CHAPTER VII.
HOW, WITHOUT ANY ONE KNOWING WHY, THE KING WAS CONVERTED BEFORE
THE NEXT DAY.
Three hours passed thus.
Suddenly, a terrible cry was heard, which came from the king's
room.
All the lights in his room were out, and no sound was to be heard
except this strange call of the king's. For it was he who had
cried.
Soon was heard the noise of furniture falling, porcelain breaking,
steps running about the room, and the barking of dogs-mingled
with new cries. Almost instantly lights burned, swords shone
in the galleries, and the heavy steps of the Guards were heard.
"To arms!" cried all, "the king calls."
And the captain of the guard, the colonel of the Swiss, and some
attendants, rushed into the king's room with flambeaux.
Near an overturned chair, broken cups, and disordered bed, stood
Henri, looking terrified and grotesque in his night-dress. His
right hand was extended, trembling like a leaf in the wind, and
his left held his sword, which he had seized mechanically.
He appeared dumb through terror, and all the spectators, not daring
to break the silence, waited with the utmost anxiety.
Then appeared, half dressed and wrapped in a large cloak, the
young queen, Louise de Lorraine, blonde and gentle, who led the
life of a saint upon earth, and who had been awakened by her
husband's cries.
"Sire," cried she, also trembling, "what is the matter? Mon Dieu!
I heard your cries, and I came."
"It--it is nothing," said the king, without moving his eyes,
which seemed to be looking up the air for some form invisible
to all but him.
"But your majesty cried out; is your majesty suffering?" asked
the queen.
Terror was so visibly painted on the king's countenance, that
it began to gain on the others.
"Oh, sire!" cried the queen again, "in Heaven's name do not leave
us in this suspense. Will you have a doctor?"
"A doctor, no," cried Henri, in the same tone, "the body is not
ill, it is the mind; no doctor--a confessor."
Everyone looked round; nowhere was there to be seen any traces
of what had so terrified the king. However, a confessor was sent
for; Joseph Foulon, superior of the convent of St. Généviève,
was torn from his bed, to come to the king. With the confessor,
the tumult ceased, and silence was reestablished; everyone
conjectured and wondered--the king was confessing.
The next day the king rose early, and began to read prayers then
he ordered all his friends to be sent for. They sent to St. Luc,
but he was more suffering than ever. His sleep, or rather his
lethargy, had been so profound, that he alone had heard nothing
of the tumult in the night, although he slept so near. He begged
to be left in bed. At this deplorable recital, Henri crossed
himself, and sent him a doctor.
Then he ordered that all the scourges from the convent should
be brought to him, and, going to his friends, distributed them,
ordering them to scourge each other as hard as they could.
D'Epernon said that as his right arm was in a sling, and he could
not return the blows he received, he ought to be exempt, but the
king replied that that would only make it the more acceptable
to God.
He himself set the example. He took off his doublet, waistcoat,
and shirt, and struck himself like a martyr. Chicot tried to
laugh, as usual, but was warned by a terrible look, that this
was not the right time, and he was forced to take a scourge like
the others.
All at once the king left the room, telling them to wait for him.
Immediately the blows ceased, only Chicot continued to strike
D'O, whom he hated, and D'O returned it as well as he could. It
was a duel with whips.
The king went to the queen, gave her a pearl necklace worth 25,000
crowns, and kissed her, which he had not done for a year. Then
he asked her to put off her royal ornaments and put on a sack.
Louise, always good, consented, but asked why her husband gave
her a necklace, and yet made such a request.
"For my sins," replied he.
The queen said no more, for she knew, better than any one, how
many he had to repent of.
Henri returned, which was a signal for the flagellation to
recommence. In ten minutes the queen arrived, with her sack on
her shoulders. Then tapers were distributed to all the court, and
barefooted, through the snow, all the courtiers and fine ladies
went to Montmartre, shivering. At five o'clock the promenade was
over, the convents had received rich presents, the feet of all
the court were swollen, and the backs of the courtiers sore. There
had been tears, cries, prayers, incense, and psalms. Everyone
had suffered, without knowing why the king, who danced the night
before, scourged himself to-day. As for Chicot, he had escaped at
the Porte Montmartre, and, with Brother Gorenflot, had entered a
public-house, where he had eaten and drank. Then he had rejoined
the procession and returned to the Louvre.
In the evening the king, fatigued with his fast and his exercise,
ordered himself a light supper, had his shoulders washed, and
then went to visit St. Luc.
"Ah!" cried he, "God has done well to render life so bitter."
"Why so, sire?"
"Because then man, instead of fearing death, longs for it."
"Speak for yourself, sire, I do not long for it at all."
"Listen, St. Luc, will you follow my example?"
"If I think it a good one."
"I will leave my throne, and you your wife, and we will enter
a cloister. I will call myself Brother Henri----"
"Pardon, sire, if you do not care for your crown, of which you
are tired, I care very much for my wife, whom I know so little.
Therefore I refuse."
"Oh! you are better."
"Infinitely better, sire; I feel quite joyous, and disposed for
happiness and pleasure."
"Poor St. Luc!" cried the king, clasping his hands.
"You should have asked me yesterday, sire, then I was ill and
cross. I would have thrown myself into a well for a trifle. But
this evening it is quite a different thing. I have passed a good
night and a charming day. Mordieu, vive la joie!"
"You swear, St. Luc."
"Did I, sire? but I think you swear sometimes."
"I have sworn, St. Luc, but I shall swear no more."
"I cannot say that; I will not swear more than I can help, and
God is merciful."
"You think he will pardon me?"
"Oh! I speak for myself, not for you, sire. You have sinned as a
king, I as a private man, and we shall, I trust, be differently
judged."
The king sighed. "St. Luc," said he, "will you pass the night
in my room?"
"Why, what should we do?"
"We will light all the lamps, I will go to bed, and you shall
read prayers to me."
"No, thank you, sire."
"You will not?"
"On no account."
"You abandon me, St. Luc!"
"No, I will stay with your majesty, if you will send for music
and ladies, and have a dance."
"Oh, St. Luc, St. Luc!"
"I am wild to-night, sire, I want to dance and drink."
"St. Luc," said the king, solemnly, "do you ever dream?"
"Often, sire."
"You believe in dreams?"
"With reason."
"How so?"
"Dreams console for the reality. Last night I had a charming dream."
"What was it?"
"I dreamed that my wife----"
"You still think of your wife?"
"More than ever, sire; well, I dreamed that she, with her charming
face--for she is pretty, sire----"
"So was Eve, who ruined us all."
"Well, my wife had procured wings and the form of a bird, and
so, braving locks and bolts, she passed over the walls of the
Louvre, and came to my window, crying, 'Open, St. Luc, open,
my husband.'"
"And you opened?"
"I should think so."
"Worldly."
"As you please, sire."
"Then you woke?"
"No, indeed, the dream was too charming; and I hope to-night to
dream again; therefore I refuse your majesty's obliging offer.
If I sit up, let me at least have something to pay me for losing
my dream. If your majesty will do as I said----"
"Enough, St. Luc. I trust Heaven will send you a dream to-night
which will lead you to repentance."
"I doubt it, sire, and I advise you to send away this libertine
St. Luc, who is resolved not to amend."
"No, no, I hope, before to-morrow, grace will have touched you
as it has me. Good night, I will pray for you."
