All these longings were to be gratified before the end of the week. But their gratification was destined to leave those who had formed them more unhappy and more melancholy than ever. Such is the universal law; every joy contains the germ of sorrow.
In the first place Gervaise ceased to laugh in Jacques Aubry's face; a change most ardently desired by the student, as the reader will remember. Jacques Aubry had discovered the golden fetters which were to bind the damsel to his chariot. They consisted in a lovely ring carved by Benvenuto himself, and representing two clasped hands.
It should be said that, since the day of the siege, Jacques Aubry had conceived a warm friendship for the outspoken and energetic nature of the Florentine artist. He did not interrupt him when he was speaking,—an unheard of thing! He kept his eyes fixed upon him and listened to him with respect, which was more than he had ever consented to do for his professors. He admired his work with an enthusiasm which, if not very enlightened, was at least very warm and sincere. On the other hand, his loyalty, his courage, and his jovial disposition attracted Cellini. He was just strong enough at tennis to make a good fight, but to lose in the end. He was his match at table, within a bottle. In short he and the goldsmith had become the best friends in the world, and Cellini, generous because his wealth was inexhaustible, had one day forced him to accept this little ring, which was carved with such marvellous skill that, in default of the apple, it would have tempted Eve, and sown discord between Peleus and Thetis.
On the morrow of the day when the ring passed from Jacques Aubry's hands to those of Gervaise, Gervaise resumed a serious demeanor, and the student hoped that she was his. Poor fool! on the contrary, he was hers.
Scozzone succeeded, as she desired, in kindling a spark of jealousy in Benvenuto's heart. This is how it came about.
One evening, when her wiles and coquetries had as usual failed to arouse the master from his imperturbable gravity, she assumed a solemn expression herself.
"Benvenuto," said she, "it seems to me, do you know, as if you had forgotten your promise to me."
"What promise is that, my dear child?" rejoined Benvenuto, apparently seeking an explanation of her reproach from the ceiling.
"Haven't you promised a hundred times to marry me?"
"I don't remember it."
"You don't remember it?"
"No; I should say that my only reply was, 'This requires consideration.'"
"Well! have you considered it?"
"Yes."
"With what result?"
"That I am still too young to be anything else than your lover, Scozzone. We will speak of it again later."
"And I am no longer foolish enough, monsieur, to be content with so vague a promise as that, and to wait for you forever."
"Do as you please, little one, and if you are in so great a hurry, go ahead."
"But what prejudice have you against marriage, after all? Why need it make any change in your life? You will have made a poor girl, who loves you, happy, that's all."
"What change will it make in my life, Scozzone?" said Benvenuto gravely. "You see yonder candle, whose pale flame but feebly lights this great room where we are: I place an extinguisher over it, and now it is quite dark. Marriage would do the same to my life. Light the candle again, Scozzone: I detest the darkness."
"I understand," cried Scozzone volubly, bursting into tears, "you bear too illustrious a name to give to a poor girl, a nobody, who has given you her heart and her life, all that she had to give, and is ready to suffer everything for you, who lives only in your life, who loves only you—"
"I know it, Scozzone, and I assure you that I am as grateful as possible."
"Who has gladly done her best to enliven your solitude, who, knowing your jealous disposition, never looks at the cavalcades of handsome archers and sergeants, who has always closed her ears to the soft words which she has not failed to hear, nevertheless, even here."
"Even here?" rejoined Benvenuto.
"Yes, here, even here, do you understand?"
"Scozzone," cried Benvenuto, "it's not one of my comrades, I trust, who has dared so to insult his master!"
"He would marry me if I would let him," continued Scozzone, attributing Cellini's wrath to a rejuvenescence of his love for her.
"Scozzone, tell me the insolent varlet's name. It's not Ascanio, I hope."
"There is a man who has said to me more than a hundred times, 'Catherine, the master abuses you; he will never marry you, sweet and pretty as you are; he is too proud for that. Oh! if he loved you as I love you, or if you would love me as you love him!'"
"Give me his name, the traitor's name!" cried Benvenuto.
"But I simply would not listen to him," continued Scozzone, enchanted at the success of her stratagem; "on the contrary, all his soft words were wasted, and I threatened to tell you all if he kept on. I loved only you. I was blind, and the gallant got nothing by his fine speeches and his languishing looks. Oh, put on your indifferent air, and pretend not to believe me! it is all true, none the less."
"I do not believe you, Scozzone," said Benvenuto, who saw that, if he desired to know his rival's name, he must employ a very different method from any he had hitherto attempted.
"What, you don't believe me?"
"No."
"You think that I am lying?"
"I think that you are mistaken."
"In your opinion, then, it's not possible for any one to love me?"
"I don't say that."
"But you think it?"
Benvenuto smiled, for he saw that he had found a way to make Catherine speak.
"But there is some one who loves me, and that's the truth," continued Scozzone.
Benvenuto made another gesture indicating incredulity.
"He loves me more than you ever loved me, more than you ever will love me, monsieur, do you understand?"
Benvenuto began to laugh heartily.
"I am very curious to know who this gallant Médor is," he said.
"His name is not Médor," retorted Catherine.
"What then,—madis?"
"Nor Amadis. His name is—"
"Galaor?"
"His name is Pagolo, if you must know."
"Aha! so it's Monsieur Pagolo!" muttered Cellini.
"Yes, it's Monsieur Pagolo," rejoined Scozzone, wounded by the contemptuous tone in which Cellini uttered his rival's name,—"a boy of good family, sedate, quiet, devout, and who would make a most excellent husband."
"Is that your opinion, Scozzone?"
"Yes, it is my opinion."
"And yet you have never given him any hope?"
"I have never listened to him. Oh! I was a great fool! But after this—"
"You are right, Scozzone; you should listen to him, and reply to him."
"How so? What's that you say?"
"I bid you listen when he speaks to you of love, and not turn him away. I will attend to the rest."
"But—"
"But, never fear, I have my plan."
" À la bonne heure. But I hope you don't propose to punish him very severely, poor devil; he acts as if he were confessing his sins when he says, 'I love you.' Play him a trick, if you choose, but not with your sword. I ask mercy for him."
"You will be content with my vengeance, Scozzone, for it will turn to your advantage."
"In what way?"
"It will help to gratify one of your fondest desires."
"What do you mean, Benvenuto?"
"That is my secret."
"Oh, if you knew what an absurd figure he cuts when he tries to be tender!" said the volatile creature, incapable of remaining sad five minutes in succession. "And so, naughty man, you are still interested to know whether any one is paying court to your giddy girl? You do still love poor Scozzone a little?"
"Yes. But do not fail to follow the instructions I give you in regard to Pagolo to the letter."
"Oh, don't be afraid! I can play a part as well as another. It won't be long before he will say to me, 'Catherine, are you still cruel?' and I will reply, 'What! again, Monsieur Pagolo?' But in a not very indignant tone, you understand,—encouraging rather. When he sees that I am no longer harsh, he will think he's conquered the world. But what shall you do to him, Benvenuto? When shall you begin to take your revenge upon him? Will it be long drawn out, and very amusing? Shall we laugh?"
"Yes, we shall laugh," Benvenuto replied.
"And you will always love me?"
Benvenuto imprinted an assenting kiss upon her forehead,—the best of all answers, since it answers for everything without answering for anything.
Poor Scozzone did not suspect that Cellini's kiss was the beginning of his vengeance.
The Vicomte de Marmagne's wish that he might find Benvenuto alone was also gratified. This is how it came about.
Spurred on by the provost's anger, goaded by the memory of Madame d'Etampes's disdain, and influenced above all by his inordinate avarice, the viscount, having resolved to attack the lion in his den with the aid of his two sbirri, selected for his enterprise Saint Eloy's day, when the studio was likely to be deserted, as it was a holiday in the goldsmith's guild. He was proceeding along the quay, with his head high, and his heart beating fast, his two bravos walking ten steps behind him.
"Well, well!" said a voice at his side: "here's a fine young gentleman on amorous conquest bent, with his valorous bearing for the lady, and his two sbirri for the husband."
Marmagne turned, thinking that some one of his friends was speaking to him, but he saw only a stranger who was going in the same direction as himself, but whom in his absorption he had failed to observe.
"I'll wager that I have guessed the truth, my fair sir," continued the stranger. "I will bet my purse against yours, without knowing what it contains, that you are out on some such errand. Oh, tell me nothing! it's one's duty to be circumspect in love. My own name is Jacques Aubry; my profession, student; and I am on my way at present to an appointment with my sweetheart, Gervaise Philipot, a pretty girl, but, between ourselves, of appalling virtue, which suffered shipwreck, however, upon a certain ring. To be sure the ring was a jewel, and a jewel of marvellous workmanship, nothing less than one of Benvenuto Cellini's own!"
Until then the Vicomte de Marmagne had hardly listened to the confidences of his loquacious interlocutor, and had been careful not to reply. But his interest was aroused by the name of Benvenuto Cellini.
"One of Benvenuto Cellini's carvings! The devil! That's a royal gift for a student to make!"
"Oh! pray understand, my dear baron—Are you baron, count, or viscount?"
"Viscount," said Marmagne, biting his lips at the impertinent familiarity with which the student assumed to address him, but anxious to find out if he could not procure some valuable information from him.
"Pray understand, my dear viscount, that I did not buy it. No, although I'm an artist in my way, I don't put my money into such trifles. Benvenuto himself gave it to me in acknowledgment of my lending him a hand last Sunday to take the Grand-Nesle from the provost."
"Then you are Cellini's friend?" Marmagne inquired.
"His most intimate friend, viscount, and I glory in it. Between ourselves it's a friendship for life and death. Doubtless you also know him?"
"Yes."
"You are very fortunate. A sublime genius, is he not, my dear fellow? Pardon me: I say, 'my dear fellow,' but it's simply my way of speaking; besides I think that I am nobly born, too,—at least my mother used to tell my father so whenever he beat her. However, I am, as I told you, the admirer, the confidant, the brother of the great Benvenuto Cellini, and consequently a friend to his friends, and a foe to his foes; for my sublime goldsmith doesn't lack foes. In the first place Madame d'Etampes, secondly, the Provost of Paris, the old villain, and thirdly, a certain Vicomte de Marmagne, a great, lanky creature, whom you perhaps know, and who proposes, so they say, to take possession of the Grand-Nesle. Pardieu! he'll have a warm reception!"
"Benvenuto has heard of his claim, has he?" queried Marmagne, beginning to take a very decided interest in the student's conversation.
"He has been warned; but—Hold! I must, not tell you, so that the aforesaid Marmagne may receive the chastisement he deserves."
"From what you say I judge that Benvenuto is on his guard?"
"On his guard? why, Benvenuto is always on his guard. He has come within an ace of being assassinated, I don't know how many times; but, thank God, he has always come safely out of it!"
"What do you mean by on his guard?"
"Oh! I don't mean that he has a garrison, as that old poltroon of a provost had; no, no, quite the contrary. Indeed, he is entirely alone at this moment as all the fellows have gone to Vanvres for a holiday. I was to go myself, and play a game of tennis with him, dear Benvenuto. Unluckily Gervaise's convenience conflicted with the great artist's, and naturally, as you will agree, I gave the preference to Gervaise."
"In that case I will take your place with Benvenuto," said Marmagne.
"Do so; it will be a meritorious action on your part; go, my dear viscount, and say to Benvenuto from me that he will see me this evening. Three knocks, rather loud, is the signal, you know. He adopted that precaution on account of that great oaf of a Marmagne, who is likely, so he imagines, to try to play him some scurvy trick. Do you know this Vicomte de Marmagne?"
"No."
"Ah! so much the worse! You might have described him to me."
"What for?"
"So that I might suggest a little game with clubs to him, if I should fall in with him. I don't know why it is, but although I never saw him, do you know I particularly detest your Marmagne, my dear fellow, and if he ever falls in my way, I propose to pummel him in fine shape. But pardon me: here we are at the Augustins, and I am compelled to leave you. By the way, what is your name, my friend?"
The viscount walked away as if he did not hear the question.
"Aha!" said Jacques Aubry, "it seems that we prefer to remain incog ; that's the purest chivalry, or I don't know myself. As you please, my dear viscount, as you please."
And Jacques Aubry thrust his hands in his pockets and strutted down Rue de Battoir, at the end of which Gervaise lived, whistling a student's song.
The Vicomte de Marmagne continued his journey toward the Grand-Nesle.
Benvenuto was in fact alone, as Jacques Aubry had said; Ascanio had wandered away, I know not where, to dream; Catherine had gone with Ruperta to visit one of her friends, and all the workmen and apprentices were holiday making at Vanvres.
The master was in the garden working at the clay model of his gigantic statue of Mars, whose colossal head could see the Louvre over the roof's of the Grand-Nesle, when little Jehan, who was on guard at the door for the day, deceived by Marmagne's manner of knocking, took him for a friend, and admitted him with his two sbirri.
If Benvenuto did not, like Titian, work with his coat of mail upon his back, he did, like Salvator Rosa, work with his sword at his side, and his carbine within reach of his hand. Marmagne therefore quickly discovered that life had gained very little by surprising him; he had simply surprised an armed man.
The viscount did not even try to dissemble his bravado born of poltroonery; and when Cellini, in an imperative tone which called for an immediate reply, demanded why he had come upon his premises,—
"I have no business with you," was his answer; "I am the Vicomte de Marmagne; I am the king's secretary, and here is an order from his Majesty," he added, holding a paper above his head, "which allots a portion of the Grand-Nesle to me; I am here to make provision for arranging to my taste that portion of the hotel which is allotted to me, and which I shall occupy henceforth."
With that, Marmagne, still followed by his two sbirri, stalked toward the door of the château.
Benvenuto seized his carbine, which was, as we have said, within his reach, and with one bound stood in front of the door on the stoop.
"Halt where you are!" he cried in a terrible voice, stretching out his right arm in Marmagne's direction; "one step more, and you're a dead man!"
The viscount at once stopped short, although after these preliminaries we might perhaps have anticipated a desperate conflict.
But there are men to whom is given the power to strike terror to other men's hearts. There is an indescribable something in their look, their gestures, their attitude, as in the look, the gestures, and the attitude of the lion. The air about them is instinct with awe; their power is felt afar off. When they stamp upon the ground, clench their fists, knit their brows, or inflate their nostrils, the boldest hesitate to attack them. A wild beast, whose young are attacked, has but to bristle up and breathe noisily to make the assailant tremble. The men of whom we speak are living dangers. Valiant hearts recognize their like in them, and go straight forward to meet them, despite their secret emotion. But the weak, the timid, the cowardly, recoil at sight of them.
Now Marmagne, as the reader has discovered, was not a valiant heart, and Benvenuto had all the appearance of a living danger.
And so when the viscount heard the redoubtable goldsmith's voice, and observed the imperial gesture of the arm extended toward him, he realized that death for himself and his two sbirri lay dormant in the carbine, the sword, and the dagger with which he was armed.
Furthermore, little Jehan, seeing that his master was threatened, had armed himself with a pike.
Marmagne felt that his game was up, and that he would be only too fortunate if he could extricate himself safe and sound from the wasps' nest he had stumbled upon.
"It's all right! it's all right! Messire Goldsmith," he said. "All that we wanted was to know whether you were or were not disposed to obey his Majesty's orders. You scoff at them, and refuse to abide by them! Very good! We shall apply to some one who will find a way to compel their execution. But do not hope that we shall do ourselves the honor of bargaining with you. Bonsoir !"
" Bonsoir !" said Benvenuto, with his hearty laugh. "Jehan, show these gentlemen out."
The viscount and his two sbirri shamefacedly retreated from the Grand-Nesle, cowed by one man, and shown out by a mere boy.
Such was the lamentable result of the fulfilment of the viscount's wish: "If only I could find Benvenuto alone!"
As he had been even more cruelly treated by fate in the matter of his desires than Jacques Aubry and Scozzone, who did not even yet detect the irony of destiny, our valorous viscount was furious.
"Madame d'Etampes was right," he said to himself, "and I am fain to follow the advice she gave me; I must break my sword and sharpen my dagger. This devil of a man is just what he is said to be, very intolerant, and not at all agreeable. I saw it written plainly enough in his eyes, that if I took another step I was a dead man; but in every lost cause there is a possibility of revenge. Look well to yourself, Master Benvenuto! look well to yourself!"
He proceeded to lay the blame upon his companions, who were tried men, however, and would have asked nothing better than to earn their money honestly, by slaying or being themselves slain: in retiring, they had simply obeyed their master's orders. They promised to give a better account of themselves in an ambuscade; but as Marmagne, to shield his own honor, claimed that the check he had met with was due to them, he informed them that he did not propose to accompany them in their next undertaking, and that they must go through with it alone as best they could. It was the very thing they most desired.
Having enjoined silence upon them concerning their recent experience, he called upon the Provost of Paris, and informed him that he had concluded that the surest way to avoid all suspicion was to postpone Benvenuto's punishment until some day when, as frequently happened, he ventured into a lonely, deserted street with a considerable sum of money, or some valuable piece of his handiwork. Then it would be believed that he had been murdered by robbers.
It now remains for us to see how the wishes of Madame d'Etampes, Ascanio, and Cellini were gratified to their increased sorrow.