vrai Dieu! a man among men, as you are a woman among women," rejoined the goldsmith, laughing with his customary frankness; "and if you do not know me, you see that I have a great advantage over you, for I do know you, madame."

"It may be so," said the duchess, "but it is my opinion that a woman among women loves better and more earnestly than a man among men, for she snaps her fingers at your superhuman abnegation, and defends her lover with beak and claws to the last gasp."

"You persist, then, in refusing to give Ascanio to Colombe?"

"I persist in loving him myself."

"So be it. But if you will not yield with good grace, beware! I am somewhat rough when I am roused, and may make you cry out a little in the _mêlée_. You have reflected fully, have you not? You refuse once for all your consent to the union of Ascanio and Colombe."

"Most emphatically, yes."

"Very good! to our posts!" cried Benvenuto, "for the battle is on."

At that moment the door opened and an usher announced the king.

XXII

A LOVE MATCH

François appeared on the threshold, giving his hand to Diane de Poitiers, with whom he had come from the bedside of his sick son. Diane, inspired by her hatred, had a vague feeling that her rival was threatened with humiliation, and did not choose to miss the gratifying spectacle.

As for the king, he saw nothing, suspected nothing; he believed Madame d'Etampes and Benvenuto to be entirely reconciled, and as he saw them talking together when he entered, he saluted them both at once, with the same smile, and the same inclination of the head.

"Good morrow, my queen of beauty; good morrow, my king of artists," he said; "what are you talking about so confidentially? You seem both to be deeply interested."

"Mon Dieu! Sire, we are talking politics," said Benvenuto.

"And what particular subject exercises your faculties? Tell me, I beg."

"The question which engrosses everybody at present, Sire," continued the goldsmith.

"Ah! the Duchy of Milan."

"Yes, Sire."

"Well, what were you saying of it?"

"We do not agree, Sire; one of us maintains that the Emperor might well refuse to give you the Duchy of Milan, and yet redeem his promise by giving it to your son Charles."

"Which of you makes that suggestion?"

"I think that it was Madame d'Etampes, Sire."

The duchess became pale as death.

"If the Emperor should do that, it would be infamous treachery," said François; "but he'll not do it."

"In any event, even if he does not do it," said Diane, joining in the conversation, "it will not be, I am assured, for lack of advice given him to that effect."

"Given by whom?" cried the king. "By Mahomet's belly! I would be glad to know by whom?"

"Bon Dieu! do not be so disturbed, Sire," rejoined Benvenuto; "we said that as we said other things,--simple conjectures, put forward by us in desultory talk. Madame la Duchesse and I are but bungling politicians, Sire. Madame la Duchesse is too much of a woman to think of aught beside her toilet, although she has no need to think of that; and I, Sire, am too much of an artist to think of aught beside art. Is it not so, Madame la Duchesse?"

"The truth is, my dear Cellini," said François, "that each of you has too glorious a part to play to envy others aught that they may have, even though it were the Duchy of Milan. Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes is queen by virtue of her beauty, and you are king by virtue of your talent."

"King, Sire?"

"Yes, king; and although you haven't, as I have, three lilies in your crest, you have one in your hand, which seems to me to be lovelier than any that ever blossomed in the brightest sunlight or upon the fairest field in all heraldry."

"This lily is not mine, Sire; it belongs to Madame d'Etampes, who commissioned my pupil Ascanio to make it; but as he could not finish it, and as I realized Madame d'Etampes's desire to have so rich a jewel in her possession, I set to work myself and finished it, wishing with all my heart to make it the symbol of the treaty of peace which we ratified the other day in your Majesty's presence."

"It is marvellously beautiful," said the king, putting out his hand to take it.

"Is it not, sire?" rejoined Benvenuto, withdrawing it as if without design, "and the young artist, whose _chef-d'œuvre_ it is, certainly deserves to be magnificently rewarded."

"Such is my purpose," interposed the duchess; "I have in store for him a recompense which a king might envy him."

"But you know, madame, that the recompense to which you refer, splendid as it is, is not that upon which his heart is fixed. What would you have, madame? We artists are whimsical creatures, and often the thing which would, as you say, arouse a king's envy, is viewed by us with disdainful eye."

"Nevertheless," said Madame d'Etampes, as an angry flush overspread her face, "he must be content with what I have set apart for him; for I have already told you, Benvenuto, that I would accord him no other save at the last extremity."

"Very well, you may confide to me what his wishes are," said François to Benvenuto, once more putting out his hand for the lily, "and if it's not too difficult a matter, we will try to arrange it."

"Observe the jewel carefully, Sire," said Benvenuto, placing the stalk of the flower in the king's hand; "examine it in detail, and your Majesty will see that any compensation whatsoever must fall short of the value of such a masterpiece."

As he spoke, Benvenuto darted a keen glance at the duchess; but her self-control was so perfect, that not a muscle of her face moved as she saw the lily pass from the artist's hand to the king's.

"'T is really miraculous," said the king. "But where did you find this superb diamond which glistens in the heart of the flower?"

"I did not find it, Sire," replied Cellini, with charming affability; "Madame d'Etampes furnished it to my pupil."

"I was not aware that you owned this diamond, madame; whence came it to your hands, pray?"

"Why, probably from the place where most diamonds come from, Sire; from the mines of Guzarate or Golconda."

"There is a long story connected with that diamond, Sire, and if your Majesty cares to hear it, I will tell it you. The diamond and I are old acquaintances, for this is the third time it has passed through my hands. In the first place, I set it in the tiara of our Holy Father, the Pope, where its effect was marvellous; then, by order of Clement VII., I mounted it upon a missal which his Holiness presented to the Emperor Charles V.; and as the Emperor desired to carry it constantly about him, as a resource doubtless in an emergency, I set the diamond, which is worth more than a million, in a ring, Sire. Hid not your Majesty observe it on the hand of your cousin, the Emperor?"

"Yes, I remember," cried the king; "yes, on the day of our first interview he had it on his finger. How comes the diamond in your possession, duchess!"

"Yes, tell us," cried Diane, whose eyes shone with joy, "how came it about that a diamond of that value passed from the Emperor's hands to yours?"

"If the question were put to you, madame," retorted Madame d'Etampes, "the answer would not be far to seek, assuming that you confess certain matters to any other than your confessor."

"You do not answer the king's question, madame," rejoined Diane.

"Yes," said François, "how comes the diamond in your possession?"

"Ask Benvenuto," said Madame d'Etampes, hurling a last defiance at her enemy; "Benvenuto will tell you."

"Tell me, then," said the king, "and instantly: I am weary of waiting."

"Very good, Sire," said Benvenuto; "I must confess to your Majesty that at sight of this diamond strange suspicions awoke in my mind, as in yours. It was while Madame d'Etampes and myself were at enmity, you must know, and I should not have been sorry to learn some little secret which might injure her in your Majesty's eyes. So I followed the scent, and I learned--"

"You learned?"

Benvenuto glanced hastily at the duchess, and saw that she was smiling. The power of resistance which she manifested pleased him, and, instead of putting an end to the struggle brutally with one stroke, he resolved to prolong it, like au athlete, sure of victory in the end, who, having fallen in with an antagonist worthy of him, resolves to display all his strength and all his skill.

"You learned--" the king repeated.

"I learned that she purchased it of Manasseh, the Jew. Yes, Sire, know this and govern yourself accordingly: it seems that since he entered France your cousin, the Emperor, has scattered so much money along the road, that he is reduced to putting his diamonds in pawn; and Madame d'Etampes, with royal magnificence, gathers in what the imperial poverty cannot retain."

"Ah! by my honor as a gentleman, 't is most diverting!" cried François, doubly flattered in his vanity as lover, and in his jealousy as king. "But, fair lady," he added, addressing the duchess, "methinks you must have ruined yourself in order to make such an acquisition, and it is for us to repair the disordered state of your finances. Remember that we are your debtor to the value of the diamond, for it is so magnificent that I am determined that it shall come to you from a king's hand at least, if not from an emperor's."

"Thanks, Benvenuto," said the duchess in an undertone; "I begin to believe, as you claim, that we were made to understand each other."

"What are you saying?" cried the king.

"Oh, nothing, Sire! I was apologizing to the duchess for my first suspicion, which she deigns to pardon,--a favor which is the more generous on her part, in that the lily gave birth to another suspicion."

"What was that?" demanded the king, while Diane, whose hate was too keen to allow her to be deceived by this comedy, devoured her triumphant rival with her eyes.

Madame d'Etampes saw that she was not yet quit of her indefatigable foe, and a shadow of dread passed across her face, but it should be said, in justice to her courage, only to disappear immediately.

Furthermore, she availed herself of the king's preoccupation, caused by Benvenuto's words, to try to gain possession of the lily; but Benvenuto carelessly placed himself between the king and her.

"What was the suspicion? Oh!" the goldsmith said with a smile, "it was so infamous that I am not sure that I shouldn't be ashamed of having had it, and that it would not add to my offence to be so shameless as to avow it. I must have an express command from your Majesty before I should dare--"

"Dare, Cellini! I command you!" said the king.

"So be it. In the first place," said Cellini, "I confess with an artist's candid pride, that I was surprised to see Madame d'Etampes intrust the apprentice with a task which the master would have been happy and proud to execute for her. You remember my apprentice, Ascanio, Sire? He is a charming youth, who might venture to pose for Endymion, upon my word."

"Well! what then?" said the king, his brows contracting at the suspicion which began to gnaw his heart.

This time it was evident that, for all her self-control, Madame d'Etampes was on the rack. In the first place she read malicious curiosity in the eyes of Diane de Poitiers, and in the second place she was well aware that, while François might have forgiven treason to the king, he certainly would not forgive infidelity to the lover. However, as if he did not notice her agony, Benvenuto continued:--

"I reflected upon the beauty of my Ascanio, and it occurred to me--forgive me, mesdames, if there was anything in the thought which seems to cast a reflection upon the French, but I am accustomed to the ways of our Italian princesses, who, in love, it must be confessed, are very weak creatures--it occurred to me that a sentiment which had little connection with art--"

"Master," said François, frowning darkly, "reflect before you speak."

"I apologized beforehand for my temerity, and asked to be permitted to hold my peace."

"I bear witness to that," said Diane; "you yourself bade him speak, Sire; and now that he has begun--"

"It is always time to stop," said Madame d'Etampes, "when one knows that what one is about to say is a falsehood."

"I will stop if you choose, madame," said Benvenuto; "you know that you have but to say the word."

"Yes, but I choose that he shall continue. You are right, Diane; there are matters here which must be probed to the bottom. Say on, monsieur, say on," said the king, keeping his eyes fixed upon the sculptor and the duchess.

"My conjectures were taking a wide range when an incredible discovery opened a new field to them."

"What was it?" cried the king and Diane de Poitiers in the same breath.

"I am getting in very deep," whispered Cellini to the duchess.

"Sire," said she, "you do not need to hold the lily in your hand to listen to this long discourse. Your Majesty is so accustomed to hold a sceptre in a firm grasp, that I fear the fragile flower may be broken in your fingers."

As she spoke, the duchess, with one of those smiles which belonged to her alone, put out her hand to take the jewel.

"Forgive me, Madame la Duchesse," said Cellini; "but as the lily plays an important part throughout my story, permit me to enforce my words with ocular demonstration."

"The lily plays an important part in the story you have to tell, master?" cried Diane, snatching the flower from the king's hand with a movement swift as thought. "In that case, Madame d'Etampes is right, for if the story is at all what I suspect, it is much better that the lily should be in my hands than in yours, Sire; for, purposely or not, your Majesty might, by some uncontrollable impulse, break it."

Madame d'Etampes became terribly pale, for she deemed herself lost; she hastily seized Benvenuto's hand, and her lips opened to speak, but almost immediately she thought better of it. Her hand let the artist's fall, and her lips closed again.

"Say what you have to say," she muttered through her clenched teeth,--"if you dare!" she added in so low a tone that Benvenuto alone could hear.

"Yes, and measure your words, my master," said the king.

"And do you, madame, measure your silence," said Benvenuto.

"We are waiting!" cried Diane, unable to restrain her impatience.

"Fancy, Sire, and you, madame, fancy that Ascanio and Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes corresponded."

The duchess looked about to see if there were not at hand some weapon with which she could silence the goldsmith's tongue forever.

"Corresponded?" echoed the king.

"Yes, corresponded; and the most extraordinary thing is that the subject of this correspondence between Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes and the humble carver's apprentice was love."

"The proofs, master! you have proofs, I trust!" cried the king, in a rage.

"O mon Dieu! yes, Sire," replied Benvenuto. "Your Majesty must understand that I should not have allowed myself to form such suspicions without proofs."

"Produce them instantly, then," said the king.

"When I say that I have them, I am in error: your Majesty had them a moment since."

"I!" cried the king.

"And Madame de Poitiers has them now."

"I!" cried Diane.

"Yes," rejoined Benvenuto, who, amid the king's wrath, and the hatred and terror of the two most powerful women in the world, was perfectly cool and complacent. "Yes, for the proofs are in the lily."

"In the lily?" cried the king, snatching the flower from the hands of Diane de Poitiers, and examining it with a careful scrutiny, in which love of art had no share. "In this lily?"

"Yes, Sire, in the lily," Benvenuto repeated. "You know that it is so, madame," he continued in a meaning tone, toward the gasping duchess.

"Let us come to terms," she whispered; "Colombe shall not marry D'Orbec."

"That is not enough," returned Cellini; "Ascanio must marry Colombe."

"Never!" exclaimed Madame d'Etampes.

Meanwhile the king was turning the fatal lily over and over in his fingers, his suspense and wrath being the more poignant in that he dared not express them openly.

"The proofs are in the lily! in the lily!" he repeated; "but I can see nothing in the lily."

"Because your Majesty does not know the secret of opening it."

"There is a secret. Show it me, messire, on the instant, or rather--"

François made a movement as if to crush the flower, but both women cried out, and he checked himself.

"Oh Sire! it would be a pity," cried Diane; "such a charming toy! Give it to me, Sire, and I promise you that if there is a secret I will find it."

Her slender, active fingers, to which hatred lent additional subtlety, passed over all the rough places on the jewel, felt in all the hollows, while the Duchesse d'Etampes, half fainting, followed with haggard eyes her investigations, which for a moment were without result. But at last, whether by good luck, or a rival's instinct of divination, Diane touched the precise spot on the stalk.

The flower opened.

The two women cried out again at the same moment; one with joy, the other with dismay. The duchess darted forward to tear the lily from Diane's hand, but Benvenuto held her back with one hand, while with the other he showed her the letter which he had taken from its hiding place. A swift glance at the flower showed her that the hiding place was empty.

"I agree to everything," said the duchess, completely crushed, and too weak to maintain such a contest.

"On the Gospel?" said Benvenuto.

"On the Gospel."

"Well, master," said the king, impatiently, "where are the proofs? I see a recess very cleverly hollowed out in the stalk, but there is nothing within it."

"No, sire, there is nothing," said Benvenuto.

"True, but there might have been something," suggested Diane.

"Madame is right," said Benvenuto.

"Master!" cried the king through his clenched teeth "do you know that it may be dangerous for you to prolong this pleasantry, and that stronger men than you have repented playing with my anger?"

"For that reason I should be in despair were I to incur it, Sire," rejoined Cellini, without losing his composure; "but there is nothing in the present circumstances to arouse it, for I trust your Majesty did not take my words seriously. Should I have dared to bring so grave an accusation so lightly? Madame d'Etampes can show you the letters this lily contained, if you are curious to see them. They are in fact concerned with love, but it is the love of my poor Ascanio for a noble demoiselle,--a passion which at first seems insane and impossible, doubtless; but my Ascanio, like the true artist he is, fancying that a beautiful jewel falls not far short of equalling in value a beautiful maiden, applied to Madame d'Etampes as to a special providence, and made this lily his messenger. Now, you know, Sire, that Providence can do anything, and you will not be jealous of this particular one, I fancy, since, while doing a kindly action, she attributes part of the credit to you. That is the solution of the enigma, Sire, and if all the beating about the bush I have indulged in has offended your Majesty, I pray you to forgive me in consideration of the familiarity to which you have been graciously pleased to admit me."

This quasi academic harangue changed the face of affairs. As Benvenuto went on, Diane's brow grew dark, while the wrinkles vanished from that of Madame d'Etampes, and the king resumed his smiling good humor. When Benvenuto had finished,--

"Forgive me, fair duchess," said François, "for having dared to suspect you for an instant. Tell me what I can do to redeem my offence and earn my forgiveness."

"Grant the request which Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes is about to make, as your Majesty heretofore granted the one that I made."

"Speak for me, Master Cellini, since you know what it is that I wish," said the duchess with better grace than Cellini would have thought possible.

"Very well: since Madame la Duchesse appoints me to be her mouthpiece, Sire, you must know that she desires your all-powerful intervention in favor of poor Ascanio's passion."

"Yes, yes!" laughed the king; "I agree with all my heart to assist in making the comely apprentice a happy man. What is the name of his sweetheart?"

"Colombe d'Estourville, sire."

"Colombe d'Estourville!" cried François.

"I pray your Majesty to remember that it is Madame d'Etampes who proffers this request. Come, madame, add your prayers to mine," he added, causing a corner of the letter to protrude from his pocket, "for if you are silent much longer, his Majesty will think that you make the request solely from a desire to oblige me."

"Is it true that you desire this marriage, madame?" inquired François.

"Yes, Sire," murmured Madame d'Etampes; "I do desire it--earnestly."

The adverb was extracted by a fresh exhibition of the letter.

"But how do I know," said the king, "that the provost will accept for his son-in-law a nameless, penniless youth?"

"In the first place, Sire," Benvenuto replied, "the provost, being a loyal subject, will surely have no other will than his king's. In the second place, Ascanio is not nameless; he is a Gaddo Gaddi, and one of his ancestors was Podesta of Florence. He is a goldsmith, it is true, but in Italy it is no disgrace to belong to that guild. Furthermore, even if he could boast of no ancient nobility, as I am at liberty to insert his name in the letters patent which have been forwarded to me by your Majesty's directions, he will be a nobleman of recent creation. Oh, think not that it requires any sacrifice on my part to resign in his favor. To reward my Ascanio is to reward myself twice over. So it is settled, Sire, that he is Seigneur de Nesle, and I will not let him want for money. He may, if he will, lay aside his profession, and buy a company of lances, or an appointment at court. I will provide the funds."

"And we shall look to it, you may be sure, that your generosity does not lighten your purse too much."

"Then I may consider, Sire--"

"Ascanio Gaddo Gaddi, Seigneur de Nesle, let it be!" cried the king, laughing heartily: the certainty that Madame d'Etampes was faithful to him had put him in a joyous humor.

"Madame," said Cellini, in an undertone, "you cannot in conscience leave the Seigneur de Nesle at the Châtelet; it was well enough for Ascanio."

Madame d'Etampes called an officer of the guards, and whispered a few words, the concluding ones being these:--

"In the king's name!"

"What are you doing, madame?" demanded François.

"Madame d'Etampes is simply sending a messenger for the bridegroom that is to be, Sire," interposed Cellini.

"Where?"

"Where Madame d'Etampes, who knew the king's kindness of heart, bade him await your Majesty's pleasure."

Fifteen minutes later, the door of the apartment opened, in which were assembled Colombe, the provost, D'Orbec, the Spanish ambassador, and almost the whole court, except Marmagne, who was still confined to his bed. An usher cried,--

"The king!"

François I. entered, leading Diane de Poitiers, and followed by Benvenuto, upon one of whose arms was leaning the Duchesse d'Etampes, and on the other Ascanio, each of them being as pale as the other.

At the announcement made by the usher, all the courtiers turned, and all were paralyzed for a moment when they saw this strange group.

Their astonishment redoubled when the king, stepping aside to allow the sculptor to pass in front of him, said in a loud voice:--

"Master Benvenuto, take our place for the moment, and our authority; speak as if you were the king, and be obeyed as a king should be."

"Beware, Sire," replied the goldsmith: "in order to fill your place fittingly, I propose to be magnificent."

"Go on, Benvenuto," said François laughingly; "every magnificent stroke will be a bit of flattery for me."

"Very good, Sire; that puts me at my ease, and I will praise you as much as I can. Do not forget," he continued, "all you who hear me, that the king is speaking by my mouth. Messieurs les Notaires, you have prepared the contract which his Majesty deigns to sign? Insert the names of the contracting parties."

The two notaries seized their pens and made ready to write the names in the two copies of the contract, one of which was to remain in the archives and the other in their office.

"Of the one part," continued Cellini, "the noble and puissant demoiselle, Colombe d'Estourville."

"Colombe d'Estourville," repeated the notaries, mechanically, while the auditors listened in open-mouthed astonishment.

"Of the other part," continued Cellini, "the most noble and puissant Ascanio Gaddi, Seigneur de Nesle."

"Ascanio Gaddi!" cried the provost and D'Orbec in the same breath.

"A mere artisan!" added the provost bitterly, turning toward the king.

"Ascanio Gaddi, Seigneur de Nesle," repeated Benvenuto, unmoved, "upon whom his Majesty bestows letters of naturalization and the office of Superintendent of the Royal Châteaux."

"If his Majesty so commands, I will obey," said the provost; "but--"

"Ascanio Gaddi," continued Benvenuto, "out of regard for whom his Majesty grants to Messire Robert d'Estourville, Provost of Paris, the title of Chamberlain."

"Sire, I am ready to sign," said D'Estourville, vanquished at last.

"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu!" murmured Colombe, falling back into her chair, "is not all this a dream?"

"And what of me?" cried D'Orbec.

"As for you," rejoined Cellini, continuing his royal functions; "as for you, Comte d'Orbec, I spare you the inquiry which I should be justified in ordering into your conduct. Clemency is a kingly virtue, no less than generosity, is it not, Sire? But here are the contracts, all prepared; let us sign, messieurs, let us sign!"

"He plays the king to perfection," cried François, as happy as a monarch on a vacation.

He passed the pen to Ascanio, who signed with a trembling hand; Ascanio then passed the pen to Colombe, to whose assistance Madame Diane had gone in pure kindness of heart. The hands of the lovers met, and they almost swooned.

Next came Madame Diane, who passed the pen to the Duchesse d'Etampes, who passed it to the provost, the provost to D'Orbec, and D'Orbec to the Spanish ambassador.

Below all these great names Cellini wrote his own in a firm, distinct hand. And yet he was not the one who had made the least painful sacrifice.

After writing his name, the Spanish ambassador drew nigh the duchess.

"Our plans still hold, madame?" he asked.

"Mon Dieu!" she replied, "do what you choose: what matters France or the world to me?"

The duke bowed. As he resumed his place, his nephew, a young and inexperienced diplomat, remarked:--

"So it is the Emperor's purpose that not the King of France, but his son, shall be Duke of Milan?"

"Neither the one nor the other will be," replied the ambassador.

Meanwhile other signatures were being affixed.

When every one had written his name as a subscriber to the happiness of Colombe and Ascanio, Benvenuto walked up to the king, and knelt upon one knee before him.

"Sire," said he, "having issued commands as king I now prefer a request as your Majesty's humble and grateful servant. Will your Majesty deign to grant me one last favor?"