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.