On the same day that Benvenuto removed his statue from the mould, he sent word to François I. that his Jupiter was cast, and asked him on what day it was his pleasure that the King of Olympus should appear before the King of France.
François replied that his cousin, the Emperor, and he were to hunt in the forest of Fontainebleau on the following Thursday, and that he need do nothing more than have his statue transported to the grand gallery of the château on that day.
The reply was very short; it was evident that Madame d'Etampes had strongly prejudiced the king against his favorite artist. But Benvenuto—was it through pride or confidence in God?—said simply, with a smile,—
"It is well."
It was Monday. Benvenuto caused the Jupiter to be loaded upon a wagon, and rode beside it, not leaving it for an instant, lest some mishap might befall it. On Thursday, at ten o'clock, statue and artist were at Fontainebleau.
To any one who saw Benvenuto, though it were only to see him ride by, it was evident that pride and radiant hope were triumphant in his heart. His conscience as an artist told him that he had executed a chef-d'œuvre , and his honest heart that he was about to perform a meritorious action. He was doubly joyous, therefore, and carried his head high, like a man who, having no hatred in his heart, was equally without fear. The king was to see his Jupiter, and could not fail to be pleased with it; Montmorency and Poyet would remind him of his promise; the Emperor and the whole court would be present, and François could not do otherwise than as he had given his word to do.
Madame d'Etampes, with less innocent delight, but with quite as much ardent passion, was maturing her plans. She had triumphed over Benvenuto at the time of his first attempt to confound her by presenting himself at her own hôtel and at the Louvre. The first danger was safely past, but she felt that the king's promise to Benvenuto was a second equally great danger, and it was her purpose, at any cost, to induce his Majesty to disregard it. She therefore repaired to Fontainebleau one day in advance of Cellini, and laid her wires with the profound feminine craft which in her case almost amounted to genius.
Cellini was destined very soon to feel its effects.
He had no sooner crossed the threshold of the gallery where his Jupiter was to be exhibited, than he felt the blow, recognized the hand that had dealt it, and stood for a moment overwhelmed.
This gallery, ordinarily resplendent with paintings by Rosso, which were in themselves enough to distract the attention from almost any masterpiece, had been embellished during the last three days by statues sent from Rome by Primaticcio,—that is to say, the marvels of antique sculpture, the types sanctified by the admiration of twenty centuries, were there before him, challenging comparison, crushing all rivalry. Ariadne, Venus, Hercules, Apollo, even Jupiter himself, the great Olympian Jove,—ideal figures, dreams of genius, eternities in bronze,—formed, as it were, a supernatural assemblage which it was impious to approach, a sublime tribunal whose judgment every artist should dread.
There was something like profanation and blasphemy in the thought of another Jupiter insinuating himself into that Olympus, of Benvenuto throwing down the gauntlet to Phidias, and, notwithstanding his trust in his own merit, the devout artist recoiled.
Furthermore, the immortal statues had taken possession of all the best places, as it was their right to do, and there was no place left for Cellini's poor Jupiter but some dark corner which could only be reached by passing under the stately and imposing glances of the ancient gods.
Benvenuto stood in the doorway with bowed head, and with an expression in which sadness and artistic gratification were mingled.
"Messire Antoine Le Maçon," he said to the king's secretary, who stood beside him, "I ought to and will send my Jupiter back instantly; the disciple will not attempt to contend with the masters; the child will not attempt to contend with his parents; my pride and my modesty alike forbid!"
"Benvenuto," replied the secretary, "take the advice of a sincere friend,—if you do that, you are lost. I tell you this between ourselves, that your enemies hope to discourage you, and then to allege your discouragement as a proof of your lack of skill. It will be useless for me to make excuses for you to the king. His Majesty, who is impatient to see your work, would refuse to listen, and, with Madame d'Etampes continually urging him to do it, would withdraw his favor from you forever. She anticipates that result, and I fear it. It's with the living, not with the dead, Benvenuto, that you have to contend."
"You are right, messire," the goldsmith rejoined, "and I understand you perfectly. Thank you for reminding me that I have no right to have any self-esteem here."
"That's all right, Benvenuto. But let me give you one more bit of advice. Madame d'Etampes is too fascinating to-day not to have some perfidious scheme in her head: she took the king and the Emperor off for a ride in the forest with irresistible playfulness and charm; I am afraid for your sake that she will find a way to keep them there until dark."
"Do you think it?" cried Benvenuto, turning pale. "Why, if she succeeds in doing that, I am lost; for my statue would then have to be exhibited by artificial light, which would deprive it of half its merit."
"Let us hope that I am mistaken," said Le Maçon, "and see what comes to pass."
Cellini waited in painful suspense. He placed his Jupiter in as favorable a light as possible, but he did not conceal from himself the fact that its effect would be comparatively slight by twilight, and that after nightfall it would be positively bad. The duchess's hatred had reckoned no less accurately than the artist's skill; she anticipated in 1541 a trick of the critics of the nineteenth century.
Benvenuto watched the sun sink toward the horizon with despair at his heart, and listened eagerly to every sound without the château. Except for the servants the vast structure was deserted.
Three o'clock struck; thenceforth the purpose of Madame d'Etampes could not be mistaken, and her success was beyond question. Benvenuto fell upon a chair, utterly crushed. All was lost: his renown first of all. That feverish struggle, in which he had been so near succumbing, and which he had already forgotten because he had thought that it made his triumph sure, would have no other result than to put him to shame. He gazed sorrowfully at his statue, around which the shadows of night were already beginning to fall, and whose lines began to appear less pure.
Suddenly an inspiration came to him; he sprang to his feet, called little Jehan, whom he had brought with him, and rushed hastily from the gallery. Nothing had yet occurred to suggest the king's return. Benvenuto hurried to a cabinet-maker in the town, and with his assistance and that of his workmen made, in less than an hour, a stand of light-colored oak, with four rollers, which turned in every direction, like casters.
He trembled now lest the king should return too soon: but at five o'clock the work was completed, night had fallen, and the crowned heads had not returned to the château. Madame d'Etampes, wherever she was, was in a fair way to triumph.
In a very short time Benvenuto had the statue in place upon the almost invisible stand. Jupiter held in his left hand the sphere representing the world, and in his right, a little above his head, the thunderbolt, which he seemed to be on the point of launching into space: amid the tongues of the thunderbolt the goldsmith concealed a lamp.
These preparations were hardly completed when a flourish of trumpets announced the return of the king and the Emperor. Benvenuto lighted the lamp, stationed little Jehan behind the statue, by which he was entirely concealed, and awaited the king's coming, not without trepidation, evidenced by the violent beating of his heart.
Ten minutes later the folding doors were thrown wide open, and François I. appeared, leading Charles V. by the hand.
The Dauphin, Dauphine, the King of Navarre, and the whole court followed the two monarchs; the provost, his daughter, and D'Orbec were among the last. Colombe was pale and dejected, but as soon as she espied Cellini, she raised her head, and a smile of sublime confidence appeared upon her lips and lighted up her face.
Cellini met her glance with one which seemed to say, "Have no fear; whatever happens, do not despair, for I am watching over you."
As the door opened, little Jehan, at a signal from his master, gave the statue a slight push, so that it moved softly forward upon its smoothly rolling stand, and, leaving the antique statues behind, went to meet the king, so to speak, as if it were alive. Every eye was at once turned in its direction. The soft light of the lamp falling from above produced an effect much more agreeable than daylight.
Madame d'Etampes bit her lips.
"Methinks, Sire," said she, "that the flattery is a little overdone, and that it was for the king of earth to go to meet the king of heaven."
The king smiled, but it was easy to see that the flattery did not offend him; as his wont was, he forgot the artist for his art, saved the statue half the journey by walking to meet it, and examined it for a long time in silence. Charles V., who was by nature an astute politician rather than a great artist, although he did one day, in a moment of good humor, pick up Titian's pencil,—Charles V. and the courtiers, who were not entitled to an opinion, waited respectfully to hear that of François before pronouncing their own.
There was a moment of silent suspense, during which Benvenuto and the duchess exchanged a glance of bitter hatred.
Suddenly the king cried,—
"It is beautiful! it is very beautiful! and I confess that my expectations are surpassed."
Thereupon every one overflowed in compliments and extravagant praise, the Emperor first of all.
"If one could conquer artists like cities," said he to the king, "I would declare war on you instantly, to win this one, my cousin."
"But, after all," interrupted Madame d'Etampes, in a rage, "we do not even look at the beautiful antique statues a little farther on, which have somewhat more merit, perhaps, than our modern gewgaws."
The king thereupon walked toward the antique statues, which were lighted from below by the torches, so that the upper portions were in shadow; they were beyond question much less effective than the Jupiter.
"Phidias is sublime," said the king, "but there may be a Phidias in the age of François I. and Charles V., as there was in the age of Pericles."
"Oh, we must see it by daylight," said Anne, bitterly; "to appear to be is not to be: an artificial light is not art. And what is that veil? is it to conceal some defect, Master Cellini, tell us frankly?"
She referred to a very light drapery thrown over the statue to give it more majesty.
Thus far Benvenuto had remained beside his statue, silent, and apparently as cold as it; but at the duchess's words, he smiled disdainfully, shot lightning from his black eyes, and, with the sublime audacity of a heathen artist, snatched the veil away with his powerful hand.
He expected that the duchess would burst forth with renewed fury.
But by an incredible exertion of her will power, she smiled with ominous affability, and graciously held out her hand to Cellini, who was amazed beyond measure by this sudden change of tactics.
"I was wrong," she said aloud, in the tone of a spoiled child; "you are a great sculptor, Cellini; forgive my critical remarks; give me your hand, and let us be friends henceforth. What say you?"
She added in an undertone, with extreme volubility: "Think well of what you are about to ask, Cellini. Let it not be the marriage of Colombe and Ascanio, or I swear that Colombe, Ascanio, and yourself, all three, are undone forever!"
"And suppose I request something else, madame," said Benvenuto, in the same tone; "will you second my request?"
"Yes," said she, eagerly; "and I swear that, whatever it may be, the king will grant it."
"I have no need to request the king's sanction to the marriage of Colombe and Ascanio, for you will request it yourself, madame."
The duchess smiled disdainfully.
"What are you whispering there?" said François.
"Madame la Duchesse d'Etampes," Benvenuto replied, "was obliging enough to remind me that your Majesty had promised to grant me a boon in case you were content with my work."
"And the promise was made in my presence, Sire," said the constable, coming forward; "in my presence and Chancelier Poyet's. Indeed, you bade my colleague and myself remind you—"
"True, constable," interposed the king, good-humoredly; "true, if I failed to remember myself; but I remember famously, on my word! So your intervention, while it is perfectly agreeable to me, is quite useless. I promised Benvenuto to grant whatever boon he might ask when his Jupiter was cast. Was not that it, constable? Have I a good memory, chancellor? It is for you to speak, Master Cellini: I am at your service; but I beg you to think less of your own merit, which is immense, than of our power, which is limited; we make no reservations, saving our crown and our mistress."
"Very good, Sire," said Cellini, "since your Majesty is so well disposed toward your unworthy servitor, I will ask for the pardon of a poor student, who fell into a dispute upon the Quai du Châtelet with the Vicomte de Marmagne, and in self-defence passed his sword through the viscount's body."
Every one marvelled at the moderation of his request, and Madame d'Etampes most of all; she gazed at Benvenuto with an air of stupefaction, and as if she thought that she could not have heard aright.
"By Mahomet's belly!" exclaimed François, "you do well to invoke my right of pardon in that matter, for I heard the chancellor himself say yesterday that it was a hanging affair."
"Oh, Sire!" cried the duchess, "I intended to speak to you myself concerning that young man. I have had news of Marmagne, who is improving, and who sent word to me that he sought the quarrel, and the student—What is the student's name, Master Benvenuto?"
"Jacques Aubry, Madame la Duchesse."
"And the student," continued Madame d'Etampes, hurriedly, "was in no wise in the wrong; and so, Sire, instead of rebuking Benvenuto, or cavilling at him, grant his request promptly, lest he repent of having been of modest."
"Very well," said François; "what you desire shall be done, master; and as he gives twice who gives quickly,—so says the proverb,—let the order to set this young man at liberty be despatched to-night. Do you hear, my dear chancellor?"
"Yes, Sire; and your Majesty shall be obeyed."
"As to yourself, Master Benvenuto," said François, "come to me on Monday at the Louvre, and we will adjust certain matters of detail in which you are interested, and which have been somewhat neglected of late by my treasurer."
"But your Majesty knows that admission to the Louvre—"
"Very good! very good! the person who gave the order can rescind it. It was a war measure, and as you now have none but friends at court, everything will be re-established upon a peace footing."
"As your Majesty is in a granting mood," said the duchess, "I pray you to grant a trifling request which I prefer, although I did not make the Jupiter."
"No," said Benvenuto in an undertone, "but you have often acted the part of Danaë."
"What is your request?" said François, who did not hear Benvenuto's epigram. "Say on, Madame la Duchesse, and be sure that the solemnity of the occasion can add nothing to my desire to be agreeable to you."
"Very well, Sire; your Majesty might well confer upon Messire d'Estourville the great honor of signing on Monday next the marriage contract of my young friend, Mademoiselle d'Estourville, with Comte d'Orbec."
"Why, I should be conferring no favor upon you by so doing," rejoined the king, "but I should afford myself a very great pleasure, and should still remain your debtor, I swear."
"So it is agreed, Sire, for Monday?" asked the duchess.
"For Monday," said the king.
"Madame la Duchesse," said Benvenuto, under his breath, "do you not regret that the beautiful lily you ordered Ascanio to execute is not finished, that you might wear it upon such an occasion?"
"Of course I regret it," was the reply; "but it's impossible, for Ascanio is in prison."
"Very true, but I am free; I will finish it and bring it to Madame la Duchesse."
"Oh! upon my honor! if you do that I will say—"
"You will say what, madame?"
"I will say that you are a delightful man."
She gave her hand to Benvenuto, who gallantly imprinted a kiss upon it, after asking the king's permission with a glance.
At that moment a slight shriek was heard.
"What is that?" the king asked.
"Sire, I ask your Majesty's pardon," said the provost, "but my daughter is ill."
"Poor child!" murmured Benvenuto; "she thinks that I have abandoned her."