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Title: Cinq Mars, Complete

Author: Alfred de Vigny

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Release Date: October 5, 2006 [EBook #3953]

Language: English

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CINQ MARS

By Alfred De Vigny


With a Prefaces by CHARLES DE MAZADE, and GASTON BOISSIER of the French
Academy.




ALFRED DE VIGNY

The reputation of Alfred de Vigny has endured extraordinary vicissitudes
in France. First he was lauded as the precursor of French romantic
poetry and stately prose; then he sank in semi-oblivion, became the
curiosity of criticism, died in retirement, and was neglected for a long
time, until the last ten years or so produced a marked revolution
of taste in France. The supremacy of Victor Hugo has been, if not
questioned, at least mitigated; other poets have recovered from their
obscurity. Lamartine shines now like a lamp relighted; and the pure,
brilliant, and profoundly original genius of Alfred de Vigny now takes,
for the first time, its proper place as one of the main illuminating
forces of the nineteenth century.

It was not until one hundred years after this poet's birth that it
became clearly recognized that he is one of the most important of
all the great writers of France, and he is distinguished not only in
fiction, but also in poetry and the drama. He is a follower of Andre
Chenier, Lamartine, and Victor Hugo, a lyric sun, a philosophic poet,
later, perhaps in consequence of the Revolution of 1830, becoming a
"Symbolist." He has been held to occupy a middle ground between De
Musset and Chenier, but he has also something suggestive of Madame de
Stael, and, artistically, he has much in common with Chateaubriand,
though he is more coldly impersonal and probably much more sincere in
his philosophy. If Sainte-Beuve, however, calls the poet in his Nouveaux
Lundis a "beautiful angel, who has been drinking vinegar," then the
modern reader needs a strong caution against malice and raillery, if not
jealousy and perfidy, although the article on De Vigny abounds otherwise
with excessive critical cleverness.

At times, indeed, under the cruel deceptions of love, he seemed to lose
faith in his idealism; his pessimism, nevertheless, always remained
noble, restrained, sympathetic, manifesting itself not in appeals for
condolence, but in pitying care for all who were near and dear to him.
Yet his lofty prose and poetry, interpenetrated with the stern despair
of pessimistic idealism, will always be unintelligible to the many. As a
poet, De Vigny appeals to the chosen few alone. In his dramas his genius
is more emancipated from himself, in his novels most of all. It is by
these that he is most widely known, and by these that he exercised the
greatest influence on the literary life of his generation.

 Alfred-Victor, Count de Vigny, was born in Loches, Touraine, March 27,
1797. His father was an army officer, wounded in the Seven Years' War.
Alfred, after having been well educated, also selected a military career
and received a commission in the "Mousquetaires Rouges," in 1814, when
barely seventeen. He served until 1827, "twelve long years of peace,"
then resigned. Already in 1822 appeared a volume of 'Poemes' which was
hardly noticed, although containing poetry since become important to
the evolution of French verse: 'La Neige, le Coy, le Deluge, Elva, la
Frigate', etc., again collected in 'Poemes antiques et modernes' (1826).
Other poems were published after his death in 'Les Destinies' (1864).

Under the influence of Walter Scott, he wrote a historical romance in
1826, 'Cinq-Mars, ou une Conjuration sans Louis XIII'. It met with
the most brilliant and decided success and was crowned by the Academy.
Cinq-Mars will always be remembered as the earliest romantic novel
in France and the greatest and most dramatic picture of Richelieu now
extant. De Vigny was a convinced Anglophile, well acquainted with the
writings of Shakespeare and Milton, Byron, Wordsworth, Shelley, Matthew
Arnold, and Leopardi. He also married an English lady in 1825--Lydia
Bunbury.

Other prose works are 'Stello' (1832), in the manner of Sterne and
Diderot, and 'Servitude et Grandeur militaire' (1835), the language
of which is as caustic as that of Merimee. As a dramatist, De Vigny
produced a translation of 'Othello--Le More de Venice' (1829); also 'La
Marechale d'Ancre' (1832); both met with moderate success only. But a
decided "hit" was 'Chatterton' (1835), an adaption from his prose-work
'Stello, ou les Diables bleus'; it at once established his reputation
on the stage; the applause was most prodigious, and in the annals of
the French theatre can only be compared with that of 'Le Cid'. It was a
great victory for the Romantic School, and the type of Chatterton, the
slighted poet, "the marvellous boy, the sleepless soul that perished in
his pride," became contagious as erstwhile did the type of Werther.

For twenty years before his death Alfred de Vigny wrote nothing. He
lived in retirement, almost a recluse, in La Charente, rarely visiting
Paris. Admitted into L'Academie Francaise in 1845, he describes in his
'Journal d'un Poete' his academic visits and the reception held out to
him by the members of L'Institut. This work appeared posthumously in
1867.

He died in Paris, September 17, 1863.

                  CHARLES DE MAZADE
                de l'Academie Francaise.




PREFACE

Considering Alfred de Vigny first as a writer, it is evident that he
wished the public to regard him as different from the other romanticists
of his day; in fact, in many respects, his method presents a striking
contrast to theirs. To their brilliant facility, their prodigious
abundance, and the dazzling luxury of color in their pictures of life
he opposes a style always simple, pure, clear, with delicacy of touch,
careful drawing of character, correct locution, and absolute chastity.
Yet, even though he had this marked regard for purity in literary style,
no writer had more dislike of mere pedantry. His high ideal in literary
art and his self-respect inspired him with an invincible repugnance
toward the artificialities of style of that period, which the
romanticists--above all, Chateaubriand, their master--had so much
abused.

Every one knows of the singular declaration made by Chateaubriand to
Joubert, while relating the details of a nocturnal voyage: "The moon
shone upon me in a slender crescent, and that prevented me from writing
an untruth, for I feel sure that had not the moon been there I should
have said in my letter that it was shining, and then you would have
convicted me of an error in my almanac!"

This habit of sacrificing truth and exactitude of impression, for the
sake of producing a harmonious phrase or a picturesque suggestion,
disgusted Alfred de Vigny. "The worst thing about writers is that they
care very little whether what they write is true, so long as they only
write," we read on one page of his Journal. He adds, "They should seek
words only in their own consciences." On another page he says: "The most
serious lack in literary work is sincerity. Perceiving clearly that the
combination of technical labor and research for effective expression, in
producing literary work, often leads us to a paradox, I have resolved to
sacrifice all to conviction and truth, so that this precious element of
sincerity, complete and profound, shall dominate my books and give to
them the sacred character which the divine presence of truth always
gives."

Besides sincerity, De Vigny possessed, in a high degree, a gift which
was not less rare in that age--good taste. He had taste in the art of
writing, a fine literary tact, a sense of proportion, a perception of
delicate shades of expression, an instinct that told him what to say and
what to suppress, to insinuate, or to be left to the understanding. Even
in his innovations in form, in his boldness of style, he showed a
rare discretion; never did he do violence to the genius of the French
language, and one may apply to him without reserve the eulogy that
Quintilian pronounced upon Horace: 'Verbis felicissime audax'.

He cherished also a fixed principle that art implied selection. He was
neither idealist nor realist, in the exclusive and opposing sense in
which we understand these terms; he recommended a scrupulous observance
of nature, and that every writer should draw as close to it as possible,
but only in order to interpret it, to reveal it with a true feeling,
yet without a too intimate analysis, and that no one should attempt to
portray it exactly or servilely copy it. "Of what use is art," he says,
"if it is only a reduplication of existence? We see around us only too
much of the sadness and disenchantment of reality." The three novels
that compose the volume 'Servitude et Grandeur militaire' are, in this
respect, models of romantic composition that never will be surpassed,
bearing witness to the truth of the formula followed by De Vigny in all
his literary work: "Art is the chosen truth."

If, as a versifier, Alfred de Vigny does not equal the great poets of
his time, if they are his superiors in distinction and brilliancy, in
richness of vocabulary, freedom of movement, and variety of rhythm, the
cause is to be ascribed less to any lack of poetic genius than to the
nature of his inspiration, even to the laws of poesy, and to the secret
and irreducible antinomy that exists between art and thought. When,
for example, Theophile Gautier reproached him with being too little
impressed with the exigencies of rhyme, his criticism was not well
grounded, for richness of rhyme, though indispensable in works of
descriptive imagination, has no 'raison d'etre' in poems dominated by
sentiment and thought. But, having said that, we must recognize in his
poetry an element, serious, strong, and impressive, characteristic
of itself alone, and admire, in the strophes of 'Mozse', in the
imprecations of 'Samson', and in the 'Destinees', the majestic
simplicity of the most beautiful Hebraic verse.

Moreover, the true originality of De Vigny does not lie in the manner
of composition; it was primarily in the role of precursor that he played
his part on the stage of literature. Let us imagine ourselves at the
period about the beginning of the year 1822. Of the three poets who,
in making their literary debuts, had just published the 'Meditations,
Poemes antiques et modernes, and Odes', only one had, at that time, the
instinct of renewal in the spirit of French poesy, and a sense of
the manner in which this must be accomplished; and that one was not
Lamartine, and certainly it was not Victor Hugo.

Sainte-Beuve has said, with authority, that in Lamartine there is
something suggestive of Millevoye, of Voltaire (he of the charming
epistles), and of Fontanes; and Victor Hugo wrote with very little
variation from the technical form of his predecessors. "But with Alfred
de Vigny," he says, "we seek in vain for a resemblance to any French
poetry preceding his work. For example, where can we find anything
resembling 'Moise, Eloa, Doloeida'? Where did he find his inspiration
for style and composition in these poems? If the poets of the Pleiades
of the Restoration seem to have found their inspiration within
themselves, showing no trace of connection with the literature of the
past, thus throwing into confusion old habits of taste and of routine,
certain it is that among them Alfred de Vigny should be ranked first."

Even in the collection that bears the date of 1822, some years before
the future author of Legende des Siecles had taken up romanticism,
Alfred de Vigny had already conceived the idea of setting forth, in a
series of little epics, the migrations of the human soul throughout the
ages. "One feels," said he in his Preface, "a keen intellectual delight
in transporting one's self, by mere force of thought, to a period of
antiquity; it resembles the pleasure an old man feels in recalling first
his early youth, and then the whole course of his life. In the age of
simplicity, poetry was devoted entirely to the beauties of the physical
forms of nature and of man; each step in advance that it has made since
then toward our own day of civilization and of sadness, seems to have
blended it more and more with our arts, and even with the sufferings of
our souls. At present, with all the serious solemnity of Religion and of
Destiny, it lends to them their chief beauty. Never discouraged, Poetry
has followed Man in his long journey through the ages, like a sweet and
beautiful companion. I have attempted, in our language, to show some of
her beauties, in following her progress toward the present day."

The arrangement of the poems announced in this Preface is tripartite,
like that of the 'Legende des Siecles: Poemes antiques, poemes
judaiques, poemes modernes.--Livre mystique, livre antique, livre
moderne'. But the name of precursor would be a vain title if all that
were necessary to merit it was the fact that one had been the first to
perceive a new path to literary glory, to salute it from a distance, yet
never attempt to make a nearer approach.

In one direction at least, Alfred de Vigny was a true innovator, in the
broadest and most meritorious sense of the word: he was the creator of
philosophic poetry in France. Until Jocelyn appeared, in 1836, the form
of poetic expression was confined chiefly to the ode, the ballad, and
the elegy; and no poet, with the exception of the author of 'Moise' and
'Eloa', ever dreamed that abstract ideas and themes dealing with the
moralities could be expressed in the melody of verse.

To this priority, of which he knew the full value, Alfred de Vigny laid
insistent claim. "The only merit," he says in one of his prefaces, "that
any one ever has disputed with me in this sort of composition is the
honor of having promulgated in France all works of the kind in which
philosophic thought is presented in either epic or dramatic form."

But it was not alone priority in the sense of time that gave him
right of way over his contemporaries; he was the most distinguished
representative of poetic philosophy of his generation. If the phrases of
Lamartine seem richer, if his flight is more majestic, De Vigny's range
is surer and more powerful. While the philosophy of the creator of
'Les Harmonies' is uncertain and inconsistent, that of the poet of 'Les
Destinees' is strong and substantial, for the reason that the former
inspires more sentiment than ideas, while the latter, soaring far
above the narrow sphere of personal emotion, writes of everything that
occupies the intellect of man.

Thus, by his vigor and breadth of thought, by his profound understanding
of life, by the intensity of his dreams, Alfred de Vigny is superior to
Victor Hugo, whose genius was quite different, in his power to portray
picturesque scenes, in his remarkable fecundity of imagination, and in
his sovereign mastery of technique.

But nowhere in De Vigny's work is that superiority of poetic thought so
clearly shown as in those productions wherein the point of departure was
farthest from the domain of intellect, and better than any other has he
understood that truth proclaimed by Hegel: "The passions of the soul and
the affections of the heart are matter for poetic expression only in so
far as they are general, solid, and eternal."

De Vigny was also the only one among our poets that had a lofty ideal
of woman and of love. And in order to convince one's self of this it
is sufficient to reread successively the four great love-poems of that
period: 'Le Lac, La Tristesse d'Olympio, Le Souvenir, and La Colere de
Samson'.

Lamartine's conception of love was a sort of mild ecstasy, the sacred
rapture in which the senses play no part, and noble emotions that cause
neither trouble nor remorse. He ever regarded love as a kind of sublime
and passionate religion, of which 'Le Lac' was the most beautiful hymn,
but in which the image of woman is so vague that she almost seems to be
absent.

On the other hand, what is 'La Tristesse d'Olympio' if not an admirable
but common poetic rapture, a magnificent summary of the sufferings of
the heart--a bit of lyric writing equal to the most beautiful canzoni of
the Italian masters, but wherein we find no idea of love, because all
is artificial and studied; no cry from the soul is heard,--no trace of
passion appears.

After another fashion the same criticism applies to Le Souvenir; it was
written under a stress of emotion resulting from too recent events;
and the imagination of the author, subservient to a memory relentlessly
faithful, as is often the case with those to whom passion is the chief
principle of inspiration, was far from fulfilling the duties of his high
vocation, which is to purify the passions of the poet from individual
and accidental characteristics in order to leave unhampered whatever his
work may contain that is powerful and imperishable.

Alfred de Vigny alone, of the poets of his day, in his 'Colere de
Samson', has risen to a just appreciation of woman and of love; his
ideal is grand and tragic, it is true, and reminds one of that gloomy
passage in Ecclesiastes which says: "Woman is more bitter than death,
and her arms are like chains."

It is by this character of universality, of which all his writings show
striking evidence, that Alfred de Vigny is assured of immortality. A
heedless generation neglected him because it preferred to seek subjects
in strong contrast to life of its own time. But that which was not
appreciated by his contemporaries will be welcomed by posterity. And
when, in French literature, there shall remain of true romanticism only
a slight trace and the memory of a few great names, the author of the
'Destinees' will still find an echo in all hearts.

No writer, no matter how gifted, immortalizes himself unless he has
crystallized into expressive and original phrase the eternal sentiments
and yearnings of the human heart. "A man does not deserve the name of
poet unless he can express personal feeling and emotion, and only that
man is worthy to be called a poet who knows how to assimilate the varied
emotions of mankind." If this fine phrase of Goethe's is true, if true
poetry is only that which implies a mastery of spiritual things as well
as of human emotion, Alfred de Vigny is assuredly one of our greatest
poets, for none so well as he has realized a complete vision of the
universe, no one has brought before the world with more boldness the
problem of the soul and that of humanity. Under the title of poet he
belongs not only to our national literature, but occupies a distinctive
place in the world of intellect, with Lucretius, Dante, and Goethe,
among those inspired beings who transmit throughout succeeding centuries
the light of reason and the traditions of the loftiest poetic thought.

Alfred de Vigny was elected to a chair in the French Academy in 1846 and
died at Paris, September 17, 1863.

                  GASTON BOISSIER
          Secretaire Perpetuel de l'Academie Francaise.




TRUTH IN ART

The study of social progress is to-day not less needed in literature
than is the analysis of the human heart. We live in an age of universal
investigation, and of exploration of the sources of all movements.
France, for example, loves at the same time history and the drama,
because the one explores the vast destinies of humanity, and the other
the individual lot of man. These embrace the whole of life. But it is
the province of religion, of philosophy, of pure poetry only, to go
beyond life, beyond time, into eternity.

Of late years (perhaps as a result of our political changes) art has
borrowed from history more than ever. All of us have our eyes fixed on
our chronicles, as though, having reached manhood while going on toward
greater things, we had stopped a moment to cast up the account of our
youth and its errors. We have had to double the interest by adding to it
recollection.

As France has carried farther than other nations this love of facts, and
as I had chosen a recent and well-remembered epoch, it seemed to me that
I ought not to imitate those foreigners who in their pictures barely
show in the horizon the men who dominate their history. I placed ours in
the foreground of the scene; I made them leading actors in this tragedy,
wherever I endeavored to represent the three kinds of ambition by which
we are influenced, and with them the beauty of self-sacrifice to a noble
ideal. A treatise on the fall of the feudal system; on the position,
at home and abroad, of France in the seventeenth century; on foreign
alliances; on the justice of parliaments or of secret commissions, or
on accusations of sorcery, would not perhaps have been read. But the
romance was read.

I do not mean to defend this last form of historical composition, being
convinced that the real greatness of a work lies in the substance of
the author's ideas and sentiments, and not in the literary form in which
they are dressed. The choice of a certain epoch necessitates a certain
treatment--to another epoch it would be unsuitable; these are mere
secrets of the workshop of thought which there is no need of disclosing.
What is the use of theorizing as to wherein lies the charm that moves
us? We hear the tones of the harp, but its graceful form conceals from
us its frame of iron. Nevertheless, since I have been convinced
that this book possesses vitality, I can not help throwing out some
reflections on the liberty which the imagination should employ in
weaving into its tapestry all the leading figures of an age, and, to
give more consistency to their acts, in making the reality of fact
give way to the idea which each of them should represent in the eyes of
posterity; in short, on the difference which I find between Truth in art
and the True in fact.

Just as we descend into our consciences to judge of actions which our
minds can not weigh, can we not also search in ourselves for the feeling
which gives birth to forms of thought, always vague and cloudy? We shall
find in our troubled hearts, where discord reigns, two needs which seem
at variance, but which merge, as I think, in a common source--the love
of the true, and the love of the fabulous.

On the day when man told the story of his life to man, history was born.
Of what use is the memory of facts, if not to serve as an example
of good or of evil? But the examples which the slow train of events
presents to us are scattered and incomplete. They lack always a tangible
and visible coherence leading straight on to a moral conclusion. The
acts of the human race on the world's stage have doubtless a coherent
unity, but the meaning of the vast tragedy enacted will be visible only
to the eye of God, until the end, which will reveal it perhaps to the
last man. All systems of philosophy have sought in vain to explain it,
ceaselessly rolling up their rock, which, never reaching the top, falls
back upon them--each raising its frail structure on the ruins of the
others, only to see it fall in its turn.

I think, then, that man, after having satisfied his first longing for
facts, wanted something fuller--some grouping, some adaptation to his
capacity and experience, of the links of this vast chain of events
which his sight could not take in. Thus he hoped to find in the historic
recital examples which might support the moral truths of which he was
conscious. Few single careers could satisfy this longing, being only
incomplete parts of the elusive whole of the history of the world; one
was a quarter, as it were, the other a half of the proof; imagination
did the rest and completed them. From this, without doubt, sprang the
fable. Man created it thus, because it was not given him to see more
than himself and nature, which surrounds him; but he created it true
with a truth all its own.

This Truth, so beautiful, so intellectual, which I feel, I see, and long
to define, the name of which I here venture to distinguish from that of
the True, that I may the better make myself understood, is the soul of
all the arts. It is the selection of the characteristic token in all the
beauties and the grandeurs of the visible True; but it is not the
thing itself, it is something better: it is an ideal combination of its
principal forms, a luminous tint made up of its brightest colors, an
intoxicating balm of its purest perfumes, a delicious elixir of its
best juices, a perfect harmony of its sweetest sounds--in short, it is
a concentration of all its good qualities. For this Truth, and nothing
else, should strive those works of art which are a moral representation
of life-dramatic works. To attain it, the first step is undoubtedly to
learn all that is true in fact of every period, to become deeply imbued
with its general character and with its details; this involves only a
cheap tribute of attention, of patience, and of memory: But then one
must fix upon some chosen centre, and group everything around it; this
is the work of imagination, and of that sublime common-sense which is
genius itself.

Of what use were the arts if they were only the reproduction and the
imitation of life? Good heavens! we see only too clearly about us the
sad and disenchanting reality--the insupportable lukewarmness of feeble
characters, of shallow virtues and vices, of irresolute loves, of
tempered hates, of wavering friendships, of unsettled beliefs, of
constancy which has its height and its depth, of opinions which
evaporate. Let us dream that once upon a time have lived men stronger
and greater, who were more determined for good or for evil; that does
us good. If the paleness of your True is to follow us into art, we shall
close at once the theatre and the book, to avoid meeting it a second
time. What is wanted of works which revive the ghosts of human beings
is, I repeat, the philosophical spectacle of man deeply wrought upon
by the passions of his character and of his epoch; it is, in short, the
artistic Truth of that man and that epoch, but both raised to a higher
and ideal power, which concentrates all their forces. You recognize this
Truth in works of the imagination just as you cry out at the resemblance
of a portrait of which you have never seen the original; for true talent
paints life rather than the living.

To banish finally the scruples on this point of the consciences of some
persons, timorous in literary matters, whom I have seen affected with
a personal sorrow on viewing the rashness with which the imagination
sports with the most weighty characters of history, I will hazard the
assertion that, not throughout this work, I dare not say that, but in
many of these pages, and those perhaps not of the least merit, history
is a romance of which the people are the authors. The human mind, I
believe, cares for the True only in the general character of an epoch.
What it values most of all is the sum total of events and the advance of
civilization, which carries individuals along with it; but, indifferent
to details, it cares less to have them real than noble or, rather, grand
and complete.

Examine closely the origin of certain deeds, of certain heroic
expressions, which are born one knows not how; you will see them leap
out ready-made from hearsay and the murmurs of the crowd, without having
in themselves more than a shadow of truth, and, nevertheless, they will
remain historical forever. As if by way of pleasantry, and to put a joke
upon posterity, the public voice invents sublime utterances to mark,
during their lives and under their very eyes, men who, confused, avow
themselves as best they may, as not deserving of so much glory and as
not being able to support so high renown.

   [In our time has not a Russian General denied the fire of Moscow,
   which we have made heroic, and which will remain so? Has not a
   French General denied that utterance on the field of Waterloo which
   will immortalize it? And if I were not withheld by my respect for a
   sacred event, I might recall that a priest has felt it to be his
   duty to disavow in public a sublime speech which will remain the
   noblest that has ever been pronounced on a scaffold: "Son of Saint
   Louis, rise to heaven!" When I learned not long ago its real
   author, I was overcome by the destruction of my illusion, but before
   long I was consoled by a thought that does honor to humanity in my
   eyes. I feel that France has consecrated this speech, because she
   felt the need of reestablishing herself in her own eyes, of blinding
   herself to her awful error, and of believing that then and there an
   honest man was found who dared to speak aloud.]

In vain; their disclaimers are not received. Let them cry out, let them
write, let them print, let them sign--they are not listened to. These
utterances are inscribed in bronze; the poor fellows remain historical
and sublime in spite of themselves. And I do not find that all this is
done in the ages of barbarism alone; it is still going on, and it
molds the history of yesterday to the taste of public opinion--a Muse
tyrannical and capricious, which preserves the general purport and
scorns detail.

Which of you knows not of such transformation? Do you not see with your
own eyes the chrysalis fact assume by degrees the wings of fiction? Half
formed by the necessities of the time, a fact is hidden in the ground
obscure and incomplete, rough, misshapen, like a block of marble not yet
rough-hewn. The first who unearth it, and take it in hand, would wish
it differently shaped, and pass it, already a little rounded, into other
hands; others polish it as they pass it along; in a short time it is
exhibited transformed into an immortal statue. We disclaim it; witnesses
who have seen and heard pile refutations upon explanations; the learned
investigate, pore over books, and write. No one listens to them any more
than to the humble heroes who disown it; the torrent rolls on and bears
with it the whole thing under the form which it has pleased it to
give to these individual actions. What was needed for all this work? A
nothing, a word; sometimes the caprice of a journalist out of work. And
are we the losers by it? No. The adopted fact is always better composed
than the real one, and it is even adopted only because it is better. The
human race feels a need that its destinies should afford it a series of
lessons; more careless than we think of the reality of facts, it strives
to perfect the event in order to give it a great moral significance,
feeling sure that the succession of scenes which it plays upon earth is
not a comedy, and that since it advances, it marches toward an end, of
which the explanation must be sought beyond what is visible.

For my part, I acknowledge my gratitude to the voice of the people
for this achievement; for often in the finest life are found strange
blemishes and inconsistencies which pain me when I see them. If a man
seems to me a perfect model of a grand and noble character, and if
some one comes and tells me of a mean trait which disfigures him, I am
saddened by it, even though I do not know him, as by a misfortune which
affects me in person; and I could almost wish that he had died before
the change in his character.

Thus, when the Muse (and I give that name to art as a whole, to
everything which belongs to the domain of imagination, almost in the
same way as the ancients gave the name of Music to all education), when
the Muse has related, in her impassioned manner, the adventures of
a character whom I know to have lived; and when she reshapes his
experiences into conformity with the strongest idea of vice or
virtue which can be conceived of him--filling the gaps, veiling the
incongruities of his life, and giving him that perfect unity of conduct
which we like to see represented even in evil--if, in addition to this,
she preserves the only thing essential to the instruction of the world,
the spirit of the epoch, I know no reason why we should be more exacting
with her than with this voice of the people which every day makes every
fact undergo so great changes.

The ancients carried this liberty even into history; they wanted to
see in it only the general march, and broad movements of peoples and
nations; and on these great movements, brought to view in courses very
distinct and very clear, they placed a few colossal figures--symbols of
noble character and of lofty purpose.

One might almost reckon mathematically that, having undergone the double
composition of public opinion and of the author, their history reaches
us at third hand and is thus separated by two stages from the original
fact.

It is because in their eyes history too was a work of art; and in
consequence of not having realized that such is its real nature, the
whole Christian world still lacks an historical monument like those
which dominate antiquity and consecrate the memory of its destinies--as
its pyramids, its obelisks, its pylons, and its porticos still dominate
the earth which was known to them, and thereby commemorate the grandeur
of antiquity.

If, then, we find everywhere evidence of this inclination to desert the
positive, to bring the ideal even into historic annals, I believe that
with greater reason we should be completely indifferent to historical
reality in judging the dramatic works, whether poems, romances, or
tragedies, which borrow from history celebrated characters. Art ought
never to be considered except in its relations with its ideal beauty.
Let it be said that what is true in fact is secondary merely; it is only
an illusion the more with which it adorns itself--one of our prejudices
which it respects. It can do without it, for the Truth by which it must
live is the truth of observation of human nature, and not authenticity
of fact. The names of the characters have nothing to do with the matter.
The idea is everything; the proper name is only the example and the
proof of the idea.

So much the better for the memory of those who are chosen to represent
philosophical or moral ideas; but, once again, that is not the question.
The imagination can produce just as fine things without them; it is
a power wholly creative; the imaginary beings which it animates are
endowed with life as truly as the real beings which it brings to life
again. We believe in Othello as we do in Richard III., whose tomb is
in Westminster; in Lovelace and Clarissa as in Paul and Virginia, whose
tombs are in the Isle of France. It is with the same eye that we must
watch the performance of its characters, and demand of the Muse only her
artistic Truth, more lofty than the True--whether collecting the traits
of a character dispersed among a thousand entire individuals, she
composes from them a type whose name alone is imaginary; or whether she
goes to their tomb to seek and to touch with her galvanic current the
dead whose great deeds are known, forces them to arise again, and drags
them dazzled to the light of day, where, in the circle which this fairy
has traced, they re-assume unwillingly their passions of other days, and
begin again in the sight of their descendants the sad drama of life.

ALFRED DE VIGNY.

1827.




CINQ-MARS




BOOK 1.




CHAPTER I. THE ADIEU

     Fare thee well! and if forever,
     Still forever fare thee well!

                       LORD BYRON.

Do you know that charming part of our country which has been called the
garden of France--that spot where, amid verdant plains watered by wide
streams, one inhales the purest air of heaven?

If you have travelled through fair Touraine in summer, you have no doubt
followed with enchantment the peaceful Loire; you have regretted the
impossibility of determining upon which of its banks you would choose to
dwell with your beloved. On its right bank one sees valleys dotted with
white houses surrounded by woods, hills yellow with vines or white
with the blossoms of the cherry-tree, walls covered with honeysuckles,
rose-gardens, from which pointed roofs rise suddenly. Everything reminds
the traveller either of the fertility of the land or of the antiquity
of its monuments; and everything interests him in the work of its busy
inhabitants.

Nothing has proved useless to them; it seems as if in their love for
so beautiful a country--the only province of France never occupied by
foreigners--they have determined not to lose the least part of its soil,
the smallest grain of its sand. Do you fancy that this ruined tower is
inhabited only by hideous night-birds? No; at the sound of your horse's
hoofs, the smiling face of a young girl peeps out from the ivy, whitened
with the dust from the road. If you climb a hillside covered with vines,
a light column of smoke shows you that there is a chimney at your feet;
for the very rock is inhabited, and families of vine-dressers breathe
in its caverns, sheltered at night by the kindly earth which they
laboriously cultivate during the day. The good people of Touraine are as
simple as their life, gentle as the air they breathe, and strong as the
powerful earth they dig. Their countenances, like their characters,
have something of the frankness of the true people of St. Louis; their
chestnut locks are still long and curve around their ears, as in the
stone statues of our old kings; their language is the purest French,
with neither slowness, haste, nor accent--the cradle of the language is
there, close to the cradle of the monarchy.

But the left bank of the stream has a more serious aspect; in the
distance you see Chambord, which, with its blue domes and little
cupolas, appears like some great city of the Orient; there is
Chanteloup, raising its graceful pagoda in the air. Near these a simpler
building attracts the eyes of the traveller by its magnificent situation
and imposing size; it is the chateau of Chaumont. Built upon the highest
hill of the shore, it frames the broad summit with its lofty walls and
its enormous towers; high slate steeples increase their loftiness, and
give to the building that conventual air, that religious form of all
our old chateaux, which casts an aspect of gravity over the landscape
of most of our provinces. Black and tufted trees surround this ancient
mansion, resembling from afar the plumes that encircled the hat of King
Henry. At the foot of the hill, connected with the chateau by a narrow
path, lies a pretty village, whose white houses seem to have sprung
from the golden sand; a chapel stands halfway up the hill; the lords
descended and the villagers ascended to its altar-the region of
equality, situated like a neutral spot between poverty and riches, which
have been too often opposed to each other in bitter conflict.

Here, one morning in the month of June, 1639, the bell of the chateau
having, as usual, rung at midday, the dinner-hour of the family,
occurrences of an unusual kind were passing in this ancient dwelling.
The numerous domestics observed that in repeating the morning prayers
before the assembled household, the Marechale d'Effiat had spoken with a
broken voice and with tears in her eyes, and that she had appeared in a
deeper mourning than was customary. The people of the household and the
Italians of the Duchesse de Mantua, who had at that time retired for a
while to Chaumont, saw with surprise that sudden preparations were being
made for departure. The old domestic of the Marechal d'Effiat (who had
been dead six months) had taken again to his travelling-boots, which he
had sworn to abandon forever. This brave fellow, named Grandchamp, had
followed the chief of the family everywhere in the wars, and in his
financial work; he had been his equerry in the former, and his secretary
in the latter. He had recently returned from Germany, to inform the
mother and the children of the death of the Marechal, whose last sighs
he had heard at Luzzelstein. He was one of those faithful servants who
are become too rare in France; who suffer with the misfortunes of the
family, and rejoice with their joys; who approve of early marriages,
that they may have young masters to educate; who scold the children and
often the fathers; who risk death for them; who serve without wages in
revolutions; who toil for their support; and who in prosperous times
follow them everywhere, or exclaim at their return, "Behold our
vines!" He had a severe and remarkable face, a coppery complexion, and
silver-gray hair, in which, however, some few locks, black as his heavy
eyebrows, made him appear harsh at first; but a gentle countenance
softened this first impression. At present his voice was loud. He busied
himself much that day in hastening the dinner, and ordered about all the
servants, who were in mourning like himself.

"Come," said he, "make haste to serve the dinner, while Germain, Louis,
and Etienne saddle their horses; Monsieur Henri and I must be far away
by eight o'clock this evening. And you, gentlemen, Italians, have you
warned your young Princess? I wager that she is gone to read with her
ladies at the end of the park, or on the banks of the lake. She always
comes in after the first course, and makes every one rise from the
table."

"Ah, my good Grandchamp," said in a low voice a young maid servant who
was passing, "do not speak of the Duchess; she is very sorrowful, and I
believe that she will remain in her apartment. Santa Maria! what a shame
to travel to-day! to depart on a Friday, the thirteenth of the month,
and the day of Saint Gervais and of Saint-Protais--the day of two
martyrs! I have been telling my beads all the morning for Monsieur
de Cinq-Mars; and I could not help thinking of these things. And my
mistress thinks of them too, although she is a great lady; so you need
not laugh!"

With these words the young Italian glided like a bird across the large
dining-room, and disappeared down a corridor, startled at seeing the
great doors of the salon opened.

Grandchamp had hardly heard what she had said, and seemed to have
been occupied only with the preparations for dinner; he fulfilled the
important duties of major-domo, and cast severe looks at the domestics
to see whether they were all at their posts, placing himself behind the
chair of the eldest son of the house. Then all the inhabitants of the
mansion entered the salon. Eleven persons seated themselves at table.
The Marechale came in last, giving her arm to a handsome old man,
magnificently dressed, whom she placed upon her left hand. She seated
herself in a large gilded arm-chair at the middle of one side of the
table, which was oblong in form. Another seat, rather more ornamented,
was at her right, but it remained empty. The young Marquis d'Effiat,
seated in front of his mother, was to assist her in doing the honors of
the table. He was not more than twenty years old, and his countenance
was insignificant; much gravity and distinguished manners proclaimed,
however, a social nature, but nothing more. His young sister of
fourteen, two gentlemen of the province, three young Italian noblemen of
the suite of Marie de Gonzaga (Duchesse de Mantua), a lady-in-waiting,
the governess of the young daughter of the Marechale, and an abbe of the
neighborhood, old and very deaf, composed the assembly. A seat at the
right of the elder son still remained vacant.

The Marechale, before seating herself, made the sign of the cross,
and repeated the Benedicite aloud; every one responded by making the
complete sign, or upon the breast alone. This custom was preserved
in many families in France up to the Revolution of 1789; some still
practise it, but more in the provinces than in Paris, and not without
some hesitation and some preliminary words upon the weather, accompanied
by a deprecatory smile when a stranger is present--for it is too true
that virtue also has its blush.

The Marechale possessed an imposing figure, and her large blue eyes
were remarkably beautiful. She did not appear to have yet attained her
forty-fifth year; but, oppressed with sorrow, she walked slowly and
spoke with difficulty, closing her eyes, and allowing her head to droop
for a moment upon her breast, after she had been obliged to raise her
voice. At such efforts her hand pressed to her bosom showed that she
experienced sharp pain. She saw therefore with satisfaction that the
person who was seated at her left, having at the beginning engrossed
the conversation, without having been requested by any one to talk,
persisted with an imperturbable coolness in engrossing it to the end of
the dinner. This was the old Marechal de Bassompierre; he had preserved
with his white locks an air of youth and vivacity curious to see. His
noble and polished manners showed a certain gallantry, antiquated like
his costume--for he wore a ruff in the fashion of Henri IV, and the
slashed sleeves fashionable in the former reign, an absurdity which was
unpardonable in the eyes of the beaux of the court. This would not have
appeared more singular than anything else at present; but it is admitted
that in every age we laugh at the costume of our fathers, and, except
the Orientals, I know of no people who have not this fault.

One of the Italian gentlemen had hardly finished asking the Marechal
what he thought of the way in which the Cardinal treated the daughter of
the Duc de Mantua, when he exclaimed, in his familiar language:

"Heavens, man! what are you talking about? what do I comprehend of this
new system under which France is living? We old companions-in-arms
of his late Majesty can ill understand the language spoken by the new
court, and that in its turn does not comprehend ours. But what do I say?
We speak no language in this sad country, for all the world is silent
before the Cardinal; this haughty little, vassal looks upon us as merely
old family portraits, which occasionally he shortens by the head; but
happily the motto always remains. Is it not true, my dear Puy-Laurens?"

This guest was about the same age as the Marechal, but, being more grave
and cautious, he answered in vague and few words, and made a sign to his
contemporary in order to induce him to observe the unpleasant emotions
which he had caused the mistress of the house by reminding her of the
recent death of her husband and in speaking thus of the minister, his
friend. But it was in vain, for Bassompierre, pleased with the sign of
half-approval, emptied at one draught a great goblet of wine--a remedy
which he lauds in his Memoirs as infallible against the plague and
against reserve; and leaning back to receive another glass from his
esquire, he settled himself more firmly than ever upon his chair, and in
his favorite ideas.

"Yes, we are in the way here; I said so the other day to my dear Duc
de Guise, whom they have ruined. They count the minutes that we have to
live, and shake the hour-glass to hasten the descent of its sands. When
Monsieur le Cardinal-Duc observes in a corner three or four of our tall
figures, who never quitted the side of the late King, he feels that he
is unable to move those statues of iron, and that to do it would require
the hand of a great man; he passes quickly by, and dares not meddle with
us, who fear him not. He believes that we are always conspiring; and
they say at this very moment that there is talk of putting me in the
Bastille."

"Eh! Monsieur le Marechal, why do you delay your departure?" said
the Italian. "I know of no place, except Flanders, where you can find
shelter."

"Ah, Monsieur! you do not know me. So far from flying, I sought out the
King before his departure, and told him that I did so in order to save
people the trouble of looking for me; and that if I knew when he wished
to send me, I would go myself without being taken. He was as kind as I
expected him to be, and said to me, 'What, my old friend, could you
have thought that I desired to send you there? You know well that I love
you.'"

"Ah, my dear Marechal, let me compliment you," said Madame d'Effiat, in
a soft voice. "I recognize the benevolence of the King in these words;
he remembers the affection which the King, his father, had toward you.
It appears to me that he always accorded to you all that you desired for
your friends," she added, with animation, in order to put him into the
track of praise, and to beguile him from the discontent which he had so
loudly declared.

"Assuredly, Madame," answered he; "no one is more willing to recognize
his virtues than Francois de Bassompierre. I shall be faithful to him
to the end, because I gave myself, body and fortune, to his father at
a ball; and I swear that, with my consent at least, none of my family
shall ever fail in their duties toward the King of France. Although the
Besteins are foreigners and Lorrains, a shake of the hand from Henri IV
gained us forever. My greatest grief has been to see my brother die in
the service of Spain; and I have just written to my nephew to say that
I shall disinherit him if he has passed over to the Emperor, as report
says he has."

One of the gentlemen guests who had as yet been silent, and who was
remarkable for the profusion of knots, ribbons, and tags which covered
his dress, and for the black cordon of the Order of St. Michael which
decorated his neck, bowed, observing that it was thus all faithful
subjects ought to speak.

"I' faith, Monsieur de Launay, you deceive yourself very much," said
the Marechal, to whom the recollection of his ancestors now occurred;
"persons of our blood are subjects only at our own pleasure, for God has
caused us to be born as much lords of our lands as the King is of his.
When I came to France, I came at my ease, accompanied by my gentlemen
and pages. I perceive, however, that the farther we go, the more we lose
sight of this idea, especially at the court. But here is a young man who
arrives very opportunely to hear me."

The door indeed opened, and a young man of fine form entered. He was
pale; his hair was brown, his eyes were black, his expression was sad
and reckless. This was Henri d'Effiat, Marquis de Cinq-Mars (a name
taken from an estate of his family). His dress and his short cloak were
black; a collar of lace fell from his neck halfway down his breast; his
stout, small, and very wide-spurred boots made so much noise upon the
flags of the salon that his approach was heard at a distance. He walked
directly toward the Marechale, bowed low, and kissed her hand.

"Well, Henri," she said, "are your horses ready? At what hour do you
depart?"

"Immediately after dinner, Madame, if you will allow me," said he to his
mother, with the ceremonious respect of the times; and passing behind
her, he saluted M. de Bassompierre before seating himself at the left of
his eldest brother.

"Well," said the Marechal, continuing to eat with an excellent appetite,
"you are about to depart, my son; you are going to the court--a slippery
place nowadays. I am sorry for your sake that it is not now what it used
to be. In former times, the court was simply the drawing-room of the
King, in which he received his natural friends: nobles of great family,
his peers, who visited him to show their devotion and their friendship,
lost their money with him, and accompanied him in his pleasure parties,
but never received anything from him, except permission to bring their
vassals with them, to break their heads in his service. The honors a man
of quality received did not enrich him, for he paid for them out of
his purse. I sold an estate for every grade I received; the title of
colonel-general of the Swiss cost me four hundred thousand crowns, and
at the baptism of the present King I had to buy a costume that cost me a
hundred thousand francs."

"Ah!" said the mistress of the house, smiling, "you must acknowledge
for once that you were not obliged to do that. We have all heard of your
splendid dress of pearls; but I should be much vexed were it still the
custom to wear such."

"Oh, Madame la Marquise, do not fear, those times of magnificence
never will return. We committed follies, no doubt, but they proved our
independence; it is clear that it would then have been hard to convert
from their allegiance to the King adherents who were attached to him
by love alone, and whose coronets contained as many diamonds as his own
locked-up crown. It is also certain that ambition could not then attack
all classes, since such expenses could come only from rich hands, and
since gold comes only from mines. Those great houses, which are being
so furiously assailed, were not ambitious, and frequently, desiring
no employment from the Government, maintained their places at court by
their own weight, existed upon their own foundation, and might say, as
one of them did say, 'The Prince condescends not; I am Rohan.' It was
the same with every noble family, to which its own nobility sufficed;
the King himself expressed it in writing to one of my friends: 'Money is
not a common thing between gentlemen like you and me.'"

"But, Monsieur le Marechal," coldly, and with extreme politeness,
interrupted M. de Launay, who perhaps intended to anger him, "this
independence has produced as many civil wars and revolts as those of
Monsieur de Montmorency."

"Monsieur! I can not consent to hear these things spoken," said the
fiery Marechal, leaping up in his armchair. "Those revolts and wars had
nothing to do with the fundamental laws of the State, and could no more
have overturned the throne than a duel could have done so. Of all
the great party-chiefs, there was not one who would not have laid his
victory at the feet of the King, had he succeeded, knowing well that all
the other lords who were as great as himself would have abandoned the
enemy of the legitimate sovereign. Arms were taken against a faction,
and not against the sovereign authority; and, this destroyed, everything
went on again in the old way. But what have you done in crushing us?
You have crushed the arm of the throne, and have not put anything in
its place. Yes, I no longer doubt that the Cardinal-Duke will wholly
accomplish his design; the great nobility will leave and lose their
lands, and, ceasing to be great proprietors, they will cease to be a
great power. The court is already no more than a palace where people
beg; by and by it will become an antechamber, when it will be composed
only of those who constitute the suite of the King. Great names will
begin by ennobling vile offices; but, by a terrible reaction, those
offices will end by rendering great names vile. Estranged from their
homes, the nobility will be dependent upon the employments which they
shall have received; and if the people, over whom they will no longer
have any influence, choose to revolt--"

"How gloomy you are to-day, Marechal!" interrupted the Marquise; "I
hope that neither I nor my children will ever see that time. I no longer
perceive your cheerful disposition, now that you talk like a politician.
I expected to hear you give advice to my son. Henri, what troubles you?
You seem very absent."

Cinq-Mars, with eyes fixed upon the great bay window of the
dining-room, looked sorrowfully upon the magnificent landscape. The sun
shone in full splendor, and colored the sands of the Loire, the trees,
and the lawns with gold and emerald. The sky was azure, the waves were
of a transparent yellow, the islets of a vivid green; behind their
rounded outlines rose the great sails of the merchant-vessels, like a
fleet in ambuscade.

"O Nature, Nature!" he mused; "beautiful Nature, farewell! Soon will my
heart cease to be of simplicity enough to feel your charm, soon you
wall no longer please my eyes. This heart is already burned by a deep
passion; and the mention of the interests of men stirs it with hitherto
unknown agitation. I must, however, enter this labyrinth; I may,
perchance, lose myself there, but for Marie--"

At this moment, aroused by the words of his mother, and fearing to
exhibit a childish regret at leaving his beautiful country and his
family, he said:

"I am thinking, Madame, of the road which I shall take to Perpignan, and
also of that which shall bring me back to you."

"Do not forget to take that of Poitiers, and to go to Loudun to see your
old tutor, our good Abbe Quillet; he will give you useful advice about
the court. He is on very good terms with the Duc de Bouillon; and
besides, though he may not be very necessary to you, it is a mark of
deference which you owe him."

"Is it, then, to the siege of Perpignan that you are going, my boy?"
asked the old Marechal, who began to think that he had been silent a
long time. "Ah! it is well for you. Plague upon it! a siege! 'tis an
excellent opening. I would have given much had I been able to assist the
late King at a siege, upon my arrival in his court; it would have been
better to be disembowelled then than at a tourney, as I was. But we were
at peace; and I was compelled to go and shoot the Turks with the Rosworm
of the Hungarians, in order that I might not afflict my family by my
idleness. For the rest, may his Majesty receive you as kindly as his
father received me! It is true that the King is good and brave; but they
have unfortunately taught him that cold Spanish etiquette which arrests
all the impulses of the heart. He restrains himself and others by an
immovable presence and an icy look; as for me, I confess that I am
always waiting for the moment of thaw, but in vain. We were accustomed
to other manners from the witty and simple-hearted Henri; and we were at
least free to tell him that we loved him."

Cinq-Mars, with eyes fixed upon those of Bassompierre, as if to force
himself to attend to his discourse, asked him what was the manner of the
late king in conversation.

"Lively and frank," said he. "Some time after my arrival in France, I
played with him and with the Duchesse de Beaufort at Fontainebleau; for
he wished, he said, to win my gold-pieces, my fine Portugal money. He
asked me the reason why I came into this country. 'Truly, Sire,' said I,
frankly, 'I came with no intention of enlisting myself in your service,
but only to pass some time at your court, and afterward at that of
Spain; but you have charmed me so much that, instead of going farther,
if you desire my service, I will devote myself to you till death.' Then
he embraced me, and assured me that I could not find a better master, or
one who would love me more. Alas! I have found it so. And for my part, I
sacrificed everything to him, even my love; and I would have done
more, had it been possible to do more than renounce Mademoiselle de
Montmorency."

The good Marechal had tears in his eyes; but the young Marquis d'Effiat
and the Italians, looking at one another, could not help smiling to
think that at present the Princesse de Conde was far from young and
pretty. Cinq-Mars noticed this interchange of glances, and smiled also,
but bitterly.

"Is it true then," he thought, "that the affections meet the same fate
as the fashions, and that the lapse of a few years can throw the same
ridicule upon a costume and upon love? Happy is he who does not outlive
his youth and his illusions, and who carries his treasures with him to
the grave!"

But--again, with effort breaking the melancholy course of his thoughts,
and wishing that the good Marechal should read nothing unpleasant upon
the countenances of his hosts, he said:

"People spoke, then, with much freedom to King Henri? Possibly, however,
he found it necessary to assume that tone at the beginning of his reign;
but when he was master did he change it?"

"Never! no, never, to his last day, did our great King cease to be the
same. He did not blush to be a man, and he spoke to men with force and
sensibility. Ah! I fancy I see him now, embracing the Duc de Guise in
his carriage, on the very day of his death; he had just made one of his
lively pleasantries to me, and the Duke said to him, 'You are, in
my opinion, one of the most agreeable men in the world, and destiny
ordained us for each other. For, had you been but an ordinary man,
I should have taken you into my service at whatever price; but since
heaven ordained that you should be born a great King, it is inevitable
that I belong to you.' Oh, great man!" cried Bassompierre, with tears
in his eyes, and perhaps a little excited by the frequent bumpers he had
drunk, "you said well, 'When you have lost me you will learn my value.'"

During this interlude, the guests at the table had assumed various
attitudes, according to their position in public affairs. One of the
Italians pretended to chat and laugh in a subdued manner with the young
daughter of the Marechale; the other talked to the deaf old Abbe, who,
with one hand behind his ear that he might hear, was the only one
who appeared attentive. Cinq-Mars had sunk back into his melancholy
abstraction, after throwing a glance at the Marechal, as one looks aside
after throwing a tennis-ball until its return; his elder brother did
the honors of the table with the same calm. Puy-Laurens observed
the mistress of the house with attention; he was devoted to the Duc
d'Orleans, and feared the Cardinal. As for the Marechale, she had an
anxious and afflicted air. Careless words had often recalled the death
of her husband or the departure of her son; and, oftener still, she had
feared lest Bassompierre should compromise himself. She had touched him
many times, glancing at the same time toward M. de Launay, of whom she
knew little, and whom she had reason to believe devoted to the prime
minister; but to a man of his character, such warnings were useless.
He appeared not to notice them; but, on the contrary, crushing that
gentleman with his bold glance and the sound of his voice, he affected
to turn himself toward him, and to direct all his conversation to him.
M. de Launay assumed an air of indifference and of assenting politeness,
which he preserved until the moment when the folding-doors opened, and
"Mademoiselle la Duchesse de Mantua" was announced.

The conversation which we have transcribed so lengthily passed, in
reality, with rapidity; and the repast was only half over when the
arrival of Marie de Gonzaga caused the company to rise. She was small,
but very well made, and although her eyes and hair were black, her
complexion was as dazzling as the beauty of her skin. The Marechale
arose to acknowledge her rank, and kissed her on the forehead, in
recognition of her goodness and her charming age.

"We have waited a long time for you to-day, dear Marie," she said,
placing the Duchess beside her; "fortunately, you remain with me to
replace one of my children, who is about to depart."

The young Duchess blushed, lowered her head and her eyes, in order that
no one might see their redness, and said, timidly:

"Madame, that may well be, since you have taken toward me the place of
a mother;" and a glance thrown at Cinq-Mars, at the other end of the
table, made him turn pale.

This arrival changed the conversation; it ceased to be general, and each
guest conversed in a low voice with his neighbor. The Marechal alone
continued to utter a few sentences concerning the magnificence of the
old court, his wars in Turkey, the tournaments, and the avarice of the
new court; but, to his great regret, no one made any reply, and the
company were about to leave the table, when, as the clock struck two,
five horses appeared in the courtyard. Four were mounted by servants,
cloaked and armed; the other horse, black and spirited, was held by old
Grandchamp--it was his master's steed.

"Ah!" exclaimed Bassompierre; "see, our battlehorses are saddled and
bridled. Come, young man, we must say, with our old Marot:

          'Adieu la cour, adieu les dames!
          Adieu les filles et les femmes!
          Adieu vous dy pour quelque temps;
          Adieu vos plaisans parse-temps!
          Adieu le bal, adieu la dance;
          Adieu mesure, adieu cadance,
          Tabourins, Hautbois, Violons,
          Puisqu'a la guerre nous allons!'"

These old verses and the air of the Marechal made all the guests laugh,
except three persons.

"Heavens!" he continued, "it seems to me as if, like him, I were only
seventeen years old; he will return to us covered with embroidery.
Madame, we must keep his chair vacant for him."

The Marechale suddenly grew pale, and left the table in tears; every one
rose with her; she took only two steps, and sank into another chair. Her
sons and her daughter and the young Duchess gathered anxiously around
her, and heard her say, amid the sighs and tears which she strove to
restrain:

"Pardon, my friends! it is foolish of me--childish; but I am weak at
present, and am not mistress of myself. We were thirteen at table; and
you, my dear Duchess, were the cause of it. But it is very wrong of me
to show so much weakness before him. Farewell, my child; give me your
forehead to kiss, and may God conduct you! Be worthy of your name and of
your father."

Then, as Homer says, "smiling under tears," she raised herself, pushed
her son from her, and said:

"Come, let me see you on horseback, fair sir!"

The silent traveller kissed the hands of his mother, and made a low bow
to her; he bowed also to the Duchess, without raising his eyes. Then,
embracing his elder brother, pressing the hand of the Marechal, and
kissing the forehead of his young sister almost simultaneously, he went
forth, and was on horseback in an instant. Every one went to the windows
which overlooked the court, except Madame d'Effiat, who was still seated
and suffering.

"He sets off at full gallop. That is a good sign," said the Marechal,
laughing.

"Oh, heavens!" cried the young Princess, retiring from the bay-window.

"What is the matter?" said the mother.

"Nothing, nothing!" said M. de Launay. "Your son's horse stumbled under
the gateway; but he soon pulled him up. See, he salutes us from the
road."

"Another ominous presage!" said the Marquise, upon retiring to her
apartments.

Every one imitated her by being silent or speaking low.

The day was sad, and in the evening the supper was silent at the chateau
of Chaumont.

At ten o'clock that evening, the old Marechal, conducted by his valet,
retired to the northern tower near the gateway, and opposite the river.
The heat was extreme; he opened the window, and, enveloping himself
in his great silk robe, placed a heavy candlestick upon the table and
desired to be left alone. His window looked out upon the plain, which
the moon, in her first quarter, indistinctly lighted; the sky was
charged with thick clouds, and all things disposed the mind to
melancholy. Although Bassompierre had nothing of the dreamer in his
character, the tone which the conversation had taken at dinner returned
to his memory, and he reconsidered his life, the sad changes which the
new reign had wrought in it, a reign which seemed to have breathed
upon him a wind of misfortune--the death of a cherished sister; the
irregularities of the heir of his name; the loss of his lands and of
his favor; the recent fate of his friend, the Marechal d'Effiat,
whose chambers he now occupied. All these thoughts drew from him an
involuntary sigh, and he went to the window to breathe.

At that moment he fancied he heard the tramp of a troop of horse at the
side of the wood; but the wind rising made him think that he had been
mistaken, and, as the noise suddenly ceased, he forgot it. He still
watched for some time all the lights of the chateau, which were
successively extinguished, after winding among the windows of the
staircases and rambling about the courtyards and the stables. Then,
leaning back in his great tapestried armchair, his elbow resting on the
table, he abandoned himself to his reflections. After a while, drawing
from his breast a medallion which hung concealed, suspended by a black
ribbon, he said:

"Come, my good old master, talk with me as you have so often talked;
come, great King, forget your court for the smile of a true friend;
come, great man, consult me concerning ambitious Austria; come,
inconstant chevalier, speak to me of the lightness of thy love, and of
the fidelity of thine inconstancy; come, heroic soldier, complain to me
again that I obscure you in combat. Ah, had I only done it in Paris!
Had I only received thy wound? With thy blood the world has lost the
benefits of thine interrupted reign--"

The tears of the Marechal obscured the glass that covered the large
medallion, and he was effacing them with respectful kisses, when, his
door being roughly opened, he quickly drew his sword.

"Who goes there?" he cried, in his surprise, which was much increased
when he saw M. de Launay, who, hat in hand, advanced toward him, and
said to him, with embarrassment:

"Monsieur, it is with a heart pierced with grief that I am forced to
tell you that the King has commanded me to arrest you. A carriage awaits
you at the gate, attended by thirty of the Cardinal-Duke's musketeers."

Bassompierre had not risen: and he still held the medallion in his right
hand, and the sword in the other. He tendered it disdainfully to this
man, saying:

"Monsieur, I know that I have lived too long, and it is that of which
I was thinking; in the name of the great Henri, I restore this sword
peacefully to his son. Follow me."

He accompanied these words with a look so firm that De Launay was
depressed, and followed him with drooping head, as if he had himself
been arrested by the noble old man, who, seizing a flambeau, issued
from the court and found all the doors opened by horse-guards, who
had terrified the people of the chateau in the name of the King,
and commanded silence. The carriage was ready, and departed rapidly,
followed by many horses. The Marechal, seated beside M. de Launay, was
about to fall asleep, rocked by the movement of the vehicle, when a
voice cried to the driver, "Stop!" and, as he continued, a pistol-shot
followed. The horses stopped.

"I declare, Monsieur, that this is done without my participation," said
Bassompierre. Then, putting his head out at the door, he saw that they
were in a little wood, and that the road was too narrow to allow the
horses to pass to either the right or the left of the carriage--a great
advantage for the aggressors, since the musketeers could not advance.
He tried to see what was going on when a cavalier, having in his hand a
long sword, with which he parried the strokes of the guard, approached
the door, crying:

"Come, come, Monsieur le Marechal!"

"What! is that you, you madcap, Henri, who are playing these pranks?
Gentlemen, let him alone; he is a mere boy."

And, as De Launay called to the musketeers to cease, Bassompierre
recognized the cavalier.

"And how the devil came you here?" cried Bassompierre. "I thought you
were at Tours, or even farther, if you had done your duty; but here you
are returned to make a fool of yourself."

"Truly, it was not for you I returned, but for a secret affair," said
Cinq-Mars, in a lower tone; "but, as I take it, they are about to
introduce you to the Bastille, and I am sure you will not betray me, for
that delightful edifice is the very Temple of Discretion. Yet had you
thought fit," he continued, aloud, "I should have released you from
these gentlemen in the wood here, which is so dense that their horses
would not have been able to stir. A peasant informed me of the insult
passed upon us, more than upon you, by this violation of my father's
house."

"It is the King's order, my boy, and we must respect his will; reserve
your ardor for his service, though I thank you with all my heart. Now
farewell, and let me proceed on my agreeable journey."

De Launay interposed, "I may inform you, Monsieur de Cinq-Mars, that I
have been desired by the King himself to assure Monsieur le Marechal,
that he is deeply afflicted at the step he has found it necessary
to take, and that it is solely from an apprehension that Monsieur le
Marechal may be led into evil that his Majesty requests him to remain
for a few days in the Bastille."--[He remained there twelve years.]

Bassompierre turned his head toward Cinq-Mars with a hearty laugh. "You
see, my friend, how we young men are placed under guardianship; so take
care of yourself."

"I will go, then," said Henri; "this is the last time I shall play the
knight-errant for any one against his will;" and, reentering the wood
as the carriage dashed off at full speed, he proceeded by narrow paths
toward the castle, followed at a short distance by Grandchamp and his
small escort.

On arriving at the foot of the western tower, he reined in his horse. He
did not alight, but, approaching so near the wall that he could rest his
foot upon an abutment, he stood up, and raised the blind of a window
on the ground-floor, made in the form of a portcullis, such as is still
seen on some ancient buildings.

It was now past midnight, and the moon was hidden behind the clouds. No
one but a member of the family could have found his way through darkness
so profound. The towers and the roof formed one dark mass, which stood
out in indistinct relief against the sky, hardly less dark; no light
shone throughout the chateau, wherein all inmates seemed buried in
slumber. Cinq-Mars, enveloped in a large cloak, his face hidden under
the broad brim of his hat, awaited in suspense a reply to his signal.

It came; a soft voice was heard from within:

"Is that you, Monsieur Cinq-Mars?"

"Alas, who else should it be? Who else would return like a criminal to
his paternal house, without entering it, without bidding one more adieu
to his mother? Who else would return to complain of the present, without
a hope for the future, but I?"

The gentle voice replied, but its tones were agitated, and evidently
accompanied with tears: "Alas! Henri, of what do you complain? Have I
not already done more, far more than I ought? It is not my fault, but my
misfortune, that my father was a sovereign prince. Can one choose
one's birthplace or one's rank, and say for example, 'I will be a
shepherdess?' How unhappy is the lot of princesses! From the cradle,
the sentiments of the heart are prohibited to them; and when they have
advanced beyond childhood, they are ceded like a town, and must not even
weep. Since I have known you, what have I not done to bring my future
life within the reach of happiness, in removing it far from a throne?
For two years I have struggled in vain, at once against my evil fortune,
that separates me from you, and against you, who estrange me from the
duty I owe to my family. I have sought to spread a belief that I was
dead; I have almost longed for revolutions. I should have blessed a
change which deprived me of my rank, as I thanked Heaven when my father
was dethroned; but the court wonders at my absence; the Queen requires
me to attend her. Our dreams are at an end, Henri; we have already
slumbered too long. Let us awake, be courageous, and think no more of
those dear two years--forget all in the one recollection of our great
resolve. Have but one thought; be ambitious for--be ambitious--for my
sake."

"Must we, then, indeed, forget all, Marie?" murmured Cinq-Mars.

She hesitated.

"Yes, forget all--that I myself have forgotten." Then, after a moment's
pause, she continued with earnestness: "Yes, forget our happy days
together, our long evenings, even our walks by the lake and through
the wood; but keep the future ever in mind. Go, Henri; your father was
Marechal. Be you more; be you Constable, Prince. Go; you are young,
noble, rich, brave, beloved--"

"Beloved forever?" said Henri.

"Forever; for life and for eternity."

Cinq-Mars, tremulously extending his hand to the window, exclaimed:

"I swear, Marie, by the Virgin, whose name you bear, that you shall be
mine, or my head shall fall on the scaffold!"

"Oh, Heaven! what is it you say?" she cried, seizing his hand in her
own. "Swear to me that you will share in no guilty deeds; that you will
never forget that the King of France is your master. Love him above
all, next to her who will sacrifice all for you, who will await you amid
suffering and sorrow. Take this little gold cross and wear it upon your
heart; it has often been wet with my tears, and those tears will flow
still more bitterly if ever you are faithless to the King. Give me the
ring I see on your finger. Oh, heavens, my hand and yours are red with
blood!"

"Oh, only a scratch. Did you hear nothing, an hour ago?"

"No; but listen. Do you hear anything now?"

"No, Marie, nothing but some bird of night on the tower."

"I heard whispering near us, I am sure. But whence comes this blood?
Tell me, and then depart."

"Yes, I will go, while the clouds are still dark above us. Farewell,
sweet soul; in my hour of danger I will invoke thee as a guardian angel.
Love has infused the burning poison of ambition into my soul, and
for the first time I feel that ambition may be ennobled by its aim.
Farewell! I go to accomplish my destiny."

"And forget not mine."

"Can they ever be separated?"

"Never!" exclaimed Marie, "but by death."

"I fear absence still more," said Cinq-Mars.

"Farewell! I tremble; farewell!" repeated the beloved voice, and the
window was slowly drawn down, the clasped hands not parting till the
last moment.

The black horse had all the while been pawing the earth, tossing his
head with impatience, and whinnying. Cinq-Mars, as agitated and restless
as his steed, gave it the rein; and the whole party was soon near the
city of Tours, which the bells of St. Gatien had announced from afar.
To the disappointment of old Grandchamp, Cinq-Mars would not enter the
town, but proceeded on his way, and five days later he entered, with his
escort, the old city of Loudun in Poitou, after an uneventful journey.




CHAPTER II. THE STREET

     Je m'avancais d'un pas penible et mal assure vers le but
     de ce convoi tragique.--NODIER, 'Smarra'.

The reign of which we are about to paint a few years--a reign of
feebleness, which was like an eclipse of the crown between the splendors
of Henri IV and those of Louis le Grand--afflicts the eyes which
contemplate it with dark stains of blood, and these were not all the
work of one man, but were caused by great and grave bodies. It is
melancholy to observe that in this age, still full of disorder, the
clergy, like a nation, had its populace, as it had its nobility, its
ignorant and its criminal prelates, as well as those who were learned
and virtuous. Since that time, its remnant of barbarism has been refined
away by the long reign of Louis XIV, and its corruptions have been
washed out in the blood of the martyrs whom it offered up to the
revolution of 1793.

We felt it necessary to pause for a moment to express this reflection
before entering upon the recital of the facts presented by the history
of this period, and to intimate that, notwithstanding this consolatory
reflection, we have found it incumbent upon us to pass over many details
too odious to occupy a place in our pages, sighing in spirit at those
guilty acts which it was necessary to record, as in relating the life
of a virtuous old man, we should lament over the impetuosities of his
passionate youth, or over the corrupt tendencies of his riper age.

When the cavalcade entered the narrow streets of Loudun, they heard
strange noises all around them. The streets were filled with agitated
masses; the bells of the church and of the convent were ringing
furiously, as if the town was in flames; and the whole population,
without paying any attention to the travellers, was pressing
tumultuously toward a large edifice that adjoined the church. Here and
there dense crowds were collected, listening in silence to some voice
that seemed raised in exhortation, or engaged in emphatic reading; then,
furious cries, mingled with pious exclamations, arose from the crowd,
which, dispersing, showed the travellers that the orator was some
Capuchin or Franciscan friar, who, holding a wooden crucifix in one
hand, pointed with the other to the large building which was attracting
such universal interest.

"Jesu Maria!" exclaimed an old woman, "who would ever have thought that
the Evil Spirit would choose our old town for his abode?"

"Ay, or that the pious Ursulines should be possessed?" said another.

"They say that the demon who torments the Superior is called Legion,"
cried a third:

"One demon, say you?" interrupted a nun; "there were seven in her poor
body, whereunto, doubtless, she had attached too much importance, by
reason of its great beauty, though now 'tis but the receptacle of evil
spirits. The prior of the Carmelites yesterday expelled the demon Eazas
through her mouth; and the reverend Father Lactantius has driven out in
like manner the demon Beherit. But the other five will not depart, and
when the holy exorcists (whom Heaven support!) summoned them in Latin to
withdraw, they replied insolently that they would not go till they
had proved their power, to the conviction even of the Huguenots and
heretics, who, misbelieving wretches! seem to doubt it. The demon Elimi,
the worst of them all, as you know, has threatened to take off Monsieur
de Laubardemont's skull-cap to-day, and to dangle it in the air at
Miserere."

"Holy Virgin!" rejoined the first speaker, "I'm all of a tremble! And to
think that many times I have got this magician Urbain to say masses for
me!"

"For myself," exclaimed a girl, crossing herself; "I too confessed to
him ten months ago! No doubt I should have been possessed myself, but
for the relic of Saint-Genevieve I luckily had about me, and--"

"Luckily, indeed, Martine," interposed a fat gossip; "for--no
offence!--you, as I remember, were long enough with the handsome
sorcerer."

"Pshaw!" said a young soldier, who had joined the group, smoking his
pipe, "don't you know that pretty Martine was dispossessed a month ago."

The girl blushed, and drew the hood of her black cloak over her face.
The elder gossips cast a glance of indignation at the reckless trooper,
and finding themselves now close to the door of the building, and thus
sure of making their way in among the first when it should be thrown
open, sat down upon the stone bench at the side, and, talking of the
latest wonders, raised the expectations of all as to the delight they
were about to have in being spectators of something marvellous--an
apparition, perhaps, but at the very least, an administration of the
torture.

"Is it true, aunt," asked Martine of the eldest gossip, "that you have
heard the demons speak?"

"Yes, child, true as I see you; many and many can say the same; and it
was to convince you of it I brought you with me here, that you may see
the power of the Evil One."

"What kind of voice has he?" continued the girl, glad to encourage
a conversation which diverted from herself the invidious attention
procured her by the soldier's raillery.

"Oh, he speaks with a voice like that of the Superior herself, to whom
Our Lady be gracious! Poor young woman! I was with her yesterday a long
time; it was sad to see her tearing her breast, turning her arms and her
legs first one way and then another, and then, all of a sudden,
twisting them together behind her back. When the holy Father Lactantius
pronounced the name of Urbain Grandier, foam came out of her mouth, and
she talked Latin for all the world as if she were reading the Bible. Of
course, I did not understand what she said, and all I can remember of it
now is, 'Urbanus Magicus rosas diabolica,' which they tell me means
that the magician Urbain had bewitched her with some roses the Devil had
given him; and so it must have been, for while Father Lactantius spoke,
out of her ears and neck came a quantity of flame-colored roses, all
smelling of sulphur so strongly that the judge-Advocate called out for
every one present to stop their noses and eyes, for that the demons were
about to come out."

"Ah, look there now!" exclaimed with shrill voices and a triumphant air
the whole bevy of assembled women, turning toward the crowd, and more
particularly toward a group of men attired in black, among whom
was standing the young soldier who had cut his joke just before so
unceremoniously.

"Listen to the noisy old idiots!" exclaimed the soldier. "They think
they're at the witches' Sabbath, but I don't see their broomsticks."

"Young man, young man!" said a citizen, with a sad air, "jest not upon
such subjects in the open air, or, in such a time as this, the wind may
become gushing flames and destroy you."

"Pooh! I laugh at your exorcists!" returned the soldier; "my name is
Grand-Ferre, and I've got here a better exorciser than any of you can
show."

And significantly grasping the handle of his rapier in one hand, with
the other he twisted up his blond moustache, as he looked fiercely
around; but meeting no glance which returned the defiance of his own, he
slowly withdrew, left foot foremost, and strolled along the dark, narrow
streets with all the reckless nonchalance of a young soldier who has
just donned his uniform, and a profound contempt for all who wear not a
military coat.

In the meantime eight or ten of the more substantial and rational
inhabitants traversed in a body, slowly and silently, the agitated
throng; they seemed overwhelmed with amazement and distress at the
agitation and excitement they witnessed everywhere, and as each new
instance of the popular frenzy appeared, they exchanged glances of
wonder and apprehension. Their mute depression communicated itself to
the working-people, and to the peasants who had flocked in from the
adjacent country, and who, all sought a guide for their opinions in the
faces of the principal townsmen, also for the most part proprietors of
the surrounding districts. They saw that something calamitous was on
foot, and resorted accordingly to the only remedy open to the ignorant
and the beguiled--apathetic resignation.

Yet, in the character of the French peasant is a certain scoffing
finesse of which he makes effective use, sometimes with his equals,
and almost invariably with his superiors. He puts questions to power as
embarrassing as are those which infancy puts to mature age. He affects
excessive humility, in order to confuse him whom he addresses with the
very height of his isolated elevation. He exaggerates the awkwardness
of his manner and the rudeness of his speech, as a means of covering his
real thoughts under the appearance of mere uncouthness; yet, despite
all his self-command, there is something in his air, certain fierce
expressions which betray him to the close observer, who discerns in his
sardonic smile, and in the marked emphasis with which he leans on his
long staff, the hopes that secretly nourish his soul, and the aid upon
which he ultimately relies.

One of the oldest of the peasants whom we have indicated came on
vigorously, followed by ten or twelve young men, his sons and nephews,
all wearing the broad-brimmed hat and the blue frock or blouse of the
ancient Gauls, which the peasants of France still wear over their
other garments, as peculiarly adapted to their humid climate and their
laborious habits.

When the old man had reached the group of personages of whom we have
just spoken, he took off his hat--an example immediately followed by his
whole family--and showed a face tanned with exposure to the weather, a
forehead bald and wrinkled with age, and long, white hair. His shoulders
were bent with years and labor, but he was still a hale and sturdy man.
He was received with an air of welcome, and even of respect, by one
of the gravest of the grave group he had approached, who, without
uncovering, however, extended to him his hand.

"What! good Father Guillaume Leroux!" said he, "and have you, too, left
our farm of La Chenaie to visit the town, when it's not market-day?
Why, 'tis as if your oxen were to unharness themselves and go hunting,
leaving their work to see a poor rabbit run down!"

"Faith, Monsieur le Comte du Lude," replied the farmer, "for that
matter, sometimes the rabbit runs across our path of itself; but, in
truth, I've a notion that some of the people here want to make fools of
us, and so I've come to see about it."

"Enough of that, my friend," returned the Count; "here is Monsieur
Fournier, the Advocate, who assuredly will not deceive you, for he
resigned his office of Attorney-General last night, that he might
henceforth devote his eloquence to the service of his own noble
thoughts. You will hear him, perhaps, to-day, though truly, I dread
his appearing for his own sake as much as I desire it for that of the
accused."

"I care not for myself," said Fournier; "truth is with me a passion, and
I would have it taught in all times and all places."

He that spoke was a young man, whose face, pallid in the extreme, was
full of the noblest expression. His blond hair, his light-blue eyes,
his thinness, the delicacy of his frame, made him at first sight
seem younger than he was; but his thoughtful and earnest countenance
indicated that mental superiority and that precocious maturity of soul
which are developed by deep study in youth, combined with natural energy
of character. He was attired wholly in black, with a short cloak in the
fashion of the day, and carried under his left arm a roll of documents,
which, when speaking, he would take in the right hand and grasp
convulsively, as a warrior in his anger grasps the pommel of his sword.
At one moment it seemed as if he were about to unfurl the scroll, and
from it hurl lightning upon those whom he pursued with looks of fiery
indignation--three Capuchins and a Franciscan, who had just passed.

"Pere Guillaume," pursued M. du Lude, "how is it you have brought with
you only your sons, and they armed with their staves?"

"Faith, Monsieur, I have no desire that our girls should learn to dance
of the nuns; and, moreover, just now the lads with their staves may
bestir themselves to better purpose than their sisters would."

"Take my advice, my old friend," said the Count, "and don't bestir
yourselves at all; rather stand quietly aside to view the procession
which you see approaching, and remember that you are seventy years old."

"Ah!" murmured the old man, drawing up his twelve sons in double
military rank, "I fought under good King Henriot, and can play at sword
and pistol as well as the worthy 'ligueurs';" and shaking his head he
leaned against a post, his knotty staff between his crossed legs, his
hands clasped on its thick butt-end, and his white, bearded chin
resting on his hands. Then, half closing his eyes, he appeared lost in
recollections of his youth.

The bystanders observed with interest his dress, slashed in the fashion
of Henri IV, and his resemblance to the Bearnese monarch in the latter
years of his life, though the King's hair had been prevented by the
assassin's blade from acquiring the whiteness which that of the old
peasant had peacefully attained. A furious pealing of the bells,
however, attracted the general attention to the end of the great
street, down which was seen filing a long procession, whose banners and
glittering pikes rose above the heads of the crowd, which successively
and in silence opened a way for the at once absurd and terrible train.

First, two and two, came a body of archers, with pointed beards and
large plumed hats, armed with long halberds, who, ranging in a single
file on each side of the middle of the street, formed an avenue along
which marched in solemn order a procession of Gray Penitents--men
attired in long, gray robes, the hoods of which entirely covered their
heads; masks of the same stuff terminated below their chins in points,
like beards, each having three holes for the eyes and nose. Even at the
present day we see these costumes at funerals, more especially in the
Pyrenees. The Penitents of Loudun carried enormous wax candles, and
their slow, uniform movement, and their eyes, which seemed to glitter
under their masks, gave them the appearance of phantoms.

The people expressed their various feelings in an undertone:

"There's many a rascal hidden under those masks," said a citizen.

"Ay, and with a face uglier than the mask itself," added a young man.

"They make me afraid," tremulously exclaimed a girl.

"I'm only afraid for my purse," said the first speaker.

"Ah, heaven! there are our holy brethren, the Penitents," cried an old
woman, throwing back her hood, the better to look at them. "See the
banner they bear! Ah, neighbors, 'tis a joyful thing to have it among
us! Beyond a doubt it will save us; see, it shows the devil in flames,
and a monk fastening a chain round his neck, to keep him in hell. Ah,
here come the judges--noble gentlemen! dear gentlemen! Look at their red
robes; how beautiful! Blessed be the Virgin, they've been well chosen!"

"Every man of them is a personal enemy of the Cure," whispered the Count
du Lude to the advocate Fournier, who took a note of the information.

"Don't you know them, neighbors?" pursued the shrill, sharp voice of the
old woman, as she elbowed one and pinched another of those near her to
attract their attention to the objects of her admiration; "see, there's
excellent Monsieur Mignon, whispering to Messieurs the Counsellors of
the Court of Poitiers; Heaven bless them all, say I!"

"Yes, there are Roatin, Richard, and Chevalier--the very men who tried
to have him dismissed a year ago," continued M. du Lude, in undertones,
to the young advocate, who, surrounded and hidden from public
observation by the group of dark-clad citizens, was writing down his
observations in a note-book under his cloak.

"Here; look, look!" screamed the woman. "Make way! here's Monsieur
Barre, the Cure of Saint-Jacques at Chinon."

"A saint!" murmured one bystander.

"A hypocrite!" exclaimed a manly voice.

"See how thin he is with fasting!"

"See how pale he is with remorse!"

"He's the man to drive away devils!"

"Yes, but not till he's done with them for his own purposes."

The dialogue was interrupted by the general exclamation, "How beautiful
she is!"

The Superior of the Ursulines advanced, followed by all her nuns. Her
white veil was raised; in order that the people might see the features
of the possessed ones, it had been ordered that it should be thus with
her and six of the sisterhood. Her attire had no distinguishing feature,
except a large rosary extending from her neck nearly to her feet, from
which hung a gold cross; but the dazzling pallor of her face, rendered
still more conspicuous by the dark hue of her capuchon, at once fixed
the general gaze upon her. Her brilliant, dark eyes, which bore the
impress of some deep and burning passion, were crowned with eyebrows so
perfectly arched that Nature herself seemed to have taken as much pains
to form them as the Circassian women to pencil theirs artistically; but
between them a slight fold revealed the powerful agitation within. In
her movements, however, and throughout her whole bearing, she affected
perfect calm; her steps were slow and measured, and her beautiful hands
were crossed on her bosom, as white and motionless as those of the
marble statues joined in eternal prayer.

"See, aunt," ejaculated Martine, "see how Sister Agnes and Sister Claire
are weeping, next to the Superior!"

"Ay, niece, they weep because they are the prey of the demon."

"Or rather," interposed the same manly voice that spoke before, "because
they repent of having mocked Heaven."

A deep silence now pervaded the multitude; not a word was heard, not
a movement, hardly a breath. Every one seemed paralyzed by some sudden
enchantment, when, following the nuns, among four Penitents who held him
in chains, appeared the Cure of the Church of Ste. Croix, attired in his
pastor's robe. His was a noble, fine face, with grandeur in its whole
expression, and gentleness in every feature. Affecting no scornful
indifference to his position, he looked calmly and kindly around, as if
he sought on his dark path the affectionate glances of those who loved
him. Nor did he seek in vain; here and there he encountered those
glances, and joyfully returned them. He even heard sobs, and he saw
hands extended toward him, many of which grasped weapons. But no gesture
of his encouraged these mute offers of aid; he lowered his eyes and went
on, careful not to compromise those who so trusted in him, or to involve
them in his own misfortunes. This was Urbain Grandier.

Suddenly the procession stopped, at a sign from the man who walked
apart, and who seemed to command its progress. He was tall, thin,
sallow; he wore a long black robe, with a cap of the same material
and color; he had the face of a Don Basilio, with the eye of Nero.
He motioned the guards to surround him more closely, when he saw with
affright the dark group we have mentioned, and the strong-limbed and
resolute peasants who seemed in attendance upon them. Then, advancing
somewhat before the Canons and Capuchins who were with him, he
pronounced, in a shrill voice, this singular decree:

   "We, Sieur de Laubardemont, referendary, being delegated and
   invested with discretionary power in the matter of the trial of the
   magician Urbain Grandier, upon the various articles of accusation
   brought against him, assisted by the reverend Fathers Mignon, canon,
   Barre, cure of St. Jacques at Chinon, Father Lactantius, and all the
   other judges appointed to try the said magician, have decreed as
   follows:

   "Primo: the factitious assembly of proprietors, noble citizens of
   this town and its environs, is dissolved, as tending to popular
   sedition; its proceedings are declared null, and its letter to the
   King, against us, the judges, which has been intercepted, shall be
   publicly burned in the marketplace as calumniating the good
   Ursulines and the reverend fathers and judges.

   "Secundo: it is forbidden to say, publicly or in private, that the
   said nuns are not possessed by the Evil Spirit, or to doubt of the
   power of the exorcists, under pain of a fine of twenty thousand
   livres, and corporal punishment.

   "Let the bailiffs and sheriffs obey this. Given the eighteenth of
   June, in the year of grace 1639."

Before he had well finished reading the decree, the discordant blare of
trumpets, bursting forth at a prearranged signal, drowned, to a
certain extent, the murmurs that followed its proclamation, amid which
Laubardemont urged forward the procession, which entered the great
building already referred to--an ancient convent, whose interior had
crumbled away, its walls now forming one vast hall, well adapted for the
purpose to which it was about to be applied. Laubardemont did not deem
himself safe until he was within the building and had heard the heavy,
double doors creak on their hinges as, closing, they excluded the
furious crowd without.




CHAPTER III. THE GOOD PRIEST

     L'homme de paix me parla ainsi.--VICAIRE SAVOYARD.

Now that the diabolical procession is in the arena destined for its
spectacle, and is arranging its sanguinary representation, let us see
what Cinq-Mars had been doing amid the agitated throng. He was naturally
endowed with great tact, and he felt that it would be no easy matter
for him to attain his object of seeing the Abbe Quillet, at a time when
public excitement was at its height. He therefore remained on horseback
with his four servants in a small, dark street that led into the main
thoroughfare, whence he could see all that passed. No one at first paid
any attention to him; but when public curiosity had no other aliment, he
became an object of general interest. Weary of so many strange scenes,
the inhabitants looked upon him with some exasperation, and whispered to
one another, asking whether this was another exorcist come among them.
Feeling that it was time to take a decided course, he advanced with
his attendants, hat in hand, toward the group in black of whom we
have spoken, and addressing him who appeared its chief member, said,
"Monsieur, where can I find Monsieur l'Abbe Quillet?"

At this name, all regarded him with an air of terror, as if he had
pronounced that of Lucifer. Yet no anger was shown; on the contrary, it
seemed that the question had favorably changed for him the minds of all
who heard him. Moreover, chance had served him well in his choice; the
Comte du Lude came up to his horse, and saluting him, said, "Dismount,
Monsieur, and I will give you some useful information concerning him."

After speaking a while in whispers, the two gentlemen separated with
all the ceremonious courtesy of the time. Cinq-Mars remounted his black
horse, and passing through numerous narrow streets, was soon out of the
crowd with his retinue.

"How happy I am!" he soliloquized, as he went his way; "I shall, at all
events, for a moment see the good and kind clergyman who brought me
up; even now I recall his features, his calm air, his voice so full of
gentleness."

As these tender thoughts filled his mind, he found himself in the small,
dark street which had been indicated to him; it was so narrow that the
knee-pieces of his boots touched the wall on each side. At the end of
the street he came to a one-storied wooden house, and in his eagerness
knocked at the door with repeated strokes.

"Who is there?" cried a furious voice within; and at the same moment,
the door opening revealed a little short, fat man, with a very red
face, dressed in black, with a large white ruff, and riding-boots which
engulfed his short legs in their vast depths. In his hands were a pair
of horse-pistols.

"I will sell my life dearly!" he cried; "and--"

"Softly, Abbe, softly," said his pupil, taking his arm; "we are
friends."

"Ah, my son, is it you?" said the good man, letting fall his pistols,
which were picked up by a domestic, also armed to the teeth. "What do
you here? The abomination has entered the town, and I only await the
night to depart. Make haste within, my dear boy, with your people. I
took you for the archers of Laubardemont, and, faith, I intended to
take a part somewhat out of my line. You see the horses in the courtyard
there; they will convey me to Italy, where I shall rejoin our friend,
the Duc de Bouillon. Jean! Jean! hasten and close the great gate after
Monsieur's domestics, and recommend them not to make too much noise,
although for that matter we have no habitation near us."

Grandchamp obeyed the intrepid little Abbe, who then embraced Cinq-Mars
four consecutive times, raising himself on the points of his boots, so
as to attain the middle of his pupil's breast. He then hurried him into
a small room, which looked like a deserted granary; and seating him
beside himself upon a black leather trunk, he said, warmly:

"Well, my son, whither go you? How came Madame la Marechale to allow you
to come here? Do you not see what they are doing against an unhappy man,
whose death alone will content them? Alas, merciful Heaven! is this
the first spectacle my dear pupil is to see? And you at that delightful
period of life when friendship, love, confidence, should alone encompass
you; when all around you should give you a favorable opinion of your
species, at your very entry into the great world! How unfortunate! alas,
why did you come?"

When the good Abbe had followed up this lamentation by pressing
affectionately both hands of the young traveller in his own, so red and
wrinkled, the latter answered:

"Can you not guess, my dear Abbe, that I came to Loudun because you
are here? As to the spectacle you speak of, it appears to me simply
ridiculous; and I swear that I do not a whit the less on its account
love that human race of which your virtues and your good lessons have
given me an excellent idea. As to the five or six mad women who--"

"Let us not lose time; I will explain to you all that matter; but answer
me, whither go you, and for what?"

"I am going to Perpignan, where the Cardinal-Duke is to present me to
the King."

At this the worthy but hasty Abbe rose from his box, and walked, or
rather ran, to and fro, stamping. "The Cardinal! the Cardinal!" he
repeated, almost choking, his face becoming scarlet, and the tears
rising to his eyes; "My poor child! they will destroy him! Ah, mon Dieu!
what part would they have him play there? What would they do with
him? Ah, who will protect thee, my son, in that dangerous place?" he
continued, reseating himself, and again taking his pupil's hands in his
own with a paternal solicitude, as he endeavored to read his thoughts in
his countenance.

"Why, I do not exactly know," said Cinq-Mars, looking up at the ceiling;
"but I suppose it will be the Cardinal de Richelieu, who was the friend
of my father."

"Ah, my dear Henri, you make me tremble; he will ruin you unless you
become his docile instrument. Alas, why can not I go with you? Why must
I act the young man of twenty in this unfortunate affair? Alas, I should
be perilous to you; I must, on the contrary, conceal myself. But you
will have Monsieur de Thou near you, my son, will you not?" said he,
trying to reassure himself; "he was your friend in childhood, though
somewhat older than yourself. Heed his counsels, my child, he is a wise
young man of mature reflection and solid ideas."

"Oh, yes, my dear Abbe, you may depend upon my tender attachment for
him; I never have ceased to love him."

"But you have ceased to write to him, have you not?" asked the good
Abbe, half smilingly.

"I beg your pardon, my dear Abbe, I wrote to him once, and again
yesterday, to inform him that the Cardinal has invited me to court."

"How! has he himself desired your presence?"

Cinq-Mars hereupon showed the letter of the Cardinal-Duke to his mother,
and his old preceptor grew gradually calmer.

"Ah, well!" said he to himself, "this is not so bad, perhaps, after
all. It looks promising; a captain of the guards at twenty--that sounds
well!" and the worthy Abbe's face became all smiles.

The young man, delighted to see these smiles, which so harmonized with
his own thoughts, fell upon the neck of the Abbe and embraced him, as if
the good man had thus assured to him a futurity of pleasure, glory, and
love.

But the good Abbe, with difficulty disengaging himself from this warm
embrace, resumed his walk, his reflections, and his gravity. He coughed
often and shook his head; and Cinq-Mars, not venturing to pursue the
conversation, watched him, and became sad as he saw him become serious.

The old man at last sat down, and in a mournful tone addressed his
pupil:

"My friend, my son, I have for a moment yielded like a father to your
hopes; but I must tell you, and it is not to afflict you, that they
appear to me excessive and unnatural. If the Cardinal's sole aim were
to show attachment and gratitude toward your family, he would not have
carried his favors so far; no, the extreme probability is that he has
designs upon you. From what has been told him, he thinks you adapted to
play some part, as yet impossible for us to divine, but which he himself
has traced out in the deepest recesses of his mind. He wishes to educate
you for this; he wishes to drill you into it. Allow me the expression in
consideration of its accuracy, and think seriously of it when the time
shall come. But I am inclined to believe that, as matters are, you would
do well to follow up this vein in the great mine of State; in this way
high fortunes have begun. You must only take heed not to be blinded
and led at will. Let not favors dazzle you, my poor child, and let not
elevation turn your head. Be not so indignant at the suggestion; the
thing has happened to older men than yourself. Write to me often, as
well as to your mother; see Monsieur de Thou, and together we will try
to keep you in good counsel. Now, my son, be kind enough to close that
window through which the wind comes upon my head, and I will tell you
what has been going on here."

Henri, trusting that the moral part of the discourse was over, and
anticipating nothing in the second part but a narrative more or less
interesting, closed the old casement, festooned with cobwebs, and
resumed his seat without speaking.

"Now that I reflect further," continued the Abbe, "I think it will
not perhaps be unprofitable for you to have passed through this place,
although it be a sad experience you shall have acquired; but it will
supply what I may not have formerly told you of the wickedness of men.
I hope, moreover, that the result will not be fatal, and that the letter
we have written to the King will arrive in time."

"I heard that it had been intercepted," interposed Cinq-Mars.

"Then all is over," said the Abbe Quillet; "the Cure is lost. But
listen. God forbid, my son, that I, your old tutor, should seek to
assail my own work, and attempt to weaken your faith! Preserve ever and
everywhere that simple creed of which your noble family has given you
the example, which our fathers possessed in a still higher degree than
we, and of which the greatest captains of our time are not ashamed.
Always, while you wear a sword, remember that you hold it for the
service of God. But at the same time, when you are among men, avoid
being deceived by the hypocrite. He will encompass you, my son; he will
assail you on the vulnerable side of your ingenuous heart, in addressing
your religion; and seeing the extravagance of his affected zeal, you
will fancy yourself lukewarm as compared with him. You will think that
your conscience cries out against you; but it will not be the voice of
conscience that you hear. And what cries would not that conscience send
forth, how fiercely would it not rise upon you, did you contribute
to the destruction of innocence by invoking Heaven itself as a false
witness against it?"

"Oh, my father! can such things be possible?" exclaimed Henri d'Effiat,
clasping his hands.

"It is but too true," continued the Abbe; "you saw a partial execution
of it this morning. God grant you may not witness still greater horrors!
But listen! whatever you may see, whatever crime they dare to commit, I
conjure you, in the name of your mother and of all that you hold
dear, say not a word; make not a gesture that may indicate any opinion
whatever. I know the impetuous character that you derive from
the Marechal, your father; curb it, or you are lost. These little
ebullitions of passion give but slight satisfaction, and bring about
great misfortunes. I have observed you give way to them too much. Oh,
did you but know the advantage that a calm temper gives one over men!
The ancients stamped it on the forehead of the divinity as his finest
attribute, since it shows that he is superior to our fears and to our
hopes, to our pleasures and to our pains. Therefore, my dear child,
remain passive in the scenes you are about to witness; but see them
you must. Be present at this sad trial; for me, I must suffer the
consequences of my schoolboy folly. I will relate it to you; it will
prove to you that with a bald head one may be as much a child as with
your fine chestnut curls."

And the excellent old Abbe, taking his pupil's head affectionately
between his hands, continued:

"Like other people, my dear son, I was curious to see the devils of the
Ursulines; and knowing that they professed to speak all languages, I was
so imprudent as to cease speaking Latin and to question them in Greek.
The Superior is very pretty, but she does not know Greek! Duncan, the
physician, observed aloud that it was surprising that the demon, who
knew everything, should commit barbarisms and solecisms in Latin, and
not be able to answer in Greek. The young Superior, who was then upon
her bed, turned toward the wall to weep, and said in an undertone to
Father Barre, 'I can not go on with this, father.' I repeated her words
aloud, and infuriated all the exorcists; they cried out that I ought to
know that there are demons more ignorant than peasants, and said that as
to their power and physical strength, it could not be doubted, since the
spirits named Gresil des Trones, Aman des Puissance, and Asmodeus, had
promised to carry off the calotte of Monsieur de Laubardemont. They were
preparing for this, when the physician Duncan, a learned and upright
man, but somewhat of a scoffer, took it into his head to pull a cord he
discovered fastened to a column like a bell-rope, and which hung down
just close to the referendary's head; whereupon they called him a
Huguenot, and I am satisfied that if Marechal de Breze were not his
protector, it would have gone ill with him. The Comte du Lude then came
forward with his customary 'sang-froid', and begged the exorcists to
perform before him. Father Lactantius, the Capuchin with the dark visage
and hard look, proceeded with Sister Agnes and Sister Claire; he raised
both his hands, looking at them as a serpent would look at two dogs, and
cried in a terrible voice, 'Quis to misit, Diabole?' and the two sisters
answered, as with one voice, 'Urbanus.' He was about to continue, when
Monsieur du Lude, taking out of his pocket, with an air of veneration,
a small gold box, said that he had in it a relic left by his ancestors,
and that though not doubting the fact of the possession, he wished to
test it. Father Lactantius seized the box with delight, and hardly had
he touched the foreheads of the two sisters with it when they made great
leaps and twisted about their hands and feet. Lactantius shouted forth
his exorcisms; Barre threw himself upon his knees with all the old
women; and Mignon and the judges applauded. The impassible Laubardemont
made the sign of the cross, without being struck dead for it! When
Monsieur du Lude took back his box the nuns became still. 'I think,'
said Lactantius, insolently, 'that--you will not question your relics
now.' 'No more than I do the possession,' answered Monsieur du Lude,
opening his box and showing that it was empty. 'Monsieur, you mock us,'
said Lactantius. I was indignant at these mummeries, and said to him,
'Yes, Monsieur, as you mock God and men.' And this, my dear friend, is
the reason why you see me in my seven-league boots, so heavy that they
hurt my legs, and with pistols; for our friend Laubardemont has ordered
my person to be seized, and I don't choose it to be seized, old as it
is."

"What, is he so powerful, then?" cried Cinq-Mars.

"More so than is supposed--more so than could be believed. I know that
the possessed Abbess is his niece, and that he is provided with an order
in council directing him to judge, without being deterred by any appeals
lodged in Parliament, the Cardinal having prohibited the latter from
taking cognizance of the matter of Urbain Grandier."

"And what are his offences?" asked the young man, already deeply
interested.

"Those of a strong mind and of a great genius, an inflexible will which
has irritated power against him, and a profound passion which has driven
his heart and him to commit the only mortal sin with which I believe
he can be reproached; and it was only by violating the sanctity of his
private papers, which they tore from Jeanne d'Estievre, his mother, an
old woman of eighty, that they discovered his love for the beautiful
Madeleine de Brou. This girl had refused to marry, and wished to take
the veil. May that veil have concealed from her the spectacle of this
day! The eloquence of Grandier and his angelic beauty drove the women
half mad; they came miles and miles to hear him. I have seen them swoon
during his sermons; they declared him an angel, and touched his garment
and kissed his hands when he descended from the pulpit. It is certain
that, unless it be his beauty, nothing could equal the sublimity of
his discourses, ever full of inspiration. The pure honey of the gospel
combined on his lips with the flashing flame of the prophecies; and one
recognized in the sound of his voice a heart overflowing with holy pity
for the evils to which mankind are subject, and filled with tears, ready
to flow for us."

The good priest paused, for his own voice and eyes were filled with
tears; his round and naturally Joyous face was more touching than a
graver one under the same circumstances, for it seemed as if it bade
defiance to sadness. Cinq-Mars, even more moved, pressed his hand
without speaking, fearful of interrupting him. The Abbe took out a red
handkerchief, wiped his eyes, and continued:

"This is the second attack upon Urbain by his combined enemies. He
had already been accused of bewitching the nuns; but, examined by holy
prelates, by enlightened magistrates, and learned physicians, he was
immediately acquitted, and the judges indignantly imposed silence upon
these devils in human form. The good and pious Archbishop of Bordeaux,
who had himself chosen the examiners of these pretended exorcists,
drove the prophets away and shut up their hell. But, humiliated by the
publicity of the result, annoyed at seeing Grandier kindly received by
our good King when he threw himself at his feet at Paris, they saw that
if he triumphed they were lost, and would be universally regarded as
impostors. Already the convent of the Ursulines was looked upon only as
a theatre for disgraceful comedies, and the nuns themselves as shameless
actresses. More than a hundred persons, furious against the Cure,
had compromised themselves in the hope of destroying him. Their plot,
instead of being abandoned, has gained strength by its first check; and
here are the means that have been set to work by his implacable enemies.

"Do you know a man called 'L'Eminence Grise', that formidable Capuchin
whom the Cardinal employs in all things, consults upon some, and
always despises? It was to him that the Capuchins of Loudun addressed
themselves. A woman of this place, of low birth, named Hamon, having
been so fortunate as to please the Queen when she passed through Loudun,
was taken into her service. You know the hatred that separates her court
from that of the Cardinal; you know that Anne of Austria and Monsieur de
Richelieu have for some time disputed for the King's favor, and that,
of her two suns, France never knew in the evening which would rise next
morning. During a temporary eclipse of the Cardinal, a satire appeared,
issuing from the planetary system of the Queen; it was called, 'La
cordonniere de la seine-mere'. Its tone and language were vulgar; but it
contained things so insulting about the birth and person of the Cardinal
that the enemies of the minister took it up and gave it a publicity
which irritated him. It revealed, it is said, many intrigues and
mysteries which he had deemed impenetrable. He read this anonymous
work, and desired to know its author. It was just at this time that
the Capuchins of this town wrote to Father Joseph that a constant
correspondence between Grandier and La Hamon left no doubt in their
minds as to his being the author of this diatribe. It was in vain that
he had previously published religious books, prayers, and meditations,
the style of which alone ought to have absolved him from having put
his hand to a libel written in the language of the marketplace; the
Cardinal, long since prejudiced against Urbain, was determined to fix
upon him as the culprit. He remembered that when he was only prior of
Coussay, Grandier disputed precedence with him and gained it; I fear
this achievement of precedence in life will make poor Grandier precede
the Cardinal in death also."

A melancholy smile played upon the lips of the good Abbe as he uttered
this involuntary pun.

"What! do you think this matter will go so far as death?"

"Ay, my son, even to death; they have already taken away all the
documents connected with his former absolution that might have served
for his defence, despite the opposition of his poor mother, who
preserved them as her son's license to live. Even now they affect to
regard a work against the celibacy of priests, found among his papers,
as destined to propagate schism. It is a culpable production, doubtless,
and the love which dictated it, however pure it may be, is an enormous
sin in a man consecrated to God alone; but this poor priest was far from
wishing to encourage heresy, and it was simply, they say, to appease
the remorse of Mademoiselle de Brou that he composed the work. It was so
evident that his real faults would not suffice to condemn him to death
that they have revived the accusation of sorcery, long since disposed
of; but, feigning to believe this, the Cardinal has established a new
tribunal in this town, and has placed Laubardemont at its head, a sure
sign of death. Heaven grant that you never become acquainted with what
the corruption of governments call coups-d'etat!"

At this moment a terrible shriek sounded from beyond the wall of the
courtyard; the Abbe arose in terror, as did Cinq-Mars.

"It is the cry of a woman," said the old man.

"'Tis heartrending!" exclaimed Cinq-Mars. "What is it?" he asked his
people, who had all rushed out into the courtyard.

They answered that they heard nothing further.

"Well, well," said the Abbe, "make no noise." He then shut the window,
and put his hands before his eyes.

"Ah, what a cry was that, my son!" he said, with his face of an ashy
paleness--"what a cry! It pierced my very soul; some calamity has
happened. Ah, holy Virgin! it has so agitated me that I can talk with
you no more. Why did I hear it, just as I was speaking to you of your
future career? My dear child, may God bless you! Kneel!"

Cinq-Mars did as he was desired, and knew by a kiss upon his head that
he had been blessed by the old man, who then raised him, saying:

"Go, my son, the time is advancing; they might find you with me. Go,
leave your people and horses here; wrap yourself in a cloak, and go; I
have much to write ere the hour when darkness shall allow me to depart
for Italy."

They embraced once more, promising to write to each other, and Henri
quitted the house. The Abby, still following him with his eyes from the
window, cried:

"Be prudent, whatever may happen," and sent him with his hands one more
paternal blessing, saying, "Poor child! poor child!"




CHAPTER IV. THE TRIAL

        Oh, vendetta di Dio, quanto to dei
        Esser temuta da ciascun che legge
        Cio, che fu manifesto agli occhi miei.--DANTE.

Notwithstanding the custom of having secret trials, freely countenanced
by Richelieu, the judges of the Cure of Loudun had resolved that the
court should be open to the public; but they soon repented this measure.
They were all interested in the destruction of Urbain Grandier; but
they desired that the indignation of the country should in some degree
sanction the sentence of death they had received orders to pass and to
carry into effect.

Laubardemont was a kind of bird of prey, whom the Cardinal always let
loose when he required a prompt and sure agent for his vengeance; and on
this occasion he fully justified the choice that had been made of him.
He committed but one error--that of allowing a public trial, contrary
to the usual custom; his object had been to intimidate and to dismay. He
dismayed, indeed, but he created also a feeling of indignant horror.

The throng without the gates had waited there two hours, during which
time the sound of hammers indicated that within the great hall they were
hastily completing their mysterious preparations. At length the archers
laboriously turned upon their hinges the heavy gates opening into the
street, and the crowd eagerly rushed in. The young Cinq-Mars was carried
along with the second enormous wave, and, placed behind a thick column,
stood there, so as to be able to see without being seen. He observed
with vexation that the group of dark-clad citizens was near him; but the
great gates, closing, left the part of the court where the people stood
in such darkness that there was no likelihood of his being recognized.
Although it was only midday, the hall was lighted with torches; but they
were nearly all placed at the farther end, where rose the judges' bench
behind a long table. The chairs, tables, and steps were all covered with
black cloth, and cast a livid hue over the faces of those near them.
A seat reserved for the prisoner was placed upon the left, and on the
crape robe which covered him flames were represented in gold embroidery
to indicate the nature of the offence. Here sat the accused, surrounded
by archers, with his hands still bound in chains, held by two monks,
who, with simulated terror, affected to start from him at his slightest
motion, as if they held a tiger or enraged wolf, or as if the flames
depicted on his robe could communicate themselves to their clothing.
They also carefully kept his face from being seen in the least degree by
the people.

The impassible countenance of M. de Laubardemont was there to dominate
the judges of his choice; almost a head taller than any of them, he
sat upon a seat higher than theirs, and each of his glassy and uneasy
glances seemed to convey a command. He wore a long, full scarlet robe,
and a black cap covered his head; he seemed occupied in arranging
papers, which he then passed to the judges. The accusers, all
ecclesiastics, sat upon the right hand of the judges; they wore their
albs and stoles. Father Lactantius was distinguishable among them by
his simple Capuchin habit, his tonsure, and the extreme hardness of
his features. In a side gallery sat the Bishop of Poitiers, hidden from
view; other galleries were filled with veiled women. Below the bench of
judges a group of men and women, the dregs of the populace, stood behind
six young Ursuline nuns, who seemed full of disgust at their proximity;
these were the witnesses.

The rest of the hall was filled with an enormous crowd, gloomy and
silent, clinging to the arches, the gates, and the beams, and full of
a terror which communicated itself to the judges, for it arose from an
interest in the accused. Numerous archers, armed with long pikes, formed
an appropriate frame for this lugubrious picture.

At a sign from the President, the witnesses withdrew through a narrow
door opened for them by an usher. As the Superior of the Ursulines
passed M. de Laubardemont she was heard to say to him, "You have
deceived me, Monsieur." He remained immovable, and she went on. A
profound silence reigned throughout the whole assembly.

Rising with all the gravity he could assume, but still with visible
agitation, one of the judges, named Houmain, judge-Advocate of Orleans,
read a sort of indictment in a voice so low and hoarse that it was
impossible to follow it. He made himself heard only when what he had to
say was intended to impose upon the minds of the people. He divided
the evidence into two classes: one, the depositions of seventy-two
witnesses; the other, more convincing, that resulting from "the
exorcisms of the reverend fathers here present," said he, crossing
himself.

Fathers Lactantius, Barre, and Mignon bowed low, repeating the sacred
sign.

"Yes, my lords," said Houmain, addressing the judges, "this bouquet of
white roses and this manuscript, signed with the blood of the magician,
a counterpart of the contract he has made with Lucifer, and which he
was obliged to carry about him in order to preserve his power, have
been recognized and brought before you. We read with horror these words
written at the bottom of the parchment: 'The original is in hell, in
Lucifer's private cabinet.'"

A roar of laughter, which seemed to come from stentorian lungs, was
heard in the throng. The president reddened, and made a sign to
the archers, who in vain endeavored to discover the disturber. The
judge-Advocate continued:

"The demons have been forced to declare their names by the mouths of
their victims. Their names and deeds are deposited upon this table. They
are called Astaroth, of the order of Seraphim; Eazas, Celsus, Acaos,
Cedron, Asmodeus, of the order of Thrones; Alex, Zebulon, Cham, Uriel,
and Achas, of the order of Principalities, and so on, for their number
is infinite. For their actions, who among us has not been a witness of
them?"

A prolonged murmur arose from the gathering, but, upon some halberdiers
advancing, all became silent.

"We have seen, with grief, the young and respectable Superior of the
Ursulines tear her bosom with her own hands and grovel in the dust;
we have seen the sisters, Agnes, Claire, and others, deviate from the
modesty of their sex by impassioned gestures and unseemly laughter. When
impious men have inclined to doubt the presence of the demons, and we
ourselves felt our convictions shaken, because they refused to answer
to unknown questions in Greek or Arabic, the reverend fathers have, to
establish our belief, deigned to explain to us that the malignity of
evil spirits being extreme, it was not surprising that they should feign
this ignorance in order that they might be less pressed with questions;
and that in their answers they had committed various solecisms and other
grammatical faults in order to bring contempt upon themselves, so that
out of this disdain the holy doctors might leave them in quiet. Their
hatred is so inveterate that just before performing one of their
miraculous feats, they suspended a rope from a beam in order to involve
the reverend personages in a suspicion of fraud, whereas it has been
deposed on oath by credible people that there never had been a cord in
that place.

"But, my lords, while Heaven was thus miraculously explaining itself by
the mouths of its holy interpreters, another light has just been
thrown upon us. At the very time the judges were absorbed in profound
meditation, a loud cry was heard near the hall of council; and upon
going to the spot, we found the body of a young lady of high birth. She
had just exhaled her last breath in the public street, in the arms of
the reverend Father Mignon, Canon; and we learned from the said father
here present, and from several other grave personages, that, suspecting
the young lady to be possessed, by reason of the current rumor for some
time past of the admiration Urbain Grandier had for her, an idea of
testing it happily occurred to the Canon, who suddenly said, approaching
her, 'Grandier has just been put to death,' whereat she uttered one loud
scream and fell dead, deprived by the demon of the time necessary for
giving her the assistance of our holy Mother, the Catholic Church."

A murmur of indignation arose from the crowd, among whom the word
"Assassin" was loudly reechoed; the halberdiers commanded silence with
a loud voice, but it was obtained rather by the judge resuming his
address, the general curiosity triumphing.

"Oh, infamy!" he continued, seeking to fortify himself by exclamations;
"upon her person was found this work, written by the hand of Urbain
Grandier," and he took from among his papers a book bound in parchment.

"Heavens!" cried Urbain from his seat.

"Look to your prisoner!" cried the judge to the archers who surrounded
him.

"No doubt the demon is about to manifest himself," said Father
Lactantius, in a sombre voice; "tighten his bonds." He was obeyed.

The judge-Advocate continued, "Her name was Madeleine de Brou, aged
nineteen."

"O God! this is too much!" cried the accused, as he fell fainting on the
ground.

The assembly was deeply agitated; for a moment there was an absolute
tumult.

"Poor fellow! he loved her," said some.

"So good a lady!" cried the women.

Pity began to predominate. Cold water was thrown upon Grandier, without
his being taken from the court, and he was tied to his seat. The
Judge-Advocate went on:

"We are directed to read the beginning of this book to the court," and
he read as follows:

   "'It is for thee, dear and gentle Madeleine, in order to set at rest
   thy troubled conscience, that I have described in this book one
   thought of my soul. All those thoughts tend to thee, celestial
   creature, because in thee they return to the aim and object of my
   whole existence; but the thought I send thee, as 'twere a flower,
   comes from thee, exists only in thee, and returns to thee alone.

   "'Be not sad because thou lovest me; be not afflicted because I
   adore thee. The angels of heaven, what is it that they do? The
   souls of the blessed, what is it that is promised them? Are we less
   pure than the angels? Are our souls less separated from the earth
   than they will be after death? Oh, Madeleine, what is there in us
   wherewith the Lord can be displeased? Can it be that we pray
   together, that with faces prostrate in the dust before His altars,
   we ask for early death to take us while yet youth and love are ours?
   Or that, musing together beneath the funereal trees of the
   churchyard, we yearned for one grave, smiling at the idea of death,
   and weeping at life? Or that, when thou kneelest before me at the
   tribunal of penitence, and, speaking in the presence of God, canst
   find naught of evil to reveal to me, so wholly have I kept thy soul
   in the pure regions of heaven? What, then, could offend our
   Creator? Perhaps--yes! perhaps some spirit of heaven may have
   envied me my happiness when on Easter morn I saw thee kneeling
   before me, purified by long austerities from the slight stain which
   original sin had left in thee! Beautiful, indeed, wert thou! Thy
   glance sought thy God in heaven, and my trembling hand held His
   image to thy pure lips, which human lip had never dared to breathe
   upon. Angelic being! I alone participated in the secret of the
   Lord, in the one secret of the entire purity of thy soul; I it was
   that united thee to thy Creator, who at that moment descended also
   into my bosom. Ineffable espousals, of which the Eternal himself
   was the priest, you alone were permitted between the virgin and her
   pastor! the sole joy of each was to see eternal happiness beginning
   for the other, to inhale together the perfumes of heaven, to drink
   in already the harmony of the spheres, and to feel assured that our
   souls, unveiled to God and to ourselves alone, were worthy together
   to adore Him.

   "'What scruple still weighs upon thy soul, O my sister? Dost thou
   think I have offered too high a worship to thy virtue? Fearest thou
   so pure an admiration should deter me from that of the Lord?'"

Houmain had reached this point when the door through which the witnesses
had withdrawn suddenly opened. The judges anxiously whispered together.
Laubardemont, uncertain as to the meaning of this, signed to the fathers
to let him know whether this was some scene executed by their orders;
but, seated at some distance from him, and themselves taken by surprise,
they could not make him understand that they had not prepared this
interruption. Besides, ere they could exchange looks, to the amazement
of the assembly, three women, 'en chemise', with naked feet, each with
a cord round her neck and a wax taper in her hand, came through the door
and advanced to the middle of the platform. It was the Superior of the
Ursulines, followed by Sisters Agnes and Claire. Both the latter were
weeping; the Superior was very pale, but her bearing was firm, and her
eyes were fixed and tearless. She knelt; her companions followed
her example. Everything was in such confusion that no one thought of
checking them; and in a clear, firm voice she pronounced these words,
which resounded in every corner of the hall:

"In the name of the Holy Trinity, I, Jeanne de Belfiel, daughter of the
Baron de Cose, I, the unworthy Superior of the Convent of the Ursulines
of Loudun, ask pardon of God and man for the crime I have committed in
accusing the innocent Urbain Grandier. My possession was feigned, my
words were dictated; remorse overwhelms me."

"Bravo!" cried the spectators, clapping their hands. The judges arose;
the archers, in doubt, looked at the president; he shook in every limb,
but did not change countenance.

"Let all be silent," he said, in a sharp voice; "archers, do your duty."

This man felt himself supported by so strong a hand that nothing could
affright him--for no thought of Heaven ever visited him.

"What think you, my fathers?" said he, making a sign to the monks.

"That the demon seeks to save his friend. Obmutesce, Satanas!" cried
Father Lactantius, in a terrible voice, affecting to exorcise the
Superior.

Never did fire applied to gunpowder produce an effect more instantaneous
than did these two words. Jeanne de Belfiel started up in all the beauty
of twenty, which her awful nudity served to augment; she seemed a soul
escaped from hell appearing to, her seducer. With her dark eyes she cast
fierce glances upon the monks; Lactantius lowered his beneath that look.
She took two steps toward him with her bare feet, beneath which the
scaffolding rung, so energetic was her movement; the taper seemed, in
her hand, the sword of the avenging angel.

"Silence, impostor!" she cried, with warmth; "the demon who possessed me
was yourself. You deceived me; you said he was not to be tried. To-day,
for the first time, I know that he is to be tried; to-day, for the first
time, I know that he is to be murdered. And I will speak!"

"Woman, the demon bewilders thee."

"Say, rather, that repentance enlightens me. Daughters, miserable as
myself, arise; is he not innocent?"

"We swear he is," said the two young lay sisters, still kneeling and
weeping, for they were not animated with so strong a resolution as that
of the Superior.

Agnes, indeed, had hardly uttered these words when turning toward the
people, she cried, "Help me! they will punish me; they will kill me!"
And hurrying away her companion, she drew her into the crowd, who
affectionately received them. A thousand voices swore to protect them.
Imprecations arose; the men struck their staves against the floor; the
officials dared not prevent the people from passing the sisters on from
one to another into the street.

During this strange scene the amazed and panic-struck judges whispered;
M. Laubardemont looked at the archers, indicating to them the points
they were especially to watch, among which, more particularly, was that
occupied by the group in black. The accusers looked toward the gallery
of the Bishop of Poitiers, but discovered no expression in his dull
countenance. He was one of those old men of whom death appears to take
possession ten years before all motion entirely ceases in them. His eyes
seemed veiled by a half sleep; his gaping mouth mumbled a few vague
and habitual words of prayer without meaning or application; the entire
amount of intelligence he retained was the ability to distinguish the
man who had most power, and him he obeyed, regardless at what price. He
had accordingly signed the sentence of the doctors of the Sorbonne
which declared the nuns possessed, without even deducing thence the
consequence of the death of Urbain; the rest seemed to him one of those
more or less lengthy ceremonies, to which he paid not the slightest
attention--accustomed as he was to see and live among them, himself an
indispensable part and parcel of them. He therefore gave no sign of life
on this occasion, merely preserving an air at once perfectly noble and
expressionless.

Meanwhile, Father Lactantius, having had a moment to recover from the
sudden attack made upon him, turned toward the president and said:

"Here is a clear proof, sent us by Heaven, of the possession, for the
Superior never before has forgotten the modesty and severity of her
order."

"Would that all the world were here to see me!" said Jeanne de Belfiel,
firm as ever. "I can not be sufficiently humiliated upon earth, and
Heaven will reject me, for I have been your accomplice."

Perspiration appeared upon the forehead of Laubardemont, but he tried
to recover his composure. "What absurd tale is this, Sister; what has
influenced you herein?"

The voice of the girl became sepulchral; she collected all her strength,
pressed her hand upon her heart as if she desired to stay its throbbing,
and, looking at Urbain Grandier, answered, "Love."

A shudder ran through the assembly. Urbain, who since he had fainted had
remained with his head hanging down as if dead, slowly raised his
eyes toward her, and returned entirely to life only to undergo a fresh
sorrow. The young penitent continued:

"Yes, the love which he rejected, which he never fully knew, which
I have breathed in his discourses, which my eyes drew in from his
celestial countenance, which his very counsels against it have
increased.

"Yes, Urbain is pure as an angel, but good as a man who has loved. I
knew not that he had loved! It is you," she said more energetically,
pointing to Lactantius, Barre, and Mignon, and changing her passionate
accents for those of indignation--"it is you who told me that he loved;
you, who this morning have too cruelly avenged me by killing my rival
with a word. Alas, I only sought to separate them! It was a crime; but,
by my mother, I am an Italian! I burned with love, with jealousy; you
allowed me to see Urbain, to have him as a friend, to see him daily."
She was silent for a moment, then exclaimed, "People, he is innocent!
Martyr, pardon me, I embrace thy feet!"

She prostrated herself before Urbain and burst into a torrent of tears.

Urbain raised his closely bound hands, and giving her his benediction,
said, gently:

"Go, Sister; I pardon thee in the name of Him whom I shall soon see. I
have before said to you, and you now see, that the passions work much
evil, unless we seek to turn them toward heaven."

The blood rose a second time to Laubardemont's forehead. "Miscreant!" he
exclaimed, "darest thou pronounce the words of the Church?"

"I have not quitted her bosom," said Urbain.

"Remove the girl," said the President.

When the archers went to obey, they found that she had tightened the
cord round her neck with such force that she was of a livid hue and
almost lifeless. Fear had driven all the women from the assembly; many
had been carried out fainting, but the hall was no less crowded. The
ranks thickened, for the men out of the streets poured in.

The judges arose in terror, and the president attempted to have the
hall cleared; but the people, putting on their hats, stood in alarming
immobility. The archers were not numerous enough to repel them. It
became necessary to yield; and accordingly Laubardemont in an agitated
voice announced that the council would retire for half an hour. He broke
up the sitting; the people remained gloomily, each man fixed firmly to
his place.




BOOK 2.




CHAPTER V. THE MARTYRDOM

     'La torture interroge, et la douleur repond.'
               RAYNOURARD, Les Templiers.

The continuous interest of this half-trial, its preparations, its
interruptions, all had held the minds of the people in such attention
that no private conversations had taken place. Some irrepressible cries
had been uttered, but simultaneously, so that no man could accuse his
neighbor. But when the people were left to themselves, there was an
explosion of clamorous sentences.

There was at this period enough of primitive simplicity among the
lower classes for them to be persuaded by the mysterious tales of the
political agents who were deluding them; so that a large portion of the
throng in the hall of trial, not venturing to change their judgment,
though upon the manifest evidence just given them, awaited in painful
suspense the return of the judges, interchanging with an air of mystery
and inane importance the usual remarks prompted by imbecility on such
occasions.

"One does not know what to think, Monsieur?"

"Truly, Madame, most extraordinary things have happened."

"We live in strange times!"

"I suspected this; but, i' faith, it is not wise to say what one
thinks."

"We shall see what we shall see," and so on--the unmeaning chatter of
the crowd, which merely serves to show that it is at the command of the
first who chooses to sway it. Stronger words were heard from the group
in black.

"What! shall we let them do as they please, in this manner? What! dare
to burn our letter to the King!"

"If the King knew it!"

"The barbarian impostors! how skilfully is their plot contrived! What!
shall murder be committed under our very eyes? Shall we be afraid of
these archers?"

"No, no, no!" rang out in trumpet-like tones.

Attention was turned toward the young advocate, who, standing on a
branch, began tearing to pieces a roll of paper; then he cried:

"Yes, I tear and scatter to the winds the defence I had prepared for the
accused. They have suppressed discussion; I am not allowed to speak for
him. I can only speak to you, people; I rejoice that I can do so. You
heard these infamous judges. Which of them can hear the truth? Which of
them is worthy to listen to an honest man? Which of them will dare to
meet his gaze? But what do I say? They all know the truth. They carry
it in their guilty breasts; it stings their hearts like a serpent. They
tremble in their lair, where doubtless they are devouring their victim;
they tremble because they have heard the cries of three deluded women.
What was I about to do? I was about to speak in behalf of Urbain
Grandier! But what eloquence could equal that of those unfortunates?
What words could better have shown you his innocence? Heaven has taken
up arms for him in bringing them to repentance and to devotion; Heaven
will finish its work--"

"Vade retro, Satanas," was heard through a high window in the hall.

Fournier stopped for a moment, then said:

"You hear these voices parodying the divine language? If I mistake not,
these instruments of an infernal power are, by this song, preparing some
new spell."

"But," cried those who surrounded him, "what shall we do? What have they
done with him?"

"Remain here; be immovable, be silent," replied the young advocate. "The
inertia of a people is all-powerful; that is its true wisdom, that its
strength. Observe them closely, and in silence; and you will make them
tremble."

"They surely will not dare to appear here again," said the Comte du
Lude.

"I should like to look once more at the tall scoundrel in red," said
Grand-Ferre, who had lost nothing of what had occurred.

"And that good gentleman, the Cure," murmured old Father Guillaume
Leroux, looking at all his indignant parishioners, who were talking
together in a low tone, measuring and counting the archers, ridiculing
their dress, and beginning to point them out to the observation of the
other spectators.

Cinq-Mars, still leaning against the pillar behind which he had first
placed himself, still wrapped in his black cloak, eagerly watched all
that passed, lost not a word of what was said, and filled his heart with
hate and bitterness. Violent desires for slaughter and revenge, a vague
desire to strike, took possession of him, despite himself; this is the
first impression which evil produces on the soul of a young man. Later,
sadness takes the place of fury, then indifference and scorn, later
still, a calculating admiration for great villains who have been
successful; but this is only when, of the two elements which constitute
man, earth triumphs over spirit.

Meanwhile, on the right of the hall near the judges' platform, a group
of women were watching attentively a child about eight years old, who
had taken it into his head to climb up to a cornice by the aid of his
sister Martine, whom we have seen the subject of jest with the young
soldier, Grand-Ferre. The child, having nothing to look at after the
court had left the hall, had climbed to a small window which admitted a
faint light, and which he imagined to contain a swallow's nest or some
other treasure for a boy; but after he was well established on the
cornice, his hands grasping the bars of an old shrine of Jerome, he
wished himself anywhere else, and cried out:

"Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand to get down!"

"What do you see there?" asked Martine.

"Oh, I dare not tell; but I want to get down," and he began to cry.

"Stay there, my child; stay there!" said all the women. "Don't be
afraid; tell us all that you see."

"Well, then, they've put the Cure between two great boards that squeeze
his legs, and there are cords round the boards."

"Ah! that is the rack," said one of the townsmen. "Look again, my little
friend, what do you see now?"

The child, more confident, looked again through the window, and then,
withdrawing his head, said:

"I can not see the Cure now, because all the judges stand round him, and
are looking at him, and their great robes prevent me from seeing. There
are also some Capuchins, stooping down to whisper to him."

Curiosity attracted more people to the boy's perch; every one was
silent, waiting anxiously to catch his words, as if their lives depended
on them.

"I see," he went on, "the executioner driving four little pieces of
wood between the cords, after the Capuchins have blessed the hammer and
nails. Ah, heavens! Sister, how enraged they seem with him, because he
will not speak. Mother! mother! give me your hand, I want to come down!"

Instead of his mother, the child, upon turning round, saw only men's
faces, looking up at him with a mournful eagerness, and signing him
to go on. He dared not descend, and looked again through the window,
trembling.

"Oh! I see Father Lactantius and Father Barre themselves forcing in more
pieces of wood, which squeeze his legs. Oh, how pale he is! he seems
praying. There, his head falls back, as if he were dying! Oh, take me
away!"

And he fell into the arms of the young Advocate, of M. du Lude, and of
Cinq-Mars, who had come to support him.

"Deus stetit in synagoga deorum: in medio autem Deus dijudicat--"
chanted strong, nasal voices, issuing from the small window, which
continued in full chorus one of the psalms, interrupted by blows of the
hammer--an infernal deed beating time to celestial songs. One might have
supposed himself near a smithy, except that the blows were dull, and
manifested to the ear that the anvil was a man's body.

"Silence!" said Fournier, "He speaks. The chanting and the blows stop."

A weak voice within said, with difficulty, "Oh, my fathers, mitigate the
rigor of your torments, for you will reduce my soul to despair, and I
might seek to destroy myself!"

At this the fury of the people burst forth like an explosion, echoing
along the vaulted roofs; the men sprang fiercely upon the platform,
thrust aside the surprised and hesitating archers; the unarmed crowd
drove them back, pressed them, almost suffocated them against the walls,
and held them fast, then dashed against the doors which led to the
torture chamber, and, making them shake beneath their blows, threatened
to drive them in; imprecations resounded from a thousand menacing voices
and terrified the judges within.

"They are gone; they have taken him away!" cried a man who had climbed
to the little window.

The multitude at once stopped short, and changing the direction of their
steps, fled from this detestable place and spread rapidly through the
streets, where an extraordinary confusion prevailed.

Night had come on during the long sitting, and the rain was pouring in
torrents. The darkness was terrifying. The cries of women slipping on
the pavement or driven back by the horses of the guards; the shouts
of the furious men; the ceaseless tolling of the bells which had been
keeping time with the strokes of the question; the roll of distant
thunder--all combined to increase the disorder.

   [Torture ('Question') was regulated in scrupulous detail by Holy
   Mother The Church: The ordinary question was regulated for minor
   infractions and used for interrogating women and children. For more
   serious crimes the suspect (and sometimes the witnesses) were put to
   the extraordinary question by the officiating priests. D.W.]

If the ear was astonished, the eyes were no less so. A few dismal
torches lighted up the corners of the streets; their flickering gleams
showed soldiers, armed and mounted, dashing along, regardless of the
crowd, to assemble in the Place de St. Pierre; tiles were sometimes
thrown at them on their way, but, missing the distant culprit, fell upon
some unoffending neighbor. The confusion was bewildering, and became
still more so, when, hurrying through all the streets toward the Place
de St. Pierre, the people found it barricaded on all sides, and filled
with mounted guards and archers. Carts, fastened to the posts at each
corner, closed each entrance, and sentinels, armed with arquebuses, were
stationed close to the carts. In the centre of the Place rose a pile
composed of enormous beams placed crosswise upon one another, so as
to form a perfect square; these were covered with a whiter and lighter
wood; an enormous stake arose from the centre of the scaffold. A man
clothed in red and holding a lowered torch stood near this sort of mast,
which was visible from a long distance. A huge chafing-dish, covered on
account of the rain, was at his feet.

At this spectacle, terror inspired everywhere a profound silence; for
an instant nothing was heard but the sound of the rain, which fell in
floods, and of the thunder, which came nearer and nearer.

Meanwhile, Cinq-Mars, accompanied by MM. du Lude and Fournier and all
the more important personages of the town, had sought refuge from the
storm under the peristyle of the church of Ste.-Croix, raised upon
twenty stone steps. The pile was in front, and from this height they
could see the whole of the square. The centre was entirely clear, large
streams of water alone traversed it; but all the windows of the houses
were gradually lighted up, and showed the heads of the men and women who
thronged them.

The young D'Effiat sorrowfully contemplated this menacing preparation.
Brought up in sentiments of honor, and far removed from the black
thoughts which hatred and ambition arouse in the heart of man, he could
not conceive that such wrong could be done without some powerful and
secret motive. The audacity of such a condemnation seemed to him so
enormous that its very cruelty began to justify it in his eyes; a secret
horror crept into his soul, the same that silenced the people. He almost
forgot the interest with which the unhappy Urbain had inspired him, in
thinking whether it were not possible that some secret correspondence
with the infernal powers had justly provoked such excessive severity;
and the public revelations of the nuns, and the statement of his
respected tutor, faded from his memory, so powerful is success, even
in the eyes of superior men! so strongly does force impose upon men,
despite the voice of conscience!

The young traveller was asking himself whether it were not probable that
the torture had forced some monstrous confession from the accused, when
the obscurity which surrounded the church suddenly ceased. Its two
great doors were thrown open; and by the light of an infinite number
of flambeaux, appeared all the judges and ecclesiastics, surrounded by
guards. Among them was Urbain, supported, or rather carried, by six men
clothed as Black Penitents--for his limbs, bound with bandages saturated
with blood, seemed broken and incapable of supporting him. It was at
most two hours since Cinq-Mars had seen him, and yet he could hardly
recognize the face he had so closely observed at the trial. All color,
all roundness of form had disappeared from it; a livid pallor covered
a skin yellow and shining like ivory; the blood seemed to have left his
veins; all the life that remained within him shone from his dark eyes,
which appeared to have grown twice as large as before, as he looked
languidly around him; his long, chestnut hair hung loosely down his neck
and over a white shirt, which entirely covered him--or rather a sort
of robe with large sleeves, and of a yellowish tint, with an odor of
sulphur about it; a long, thick cord encircled his neck and fell upon
his breast. He looked like an apparition; but it was the apparition of a
martyr.

Urbain stopped, or, rather, was set down upon the peristyle of the
church; the Capuchin Lactantius placed a lighted torch in his right
hand, and held it there, as he said to him, with his hard inflexibility:

"Do penance, and ask pardon of God for thy crime of magic."

The unhappy man raised his voice with great difficulty, and with his
eyes to heaven said:

"In the name of the living God, I cite thee, Laubardemont, false judge,
to appear before Him in three years. They have taken away my confessor,
and I have been fain to pour out my sins into the bosom of God Himself,
for my enemies surround me. I call that God of mercy to witness I never
have dealt in magic. I have known no mysteries but those of the Catholic
religion, apostolic and Roman, in which I die; I have sinned much
against myself, but never against God and our Lord--"

"Cease!" cried the Capuchin, affecting to close his mouth ere he could
pronounce the name of the Saviour. "Obdurate wretch, return to the demon
who sent thee!"

He signed to four priests, who, approaching with sprinklers in their
hands, exorcised with holy water the air the magician breathed, the
earth he touched, the wood that was to burn him. During this ceremony,
the judge-Advocate hastily read the decree, dated the 18th of August,
1639, declaring Urbain Grandier duly attainted and convicted of the
crime of sorcery, witchcraft, and possession, in the persons of sundry
Ursuline nuns of Loudun, and others, laymen, etc.

The reader, dazzled by a flash of lightning, stopped for an instant,
and, turning to M. de Laubardemont, asked whether, considering the awful
weather, the execution could not be deferred till the next day.

"The decree," coldly answered Laubardemont, "commands execution within
twenty-four hours. Fear not the incredulous people; they will soon be
convinced."

All the most important persons of the town and many strangers were under
the peristyle, and now advanced, Cinq-Mars among them.

"The magician never has been able to pronounce the name of the Saviour,
and repels his image."

Lactantius at this moment issued from the midst of the Penitents, with
an enormous iron crucifix in his hand, which he seemed to hold with
precaution and respect; he extended it to the lips of the sufferer,
who indeed threw back his head, and collecting all his strength, made
a gesture with his arm, which threw the cross from the hands of the
Capuchin.

"You see," cried the latter, "he has thrown down the cross!"

A murmur arose, the meaning of which was doubtful.

"Profanation!" cried the priests.

The procession moved toward the pile.

Meanwhile, Cinq-Mars, gliding behind a pillar, had eagerly watched all
that passed; he saw with astonishment that the cross, in falling upon
the steps, which were more exposed to the rain than the platform, smoked
and made a noise like molten lead when thrown into water. While the
public attention was elsewhere engaged, he advanced and touched it
lightly with his bare hand, which was immediately scorched. Seized with
indignation, with all the fury of a true heart, he took up the cross
with the folds of his cloak, stepped up to Laubardemont, and, striking
him with it on the forehead, cried:

"Villain, I brand thee with the mark of this red-hot iron!"

The crowd heard these words and rushed forward.

"Arrest this madman!" cried the unworthy magistrate.

He was himself seized by the hands of men who cried, "Justice! justice,
in the name of the King!"

"We are lost!" said Lactantius; "to the pile, to the pile!"

The Penitents dragged Urbain toward the Place, while the judges and
archers reentered the church, struggling with the furious citizens; the
executioner, having no time to tie up the victim, hastened to lay him
on the wood, and to set fire to it. But the rain still fell in torrents,
and each piece of wood had no sooner caught the flame than it became
extinguished. In vain did Lactantius and the other canons themselves
seek to stir up the fire; nothing could overcome the water which fell
from heaven.

Meanwhile, the tumult which had begun in the peristyle of the church
extended throughout the square. The cry of "Justice!" was repeated
and circulated, with the information of what had been discovered; two
barricades were forced, and despite three volleys of musketry, the
archers were gradually driven back toward the centre of the square. In
vain they spurred their horses against the crowd; it overwhelmed them
with its swelling waves. Half an hour passed in this struggle, the
guards still receding toward the pile, which they concealed as they
pressed closer upon it.

"On! on!" cried a man; "we will deliver him; do not strike the soldiers,
but let them fall back. See, Heaven will not permit him to die! The
fire is out; now, friend, one effort more! That is well! Throw down that
horse! Forward! On!"

The guard was broken and dispersed on all sides. The crowd rushed to
the pile, but no more light was there: all had disappeared, even the
executioner. They tore up and threw aside the beams; one of them
was still burning, and its light showed under a mass of ashes and
ensanguined mire a blackened hand, preserved from the fire by a large
iron bracelet and chain. A woman had the courage to open it; the fingers
clasped a small ivory cross and an image of St. Magdalen.

"These are his remains," she said, weeping.

"Say, the relics of a martyr!" exclaimed a citizen, baring his head.




CHAPTER VI. THE DREAM

Meanwhile, Cinq-Mars, amid the excitement which his outbreak had
provoked, felt his left arm seized by a hand as hard as iron, which,
drawing him from the crowd to the foot of the steps, pushed him behind
the wall of the church, and he then saw the dark face of old Grandchamp,
who said to him in a sharp voice:

"Sir, your attack upon thirty musketeers in a wood at Chaumont was
nothing, because we were near you, though you knew it not, and,
moreover, you had to do with men of honor; but here 'tis different. Your
horses and people are at the end of the street; I request you to mount
and leave the town, or to send me back to Madame la Marechale, for I am
responsible for your limbs, which you expose so freely."

Cinq-Mars was somewhat astonished at this rough mode of having a service
done him, was not sorry to extricate himself thus from the affair,
having had time to reflect how very awkward it might be for him to be
recognized, after striking the head of the judicial authority, the agent
of the very Cardinal who was to present him to the King. He observed
also that around him was assembled a crowd of the lowest class of
people, among whom he blushed to find himself. He therefore followed
his old domestic without argument, and found the other three servants
waiting for him. Despite the rain and wind he mounted, and was soon upon
the highroad with his escort, having put his horse to a gallop to avoid
pursuit.

He had, however, hardly left Loudun when the sandy road, furrowed by
deep ruts completely filled with water, obliged him to slacken his pace.
The rain continued to fall heavily, and his cloak was almost saturated.
He felt a thicker one thrown over his shoulders; it was his old valet,
who had approached him, and thus exhibited toward him a maternal
solicitude.

"Well, Grandchamp," said Cinq-Mars, "now that we are clear of the riot,
tell me how you came to be there when I had ordered you to remain at the
Abbe's."

"Parbleu, Monsieur!" answered the old servant, in a grumbling tone,
"do you suppose that I should obey you any more than I did Monsieur le
Marechal? When my late master, after telling me to remain in his tent,
found me behind him in the cannon's smoke, he made no complaint, because
he had a fresh horse ready when his own was killed, and he only scolded
me for a moment in his thoughts; but, truly, during the forty years I
served him, I never saw him act as you have in the fortnight I have been
with you. Ah!" he added with a sigh, "things are going strangely; and if
we continue thus, there's no knowing what will be the end of it."

"But knowest thou, Grandchamp, that these scoundrels had made the
crucifix red hot?--a thing at which no honest man would have been less
enraged than I."

"Except Monsieur le Marechal, your father, who would not have done at
all what you have done, Monsieur."

"What, then, would he have done?"

"He would very quietly have let this cure be burned by the other cures,
and would have said to me, 'Grandchamp, see that my horses have oats,
and let no one steal them'; or, 'Grandchamp, take care that the rain
does not rust my sword or wet the priming of my pistols'; for Monsieur
le Marechal thought of everything, and never interfered in what did not
concern him. That was his great principle; and as he was, thank Heaven,
alike good soldier and good general, he was always as careful of his
arms as a recruit, and would not have stood up against thirty young
gallants with a dress rapier."

Cinq-Mars felt the force of the worthy servitor's epigrammatic scolding,
and feared that he had followed him beyond the wood of Chaumont; but
he would not ask, lest he should have to give explanations or to tell
a falsehood or to command silence, which would at once have been taking
him into confidence on the subject. As the only alternative, he spurred
his horse and rode ahead of his old domestic; but the latter had not yet
had his say, and instead of keeping behind his master, he rode up to his
left and continued the conversation.

"Do you suppose, Monsieur, that I should allow you to go where you
please? No, Monsieur, I am too deeply impressed with the respect I
owe to Madame la Marquise, to give her an opportunity of saying to me:
'Grandchamp, my son has been killed with a shot or with a sword; why
were you not before him?' Or, 'He has received a stab from the stiletto
of an Italian, because he went at night beneath the window of a great
princess; why did you not seize the assassin?' This would be very
disagreeable to me, Monsieur, for I never have been reproached with
anything of the kind. Once Monsieur le Marechal lent me to his nephew,
Monsieur le Comte, to make a campaign in the Netherlands, because I know
Spanish. I fulfilled the duty with honor, as I always do. When Monsieur
le Comte received a bullet in his heart, I myself brought back his
horses, his mules, his tent, and all his equipment, without so much as
a pocket-handkerchief being missed; and I can assure you that the horses
were as well dressed and harnessed when we reentered Chaumont as if
Monsieur le Comte had been about to go a-hunting. And, accordingly, I
received nothing but compliments and agreeable things from the whole
family, just in the way I like."

"Well, well, my friend," said Henri d'Effiat, "I may some day, perhaps,
have these horses to take back; but in the mean time take this great
purse of gold, which I have well-nigh lost two or three times, and thou
shalt pay for me everywhere. The money wearies me."

"Monsieur le Marechal did not so, Monsieur. He had been superintendent
of finances, and he counted every farthing he paid out of his own hand.
I do not think your estates would have been in such good condition, or
that you would have had so much money to count yourself, had he done
otherwise; have the goodness, therefore, to keep your purse, whose
contents, I dare swear, you do not know."

"Faith, not I."

Grandchamp sent forth a profound sigh at his master's disdainful
exclamation.

"Ah, Monsieur le Marquis! Monsieur le Marquis! When I think that the
great King Henri, before my eyes, put his chamois gloves into his pocket
to keep the rain from spoiling them; when I think that Monsieur de Rosni
refused him money when he had spent too much; when I think--"

"When thou dost think, thou art egregiously tedious, my old friend,"
interrupted his master; "and thou wilt do better in telling me what that
black figure is that I think I see walking in the mire behind us."

"It looks like some poor peasant woman who, perhaps, wants alms of us.
She can easily follow us, for we do not go at much of a pace in this
sand, wherein our horses sink up to the hams. We shall go to the Landes
perhaps some day, Monsieur, and you will see a country all the same as
this sandy road, and great, black firs all the way along. It looks
like a churchyard; this is an exact specimen of it. Look, the rain has
ceased, and we can see a little ahead; there is nothing but furze-bushes
on this great plain, without a village or a house. I don't know where we
can pass the night; but if you will take my advice, you will let us cut
some boughs and bivouac where we are. You shall see how, with a little
earth, I can make a hut as warm as a bed."

"I would rather go on to the light I see in the horizon," said
Cinq-Mars; "for I fancy I feel rather feverish, and I am thirsty. But
fall back, I would ride alone; rejoin the others and follow."

Grandchamp obeyed; he consoled himself by giving Germain, Louis, and
Etienne lessons in the art of reconnoitring a country by night.

Meanwhile, his young master was overcome with fatigue. The violent
emotions of the day had profoundly affected his mind; and the
long journey on horseback, the last two days passed almost without
nourishment, owing to the hurried pressure of events, the heat of the
sun by day, the icy coldness of the night, all contributed to increase
his indisposition and to weary his delicate frame. For three hours he
rode in silence before his people, yet the light he had seen in the
horizon seemed no nearer; at last he ceased to follow it with his eyes,
and his head, feeling heavier and heavier, sank upon his breast. He
gave the reins to his tired horse, which of its own accord followed the
high-road, and, crossing his arms, allowed himself to be rocked by the
monotonous motion of his fellow-traveller, which frequently stumbled
against the large stones that strewed the road. The rain had ceased, as
had the voices of his domestics, whose horses followed in the track of
their master's. The young man abandoned himself to the bitterness of his
thoughts; he asked himself whether the bright object of his hopes would
not flee from him day by day, as that phosphoric light fled from him
in the horizon, step by step. Was it probable that the young Princess,
almost forcibly recalled to the gallant court of Anne of Austria, would
always refuse the hands, perhaps royal ones, that would be offered to
her? What chance that she would resign herself to renounce a present
throne, in order to wait till some caprice of fortune should realize
romantic hopes, or take a youth almost in the lowest rank of the army
and lift him to the elevation she spoke of, till the age of love should
be passed? How could he be certain that even the vows of Marie de
Gonzaga were sincere?

"Alas!" he said, "perhaps she has blinded herself as to her own
sentiments; the solitude of the country had prepared her soul to receive
deep impressions. I came; she thought I was he of whom she had dreamed.
Our age and my love did the rest. But when at court, she, the companion
of the Queen, has learned to contemplate from an exalted position the
greatness to which I aspire, and which I as yet see only from a
very humble distance; when she shall suddenly find herself in actual
possession of the future she aims at, and measures with a more correct
eye the long road I have to travel; when she shall hear around her vows
like mine, pronounced by lips which could undo me with a word, with a
word destroy him whom she awaits as her husband, her lord--oh, madman
that I have been!--she will see all her folly, and will be incensed at
mine."

Thus did doubt, the greatest misery of love, begin to torture his
unhappy heart; he felt his hot blood rush to his head and oppress it.
Ever and anon he fell forward upon the neck of his horse, and a half
sleep weighed down his eyes; the dark firs that bordered the road seemed
to him gigantic corpses travelling beside him. He saw, or thought
he saw, the same woman clothed in black, whom he had pointed out to
Grandchamp, approach so near as to touch his horse's mane, pull his
cloak, and then run off with a jeering laugh; the sand of the road
seemed to him a river running beneath him, with opposing current, back
toward its source. This strange sight dazzled his worn eyes; he closed
them and fell asleep on his horse.

Presently, he felt himself stopped, but he was numbed with cold and
could not move. He saw peasants, lights, a house, a great room into
which they carried him, a wide bed, whose heavy curtains were closed by
Grandchamp; and he fell asleep again, stunned by the fever that whirred
in his ears.

Dreams that followed one another more rapidly than grains of sand before
the wind rushed through his brain; he could not catch them, and moved
restlessly on his bed. Urbain Grandier on the rack, his mother in tears,
his tutor armed, Bassompierre loaded with chains, passed before him,
making signs of farewell; at last, as he slept, he instinctively put his
hand to his head to stay the passing dream, which then seemed to unfold
itself before his eyes like pictures in shifting sands.

He saw a public square crowded with a foreign people, a northern people,
who uttered cries of joy, but they were savage cries; there was a line
of guards, ferocious soldiers--these were Frenchmen. "Come with me,"
said the soft voice of Marie de Gonzaga, who took his hand. "See, I wear
a diadem; here is thy throne, come with me." And she hurried him on, the
people still shouting. He went on, a long way. "Why are you sad, if you
are a queen?" he said, trembling. But she was pale, and smiled and spoke
not. She ascended, step after step, up to a throne, and seated herself.
"Mount!" said she, forcibly pulling his hand. But, at every movement,
the massive stairs crumbled beneath his feet, so that he could not
ascend. "Give thanks to love," she continued; and her hand, now more
powerful, raised him to the throne. The people still shouted. He bowed
low to kiss that helping hand, that adored hand; it was the hand of the
executioner!

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Cinq-Mars, as, heaving a deep sigh, he opened
his eyes. A flickering lamp lighted the ruinous chamber of the inn; he
again closed his eyes, for he had seen, seated on his bed, a woman,
a nun, young and beautiful! He thought he was still dreaming, but she
grasped his hand firmly. He opened his burning eyes, and fixed them upon
her.

"Is it you, Jeannede Belfiel? The rain has drenched your veil and your
black hair! Why are you here, unhappy woman?"

"Hark! awake not my Urbain; he sleeps there in the next room. Ay, my
hair is indeed wet, and my feet--see, my feet that were once so white,
see how the mud has soiled them. But I have made a vow--I will not wash
them till I have seen the King, and until he has granted me Urbain's
pardon. I am going to the army to find him; I will speak to him as
Grandier taught me to speak, and he will pardon him. And listen, I
will also ask thy pardon, for I read it in thy face that thou, too, art
condemned to death. Poor youth! thou art too young to die, thy curling
hair is beautiful; but yet thou art condemned, for thou hast on thy brow
a line that never deceives. The man thou hast struck will kill thee.
Thou hast made too much use of the cross; it is that which will bring
evil upon thee. Thou hast struck with it, and thou wearest it round
thy neck by a hair chain. Nay, hide not thy face; have I said aught
to afflict thee, or is it that thou lovest, young man? Ah, reassure
thyself, I will not tell all this to thy love. I am mad, but I am
gentle, very gentle; and three days ago I was beautiful. Is she also
beautiful? Ah! she will weep some day! Yet, if she can weep, she will be
happy!"

And then suddenly Jeanne began to recite the service for the dead in a
monotonous voice, but with incredible rapidity, still seated on the bed,
and turning the beads of a long rosary.

Suddenly the door opened; she looked up, and fled through another door
in the partition.

"What the devil's that-an imp or an angel, saying the funeral service
over you, and you under the clothes, as if you were in a shroud?"

This abrupt exclamation came from the rough voice of Grandchamp, who was
so astonished at what he had seen that he dropped the glass of lemonade
he was bringing in. Finding that his master did not answer, he became
still more alarmed, and raised the bedclothes. Cinq-Mars's face was
crimson, and he seemed asleep, but his old domestic saw that the blood
rushing to his head had almost suffocated him; and, seizing a jug full
of cold water, he dashed the whole of it in his face. This military
remedy rarely fails to effect its purpose, and Cinq-Mars returned to
himself with a start.

"Ah! it is thou, Grandchamp; what frightful dreams I have had!"

"Peste! Monsieur le Marquis, your dreams, on the contrary, are very
pretty ones. I saw the tail of the last as I came in; your choice is not
bad."

"What dost mean, blockhead?"

"Nay, not a blockhead, Monsieur; I have good eyes, and I have seen what
I have seen. But, really ill as you are, Monsieur le Marechal would
never--"

"Thou art utterly doting, my friend; give me some drink, I am parched
with thirst. Oh, heavens! what a night! I still see all those women."

"All those women, Monsieur? Why, how many are here?"

"I am speaking to thee of a dream, blockhead. Why standest there like a
post, instead of giving me some drink?"

"Enough, Monsieur; I will get more lemonade." And going to the door, he
called over the staircase, "Germain! Etienne! Louis!"

The innkeeper answered from below: "Coming, Monsieur, coming; they have
been helping me to catch the madwoman."

"What mad-woman?" said Cinq-Mars, rising in bed.

The host entered, and, taking off his cotton cap, said, respectfully:
"Oh, nothing, Monsieur le Marquis, only a madwoman that came here last
night on foot, and whom we put in the next room; but she has escaped,
and we have not been able to catch her."

"Ah!" exclaimed Cinq-Mars, returning to himself and putting his hand to
his eyes, "it was not a dream, then. And my mother, where is she? and
the Marechal, and--Ah! and yet it is but a fearful dream! Leave me."

As he said this, he turned toward the wall, and again pulled the clothes
over his head.

The innkeeper, in amazement, touched his forehead three times with his
finger, looking at Grandchamp as if to ask him whether his master were
also mad.

Grandchamp motioned him away in silence, and in order to watch the
rest of the night by the side of Cinq-Mars, who was in a deep sleep, he
seated himself in a large armchair, covered with tapestry, and began to
squeeze lemons into a glass of water with an air as grave and severe as
Archimedes calculating the condensing power of his mirrors.




CHAPTER VII. THE CABINET

   Men have rarely the courage to be wholly good or wholly bad.
                         MACHIAVELLI.

Let us leave our young traveller sleeping; he will soon pursue a long
and beautiful route. Since we are at liberty to turn to all points of
the map, we will fix our eyes upon the city of Narbonne.

Behold the Mediterranean, not far distant, washing with its blue waters
the sandy shores. Penetrate into that city resembling Athens; and to
find him who reigns there, follow that dark and irregular street, mount
the steps of the old archiepiscopal palace, and enter the first and
largest of its apartments.

This was a very long salon, lighted by a series of high lancet windows,
of which the upper part only retained the blue, yellow, and red panes
that shed a mysterious light through the apartment. A large round table
occupied its entire breadth, near the great fireplace; around this
table, covered with a colored cloth and scattered with papers and
portfolios, were seated, bending over their pens, eight secretaries
copying letters which were handed to them from a smaller table. Other
men quietly arranged the completed papers in the shelves of a bookcase,
partly filled with books bound in black.

Notwithstanding the number of persons assembled in the room, one might
have heard the movements of the wings of a fly. The only interruption
to the silence was the sound of pens rapidly gliding over paper, and a
shrill voice dictating, stopping every now and then to cough. This
voice proceeded from a great armchair placed beside the fire, which was
blazing, notwithstanding the heat of the season and of the country. It
was one of those armchairs that you still see in old castles, and which
seem made to read one's self to sleep in, so easy is every part of it.
The sitter sinks into a circular cushion of down; if the head leans
back, the cheeks rest upon pillows covered with silk, and the seat
juts out so far beyond the elbows that one may believe the provident
upholsterers of our forefathers sought to provide that the book should
make no noise in falling so as to awaken the sleeper.

But we will quit this digression, and speak of the man who occupied
the chair, and who was very far from sleeping. He had a broad forehead,
bordered with thin white hair, large, mild eyes, a wan face, to which
a small, pointed, white beard gave that air of subtlety and finesse
noticeable in all the portraits of the period of Louis XIII. His mouth
was almost without lips, which Lavater deems an indubitable sign of an
evil mind, and it was framed in a pair of slight gray moustaches and a
'royale'--an ornament then in fashion, which somewhat resembled a comma
in form. The old man wore a close red cap, a large 'robe-dechambre', and
purple silk stockings; he was no less a personage than Armand Duplessis,
Cardinal de Richelieu.

Near him, around the small table, sat four youths from fifteen to twenty
years of age; these were pages, or domestics, according to the term then
in use, which signified familiars, friends of the house. This custom
was a relic of feudal patronage, which still existed in our manners. The
younger members of high families received wages from the great lords,
and were devoted to their service in all things, challenging the first
comer at the wish of their patron. The pages wrote letters from the
outline previously given them by the Cardinal, and after their master
had glanced at them, passed them to the secretaries, who made fair
copies. The Duke, for his part, wrote on his knee private notes upon
small slips of paper, inserting them in almost all the packets before
sealing them, which he did with his own hand.

He had been writing a short time, when, in a mirror before him, he saw
the youngest of his pages writing something on a sheet of paper much
smaller than the official sheet. He hastily wrote a few words, and
then slipped the paper under the large sheet which, much against his
inclination, he had to fill; but, seated behind the Cardinal, he hoped
that the difficulty with which the latter turned would prevent him
from seeing the little manoeuvre he had tried to exercise with much
dexterity. Suddenly Richelieu said to him, dryly, "Come here, Monsieur
Olivier."

These words came like a thunder-clap on the poor boy, who seemed about
sixteen. He rose at once, however, and stood before the minister, his
arms hanging at his side and his head lowered.

The other pages and the secretaries stirred no more than soldiers when
a comrade is struck down by a ball, so accustomed were they to this kind
of summons. The present one, however, was more energetic than usual.

"What were you writing?"

"My lord, what your Eminence dictated."

"What!"

"My lord, the letter to Don Juan de Braganza."

"No evasions, Monsieur; you were writing something else."

"My lord," said the page, with tears in his eyes, "it was a letter to
one of my cousins."

"Let me see it."

The page trembled in every limb and was obliged to lean against the
chimney-piece, as he said, in a hardly audible tone, "It is impossible."

"Monsieur le Vicomte Olivier d'Entraigues," said the minister, without
showing the least emotion, "you are no longer in my service." The page
withdrew. He knew that there was no reply; so, slipping his letter into
his pocket, and opening the folding-doors just wide enough to allow his
exit, he glided out like a bird escaped from the cage.

The minister went on writing the note upon his knee.

The secretaries redoubled their silent zeal, when suddenly the two wings
of the door were thrown back and showed, standing in the opening, a
Capuchin, who, bowing, with his arms crossed over his breast, seemed
waiting for alms or for an order to retire. He had a dark complexion,
and was deeply pitted with smallpox; his eyes, mild, but somewhat
squinting, were almost hidden by his thick eyebrows, which met in the
middle of his forehead; on his mouth played a crafty, mischievous, and
sinister smile; his beard was straight and red, and his costume was that
of the order of St. Francis in all its repulsiveness, with sandals on
his bare feet, that looked altogether unfit to tread upon carpet.

Such as he was, however, this personage appeared to create a great
sensation throughout the room; for, without finishing the phrase, the
line, or even the word begun, every person rose and went out by the door
where he was still standing--some saluting him as they passed, others
turning away their heads, and the young pages holding their fingers to
their noses, but not till they were behind him, for they seemed to have
a secret fear of him. When they had all passed out, he entered, making a
profound reverence, because the door was still open; but, as soon as
it was shut, unceremoniously advancing, he seated himself near the
Cardinal, who, having recognized him by the general movement he created,
saluted him with a dry and silent inclination of the head, regarding
him fixedly, as if awaiting some news and unable to avoid knitting his
brows, as at the aspect of a spider or some other disagreeable creature.

The Cardinal could not resist this movement of displeasure, because
he felt himself obliged, by the presence of his agent, to resume those
profound and painful conversations from which he had for some days
been free, in a country whose pure air, favorable to him, had somewhat
soothed the pain of his malady; that malady had changed to a slow fever,
but its intervals were long enough to enable him to forget during its
absence that it must return. Giving, therefore, a little rest to his
hitherto indefatigable mind, he had been awaiting, for the first time in
his life perhaps, without impatience, the return of the couriers he had
sent in all directions, like the rays of a sun which alone gave life and
movement to France. He had not expected the visit he now received,
and the sight of one of those men, whom, to use his own expression, he
"steeped in crime," rendered all the habitual disquietudes of his
life more present to him, without entirely dissipating the cloud of
melancholy which at that time obscured his thoughts.

The beginning of his conversation was tinged with the gloomy hue of his
late reveries; but he soon became more animated and vigorous than ever,
when his powerful mind had reentered the real world.

His confidant, seeing that he was expected to break the silence, did so
in this abrupt fashion:

"Well, my lord, of what are you thinking?"

"Alas, Joseph, of what should we all think, but of our future happiness
in a better life? For many days I have been reflecting that human
interests have too much diverted me from this great thought; and I
repent me of having spent some moments of my leisure in profane works,
such as my tragedies, 'Europe' and 'Mirame,' despite the glory they have
already gained me among our brightest minds--a glory which will extend
unto futurity."

Father Joseph, full of what he had to say, was at first surprised at
this opening; but he knew his master too well to betray his feelings,
and, well skilled in changing the course of his ideas, replied:

"Yes, their merit is very great, and France will regret that these
immortal works are not followed by similar productions."

"Yes, my dear Joseph; but it is in vain that such men as Boisrobert,
Claveret, Colletet, Corneille, and, above all, the celebrated Mairet,
have proclaimed these tragedies the finest that the present or any past
age has produced. I reproach myself for them, I swear to you, as for a
mortal sin, and I now, in my hours of repose, occupy myself only with my
'Methode des Controverses', and my book on the 'Perfection du Chretien.'
I remember that I am fifty-six years old, and that I have an incurable
malady."

"These are calculations which your enemies make as precisely as
your Eminence," said the priest, who began to be annoyed with this
conversation, and was eager to talk of other matters.

The blood mounted to the Cardinal's face.

"I know it! I know it well!" he said; "I know all their black villainy,
and I am prepared for it. But what news is there?"

"According to our arrangement, my lord, we have removed Mademoiselle
d'Hautefort, as we removed Mademoiselle de la Fayette before her. So far
it is well; but her place is not filled, and the King--"

"Well!"

"The King has ideas which he never had before."

"Ha! and which come not from me? 'Tis well, truly," said the minister,
with an ironic sneer.

"What, my lord, leave the place of the favorite vacant for six whole
days? It is not prudent; pardon me for saying so."

"He has ideas--ideas!" repeated Richelieu, with a kind of terror; "and
what are they?"

"He talks of recalling the Queen-mother," said the Capuchin, in a low
voice; "of recalling her from Cologne."

"Marie de Medicis!" cried the Cardinal, striking the arms of his chair
with his hands. "No, by Heaven, she shall not again set her foot upon
the soil of France, whence I drove her, step by step! England has not
dared to receive her, exiled by me; Holland fears to be crushed by
her; and my kingdom to receive her! No, no, such an idea could not have
originated with himself! To recall my enemy! to recall his mother! What
perfidy! He would not have dared to think of it."

Then, having mused for a moment, he added, fixing a penetrating look
still full of burning anger upon Father Joseph:

"But in what terms did he express this desire? Tell me his precise
words."

"He said publicly; and in the presence of Monsieur: 'I feel that one of
the first duties of a Christian is to be a good son, and I will resist
no longer the murmurs of my conscience.'"

"Christian! conscience! these are not his expressions. It is Father
Caussin--it is his confessor who is betraying me," cried the Cardinal.
"Perfidious Jesuit! I pardoned thee thy intrigue with La Fayette; but
I will not pass over thy secret counsels. I will have this confessor
dismissed, Joseph; he is an enemy to the State, I see it clearly. But
I myself have acted with negligence for some days past; I have not
sufficiently hastened the arrival of the young d'Effiat, who will
doubtless succeed. He is handsome and intellectual, they say. What a
blunder! I myself merit disgrace. To leave that fox of a Jesuit with
the King, without having given him my secret instructions, without a
hostage, a pledge, or his fidelity to my orders! What neglect! Joseph,
take a pen, and write what I shall dictate for the other confessor, whom
we will choose better. I think of Father Sirmond."

Father Joseph sat down at the large table, ready to write, and the
Cardinal dictated to him those duties, of a new kind, which shortly
afterward he dared to have given to the King, who received them,
respected them, and learned them by heart as the commandments of the
Church. They have come down to us, a terrible monument of the empire
that a man may seize upon by means of circumstances, intrigues, and
audacity:

   "I. A prince should have a prime minister, and that minister three
   qualities: (1) He should have no passion but for his prince; (2) He
   should be able and faithful; (3) He should be an ecclesiastic.

   "II. A prince ought perfectly to love his prime minister.

   "III. Ought never to change his prime minister.

   "IV. Ought to tell him all things.

   "V. To give him free access to his person.

   "VI. To give him sovereign authority over his people.

   "VII. Great honors and large possessions.

   "VIII. A prince has no treasure more precious than his prime
   minister.

   "IX. A prince should not put faith in what people say against his
   prime minister, nor listen to any such slanders.

   "X. A prince should reveal to his prime minister all that is said
   against him, even though he has been bound to keep it secret.

   "XI. A prince should prefer not only the well-being of the State,
   but also his prime minister, to all his relations."

Such were the commandments of the god of France, less astonishing in
themselves than the terrible naivete which made him bequeath them to
posterity, as if posterity also must believe in him.

While he dictated his instructions, reading them from a small piece of
paper, written with his own hand, a deep melancholy seemed to possess
him more and more at each word; and when he had ended, he fell back in
his chair, his arms crossed, and his head sunk on his breast.

Father Joseph, dropping his pen, arose and was inquiring whether he were
ill, when he heard issue from the depths of his chest these mournful and
memorable words:

"What utter weariness! what endless trouble! If the ambitious man
could see me, he would flee to a desert. What is my power? A miserable
reflection of the royal power; and what labors to fix upon my star
that incessantly wavering ray! For twenty years I have been in vain
attempting it. I can not comprehend that man. He dare not flee me; but
they take him from me--he glides through my fingers. What things could
I not have done with his hereditary rights, had I possessed them? But,
employing such infinite calculation in merely keeping one's balance,
what of genius remains for high enterprises? I hold Europe in my hand,
yet I myself am suspended by a trembling hair. What is it to me that
I can cast my eyes confidently over the map of Europe, when all my
interests are concentrated in his narrow cabinet, and its few feet of
space give me more trouble to govern than the whole country besides?
See, then, what it is to be a prime minister! Envy me, my guards, if you
can."

His features were so distorted as to give reason to fear some accident;
and at the same moment he was seized with a long and violent fit of
coughing, which ended in a slight hemorrhage. He saw that Father Joseph,
alarmed, was about to seize a gold bell that stood on the table, and,
suddenly rising with all the vivacity of a young man, he stopped him,
saying:

"'Tis nothing, Joseph; I sometimes yield to these fits of depression;
but they do not last long, and I leave them stronger than before. As for
my health, I know my condition perfectly; but that is not the business
in hand. What have you done at Paris? I am glad to know the King has
arrived in Bearn, as I wished; we shall be able to keep a closer watch
upon him. How did you induce him to come away?"

"A battle at Perpignan."

"That is not bad. Well, we can arrange it for him; that occupation will
do as well as another just now. But the young Queen, what says she?"

"She is still furious against you; her correspondence discovered, the
questioning to which you had subjected her--"

"Bah! a madrigal and a momentary submission on my part will make her
forget that I have separated her from her house of Austria and from the
country of her Buckingham. But how does she occupy herself?"

"In machinations with Monsieur. But as we have his entire confidence,
here are the daily accounts of their interviews."

"I shall not trouble myself to read them; while the Duc de Bouillon
remains in Italy I have nothing to fear in that quarter. She may have
as many petty plots with Gaston in the chimney-corner as she pleases; he
never got beyond his excellent intentions, forsooth! He carries nothing
into effect but his withdrawal from the kingdom. He has had his third
dismissal; I will manage a fourth for him whenever he pleases; he is not
worth the pistol-shot you had the Comte de Soissons settled with, and
yet the poor Comte had scarce more energy than he."

And the Cardinal, reseating himself in his chair, began to laugh gayly
enough for a statesman.

"I always laugh when I think of their expedition to Amiens. They had me
between them, Each had fully five hundred gentlemen with him, armed to
the teeth, and all going to despatch me, like Concini; but the great
Vitry was not there. They very quietly let me talk for an hour with them
about the hunt and the Fete Dieu, and neither of them dared make a sign
to their cut-throats. I have since learned from Chavigny that for two
long months they had been waiting that happy moment. For myself,
indeed, I observed nothing, except that little villain, the Abbe de
Gondi,--[Afterward Cardinal de Retz.]--who prowled near me, and seemed
to have something hidden under his sleeve; it was he that made me get
into the coach."

"Apropos of the Abbe, my lord, the Queen insists upon making him
coadjutor."

"She is mad! he will ruin her if she connects herself with him; he's a
musketeer in canonicals, the devil in a cassock. Read his 'Histoire de
Fiesque'; you may see himself in it. He will be nothing while I live."

"How is it that with a judgment like yours you bring another ambitious
man of his age to court?"

"That is an entirely different matter. This young Cinq-Mars, my friend,
will be a mere puppet. He will think of nothing but his ruff and his
shoulder-knots; his handsome figure assures me of this. I know that he
is gentle and weak; it was for this reason I preferred him to his elder
brother. He will do whatever we wish."

"Ah, my lord," said the monk, with an expression of doubt, "I never
place much reliance on people whose exterior is so calm; the hidden
flame is often all the more dangerous. Recollect the Marechal d'Effiat,
his father."

"But I tell you he is a boy, and I shall bring him up; while Gondi is
already an accomplished conspirator, an ambitious knave who sticks at
nothing. He has dared to dispute Madame de la Meilleraie with me. Can
you conceive it? He dispute with me! A petty priestling, who has
no other merit than a little lively small-talk and a cavalier air.
Fortunately, the husband himself took care to get rid of him."

Father Joseph, who listened with equal impatience to his master when
he spoke of his 'bonnes fortunes' or of his verses, made, however, a
grimace which he meant to be very sly and insinuating, but which was
simply ugly and awkward; he fancied that the expression of his mouth,
twisted about like a monkey's, conveyed, "Ah! who can resist your
Eminence?" But his Eminence only read there, "I am a clown who knows
nothing of the great world"; and, without changing his voice, he
suddenly said, taking up a despatch from the table:

"The Duc de Rohan is dead, that is good news; the Huguenots are ruined.
He is a lucky man. I had him condemned by the Parliament of Toulouse
to be torn in pieces by four horses, and here he dies quietly on the
battlefield of Rheinfeld. But what matters? The result is the same.
Another great head is laid low! How they have fallen since that of
Montmorency! I now see hardly any that do not bow before me. We have
already punished almost all our dupes of Versailles; assuredly they have
nothing with which to reproach me. I simply exercise against them the
law of retaliation, treating them as they would have treated me in the
council of the Queen-mother. The old dotard Bassompierre shall be doomed
for perpetual imprisonment, and so shall the assassin Marechal de
Vitry, for that was the punishment they voted me. As for Marillac, who
counselled death, I reserve death for him at the first false step he
makes, and I beg thee, Joseph, to remind me of him; we must be just to
all. The Duc de Bouillon still keeps up his head proudly on account
of his Sedan, but I shall make him yield. Their blindness is truly
marvellous! They think themselves all free to conspire, not perceiving
that they are merely fluttering at the ends of the threads that I hold
in my hand, and which I lengthen now and then to give them air and
space. Did the Huguenots cry out as one man at the death of their dear
duke?"

"Less so than at the affair of Loudun, which is happily concluded."

"What! Happily? I hope that Grandier is dead?"

"Yes; that is what I meant. Your Eminence may be fully satisfied. All
was settled in twenty-four hours. He is no longer thought of. Only
Laubardemont committed a slight blunder in making the trial public. This
caused a little tumult; but we have a description of the rioters, and
measures have been taken to seek them out."

"This is well, very well. Urbain was too superior a man to be left
there; he was turning Protestant. I would wager that he would have ended
by abjuring. His work against the celibacy of priests made me conjecture
this; and in cases of doubt, remember, Joseph, it is always best to cut
the tree before the fruit is gathered. These Huguenots, you see, form
a regular republic in the State. If once they had a majority in France,
the monarchy would be lost, and they would establish some popular
government which might be durable."

"And what deep pain do they daily cause our holy Father the Pope!" said
Joseph.

"Ah," interrupted the Cardinal, "I see; thou wouldst remind me of his
obstinacy in not giving thee the hat. Be tranquil; I will speak to-day
on the subject to the new ambassador we are sending, the Marechal
d'Estrees, and he will, on his arrival, doubtless obtain that which
has been in train these two years--thy nomination to the cardinalate.
I myself begin to think that the purple would become thee well, for it
does not show blood-stains."

And both burst into laughter--the one as a master, overwhelming the
assassin whom he pays with his utter scorn; the other as a slave,
resigned to all the humiliation by which he rises.

The laughter which the ferocious pleasantry of the old minister had
excited had hardly subsided, when the door opened, and a page announced
several couriers who had arrived simultaneously from different points.
Father Joseph arose, and, leaning against the wall like an Egyptian
mummy, allowed nothing to appear upon his face but an expression of
stolid contemplation. Twelve messengers entered successively, attired in
various disguises; one appeared to be a Swiss soldier, another a sutler,
a third a master-mason. They had been introduced into the palace by a
secret stairway and corridor, and left the cabinet by a door opposite
that at which they had entered, without any opportunity of meeting one
another or communicating the contents of their despatches. Each laid a
rolled or folded packet of papers on the large table, spoke for a moment
with the Cardinal in the embrasure of a window and withdrew. Richelieu
had risen on the entrance of the first messenger, and, careful to do all
himself, had received them all, listened to all, and with his own hand
had closed the door upon all. When the last was gone, he signed to
Father Joseph, and, without speaking, both proceeded to unfold, or,
rather, to tear open, the packets of despatches, and in a few words
communicated to each other the substance of the letters.

"The Due de Weimar pursues his advantage; the Duc Charles is defeated.
Our General is in good spirits; here are some of his lively remarks at
table. Good!"

"Monseigneur le Vicomte de Turenne has retaken the towns of Lorraine;
and here are his private conversations--"

"Oh! pass over them; they can not be dangerous. He is ever a good and
honest man, in no way mixing himself up with politics; so that some one
gives him a little army to play at chess with, no matter against whom,
he is content. We shall always be good friends."

"The Long Parliament still endures in England. The Commons pursue
their project; there are massacres in Ireland. The Earl of Strafford is
condemned to death."

"To death! Horrible!"

"I will read: 'His Majesty Charles I has not had the courage to sign the
sentence, but he has appointed four commissioners.'"

"Weak king, I abandon thee! Thou shalt have no more of our money. Fall,
since thou art ungrateful! Unhappy Wentworth!"

A tear rose in the eyes of Richelieu as he said this; the man who had
but now played with the lives of so many others wept for a minister
abandoned by his prince. The similarity between that position and his
own affected him, and it was his own case he deplored in the person of
the foreign minister. He ceased to read aloud the despatches that
he opened, and his confidant followed his example. He examined with
scrupulous attention the detailed accounts of the most minute and
secret actions of each person of any importance-accounts which he always
required to be added to the official despatches made by his able spies.
All the despatches to the King passed through his hands, and were
carefully revised so as to reach the King amended to the state in which
he wished him to read them. The private notes were all carefully burned
by the monk after the Cardinal had ascertained their contents. The
latter, however, seemed by no means satisfied, and he was walking
quickly to and fro with gestures expressive of anxiety, when the door
opened, and a thirteenth courier entered. This one seemed a boy hardly
fourteen years old; he held under his arm a packet sealed with black
for the King, and gave to the Cardinal only a small letter, of which
a stolen glance from Joseph could collect but four words. The Cardinal
started, tore the billet into a thousand pieces, and, bending down to
the ear of the boy, spoke to him for a long time; all that Joseph heard
was, as the messenger went out:

"Take good heed to this; not until twelve hours from this time."

During this aside of the Cardinal, Joseph was occupied in concealing an
infinite number of libels from Flanders and Germany, which the minister
always insisted upon seeing, however bitter they might be to him. In
this respect, he affected a philosophy which he was far from possessing,
and to deceive those around him he would sometimes pretend that his
enemies were not wholly wrong, and would outwardly laugh at their
pleasantries; but those who knew his character better detected bitter
rage lurking under this apparent moderation, and knew that he was never
satisfied until he had got the hostile book condemned by the parliament
to be burned in the Place de Greve, as "injurious to the King, in the
person of his minister, the most illustrious Cardinal," as we read in
the decrees of the time, and that his only regret was that the author
was not in the place of his book--a satisfaction he gave himself
whenever he could, as in the case of Urbain Grandier.

It was his colossal pride which he thus avenged, without avowing it even
to himself--nay, laboring for a length of time, sometimes for a whole
twelvemonth together, to persuade himself that the interest of the State
was concerned in the matter. Ingenious in connecting his private affairs
with the affairs of France, he had convinced himself that she bled
from the wounds which he received. Joseph, careful not to irritate
his ill-temper at this moment, put aside and concealed a book entitled
'Mystres Politiques du Cardinal de la Rochelle'; also another,
attributed to a monk of Munich, entitled 'Questions quolibetiques,
ajustees au temps present, et Impiete Sanglante du dieu Mars'. The
worthy advocate Aubery, who has given us one of the most faithful
histories of the most eminent Cardinal, is transported with rage at the
mere title of the first of these books, and exclaims that "the great
minister had good reason to glorify himself that his enemies, inspired
against their will with the same enthusiasm which conferred the gift of
rendering oracles upon the ass of Balaam, upon Caiaphas and others,
who seemed most unworthy of the gift of prophecy, called him with good
reason Cardinal de la Rochelle, since three years after their writing
he reduced that town; thus Scipio was called Africanus for having
subjugated that PROVINCE!" Very little was wanting to make Father
Joseph, who had necessarily the same feelings, express his indignation
in the same terms; for he remembered with bitterness the ridiculous part
he had played in the siege of Rochelle, which, though not a province
like Africa, had ventured to resist the most eminent Cardinal, and into
which Father Joseph, piquing himself on his military skill, had proposed
to introduce the troops through a sewer. However, he restrained himself,
and had time to conceal the libel in the pocket of his brown robe ere
the minister had dismissed his young courier and returned to the table.

"And now to depart, Joseph," he said. "Open the doors to all that
court which besieges me, and let us go to the King, who awaits me at
Perpignan; this time I have him for good."

The Capuchin drew back, and immediately the pages, throwing open the
gilded doors, announced in succession the greatest lords of the period,
who had obtained permission from the King to come and salute the
minister. Some, even, under the pretext of illness or business, had
departed secretly, in order not to be among the last at Richelieu's
reception; and the unhappy monarch found himself almost as alone as
other kings find themselves on their deathbeds. But with him, the throne
seemed, in the eyes of the court, his dying couch, his reign a continual
last agony, and his minister a threatening successor.

Two pages, of the first families of France, stood at the door, where the
ushers announced each of the persons whom Father Joseph had found in the
ante room. The Cardinal, still seated in his great arm chair, remained
motionless as the common couriers entered, inclined his head to the more
distinguished, and to princes alone put his hands on the elbows of his
chair and slightly rose; each person, having profoundly saluted him,
stood before him near the fireplace, waited till he had spoken to him,
and then, at a wave of his hand, completed the circuit of the room, and
went out by the same door at which he had entered, paused for a moment
to salute Father Joseph, who aped his master, and who for that reason
had been named "his Gray Eminence," and at last quitted the palace,
unless, indeed, he remained standing behind the chair, if the minister
had signified that he should, which was considered a token of very great
favor.

He allowed to pass several insignificant persons, and many whose merits
were useless to him; the first whom he stopped in the procession was the
Marechal d'Estrees, who, about to set out on an embassy to Rome, came
to make his adieux; those behind him stopped short. This circumstance
warned the courtiers in the anteroom that a longer conversation than
usual was on foot, and Father Joseph, advancing to the threshold,
exchanged with the Cardinal a glance which seemed to say, on the one
side, "Remember the promise you have just made me," on the other, "Set
your mind at rest." At the same time, the expert Capuchin let his master
see that he held upon his arm one of his victims, whom he was forming
into a docile instrument; this was a young gentleman who wore a very
short green cloak, a pourpoint of the same color, close-fitting red
breeches, with glittering gold garters below the knee-the costume of the
pages of Monsieur. Father Joseph, indeed, spoke to him secretly, but not
in the way the Cardinal imagined; for he contemplated being his equal,
and was preparing other connections, in case of defection on the part of
the prime minister.

"Tell Monsieur not to trust in appearances, and that he has no servant
more faithful than I. The Cardinal is on the decline, and my conscience
tells me to warn against his faults him who may inherit the royal power
during the minority. To give your great Prince a proof of my faith, tell
him that it is intended to arrest his friend, Puy-Laurens, and that he
had better be kept out of the way, or the Cardinal will put him in the
Bastille."

While the servant was thus betraying his master, the master, not to
be behindhand with him, betrayed his servant. His self-love, and some
remnant of respect to the Church, made him shudder at the idea of seeing
a contemptible agent invested with the same hat which he himself wore
as a crown, and seated as high as himself, except as to the precarious
position of minister. Speaking, therefore, in an undertone to the
Marechal d'Estrees, he said:

"It is not necessary to importune Urbain VIII any further in favor of
the Capuchin you see yonder; it is enough that his Majesty has deigned
to name him for the cardinalate. One can readily conceive the repugnance
of his Holiness to clothe this mendicant in the Roman purple."

Then, passing on to general matters, he continued:

"Truly, I know not what can have cooled the Holy Father toward us; what
have we done that was not for the glory of our Holy Mother, the Catholic
Church?"

"I myself said the first mass at Rochelle, and you see for yourself,
Monsieur le Marechal, that our habit is everywhere; and even in your
armies, the Cardinal de la Vallette has commanded gloriously in the
palatinate."

"And has just made a very fine retreat," said the Marechal, laying a
slight emphasis upon the word.

The minister continued, without noticing this little outburst of
professional jealousy, and raising his voice, said:

"God has shown that He did not scorn to send the spirit of victory upon
his Levites, for the Duc de Weimar did not more powerfully aid in the
conquest of Lorraine than did this pious Cardinal, and never was a naval
army better commanded than by our Archbishop of Bordeaux at Rochelle."

It was well known that at this very time the minister was incensed
against this prelate, whose haughtiness was so overbearing, and whose
impertinent ebullitions were so frequent as to have involved him in
two very disagreeable affairs at Bordeaux. Four years before, the Duc
d'Epernon, then governor of Guyenne, followed by all his train and by
his troops, meeting him among his clergy in a procession, had called
him an insolent fellow, and given him two smart blows with his cane;
whereupon the Archbishop had excommunicated him. And again, recently,
despite this lesson, he had quarrelled with the Marechal de Vitry,
from whom he had received "twenty blows with a cane or stick, which you
please," wrote the Cardinal Duke to the Cardinal de la Vallette, "and
I think he would like to excommunicate all France." In fact, he did
excommunicate the Marechal's baton, remembering that in the former case
the Pope had obliged the Duc d'Epernon to ask his pardon; but M. Vitry,
who had caused the Marechal d'Ancre to be assassinated, stood too high
at court for that, and the Archbishop, in addition to his beating, got
well scolded by the minister.

M. d'Estrees thought, therefore, sagely that there might be some irony
in the Cardinal's manner of referring to the warlike talents of the
Archbishop, and he answered, with perfect sang-froid:

"It is true, my lord, no one can say that it was upon the sea he was
beaten."

His Eminence could not restrain a smile at this; but seeing that the
electrical effect of that smile had created others in the hall, as well
as whisperings and conjectures, he immediately resumed his gravity, and
familiarly taking the Marechal's arm, said:

"Come, Monsieur l'Ambassadeur, you are ready at repartee. With you I
should not fear Cardinal Albornos, or all the Borgias in the world--no,
nor all the efforts of their Spain with the Holy Father."

Then, raising his voice, and looking around, as if addressing himself to
the silent, and, so to speak, captive assembly, he continued:

"I hope that we shall no more be reproached, as formerly, for having
formed an alliance with one of the greatest men of our day; but as
Gustavus Adolphus is dead, the Catholic King will no longer have any
pretext for soliciting the excommunication of the most Christian King.
How say you, my dear lord?" addressing himself to the Cardinal de la
Vallette, who now approached, fortunately without having heard the late
allusion to himself. "Monsieur d'Estrees, remain near our chair; we have
still many things to say to you, and you are not one too many in our
conversations, for we have no secrets. Our policy is frank and open to
all men; the interest of his Majesty and of the State--nothing more."

The Marechal made a profound bow, fell back behind the chair of
the minister, and gave place to the Cardinal de la Vallette, who,
incessantly bowing and flattering and swearing devotion and entire
obedience to the Cardinal, as if to expiate the obduracy of his father,
the Duc d'Epernon, received in return a few vague words, to no meaning
or purpose, the Cardinal all the while looking toward the door, to
see who should follow. He had even the mortification to find himself
abruptly interrupted by the minister, who cried at the most flattering
period of his honeyed discourse:

"Ah! is that you at last, my dear Fabert? How I have longed to see you,
to talk of the siege!"

The General, with a brusque and awkward manner, saluted the
Cardinal-Generalissimo, and presented to him the officers who had come
from the camp with him. He talked some time of the operations of the
siege, and the Cardinal seemed to be paying him court now, in order
to prepare him afterward for receiving his orders even on the field of
battle; he spoke to the officers who accompanied him, calling them by
their names, and questioning them about the camp.

They all stood aside to make way for the Duc d'Angouleme--that Valois,
who, having struggled against Henri IV, now prostrated himself before
Richelieu. He solicited a command, having been only third in rank at
the siege of Rochelle. After him came young Mazarin, ever supple and
insinuating, but already confident in his fortune.

The Duc d'Halluin came after them; the Cardinal broke off the
compliments he was addressing to the others, to utter, in a loud voice:

"Monsieur le Duc, I inform you with pleasure that the King has made you
a marshal of France; you will sign yourself Schomberg, will you not, at
Leucate, delivered, as we hope, by you? But pardon me, here is Monsieur
de Montauron, who has doubtless something important to communicate."

"Oh, no, my lord, I would only say that the poor young man whom you
deigned to consider in your service is dying of hunger."

"Pshaw! at such a moment to speak of things like this! Your little
Corneille will not write anything good; we have only seen 'Le Cid' and
'Les Horaces' as yet. Let him work, let him work! it is known that he
is in my service, and that is disagreeable. However, since you interest
yourself in the matter, I give him a pension of five hundred crowns on
my privy purse."

The Chancellor of the Exchequer retired, charmed with the liberality
of the minister, and went home to receive with great affability the
dedication of Cinna, wherein the great Corneille compares his soul
to that of Augustus, and thanks him for having given alms 'a quelques
Muses'.

The Cardinal, annoyed by this importunity, rose, observing that the day
was advancing, and that it was time to set out to visit the King.

At this moment, and as the greatest noblemen present were offering their
arms to aid him in walking, a man in the robe of a referendary advanced
toward him, saluting him with a complacent and confident smile which
astonished all the people there, accustomed to the great world, seeming
to say: "We have secret affairs together; you shall see how agreeable he
makes himself to me. I am at home in his cabinet." His heavy and awkward
manner, however, betrayed a very inferior being; it was Laubardemont.

Richelieu knit his brows when he saw him, and cast a glance at Joseph;
then, turning toward those who surrounded him, he said, with bitter
scorn:

"Is there some criminal about us to be apprehended?"

Then, turning his back upon the discomfited Laubardemont, the Cardinal
left him redder than his robe, and, preceded by the crowd of personages
who were to escort him in carriages or on horseback, he descended the
great staircase of the palace.

All the people and the authorities of Narbonne viewed this royal
departure with amazement.

The Cardinal entered alone a spacious square litter, in which he was
to travel to Perpignan, his infirmities not permitting him to go in
a coach, or to perform the journey on horseback. This kind of moving
chamber contained a bed, a table, and a small chair for the page who
wrote or read for him. This machine, covered with purple damask, was
carried by eighteen men, who were relieved at intervals of a league;
they were selected among his guards, and always performed this service
of honor with uncovered heads, however hot or wet the weather might be.
The Duc d'Angouleme, the Marechals de Schomberg and d'Estrees, Fabert,
and other dignitaries were on horseback beside the litter; after them,
among the most prominent were the Cardinal de la Vallette and Mazarin,
with Chavigny, and the Marechal de Vitry, anxious to avoid the Bastille,
with which it was said he was threatened.

Two coaches followed for the Cardinal's secretaries, physicians, and
confessor; then eight others, each with four horses, for his gentlemen,
and twenty-four mules for his luggage. Two hundred musketeers on foot
marched close behind him, and his company of men-at-arms of the guard
and his light-horse, all gentlemen, rode before and behind him on
splendid horses.

Such was the equipage in which the prime minister proceeded to
Perpignan; the size of the litter often made it necessary to enlarge the
roads, and knock down the walls of some of the towns and villages on the
way, into which it could not otherwise enter, "so that," say the authors
and manuscripts of the time, full of a sincere admiration for all this
luxury--"so that he seemed a conqueror entering by the breach." We have
sought in vain with great care in these documents, for any account of
proprietors or inhabitants of these dwellings so making room for his
passage who shared in this admiration; but we have been unable to find
any mention of such.




CHAPTER VIII. THE INTERVIEW

The pompous cortege of the Cardinal halted at the beginning of the camp.
All the armed troops were drawn up in the finest order; and amid the
sound of cannon and the music of each regiment the litter traversed a
long line of cavalry and infantry, formed from the outermost tent to
that of the minister, pitched at some distance from the royal quarters,
and which its purple covering distinguished at a distance. Each general
of division obtained a nod or a word from the Cardinal, who at length
reaching his tent and, dismissing his train, shut himself in, waiting
for the time to present himself to the King. But, before him, every
person of his escort had repaired thither individually, and, without
entering the royal abode, had remained in the long galleries covered
with striped stuff, and arranged as became avenues leading to the
Prince. The courtiers walking in groups, saluted one another and shook
hands, regarding each other haughtily, according to their connections or
the lords to whom they belonged. Others whispered together, and showed
signs of astonishment, pleasure, or anger, which showed that something
extraordinary had taken place. Among a thousand others, one singular
dialogue occurred in a corner of the principal gallery.

"May I ask, Monsieur l'Abbe, why you look at me so fixedly?"

"Parbleu! Monsieur de Launay, it is because I'm curious to see what you
will do. All the world abandons your Cardinal-Duke since your journey
into Touraine; if you do not believe it, go and ask the people of
Monsieur or of the Queen. You are behind-hand ten minutes by the
watch with the Cardinal de la Vallette, who has just shaken hands with
Rochefort and the gentlemen of the late Comte de Soissons, whom I shall
regret as long as I live."

"Monsieur de Gondi, I understand you; is it a challenge with which you
honor me?"

"Yes, Monsieur le Comte," answered the young Abbe, saluting him with all
the gravity of the time; "I sought an occasion to challenge you in the
name of Monsieur d'Attichi, my friend, with whom you had something to do
at Paris."

"Monsieur l'Abbe, I am at your command. I will seek my seconds; do you
the same."

"On horseback, with sword and pistol, I suppose?" added Gondi, with the
air of a man arranging a party of pleasure, lightly brushing the sleeve
of his cassock.

"If you please," replied the other. And they separated for a time,
saluting one another with the greatest politeness, and with profound
bows.

A brilliant crowd of gentlemen circulated around them in the gallery.
They mingled with it to procure friends for the occasion. All the
elegance of the costumes of the day was displayed by the court that
morning-small cloaks of every color, in velvet or in satin, embroidered
with gold or silver; crosses of St. Michael and of the Holy Ghost; the
ruffs, the sweeping hat-plumes, the gold shoulder-knots, the chains
by which the long swords hung: all glittered and sparkled, yet not so
brilliantly as did the fiery glances of those warlike youths, or
their sprightly conversation, or their intellectual laughter. Amid the
assembly grave personages and great lords passed on, followed by their
numerous gentlemen.

The little Abbe de Gondi, who was very shortsighted, made his way
through the crowd, knitting his brows and half shutting his eyes, that
he might see the better, and twisting his moustache, for ecclesiastics
wore them in those days. He looked closely at every one in order to
recognize his friends, and at last stopped before a young man, very tall
and dressed in black from head to foot; his sword, even, was of quite
dark, bronzed steel. He was talking with a captain of the guards, when
the Abbe de Gondi took him aside.

"Monsieur de Thou," said he, "I need you as my second in an hour, on
horseback, with sword and pistol, if you will do me that honor."

"Monsieur, you know I am entirely at your service on all occasions.
Where shall we meet?"

"In front of the Spanish bastion, if you please."

"Pardon me for returning to a conversation that greatly interests me. I
will be punctual at the rendezvous."

And De Thou quitted him to rejoin the Captain. He had said all this in
the gentlest of voices with unalterable coolness, and even with somewhat
of an abstracted manner.

The little Abbe squeezed his hand with warm satisfaction, and continued
his search.

He did not so easily effect an agreement with the young lords to whom he
addressed himself; for they knew him better than did De Thou, and when
they saw him coming they tried to avoid him, or laughed at him openly,
and would not promise to serve him.

"Ah, Abbe! there you are hunting again; I'll swear it's a second you
want," said the Duc de Beaufort.

"And I wager," added M. de la Rochefoucauld, "that it's against one of
the Cardinal-Duke's people."

"You are both right, gentlemen; but since when have you laughed at
affairs of honor?"

"The saints forbid I should," said M. de Beaufort. "Men of the sword
like us ever reverence tierce, quarte, and octave; but as for the folds
of the cassock, I know nothing of them."

"Pardieu! Monsieur, you know well enough that it does not embarrass
my wrist, as I will prove to him who chooses; as to the gown itself, I
should like to throw it into the gutter."

"Is it to tear it that you fight so often?" asked La Rochefoucauld. "But
remember, my dear Abbe, that you yourself are within it."

Gondi turned to look at the clock, wishing to lose no more time in such
sorry jests; but he had no better success elsewhere. Having stopped
two gentlemen in the service of the young Queen, whom he thought
ill-affected toward the Cardinal, and consequently glad to measure
weapons with his creatures, one of them said to him very gravely:

"Monsieur de Gondi, you know what has just happened; the King has said
aloud, 'Whether our imperious Cardinal wishes it or not, the widow of
Henri le Grand shall no longer remain in exile.' Imperious! the King
never before said anything so strong as that, Monsieur l'Abbe, mark
that. Imperious! it is open disgrace. Certainly no one will dare to
speak to him; no doubt he will quit the court this very day."

"I have heard this, Monsieur, but I have an affair--"

"It is lucky for you he stopped short in the middle of your career."

"An affair of honor--"

"Whereas Mazarin is quite a friend of yours."

"But will you, or will you not, listen to me?"

"Yes, a friend indeed! your adventures are always uppermost in his
thoughts. Your fine duel with Monsieur de Coutenan about the pretty
little pin-maker,--he even spoke of it to the King. Adieu, my dear Abbe,
we are in great haste; adieu, adieu!" And, taking his friend's arm, the
young mocker, without listening to another word, walked rapidly down the
gallery and disappeared in the throng.

The poor Abbe was much mortified at being able to get only one second,
and was watching sadly the passing of the hour and of the crowd, when
he perceived a young gentleman whom he did not know, seated at a
table, leaning on his elbow with a pensive air; he wore mourning which
indicated no connection with any great house or party, and appeared to
await, without any impatience, the time for attending the King, looking
with a heedless air at those who surrounded him, and seeming not to
notice or to know any of them.

Gondi looked at him a moment, and accosted him without hesitation:

"Monsieur, I have not the honor of your acquaintance, but a
fencing-party can never be unpleasant to a man of honor; and if you will
be my second, in a quarter of an hour we shall be on the ground. I am
Paul de Gondi; and I have challenged Monsieur de Launay, one of the
Cardinal's clique, but in other respects a very gallant fellow."

The unknown, apparently not at all surprised at this address, replied,
without changing his attitude: "And who are his seconds?"

"Faith, I don't know; but what matters it who serves him? We stand no
worse with our friends for having exchanged a thrust with them."

The stranger smiled nonchalantly, paused for an instant to pass his hand
through his long chestnut hair, and then said, looking idly at a large,
round watch which hung at his waist:

"Well, Monsieur, as I have nothing better to do, and as I have no
friends here, I am with you; it will pass the time as well as anything
else."

And, taking his large, black-plumed hat from the table, he followed the
warlike Abbe, who went quickly before him, often running back to hasten
him on, like a child running before his father, or a puppy that goes
backward and forward twenty times before it gets to the end of a street.

Meanwhile, two ushers, attired in the royal livery, opened the great
curtains which separated the gallery from the King's tent, and silence
reigned. The courtiers began to enter slowly, and in succession, the
temporary dwelling of the Prince. He received them all gracefully, and
was the first to meet the view of each person introduced.

Before a very small table surrounded with gilt armchairs stood Louis
XIII, encircled by the great officers of the crown. His dress was very
elegant: a kind of fawn-colored vest, with open sleeves, ornamented with
shoulder-knots and blue ribbons, covered him down to the waist. Wide
breeches reached to the knee, and the yellow-and-red striped stuff
of which they were made was ornamented below with blue ribbons. His
riding-boots, reaching hardly more than three inches above the ankle,
were turned over, showing so lavish a lining of lace that they seemed to
hold it as a vase holds flowers. A small mantle of blue velvet, on which
was embroidered the cross of the Holy Ghost, covered the King's left
arm, which rested on the hilt of his sword.

His head was uncovered, and his pale and noble face was distinctly
visible, lighted by the sun, which penetrated through the top of the
tent. The small, pointed beard then worn augmented the appearance of
thinness in his face, while it added to its melancholy expression. By
his lofty brow, his classic profile, his aquiline nose, he was at once
recognized as a prince of the great race of Bourbon. He had all the
characteristic traits of his ancestors except their penetrating
glance; his eyes seemed red from weeping, and veiled with a perpetual
drowsiness; and the weakness of his vision gave him a somewhat vacant
look.

He called around him, and was attentive to, the greatest enemies of the
Cardinal, whom he expected every moment; and, balancing himself with
one foot over the other, an hereditary habit of his family, he spoke
quickly, but pausing from time to time to make a gracious inclination of
the head, or a gesture of the hand, to those who passed before him with
low reverences.

The court had been thus paying its respects to the King for two hours
before the Cardinal appeared; the whole court stood in close ranks
behind the Prince, and in the long galleries which extended from
his tent. Already longer intervals elapsed between the names of the
courtiers who were announced.

"Shall we not see our cousin the Cardinal?" said the King, turning, and
looking at Montresor, one of Monsieur's gentlemen, as if to encourage
him to answer.

"He is said to be very ill just now, Sire," was the answer.

"And yet I do not see how any but your Majesty can cure him," said the
Duc de Beaufort.

"We cure nothing but the king's evil," replied Louis; "and the
complaints of the Cardinal are always so mysterious that we own we can
not understand them."

The Prince thus essayed to brave his minister, gaining strength in
jests, the better to break his yoke, insupportable, but so difficult to
remove. He almost thought he had succeeded in this, and, sustained
by the joyous air surrounding him, he already privately congratulated
himself on having been able to assume the supreme empire, and for the
moment enjoyed all the power of which he fancied himself possessed. An
involuntary agitation in the depth of his heart had warned him indeed
that, the hour passed, all the burden of the State would fall upon
himself alone; but he talked in order to divert the troublesome thought,
and, concealing from himself the doubt he had of his own inability
to reign, he set his imagination to work upon the result of his
enterprises, thus forcing himself to forget the tedious roads which had
led to them. Rapid phrases succeeded one another on his lips.

"We shall soon take Perpignan," he said to Fabert, who stood at some
distance.

"Well, Cardinal, Lorraine is ours," he added to La Vallette. Then,
touching Mazarin's arm:

"It is not so difficult to manage a State as is supposed, eh?"

The Italian, who was not so sure of the Cardinal's disgrace as most of
the courtiers, answered, without compromising himself:

"Ah, Sire, the late successes of your Majesty at home and abroad prove
your sagacity in choosing your instruments and in directing them, and--"

But the Duc de Beaufort, interrupting him with that self-confidence,
that loud voice and overbearing air, which subsequently procured him the
surname of Important, cried out, vehemently:

"Pardieu! Sire, it needs only to will. A nation is driven like a horse,
with spur and bridle; and as we are all good horsemen, your Majesty has
only to choose among us."

This fine sally had not time to take effect, for two ushers cried,
simultaneously, "His Eminence!"

The King's face flushed involuntarily, as if he had been surprised en
flagrant delit. But immediately gaining confidence, he assumed an air of
resolute haughtiness, which was not lost upon the minister.

The latter, attired in all the pomp of a cardinal, leaning upon two
young pages, and followed by his captain of the guards and more than
five hundred gentlemen attached to his house, advanced toward the King
slowly and pausing at each step, as if forced to it by his sufferings,
but in reality to observe the faces before him. A glance sufficed.

His suite remained at the entrance of the royal tent; of all those
within it, not one was bold enough to salute him, or to look toward
him. Even La Vallette feigned to be occupied in a conversation with
Montresor; and the King, who desired to give him an unfavorable
reception, greeted him lightly and continued a private conversation in a
low voice with the Duc de Beaufort.

The Cardinal was therefore forced, after the first salute, to stop and
pass to the side of the crowd of courtiers, as if he wished to mingle
with them, but in reality to test them more closely; they all recoiled
as at the sight of a leper. Fabert alone advanced toward him with the
frank, brusque air habitual with him, and, making use of the terms
belonging to his profession, said:

"Well, my lord, you make a breach in the midst of them like a
cannon-ball; I ask pardon in their name."

"And you stand firm before me as before the enemy," said the Cardinal;
"you will have no cause to regret it in the end, my dear Fabert."

Mazarin also approached the Cardinal, but with caution, and, giving to
his mobile features an expression of profound sadness, made him five
or six very low bows, turning his back to the group gathered around the
King, so that in the latter quarter they might be taken for those cold
and hasty salutations which are made to a person one desires to be rid
of, and, on the part of the Duke, for tokens of respect, blended with a
discreet and silent sorrow.

The minister, ever calm, smiled disdainfully; and, assuming that firm
look and that air of grandeur which he always wore in the hour of
danger, he again leaned upon his pages, and, without waiting for a word
or a glance from his sovereign, he suddenly resolved upon his line of
conduct, and walked directly toward him, traversing the whole length
of the tent. No one had lost sight of him, although all affected not to
observe him. Every one now became silent, even those who were conversing
with the King. All the courtiers bent forward to see and to hear.

Louis XIII turned toward him in astonishment, and, all presence of
mind totally failing him, remained motionless and waited with an icy
glance-his sole force, but a force very effectual in a prince.

The Cardinal, on coming close to the monarch, did not bow; and, without
changing his attitude, with his eyes lowered and his hands placed on the
shoulders of the two boys half bending, he said:

"Sire, I come to implore your Majesty at length to grant me the
retirement for which I have long sighed. My health is failing; I feel
that my life will soon be ended. Eternity approaches me, and before
rendering an account to the eternal King, I would render one to my
earthly sovereign. It is eighteen years, Sire, since you placed in
my hands a weak and divided kingdom; I return it to you united and
powerful. Your enemies are overthrown and humiliated. My work is
accomplished. I ask your Majesty's permission to retire to Citeaux, of
which I am abbot, and where I may end my days in prayer and meditation."

The King, irritated by some haughty expressions in this address, showed
none of the signs of weakness which the Cardinal had expected, and
which he had always seen in him when he had threatened to resign the
management of affairs. On the contrary, feeling that he had the eyes of
the whole court upon him, Louis looked upon him with the air of a king,
and coldly replied:

"We thank you, then, for your services, Monsieur le Cardinal, and wish
you the repose you desire."

Richelieu was deeply moved, but no indication of his anger appeared upon
his countenance. "Such was the coldness with which you left Montmorency
to die," he said to himself; "but you shall not escape me thus." He then
continued aloud, bowing at the same time:

"The only recompense I ask for my services is that your Majesty will
deign to accept from me, as a gift, the Palais-Cardinal I have erected
at my own expense in Paris."

The King, astonished, bowed his assent. A murmur of surprise for a
moment agitated the attentive court.

"I also throw myself at your Majesty's feet, to beg that you will grant
me the revocation of an act of rigor, which I solicited (I publicly
confess it), and which I perhaps regarded too hastily beneficial to the
repose of the State. Yes, when I was of this world, I was too forgetful
of my early sentiments of personal respect and attachment, in my
eagerness for the public welfare; but now that I already enjoy the
enlightenment of solitude, I see that I have done wrong, and I repent."

The attention of the spectators was redoubled, and the uneasiness of the
King became visible.

"Yes, there is one person, Sire, whom I have always loved, despite her
wrong toward you, and the banishment which the affairs of the kingdom
forced me to bring about for her; a person to whom I have owed much,
and who should be very dear to you, notwithstanding her armed attempts
against you; a person, in a word, whom I implore you to recall from
exile--the Queen Marie de Medicis, your mother!"

The King uttered an involuntary exclamation, so little did he expect to
hear that name. A repressed agitation suddenly appeared upon every face.
All waited in silence the King's reply. Louis XIII looked for a long
time at his old minister without speaking, and this look decided the
fate of France; in that instant he called to mind all the indefatigable
services of Richelieu, his unbounded devotion, his wonderful capacity,
and was surprised at himself for having wished to part with him. He felt
deeply affected at this request, which had probed for the exact cause of
his anger at the bottom of his heart, and uprooted it, thus taking from
his hands the only weapon he had against his old servant. Filial love
brought words of pardon to his lips and tears into his eyes. Rejoicing
to grant what he desired most of all things in the world, he extended
his hands to the Duke with all the nobleness and kindliness of a
Bourbon. The Cardinal bowed and respectfully kissed it; and his heart,
which should have burst with remorse, only swelled in the joy of a
haughty triumph.

The King, deeply touched, abandoning his hand to him, turned gracefully
toward his court and said, with a trembling voice:

"We often deceive ourselves, gentlemen, and especially in our knowledge
of so great a politician as this."

"I hope he will never leave us, since his heart is as good as his head."

Cardinal de la Vallette instantly seized the sleeve of the King's
mantle, and kissed it with all the ardor of a lover, and the young
Mazarin did much the same with Richelieu himself, assuming, with
admirable Italian suppleness, an expression radiant with joy and
tenderness. Two streams of flatterers hastened, one toward the King, the
other toward the minister; the former group, not less adroit than the
second, although less direct, addressed to the Prince thanks which could
be heard by the minister, and burned at the feet of the one incense
which was intended for the other. As for Richelieu, bowing and smiling
to right and left, he stepped forward and stood at the right hand of
the King as his natural place. A stranger entering would rather have
thought, indeed, that it was the King who was on the Cardinal's left
hand. The Marechal d'Estrees, all the ambassadors, the Duc d'Angouleme,
the Due d'Halluin (Schomberg), the Marechal de Chatillon, and all the
great officers of the crown surrounded him, each waiting impatiently for
the compliments of the others to be finished, in order to pay his own,
fearing lest some one else should anticipate him with the flattering
epigram he had just improvised, or the phrase of adulation he was
inventing.

As for Fabert, he had retired to a corner of the tent, and seemed to
have paid no particular attention to the scene. He was chatting with
Montresor and the gentlemen of Monsieur, all sworn enemies of the
Cardinal, because, out of the throng he avoided, he had found none but
these to speak to. This conduct would have seemed extremely tactless in
one less known; but although he lived in the midst of the court, he was
ever ignorant of its intrigues. It was said of him that he returned from
a battle he had gained, like the King's hunting-horse, leaving the dogs
to caress their master and divide the quarry, without seeking even to
remember the part he had had in the triumph.

The storm, then, seemed entirely appeased, and to the violent agitations
of the morning succeeded a gentle calm. A respectful murmur, varied
with pleasant laughter and protestations of attachment, was all that was
heard in the tent. The voice of the Cardinal arose from time to time:
"The poor Queen! We shall, then, soon again see her! I never had dared
to hope for such happiness while I lived!" The King listened to him with
full confidence, and made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction. "It
was assuredly an idea sent to him from on high," he said; "this good
Cardinal, against whom they had so incensed me, was thinking only of
the union of my family. Since the birth of the Dauphin I have not tasted
greater joy than at this moment. The protection of the Holy Virgin is
manifested over our kingdom."

At this moment, a captain of the guards came up and whispered in the
King's ear.

"A courier from Cologne?" said the King; "let him wait in my cabinet."

Then, unable to restrain his impatience, "I will go! I will go!" he
said, and entered alone a small, square tent attached to the larger one.
In it he saw a young courier holding a black portfolio, and the curtains
closed upon the King.

The Cardinal, left sole master of the court, concentrated all its
homage; but it was observed that he no longer received it with his
former presence of mind. He inquired frequently what time it was, and
exhibited an anxiety which was not assumed; his hard, unquiet glances
turned toward the smaller tent. It suddenly opened; the King appeared
alone, and stopped on the threshold. He was paler than usual, and
trembled in every limb; he held in his hand a large letter with five
black seals.

"Gentlemen," said he, in a loud but broken voice, "the Queen has just
died at Cologne; and I perhaps am not the first to hear of it," he
added, casting a severe look toward the impassible Cardinal, "but God
knows all! To horse in an hour, and attack the lines! Marechals, follow
me." And he turned his back abruptly, and reentered his cabinet with
them.

The court retired after the minister, who, without giving any sign of
sorrow or annoyance, went forth as gravely as he had entered, but now a
victor.




BOOK 3.




CHAPTER IX. THE SIEGE

There are moments in our life when we long ardently for strong
excitement to drown our petty griefs--times when the soul, like the lion
in the fable, wearied with the continual attacks of the gnat, earnestly
desires a mightier enemy and real danger. Cinq-Mars found himself in
this condition of mind, which always results from a morbid sensibility
in the organic constitution and a perpetual agitation of the heart.
Weary of continually turning over in his mind a combination of the
events which he desired, and of those which he dreaded; weary of
calculating his chances to the best of his power; of summoning to his
assistance all that his education had taught him concerning the lives
of illustrious men, in order to compare it with his present situation;
oppressed by his regrets, his dreams, predictions, fancies, and all that
imaginary world in which he had lived during his solitary journey-he
breathed freely upon finding himself thrown into a real world almost
as full of agitation; and the realizing of two actual dangers restored
circulation to his blood, and youth to his whole being.

Since the nocturnal scene at the inn near Loudun, he had not been
able to resume sufficient empire over his mind to occupy himself with
anything save his cherished though sad reflections; and consumption
was already threatening him, when happily he arrived at the camp
of Perpignan, and happily also had the opportunity of accepting the
proposition of the Abbe de Gondi--for the reader has no doubt recognized
Cinq-Mars in the person of that young stranger in mourning, so careless
and so melancholy, whom the duellist in the cassock invited to be his
second.

He had ordered his tent to be pitched as a volunteer in the street of
the camp assigned to the young noblemen who were to be presented to
the King and were to serve as aides-de-camp to the Generals; he
soon repaired thither, and was quickly armed, horsed, and cuirassed,
according to the custom of the time, and set out alone for the Spanish
bastion, the place of rendezvous. He was the first arrival, and found
that a small plot of turf, hidden among the works of the besieged place,
had been well chosen by the little Abbe for his homicidal purposes; for
besides the probability that no one would have suspected officers
of engaging in a duel immediately beneath the town which they were
attacking, the body of the bastion separated them from the French camp,
and would conceal them like an immense screen. It was wise to take these
precautions, for at that time it cost a man his head to give himself the
satisfaction of risking his body.

While waiting for his friends and his adversaries, Cinq-Mars had time
to examine the southern side of Perpignan, before which he stood. He had
heard that these works were not those which were to be attacked, and
he tried in vain to account for the besieger's projects. Between this
southern face of the town, the mountains of Albere, and the Col du
Perthus, there might have been advantageous lines of attack, and
redoubts against the accessible point; but not a single soldier was
stationed there. All the forces seemed directed upon the north of
Perpignan, upon the most difficult side, against a brick fort called the
Castillet, which surmounted the gate of Notre-Dame. He discovered that a
piece of ground, apparently marshy, but in reality very solid, led up
to the very foot of the Spanish bastion; that this post was guarded with
true Castilian negligence, although its sole strength lay entirely in
its defenders; for its battlements, almost in ruin, were furnished with
four pieces of cannon of enormous calibre, embedded in the turf, and
thus rendered immovable, and impossible to be directed against a troop
advancing rapidly to the foot of the wall.

It was easy to see that these enormous pieces had discouraged the
besiegers from attacking this point, and had kept the besieged from any
idea of addition to its means of defence. Thus, on the one side, the
vedettes and advanced posts were at a distance, and on the other, the
sentinels were few and ill supported. A young Spaniard, carrying a long
gun, with its rest suspended at his side and the burning match in his
right hand, who was walking with nonchalance upon the rampart, stopped
to look at Cinq-Mars, who was riding about the ditches and moats.

"Senor caballero," he cried, "are you going to take the bastion by
yourself on horseback, like Don Quixote--Quixada de la Mancha?"

At the same time he detached from his side the iron rest, planted it in
the ground, and supported upon it the barrel of his gun in order to take
aim, when a grave and older Spaniard, enveloped in a dirty brown cloak,
said to him in his own tongue:

"'Ambrosio de demonio', do you not know that it is forbidden to throw
away powder uselessly, before sallies or attacks are made, merely to
have the pleasure of killing a boy not worth your match? It was in this
very place that Charles the Fifth threw the sleeping sentinel into the
ditch and drowned him. Do your duty, or I shall follow his example."

Ambrosio replaced the gun upon his shoulder, the rest at his side, and
continued his walk upon the rampart.

Cinq-Mars had been little alarmed at this menacing gesture, contenting
himself with tightening the reins of his horse and bringing the spurs
close to his sides, knowing that with a single leap of the nimble animal
he should be carried behind the wall of a hut which stood near by, and
should thus be sheltered from the Spanish fusil before the operation
of the fork and match could be completed. He knew, too, that a tacit
convention between the two armies prohibited marksmen from firing upon
the sentinels; each party would have regarded it as assassination.
The soldier who had thus prepared to attack Cinq-Mars must have been
ignorant of this understanding. Young D'Effiat, therefore, made no
visible movement; and when the sentinel had resumed his walk upon
the rampart, he again betook himself to his ride upon the turf, and
presently saw five cavaliers directing their course toward him. The
first two, who came on at full gallop, did not salute him, but, stopping
close to him, leaped to the ground, and he found himself in the arms of
the Counsellor de Thou, who embraced him tenderly, while the little Abbe
de Gondi, laughing heartily, cried:

"Behold another Orestes recovering his Pylades, and at the moment of
immolating a rascal who is not of the family of the King of kings, I
assure you."

"What! is it you, my dear Cinq-Mars?" cried De Thou; "and I knew not
of your arrival in the camp! Yes, it is indeed you; I recognize you,
although you are very pale. Have you been ill, my dear friend? I have
often written to you; for my boyish friendship has always remained in my
heart."

"And I," answered Henri d'Effiat, "I have been very culpable toward you;
but I will relate to you all the causes of my neglect. I can speak
of them, but I was ashamed to write them. But how good you are! Your
friendship has never relaxed."

"I knew you too well," replied De Thou; "I knew that there could be no
real coldness between us, and that my soul had its echo in yours."

With these words they embraced once more, their eyes moist with those
sweet tears which so seldom flow in one's life, but with which it seems,
nevertheless, the heart is always charged, so much relief do they give
in flowing.

This moment was short; and during these few words, Gondi had been
pulling them by their cloaks, saying:

"To horse! to horse, gentlemen! Pardieu! you will have time enough to
embrace, if you are so affectionate; but do not delay. Let our first
thought be to have done with our good friends who will soon arrive. We
are in a fine position, with those three villains there before us, the
archers close by, and the Spaniards up yonder! We shall be under three
fires."

He was still speaking, when De Launay, finding himself at about sixty
paces from his opponents, with his seconds, who were chosen from his own
friends rather than from among the partisans of the Cardinal, put his
horse to a canter, advanced gracefully toward his young adversaries, and
gravely saluted them.

"Gentlemen, I think that we shall do well to select our men, and to take
the field; for there is talk of attacking the lines, and I must be at my
post."

"We are ready, Monsieur," said Cinq-Mars; "and as for selecting
opponents, I shall be very glad to become yours, for I have not
forgotten the Marechal de Bassompierre and the wood of Chaumont. You
know my opinion concerning your insolent visit to my mother."

"You are very young, Monsieur. In regard to Madame, your mother, I
fulfilled the duties of a man of the world; toward the Marechal, those
of a captain of the guard; here, those of a gentleman toward Monsieur
l'Abbe, who has challenged me; afterward I shall have that honor with
you."

"If I permit you," said the Abbe, who was already on horseback.

They took sixty paces of ground--all that was afforded them by the
extent of the meadow that enclosed them. The Abbe de Gondi was stationed
between De Thou and his friend, who sat nearest the ramparts, upon which
two Spanish officers and a score of soldiers stood, as in a balcony,
to witness this duel of six persons--a spectacle common enough to them.
They showed the same signs of joy as at their bullfights, and laughed
with that savage and bitter laugh which their temperament derives from
their admixture of Arab blood.

At a sign from Gondi, the six horses set off at full gallop, and met,
without coming in contact, in the middle of the arena; at that instant,
six pistol-shots were heard almost together, and the smoke covered the
combatants.

When it dispersed, of the six cavaliers and six horses but three men and
three animals were on their legs. Cinq-Mars was on horseback, giving
his hand to his adversary, as calm as himself; at the other end of the
field, De Thou stood by his opponent, whose horse he had killed, and
whom he was helping to rise. As for Gondi and De Launay, neither was
to be seen. Cinq-Mars, looking about for them anxiously, perceived the
Abbe's horse, which, caracoling and curvetting, was dragging after him
the future cardinal, whose foot was caught in the stirrup, and who was
swearing as if he had never studied anything but the language of the
camp. His nose and hands were stained and bloody with his fall and with
his efforts to seize the grass; and he was regarding with considerable
dissatisfaction his horse, which in spite of himself he irritated
with his spurs, making its way to the trench, filled with water, which
surrounded the bastion, when, happily, Cinq-Mars, passing between the
edge of the swamp and the animal, seized its bridle and stopped its
career.

"Well, my dear Abbe, I see that no great harm has come to you, for you
speak with decided energy."

"Corbleu!" cried Gondi, wiping the dust out of his eyes, "to fire a
pistol in the face of that giant I had to lean forward and rise in my
stirrups, and thus I lost my balance; but I fancy that he is down, too."

"You are right, sir," said De Thou, coming up; "there is his horse
swimming in the ditch with its master, whose brains are blown out. We
must think now of escaping."

"Escaping! That, gentlemen, will be rather difficult," said the
adversary of Cinq-Mars, approaching. "Hark! there is the cannon-shot,
the signal for the attack. I did not expect it would have been given so
soon. If we return we shall meet the Swiss and the foot-soldiers, who
are marching in this direction."

"Monsieur de Fontrailles says well," said De Thou; "but if we do not
return, here are these Spaniards, who are running to arms, and whose
balls we shall presently have whistling about our heads."

"Well, let us hold a council," said Gondi; "summon Monsieur de
Montresor, who is uselessly occupied in searching for the body of poor
De Launay. You have not wounded him, Monsieur De Thou?"

"No, Monsieur l'Abbe; not every one has so good an aim as you," said
Montresor, bitterly, limping from his fall. "We shall not have time to
continue with the sword."

"As to continuing, I will not consent to it, gentlemen," said
Fontrailles; "Monsieur de Cinq-Mars has behaved too nobly toward me.
My pistol went off too soon, and his was at my very cheek--I feel the
coldness of it now--but he had the generosity to withdraw it and fire in
the air. I shall not forget it; and I am his in life and in death."

"We must think of other things now," interrupted Cinq-Mars; "a ball has
just whistled past my ear. The attack has begun on all sides; and we are
surrounded by friends and by enemies."

In fact, the cannonading was general; the citadel, the town, and
the army were covered with smoke. The bastion before them as yet was
unassailed, and its guards seemed less eager to defend it than to
observe the fate of the other fortifications.

"I believe that the enemy has made a sally," said Montresor, "for the
smoke has cleared from the plain, and I see masses of cavalry charging
under the protection of the battery."

"Gentlemen," said Cinq-Mars, who had not ceased to observe the walls,
"there is a very decided part which we could take, an important share in
this--we might enter this ill-guarded bastion."

"An excellent idea, Monsieur," said Fontrailles; "but we are but five
against at least thirty, and are in plain sight and easily counted."

"Faith, the idea is not bad," said Gondi; "it is better to be shot up
there than hanged down here, as we shall be if we are found, for De
Launay must be already missed by his company, and all the court knows of
our quarrel."

"Parbleu! gentlemen," said Montresor, "help is coming to us."

A numerous troop of horse, in great disorder, advanced toward them at
full gallop; their red uniform made them visible from afar. It seemed
to be their intention to halt on the very ground on which were our
embarrassed duellists, for hardly had the first cavalier reached it when
cries of "Halt!" were repeated and prolonged by the voices of the chiefs
who were mingled with their cavaliers.

"Let us go to them; these are the men-at-arms of the King's guard," said
Fontrailles. "I recognize them by their black cockades. I see also many
of the light-horse with them; let us mingle in the disorder, for I fancy
they are 'ramenes'."

This is a polite phrase signifying in military language "put to rout."
All five advanced toward the noisy and animated troops, and found that
this conjecture was right. But instead of the consternation which one
might expect in such a case, they found nothing but a youthful and
rattling gayety, and heard only bursts of laughter from the two
companies.

"Ah, pardieu! Cahuzac," said one, "your horse runs better than mine; I
suppose you have exercised it in the King's hunts!"

"Ah, I see, 'twas that we might be the sooner rallied that you arrived
here first," answered the other.

"I think the Marquis de Coislin must be mad, to make four hundred of us
charge eight Spanish regiments."

"Ha! ha! Locmaria, your plume is a fine ornament; it looks like a
weeping willow. If we follow that, it will be to our burial."

"Gentlemen, I said to you before," angrily replied the young officer,
"that I was sure that Capuchin Joseph, who meddles in everything, was
mistaken in telling us to charge, upon the part of the Cardinal. But
would you have been satisfied if those who have the honor of commanding
you had refused to charge?"

"No, no, no!" answered all the young men, at the same time forming
themselves quickly into ranks.

"I said," interposed the old Marquis de Coislin, who, despite his white
head, had all the fire of youth in his eyes, "that if you were commanded
to mount to the assault on horseback, you would do it."

"Bravo! bravo!" cried all the men-at-arms, clapping their hands.

"Well, Monsieur le Marquis," said Cinq-Mars, approaching, "here is an
opportunity to execute what you have promised. I am only a volunteer;
but an instant ago these gentlemen and I examined this bastion, and I
believe that it is possible to take it."

"Monsieur, we must first examine the ditch to see--"

At this moment a ball from the rampart of which they were speaking
struck in the head the horse of the old captain, laying it low.

"Locmaria, De Mouy, take the command, and to the assault!" cried the two
noble companies, believing their leader dead.

"Stop a moment, gentlemen," said old Coislin, rising, "I will lead you,
if you please. Guide us, Monsieur volunteer, for the Spaniards invite us
to this ball, and we must reply politely."

Hardly had the old man mounted another horse, which one of his men
brought him, and drawn his sword, when, without awaiting his order, all
these ardent youths, preceded by Cinq-Mars and his friends, whose horses
were urged on by the squadrons behind, had thrown themselves into
the morass, wherein, to their great astonishment and to that of the
Spaniards, who had counted too much upon its depth, the horses were
in the water only up to their hams; and in spite of a discharge of
grape-shot from the two largest pieces, all reached pell-mell a strip of
land at the foot of the half-ruined ramparts. In the ardor of the rush,
Cinq-Mars and Fontrailles, with the young Locmaria, forced their horses
upon the rampart itself; but a brisk fusillade killed the three animals,
which rolled over their masters.

"Dismount all, gentlemen!" cried old Coislin; "forward with pistol and
sword! Abandon your horses!"

All obeyed instantly, and threw themselves in a mass upon the breach.

Meantime, De Thou, whose coolness never quitted him any more than his
friendship, had not lost sight of the young Henri, and had received him
in his arms when his horse fell. He helped him to rise, restored to
him his sword, which he had dropped, and said to him, with the greatest
calmness, notwithstanding the balls which rained on all sides:

"My friend, do I not appear very ridiculous amid all this skirmish, in
my costume of Counsellor in Parliament?"

"Parbleu!" said Montresor, advancing, "here's the Abbe, who quite
justifies you."

And, in fact, little Gondi, pushing on among the light horsemen, was
shouting, at the top of his voice: "Three duels and an assault. I hope
to get rid of my cassock at last!"

Saying this, he cut and thrust at a tall Spaniard.

The defence was not long. The Castilian soldiers were no match for the
French officers, and not one of them had time or courage to recharge his
carbine.

"Gentlemen, we will relate this to our mistresses in Paris," said
Locmaria, throwing his hat into the air; and Cinq-Mars, De Thou,
Coislin, De Mouy, Londigny, officers of the red companies, and all the
young noblemen, with swords in their right hands and pistols in their
left, dashing, pushing, and doing each other by their eagerness as much
harm as they did the enemy, finally rushed upon the platform of the
bastion, as water poured from a vase, of which the opening is too small,
leaps out in interrupted gushes.

Disdaining to occupy themselves with the vanquished soldiers, who cast
themselves at their feet, they left them to look about the fort,
without even disarming them, and began to examine their conquest, like
schoolboys in vacation, laughing with all their hearts, as if they were
at a pleasure-party.

A Spanish officer, enveloped in his brown cloak, watched them with a
sombre air.

"What demons are these, Ambrosio?" said he to a soldier. "I never have
met with any such before in France. If Louis XIII has an entire army
thus composed, it is very good of him not to conquer all Europe."

"Oh, I do not believe they are very numerous; they must be some poor
adventurers, who have nothing to lose and all to gain by pillage."

"You are right," said the officer; "I will try to persuade one of them
to let me escape."

And slowly approaching, he accosted a young light-horseman, of about
eighteen, who was sitting apart from his comrades upon the parapet. He
had the pink-and-white complexion of a young girl; his delicate hand
held an embroidered handkerchief, with which he wiped his forehead and
his golden locks He was consulting a large, round watch set with rubies,
suspended from his girdle by a knot of ribbons.

The astonished Spaniard paused. Had he not seen this youth overthrow
his soldiers, he would not have believed him capable of anything
beyond singing a romance, reclined upon a couch. But, filled with the
suggestion of Ambrosio, he thought that he might have stolen these
objects of luxury in the pillage of the apartments of a woman; so, going
abruptly up to him, he said:

"Hombre! I am an officer; will you restore me to liberty, that I may
once more see my country?"

The young Frenchman looked at him with the gentle expression of his age,
and, thinking of his own family, he said:

"Monsieur, I will present you to the Marquis de Coislin, who will, I
doubt not, grant your request; is your family of Castile or of Aragon?"

"Your Coislin will ask the permission of somebody else, and will make
me wait a year. I will give you four thousand ducats if you will let me
escape."

That gentle face, those girlish features, became infused with the purple
of fury; those blue eyes shot forth lightning; and, exclaiming, "Money
to me! away, fool!" the young man gave the Spaniard a ringing box on
the ear. The latter, without hesitating, drew a long poniard from his
breast, and, seizing the arm of the Frenchman, thought to plunge it
easily into his heart; but, nimble and vigorous, the youth caught him by
the right arm, and, lifting it with force above his head, sent it back
with the weapon it held upon the head of the Spaniard, who was furious
with rage.

"Eh! eh! Softly, Olivier!" cried his comrades, running from all
directions; "there are Spaniards enough on the ground already."

And they disarmed the hostile officer.

"What shall we do with this lunatic?" said one.

"I should not like to have him for my valet-dechambre," returned
another.

"He deserves to be hanged," said a third; "but, faith, gentlemen, we
don't know how to hang. Let us send him to that battalion of Swiss which
is now passing across the plain."

And the calm and sombre Spaniard, enveloping himself anew in his cloak,
began the march of his own accord, followed by Ambrosio, to join the
battalion, pushed by the shoulders and urged on by five or six of these
young madcaps.

Meantime, the first troop of the besiegers, astonished at their success,
had followed it out to the end; Cinq-Mars, so advised by the aged
Coislin, had made with him the circuit of the bastion, and found to
their vexation that it was completely separated from the city, and that
they could not follow up their advantage. They, therefore, returned
slowly to the platform, talking by the way, to rejoin De Thou and the
Abbe de Gondi, whom they found laughing with the young light-horsemen.

"We have Religion and justice with us, gentlemen; we could not fail to
triumph."

"No doubt, for they fought as hard as we."

There was silence at the approach of Cinq-Mars, and they remained for
an instant whispering and asking his name; then all surrounded him, and
took his hand with delight.

"Gentlemen, you are right," said their old captain; "he is, as our
fathers used to say, the best doer of the day. He is a volunteer, who is
to be presented today to the King by the Cardinal."

"By the Cardinal! We will present him ourselves. Ah, do not let him be a
Cardinalist; he is too good a fellow for that!" exclaimed all the young
men, with vivacity.

"Monsieur, I will undertake to disgust you with him," said Olivier
d'Entraigues, approaching Cinq-Mars, "for I have been his page. Rather
serve in the red companies; come, you will have good comrades there."

The old Marquis saved Cinq-Mars the embarrassment of replying, by
ordering the trumpets to sound and rally his brilliant companies. The
cannon was no longer heard, and a soldier announced that the King and
the Cardinal were traversing the lines to examine the results of the
day. He made all the horses pass through the breach, which was tolerably
wide, and ranged the two companies of cavalry in battle array, upon a
spot where it seemed impossible that any but infantry could penetrate.




CHAPTER X. THE RECOMPENSE

Cardinal Richelieu had said to himself, "To soften the first paroxysm of
the royal grief, to open a source of emotions which shall turn from its
sorrow this wavering soul, let this city be besieged; I consent. Let
Louis go; I will allow him to strike a few poor soldiers with the blows
which he wishes, but dares not, to inflict upon me. Let his anger drown
itself in this obscure blood; I agree. But this caprice of glory shall
not derange my fixed designs; this city shall not fall yet. It shall not
become French forever until two years have past; it shall come into my
nets only on the day upon which I have fixed in my own mind. Thunder,
bombs, and cannons; meditate upon your operations, skilful captains;
hasten, young warriors. I shall silence your noise, I shall dissipate
your projects, and make your efforts abortive; all shall end in vain
smoke, for I shall conduct in order to mislead you."

This is the substance of what passed in the bald head of the Cardinal
before the attack of which we have witnessed a part. He was stationed on
horseback, upon one of the mountains of Salces, north of the city; from
this point he could see the plain of Roussillon before him, sloping to
the Mediterranean. Perpignan, with its ramparts of brick, its bastions,
its citadel, and its spire, formed upon this plain an oval and sombre
mass on its broad and verdant meadows; the vast mountains surrounded it,
and the valley, like an enormous bow curved from north to south, while,
stretching its white line in the east, the sea looked like its silver
cord. On his right rose that immense mountain called the Canigou,
whose sides send forth two rivers into the plain below. The French line
extended to the foot of this western barrier. A crowd of generals and of
great lords were on horseback behind the minister, but at twenty paces'
distance and profoundly silent.

Cardinal Richelieu had at first followed slowly the line of operations,
but had later returned and stationed himself upon this height, whence
his eye and his thought hovered over the destinies of besiegers and
besieged. The whole army had its eyes upon him, and could see him from
every point. All looked upon him as their immediate chief, and awaited
his gesture before they acted. France had bent beneath his yoke a long
time; and admiration of him shielded all his actions to which another
would have been often subjected. At this moment, for instance, no one
thought of smiling, or even of feeling surprised, that the cuirass
should clothe the priest; and the severity of his character and
aspect suppressed every thought of ironical comparisons or injurious
conjectures. This day the Cardinal appeared in a costume entirely
martial: he wore a reddish-brown coat, embroidered with gold, a
water-colored cuirass, a sword at his side, pistols at his saddle-bow,
and he had a plumed hat; but this he seldom put on his head, which was
still covered with the red cap. Two pages were behind him; one carried
his gauntlets, the other his casque, and the captain of his guards was
at his side.

As the King had recently named him generalissimo of his troops, it was
to him that the generals sent for their orders; but he, knowing only too
well the secret motives of his master's present anger, affected to refer
to that Prince all who sought a decision from his own mouth. It happened
as he had foreseen; for he regulated and calculated the movements of
that heart as those of a watch, and could have told with precision
through what sensations it had passed. Louis XIII came and placed
himself at his side; but he came as a pupil, forced to acknowledge that
his master is in the right. His air was haughty and dissatisfied, his
language brusque and dry. The Cardinal remained impassible. It was
remarked that the King, in consulting him, employed the words of
command, thus reconciling his weakness and his power of place, his
irresolution and his pride, his ignorance and his pretensions, while his
minister dictated laws to him in a tone of the most profound obedience.

"I will have them attack immediately, Cardinal," said the Prince on
coming up; "that is to say," he added, with a careless air, "when all
your preparations are made, and you have fixed upon the hour with our
generals."

"Sire, if I might venture to express my judgment, I should be glad did
your Majesty think proper to begin the attack in a quarter of an hour,
for that will give time enough to advance the third line."

"Yes, yes; you are right, Monsieur le Cardinal! I think so, too. I will
go and give my orders myself; I wish to do everything myself. Schomberg,
Schomberg! in a quarter of an hour I wish to hear the signal-gun; I
command it."

And Schomberg, taking the command of the right wing, gave the order, and
the signal was made.

The batteries, arranged long since by the Marechal de la Meilleraie,
began to batter a breach, but slowly, because the artillerymen felt that
they had been directed to attack two impregnable points; and because,
with their experience, and above all with the common sense and quick
perception of French soldiers, any one of them could at once have
indicated the point against which the attack should have been directed.
The King was surprised at the slowness of the firing.

"La Meilleraie," said he, impatiently, "these batteries do not play
well; your cannoneers are asleep."

The principal artillery officers were present as well as the Marechal;
but no one answered a syllable. They had looked toward the Cardinal,
who remained as immovable as an equestrian statue, and they imitated
his example. The answer must have been that the fault was not with the
soldiers, but with him who had ordered this false disposition of the
batteries; and this was Richelieu himself, who, pretending to believe
them more useful in that position, had stopped the remarks of the
chiefs.

The King, astonished at this silence, and, fearing that he had committed
some gross military blunder by his question, blushed slightly, and,
approaching the group of princes who had accompanied him, said, in order
to reassure himself:

"D'Angouleme, Beaufort, this is very tiresome, is it not? We stand here
like mummies."

Charles de Valois drew near and said:

"It seems to me, Sire, that they are not employing here the machines of
the engineer Pompee-Targon."

"Parbleu!" said the Duc de Beaufort, regarding Richelieu fixedly, "that
is because we were more eager to take Rochelle than Perpignan at the
time that Italian came. Here we have not an engine ready, not a mine,
not a petard beneath these walls; and the Marechal de la Meilleraie told
me this morning that he had proposed to bring some with which to open
the breach. It was neither the Castillet, nor the six great bastions
which surround it, nor the half-moon, we should have attacked. If we go
on in this way, the great stone arm of the citadel will show us its fist
a long time yet."

The Cardinal, still motionless, said not a single word; he only made a
sign to Fabert, who left the group in attendance, and ranged his horse
behind that of Richelieu, close to the captain of his guards.

The Duc de la Rochefoucauld, drawing near the King, said:

"I believe, Sire, that our inactivity makes the enemy insolent, for
look! here is a numerous sally, directing itself straight toward
your Majesty; and the regiments of Biron and De Ponts fall back after
firing."

"Well!" said the King, drawing his sword, "let us charge and force those
villains back again. Bring on the cavalry with me, D'Angouleme. Where is
it, Cardinal?"

"Behind that hill, Sire, there are in column six regiments of dragoons,
and the carabineers of La Roque; below you are my men-at-arms and my
light horse, whom I pray your Majesty to employ, for those of your
Majesty's guard are ill guided by the Marquis de Coislin, who is ever
too zealous. Joseph, go tell him to return."

He whispered to the Capuchin, who had accompanied him, huddled up in
military attire, which he wore awkwardly, and who immediately advanced
into the plain.

In the mean time, the compact columns of the old Spanish infantry issued
from the gate of Notre-Dame like a dark and moving forest, while from
another gate proceeded the heavy cavalry, which drew up on the plain.
The French army, in battle array at the foot of the hill where the King
stood, behind fortifications of earth, behind redoubts and fascines of
turf, perceived with alarm the men-at-arms and the light horse pressed
between these two forces, ten times their superior in numbers.

"Sound the charge!" cried Louis XIII; "or my old Coislin is lost."

And he descended the hill, with all his suite as ardent as himself; but
before he reached the plain and was at the head of his musketeers, the
two companies had taken their course, dashing off with the rapidity
of lightning, and to the cry of "Vive le Roi!" They fell upon the long
column of the enemy's cavalry like two vultures upon a serpent; and,
making a large and bloody gap, they passed beyond, and rallied behind
the Spanish bastion, leaving the enemy's cavalry so astonished that they
thought only of re-forming their own ranks, and not of pursuing.

The French army uttered a burst of applause; the King paused in
amazement. He looked around him, and saw a burning desire for attack in
all eyes; the valor of his race shone in his own. He paused yet another
instant in suspense, listening, intoxicated, to the roar of the cannon,
inhaling the odor of the powder; he seemed to receive another life, and
to become once more a Bourbon. All-who looked on him felt as if they
were commanded by another man, when, raising his sword and his eyes
toward the sun, he cried:

"Follow me, brave friends! here I am King of France!"

His cavalry, deploying, dashed off with an ardor which devoured space,
and, raising billows of dust from the ground, which trembled beneath
them, they were in an instant mingled with the Spanish cavalry, and both
were swallowed up in an immense and fluctuating cloud.

"Now! now!" cried the Cardinal, in a voice of thunder, from his
elevation, "now remove the guns from their useless position! Fabert,
give your orders; let them be all directed upon the infantry which
slowly approaches to surround the King. Haste! save the King!"

Immediately the Cardinal's suite, until then sitting erect as so
many statues, were in motion. The generals gave their orders; the
aides-de-camp galloped off into the plain, where, leaping over the
ditches, barriers, and palisades, they arrived at their destination
as soon as the thought that directed them and the glance that followed
them.

Suddenly the few and interrupted flashes which had shone from the
discouraged batteries became a continual and immense flame, leaving no
room for the smoke, which rose to the sky in an infinite number of light
and floating wreaths; the volleys of cannon, which had seemed like far
and feeble echoes, changed into a formidable thunder whose roll was as
rapid as that of drums beating the charge; while from three opposite
points large red flashes from fiery mouths fell upon the dark columns
which issued from the besieged city.

Meantime, without changing his position, but with ardent eyes and
imperative gestures, Richelieu ceased not to multiply his orders,
casting upon those who received them a look which implied a sentence of
death if he was not instantly obeyed.

"The King has overthrown the cavalry; but the foot still resist. Our
batteries have only killed, they have not conquered. Forward with
three regiments of infantry instantly, Gassion, La Meilleraie, and
Lesdiguieres! Take the enemy's columns in flank. Order the rest of the
army to cease from the attack, and to remain motionless throughout the
whole line. Bring paper! I will write myself to Schomberg."

A page alighted and advanced, holding a pencil and paper. The minister,
supported by four men of his suite, also alighted, but with difficulty,
uttering a cry, wrested from him by pain; but he conquered it by an
effort, and seated himself upon the carriage of a cannon. The page
presented his shoulder as a desk; and the Cardinal hastily penned that
order which contemporary manuscripts have transmitted to us, and which
might well be imitated by the diplomatists of our day, who are, it
seems, more desirous to maintain themselves in perfect balance between
two ideas than to seek those combinations which decide the destinies of
the world, regarding the clear and obvious dictates of true genius as
beneath their profound subtlety.

   "M. le Marechal, do not risk anything, and reflect before you
   attack. When you are thus told that the King desires you not to
   risk anything, you are not to understand that his Majesty forbids
   you to fight at all; but his intention is that you do not engage in
   a general battle unless it be with a notable hope of gain from the
   advantage which a favorable situation may present, the
   responsibility of the battle naturally falling upon you."

These orders given, the old minister, still seated upon the
gun-carriage, his arms resting upon the touch-hole, and his chin upon
his arms, in the attitude of one who adjusts and points a cannon,
continued in silence to watch the battle, like an old wolf, which, sated
with victims and torpid with age, contemplates in the plain the ravages
of a lion among a herd of cattle, which he himself dares not attack.
From time to time his eye brightens; the smell of blood rejoices him,
and he laps his burning tongue over his toothless jaw.

On that day, it was remarked by his servants--or, in other words, by all
surrounding him--that from the time of his rising until night he took no
nourishment, and so fixed all the application of his soul on the events
which he had to conduct that he triumphed over his physical pains,
seeming, by forgetting, to have destroyed them. It was this power of
attention, this continual presence of mind, that raised him almost
to genius. He would have attained it quite, had he not lacked native
elevation of soul and generous sensibility of heart.

Everything happened upon the field of battle as he had wished, fortune
attending him there as well as in the cabinet. Louis XIII claimed with
eager hand the victory which his minister had procured for him; he
had contributed himself, however, only that grandeur which consists in
personal valor.

The cannon had ceased to roar when the broken columns of infantry fell
back into Perpignan; the remainder had met the same fate, was already
within the walls, and on the plain no living man was to be seen, save
the glittering squadrons of the King, who followed him, forming ranks as
they went.

He returned at a slow walk, and contemplated with satisfaction the
battlefield swept clear of enemies; he passed haughtily under the very
fire of the Spanish guns, which, whether from lack of skill, or by a
secret agreement with the Prime Minister, or from very shame to kill a
king of France, only sent after him a few balls, which, passing two
feet above his head, fell in front of the lines, and merely served to
increase the royal reputation for courage.

At every step, however, that he took toward the spot where Richelieu
awaited him, the King's countenance changed and visibly fell; he lost
all the flush of combat; the noble sweat of triumph dried upon his brow.
As he approached, his usual pallor returned to his face, as if having
the right to sit alone on a royal head; his look lost its fleeting fire,
and at last, when he joined the Cardinal, a profound melancholy entirely
possessed him. He found the minister as he had left him, on horseback;
the latter, still coldly respectful, bowed, and after a few words of
compliment, placed himself near Louis to traverse the lines and examine
the results of the day, while the princes and great lords, riding at
some distance before and behind, formed a crowd around them.

The wily minister was careful not to say a word or to make a gesture
that could suggest the idea that he had had the slightest share in the
events of the day; and it was remarkable that of all those who came to
hand in their reports, there was not one who did not seem to divine his
thoughts, and exercise care not to compromise his occult power by
open obedience. All reports were made to the King. The Cardinal then
traversed, by the side of the Prince, the right of the camp, which had
not been under his view from the height where he had remained; and
he saw with satisfaction that Schomberg, who knew him well, had acted
precisely as his master had directed, bringing into action only a few
of the light troops, and fighting just enough not to incur reproach for
inaction, and not enough to obtain any distinct result. This line of
conduct charmed the minister, and did not displease the King, whose
vanity cherished the idea of having been the sole conqueror that day. He
even wished to persuade himself, and to have it supposed, that all the
efforts of Schomberg had been fruitless, saying to him that he was not
angry with him, that he had himself just had proof that the enemy before
him was less despicable than had been supposed.

"To show you that you have lost nothing in our estimation," he added,
"we name you a knight of our order, and we give you public and private
access to our person."

The Cardinal affectionately pressed his hand as he passed him, and the
Marechal, astonished at this deluge of favors, followed the Prince with
his bent head, like a culprit, recalling, to console himself, all
the brilliant actions of his career which had remained unnoticed, and
mentally attributing to them these unmerited rewards to reconcile them
to his conscience.

The King was about to retrace his steps, when the Due de Beaufort, with
an astonished air, exclaimed:

"But, Sire, have I still the powder in my eyes, or have I been
sun-struck? It appears to me that I see upon yonder bastion several
cavaliers in red uniforms who greatly resemble your light horse whom we
thought to be killed."

The Cardinal knitted his brows.

"Impossible, Monsieur," he said; "the imprudence of Monsieur de Coislin
has destroyed his Majesty's men-at-arms and those cavaliers. It is for
that reason I ventured just now to say to the King that if the useless
corps were suppressed, it might be very advantageous from a military
point of view."

"Pardieu! your Eminence will pardon me," answered the Duc de Beaufort;
"but I do not deceive myself, and there are seven or eight of them
driving prisoners before them."

"Well! let us go to the point," said the King; "if I find my old Coislin
there I shall be very glad."

With great caution, the horses of the King and his suite passed across
the marsh, and with infinite astonishment their riders saw on the
ramparts the two red companies in battle array as on parade.

"Vive Dieu!" cried Louis; "I think that not one of them is missing!
Well, Marquis, you keep your word--you take walls on horseback."

"In my opinion, this point was ill chosen," said Richelieu, with
disdain; "it in no way advances the taking of Perpignan, and must have
cost many lives."

"Faith, you are right," said the King, for the first time since the
intelligence of the Queen's death addressing the Cardinal without
dryness; "I regret the blood which must have been spilled here."

"Only two of own young men have been wounded in the attack, Sire,"
said old Coislin; "and we have gained new companions-in-arms, in the
volunteers who guided us."

"Who are they?" said the Prince.

"Three of them have modestly retired, Sire; but the youngest, whom you
see, was the first who proposed the assault, and the first to venture
his person in making it. The two companies claim the honor of presenting
him to your Majesty."

Cinq-Mars, who was on horseback behind the old captain, took off his hat
and showed his pale face, his large, dark eyes, and his long, chestnut
hair.

"Those features remind me of some one," said the King; "what say you,
Cardinal?"

The latter, who had already cast a penetrating glance at the newcomer,
replied:

"Unless I am mistaken, this young man is--"

"Henri d'Effiat," said the volunteer, bowing.

"Sire, it is the same whom I had announced to your Majesty, and who was
to have been presented to you by me; the second son of the Marechal."

"Ah!" said Louis, warmly, "I am glad to see the son of my old friend
presented by this bastion. It is a suitable introduction, my boy, for
one bearing your name. You will follow us to the camp, where we have
much to say to you. But what! you here, Monsieur de Thou? Whom have you
come to judge?"

"Sire," answered Coislin, "he has condemned to death, without judging,
sundry Spaniards, for he was the second to enter the place."

"I struck no one, Monsieur," interrupted De Thou reddening; "it is not
my business. Herein I have no merit; I merely accompanied my friend,
Monsieur de Cinq-Mars."

"We approve your modesty as well as your bravery, and we shall not
forget this. Cardinal, is there not some presidency vacant?"

Richelieu did not like De Thou. And as the sources of his dislike
were always mysterious, it was difficult to guess the cause of this
animosity; it revealed itself in a cruel word that escaped him. The
motive was a passage in the history of the President De Thou--the father
of the young man now in question--wherein he stigmatized, in the eyes of
posterity, a granduncle of the Cardinal, an apostate monk, sullied with
every human vice.

Richelieu, bending to Joseph's ear, whispered:

"You see that man; his father put my name into his history. Well, I
will put his into mine." And, truly enough, he subsequently wrote it in
blood. At this moment, to avoid answering the King, he feigned not
to have heard his question, and to be wholly intent upon the merit of
Cinq-Mars and the desire to see him well placed at court.

"I promised you beforehand to make him a captain in my guards," said the
Prince; "let him be nominated to-morrow. I would know more of him, and
raise him to a higher fortune, if he pleases me. Let us now retire; the
sun has set, and we are far from our army. Tell my two good companies to
follow us."

The minister, after repeating the order, omitting the implied praise,
placed himself on the King's right hand, and the whole court quitted
the bastion, now confided to the care of the Swiss, and returned to the
camp.

The two red companies defiled slowly through the breach which they
had effected with such promptitude; their countenances were grave and
silent.

Cinq-Mars went up to his friend.

"These are heroes but ill recompensed," said he; "not a favor, not a
compliment."

"I, on the other hand," said the simple De Thou "I, who came here
against my will--receive one. Such are courts, such is life; but above
us is the true judge, whom men can not blind."

"This will not prevent us from meeting death tomorrow, if necessary,"
said the young Olivier, laughing.




CHAPTER XI. THE BLUNDERS

In order to appear before the King, Cinq-Mars had been compelled to
mount the charger of one of the light horse, wounded in the affair,
having lost his own at the foot of the rampart. As the two companies
were marching out, he felt some one touch his shoulder, and, turning
round, saw old Grandchamp leading a very beautiful gray horse.

"Will Monsieur le Marquis mount a horse of his own?" said he. "I have
put on the saddle and housings of velvet embroidered in gold that
remained in the trench. Alas, when I think that a Spaniard might have
taken it, or even a Frenchman! For just now there are so many people who
take all they find, as if it were their own; and then, as the proverb
says, 'What falls in the ditch is for the soldier.' They might also have
taken the four hundred gold crowns that Monsieur le Marquis, be it said
without reproach, forgot to take out of the holsters. And the pistols!
Oh, what pistols! I bought them in Germany; and here they are as good as
ever, and with their locks perfect. It was quite enough to kill the poor
little black horse, that was born in England as sure as I was at Tours
in Touraine, without also exposing these valuables to pass into the
hands of the enemy."

While making this lamentation, the worthy man finished saddling the gray
horse. The column was long enough filing out to give him time to pay
scrupulous attention to the length of the stirrups and of the bands, all
the while continuing his harangue.

"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, for being somewhat slow about this; but I
sprained my arm slightly in lifting Monsieur de Thou, who himself raised
Monsieur le Marquis during the grand scuffle."

"How camest thou there at all, stupid?" said Cinq-Mars. "That is not thy
business. I told thee to remain in the camp."

"Oh, as to remaining in the camp, that is out of the question. I can't
stay there; when I hear a musket-shot, I should be ill did I not see the
flash. As for my business, that is to take care of your horses, and you
are on them. Monsieur, think you I should not have saved, had I been
able, the life of the poor black horse down there in the trench? Ah, how
I loved him!--a horse that gained three races in his time--a time too
short for those who loved him as I loved him! He never would take his
corn but from his dear Grandchamp; and then he would caress me with
his head. The end of my left ear that he carried away one day--poor
fellow!--proves it, for it was not out of ill-will he bit it off; quite
the contrary. You should have heard how he neighed with rage when any
one else came near him; that was the reason why he broke Jean's leg.
Good creature, I loved him so!

"When he fell I held him on one side with one hand and M. de Locmaria
with the other. I thought at first that both he and that gentleman would
recover; but unhappily only one of them returned to life, and that was
he whom I least knew. You seem to be laughing at what I say about your
horse, Monsieur; you forget that in times of war the horse is the
soul of the cavalier. Yes, Monsieur, his soul; for what is it that
intimidates the infantry? It is the horse! It certainly is not the man,
who, once seated, is little more than a bundle of hay. Who is it that
performs the fine deeds that men admire? The horse. There are times when
his master, who a moment before would rather have been far away, finds
himself victorious and rewarded for his horse's valor, while the poor
beast gets nothing but blows. Who is it gains the prize in the race? The
horse, that sups hardly better than usual, while the master pockets the
gold, and is envied by his friends and admired by all the lords as if he
had run himself. Who is it that hunts the roebuck, yet puts but a morsel
in his own mouth? Again, the horse; sometimes the horse is even
eaten himself, poor animal! I remember in a campaign with Monsieur le
Marechal, it happened that--But what is the matter, Monsieur, you grow
pale?"

"Bind up my leg with something--a handkerchief, a strap, or what you
will. I feel a burning pain there; I know not what."

"Your boot is cut, Monsieur. It may be some ball; however, lead is the
friend of man."

"It is no friend of mine, at all events."

"Ah, who loves, chastens! Lead must not be ill spoken of! What is
that--"

While occupied in binding his master's leg below the knee, the worthy
Grandchamp was about to hold forth in praise of lead as absurdly as he
had in praise of the horse, when he was forced, as well as Cinq-Mars,
to hear a warm and clamorous dispute among some Swiss soldiers who
had remained behind the other troops. They were talking with much
gesticulation, and seemed busied with two men among a group of about
thirty soldiers.

D'Effiat, still holding out his leg to his servant, and leaning on the
saddle of his horse, tried, by listening attentively, to understand the
subject of the colloquy; but he knew nothing of German, and could not
comprehend the dispute. Grandchamp, who, still holding the boot, had
also been listening very seriously, suddenly burst into loud laughter,
holding his sides in a manner not usual with him.

"Ha, ha, ha! Monsieur, here are two sergeants disputing which they ought
to hang of the two Spaniards there; for your red comrades did not take
the trouble to tell them. One of the Swiss says that it's the officer,
the other that it's the soldier; a third has just made a proposition for
meeting the difficulty."

"And what does he say?"

"He suggests that they hang them both."

"Stop! stop!" cried Cinq-Mars to the soldiers, attempting to walk; but
his leg would not support him.

"Put me on my horse, Grandchamp."

"Monsieur, you forget your wound."

"Do as I command, and then mount thyself."

The old servant grumblingly obeyed, and then galloped off, in fulfilment
of another imperative order, to stop the Swiss, who were just about to
hang their two prisoners to a tree, or to let them hang themselves; for
the officer, with the sang-froid of his nation, had himself passed the
running noose of a rope around his own neck, and, without being told,
had ascended a small ladder placed against the tree, in order to tie the
other end of the rope to one of its branches. The soldier, with the same
calm indifference, was looking on at the Swiss disputing around him,
while holding the ladder.

Cinq-Mars arrived in time to save them, gave his name to the Swiss
sergeant, and, employing Grandchamp as interpreter, said that the two
prisoners were his, and that he would take them to his tent; that he was
a captain in the guards, and would be responsible for them. The German,
ever exact in discipline, made no reply; the only resistance was on
the part of the prisoner. The officer, still on the top of the ladder,
turned round, and speaking thence as from a pulpit, said, with a
sardonic laugh:

"I should much like to know what you do here? Who told you I wished to
live?"

"I do not ask to know anything about that," said Cinq-Mars; "it matters
not to me what becomes of you afterward. All I propose now is to
prevent an act which seems to me unjust and cruel. You may kill yourself
afterward, if you like."

"Well said," returned the ferocious Spaniard; "you please me. I thought
at first you meant to affect the generous in order to oblige me to be
grateful, which is a thing I detest. Well, I consent to come down; but I
shall hate you as much as ever, for you are a Frenchman. Nor do I thank
you, for you only discharge a debt you owe me, since it was I who this
morning kept you from being shot by this young soldier while he was
taking aim at you; and he is a man who never missed a chamois in the
mountains of Leon."

"Be it as you will," said Cinq-Mars; "come down."

It was his character ever to assume with others the mien they wore
toward him; and the rudeness of the Spaniard made him as hard as iron
toward him.

"A proud rascal that, Monsieur," said Grandchamp; "in your place
Monsieur le Marechal would certainly have left him on his ladder.
Come, Louis, Etienne, Germain, escort Monsieur's prisoners--a fine
acquisition, truly! If they bring you any luck, I shall be very much
surprised."

Cinq-Mars, suffering from the motion of his horse, rode only at the pace
of his prisoners on foot, and was accordingly at a distance behind the
red companies, who followed close upon the King. He meditated on his way
what it could be that the Prince desired to say to him. A ray of hope
presented to his mind the figure of Marie de Mantua in the distance; and
for a moment his thoughts were calmed. But all his future lay in that
brief sentence--"to please the King"; and he began to reflect upon all
the bitterness in which his task might involve him.

At that moment he saw approaching his friend, De Thou, who, anxious at
his remaining behind, had sought him in the plain, eager to aid him if
necessary.

"It is late, my friend; night approaches. You have delayed long; I
feared for you. Whom have you here? What has detained you? The King will
soon be asking for you."

Such were the rapid inquiries of the young counsellor, whose anxiety,
more than the battle itself, had made him lose his accustomed serenity.

"I was slightly wounded; I bring a prisoner, and I was thinking of the
King. What can he want me for, my friend? What must I do if he
proposes to place me about his person? I must please him; and at this
thought--shall I own it?--I am tempted to fly. But I trust that I shall
not have that fatal honor. 'To please,' how humiliating the word!
'to obey' quite the opposite! A soldier runs the chance of death,
and there's an end. But in what base compliances, what sacrifices of
himself, what compositions with his conscience, what degradation of his
own thought, may not a courtier be involved! Ah, De Thou, my dear De
Thou! I am not made for the court; I feel it, though I have seen it but
for a moment. There is in my temperament a certain savageness, which
education has polished only on the surface. At a distance, I thought
myself adapted to live in this all-powerful world; I even desired it,
led by a cherished hope of my heart. But I shuddered at the first step;
I shuddered at the mere sight of the Cardinal. The recollection of the
last of his crimes, at which I was present, kept me from addressing him.
He horrifies me; I never can endure to be near him. The King's favor,
too, has that about it which dismays me, as if I knew it would be fatal
to me."

"I am glad to perceive this apprehension in you; it may be most
salutary," said De Thou, as they rode on. "You are about to enter into
contact with power. Before, you did not even conceive it; now you will
touch it with your very hand. You will see what it is, and what hand
hurls the lightning. Heaven grant that that lightning may never strike
you! You will probably be present in those councils which regulate the
destiny of nations; you will see, you will perchance originate, those
caprices whence are born sanguinary wars, conquests, and treaties;
you will hold in your hand the drop of water which swells into mighty
torrents. It is only from high places that men can judge of human
affairs; you must look from the mountaintop ere you can appreciate the
littleness of those things which from below appear to us great."

"Ah, were I on those heights, I should at least learn the lesson
you speak of; but this Cardinal, this man to whom I must be under
obligation, this man whom I know too well by his works--what will he be
to me?"

"A friend, a protector, no doubt," answered De Thou.

"Death were a thousand times preferable to his friendship! I hate his
whole being, even his very name; he spills the blood of men with the
cross of the Redeemer!"

"What horrors are you saying, my friend? You will ruin yourself if you
reveal your sentiments respecting the Cardinal to the King."

"Never mind; in the midst of these tortuous ways, I desire to take a new
one, the right line. My whole opinion, the opinion of a just man, shall
be unveiled to the King himself, if he interrogate me, even should it
cost me my head. I have at last seen this King, who has been described
to me as so weak; I have seen him, and his aspect has touched me to the
heart in spite of myself. Certainly, he is very unfortunate, but he can
not be cruel; he will listen to the truth."

"Yes; but he will not dare to make it triumph," answered the sage De
Thou. "Beware of this warmth of heart, which often draws you by sudden
and dangerous movements. Do not attack a colossus like Richelieu without
having measured him."

"That is just like my tutor, the Abbe Quillet. My dear and prudent
friend, neither the one nor the other of you know me; you do not know
how weary I am of myself, and whither I have cast my gaze. I must mount
or die."

"What! already ambitious?" exclaimed De Thou, with extreme surprise.

His friend inclined his head upon his hands, abandoning the reins of his
horse, and did not answer.

"What! has this selfish passion of a riper age obtained possession of
you at twenty, Henri? Ambition is the saddest of all hopes."

"And yet it possesses me entirely at present, for I see only by means of
it, and by it my whole heart is penetrated."

"Ah, Cinq-Mars, I no longer recognize you! how different you were
formerly! I do not conceal from you that you appear to me to have
degenerated. In those walks of our childhood, when the life, and, above
all, the death of Socrates, caused tears of admiration and envy to
flow from our eyes; when, raising ourselves to the ideal of the
highest virtue, we wished that those illustrious sorrows, those sublime
misfortunes, which create great men, might in the future come upon us;
when we constructed for ourselves imaginary occasions of sacrifices
and devotion--if the voice of a man had pronounced, between us two, the
single world, 'ambition,' we should have believed that we were touching
a serpent."

De Thou spoke with the heat of enthusiasm and of reproach. Cinq-Mars
went on without answering, and still with his face in his hands. After
an instant of silence he removed them, and allowed his eyes to be seen,
full of generous tears. He pressed the hand of his friend warmly, and
said to him, with a penetrating accent:

"Monsieur de Thou, you have recalled to me the most beautiful thoughts
of my earliest youth. Do not believe that I have fallen; I am consumed
by a secret hope which I can not confide even to you. I despise, as much
as you, the ambition which will seem to possess me. All the world will
believe in it; but what do I care for the world? As for you, noble
friend, promise me that you will not cease to esteem me, whatever you
may see me do. I swear that my thoughts are as pure as heaven itself!"

"Well," said De Thou, "I swear by heaven that I believe you blindly; you
give me back my life!"

They shook hands again with effusion of heart, and then perceived that
they had arrived almost before the tent of the King.

Day was nearly over; but one might have believed that a softer day
was rising, for the moon issued from the sea in all her splendor. The
transparent sky of the south showed not a single cloud, and it seemed
like a veil of pale blue sown with silver spangles; the air, still hot,
was agitated only by the rare passage of breezes from the Mediterranean;
and all sounds had ceased upon the earth. The fatigued army reposed
beneath their tents, the line of which was marked by the fires, and the
besieged city seemed oppressed by the same slumber; upon its ramparts
nothing was to be seen but the arms of the sentinels, which shone in the
rays of the moon, or the wandering fire of the night-rounds. Nothing was
to be heard but the gloomy and prolonged cries of its guards, who warned
one another not to sleep.

It was only around the King that all things waked, but at a great
distance from him. This Prince had dismissed all his suite; he walked
alone before his tent, and, pausing sometimes to contemplate the beauty
of the heavens, he appeared plunged in melancholy meditation. No one
dared to interrupt him; and those of the nobility who had remained in
the royal quarters had gathered about the Cardinal, who, at twenty paces
from the King, was seated upon a little hillock of turf, fashioned into
a seat by the soldiers. There he wiped his pale forehead, fatigued
with the cares of the day and with the unaccustomed weight of a suit of
armor; he bade adieu, in a few hurried but always attentive and polite
words, to those who came to salute him as they retired. No one was near
him now except Joseph, who was talking with Laubardemont. The Cardinal
was looking at the King, to see whether, before reentering, this Prince
would not speak to him, when the sound of the horses of Cinq-Mars was
heard. The Cardinal's guards questioned him, and allowed him to advance
without followers, and only with De Thou.

"You are come too late, young man, to speak with the King," said the
Cardinal-Duke with a sharp voice. "One can not make his Majesty wait."

The two friends were about to retire, when the voice of Louis XIII
himself made itself heard. This Prince was at that moment in one of
those false positions which constituted the misfortune of his whole
life. Profoundly irritated against his minister, but not concealing from
himself that he owed the success of the day to him, desiring, moreover,
to announce to him his intention to quit the army and to raise the siege
of Perpignan, he was torn between the desire of speaking to the Cardinal
and the fear lest his anger might be weakened. The minister, upon
his part, dared not be the first to speak, being uncertain as to the
thoughts which occupied his master, and fearing to choose his time
ill, but yet not able to decide upon retiring. Both found themselves
precisely in the position of two lovers who have quarrelled and desire
to have an explanation, when the King, seized with joy the first
opportunity of extricating himself. The chance was fatal to the
minister. See upon what trifles depend those destinies which are called
great.

"Is it not Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?" said the King, in a loud voice. "Let
him approach; I am waiting for him."

Young D'Effiat approached on horseback, and at some paces from the King
desired to set foot to earth; but hardly had his leg touched the ground
when he dropped upon his knees.

"Pardon, Sire!" said he, "I believe that I am wounded;" and the blood
issued violently from his boot.

De Thou had seen him fall, and had approached to sustain him. Richelieu
seized this opportunity of advancing also, with dissembled eagerness.

"Remove this spectacle from the eyes of the King," said he. "You see
very well that this young man is dying."

"Not at all," said Louis, himself supporting him; "a king of France
knows how to see a man die, and has no fear of the blood which flows for
him. This young man interests me. Let him be carried into my tent, and
let my doctors attend him. If his wound is not serious, he shall come
with me to Paris, for the siege is suspended, Monsieur le Cardinal. Such
is my desire; other affairs call me to the centre of the kingdom. I will
leave you here to command in my absence. This is what I desired to say
to you."

With these words the King went abruptly into his tent, preceded by his
pages and his officers, carrying flambeaux.

The royal pavilion was closed, and Cinq-Mars was borne in by De Thou and
his people, while the Duc de Richelieu, motionless and stupefied,
still regarded the spot where this scene had passed. He appeared
thunder-struck, and incapable of seeing or hearing those who observed
him.

Laubardemont, still intimidated by his ill reception of the preceding
day, dared not speak a word to him, and Joseph hardly recognized in him
his former master. For an instant he regretted having given himself to
him, and fancied that his star was waning; but, reflecting that he was
hated by all men and had no resource save in Richelieu, he seized him
by the arm, and, shaking him roughly, said to him in a low voice, but
harshly:

"Come, come, Monseigneur, you are chickenhearted; come with us."

And, appearing to sustain him by the elbow, but in fact drawing him in
spite of himself, with the aid of Laubardemont, he made him enter his
tent, as a schoolmaster forces a schoolboy to rest, fearing the effects
of the evening mist upon him.

The prematurely aged man slowly obeyed the wishes of his two parasites,
and the purple of the pavilion dropped upon him.




CHAPTER XII. THE NIGHT-WATCH

        O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
        The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight,
        Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
        What do I fear? Myself?
        I love myself!
             SHAKESPEARE.

Hardly was the Cardinal in his tent before he dropped, armed and
cuirassed, into a great armchair; and there, holding his handkerchief to
his mouth with a fixed gaze, he remained in this attitude, letting
his two dark confidants wonder whether contemplation or annihilation
maintained him in it. He was deadly pale, and a cold sweat streamed upon
his brow. In wiping it with a sudden movement, he threw behind him his
red cap, the only ecclesiastical sign which remained upon him, and again
rested with his mouth upon his hands. The Capuchin on one side, and the
sombre magistrate on the other, considered him in silence, and seemed,
with their brown and black costumes like the priest and the notary of a
dying man.

The friar, drawing from the depth of his chest a voice that seemed
better suited to repeat the service of the dead than to administer
consolation, spoke first:

"If Monseigneur will recall my counsels given at Narbonne, he will
confess that I had a just presentiment of the troubles which this young
man would one day cause him."

The magistrate continued:

"I have learned from the old deaf abbe who dined at the house of
the Marechale d'Effiat, and who heard all, that this young Cinq-Mars
exhibited more energy than one would have imagined, and that he
attempted to rescue the Marechal de Bassompierre. I have still by me
the detailed report of the deaf man, who played his part very well. His
Eminence the Cardinal must be sufficiently convinced by it."

"I have told Monseigneur," resumed Joseph--for these two ferocious Seyds
alternated their discourse like the shepherds of Virgil--"I have told
him that it would be well to get rid of this young D'Effiat, and that I
would charge myself with the business, if such were his good pleasure.
It would be easy to destroy him in the opinion of the King."

"It would be safer to make him die of his wound," answered Laubardemont;
"if his Eminence would have the goodness to command me, I know
intimately the assistant-physician, who cured me of a blow on the
forehead, and is now attending to him. He is a prudent man, entirely
devoted to Monseigneur the Cardinal-Duke, and whose affairs have been
somewhat embarrassed by gambling."

"I believe," replied Joseph, with an air of modesty, mingled with a
touch of bitterness, "that if his Excellency proposed to employ any one
in this useful project, it should be his accustomed negotiator, who has
had some success in the past."

"I fancy that I could enumerate some signal instances," answered
Laubardemont, "and very recent ones, of which the difficulty was great."

"Ah, no doubt," said the father, with a bow and an air of consideration
and politeness, "your most bold and skilfully executed commission
was the trial of Urbain Grandier, the magician. But, with Heaven's
assistance, one may be enabled to do things quite as worthy and bold. It
is not without merit, for instance," added he, dropping his eyes like a
young girl, "to have extirpated vigorously a royal Bourbon branch."

"It was not very difficult," answered the magistrate, with bitterness,
"to select a soldier from the guards to kill the Comte de Soissons; but
to preside, to judge--"

"And to execute one's self," interrupted the heated Capuchin, "is
certainly less difficult than to educate a man from infancy in the
thought of accomplishing great things with discretion, and to bear all
tortures, if necessary, for the love of heaven, rather than reveal
the name of those who have armed him with their justice, or to die
courageously upon the body of him that he has struck, as did one who
was commissioned by me. He uttered no cry at the blow of the sword of
Riquemont, the equerry of the Prince. He died like a saint; he was my
pupil."

"To give orders is somewhat different from running risk one's self."

"And did I risk nothing at the siege of Rochelle?"

"Of being drowned in a sewer, no doubt," said Laubardemont.

"And you," said Joseph, "has your danger been that of catching your
fingers in instruments of torture? And all this because the Abbess of
the Ursulines is your niece."

"It was a good thing for your brothers of Saint Francis, who held the
hammers; but I--I was struck in the forehead by this same Cinq-Mars, who
was leading an enraged multitude."

"Are you quite sure of that?" cried Joseph, delighted. "Did he dare to
act thus against the commands of the King?" The joy which this discovery
gave him made him forget his anger.

"Fools!" exclaimed the Cardinal, suddenly breaking his long silence,
and taking from his lips his handkerchief stained with blood. "I would
punish your angry dispute had it not taught me many secrets of infamy
on your part. You have exceeded my orders; I commanded no torture,
Laubardemont. That is your second fault. You cause me to be hated for
nothing; that was useless. But you, Joseph, do not neglect the details
of this disturbance in which Cinq-Mars was engaged; it may be of use in
the end."

"I have all the names and descriptions," said the secret judge, eagerly,
bending his tall form and thin, olive-colored visage, wrinkled with a
servile smile, down to the armchair.

"It is well! it is well!" said the minister, pushing him back; "but
that is not the question yet. You, Joseph, be in Paris before this young
upstart, who will become a favorite, I am certain. Become his friend;
make him of my party or destroy him. Let him serve me or fall. But,
above all, send me every day safe persons to give me verbal accounts. I
will have no more writing for the future. I am much displeased with
you, Joseph. What a miserable courier you chose to send from Cologne! He
could not understand me. He saw the King too soon, and here we are still
in disgrace in consequence. You have just missed ruining me entirely. Go
and observe what is about to be done in Paris. A conspiracy will soon be
hatched against me; but it will be the last. I remain here in order
to let them all act more freely. Go, both of you, and send me my valet
after the lapse of two hours; I wish now to be alone."

The steps of the two men were still to be heard as Richelieu, with eyes
fixed upon the entrance to the tent, pursued them with his irritated
glance.

"Wretches!" he exclaimed, when he was alone, "go and accomplish some
more secret work, and afterward I will crush you, in pure instruments
of my power. The King will soon succumb beneath the slow malady which
consumes him. I shall then be regent; I shall be King of France myself;
I shall no longer have to dread the caprices of his weakness. I will
destroy the haughty races of this country. I will be alone above them
all. Europe shall tremble."

Here the blood, which again filled his mouth, obliged him to apply his
handkerchief to it once more.

"Ah, what do I say? Unhappy victim that I am! Here am I, death-stricken!
My dissolution is near; my blood flows, and my spirit desires to labor
still. Why? For whom? Is it for glory? That is an empty word. Is it for
men? I despise them. For whom, then, since I shall die, perhaps, in two
or three years? Is it for God? What a name! I have not walked with Him!
He has seen all--"

Here he let his head fall upon his breast, and his eyes met the great
cross of gold which was suspended from his neck. He could not help
throwing himself back in his chair; but it followed him. He took it; and
considering it with fixed and devouring looks, he said in a low voice:

"Terrible sign! thou followest me! Shall I find thee elsewhere--divinity
and suffering? What am I? What have I done?"

For the first time a singular and unknown terror penetrated him. He
trembled, at once frozen and scorched by an invincible shudder. He dared
not lift his eyes, fearing to meet some terrible vision. He dared not
call, fearing to hear the sound of his own voice. He remained profoundly
plunged in meditations on eternity, so terrible for him, and he murmured
the following kind of prayer:

"Great God, if Thou hearest me, judge me then, but do not isolate me
in judging me! Look upon me, surrounded by the men of my generation;
consider the immense work I had undertaken! Was not an enormous lever
wanted to bestir those masses; and if this lever in falling crushes some
useless wretches, am I very culpable? I seem wicked to men; but Thou,
Supreme judge, dost thou regard me thus?

"No; Thou knowest it is boundless power which makes creature culpable
against creature. It is not Armand de Richelieu who destroys; it is the
Prime-Minister. It is not for his personal injuries; it is to carry out
a system. But a system--what is this word? Is it permitted me to play
thus with men, to regard them as numbers for working out a thought,
which perhaps is false? I overturn the framework of the throne. What if,
without knowing it, I sap its foundations and hasten its fall! Yes, my
borrowed power has seduced me. O labyrinth! O weakness of human thought!
Simple faith, why did I quit thy path? Why am I not a simple priest? If
I dared to break with man and give myself to God, the ladder of Jacob
would again descend in my dreams."

At this moment his ear was struck by a great noise outside--laughter of
soldiers, ferocious shouts and oaths, mingled with words which were a
long time sustained by a weak yet clear voice; one would have said it
was the voice of an angel interrupted by the laughter of demons. He
rose and opened a sort of linen window, worked in the side of his square
tent. A singular spectacle presented itself to his view; he remained
some instants contemplating it, attentive to the conversation which was
going on.

"Listen, listen, La Valeur!" said one soldier to another. "See, she
begins again to speak and to sing!"

"Put her in the middle of the circle, between us and the fire."

"You do not know her! You do not know her!" said another. "But here is
Grand-Ferre, who says that he knows her."

"Yes, I tell you I know her; and, by Saint Peter of Loudun, I will swear
that I have seen her in my village, when I had leave of absence; and it
was upon an occasion at which one shuddered, but concerning which one
dares not talk, especially to a Cardinalist like you."

"Eh! and pray why dare not one speak of it, you great simpleton?" said
an old soldier, twisting up his moustache.

"It is not spoken of because it burns the tongue. Do you understand
that?"

"No, I don't understand it."

"Well, nor I neither; but certain citizens told it to me."

Here a general laugh interrupted him.

"Ha, ha, ha! is he a fool?" said one. "He listens to what the townsfolk
tell him."

"Ah, well! if you listen to their gabble, you have time to lose," said
another.

"You do not know, then, what my mother said, greenhorn?" said the
eldest, gravely dropping his eyes with a solemn air, to compel
attention.

"Eh! how can you think that I know it, La Pipe? Your mother must have
died of old age before my grandfather came into the world."

"Well, greenhorn, I will tell you! You shall know, first of all, that my
mother was a respectable Bohemian, as much attached to the regiment of
carabineers of La Roque as my dog Canon there. She carried brandy round
her neck in a barrel, and drank better than the best of us. She had
fourteen husbands, all soldiers, who died upon the field of battle."

"Ha! that was a woman!" interrupted the soldiers, full of respect.

"And never once in her life did she speak to a townsman, unless it was
to say to him on coming to her lodging, 'Light my candle and warm my
soup.'"

"Well, and what was it that your mother said to you?"

"If you are in such a hurry, you shall not know, greenhorn. She said
habitually in her talk, 'A soldier is better than a dog; but a dog is
better than a bourgeois.'"

"Bravo! bravo! that was well said!" cried the soldier, filled with
enthusiasm at these fine words.

"That," said Grand-Ferre, "does not prove that the citizens who made the
remark to me that it burned the tongue were in the right; besides, they
were not altogether citizens, for they had swords, and they were grieved
at a cure being burned, and so was I."

"Eh! what was it to you that they burned your cure, great simpleton?"
said a sergeant, leaning upon the fork of his arquebus; "after him
another would come. You might have taken one of our generals in his
stead, who are all cures at present; for me, I am a Royalist, and I say
it frankly."

"Hold your tongue!" cried La Pipe; "let the girl speak. It is these dogs
of Royalists who always disturb us in our amusements."

"What say you?" answered Grand-Ferre. "Do you even know what it is to be
a Royalist?"

"Yes," said La Pipe; "I know you all very well. Go, you are for the old
self-called princes of the peace, together with the wranglers against
the Cardinal and the gabelle. Am I right or not?"

"No, old red-stocking. A Royalist is one who is for the King; that's
what it is. And as my father was the King's valet, I am for the King,
you see; and I have no liking for the red-stockings, I can tell you."

"Ah, you call me red-stocking, eh?" answered the old soldier. "You
shall give me satisfaction to-morrow morning. If you had made war in
the Valteline, you would not talk like that; and if you had seen his
Eminence marching upon the dike at Rochelle, with the old Marquis de
Spinola, while volleys of cannonshot were sent after him, you would have
nothing to say about red-stockings."

"Come, let us amuse ourselves, instead of quarrelling," said the other
soldiers.

The men who conversed thus were standing round a great fire, which
illuminated them more than the moon, beautiful as it was; and in the
centre of the group was the object of their gathering and their cries.
The Cardinal perceived a young woman arrayed in black and covered with
a long, white veil. Her feet were bare; a thick cord clasped her elegant
figure; a long rosary fell from her neck almost to her feet, and her
hands, delicate and white as ivory, turned its beads and made them pass
rapidly beneath her fingers. The soldiers, with a barbarous joy, amused
themselves with laying little brands in her way to burn her naked feet.
The oldest took the smoking match of his arquebus, and, approaching it
to the edge of her robe, said in a hoarse voice:

"Come, madcap, tell me your history, or I will fill you with powder and
blow you up like a mine; take care, for I have already played that trick
to others besides you, in the old wars of the Huguenots. Come, sing."

The young woman, looking at him gravely, made no reply, but lowered her
veil.

"You don't manage her well," said Grand-Ferre, with a drunken laugh;
"you will make her cry. You don't know the fine language of the court;
let me speak to her." And, touching her on the chin, "My little heart,"
he said, "if you will please, my sweet, to resume the little story you
told just now to these gentlemen, I will pray you to travel with me upon
the river Du Tendre, as the great ladies of Paris say, and to take a
glass of brandy with your faithful chevalier, who met you formerly at
Loudun, when you played a comedy in order to burn a poor devil."

The young woman crossed her arms, and, looking around her with an
imperious air, cried:

"Withdraw, in the name of the God of armies; withdraw, impious men!
There is nothing in common between us. I do not understand your tongue,
nor you mine. Go, sell your blood to the princes of the earth at so many
oboles a day, and leave me to accomplish my mission! Conduct me to the
Cardinal."

A coarse laugh interrupted her.

"Do you think," said a carabineer of Maurevert, "that his Eminence the
Generalissimo will receive you with your feet naked? Go and wash them."

"The Lord has said, 'Jerusalem, lift thy robe, and pass the rivers of
water,'" she answered, her arms still crossed. "Let me be conducted to
the Cardinal."

Richelieu cried in a loud voice, "Bring the woman to me, and let her
alone!"

All were silent; they conducted her to the minister.

"Why," said she, beholding him--"why bring me before an armed man?"

They left her alone with him without answering.

The Cardinal looked at her with a suspicious air. "Madame," said he,
"what are you doing in the camp at this hour? And if your mind is not
disordered, why these naked feet?"

"It is a vow; it is a vow," answered the young woman, with an air of
impatience, seating herself beside him abruptly. "I have also made a vow
not to eat until I have found the man I seek."

"My sister," said the Cardinal, astonished and softened, looking
closely at her, "God does not exact such rigors from a weak body, and
particularly from one of your age, for you seem very young."

"Young! oh, yes, I was very young a few days ago; but I have since
passed two existences at least, so much have I thought and suffered.
Look on my countenance."

And she discovered a face of perfect beauty. Black and very regular
eyes gave life to it; but in their absence one might have thought her
features were those of a phantom, she was so pale. Her lips were blue
and quivering; and a strong shudder made her teeth chatter.

"You are ill, my sister," said the minister, touched, taking her hand,
which he felt to be burning hot. A sort of habit of inquiring concerning
his own health, and that of others, made him touch the pulse of her
emaciated arm; he felt that the arteries were swollen by the beatings of
a terrible fever.

"Alas!" he continued, with more of interest, "you have killed yourself
with rigors beyond human strength! I have always blamed them, and
especially at a tender age. What, then, has induced you to do this? Is
it to confide it to me that you are come? Speak calmly, and be sure of
succor."

"Confide in men!" answered the young woman; "oh, no, never! All have
deceived me. I will confide myself to no one, not even to Monsieur
Cinq-Mars, although he must soon die."

"What!" said Richelieu, contracting his brows, but with a bitter
laugh,--"what! do you know this young man? Has he been the cause of your
misfortune?"

"Oh, no! He is very good, and hates wickedness; that is what will ruin
him. Besides," said she, suddenly assuming a harsh and savage air, "men
are weak, and there are things which women must accomplish. When there
were no more valiant men in Israel, Deborah arose."

"Ah! how came you with all this fine learning?" continued the Cardinal,
still holding her hand.

"Oh, I can't explain that!" answered she, with a touching air of naivete
and a very gentle voice; "you would not understand me. It is the Devil
who has taught me all, and who has destroyed me."

"Ah, my child! it is always he who destroys us; but he instructs
us ill," said Richelieu, with an air of paternal protection and an
increasing pity. "What have been your faults? Tell them to me; I am very
powerful."

"Ah," said she, with a look of doubt, "you have much influence over
warriors, brave men and generals! Beneath your cuirass must beat a noble
heart; you are an old General who knows nothing of the tricks of crime."

Richelieu smiled; this mistake flattered him.

"I heard you ask for the Cardinal; do you desire to see him? Did you
come here to seek him?"

The girl drew back and placed a finger upon her forehead.

"I had forgotten it," said she; "you have talked to me too much. I had
overlooked this idea, and yet it is an important one; it is for that
that I have condemned myself to the hunger which is killing me. I must
accomplish it, or I shall die first. Ah," said she, putting her hand
beneath her robe in her bosom, whence she appeared to take something,
"behold it! this idea--"

She suddenly blushed, and her eyes widened extraordinarily. She
continued, bending to the ear of the Cardinal:

"I will tell you; listen! Urbain Grandier, my lover Urbain, told me this
night that it was Richelieu who had been the cause of his death. I took
a knife from an inn, and I come here to kill him; tell me where he is."

The Cardinal, surprised and terrified, recoiled with horror. He
dared not call his guards, fearing the cries of this woman and her
accusations; nevertheless, a transport of this madness might be fatal to
him.

"This frightful history will pursue me everywhere!" cried he, looking
fixedly at her, and thinking within himself of the course he should
take.

They remained in silence, face to face, in the same attitude, like
two wrestlers who contemplate before attacking each other, or like the
pointer and his victim petrified by the power of a look.

In the mean time, Laubardemont and Joseph had gone forth together; and
ere separating they talked for a moment before the tent of the Cardinal,
because they were eager mutually to deceive each other. Their hatred
had acquired new force by their recent quarrel; and each had resolved
to ruin his rival in the mind of his master. The judge then began the
dialogue, which each of them had prepared, taking the arm of the other
as by one and the same movement.

"Ah, reverend father! how you have afflicted me by seeming to take in
ill part the trifling pleasantries which I said to you just now."

"Heavens, no! my dear Monsieur, I am far from that. Charity, where would
be charity? I have sometimes a holy warmth in conversation, for the good
of the State and of Monseigneur, to whom I am entirely devoted."

"Ah, who knows it better than I, reverend father? But render me justice;
you also know how completely I am attached to his Eminence the Cardinal,
to whom I owe all. Alas! I have employed too much zeal in serving him,
since he reproaches me with it."

"Reassure yourself," said Joseph; "he bears no ill-will toward you. I
know him well; he can appreciate one's actions in favor of one's family.
He, too, is a very good relative."

"Yes, there it is," answered Laubardemont; "consider my condition.
My niece would have been totally ruined at her convent had Urbain
triumphed; you feel that as well as I do, particularly as she did not
quite comprehend us, and acted the child when she was compelled to
appear."

"Is it possible? In full audience! What you tell me indeed makes me feel
for you. How painful it must have been!"

"More so than you can imagine. She forgot, in her madness, all that she
had been told, committed a thousand blunders in Latin, which we patched
up as well as we could; and she even caused an unpleasant scene on the
day of the trial, very unpleasant for me and the judges--there were
swoons and shrieks. Ah, I swear that I would have scolded her well had I
not been forced to quit precipitately that, little town of Loudun.
But, you see, it is natural enough that I am attached to her. She is my
nearest relative; for my son has turned out ill, and no one knows what
has become of him during the last four years. Poor little Jeanne de
Belfiel! I made her a nun, and then abbess, in order to preserve all for
that scamp. Had I foreseen his conduct, I should have retained her for
the world."

"She is said to have great beauty," answered Joseph; "that is a precious
gift for a family. She might have been presented at court, and the
King--Ah! ah! Mademoiselle de la Fayette--eh! eh!--Mademoiselle
d'Hautefort--you understand; it may be even possible to think of it
yet."

"Ah, that is like you, Monseigneur! for we know that you have been
nominated to the cardinalate; how good you are to remember the most
devoted of your friends!"

Laubardemont was yet talking to Joseph when they found themselves at the
end of the line of the camp, which led to the quarter of the volunteers.

"May God and his Holy Mother protect you during my absence!" said
Joseph, stopping. "To-morrow I depart for Paris; and as I shall have
frequent business with this young Cinq-Mars, I shall first go to see
him, and learn news of his wound."

"Had I been listened to," said Laubardemont, "you would not now have had
this trouble."

"Alas, you are right!" answered Joseph, with a profound sigh, and
raising his eyes to heaven; "but the Cardinal is no longer the same man.
He will not take advantage of good ideas; he will ruin us if he goes on
thus."

And, making a low bow to the judge, the Capuchin took the road which he
had indicated to him.

Laubardemont followed him for some time with his eyes, and, when he was
quite sure of the route which he had taken, he returned, or, rather, ran
back to the tent of the minister. "The Cardinal dismisses him, he tells
me; that shows that he is tired of him. I know secrets which will ruin
him. I will add that he is gone to pay court to the future favorite.
I will replace this monk in the favor of the minister. The moment is
propitious. It is midnight; he will be alone for an hour and a half yet.
Let me run."

He arrived at the tent of the guards, which was before the pavilion.

"Monseigneur gives audience to some one," said the captain, hesitating;
"you can not enter."

"Never mind; you saw me leave an hour ago, and things are passing of
which I must give an account."

"Come in, Laubardemont," cried the minister; "come in quickly, and
alone."

He entered. The Cardinal, still seated, held the two hands of the nun
in one of his, and with the other he imposed silence upon his stupefied
agent, who remained motionless, not yet seeing the face of this woman.
She spoke volubly, and the strange things she said contrasted horribly
with the sweetness of her voice. Richelieu seemed moved.

"Yes, I will stab him with a knife. It is the knife which the demon
Behirith gave me at the inn; but it is the nail of Sisera. It has
a handle of ivory, you see; and I have wept much over it. Is it not
singular, my good General? I will turn it in the throat of him who
killed my friend, as he himself told me to do; and afterward I will burn
the body. There is like for like, the punishment which God permitted
to Adam. You have an astonished air, my brave general; but you would be
much more so, were I to repeat to you his song--the song which he
sang to me again last night, at the hour of the funeral-pyre--you
understand?--the hour when it rains, the hour when my hand burns as now.
He said to me: 'They are much deceived, the magistrates, the red judges.
I have eleven demons at my command; and I shall come to see you when the
clock strikes, under a canopy of purple velvet, with torches--torches of
resin to give us light--' Ah, that is beautiful! Listen, listen to what
he sings!"

And she sang to the air of De Profundis.

"Is it not singular, my good General?" said she, when she had finished;
"and I--I answer him every evening."

"Then he speaks as spirits and prophets speak. He says: 'Woe, woe to him
who has shed blood! Are the judges of the earth gods? No, they are men
who grow old and suffer, and yet they dare to say aloud, Let that man
die! The penalty of death, the pain of death--who has given to man
the right of imposing it on man? Is the number two? One would be an
assassin, look you! But count well, one, two, three. Behold, they are
wise and just, these grave and salaried criminals! O crime, the horror
of Heaven! If you looked upon them from above as I look upon them, you
would be yet paler than I am. Flesh destroys flesh! That which lives
by blood sheds blood coldly and without anger, like a God with power to
create!'"

The cries which the unhappy girl uttered, as she rapidly spoke these
words, terrified Richelieu and Laubardemont so much that they still
remained motionless. The delirium and the fever continued to transport
her.

"'Did the judges tremble?' said Urbain Grandier to me. 'Did they tremble
at deceiving themselves?' They work the work of the just. The question!
They bind his limbs with ropes to make him speak. His skin cracks, tears
away, and rolls up like a parchment; his nerves are naked, red, and
glittering; his bones crack; the marrow spurts out. But the judges
sleep! they dream of flowers and spring. 'How hot the grand chamber is!'
says one, awaking; 'this man has not chosen to speak! Is the torture
finished?' And pitiful at last, he dooms him to death--death, the sole
fear of the living! death, the unknown world! He sends before him a
furious soul which will wait for him. Oh! has he never seen the vision
of vengeance? Has he never seen before falling asleep the flayed
prevaricator?"

Already weakened by fever, fatigue, and grief, the Cardinal, seized with
horror and pity, exclaimed:

"Ah, for the love of God, let this terrible scene have an end! Take away
this woman; she is mad!"

The frantic creature turned, and suddenly uttering loud cries, "Ah, the
judge! the judge! the judge!" she said, recognizing Laubardemont.

The latter, clasping his hands and trembling before the Cardinal, said
with terror:

"Alas, Monseigneur, pardon me! she is my niece, who has lost her reason.
I was not aware of this misfortune, or she would have been shut up long
ago. Jeanne! Jeanne! come, Madame, to your knees! ask forgiveness of
Monseigneur the Cardinal-duc."

"It is Richelieu!" she cried; and astonishment seemed wholly to paralyze
this young and unhappy beauty. The flush which had animated her at first
gave place to a deadly pallor, her cries to a motionless silence,
her wandering looks to a frightful fixedness of her large eyes, which
constantly followed the agitated minister.

"Take away this unfortunate child quickly," said he; "she is dying, and
so am I. So many horrors pursue me since that sentence that I believe
all hell is loosed upon me."

He rose as he spoke; Jeanne de Belfiel, still silent and stupefied, with
haggard eyes, open mouth, and head bent forward, yet remained beneath
the shock of her double surprise, which seemed to have extinguished the
rest of her reason and her strength. At the movement of the Cardinal,
she shuddered to find herself between him and Laubardemont, looked by
turns at one and the other, let the knife which she held fall from
her hand, and retired slowly toward the opening of the tent, covering
herself completely with her veil, and looking wildly and with terror
behind her upon her uncle who followed, like an affrighted lamb, which
already feels at its back the burning breath of the wolf about to seize
it.

Thus they both went forth; and hardly had they reached the open air,
when the furious judge caught the hands of his victim, tied them with
a handkerchief, and easily led her, for she uttered no cry, not even a
sigh, but followed him with her head still drooping upon her bosom, and
as if plunged in profound somnambulism.




CHAPTER XIII. THE SPANIARD

Meantime, a scene of different nature was passing in the tent of
Cinq-Mars; the words of the King, the first balm to his wounds, had been
followed by the anxious care of the surgeons of the court. A spent
ball, easily extracted, had been the only cause of his accident. He
was allowed to travel and all was ready. The invalid had received up to
midnight friendly or interested visits; among the first were those
of little Gondi and of Fontrailles, who were also preparing to quit
Perpignan for Paris. The ex-page, Olivier d'Entraigues, joined with them
in complimenting the fortunate volunteer, whom the King seemed to
have distinguished. The habitual coldness of the Prince toward all who
surrounded him having caused those who knew of them to regard the
few words he had spoken as assured signs of high favor, all came to
congratulate him.

At length, released from visitors, he lay upon his camp-bed. De Thou
sat by his side, holding his hand, and Grandchamp at his feet, still
grumbling at the numerous interruptions that had fatigued his wounded
master. Cinq-Mars himself tasted one of those moments of calm and hope,
which so refresh the soul as well as the body. His free hand secretly
pressed the gold cross that hung next to his heart, the beloved donor of
which he was so soon to behold. Outwardly, he listened with kindly looks
to the counsels of the young magistrate; but his inward thoughts were
all turned toward the object of his journey--the object, also, of his
life. The grave De Thou went on in a calm, gentle voice:

"I shall soon follow you to Paris. I am happier than you at seeing the
King take you there with him. You are right in looking upon it as
the beginning of a friendship which must be turned to profit. I have
reflected deeply on the secret causes of your ambition, and I think I
have divined your heart. Yes; that feeling of love for France, which
made it beat in your earliest youth, must have gained greater strength.
You would be near the King in order to serve your country, in order to
put in action those golden dreams of your early years. The thought is a
vast one, and worthy of you! I admire you; I bow before you. To approach
the monarch with the chivalrous devotion of our fathers, with a
heart full of candor, and prepared for any sacrifice; to receive the
confidences of his soul; to pour into his those of his subjects; to
soften the sorrows of the King by telling him the confidence his people
have in him; to cure the wounds of the people by laying them open to its
master, and by the intervention of your favor thus to reestablish
that intercourse of love between the father and his children which for
eighteen years has been interrupted by a man whose heart is marble;
for this noble enterprise, to expose yourself to all the horrors of his
vengeance and, what is even worse, to brave all the perfidious calumnies
which pursue the favorite to the very steps of the throne--this dream
was worthy of you.

"Pursue it, my friend," De Thou continued. "Never become discouraged.
Speak loudly to the King of the merit and misfortunes of his most
illustrious friends who are trampled on. Tell him fearlessly that his
old nobility have never conspired against him; and that from the young
Montmorency to the amiable Comte de Soissons, all have opposed the
minister, and never the monarch. Tell him that the old families of
France were born with his race; that in striking them he affects the
whole nation; and that, should he destroy them, his own race will
suffer, that it will stand alone exposed to the blast of time and
events, as an old oak trembling and exposed to the wind of the plain,
when the forest which surrounded and supported it has been destroyed.
Yes!" cried De Thou, growing animated, "this aim is a fine and noble
one. Go on in your course with a resolute step; expel even that secret
shame, that shyness, which a noble soul experiences before it can
resolve upon flattering--upon paying what the world calls its court.
Alas, kings are accustomed to these continual expressions of false
admiration for them! Look upon them as a new language which must be
learned--a language hitherto foreign to your lips, but which, believe
me, may be nobly spoken, and which may express high and generous
thoughts."

During this warm discourse of his friend, Cinq-Mars could not refrain
from a sudden blush; and he turned his head on his pillow toward the
tent, so that his face might not be seen. De Thou stopped:

"What is the matter, Henri? You do not answer. Am I deceived?"

Cinq-Mars gave a deep sigh and remained silent.

"Is not your heart affected by these ideas which I thought would have
transported it?"

The wounded man looked more calmly at his friend and said:

"I thought, my dear De Thou, that you would not interrogate me further,
and that you were willing to repose a blind confidence in me. What evil
genius has moved you thus to sound my soul? I am not a stranger to these
ideas which possess you. Who told you that I had not conceived them? Who
told you that I had not formed the firm resolution of prosecuting them
infinitely farther in action than you have put them in words? Love for
France, virtuous hatred of the ambition which oppresses and shatters her
ancient institutions with the axe of the executioner, the firm belief
that virtue may be as skilful as crime,--these are my gods as much as
yours. But when you see a man kneeling in a church, do you ask him what
saint or what angel protects him and receives his prayer? What matters
it to you, provided that he pray at the foot of the altars that you
adore--provided that, if called upon, he fall a martyr at the foot of
those 'altars? When our forefathers journeyed with naked feet toward the
Holy Sepulchre, with pilgrims' staves in their hands, did men inquire
the secret vow which led them to the Holy Land? They struck, they died;
and men, perhaps God himself, asked no more. The pious captain who
led them never stripped their bodies to see whether the red cross
and haircloth concealed any other mysterious symbol; and in heaven,
doubtless, they were not judged with any greater rigor for having aided
the strength of their resolutions upon earth by some hope permitted to
a Christian--some second and secret thought, more human, and nearer the
mortal heart."

De Thou smiled and slightly blushed, lowering his eyes.

"My friend," he answered, gravely; "this excitement may be injurious to
you. Let us not continue this subject; let us not mingle God and heaven
in our discourse. It is not well; and draw the coverings over your
shoulder, for the night is cold. I promise you," he added, covering his
young invalid with a maternal care--"I promise not to offend you again
with my counsels."

"And I," cried Cinq-Mars, despite the interdiction to speak, "swear to
you by this gold cross you see, and by the Holy Mary, to die rather than
renounce the plan that you first traced out! You may one day, perhaps,
be forced to pray me to stop; but then it will be too late."

"Very well!" repeated the counsellor, "now sleep; if you do not stop, I
will go on with you, wherever you lead me."

And, taking a prayer-book from his pocket, he began to read attentively;
in a short time he looked at Cinq-Mars, who was still awake. He made a
sign to Grandchamp to put the lamp out of sight of the invalid; but
this new care succeeded no better. The latter, with his eyes still open,
tossed restlessly on his narrow bed.

"Come, you are not calm," said De Thou, smiling; "I will read to you
some pious passage which will put your mind in repose. Ah, my friend, it
is here that true repose is to be found; it is in this consolatory book,
for, open it where you will, you will always see, on the one hand,
man in the only condition that suits his weakness--prayer, and the
uncertainty as to his destiny--and, on the other, God himself speaking
to him of his infirmities! What a glorious and heavenly spectacle! What
a sublime bond between heaven and earth! Life, death, and eternity are
there; open it at random."

"Yes!" said Cinq-Mars, rising with a vivacity which had something boyish
in it; "you shall read to me, but let me open the book. You know the old
superstition of our country--when the mass-book is opened with a sword,
the first page on the left contains the destiny of him who reads, and
the first person who enters after he has read is powerfully to influence
the reader's future fate."

"What childishness! But be it as you will. Here is your sword; insert
the point. Let us see."

"Let me read myself," said Cinq-Mars, taking one side of the book. Old
Grandchamp gravely advanced his tawny face and his gray hair to the foot
of the bed to listen. His master read, stopped at the first phrase, but
with a smile, perhaps slightly forced, he went on to the end.

"I. Now it was in the city of Milan that they appeared.

"II. The high-priest said to them, 'Bow down and adore the gods.'

"III. And the people were silent, looking at their faces, which appeared
as the faces of angels.

"IV. But Gervais, taking the hand of Protais, cried, looking to heaven,
and filled with the Holy Ghost:

"V. Oh, my brother! I see the Son of man smiling upon us; let me die
first.

"VI. For if I see thy blood, I fear I shall shed tears unworthy of the
Lord our God.

"VII. Then Protais answered him in these words:

"VIII. My brother, it is just that I should perish after thee, for I am
older, and have more strength to see thee suffer.

"IX. But the senators and people ground their teeth at them.

"X. And the soldiers having struck them, their heads fell together on
the same stone.

"XI. Now it was in this same place that the blessed Saint Ambroise found
the ashes of the two martyrs which gave sight to the blind."

"Well," said Cinq-Mars, looking at his friend when he had finished,
"what do you say to that?"

"God's will be done! but we should not scrutinize it."

"Nor put off our designs for a child's play," said D'Effiat impatiently,
and wrapping himself in a cloak which was thrown over him. "Remember
the lines we formerly so frequently quoted, 'Justum et tenacem Propositi
viruna'; these iron words are stamped upon my brain. Yes; let the
universe crumble around me, its wreck shall carry me away still
resolute."

"Let us not compare the thoughts of man with those of Heaven; and let us
be submissive," said De Thou, gravely.

"Amen!" said old Grandchamp, whose eyes had filled with tears, which he
hastily brushed away.

"What hast thou to do with it, old soldier? Thou weepest," said his
master.

"Amen!" said a voice, in a nasal tone, at the entrance of the tent.

"Parbleu, Monsieur! rather put that question to his Gray Eminence, who
comes to visit you," answered the faithful servant, pointing to Joseph,
who advanced with his arms crossed, making a salutation with a frowning
air.

"Ah, it will be he, then!" murmured Cinq-Mars.

"Perhaps I come inopportunely," said Joseph, soothingly.

"Perhaps very opportunely," said Henri d'Effiat, smiling, with a glance
at De Thou. "What can bring you here, Father, at one o'clock in the
morning? It should be some good work."

Joseph saw he was ill-received; and as he had always sundry reproaches
to make himself with reference to all persons whom he addressed, and as
many resources in his mind for getting out of the difficulty, he fancied
that they had discovered the object of his visit, and felt that he
should not select a moment of ill humor for preparing the way to
friendship. Therefore, seating himself near the bed, he said, coldly:

"I come, Monsieur, to speak to you on the part of the
Cardinal-Generalissimo, of the two Spanish prisoners you have made; he
desires to have information concerning them as soon as possible. I am
to see and question them. But I did not suppose you were still awake; I
merely wished to receive them from your people."

After a forced interchange of politeness, they ordered into the tent the
two prisoners, whom Cinq-Mars had almost forgotten.

They appeared--the one, young and displaying an animated and rather wild
countenance, was the soldier; the other, concealing his form under a
brown cloak, and his gloomy features, which had something ambiguous in
their expression, under his broad-brimmed hat, which he did not remove,
was the officer. He spoke first:

"Why do you make me leave my straw and my sleep? Is it to deliver me or
hang me?"

"Neither," said Joseph.

"What have I to do with thee, man with the long beard? I did not see
thee at the breach."

It took some time after this amiable exordium to make the stranger
understand the right a Capuchin had to interrogate him.

"Well," he said, "what dost thou want?"

"I would know your name and your country."

"I shall not tell my name; and as for my country, I have the air of a
Spaniard, but perhaps am not one, for a Spaniard never acknowledges his
country."

Father Joseph, turning toward the two friends, said: "Unless I deceive
myself, I have heard his voice somewhere. This man speaks French without
an accent; but it seems he wishes to give us enigmas, as in the East."

"The East? that is it," said the prisoner. "A Spaniard is a man from the
East; he is a Catholic Turk; his blood either flags or boils; he is lazy
or indefatigable; indolence makes him a slave, ardor a tyrant; immovable
in his ignorance, ingenious in his superstition, he needs only a
religious book and a tyrannical master; he obeys the law of the pyre;
he commands by that of the poniard. At night he falls asleep in his
bloodthirsty misery, nurses fanaticism, and awakes to crime. Who is this
gentleman? Is it the Spaniard or the Turk? Guess! Ah! you seem to think
that I have wit, because I light upon analogy."

"Truly, gentlemen, you do me honor; and yet the idea may be carried much
further, if desired. If I pass to the physical order, for example, may
I not say to you, This man has long and serious features, a black and
almond-shaped eye, rugged brows, a sad and mobile mouth, tawny, meagre,
and wrinkled cheeks; his head is shaved, and he covers it with a black
handkerchief in the form of a turban; he passes the whole day lying or
standing under a burning sun, without motion, without utterance, smoking
a pipe that intoxicates him. Is this a Turk or a Spaniard? Are you
satisfied, gentlemen? Truly, it would seem so; you laugh, and at what do
you laugh? I, who have presented this idea to you--I have not laughed;
see, my countenance is sad. Ah! perhaps it is because the gloomy
prisoner has suddenly become a gossip, and talks rapidly. That is
nothing! I might tell you other things, and render you some service, my
worthy friends.

"If I should relate anecdotes, for example; if I told you I knew a
priest who ordered the death of some heretics before saying mass,
and who, furious at being interrupted at the altar during the holy
sacrifice, cried to those who asked for his orders, 'Kill them all! kill
them all!'--should you all laugh, gentlemen? No, not all! This gentleman
here, for instance, would bite his lips and his beard. Oh! it is true he
might answer that he did wisely, and that they were wrong to interrupt
his unsullied prayer. But if I added that he concealed himself for an
hour behind the curtain of your tent, Monsieur de Cinq-Mars, to listen
while you talked, and that he came to betray you, and not to get me,
what would he say? Now, gentlemen, are you satisfied? May I retire after
this display?"

The prisoner had uttered this with the rapidity of a quack vending his
wares, and in so loud a voice that Joseph was quite confounded. He arose
indignantly at last, and, addressing himself to Cinq-Mars, said:

"How can you suffer a prisoner who should have been hanged to speak to
you thus, Monsieur?"

The Spaniard, without deigning to notice him any further, leaned toward
D'Effiat, and whispered in his ear:

"I can be of no further use to you; give me my liberty. I might ere this
have taken it; but I would not do so without your consent. Give it me,
or have me killed."

"Go, if you will!" said Cinq-Mars to him. "I assure you I shall be very
glad;" and he told his people to retire with the soldier, whom he wished
to keep in his service.

This was the affair of a moment. No one remained any longer in the tent
with the two friends, except the abashed Joseph and the Spaniard. The
latter, taking off his hat, showed a French but savage countenance. He
laughed, and seemed to respire more air into his broad chest.

"Yes, I am a Frenchman," he said to Joseph. "But I hate France, because
she gave birth to my father, who is a monster, and to me, who have
become one, and who once struck him. I hate her inhabitants, because
they have robbed me of my whole fortune at play, and because I have
robbed them and killed them. I have been two years in Spain in order to
kill more Frenchmen; but now I hate Spain still more. No one will know
the reason why. Adieu! I must live henceforth without a nation; all men
are my enemies. Go on, Joseph, and you will soon be as good as I. Yes,
you have seen me once before," he continued, violently striking him in
the breast and throwing him down. "I am Jacques de Laubardemont, the son
of your worthy friend."

With these words, quickly leaving the tent, he disappeared like an
apparition. De Thou and the servants, who ran to the entrance, saw him,
with two bounds, spring over a surprised and disarmed soldier, and
run toward the mountains with the swiftness of a deer, despite various
musket-shots. Joseph took advantage of the disorder to slip away,
stammering a few words of politeness, and left the two friends laughing
at his adventure and his disappointment, as two schoolboys laugh at
seeing the spectacles of their pedagogue fall off. At last they prepared
to seek a rest of which they both stood in need, and which they soon
found-=the wounded man in his bed, and the young counsellor in his
chair.

As for the Capuchin, he walked toward his tent, meditating how he should
turn all this so as to take the greatest possible revenge, when he
met Laubardemont dragging the young mad-woman by her two hands. They
recounted to each other their mutual and horrible adventures.

Joseph had no small pleasure in turning the poniard in the wound of his
friend's heart, by telling him of the fate of his son.

"You are not exactly happy in your domestic relations," he added. "I
advise you to shut up your niece and hang your son, if you are fortunate
enough to find him."

Laubardemont replied with a hideous laugh:

"As for this idiot here, I am going to give her to an ex-secret judge,
at present a smuggler in the Pyrenees at Oleron. He can do what he
pleases with her--make her a servant in his posada, for instance. I care
not, so that my lord never hears of her."

Jeanne de Belfiel, her head hanging down, gave no sign of sensibility.
Every glimmer of reason was extinguished in her; one word alone remained
upon her lips, and this she continually pronounced.

"The judge! the judge! the judge!" she murmured, and was silent.

Her uncle and Joseph threw her, almost like a sack of corn, on one
of the horses which were led up by two servants. Laubardemont mounted
another, and prepared to leave the camp, wishing to get into the
mountains before day.

"A good journey to you!" he said to Joseph. "Execute your business well
in Paris. I commend to you Orestes and Pylades."

"A good journey to you!" answered the other. "I commend to you Cassandra
and OEdipus."

"Oh! he has neither killed his father nor married his mother."

"But he is on the high-road to those little pleasantries."

"Adieu, my reverend Father!"

"Adieu, my venerable friend!"

Then each added aloud, but in suppressed tones:

"Adieu, assassin of the gray robe! During thy absence I shall have the
ear of the Cardinal."

"Adieu, villain in the red robe! Go thyself and destroy thy cursed
family. Finish shedding that portion of thy blood that is in others'
veins. That share which remains in thee, I will take charge of. Ha! a
well-employed night!"




BOOK 4.




CHAPTER XIV. THE RIOT

       "Thus with imagin'd wing our swift scene flies,
        In motion of no less celerity
        Than that of thought,"

exclaims the immortal Shakespeare in the chorus of one of his tragedies.

       "Suppose that you have seen
        The well-appointed king
        Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet
        With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning.
       ......
       ... behold,
        And follow."

With this poetic movement he traverses time and space, and transports at
will the attentive assembly to the theatre of his sublime scenes.

We shall avail ourselves of the same privilege, though without the same
genius. No more than he shall we seat ourselves upon the tripod of the
unities, but merely casting our eyes upon Paris and the old dark palace
of the Louvre, we will at once pass over the space of two hundred
leagues and the period of two years.

Two years! what changes may they not have upon men, upon their families,
and, above all, in that great and so troublous family of nations, whose
long alliances a single day suffices to destroy, whose wars are ended
by a birth, whose peace is broken by a death! We ourselves have beheld
kings returning to their dwelling on a spring day; that same day a
vessel sailed for a voyage of two years. The navigator returned. The
kings were seated upon their thrones; nothing seemed to have taken place
in his absence, and yet God had deprived those kings of a hundred days
of their reign.

But nothing was changed for France in 1642, the epoch to which we turn,
except her fears and her hopes. The future alone had changed its aspect.
Before again beholding our personages, we must contemplate at large the
state of the kingdom.

The powerful unity of the monarchy was rendered still more imposing by
the misfortunes of the neighboring States. The revolutions in England,
and those in Spain and Portugal, rendered the peace which France enjoyed
still more admired. Strafford and Olivares, overthrown or defeated,
aggrandized the immovable Richelieu.

Six formidable armies, reposing upon their triumphant weapons, served as
a rampart to the kingdom. Those of the north, in league with Sweden, had
put the Imperialists to flight, still pursued by the spirit of Gustavus
Adolphus, those on the frontiers of Italy had in Piedmont received the
keys of the towns which had been defended by Prince Thomas; and those
which strengthened the chain of the Pyrenees held in check revolted
Catalonia, and chafed before Perpignan, which they were not allowed
to take. The interior was not happy, but tranquil. An invisible genius
seemed to have maintained this calm, for the King, mortally sick,
languished at St. Germain with a young favorite; and the Cardinal was,
they said, dying at Narbonne. Some deaths, however, betrayed that he yet
lived; and at intervals, men falling as if struck by a poisonous blast
recalled to mind the invisible power.

St.-Preuil, one of Richelieu's enemies, had just laid his "iron head"
upon the scaffold without shame or fear, as he himself said on mounting
it.

Meantime, France seemed to govern herself, for the prince and the
minister had been separated a long time; and of these two sick men, who
hated each other, one never had held the reins of State, the other no
longer showed his power--he was no longer named in the public acts; he
appeared no longer in the government, and seemed effaced everywhere; he
slept, like the spider surrounded by his webs.

If some events and some revolutions had taken place during these two
years, it must have been in hearts; it must have been some of those
occult changes from which, in monarchies without firm foundation,
terrible overthrows and long and bloody dissensions arise.

To enlighten ourselves, let us glance at the old black building of the
unfinished Louvre, and listen to the conversation of those who inhabited
it and those who surrounded it.

It was the month of December; a rigorous winter had afflicted Paris,
where the misery and inquietude of the people were extreme. However,
curiosity was still alive, and they were eager for the spectacles given
by the court. Their poverty weighed less heavily upon them while they
contemplated the agitations of the rich. Their tears were less bitter
on beholding the struggles of power; and the blood of the nobles which
reddened their streets, and seemed the only blood worthy of being shed,
made them bless their own obscurity. Already had tumultuous scenes and
conspicuous assassinations proved the monarch's weakness, the absence
and approaching end of the minister, and, as a kind of prologue to the
bloody comedy of the Fronde, sharpened the malice and even fired the
passions of the Parisians. This confusion was not displeasing to them.
Indifferent to the causes of the quarrels which were abstruse for them,
they were not so with regard to individuals, and already began to
regard the party chiefs with affection or hatred, not on account of the
interest which they supposed them to take in the welfare of their class,
but simply because as actors they pleased or displeased.

One night, especially, pistol and gun-shots had been heard frequently in
the city; the numerous patrols of the Swiss and the body-guards had even
been attacked, and had met with some barricades in the tortuous streets
of the Ile Notre-Dame; carts chained to the posts, and laden with
barrels, prevented the cavaliers from advancing, and some musket-shots
had wounded several men and horses. However, the town still slept,
except the quarter which surrounded the Louvre, which was at this
time inhabited by the Queen and M. le Duc d'Orleans. There everything
announced a nocturnal expedition of a very serious nature.

It was two o'clock in the morning. It was freezing, and the darkness
was intense, when a numerous assemblage stopped upon the quay, which was
then hardly paved, and slowly and by degrees occupied the sandy ground
that sloped down to the Seine. This troop was composed of about two
hundred men; they were wrapped in large cloaks, raised by the long
Spanish swords which they wore. Walking to and fro without preserving
any order, they seemed to wait for events rather than to seek them. Many
seated themselves, with their arms folded, upon the loose stones of the
newly begun parapet; they preserved perfect silence. However, after a
few minutes passed in this manner, a man, who appeared to come out of
one of the vaulted doors of the Louvre, approached slowly, holding a
dark-lantern, the light from which he turned upon the features of each
individual, and which he blew out after finding the man he sought among
them. He spoke to him in a whisper, taking him by the hand:

"Well, Olivier, what did Monsieur le Grand say to you?

   [The master of the horse, Cinq-Mars, was thus named by abbreviation.
   This name will often occur in the course of the recital.]

Does all go well?"

"Yes, I saw him yesterday at Saint-Germain. The old cat is very ill
at Narbonne; he is going 'ad patres'. But we must manage our affairs
shrewdly, for it is not the first time that he has played the torpid.
Have you people enough for this evening, my dear Fontrailles?"

"Be easy; Montresor is coming with a hundred of Monsieur's gentlemen.
You will recognize him; he will be disguised as a master-mason, with a
rule in his hand. But, above all, do not forget the passwords. Do you
know them all well, you and your friends?"

"Yes, all except the Abbe de Gondi, who has not yet arrived; but 'Dieu
me pardonne', I think he is there himself! Who the devil would have
known him?"

And here a little man without a cassock, dressed as a soldier of the
French guards, and wearing a very black false moustache, slipped between
them. He danced about with a joyous air, and rubbed his hands.

"Vive Dieu! all goes on well, my friend. Fiesco could not do better;"
and rising upon his toes to tap Olivier upon the shoulder, he continued:

"Do you know that for a man who has just quitted the rank of pages, you
don't manage badly, Sire Olivier d'Entraigues? and you will be among our
illustrious men if we find a Plutarch. All is well organized; you arrive
at the very moment, neither too soon nor too late, like a true party
chief. Fontrailles, this young man will get on, I prophesy. But we must
make haste; in two hours we shall have some of the archbishops of Paris,
my uncle's parishioners. I have instructed them well; and they
will cry, 'Long live Monsieur! Long live the Regency! No more of the
Cardinal!' like madmen. They are good devotees, thanks to me, who have
stirred them up. The King is very ill. Oh, all goes well, very well! I
come from Saint-Germain. I have seen our friend Cinq-Mars; he is good,
very good, still firm as a rock. Ah, that is what I call a man! How he
has played with them with his careless and melancholy air! He is master
of the court at present. The King, they say, is going to make him duke
and peer. It is much talked of; but he still hesitates. We must decide
that by our movement this evening. The will of the people! He must do
the will of the people; we will make him hear it. It will be the death
of Richelieu, you'll see. It is, above all, hatred of him which is to
predominate in the cries, for that is the essential thing. That will at
last decide our Gaston, who is still uncertain, is he not?"

"And how can he be anything else?" said Fontrailles. "If he were to take
a resolution to-day in our favor it would be unfortunate."

"Why so?"

"Because we should be sure that to-morrow morning he would be against
us."

"Never mind," replied the Abbe; "the Queen is firm."

"And she has heart also," said Olivier; "that gives me some hope for
Cinq-Mars, who, it seems to me, has sometimes dared to frown when he
looked at her."

"Child that you are, how little do you yet know of the court! Nothing
can sustain him but the hand of the King, who loves him as a son; and
as for the Queen, if her heart beats, it is for the past and not for the
future. But these trifles are not to the purpose. Tell me, dear friend,
are you sure of your young Advocate whom I see roaming about there? Is
he all right?"

"Perfectly; he is an excellent Royalist. He would throw the Cardinal
into the river in an instant. Besides, it is Fournier of Loudun; that is
saying everything."

"Well, well, this is the kind of men we like. But take care of
yourselves, Messieurs; some one comes from the Rue Saint-Honore."

"Who goes there?" cried the foremost of the troop to some men who were
advancing. "Royalists or Cardinalists?"

"Gaston and Le Grand," replied the newcomers, in low tones.

"It is Montresor and Monsieur's people," said Fontrailles. "We may soon
begin."

"Yes, 'par la corbleu'!" said the newcomer, "for the Cardinalists will
pass at three o'clock. Some one told us so just now."

"Where are they going?" said Fontrailles.

"There are more than two hundred of them to escort Monsieur de Chavigny,
who is going to see the old cat at Narbonne, they say. They thought it
safer to pass by the Louvre."

"Well, we will give him a velvet paw!" said the Abbe.

As he finished saying this, a noise of carriages and horses was heard.
Several men in cloaks rolled an enormous stone into the middle of the
street. The foremost cavaliers passed rapidly through the crowd,
pistols in hand, suspecting that something unusual was going on; but
the postilion, who drove the horses of the first carriage, ran upon the
stone and fell.

"Whose carriage is this which thus crushes foot-passengers?" cried the
cloakmen, all at once. "It is tyrannical. It can be no other than a
friend of the Cardinal de la Rochelle."

   [During the long siege of La Rochelle, this name was given to
   Cardinal Richelieu, to ridicule his obstinacy in commanding as
   General-in-Chief, and claiming for himself the merit of taking that
   town.]

"It is one who fears not the friends of the little Le Grand," exclaimed
a voice from the open door, from which a man threw himself upon a horse.

"Drive these Cardinalists into the river!" cried a shrill, piercing
voice.

This was a signal for the pistol-shots which were furiously exchanged on
every side, and which lighted up this tumultuous and sombre scene. The
clashing of swords and trampling of horses did not prevent the cries
from being heard on one side: "Down with the minister! Long live
the King! Long live Monsieur and Monsieur le Grand! Down with the
red-stockings!" On the other: "Long live his Eminence! Long live the
great Cardinal! Death to the factious! Long live the King!" For the name
of the King presided over every hatred, as over every affection, at this
strange time.

The men on foot had succeeded, however, in placing the two carriages
across the quay so as to make a rampart against Chavigny's horses,
and from this, between the wheels, through the doors and springs,
overwhelmed them with pistol-shots, and dismounted many. The tumult was
frightful, but suddenly the gates of the Louvre were thrown open, and
two squadrons of the body-guard came out at a trot. Most of them carried
torches in their hands to light themselves and those they were about
to attack. The scene changed. As the guards reached each of the men on
foot, the latter was seen to stop, remove his hat, make himself known,
and name himself; and the guards withdrew, sometimes saluting him, and
sometimes shaking him by the hand. This succor to Chavigny's carriages
was then almost useless, and only served to augment the confusion. The
body-guards, as if to satisfy their consciences, rushed through the
throng of duellists, saying:

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, be moderate!"

But when two gentlemen had decidedly crossed swords, and were in active
conflict, the guard who beheld them stopped to judge the fight, and
sometimes even to favor the one who he thought was of his opinion, for
this body, like all France, had their Royalists and their Cardinalists.

The windows of the Louvre were lighted one after another, and many
women's heads were seen behind the little lozenge-shaped panes,
attentively watching the combat.

Numerous Swiss patrols came out with flambeaux.

These soldiers were easily distinguished by an odd uniform. The right
sleeve was striped blue and red, and the silk stocking of the right leg
was red; the left side was striped with blue, red, and white, and the
stocking was white and red. It had, no doubt, been hoped in the royal
chateau that this foreign troop would disperse the crowd, but they were
mistaken. These impassible soldiers coldly and exactly executed, without
going beyond, the orders they had received, circulating symmetrically
among the armed groups, which they divided for a moment, returning
before the gate with perfect precision, and resuming their ranks as on
parade, without informing themselves whether the enemies among whom they
had passed had rejoined or not.

But the noise, for a moment appeased, became general by reason
of personal disputes. In every direction challenges, insults, and
imprecations were heard. It seemed as if nothing but the destruction of
one of the two parties could put an end to the combat, when loud cries,
or rather frightful howls, raised the tumult to its highest pitch.
The Abbe de Gondi, dragging a cavalier by his cloak to pull him down,
exclaimed:

"Here are my people! Fontrailles, now you will see something worth
while! Look! look already who they run! It is really charming."

And he abandoned his hold, and mounted upon a stone to contemplate the
manoeuvres of his troops, crossing his arms with the importance of a
General of an army. Day was beginning to break, and from the end of the
Ile St.-Louis a crowd of men, women, and children of the lowest dregs
of the people was seen rapidly advancing, casting toward heaven and
the Louvre strange vociferations. Girls carried long swords; children
dragged great halberds and pikes of the time of the League; old women in
rags pulled by cords old carts full of rusty and broken arms; workmen
of every trade, the greater number drunk, followed, armed with clubs,
forks, lances, shovels, torches, stakes, crooks, levers, sabres, and
spits. They sang and howled alternately, counterfeiting with atrocious
yells the cries of a cat, and carrying as a flag one of these animals
suspended from a pole and wrapped in a red rag, thus representing the
Cardinal, whose taste for cats was generally known. Public criers rushed
about, red and breathless, throwing on the pavement and sticking up
on the parapets, the posts, the walls of the houses, and even on the
palace, long satires in short stanzas upon the personages of the time.
Butcher-boys and scullions, carrying large cutlasses, beat the charge
upon saucepans, and dragged in the mud a newly slaughtered pig, with the
red cap of a chorister on its head. Young and vigorous men, dressed
as women, and painted with a coarse vermilion, were yelling, "We are
mothers of families ruined by Richelieu! Death to the Cardinal!" They
carried in their arms figures of straw that looked like children, which
they threw into the river.

When this disgusting mob overran the quays with its thousands of imps,
it produced a strange effect upon the combatants, and entirely contrary
to that expected by their patron. The enemies on both sides lowered
their arms and separated. Those of Monsieur and Cinq-Mars were revolted
at seeing themselves succored by such auxiliaries, and, themselves
aiding the Cardinal's gentlemen to remount their horses and to gain
their carriages, and their valets to convey the wounded to them, gave
their adversaries personal rendezvous to terminate their quarrel upon a
ground more secret and more worthy of them. Ashamed of the superiority
of numbers and the ignoble troops which they seemed to command,
foreseeing, perhaps, for the first time the fearful consequences of
their political machinations, and what was the scum they were stirring
up, they withdrew, drawing their large hats over their eyes, throwing
their cloaks over their shoulders, and avoiding the daylight.

"You have spoiled all, my dear Abbe, with this mob," said Fontrailles,
stamping his foot, to Gondi, who was already sufficiently nonplussed;
"your good uncle has fine parishioners!"

"It is not my fault," replied Gondi, in a sullen tone; "these idiots
came an hour too late. Had they arrived in the night, they would not
have been seen, which spoils the effect somewhat, to speak the truth
(for I grant that daylight is detrimental to them), and we would only
have heard the voice of the people 'Vox populi, vox Dei'. Nevertheless,
no great harm has been done. They will by their numbers give us the
means of escaping without being known, and, after all, our task is
ended; we did not wish the death of the sinner. Chavigny and his men are
worthy fellows, whom I love; if he is only slightly wounded, so much the
better. Adieu; I am going to see Monsieur de Bouillon, who has arrived
from Italy."

"Olivier," said Fontrailles, "go at once to Saint-Germain with
Fournier and Ambrosio; I will go and give an account to Monsieur, with
Montresor."

All separated, and disgust accomplished, with these highborn men, what
force could not bring about.

Thus ended this fray, likely to bring forth great misfortunes. No one
was killed in it. The cavaliers, having gained a few scratches and lost
a few purses, resumed their route by the side of the carriages along the
by-streets; the others escaped, one by one, through the populace they
had attracted. The miserable wretches who composed it, deprived of the
chief of the troops, still remained two hours, yelling and screaming
until the effect of their wine was gone, and the cold had extinguished
at once the fire of their blood and that of their enthusiasm. At the
windows of the houses, on the quay of the city, and along the walls, the
thoughtful and genuine people of Paris watched with a sorrowful air and
in mournful silence these preludes of disorder; while the various bodies
of merchants, dressed in black and preceded by their provosts, walked
slowly and courageously through the populace toward the Palais de
justice, where the parliament was to assemble, to make complaint of
these terrible nocturnal scenes.

The apartments of Gaston d'Orleans were in great confusion. This Prince
occupied the wing of the Louvre parallel with the Tuileries; and his
windows looked into the court on one side, and on the other over a mass
of little houses and narrow streets which almost entirely covered the
place. He had risen precipitately, awakened suddenly by the report of
the firearms, had thrust his feet into large square-toed slippers with
high heels, and, wrapped in a large silk dressing-gown, covered with
golden ornaments embroidered in relief, walked to and fro in his
bedroom, sending every minute a fresh lackey to see what was going on,
and ordering them immediately to go for the Abbe de la Riviere, his
general counsellor; but he was unfortunately out of Paris. At every
pistol-shot this timid Prince rushed to the windows, without seeing
anything but some flambeaux, which were carried quickly along. It was in
vain he was told that the cries he heard were in his favor; he did not
cease to walk up and down the apartments, in the greatest disorder-his
long black hair dishevelled, and his blue eyes open and enlarged by
disquiet and terror. He was still thus when Montresor and Fontrailles
at length arrived and found him beating his breast, and repeating a
thousand times, "Mea culpa, mea culpa!"

"You have come at last!" he exclaimed from a distance, running to meet
them. "Come! quick! What is going on? What are they doing there? Who are
these assassins? What are these cries?"

"They cry, 'Long live Monsieur!'"

Gaston, without appearing to hear, and holding the door of his chamber
open for an instant, that his voice might reach the galleries in
which were the people of his household, continued to cry with all his
strength, gesticulating violently:

"I know nothing of all this, and I have authorized nothing. I will not
hear anything! I will not know anything! I will never enter into any
project! These are rioters who make all this noise; do not speak to me
of them, if you wish to be well received here. I am the enemy of no man;
I detest such scenes!"

Fontrailles, who knew the man with whom he had to deal, said nothing,
but entered with his friend, that Monsieur might have time to discharge
his first fury; and when all was said, and the door carefully shut, he
began to speak:

"Monseigneur," said he, "we come to ask you a thousand pardons for the
impertinence of these people, who will persist in crying out that they
desire the death of your enemy, and that they would even wish to make
you regent should we have the misfortune to lose his Majesty. Yes, the
people are always frank in their discourse; but they are so numerous
that all our efforts could not restrain them. It was truly a cry from
the heart--an explosion of love, which reason could not restrain, and
which escaped all bounds."

"But what has happened, then?" interrupted Gaston, somewhat calmed.
"What have they been doing these four hours that I have heard them?"

"That love," said Montresor, coldly, "as Monsieur de Fontrailles had the
honor of telling you, so escaped all rule and bounds that we ourselves
were carried away by it, and felt seized with that enthusiasm which
always transports us at the mere name of Monsieur, and which leads us on
to things which we had not premeditated."

"But what, then, have you done?" said the Prince.

"Those things," replied Fontrailles, "of which Monsieur de Montresor had
the honor to speak to Monsieur are precisely those which I foresaw here
yesterday evening, when I had the honor of conversing with you."

"That is not the question," interrupted Gaston. "You cannot say that
I have ordered or authorized anything. I meddle with nothing; I know
nothing of government."

"I admit," continued Fontrailles, "that your Highness ordered nothing,
but you permitted me to tell you that I foresaw that this night would
be a troubled one about two o'clock, and I hoped that your astonishment
would not have been too great."

The Prince, recovering himself little by little, and seeing that he did
not alarm the two champions, having also upon his conscience and reading
in their eyes the recollection of the consent which he had given them
the evening before, sat down upon the side of his bed, crossed his arms,
and, looking at them with the air of a judge, again said in a commanding
tone:

"But what, then, have you done?"

"Why, hardly anything, Monseigneur," said Fontrailles. "Chance led us to
meet in the crowd some of our friends who had a quarrel with Monsieur de
Chavigny's coachman, who was driving over them. A few hot words ensued
and rough gestures, and a few scratches, which kept Monsieur de Chavigny
waiting, and that is all."

"Absolutely all," repeated Montresor.

"What, all?" exclaimed Gaston, much moved, and tramping about the
chamber. "And is it, then, nothing to stop the carriage of a friend of
the Cardinal-Duke? I do not like such scenes. I have already told you
so. I do not hate the Cardinal; he is certainly a great politician, a
very great politician. You have compromised me horribly; it is known
that Montresor is with me. If he has been recognized, they will say that
I sent him."

"Chance," said Montresor, "threw in my way this peasant's dress, which
Monsieur may see under my cloak, and which, for that reason, I preferred
to any other."

Gaston breathed again.

"You are sure, then, that you have not been recognized. You understand,
my dear friend, how painful it would be to me. You must admit
yourself--"

"Sure of it!" exclaimed the Prince's gentleman. "I would stake my head
and my share in Paradise that no one has seen my features or called my
by my name."

"Well," continued Gaston, again seating himself on his bed, and assuming
a calmer air, in which even a slight satisfaction was visible, "tell me,
then, what has happened."

Fontrailles took upon himself the recital, in which, as we may suppose,
the populace played a great part and Monsieur's people none, and in his
peroration he said:

"From our windows even, Monseigneur, respectable mothers of families
might have been seen, driven by despair, throwing their children into
the Seine, cursing Richelieu."

"Ah, it is dreadful!" exclaimed the Prince, indignant, or feigning to be
so, and to believe in these excesses. "Is it, then, true that he is so
generally detested? But we must allow that he deserves it. What! his
ambition and avarice have, then, reduced to this extremity the good
inhabitants of Paris, whom I love so much."

"Yes, Monseigneur," replied the orator. "And it is not Paris alone, it
is all France, which, with us, entreats you to decide upon delivering
her from this tyrant. All is ready; nothing is wanting but a sign from
your august head to annihilate this pygmy, who has attempted to assault
the royal house itself."

"Alas! Heaven is my witness that I myself forgive him!" answered Gaston,
raising up his eyes. "But I can no longer bear the cries of the people.
Yes, I will help them; that is to say," continued the Prince, "so that
my dignity is not compromised, and that my name does not appear in the
matter."

"Well, but it is precisely that which we want," exclaimed Fontrailles, a
little more at his ease.

"See, Monseigneur, there are already some names to put after yours, who
will not fear to sign. I will tell you them immediately, if you wish
it."

"But--but," said the Duc d'Orleans, timidly, "do you know that it is a
conspiracy which you propose to me so coolly?"

"Fie, Monseigneur, men of honor like us! a conspiracy! Oh! not at all;
a league at the utmost, a slight combination to give a direction to the
unanimous wish of the nation and the court--that is all."

"But that is not so clear, for, after all, this affair will be neither
general nor public; therefore, it is a conspiracy. You will not avow
that you are concerned in it."

"I, Monseigneur! Excuse me to all the world, since the kingdom is
already in it, and I am of the kingdom. And who would not sign his name
after that of Messieurs de Bouillon and Cinq-Mars?"

"After, perhaps, not before," said Gaston, fixing his eyes upon
Fontrailles more keenly than he had expected.

The latter hesitated a moment.

"Well, then, what would Monseigneur do should I tell him the names after
which he could sign his?"

"Ha! ha! this is amusing," answered the Prince, laughing; "know you not
that above mine there are not many? I see but one."

"And if there be one, will Monseigneur promise to sign that of Gaston
beneath it?"

"Ah, parbleu! with all my heart. I risk nothing there, for I see none
but that of the King, who surely is not of the party."

"Well, from this moment permit us," said Montresor, "to take you at
your word, and deign at present to consent to two things only: to see
Monsieur de Bouillon in the Queen's apartments, and Monsieur the master
of the horse at the King's palace."

"Agreed!" said Monsieur, gayly, tapping Montresor on the shoulder. "I
will to-day wait on my sister-in-law at her toilette, and I will invite
my brother to hunt the stag with me at Chambord."

The two friends asked nothing further, and were themselves surprised
at their work. They never had seen so much resolution in their chief.
Accordingly, fearing to lead him to a topic which might divert him from
the path he had adopted, they hastened to turn the conversation upon
other subjects, and retired in delight, leaving as their last words in
his ear that they relied upon his keeping his promise.




CHAPTER XV. THE ALCOVE

While a prince was thus reassured with difficulty by those who
surrounded him, and allowed them to see a terror which might have proved
contagious, a princess more exposed to accidents, more isolated by the
indifference of her husband, weaker by nature and by the timidity which
is the result of the absence of happiness, on her side set the example
of the calmest courage and the most pious resignation, and tranquillized
her terrified suite; this was the Queen. Having slept hardly an hour,
she heard shrill cries behind the doors and the thick tapestries of her
chamber. She ordered her women to open the door, and the Duchesse de
Chevreuse, in her night attire, and wrapped in a great cloak, fell,
nearly fainting, at the foot of her bed, followed by four of her
ladies-in-waiting and three of the women of the bed-chamber. Her
delicate feet were bare, and bleeding from a wound she had received in
running.

She cried, weeping like a child, that a pistol-shot had broken her
shutters and her window-panes, and had wounded her; she entreated the
Queen to send her into exile, where she would be more tranquil than in a
country where they wished to assassinate her because she was the friend
of her Majesty.

Her hair was in great disorder, and fell to her feet. It was her chief
beauty; and the young Queen thought that this toilette was less the
result of chance than might have been imagined.

"Well, my dear, what has happened?" she said to her with sang-froid.
"You look like a Magdalen, but in her youth, and before she repented.
It is probable that if they wish to harm any one here it is I; calm
yourself."

"No, Madame! save me, protect me! it is Richelieu who pursues me, I am
sure!"

The sound of pistols, which was then heard more distinctly, convinced
the Queen that the terrors of Madame de Chevreuse were not vain.

"Come and dress me, Madame de Motteville!" cried she. But that lady had
completely lost her self-possession, and, opening one of those immense
ebony coffers which then answered the purpose of wardrobes, took from
it a casket of the Princess's diamonds to save it, and did not listen
to her. The other women had seen on a window the reflection of torches,
and, imagining that the palace was on fire, threw jewels, laces, golden
vases, and even the china, into sheets which they intended to lower into
the street. At this moment Madame de Guemenee arrived, a little more
dressed than the Duchesse de Chevreuse, but taking events still more
tragically. Her terror inspired the Queen with a slight degree of
fear, because of the ceremonious and placid character she was known to
possess. She entered without curtseying, pale as a spectre, and said
with volubility:

"Madame, it is time to make our confession. The Louvre is attacked, and
all the populace are arriving from the city, I have been told."

Terror silenced and rendered motionless all the persons present.

"We shall die!" exclaimed the Duchesse de Chevreuse, still on her knees.
"Ah, my God! why did I leave England? Yes, let us confess. I confess
aloud. I have loved--I have been loved by--"

"Well," said the Queen, "I do not undertake to hear your confession to
the end. That would not perhaps be the least of my dangers, of which,
however, you think little."

The coolness of Anne of Austria, and this last severe observation,
however, restored a little calm to this beautiful personage, who rose
in confusion, and perceiving the disordered state of her toilet, went to
repair it as she best could in a closet near by.

"Dona Stefania," said the Queen to one of her women, the only Spaniard
whom she had retained, "go seek the captain of the guards. It is time
that I should see men at last, and hear something reasonable."

She said this in Spanish, and the mystery of this order, spoken in
a tongue which the ladies did not understand, restored those in the
chamber to their senses.

The waiting-woman was telling her beads, but she rose from the corner
of the alcove in which she had sought refuge, and hastened to obey her
mistress.

The signs of revolt and the evidences of terror became meantime more
distinct. In the great court of the Louvre was heard the trampling of
the horses of the guards, the orders of the chiefs, the rolling of the
Queen's carriages, which were being prepared, should it be necessary to
fly. The rattling of the iron chains dragged along the pavement to form
barricades in case of an attack, hurried steps in the corridor, the
clash of arms, the confused cries of the people, which rose and fell,
went and came again, like the noise of the waves and the winds. The door
once more opened, and this time it was to admit a very charming person.

"I expected you, dear Marie," said the Queen, extending her arms to the
Duchesse de Mantua. "You have been more courageous than any of us; you
are attired fit to be seen by all the court."

"I was not in bed, fortunately," replied the young Princesse de Gonzaga,
casting down her eyes. "I saw all these people from the windows. O
Madame, Madame, fly! I implore you to escape by the secret stairway, and
let us remain in your place. They might take one of us for the Queen."
And she added, with tears, "I have heard cries of death. Fly, Madame! I
have no throne to lose. You are the daughter, the wife, and the mother
of kings. Save yourself, and leave us here!"

"You have more to lose than I, 'm'amaie', in beauty, youth, and, I hope,
in happiness," said the Queen, with a gracious smile, giving the Duchess
her beautiful hands to kiss. "Remain in my alcove and welcome; but we
will both remain there. The only service I accept from you, my sweet
child, is to bring to my bed that little golden casket which my poor
Motteville has left on the ground, and which contains all that I hold
most precious."

Then, as she took it, she whispered in Marie's ear:

"Should any misfortune happen to me, swear that you will throw it into
the Seine."

"I will obey you, Madame, as my benefactress and my second mother,"
Marie answered, weeping.

The sound of the conflict redoubled on the quays, and the windows
reflected the flash of the firearms, of which they heard the explosion.
The captain of the guards and the captain of the Swiss sent for orders
from the Queen through Dona Stefania.

"I permit them to enter," said the Queen. "Stand aside, ladies. I am
a man in a moment like this; and I ought to be so." Then, raising the
bed-curtains, she continued, addressing the two officers:

"Gentlemen, first remember that you answer with your heads for the life
of the princes, my children. You know that, Monsieur de Guitaut?"

"I sleep across their doorway, Madame; but this disturbance does not
threaten either them or your Majesty."

"Very well; do not think of me until after them," interrupted the Queen,
"and protect indiscriminately all who are threatened. You also hear me,
Monsieur de Bassompierre; you are a gentleman. Forget that your uncle is
yet in the Bastille, and do your duty by the grandsons of the dead King,
his friend."

He was a young man, with a frank, open countenance.

"Your Majesty," said he, with a slight German accent, "may see that I
have forgotten my family, and not yours." And he displayed his left hand
despoiled of two fingers, which had just been cut off. "I have still
another hand," said he, bowing and withdrawing with Guitaut.

The Queen, much moved, rose immediately, and, despite the prayers of the
Princesse de Guemenee, the tears of Marie de Gonzaga, and the cries of
Madame de Chevreuse, insisted upon placing herself at the window, and
half opened it, leaning upon the shoulder of the Duchesse de Mantua.

"What do I hear?" she said. "They are crying, 'Long live the King! Long
live the Queen!'"

The people, imagining they recognized her, redoubled their cries at this
moment, and shouted louder than ever, "Down with the Cardinal! Long live
Monsieur le Grand!"

Marie shuddered.

"What is the matter with you?" said the Queen, observing her. But as
she did not answer, and trembled in every limb, this good and gentle
Princess appeared not to perceive it; and, paying the greatest attention
to the cries and movements of the populace, she even exaggerated an
inquietude which she had not felt since the first name had reached
her ear. An hour later, when they came to tell her that the crowd only
awaited a sign from her hand to withdraw, she waved it graciously, and
with an air of satisfaction. But this joy was far from being complete,
for her heart was still troubled by many things, and, above all, by
the presentiment of the regency. The more she leaned forward to show
herself, the more she beheld the revolting scenes which the increasing
light revealed. Terror took possession of her soul as it became
necessary to appear calm and confiding; and her heart was saddened at
the very gayety of her words and countenance. Exposed to all eyes, she
felt herself a mere woman, and shuddered in looking at that people whom
she would soon perhaps be called upon to govern, and who already took
upon themselves to demand the death of ministers, and to call upon their
Queen to appear before them.

She saluted them.

A hundred and fifty years later that salute was repeated by another
princess, like herself of Austrian blood, and Queen of France. The
monarchy without foundation, such as Richelieu made it, was born and
died between these two salutes.

The Princess at last closed her windows, and hastened to dismiss her
timid suite. The thick curtains fell again over the barred windows; and
the room was no longer lighted by a day which was odious to her. Large
white wax flambeaux burned in candelabra, in the form of golden arms,
which stand out from the framed and flowered tapestries with which the
walls were hung. She remained alone with Marie de Mantua; and reentering
with her the enclosure which was formed by the royal balustrade, she
fell upon her bed, fatigued by her courage and her smiles, and burst
into tears, leaning her head upon her pillow. Marie, on her knees upon a
velvet footstool, held one of her hands in both hers, and without daring
to speak first, leaned her head tremblingly upon it; for until that
moment, tears never had been seen in the Queen's eyes.

They remained thus for some minutes. The Princess, then raising herself
up by a painful effort, spoke:

"Do not afflict yourself, my child; let me weep. It is such a relief
to one who reigns! If you pray to God for me, ask Him to grant me
sufficient strength not to hate the enemy who pursues me everywhere,
and who will destroy the royal family of France and the monarchy by his
boundless ambition. I recognize him in all that has taken place; I see
him in this tumultuous revolt."

"What, Madame! is he not at Narbonne?--for it is the Cardinal of whom
you speak, no doubt; and have you not heard that these cries were for
you, and against him?"

"Yes, 'm'amie', he is three hundred leagues away from us, but his fatal
genius keeps guard at the door. If these cries have been heard, it is
because he has allowed them; if these men were assembled, it is because
they have not yet reached the hour which he has destined for their
destruction. Believe me, I know him; and I have dearly paid for the
knowledge of that dark soul. It has cost me all the power of my rank,
the pleasures of my age, the affection of my family and even the heart
of my husband. He has isolated me from the whole world. He now confines
me within a barrier of honors and respect; and formerly he dared, to
the scandal of all France, to bring an accusation against myself. They
examined my papers, they interrogated me, they made me sign myself
guilty, and ask the King's pardon for a fault of which I was ignorant;
and I owed to the devotion, and the perhaps eternal imprisonment of a
faithful servant, the preservation of this casket which you have saved
for me. I read in your looks that you think me too fearful; but do not
deceive yourself, as all the court now does. Be sure, my dear child,
that this man is everywhere, and that he knows even our thoughts."

   [His name was Laporte. Neither the fear of torture nor the hope of
   the Cardinal's reward could draw from him one word of the Queen's
   secrets.]

"What, Madame! does he know all that these men have cried under your
windows, and the names of those who sent them?"

"Yes; no doubt he knows it, or has foreseen it. He permits it; he
authorizes it, to compromise me in the King's eyes, and keep him forever
separated from me. He would complete my humiliation."

"But the King has not loved him for two years; he loves another."

The Queen smiled; she gazed some time in silence upon the pure and open
features of the beautiful Marie, and her look, full of candor, which
was languidly raised toward her. She smoothed back the black curls which
shaded her noble forehead, and seemed to rest her eyes and her soul in
looking at the charming innocence displayed upon so lovely a face. She
kissed her cheek, and resumed:

"You do not suspect, my poor child, a sad truth. It is that the King
loves no one, and that those who appear the most in favor will be the
soonest abandoned by him, and thrown to him who engulfs and devours
all."

"Ah, mon Dieu! what is this you tell me?"

"Do you know how many he has destroyed?" continued the Queen, in a low
voice, and looking into her eyes as if to read in them all her thoughts,
and to make her own penetrate there. "Do you know the end of his
favorites? Have you been told of the exile of Baradas; of that of
Saint-Simon; of the convent of Mademoiselle de la Fayette, the shame of
Madame d'Hautfort, the death of Chalais? All have fallen before an order
from Richelieu to his master. Without this favor, which you mistake
for friendship, their lives would have been peaceful. But this favor is
mortal; it is a poison. Look at this tapestry, which represents Semele.
The favorites of Louis XIII resemble that woman; his attachment devours
like this fire, which dazzles and consumes her."

But the young Duchess was no longer in a condition to listen to the
Queen. She continued to fix her large, dark eyes upon her, dimmed by a
veil of tears; her hands trembled in those of Anne of Austria, and her
lips quivered with convulsive agitation.

"I am very cruel, am I not, Marie?" continued the Queen, in an extremely
sweet voice, and caressing her like a child from whom one would draw an
avowal. "Oh, yes; no doubt I am very wicked! Your heart is full; you can
not bear it, my child. Come, tell me; how do matters stand with you and
Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?"

At this word grief found a vent, and, still on her knees at the Queen's
feet, Marie in her turn shed upon the bosom of the good Princess a
deluge of tears, with childish sobs and so violent an agitation of her
head and her beautiful shoulders that it seemed as if her heart would
break. The Queen waited a long time for the end of this first emotion,
rocking her in her arms as if to appease her grief, frequently
repeating, "My child, my child, do not afflict yourself thus!"

"Ah, Madame!" she exclaimed, "I have been guilty toward you; but I did
not reckon upon that heart. I have done wrong, and I shall perhaps be
punished severely for it. But, alas! how shall I venture to confess
to you, Madame? It was not so much to open my heart to you that was
difficult; it was to avow to you that I had need to read there myself."

The Queen reflected a moment, laying her finger upon her lips. "You are
right," she then replied; "you are quite right. Marie, it is always the
first word which is the most difficult to say; and that difficulty often
destroys us. But it must be so; and without this rule one would be often
wanting in dignity. Ah, how difficult it is to reign! To-day I would
descend into your heart, but I come too late to do you good."

Marie de Mantua hung her head without making any reply.

"Must I encourage you to speak?" said the Queen. "Must I remind you that
I have almost adopted you for my eldest daughter? that after seeking
to unite you with the King's brother, I prepared for you the throne of
Poland? Must I do more, Marie? Yes, I must, I will. If afterward you do
not open your whole heart to me, I have misjudged you. Open this golden
casket; here is the key. Open it fearlessly; do not tremble as I do."

The Duchesse de Mantua obeyed with hesitation, and beheld in this little
chased coffer a knife of rude form, the handle of which was of iron, and
the blade very rusty. It lay upon some letters carefully folded, upon
which was the name of Buckingham. She would have lifted them; Anne of
Austria stopped her.

"Seek nothing further," she said; "that is all the treasure of the
Queen. And it is a treasure; for it is the blood of a man who lives no
longer, but who lived for me. He was the most beautiful, the bravest,
the most illustrious of the nobles of Europe. He covered himself with
the diamonds of the English crown to please me. He raised up a fierce
war and armed fleets, which he himself commanded, that he might have the
happiness of once fighting him who was my husband. He traversed the seas
to gather a flower upon which I had trodden, and ran the risk of death
to kiss and bathe with his tears the foot of this bed in the presence
of two of my ladies-in-waiting. Shall I say more? Yes, I will say it to
you--I loved him! I love him still in the past more than I could love
him in the present. He never knew it, never divined it. This face, these
eyes, were marble toward him, while my heart burned and was breaking
with grief; but I was the Queen of France!" Here Anne of Austria
forcibly grasped Marie's arm. "Dare now to complain," she continued, "if
you have not yet ventured to speak to me of your love, and dare now to
be silent when I have told you these things!"

"Ah, yes, Madame, I shall dare to confide my grief to you, since you are
to me--"

"A friend, a woman!" interrupted the Queen. "I was a woman in my terror,
which put you in possession of a secret unknown to the whole world. I am
a woman by a love which survives the man I loved. Speak; tell me! It is
now time."

"It is too late, on the contrary," replied Marie, with a forced smile.
"Monsieur de Cinq-Mars and I are united forever."

"Forever!" exclaimed the Queen. "Can you mean it? And your rank, your
name, your future--is all lost? Do you reserve this despair for your
brother, the Duc de Bethel, and all the Gonzagas?"

"For more than four years I have thought of it. I am resolved; and for
ten days we have been affianced."

"Affianced!" exclaimed the Queen, clasping her hands. "You have been
deceived, Marie. Who would have dared this without the King's order? It
is an intrigue which I will know. I am sure that you have been misled
and deceived."

Marie hesitated a moment, and then said:

"Nothing is more simple, Madame, than our attachment. I inhabited, you
know, the old chateau of Chaumont, with the Marechale d'Effiat, the
mother of Monsieur de Cinq-Mars. I had retired there to mourn the death
of my father; and it soon happened that Monsieur de Cinq-Mars had to
deplore the loss of his. In this numerous afflicted family, I saw his
grief only, which was as profound as mine. All that he said, I had
already thought, and when we spoke of our afflictions we found them
wholly alike. As I had been the first to suffer, I was better acquainted
with sorrow than he; and I endeavored to console him by telling him all
that I had suffered, so that in pitying me he forgot himself. This was
the beginning of our love, which, as you see, had its birth, as it were,
between two tombs."

"God grant, my sweet, that it may have a happy termination!" said the
Queen.

"I hope so, Madame, since you pray for me," continued Marie. "Besides,
everything now smiles upon me; but at that time I was very miserable.
The news arrived one day at the chateau that the Cardinal had called
Monsieur de Cinq-Mars to the army. It seemed to me that I was again
deprived of one of my relatives; and yet we were strangers. But Monsieur
de Bassompierre spoke without ceasing of battles and death. I retired
every evening in grief, and I wept during the night. I thought at first
that my tears flowed for the past, but I soon perceived that it was for
the future; and I felt that they could not be the same tears, since
I wished to conceal them. Some time passed in the expectation of his
departure. I saw him every day; and I pitied him for having to depart,
because he repeated to me every instant that he would have wished to
live eternally as he then did, in his own country and with us. He was
thus without ambition until the day of his departure, because he knew
not whether he was--whether he was--I dare not say it to your Majesty--"

Marie blushed, cast down her humid eyes, and smiled.

"Well!" said the Queen, "whether he was beloved,--is it not so?"

"And in the evening, Madame, he left, ambitious."

"That is evident, certainly. He left," said Anne of Austria, somewhat
relieved; "but he has been back two years, and you have seen him?"

"Seldom, Madame," said the young Duchess, proudly; "and always in the
presence of the priest, before whom I have promised to be the wife of no
other than Cinq-Mars."

"Is it really, then, a marriage? Have you dared to do it? I shall
inquire. But, Heaven, what faults! how many faults in the few words I
have heard! Let me reflect upon them."

And, speaking aloud to herself, the Queen continued, her eyes and head
bent in the attitude of reflection:

"Reproaches are useless and cruel if the evil is done. The past is no
longer ours; let us think of the future. Cinq-Mars is brave, able, and
even profound in his ideas. I have observed that he has done much in two
years, and I now see that it was for Marie. He comports himself well; he
is worthy of her in my eyes, but not so in the eyes of Europe. He must
rise yet higher. The Princesse de Mantua can not, may not, marry less
than a prince. He must become one. By myself I can do nothing; I am
not the Queen, I am the neglected wife of the King. There is only the
Cardinal, the eternal Cardinal, and he is his enemy; and perhaps this
disturbance--"

"Alas! it is the beginning of war between them. I saw it at once."

"He is lost then!" exclaimed the Queen, embracing Marie. "Pardon me, my
child, for thus afflicting you; but in times like these we must see
all and say all. Yes, he is lost if he does not himself overthrow this
wicked man--for the King will not renounce him; force alone--"

"He will overthrow him, Madame. He will do it, if you will assist him.
You are the divinity of France. Oh, I conjure you, protect the angel
against the demon! It is your cause, that of your royal family, that of
all your nation."

The Queen smiled.

"It is, above all, your cause, my child; and it is as such that I will
embrace it to the utmost extent of my power. That is not great, as I
have told you; but such as it is, I lend it to you entirely, provided,
however, that this angel does not stoop to commit mortal sins," added
she, with a meaning look. "I heard his name pronounced this night by
voices most unworthy of him."

"Oh, Madame, I would swear that he knows nothing of it!"

"Ah, my child, do not speak of State affairs. You are not yet learned
enough in them. Let me sleep, if I can, before the hour of my toilette.
My eyes are burning, and yours also, perhaps."

Saying these words, the amiable Queen laid her head upon the pillow
which covered the casket, and soon Marie saw her fall asleep through
sheer fatigue. She then rose, and, seating herself in a great,
tapestried, square armchair, clasped her hands upon her knees, and began
to reflect upon her painful situation. Consoled by the aspect of her
gentle protectress, she often raised her eyes to watch her slumber, and
sent her in secret all the blessings which love showers upon those who
protect it, sometimes kissing the curls of her blond hair, as if by this
kiss she could convey to her soul all the ideas favorable to the thought
ever present to her mind.

The Queen's slumber was prolonged, while Marie thought and wept.
However, she remembered that at ten o'clock she must appear at the royal
toilette before all the court. She resolved to cast aside reflection,
to dry her tears, and she took a thick folio volume placed upon a table
inlaid with enamel and medallions; it was the 'Astree' of M. d'Urfe--a
work 'de belle galanterie' adored by the fair prudes of the court. The
unsophisticated and straightforward mind of Marie could not enter into
these pastoral loves. She was too simple to understand the 'bergeres
du Lignon', too clever to be pleased at their discourse, and too
impassioned to feel their tenderness. However, the great popularity of
the romance so far influenced her that she sought to compel herself to
take an interest in it; and, accusing herself internally every time that
she felt the ennui which exhaled from the pages of the book, she ran
through it with impatience to find something to please and transport
her. An engraving arrested her attention. It represented the shepherdess
Astree with high-heeled shoes, a corset, and an immense farthingale,
standing on tiptoe to watch floating down the river the tender Celadon,
drowning himself in despair at having, been somewhat coldly received in
the morning. Without explaining to herself the reason of the taste and
accumulated fallacies of this picture, she sought, in turning over
the pages, something which could fix her attention; she saw the word
"Druid."

"Ah! here is a great character," said she. "I shall no doubt read of
one of those mysterious sacrificers of whom Britain, I am told, still
preserves the monuments; but I shall see him sacrificing men. That would
be a spectacle of horror; however, let us read it."

Saying this, Marie read with repugnance, knitting her brows, and nearly
trembling, the following:

   "The Druid Adamas delicately called the shepherds Pimandre,
   Ligdamont, and Clidamant, newly arrived from Calais. 'This
   adventure can not terminate,' said he, 'but by the extremity of
   love. The soul, when it loves, transforms itself into the object
   beloved; it is to represent this that my agreeable enchantments will
   show you in this fountain the nymph Sylvia, whom you all three love.
   The high-priest Amasis is about to come from Montbrison, and will
   explain to you the delicacy of this idea. Go, then, gentle
   shepherds! If your desires are well regulated, they will not cause
   you any torments; and if they are not so, you will be punished by
   swoonings similar to those of Celadon, and the shepherdess Galatea,
   whom the inconstant Hercules abandoned in the mountains of Auvergne,
   and who gave her name to the tender country of the Gauls; or you
   will be stoned by the shepherdesses of Lignon, as was the ferocious
   Amidor. The great nymph of this cave has made an enchantment.'"

The enchantment of the great nymph was complete on the Princess, who had
hardly sufficient strength to find out with a trembling hand, toward
the end of the book, that the Druid Adamas was an ingenious allegory,
representing the Lieutenant-General of Montbrison, of the family of the
Papons. Her weary eyes closed, and the great book slipped from her lap
to the cushion of velvet upon which her feet were placed, and where
the beautiful Astree and the gallant Celadon reposed luxuriously, less
immovable than Marie de Mantua, vanquished by them and by profound
slumber.




CHAPTER XVI. THE CONFUSION

This same morning, the various events of which we have seen in the
apartments of Gaston d'Orleans and of the Queen, the calm and silence
of study reigned in a modest cabinet of a large house near the Palais
de justice. A bronze lamp, of a gothic shape, struggling with the coming
day, threw its red light upon a mass of papers and books which covered
a large table; it lighted the bust of L'Hopital, that of Montaigne the
essayist, the President de Thou, and of King Louis XIII.

A fireplace sufficiently large for a man to enter and sit there was
occupied by a large fire burning upon enormous andirons. Upon one of
these was placed the foot of the studious De Thou, who, already risen,
examined with attention the new works of Descartes and Grotius. He
was writing upon his knee his notes upon these books of philosophy and
politics, which were then the general subjects of conversation; but at
this moment the 'Meditations Metaphysiques' absorbed all his attention.
The philosopher of Touraine enchanted the young counsellor. Often, in
his enthusiasm, he struck the book, uttering exclamations of admiration;
sometimes he took a sphere placed near him, and, turning it with his
fingers, abandoned himself to the most profound reveries of science;
then, led by them to a still greater elevation of mind, he would
suddenly throw himself upon his knees before a crucifix, placed upon the
chimney-piece, because at the limits of the human mind he had found
God. At other times he buried himself in his great armchair, so as to be
nearly sitting upon his shoulders, and, placing his two hands upon his
eyes, followed in his head the trace of the reasoning of Rene Descartes,
from this idea of the first meditation:

   "Suppose that we are asleep, and that all these particularities--
   that is, that we open our eyes, move our heads, spread our arms--are
   nothing but false illusions."

to this sublime conclusion of the third:

   "Only one thing remains to be said; it is that like the idea of
   myself, that of God is born and produced with me from the time I was
   created. And certainly it should not be thought strange that God,
   in creating me, should have implanted in me this idea, to be, as it
   were, the mark of the workman impressed upon his work."

These thoughts entirely occupied the mind of the young counsellor, when
a loud noise was heard under the windows. He thought that some house on
fire excited these prolonged cries, and hastened to look toward the wing
of the building occupied by his mother and sisters; but all appeared
to sleep there, and the chimneys did not even send forth any smoke, to
attest that its inhabitants were even awake. He blessed Heaven for it;
and, running to another window, he saw the people, whose exploits we
have witnessed, hastening toward the narrow streets which led to the
quay.

After examining this rabble of women and children, the ridiculous flag
which led them, and the rude disguises of the men: "It is some popular
fete or some carnival comedy," said he; and again returning to the
corner of the fire, he placed a large almanac upon the table, and
carefully sought in it what saint was honored that day. He looked in the
column of the month of December; and, finding at the fourth day of this
month the name of Ste.-Barbe, he remembered that he had seen several
small cannons and barrels pass, and, perfectly satisfied with the
explanation which he had given himself, he hastened to drive away the
interruption which had called off his attention, and resumed his quiet
studies, rising only to take a book from the shelves of his library,
and, after reading in it a phrase, a line, or only a word, he threw it
from him upon his table or on the floor, covered in this way with books
or papers which he would not trouble himself to return to their places,
lest he should break the thread of his reveries.

Suddenly the door was hastily opened, and a name was announced which
he had distinguished among those at the bar--a man whom his connections
with the magistracy had made personally known to him.

"And by what chance, at five o'clock in the morning, do I see Monsieur
Fournier?" he cried. "Are there some unfortunates to defend, some
families to be supported by the fruits of his talent, some error to
dissipate in us, some virtue to awaken in our hearts? for these are
of his accustomed works. You come, perhaps, to inform me of some fresh
humiliation of our parliament. Alas! the secret chambers of the Arsenal
are more powerful than the ancient magistracy of Clovis. The parliament
is on its knees; all is lost, unless it is soon filled with men like
yourself."

"Monsieur, I do not merit your praise," said the Advocate, entering,
accompanied by a grave and aged man, enveloped like himself in a large
cloak. "I deserve, on the contrary, your censure; and I am almost a
penitent, as is Monsieur le Comte du Lude, whom you see here. We come to
ask an asylum for the day."

"An asylum! and against whom?" said De Thou, making them sit down.

"Against the lowest people in Paris, who wish to have us for chiefs, and
from whom we fly. It is odious; the sight, the smell, the ear, and the
touch, above all, are too severely wounded by it," said M. du Lude, with
a comical gravity. "It is too much!"

"Ah! too much, you say?" said De Thou, very much astonished, but not
willing to show it.

"Yes," answered the Advocate; "really, between ourselves, Monsieur le
Grand goes too far."

"Yes, he pushes things too fast. He will render all our projects
abortive," added his companion.

"Ah! and you say he goes too far?" replied M. de Thou, rubbing his chin,
more and more surprised.

Three months had passed since his friend Cinq-Mars had been to see him;
and he, without feeling much disquieted about it--knowing that he was at
St.-Germain in high favor, and never quitting the King--was far removed
from the news of the court. Absorbed in his grave studies, he never
heard of public events till they were forced upon his attention. He
knew nothing of current life until the last moment, and often amused
his intimate friends by his naive astonishment--the more so that from a
little worldly vanity he desired to have it appear as if he were fully
acquainted with the course of events, and tried to conceal the
surprise he experienced at every fresh intelligence. He was now in this
situation, and to this vanity was added the feeling of friendship; he
would not have it supposed that Cinq-Mars had been negligent toward
him, and, for his friend's honor even, would appear to be aware of his
projects.

"You know very well how we stand now," continued the Advocate.

"Yes, of course. Well?"

"Intimate as you are with him, you can not be ignorant that all has been
organizing for a year past."

"Certainly, all has been organizing; but proceed."

"You will admit with us that Monsieur le Grand is wrong?"

"Ah, that is as it may be; but explain yourself. I shall see."

"Well, you know upon what we had agreed at the last conference of which
he informed you?"

"Ah! that is to say--pardon me, I perceive it almost; but set me a
little upon the track."

"It is useless; you no doubt remember what he himself recommended us to
do at Marion de Lorme's?"

"To add no one to our list," said M. du Lude.

"Ah, yes, yes! I understand," said De Thou; "that appears reasonable,
very reasonable, truly."

"Well," continued Fournier, "he himself has infringed this agreement;
for this morning, besides the ragamuffins whom that ferret the Abbe de
Gondi brought to us, there was some vagabond captain, who during the
night struck with sword and poniard gentlemen of both parties, crying
out at the top of his voice, 'A moi, D'Aubijoux! You gained three
thousand ducats from me; here are three sword-thrusts for you. 'A moi',
La Chapelle! I will have ten drops of your blood in exchange for my ten
pistoles!' and I myself saw him attack these gentlemen and many more of
both sides, loyally enough, it is true--for he struck them only in front
and on their guard--but with great success, and with a most revolting
impartiality."

"Yes, Monsieur, and I was about to tell him my opinion," interposed De
Lude, "when I saw him escape through the crowd like a squirrel, laughing
greatly with some suspicious looking men with dark, swarthy faces; I
do not doubt, however, that Monsieur de Cinq-Mars sent him, for he gave
orders to that Ambrosio whom you must know--that Spanish prisoner, that
rascal whom he has taken for a servant. In faith, I am disgusted with
all this; and I was not born to mingle with this canaille."

"This, Monsieur," replied Fournier, "is very different from the affair
at Loudun. There the people only rose, without actually revolting; it
was the sensible and estimable part of the populace, indignant at an
assassination, and not heated by wine and money. It was a cry raised
against an executioner--a cry of which one could honorably be the
organ--and not these howlings of factious hypocrisy, of a mass of
unknown people, the dregs of the mud and sewers of Paris. I confess that
I am very tired of what I see; and I have come to entreat you to speak
about it to Monsieur le Grand."

De Thou was very much embarrassed during this conversation, and sought
in vain to understand what Cinq-Mars could have to do with the people,
who appeared to him merely merrymaking; on the other hand, he persisted
in not owning his ignorance. It was, however, complete; for the last
time he had seen his friend, he had spoken only of the King's horses and
stables, of hawking, and of the importance of the King's huntsmen in the
affairs of the State, which did not seem to announce vast projects in
which the people could take a part. He at last timidly ventured to say:

"Messieurs, I promise to do your commission; meanwhile, I offer you
my table and beds as long as you please. But to give my advice in
this matter is very difficult. By the way, it was not the fete of
Sainte-Barbe I saw this morning?"

"The Sainte-Barbe!" said Fournier.

"The Sainte-Barbe!" echoed Du Lude. "They burned powder."

"Oh, yes, yes! that is what Monsieur de Thou means," said Fournier,
laughing; "very good, very good indeed! Yes, I think to-day is
Sainte-Barbe."

De Thou was now altogether confused and reduced to silence; as for the
others, seeing that they did not understand him, nor he them, they had
recourse to silence.

They were sitting thus mute, when the door opened to admit the old tutor
of Cinq-Mars, the Abbe Quillet, who entered, limping slightly. He looked
very gloomy, retaining none of his former gayety in his air or language;
but his look was still animated, and his speech energetic.

"Pardon me, my dear De Thou, that I so early disturb you in your
occupations; it is strange, is it not, in a gouty invalid? Ah, time
advances; two years ago I did not limp. I was, on the contrary, nimble
enough at the time of my journey to Italy; but then fear gives legs as
well as wings."

Then, retiring into the recess of a window, he signed De Thou to come to
him.

"I need hardly remind you, my friend, who are in their secrets, that I
affianced them a fortnight ago, as they have told you."

"Ah, indeed! Whom?" exclaimed poor De Thou, fallen from the Charybdis
into the Scylla of astonishment.

"Come, come, don't affect surprise; you know very well whom," continued
the Abbe. "But, faith, I fear I have been too complaisant with them,
though these two children are really interesting in their love. I fear
for him more than for her; I doubt not he is acting very foolishly,
judging from the disturbance this morning. We must consult together
about it."

"But," said De Thou, very gravely, "upon my honor, I do not know what
you mean. Who is acting foolishly?"

"Now, my dear Monsieur, will you still play the mysterious with me? It
is really insulting," said the worthy man, beginning to be angry.

"No, indeed, I mean it not; whom have you affianced?"

"Again! fie, Monsieur!"

"And what was the disturbance this morning?"

"You are laughing at me! I take my leave," said the Abbe, rising.

"I vow that I understand not a word of all that has been told me to-day.
Do you mean Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?"

"Very well, Monsieur, very well! you treat me as a Cardinalist; very
well, we part," said the Abbe Quillet, now altogether furious. And he
snatched up his crutch and quitted the room hastily, without listening
to De Thou, who followed him to his carriage, seeking to pacify him,
but without effect, because he did not wish to name his friend upon the
stairs in the hearing of his servants, and could not explain the matter
otherwise. He had the annoyance of seeing the old Abbe depart, still in
a passion; he called out to him amicably, "Tomorrow," as the coachman
drove off, but got no answer.

It was, however, not uselessly that he had descended to the foot of the
stairs, for he saw thence hideous groups of the mob returning from the
Louvre, and was thus better able to judge of the importance of their
movements in the morning; he heard rude voices exclaiming, as in
triumph:

"She showed herself, however, the little Queen!" "Long live the good
Duc de Bouillon, who is coming to us! He has a hundred thousand men with
him, all on rafts on the Seine. The old Cardinal de la Rochelle is dead!
Long live the King! Long live Monsieur le Grand!"

The cries redoubled at the arrival of a carriage and four, with the
royal livery, which stopped at the counsellor's door, and in which De
Thou recognized the equipage of Cinq-Mars; Ambrosio alighted to open the
ample curtains, which the carriages of that period had for doors. The
people threw themselves between the carriage-steps and the door of the
house, so that Cinq-Mars had an absolute struggle ere he could get out
and disengage himself from the market-women, who sought to embrace him,
crying:

"Here you are, then, my sweet, my dear! Here you are, my pet! Ah, how
handsome he is, the love, with his big collar! Isn't he worth more than
the other fellow with the white moustache? Come, my son, bring us out
some good wine this morning."

Henri d'Effiat pressed, blushing deeply the while, his friend's
hand,--who hastened to have his doors closed.

"This popular favor is a cup one must drink," said he, as they ascended
the stairs.

"It appears to me," replied De Thou, gravely, "that you drink it even to
the very dregs."

"I will explain all this clamorous affair to you," answered Cinq-Mars,
somewhat embarrassed. "At present, if you love me, dress yourself to
accompany me to the Queen's toilette."

"I promised you blind adherence," said the counsellor; "but truly I can
not keep my eyes shut much longer if--"

"Once again, I will give you a full explanation as we return from the
Queen. But make haste; it is nearly ten o'clock."

"Well, I will go with you," replied De Thou, conducting him into his
cabinet, where were the Comte du Lude and Fournier, while he himself
passed into his dressing-room.




CHAPTER XVII. TOILETTE

The carriage of the Grand Equerry was rolling rapidly toward the Louvre,
when, closing the curtain, he took his friend's hand, and said to him
with emotion:

"Dear De Thou, I have kept great secrets in my heart, and, believe
me, they have weighed heavily there; but two fears impelled me to
silence--that of your danger, and--shall I say it?--that of your
counsels."

"Yet well you know," replied De Thou, "that I despise the first; and I
deemed that you did not despise the second."

"No, but I feared, and still fear them. I would not be stopped. Do not
speak, my friend; not a word, I conjure you, before you have heard and
seen all that is about to take place. I will return with you to your
house on quitting the Louvre; there I will listen to you, and thence I
shall depart to continue my work, for nothing will shake my resolve, I
warn you. I have just said so to the gentlemen at your house."

In his accent Cinq-Mars had nothing of the brusqueness which clothed
his words. His voice was conciliatory, his look gentle, amiable,
affectionate, his air as tranquil as it was determined. There was no
indication of the slightest effort at control. De Thou remarked it, and
sighed.

Alighting from the carriage with him, De Thou followed him up the
great staircase of the Louvre. When they entered the Queen's apartment,
announced by two ushers dressed in black and bearing ebony rods, she
was seated at her toilette. This was a table of black wood, inlaid with
tortoiseshell, mother-of-pearl, and brass, in an infinity of designs of
very bad taste, but which give to all furniture an air of grandeur which
we still admire in it. A mirror, rounded at the top, which the ladies of
our time would consider small and insignificant, stood in the middle of
the table, whereon were scattered jewels and necklaces.

Anne of Austria, seated before it in a large armchair of crimson velvet,
with long gold fringe, was as motionless and grave as on her throne,
while Dona Stefania and Madame de Motteville, on either side, lightly
touched her beautiful blond hair with a comb, as if finishing the
Queen's coiffure, which, however, was already perfectly arranged and
decorated with pearls. Her long tresses, though light, were exquisitely
glossy, manifesting that to the touch they must be fine and soft as
silk. The daylight fell without a shade upon her forehead, which had no
reason to dread the test, itself reflecting an almost equal light from
its surpassing fairness, which the Queen was pleased thus to display.
Her blue eyes, blended with green, were large and regular, and her
vermilion mouth had that underlip of the princesses of Austria, somewhat
prominent and slightly cleft, in the form of a cherry, which may still
be marked in all the female portraits of this time, whose painters
seemed to have aimed at imitating the Queen's mouth, in order to please
the women of her suite, whose desire was, no doubt, to resemble her.

The black dress then adopted by the court, and of which the form was
even fixed by an edict, set off the ivory of her arms, bare to the
elbow, and ornamented with a profusion of lace, which flowed from her
loose sleeves. Large pearls hung in her ears and from her girdle. Such
was the appearance of the Queen at this moment. At her feet, upon two
velvet cushions, a boy of four years old was playing with a little
cannon, which he was assiduously breaking in pieces. This was the
Dauphin, afterward Louis XIV. The Duchesse Marie de Mantua was seated on
her right hand upon a stool. The Princesse de Guemenee, the Duchesse de
Chevreuse, and Mademoiselle de Montbazon, Mesdemoiselles de Guise, de
Rohan, and de Vendome, all beautiful and brilliant with youth, were
behind her, standing. In the recess of a window, Monsieur, his hat under
his arm, was talking in a low voice with a man, stout, with a red face
and a steady and daring eye. This was the Duc de Bouillon. An officer
about twenty-five years of age, well-formed, and of agreeable presence,
had just given several papers to the Prince, which the Duc de Bouillon
appeared to be explaining to him.

De Thou, after having saluted the Queen, who said a few words to him,
approached the Princesse de Guemenee, and conversed with her in an
undertone, with an air of affectionate intimacy, but all the while
intent upon his friend's interest. Secretly trembling lest he should
have confided his destiny to a being less worthy of him than he wished,
he examined the Princess Marie with the scrupulous attention, the
scrutinizing eye of a mother examining the woman whom her son has
selected for his bride--for he thought that Marie could not be
altogether a stranger to the enterprise of Cinq-Mars. He saw with
dissatisfaction that her dress, which was extremely elegant, appeared
to inspire her with more vanity than became her on such an occasion. She
was incessantly rearranging upon her forehead and her hair the rubies
which ornamented her head, and which scarcely equalled the brilliancy
and animated color of her complexion. She looked frequently at
Cinq-Mars; but it was rather the look of coquetry than that of love, and
her eyes often glanced toward the mirror on the toilette, in which she
watched the symmetry of her beauty. These observations of the counsellor
began to persuade him that he was mistaken in suspecting her to be
the aim of Cinq-Mars, especially when he saw that she seemed to have
a pleasure in sitting at the Queen's side, while the duchesses stood
behind her, and that she often looked haughtily at them.

"In that heart of nineteen," said he, "love, were there love, would
reign alone and above all to-day. It is not she!"

The Queen made an almost imperceptible movement of the head to Madame
de Guemenee. After the two friends had spoken a moment with each person
present, and at this sign, all the ladies, except Marie de Mantua,
making profound courtesies, quitted the apartment without speaking, as
if by previous arrangement. The Queen, then herself turning her chair,
said to Monsieur:

"My brother, I beg you will come and sit down by me. We will consult
upon what I have already told you. The Princesse Marie will not be in
the way. I begged her to remain. We have no interruption to fear."

The Queen seemed more at ease in her manner and language; and no longer
preserving her severe and ceremonious immobility, she signed to the
other persons present to approach her.

Gaston d'Orleans, somewhat alarmed at this solemn opening, came
carelessly, sat down on her right hand, and said with a half-smile and
a negligent air, playing with his ruff and the chain of the Saint Esprit
which hung from his neck:

"I think, Madame, that we shall fatigue the ears of so young a personage
by a long conference. She would rather hear us speak of dances, and of
marriage, of an elector, or of the King of Poland, for example."

Marie assumed a disdainful air; Cinq-Mars frowned.

"Pardon me," replied the Queen, looking at her; "I assure you the
politics of the present time interest her much. Do not seek to escape
us, my brother," added she, smiling. "I have you to-day! It is the least
we can do to listen to Monsieur de Bouillon."

The latter approached, holding by the hand the young officer of whom we
have spoken.

"I must first," said he, "present to your Majesty the Baron de Beauvau,
who has just arrived from Spain."

"From Spain?" said the Queen, with emotion. "There is courage in that;
you have seen my family?"

"He will speak to you of them, and of the Count-Duke of Olivares. As
to courage, it is not the first time he has shown it. He commanded the
cuirassiers of the Comte de Soissons."

"How? so young, sir! You must be fond of political wars."

"On the contrary, your Majesty will pardon me," replied he, "for I
served with the princes of the peace."

Anne of Austria smiled at this jeu-de-mot. The Duc de Bouillon, seizing
the moment to bring forward the grand question he had in view, quitted
Cinq-Mars, to whom he had just given his hand with an air of the
most zealous friendship, and approaching the Queen with him, "It is
miraculous, Madame," said he, "that this period still contains in its
bosom some noble characters, such as these;" and he pointed to the
master of the horse, to young Beauvau, and to De Thou. "It is only in
them that we can place our hope for the future. Such men are indeed very
rare now, for the great leveller has swung a long scythe over France."

"Is it of Time you speak," said the Queen, "or of a real personage?"

"Too real, too living, too long living, Madame!" replied the Duke,
becoming more animated; "but his measureless ambition, his colossal
selfishness can no longer be endured. All those who have noble hearts
are indignant at this yoke; and at this moment, more than ever, we see
misfortunes threatening us in the future. It must be said, Madame--yes,
it is no longer time to blind ourselves to the truth, or to conceal
it--the King's illness is serious. The moment for thinking and resolving
has arrived, for the time to act is not far distant."

The severe and abrupt tone of M. de Bouillon did not surprise Anne of
Austria; but she had always seen him more calm, and was, therefore,
somewhat alarmed by the disquietude he betrayed. Quitting accordingly
the tone of pleasantry which she had at first adopted, she said:

"How! what fear you, and what would you do?"

"I fear nothing for myself, Madame, for the army of Italy or Sedan
will always secure my safety; but I fear for you, and perhaps for the
princes, your sons."

"For my children, Monsieur le Duc, for the sons of France? Do you hear
him, my brother, and do you not appear astonished?"

The Queen was deeply agitated.

"No, Madame," said Gaston d'Orleans, calmly; "you know that I am
accustomed to persecution. I am prepared to expect anything from that
man. He is master; we must be resigned."

"He master!" exclaimed the Queen. "And from whom does he derive his
powers, if not from the King? And after the King, what hand will sustain
him? Can you tell me? Who will prevent him from again returning to
nothing? Will it be you or I?"

"It will be himself," interrupted M. de Bouillon, "for he seeks to be
named regent; and I know that at this moment he contemplates taking your
children from you, and requiring the King to confide them to his care."

"Take them from me!" cried the mother, involuntarily seizing the
Dauphin, and taking him in her arms.

The child, standing between the Queen's knees, looked at the men who
surrounded him with a gravity very singular for his age, and, seeing his
mother in tears, placed his hand upon the little sword he wore.

"Ah, Monseigneur," said the Duc de Bouillon, bending half down to
address to him what he intended for the Princess, "it is not against us
that you must draw your sword, but against him who is undermining
your throne. He prepares an empire for you, no doubt. You will have an
absolute sceptre; but he has scattered the fasces which indicated it.
Those fasces were your ancient nobility, whom he has decimated. When
you are king, you will be a great king. I foresee it; but you will
have subjects only, and no friends, for friendship exists only in
independence and a kind of equality which takes its rise in force. Your
ancestors had their peers; you will not have yours. May God aid you
then, Monseigneur, for man may not do it without institutions! Be great;
but above all, around you, a great man, let there be others as strong,
so that if the one stumbles, the whole monarchy may not fall."

The Duc de Bouillon had a warmth of expression and a confidence of
manner which captivated those who heard him. His valor, his keen
perception in the field, the profundity of his political views,
his knowledge of the affairs of Europe, his reflective and decided
character, all rendered him one of the most capable and imposing men of
his time-the only one, indeed, whom the Cardinal-Duc really feared. The
Queen always listened to him with confidence, and allowed him to acquire
a sort of empire over her. She was now more deeply moved than ever.

"Ah, would to God," she exclaimed, "that my son's mind was ripe for your
counsels, and his arm strong enough to profit by them! Until that time,
however, I will listen, I will act for him. It is I who should be, and
it is I who shall be, regent. I will not resign this right save with
life. If we must make war, we will make it; for I will do everything but
submit to the shame and terror of yielding up the future Louis XIV to
this crowned subject. Yes," she went on, coloring and closely pressing
the young Dauphin's arm, "yes, my brother, and you gentlemen, counsel
me! Speak! how do we stand? Must I depart? Speak openly. As a woman, as
a wife, I could have wept over so mournful a position; but now see, as
a mother, I do not weep. I am ready to give you orders if it is
necessary."

Never had Anne of Austria looked so beautiful as at this moment; and the
enthusiasm she manifested electrified all those present, who needed but
a word from her mouth to speak. The Duc de Bouillon cast a glance at
Monsieur, which decided him.

"Ma foi!" said he, with deliberation, "if you give orders, my sister, I
will be the captain of your guards, on my honor, for I too am weary of
the vexations occasioned me by this knave. He continues to persecute
me, seeks to break off my marriage, and still keeps my friends in the
Bastille, or has them assassinated from time to time; and besides, I
am indignant," said he, recollecting himself and assuming a more solemn
air, "I am indignant at the misery of the people."

"My brother," returned the Princess, energetically, "I take you at your
word, for with you, one must do so; and I hope that together we shall be
strong enough for the purpose. Do only as Monsieur le Comte de Soissons
did, but survive your victory. Side with me, as you did with Monsieur de
Montmorency, but leap the ditch."

Gaston felt the point of this. He called to mind the well-known incident
when the unfortunate rebel of Castelnaudary leaped almost alone a large
ditch, and found on the other side seventeen wounds, a prison, and death
in the sight of Monsieur, who remained motionless with his army. In the
rapidity of the Queen's enunciation he had not time to examine
whether she had employed this expression proverbially or with a direct
reference; but at all events, he decided not to notice it, and was
indeed prevented from doing so by the Queen, who continued, looking at
Cinq-Mars:

"But, above all, no panic-terror! Let us know exactly where we are,
Monsieur le Grand. You have just left the King. Is there fear with you?"

D'Effiat had not ceased to observe Marie de Mantua, whose expressive
countenance exhibited to him all her ideas far more rapidly and more
surely than words. He read there the desire that he should speak--the
desire that he should confirm the Prince and the Queen. An impatient
movement of her foot conveyed to him her will that the thing should be
accomplished, the conspiracy arranged. His face became pale and more
pensive; he pondered for a moment, realizing that his destiny was
contained in that hour. De Thou looked at him and trembled, for he knew
him well. He would fain have said one word to him, only one word; but
Cinq-Mars had already raised his head. He spoke:

"I do not think, Madame, that the King is so ill as you suppose. God
will long preserve to us this Prince. I hope so; I am even sure of it.
He suffers, it is true, suffers much; but it is his soul more peculiarly
that is sick, and of an evil which nothing can cure--of an evil which
one would not wish to one's greatest enemy, and which would gain him the
pity of the whole world if it were known. The end of his misery--that
is to say, of his life--will not be granted him for a long time. His
languor is entirely moral. There is in his heart a great revolution
going on; he would accomplish it, and can not.

"The King has felt for many long years growing within him the seeds of a
just hatred against a man to whom he thinks he owes gratitude, and it
is this internal combat between his natural goodness and his anger that
devours him. Every year that has passed has deposited at his feet, on
one side, the great works of this man, and on the other, his crimes. It
is the last which now weigh down the balance. The King sees them and is
indignant; he would punish, but all at once he stops and weeps. If you
could witness him thus, Madame, you would pity him. I have seen him
seize the pen which was to sign his exile, dip it into the ink with a
bold hand, and use it--for what?--to congratulate him on some recent
success. He at once applauds himself for his goodness as a Christian,
curses himself for his weakness as a sovereign judge, despises himself
as a king. He seeks refuge in prayer, and plunges into meditation upon
the future; then he rises terrified because he has seen in thought the
tortures which this man merits, and how deeply no one knows better than
he. You should hear him in these moments accuse himself of criminal
weakness, and exclaim that he himself should be punished for not having
known how to punish. One would say that there are spirits which order
him to strike, for his arms are raised as he sleeps. In a word,
Madame, the storm murmurs in his heart, but burns none but himself. The
thunderbolts are chained."

"Well, then, let us loose them!" exclaimed the Duc de Bouillon.

"He who touches them may die of the contact," said Monsieur.

"But what a noble devotion!" cried the Queen.

"How I should admire the hero!" said Marie, in a half-whisper.

"I will do it," answered Cinq-Mars.

"We will do it," said M. de Thou, in his ear.

Young Beauvau had approached the Duc de Bouillon.

"Monsieur," said he, "do you forget what follows?"

"No, 'pardieu'! I do not forget it," replied the latter, in a low voice;
then, addressing the Queen, "Madame," said he, "accept the offer of
Monsieur le Grand. He is more in a position to sway the King than either
you or I; but hold yourself prepared, for the Cardinal is too wary to be
caught sleeping. I do not believe in his illness. I have no faith in the
silence and immobility of which he has sought to persuade us these two
years past. I would not believe in his death even, unless I had myself
thrown his head into the sea, like that of the giant in Ariosto. Hold
yourself ready to meet all contingencies, and let us, meanwhile, hasten
our operations. I have shown my plans to Monsieur just now; I will give
you a summary of them. I offer you Sedan, Madame, for yourself, and for
Messeigneurs, your sons. The army of Italy is mine; I will recall it if
necessary. Monsieur le Grand is master of half the camp of Perpignan.
All the old Huguenots of La Rochelle and the South are ready to come
to him at the first nod. All has been organized for a year past, by my
care, to meet events."

"I should not hesitate," said the Queen, "to place myself in your hands,
to save my children, if any misfortune should happen to the King. But in
this general plan you forget Paris."

"It is ours on every side; the people by the archbishop, without his
suspecting it, and by Monsieur de Beaufort, who is its king; the troops
by your guards and those of Monsieur, who shall be chief in command, if
he please."

"I! I! oh, that positively can not be! I have not enough people, and I
must have a retreat stronger than Sedan," said Gaston.

"It suffices for the Queen," replied M. de Bouillon.

"Ah, that may be! but my sister does not risk so much as a man who draws
the sword. Do you know that these are bold measures you propose?"

"What, even if we have the King on our side?" asked Anne of Austria.

"Yes, Madame, yes; we do not know how long that may last. We must make
ourselves sure; and I do nothing without the treaty with Spain."

"Do nothing, then," said the Queen, coloring deeply; "for certainly I
will never hear that spoken of."

"And yet, Madame, it were more prudent, and Monsieur is right," said the
Duc de Bouillon; "for the Count-Duke of San Lucra offers us seventeen
thousand men, tried troops, and five hundred thousand crowns in ready
money."

"What!" exclaimed the Queen, with astonishment, "have you dared to
proceed so far without my consent? already treaties with foreigners!"

"Foreigners, my sister! could we imagine that a princess of Spain would
use that word?" said Gaston.

Anne of Austria rose, taking the Dauphin by the hand; and, leaning
upon Marie: "Yes, sir," she said, "I am a Spaniard; but I am the
grand-daughter of Charles V, and I know that a queen's country is
where her throne is. I leave you, gentlemen; proceed without me. I know
nothing of the matter for the future."

She advanced some steps, but seeing Marie pale and bathed in tears, she
returned.

"I will, however, solemnly promise you inviolable secrecy; but nothing
more."

All were mentally disconcerted, except the Duc de Bouillon, who, not
willing to lose the advantages he had gained, said to the Queen, bowing
respectfully:

"We are grateful for this promise, Madame, and we ask no more, persuaded
that after the first success you will be entirely with us."

Not wishing to engage in a war of words, the Queen courtesied somewhat
less coldly, and quitted the apartment with Marie, who cast upon
Cinq-Mars one of those looks which comprehend at once all the emotions
of the soul. He seemed to read in her beautiful eyes the eternal and
mournful devotion of a woman who has given herself up forever; and he
felt that if he had once thought of withdrawing from his enterprise, he
should now have considered himself the basest of men.

As soon as the two princesses had disappeared, "There, there! I told you
so, Bouillon, you offended the Queen," said Monsieur; "you went too far.
You can not certainly accuse me of having been hesitating this morning.
I have, on the contrary, shown more resolution than I ought to have
done."

"I am full of joy and gratitude toward her Majesty," said M. de
Bouillon, with a triumphant air; "we are sure of the future. What will
you do now, Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?"

"I have told you, Monsieur; I draw not back, whatever the consequences.
I will see the King; I will run every risk to obtain his assent."

"And the treaty with Spain?"

"Yes, I--"

De Thou seized Cinq-Mars by the arm, and, advancing suddenly, said, with
a solemn air:

"We have decided that it shall be only signed after the interview with
the King; for should his Majesty's just severity toward the Cardinal
dispense with it, we have thought it better not to expose ourselves to
the discovery of so dangerous a treaty."

M. de Bouillon frowned.

"If I did not know Monsieur de Thou," said he, "I should have regarded
this as a defection; but from him--"

"Monsieur," replied the counsellor, "I think I may engage myself, on my
honor, to do all that Monsieur le Grand does; we are inseparable."

Cinq-Mars looked at his friend, and was astonished to see upon his mild
countenance the expression of sombre despair; he was so struck with it
that he had not the courage to gainsay him.

"He is right, gentlemen," he said with a cold but kindly smile; "the
King will perhaps spare us much trouble. We may do good things with
him. For the rest, Monseigneur, and you, Monsieur le Duc," he added with
immovable firmness, "fear not that I shall ever draw back. I have burned
all the bridges behind me. I must advance; the Cardinal's power shall
fall, or my head."

"It is strange, very strange!" said Monsieur; "I see that every one here
is farther advanced in the conspiracy than I imagined."

"Not so, Monsieur," said the Duc de Bouillon; "we prepared only that
which you might please to accept. Observe that there is nothing in
writing. You have but to speak, and nothing exists or ever has existed;
according to your order, the whole thing shall be a dream or a volcano."

"Well, well, I am content, if it must be so," said Gaston; "let us
occupy ourselves with more agreeable topics. Thank God, we have a little
time before us! I confess I wish that it were all over. I am not fitted
for violent emotions; they affect my health," he added, taking M. de
Beauvau's arm. "Tell us if the Spanish women are still pretty, young
man. It is said you are a great gallant among them. 'Tudieu'! I'm
sure you've got yourself talked of there. They tell me the women wear
enormous petticoats. Well, I am not at all against that; they make the
foot look smaller and prettier. I'm sure the wife of Don Louis de Haro
is not handsomer than Madame de Guemenee, is she? Come, be frank; I'm
told she looks like a nun. Ah! you do not answer; you are embarrassed.
She has then taken your fancy; or you fear to offend our friend Monsieur
de Thou in comparing her with the beautiful Guemenee. Well, let's talk
of the customs; the King has a charming dwarf I'm told, and they put
him in a pie. He is a fortunate man, that King of Spain! I don't know
another equally so. And the Queen, she is still served on bended knee,
is she not? Ah! that is a good custom; we have lost it. It is very
unfortunate--more unfortunate than may be supposed."

And Gaston d'Orleans had the confidence to speak in this tone nearly
half an hour, with a young man whose serious character was not at
all adapted to such conversation, and who, still occupied with the
importance of the scene he had just witnessed and the great interests
which had been discussed, made no answer to this torrent of idle words.
He looked at the Duc de Bouillon with an astonished air, as if to ask
him whether this was really the man whom they were going to place at the
head of the most audacious enterprise that had ever been launched; while
the Prince, without appearing to perceive that he remained unanswered,
replied to himself, speaking with volubility, as he drew him gradually
out of the room. He feared that one of the gentlemen present might
recommence the terrible conversation about the treaty; but none desired
to do so, unless it were the Duc de Bouillon, who, however, preserved an
angry silence. As for Cinq-Mars, he had been led away by De Thou, under
cover of the chattering of Monsieur, who took care not to appear to
notice their departure.




BOOK 5.




CHAPTER XVIII. THE SECRET

De Thou had reached home with his friend; his doors were carefully shut,
and orders given to admit no one, and to excuse him to the refugees for
allowing them to depart without seeing them again; and as yet the two
friends had not spoken to each other.

The counsellor had thrown himself into his armchair in deep meditation.
Cinq-Mars, leaning against the lofty chimneypiece, awaited with a
serious and sorrowful air the termination of this silence. At length De
Thou, looking fixedly at him and crossing his arms, said in a hollow and
melancholy voice:

"This, then, is the goal you have reached! These, the consequences of
your ambition! You are are about to banish, perhaps slay, a man, and
to bring then, a foreign army into France; I am, then, to see you an
assassin and a traitor to your country! By what tortuous paths have you
arrived thus far? By what stages have you descended so low?"

"Any other than yourself would not speak thus to me twice," said
Cinq-Mars, coldly; "but I know you, and I like this explanation. I
desired it, and sought it. You shall see my entire soul. I had at first
another thought, a better one perhaps, more worthy of our friendship,
more worthy of friendship--friendship, the second thing upon earth."

He raised his eyes to heaven as he spoke, as if he there sought the
divinity.

"Yes, it would have been better. I intended to have said nothing to you
on the subject. It was a painful task to keep silence; but hitherto I
have succeeded. I wished to have conducted the whole enterprise without
you; to show you only the finished work. I wished to keep you beyond the
circle of my danger; but shall I confess my weakness? I feared to die,
if I have to die, misjudged by you. I can well sustain the idea of the
world's malediction, but not of yours; but this has decided me upon
avowing all to you."

"What! and but for this thought, you would have had the courage to
conceal yourself forever from me? Ah, dear Henri, what have I done that
you should take this care of my life? By what fault have I deserved to
survive you, if you die? You have had the strength of mind to hoodwink
me for two whole years; you have never shown me aught of your life
but its flowers; you have never entered my solitude but with a joyous
countenance, and each time with a fresh favor. Ah, you must be very
guilty or very virtuous!"

"Do not seek in my soul more than therein lies. Yes, I have deceived
you; and that fact was the only peace and joy I had in the world.
Forgive me for having stolen these moments from my destiny, so
brilliant, alas! I was happy in the happiness you supposed me to enjoy;
I made you happy in that dream, and I am only guilty in that I am now
about to destroy it, and to show myself as I was and am. Listen: I shall
not detain you long; the story of an impassioned heart is ever simple.
Once before, I remember, in my tent when I was wounded, my secret nearly
escaped me; it would have been happy, perhaps, had it done so. Yet what
would counsel have availed me? I should not have followed it. In a word,
'tis Marie de Mantua whom I love."

"How! she who is to be Queen of Poland?"

"If she is ever queen, it can only be after my death. But listen: for
her I became a courtier; for her I have almost reigned in France; for
her I am about to fall--perhaps to die."

"Die! fall! when I have been reproaching your triumph! when I have wept
over the sadness of your victory!"

"Ah! you know me but ill, if you suppose that I shall be the dupe of
Fortune, when she smiles upon me; if you suppose that I have not
pierced to the bottom of my destiny! I struggle against it, but 'tis the
stronger I feel it. I have undertaken a task beyond human power; and I
shall fail in it."

"Why, then, not stop? What is the use of intellect in the business of
the world?"

"None; unless, indeed, it be to tell us the cause of our fall, and
to enable us to foresee the day on which we shall fall. I can not now
recede. When a man is confronted with such an enemy as Richelieu, he
must overcome him or be crushed by him. Tomorrow I shall strike the last
blow; did I not just now, in your presence, engage to do so?"

"And it is that very engagement that I would oppose. What confidence
have you in those to whom you thus abandon your life? Have you not read
their secret thoughts?"

"I know them all; I have read their hopes through their feigned rage;
I know that they tremble while they threaten. I know that even now they
are ready to make their peace by giving me up; but it is my part to
sustain them and to decide the King. I must do it, for Marie is my
betrothed, and my death is written at Narbonne. It is voluntarily, it is
with full knowledge of my fate, that I have thus placed myself between
the block and supreme happiness. That happiness I must tear from the
hands of Fortune, or die on that scaffold. At this instant I experience
the joy of having broken down all doubt. What! blush you not at having
thought me ambitious from a base egoism, like this Cardinal--ambitious
from a puerile desire for a power which is never satisfied? I am
ambitious, but it is because I love. Yes, I love; in that word all is
comprised. But I accuse you unjustly. You have embellished my secret
intentions; you have imparted to me noble designs (I remember them),
high political conceptions. They are brilliant, they are grand,
doubtless; but--shall I say it to you?--such vague projects for the
perfecting of corrupt societies seem to me to crawl far below the
devotion of love. When the whole soul vibrates with that one thought, it
has no room for the nice calculation of general interests; the topmost
heights of earth are far beneath heaven."

De Thou shook his head.

"What can I answer?" he said. "I do not understand you; your reasoning
unreasons you. You hunt a shadow."

"Nay," continued Cinq-Mars; "far from destroying my strength, this
inward fire has developed it. I have calculated everything. Slow steps
have led me to the end which I am about to attain. Marie drew me by the
hand; could I retreat? I would not have done it though a world faced me.
Hitherto, all has gone well; but an invisible barrier arrests me. This
barrier must be broken; it is Richelieu. But now in your presence I
undertook to do this; but perhaps I was too hasty. I now think I was so.
Let him rejoice; he expected me. Doubtless he foresaw that it would
be the youngest whose patience would first fail. If he played on this
calculation, he played well. Yet but for the love that has urged me on,
I should have been stronger than he, and by just means."

Then a sudden change came over the face of Cinq-Mars. He turned pale and
red twice; and the veins of his forehead rose like blue lines drawn by
an invisible hand.

"Yes," he added, rising, and clasping together his hands with a force
which indicated the violent despair concentred in his heart, "all the
torments with which love can tear its victims I have felt in my breast.
This timid girl, for whom I would shake empires, for whom I have
suffered all, even the favor of a prince, who perhaps has not felt all I
have done for her, can not yet be mine. She is mine before God, yet I am
estranged from her; nay, I must hear daily discussed before me which of
the thrones of Europe will best suit her, in conversations wherein I may
not even raise my voice to give an opinion, and in which they scorn as
mate for her princes of the blood royal, who yet have precedence far
before me. I must conceal myself like a culprit to hear through a
grating the voice of her who is my wife; in public I must bow before
her--her husband, yet her servant! 'Tis too much; I can not live thus. I
must take the last step, whether it elevate me or hurl me down."

"And for your personal happiness you would overthrow a State?"

"The happiness of the State is one with mine. I secure that undoubtedly
in destroying the tyrant of the King. The horror with which this man
inspires me has passed into my very blood. When I was first on my way to
him, I encountered in my journey his greatest crime. He is the genius of
evil for the unhappy King! I will exorcise him. I might have become the
genius of good for Louis XIII. It was one of the thoughts of Marie, her
most cherished thought. But I do not think I shall triumph in the uneasy
soul of the Prince."

"Upon what do you rely, then?" said De Thou.

"Upon the cast of a die. If his will can but once last for a few hours,
I have gained. 'Tis a last calculation on which my destiny hangs."

"And that of your Marie!"

"Could you suppose it?" said Cinq-Mars, impetuously. "No, no! If he
abandons me, I sign the treaty with Spain, and then-war!"

"Ah, horror!" exclaimed the counsellor. "What, a war! a civil war, and a
foreign alliance!"

"Ay, 'tis a crime," said Cinq-Mars, coldly; "but have I asked you to
participate in it?"

"Cruel, ungrateful man!" replied his friend; "can you speak to me thus?
Know you not, have I not proved to you, that friendship holds the
place of every passion in my heart? Can I survive the least of your
misfortunes, far less your death. Still, let me influence you not to
strike France. Oh, my friend! my only friend! I implore you on my knees,
let us not thus be parricides; let us not assassinate our country! I say
us, because I will never separate myself from your actions. Preserve to
me my self-esteem, for which I have labored so long; sully not my life
and my death, which are both yours."

De Thou had fallen at the feet of his friend, who, unable to preserve
his affected coldness, threw himself into his arms, as he raised him,
and, pressing him to his heart, said in a stifled voice:

"Why love me thus? What have you done, friend? Why love me? You who
are wise, pure, and virtuous; you who are not led away by an insensate
passion and the desire for vengeance; you whose soul is nourished only
by religion and science--why love me? What has my friendship given you
but anxiety and pain? Must it now heap dangers on you? Separate yourself
from me; we are no longer of the same nature. You see courts have
corrupted me. I have no longer openness, no longer goodness. I meditate
the ruin of a man; I can deceive a friend. Forget me, scorn me. I am not
worthy of one of your thoughts; how should I be worthy of your perils?"

"By swearing to me not to betray the King and France," answered De Thou.
"Know you that the preservation of your country is at stake; that if
you yield to Spain our fortifications, she will never return them to us;
that your name will be a byword with posterity; that French mothers will
curse it when they shall be forced to teach their children a foreign
language--know you all this? Come."

And he drew him toward the bust of Louis XIII.

"Swear before him (he is your friend also), swear never to sign this
infamous treaty."

Cinq-Mars lowered his eyes, but with dogged tenacity answered, although
blushing as he did so:

"I have said it; if they force me to it, I will sign."

De Thou turned pale, and let fall his hand. He took two turns in his
room, his arms crossed, in inexpressible anguish. At last he advanced
solemnly toward the bust of his father, and opened a large book standing
at its foot; he turned to a page already marked, and read aloud:

"I think, therefore, that M. de Ligneboeuf was justly condemned to death
by the Parliament of Rouen, for not having revealed the conspiracy of
Catteville against the State."

Then keeping the book respectfully opened in his hand, and contemplating
the image of the President de Thou, whose Memoirs he held, he continued:

"Yes, my father, you thought well.... I shall be a criminal, I shall
merit death; but can I do otherwise? I will not denounce this traitor,
because that also would be treason; and he is my friend, and he is
unhappy."

Then, advancing toward Cinq-Mars, and again taking his hand, he said:

"I do much for you in acting thus; but expect nothing further from me,
Monsieur, if you sign this treaty."

Cinq-Mars was moved to the heart's core by this scene, for he felt all
that his friend must suffer in casting him off. Checking, however, the
tears which were rising to his smarting lids, and embracing De Thou
tenderly, he exclaimed:

"Ah, De Thou, I find you still perfect. Yes, you do me a service in
alienating yourself from me, for if your lot had been linked to mine, I
should not have dared to dispose of my life. I should have hesitated
to sacrifice it in case of need; but now I shall assuredly do so. And I
repeat to you, if they force me, I shall sign the treaty with Spain."




CHAPTER XIX. THE HUNTING PARTY

Meanwhile the illness of Louis XIII threw France into the apprehension
which unsettled States ever feel on the approach of the death of
princes. Although Richelieu was the hub of the monarchy, he reigned only
in the name of Louis, though enveloped with the splendor of the name
which he had assumed. Absolute as he was over his master, Richelieu
still feared him; and this fear reassured the nation against his
ambitious desires, to which the King himself was the fixed barrier. But
this prince dead, what would the imperious minister do? Where would a
man stop who had already dared so much? Accustomed to wield the sceptre,
who would prevent him from still holding it, and from subscribing his
name alone to laws which he alone would dictate? These fears agitated
all minds. The people in vain looked throughout the kingdom for those
pillars of the nobility, at the feet of whom they had been wont to
find shelter in political storms. They now only saw their recent tombs.
Parliament was dumb; and men felt that nothing could be opposed to the
monstrous growth of the Cardinal's usurping power. No one was entirely
deceived by the affected sufferings of the minister. None was touched
with that feigned agony which had too often deceived the public hope;
and distance nowhere prevented the weight of the dreaded 'parvenu' from
being felt.

The love of the people soon revived toward the son of Henri IV. They
hastened to the churches; they prayed, and even wept. Unfortunate
princes are always loved. The melancholy of Louis, and his mysterious
sorrow interested all France; still living, they already regretted
him, as if each man desired to be the depositary of his troubles ere
he carried away with him the grand mystery of what is suffered by men
placed so high that they can see nothing before them but their tomb.

The King, wishing to reassure the whole nation, announced the temporary
reestablishment of his health, and ordered the court to prepare for a
grand hunting party to be given at Chambord--a royal domain, whither his
brother, the Duc d'Orleans, prayed him to return.

This beautiful abode was the favorite retreat of Louis, doubtless
because, in harmony with his feelings, it combined grandeur with
sadness. He often passed whole months there, without seeing any one
whatsoever, incessantly reading and re-reading mysterious papers,
writing unknown documents, which he locked up in an iron coffer, of
which he alone had the key. He sometimes delighted in being served by
a single domestic, and thus so to forget himself by the absence of his
suite as to live for many days together like a poor man or an exiled
citizen, loving to figure to himself misery or persecution, in order the
better to enjoy royalty afterward. Another time he would be in a more
entire solitude; and having forbidden any human creature to approach
him, clothed in the habit of a monk, he would shut himself up in the
vaulted chapel. There, reading the life of Charles V, he would imagine
himself at St. Just, and chant over himself that mass for the dead which
brought death upon the head of the Spanish monarch.

But in the midst of these very chants and meditations his feeble mind
was pursued and distracted by contrary images. Never did life and the
world appear to him more fair than in such times of solitude among the
tombs. Between his eyes and the page which he endeavored to read passed
brilliant processions, victorious armies, or nations transported with
love. He saw himself powerful, combating, triumphant, adored; and if a
ray of the sun through the large windows fell upon him, suddenly rising
from the foot of the altar, he felt himself carried away by a thirst for
daylight and the open air, which led him from his gloomy retreat. But
returned to real life, he found there once more disgust and ennui, for
the first men he met recalled his power to his recollection by their
homage.

It was then that he believed in friendship, and summoned it to his
side; but scarcely was he certain of its possession than unconquerable
scruples suddenly seized upon his soul-scruples concerning a too
powerful attachment to the creature, turning him from the Creator, and
frequently inward reproaches for removing himself too much from the
affairs of the State. The object of his momentary affection then seemed
to him a despotic being, whose power drew him from his duties; but,
unfortunately for his favorites, he had not the strength of mind
outwardly to manifest toward them the resentment he felt, and thus to
warn them of their danger, but, continuing to caress them, he added by
this constraint fuel to the secret fire of his heart, and was impelled
to an absolute hatred of them. There were moments when he was capable of
taking any measures against them.

Cinq-Mars knew perfectly the weakness of that mind, which could not
keep firmly in any path, and the weakness of a heart which could neither
wholly love nor wholly hate. Thus, the position of favorite, the envy
of all France, the object of jealousy even on the part of the great
minister, was so precarious and so painful that, but for his love, he
would have burst his golden chains with greater joy than a galley-slave
feels when he sees the last ring that for two long years he has been
filing with a steel spring concealed in his mouth, fall to the earth.
This impatience to meet the fate he saw so near hastened the explosion
of that patiently prepared mine, as he had declared to his friend; but
his situation was that of a man who, placed by the side of the book
of life, should see hovering over it the hand which is to indite his
damnation or his salvation. He set out with Louis to Chambord, resolved
to take the first opportunity favorable to his design. It soon presented
itself.

The very morning of the day appointed for the chase, the King sent word
to him that he was waiting for him on the Escalier du Lys. It may not,
perhaps, be out of place to speak of this astonishing construction.

Four leagues from Blois, and one league from the Loire, in a small and
deep valley, between marshy swamps and a forest of large holm-oaks, far
from any highroad, the traveller suddenly comes upon a royal, nay, a
magic castle. It might be said that, compelled by some wonderful lamp, a
genie of the East had carried it off during one of the "thousand and one
nights," and had brought it from the country of the sun to hide it
in the land of fogs and mist, for the dwelling of the mistress of a
handsome prince.

Hidden like a treasure; with its blue domes, its elegant minarets rising
from thick walls or shooting into the air, its long terraces overlooking
the wood, its light spires bending with the wind, its terraces
everywhere rising over its colonnades, one might there imagine one's
self in the kingdom of Bagdad or of Cashmir, did not the blackened
walls, with their covering of moss and ivy, and the pallid and
melancholy hue of the sky, denote a rainy climate. It was indeed a
genius who raised this building; but he came from Italy, and his name
was Primaticcio. It was indeed a handsome prince whose amours were
concealed in it; but he was a king, and he bore the name of Francois I.
His salamander still spouts fire everywhere about it. It sparkles in
a thousand places on the arched roofs, and multiplies the flames there
like the stars of heaven; it supports the capitals with burning crowns;
it colors the windows with its fires; it meanders up and down the secret
staircases, and everywhere seems to devour with its flaming glances the
triple crescent of a mysterious Diane--that Diane de Poitiers, twice a
goddess and twice adored in these voluptuous woods.

The base of this strange monument is like the monument itself, full of
elegance and mystery; there is a double staircase, which rises in two
interwoven spirals from the most remote foundations of the edifice up to
the highest points, and ends in a lantern or small lattice-work cabinet,
surmounted by a colossal fleur-de-lys, visible from a great distance.
Two men may ascend it at the same moment, without seeing each other.

This staircase alone seems like a little isolated temple. Like our
churches, it is sustained and protected by the arcades of its thin,
light, transparent, openwork wings. One would think the docile stone
had given itself to the finger of the architect; it seems, so to speak,
kneaded according to the slightest caprice of his imagination. One can
hardly conceive how the plans were traced, in what terms the orders were
explained to the workmen. The whole thing appears a transient thought,
a brilliant revery that at once assumed a durable form---the realization
of a dream.

Cinq-Mars was slowly ascending the broad stairs which led him to the
King's presence, and stopping longer at each step, in proportion as he
approached him, either from disgust at the idea of seeing the Prince
whose daily complaints he had to hear, or thinking of what he was about
to do, when the sound of a guitar struck his ear. He recognized the
beloved instrument of Louis and his sad, feeble, and trembling voice
faintly reechoing from the vaulted ceiling. Louis seemed trying one of
those romances which he was wont to compose, and several times repeated
an incomplete strain with a trembling hand. The words could scarcely
be distinguished; all that Cinq-Mars heard were a few such as 'Abandon,
ennui de monde, et belle flamme.

The young favorite shrugged his shoulders as he listened.

"What new chagrin moves thee?" he said. "Come, let me again attempt to
read that chilled heart which thinks it needs something."

He entered the narrow cabinet.

Clothed in black, half reclining on a couch, his elbows resting upon
pillows, the Prince was languidly touching the chords of his guitar; he
ceased this when he saw the grand ecuyer enter, and, raising his large
eyes to him with an air of reproach, swayed his head to and fro for a
long time without speaking. Then in a plaintive but emphatic tone, he
said:

"What do I hear, Cinq-Mars? What do I hear of your conduct? How much
you do pain me by forgetting all my counsels! You have formed a guilty
intrigue; was it from you I was to expect such things--you whom I so
loved for your piety and virtue?"

Full of his political projects, Cinq-Mars thought himself discovered,
and could not help a momentary anxiety; but, perfectly master of
himself, he answered without hesitation:

"Yes, Sire; and I was about to declare it to you, for I am accustomed to
open my soul to you."

"Declare it to me!" exclaimed the King, turning red and white, as under
the shivering of a fever; "and you dare to contaminate my ears with
these horrible avowals, Monsieur, and to speak so calmly of your
disorder! Go! you deserve to be condemned to the galley, like Rondin;
it is a crime of high treason you have committed in your want of faith
toward me. I had rather you were a coiner, like the Marquis de Coucy,
or at the head of the Croquants, than do as you have done; you dishonor
your family, and the memory of the marechal your father."

Cinq-Mars, deeming himself wholly lost, put the best face he could upon
the matter, and said with an air of resignation:

"Well, then, Sire, send me to be judged and put to death; but spare me
your reproaches."

"Do you insult me, you petty country-squire?" answered Louis. "I know
very well that you have not incurred the penalty of death in the eyes
of men; but it is at the tribunal of God, Monsieur, that you will be
judged."

"Heavens, Sire!" replied the impetuous young man, whom the insulting
phrase of the King had offended, "why do you not allow me to return
to the province you so much despise, as I have sought to do a hundred
times? I will go there. I can not support the life I lead with you; an
angel could not bear it. Once more, let me be judged if I am guilty,
or allow me to return to Touraine. It is you who have ruined me in
attaching me to your person. If you have caused me to conceive lofty
hopes, which you afterward overthrew, is that my fault? Wherefore have
you made me grand ecuyer, if I was not to rise higher? In a word, am I
your friend or not? and, if I am, why may I not be duke, peer, or even
constable, as well as Monsieur de Luynes, whom you loved so much because
he trained falcons for you? Why am I not admitted to the council? I
could speak as well as any of the old ruffs there; I have new ideas,
and a better arm to serve you. It is your Cardinal who has prevented you
from summoning me there. And it is because he keeps you from me that I
detest him," continued Cinq-Mars, clinching his fist, as if Richelieu
stood before him; "yes, I would kill him with my own hand, if need
were."

D'Effiat's eyes were inflamed with anger; he stamped his foot as he
spoke, and turned his back to the King, like a sulky child, leaning
against one of the columns of the cupola.

Louis, who recoiled before all resolution, and who was always terrified
by the irreparable, took his hand.

O weakness of power! O caprices of the human heart! it was by this
childish impetuosity, these very defects of his age, that this young man
governed the King of France as effectually as did the first politician
of the time. This Prince believed, and with some show of reason, that
a character so hasty must be sincere; and even his fiery rage did not
anger him. It did not apply to the real subject of his reproaches, and
he could well pardon him for hating the Cardinal. The very idea of his
favorite's jealousy of the minister pleased him, because it indicated
attachment; and all he dreaded was his indifference. Cinq-Mars knew
this, and had desired to make it a means of escape, preparing the King
to regard all that he had done as child's play, as the consequence of
his friendship for him; but the danger was not so great, and he breathed
freely when the Prince said to him:

"The Cardinal is not in question here. I love him no more than you do;
but it is with your scandalous conduct I reproach you, and which I shall
have much difficulty to pardon in you. What, Monsieur! I learn that
instead of devoting yourself to the pious exercises to which I have
accustomed you, when I fancy you are at your Salut or your Angelus--you
are off from Saint Germain, and go to pass a portion of the night--with
whom? Dare I speak of it without sin? With a woman lost in reputation,
who can have no relations with you but such as are pernicious to the
safety of your soul, and who receives free-thinkers at her house--in a
word, Marion de Lorme. What have you to say? Speak."

Leaving his hand in that of the King, but still leaning against the
column, Cinq-Mars answered:

"Is it then so culpable to leave grave occupations for others more
serious still? If I go to the house of Marion de Lorme, it is to hear
the conversation of the learned men who assemble there. Nothing is more
harmless than these meetings. Readings are given there which, it is
true, sometimes extend far into the night, but which commonly tend
to exalt the soul, so far from corrupting it. Besides, you have never
commanded me to account to you for all that I do; I should have informed
you of this long ago if you had desired it."

"Ah, Cinq-Mars, Cinq-Mars! where is your confidence? Do you feel no need
of it? It is the first condition of a perfect friendship, such as ours
ought to be, such as my heart requires."

The voice of Louis became more affectionate, and the favorite, looking
at him over his shoulder, assumed an air less angry, but still simply
ennuye, and resigned to listening to him.

"How often have you deceived me!" continued the King; "can I trust
myself to you? Are they not fops and gallants whom you meet at the house
of this woman? Do not courtesans go there?"

"Heavens! no, Sire; I often go there with one of my friends--a gentleman
of Touraine, named Rene Descartes."

"Descartes! I know that name! Yes, he is an officer who distinguished
himself at the siege of Rochelle, and who dabbles in writing; he has a
good reputation for piety, but he is connected with Desbarreaux, who is
a free-thinker. I am sure that you must mix with many persons who are
not fit company for you, many young men without family, without birth.
Come, tell me whom saw you last there?"

"Truly, I can scarcely remember their names," said Cinq-Mars, looking at
the ceiling; "sometimes I do not even ask them. There was, in the first
place, a certain Monsieur--Monsieur Groot, or Grotius, a Hollander."

"I know him, a friend of Barnevelt; I pay him a pension. I liked him
well enough; but the Card--but I was told that he was a high Calvinist."

"I also saw an Englishman, named John Milton; he is a young man just
come from Italy, and is returning to London. He scarcely speaks at all."

"I don't know him--not at all; but I'm sure he's some other Calvinist.
And the Frenchmen, who were they?"

"The young man who wrote Cinna, and who has been thrice rejected at the
Academie Francaise; he was angry that Du Royer occupied his place there.
He is called Corneille."

"Well," said the King, folding his arms, and looking at him with an air
of triumph and reproach, "I ask you who are these people? Is it in such
a circle that you ought to be seen?"

Cinq-Mars was confounded at this observation, which hurt his self-pride,
and, approaching the King, he said:

"You are right, Sire; but there can be no harm in passing an hour or
two in listening to good conversation. Besides, many courtiers go there,
such as the Duc de Bouillon, Monsieur d'Aubijoux, the Comte de Brion,
the Cardinal de la Vallette, Messieurs de Montresor, Fontrailles; men
illustrious in the sciences, as Mairet, Colletet, Desmarets, author
of Araine; Faret, Doujat, Charpentier, who wrote the Cyropedie; Giry,
Besons, and Baro, the continuer of Astree--all academicians."

"Ah! now, indeed, here are men of real merit," said Louis; "there
is nothing to be said against them. One can not but gain from their
society. Theirs are settled reputations; they're men of weight. Come,
let us make up; shake hands, child. I permit you to go there sometimes,
but do not deceive me any more; you see I know all. Look at this."

So saying, the King took from a great iron chest set against the wall
enormous packets of paper scribbled over with very fine writing. Upon
one was written, Baradas, upon another, D'Hautefort, upon a third,
La Fayette, and finally, Cinq-Mars. He stopped at the latter, and
continued:

"See how many times you have deceived me! These are the continual faults
of which I have myself kept a register during the two years I have known
you; I have written out our conversations day by day. Sit down."

Cinq-Mars obeyed with a sigh, and had the patience for two long hours
to listen to a summary of what his master had had the patience to write
during the course of two years. He yawned many times during the reading,
as no doubt we should all do, were it needful to report this dialogue,
which was found in perfect order, with his will, at the death of the
King. We shall only say that he finished thus:

"In fine, hear what you did on the seventh of December, three days ago.
I was speaking to you of the flight of the hawk, and of the knowledge of
hunting, in which you are deficient. I said to you, on the authority of
La Chasse Royale, a work of King Charles IX, that after the hunter has
accustomed his dog to follow a beast, he must consider him as of himself
desirous of returning to the wood, and the dog must not be rebuked or
struck in order to make him follow the track well; and that in order to
teach a dog to set well, creatures that are not game must not be allowed
to pass or run, nor must any scents be missed, without putting his nose
to them.

"Hear what you replied to me (and in a tone of ill-humor--mind that!)
'Ma foi! Sire, give me rather regiments to conduct than birds and dogs.
I am sure that people would laugh at you and me if they knew how we
occupy ourselves.' And on the eighth--wait, yes, on the eighth--while
we were singing vespers together in my chambers, you threw your book
angrily into the fire, which was an impiety; and afterward you told
me that you had let it drop--a sin, a mortal sin. See, I have written
below, lie, underlined. People never deceive me, I assure you."

"But, Sire--"

"Wait a moment! wait a moment! In the evening you told me the Cardinal
had burned a man unjustly, and out of personal hatred."

"And I repeat it, and maintain it, and will prove it, Sire. It is the
greatest crime of all of that man whom you hesitate to disgrace, and
who renders you unhappy. I myself saw all, heard, all, at Loudun. Urbain
Grandier was assassinated, rather than tried. Hold, Sire, since you have
there all those memoranda in your own hand, merely reperuse the proofs
which I then gave you of it."

Louis, seeking the page indicated, and going back to the journey from
Perpignan to Paris, read the whole narrative with attention, exclaiming:

"What horrors! How is it that I have forgotten all this? This man
fascinates me; that's certain. You are my true friend, Cinq-Mars.
What horrors! My reign will be stained by them. What! he prevented the
letters of all the nobility and notables of the district from reaching
me! Burn, burn alive! without proofs! for revenge! A man, a people have
invoked my name in vain; a family curses me! Oh, how unhappy are kings!"

And the Prince, as he concluded, threw aside his papers and wept.

"Ah, Sire, those are blessed tears that you weep!" exclaimed Cinq-Mars,
with sincere admiration. "Would that all France were here with me! She
would be astonished at this spectacle, and would scarcely believe it."

"Astonished! France, then, does not know me?"

"No, Sire," said D'Effiat, frankly; "no one knows you. And I myself,
with the rest of the world, at times accuse you of coldness and
indifference."

"Of coldness, when I am dying with sorrow! Of coldness, when I
have immolated myself to their interests! Ungrateful nation! I have
sacrificed all to it, even pride, even the happiness of guiding it
myself, because I feared on its account for my fluctuating life. I have
given my sceptre to be borne by a man I hate, because I believed his
hand to be stronger than my own. I have endured the ill he has done to
myself, thinking that he did good to my people. I have hidden my own
tears to dry theirs; and I see that my sacrifice has been even greater
than I thought it, for they have not perceived it. They have believed me
incapable because I was kind, and without power because I mistrusted my
own. But, no matter! God sees and knows me!"

"Ah, Sire, show yourself to France such as you are; reassume your
usurped power. France will do for your love what she would never do from
fear. Return to life, and reascend the throne."

"No, no; my life is well-nigh finished, my dear friend. I am no longer
capable of the labor of supreme command.'"

"Ah, Sire, this persuasion alone destroys your vigor. It is time that
men should cease to confound power with crime, and call this union
genius. Let your voice be heard proclaiming to the world that the reign
of virtue is about to begin with your own; and hence forth those enemies
whom vice has so much difficulty in suppressing will fall before a word
uttered from your heart. No one has as yet calculated all that the good
faith of a king of France may do for his people--that people who are
drawn so instantaneously to ward all that is good and beautiful, by
their imagination and warmth of soul, and who are always ready with
every kind of devotion. The King, your father, led us with a smile. What
would not one of your tears do?"

During this address the King, very much surprised, frequently reddened,
hemmed, and gave signs of great embarrassment, as always happened
when any attempt was made to bring him to a decision. He also felt the
approach of a conversation of too high an order, which the timidity of
his soul forbade him to venture upon; and repeatedly putting his hand
to his chest, knitting his brows as if suffering violent pain, he
endeavored to relieve himself by the apparent attack of illness from
the embarrassment of answering. But, either from passion, or from a
resolution to strike the crowning blow, Cinq-Mars went on calmly
and with a solemnity that awed Louis, who, forced into his last
intrenchments, at length said:

"But, Cinq-Mars, how can I rid myself of a minister who for eighteen
years past has surrounded me with his creatures?"

"He is not so very powerful," replied the grand ecuyer; "and his friends
will be his most sure enemies if you but make a sign of your head. The
ancient league of the princes of peace still exists, Sire, and it is
only the respect due to the choice of your Majesty that prevents it from
manifesting itself."

"Ah, mon Dieu! thou mayst tell them not to stop on my account. I would
not restrain them; they surely do not accuse me of being a Cardinalist.
If my brother will give me the means of replacing Richelieu, I will
adopt them with all my heart."

"I believe, Sire, that he will to-day speak to you of Monsieur le Duc de
Bouillon. All the Royalists demand him."

"I don't dislike him," said the King, arranging his pillows; "I don't
dislike him at all, although he is somewhat factious. We are relatives.
Knowest thou, chez ami"--and he placed on this favorite expression more
emphasis than usual--"knowest thou that he is descended in direct
line from Saint Louis, by Charlotte de Bourbon, daughter of the Duc de
Montpensier? Knowest thou that seven princes of the blood royal have
been united to his house; and eight daughters of his family, one of
whom was a queen, have been married to princes of the blood royal? Oh, I
don't at all dislike him! I have never said so, never!"

"Well, Sire," said Cinq-Mars, with confidence, "Monsieur and he will
explain to you during the hunt how all is prepared, who are the men that
may be put in the place of his creatures, who the field-marshals and the
colonels who may be depended upon against Fabert and the Cardinalists of
Perpignan. You will see that the minister has very few for him.

"The Queen, Monsieur, the nobility, and the parliaments are on our side;
and the thing is done from the moment that your Majesty is not opposed
to it. It has been proposed to get rid of the Cardinal as the Marechal
d'Ancre was got rid of, who deserved it less than he."

"As Concini?" said the King. "Oh, no, it must not be. I positively
can not consent to it. He is a priest and a cardinal. We shall be
excommunicated. But if there be any other means, I am very willing. Thou
mayest speak of it to thy friends; and I on my side will think of the
matter."

The word once spoken, the King gave himself up to his resentment, as if
he had satisfied it, as if the blow were already struck. Cinq-Mars was
vexed to see this, for he feared that his anger thus vented might not
be of long duration. However, he put faith in his last words, especially
when, after numberless complaints, Louis added:

"And would you believe that though now for two years I have mourned my
mother, ever since that day when he so cruelly mocked me before my whole
court by asking for her recall when he knew she was dead--ever since
that day I have been trying in vain to get them to bury her in France
with my fathers? He has exiled even her ashes."

At this moment Cinq-Mars thought he heard a sound on the staircase; the
King reddened.

"Go," he said; "go! Make haste and prepare for the hunt! Thou wilt ride
next to my carriage. Go quickly! I desire it; go!"

And he himself pushed Cinq-Mars toward the entrance by which he had
come.

The favorite went out; but his master's anxiety had not escaped him.

He slowly descended, and tried to divine the cause of it in his
mind, when he thought he heard the sound of feet ascending the other
staircase. He stopped; they stopped. He re-ascended; they seemed to him
to descend. He knew that nothing could be seen between the interstices
of the architecture; and he quitted the place, impatient and very
uneasy, and determined to remain at the door of the entrance to see who
should come out. But he had scarcely raised the tapestry which veiled
the entrance to the guardroom than he was surrounded by a crowd of
courtiers who had been awaiting him, and was fain to proceed to the work
of issuing the orders connected with his post, or to receive respects,
communications, solicitations, presentations, recommendations,
embraces--to observe that infinitude of relations which surround a
favorite, and which require constant and sustained attention, for any
absence of mind might cause great misfortunes. He thus almost forgot the
trifling circumstance which had made him uneasy, and which he thought
might after all have only been a freak of the imagination. Giving
himself up to the sweets of a kind of continual apotheosis, he
mounted his horse in the great courtyard, attended by noble pages, and
surrounded by brilliant gentlemen.

Monsieur soon arrived, followed by his people; and in an hour the King
appeared, pale, languishing, and supported by four men. Cinq-Mars,
dismounting, assisted him into a kind of small and very low carriage,
called a brouette, and the horses of which, very docile and quiet ones,
the King himself drove. The prickers on foot at the doors held the dogs
in leash; and at the sound of the horn scores of young nobles mounted,
and all set out to the place of meeting.

It was a farm called L'Ormage that the King had fixed upon; and the
court, accustomed to his ways, followed the many roads of the park,
while the King slowly followed an isolated path, having at his side the
grand ecuyer and four persons whom he had signed to approach him.

The aspect of this pleasure party was sinister. The approach of winter
had stripped well-nigh all the leaves from the great oaks in the park,
whose dark branches now stood up against a gray sky, like branches of
funereal candelabra. A light fog seemed to indicate rain; through the
melancholy boughs of the thinned wood the heavy carriages of the court
were seen slowly passing on, filled with women, uniformly dressed in
black, and obliged to await the result of a chase which they did not
witness. The distant hounds gave tongue, and the horn was sometimes
faintly heard like a sigh. A cold, cutting wind compelled every man to
don cloaks, and some of the women, putting over their faces a veil or
mask of black velvet to keep themselves from the air which the curtains
of their carriages did not intercept (for there were no glasses at that
time), seemed to wear what is called a domino. All was languishing and
sad. The only relief was that ever and anon groups of young men in the
excitement of the chase flew down the avenue like the wind, cheering on
the dogs or sounding their horns. Then all again became silent, as after
the discharge of fireworks the sky appears darker than before.

In a path, parallel with that followed by the King, were several
courtiers enveloped in their cloaks. Appearing little intent upon the
stag, they rode step for step with the King's brouette, and never lost
sight of him. They conversed in low tones.

"Excellent! Fontrailles, excellent! victory! The King takes his arm
every moment. See how he smiles upon him! See! Monsieur le Grand
dismounts and gets into the brouette by his side. Come, come, the old
fox is done at last!"

"Ah, that's nothing! Did you not see how the King shook hands with
Monsieur? He's made a sign to you, Montresor. Look, Gondi!"

"Look, indeed! That's very easy to say; but I don't see with my own
eyes. I have only those of faith, and yours. Well, what are they doing
now? I wish to Heaven I were not so near-sighted! Tell me, what are they
doing?"

Montresor answered, "The King bends his ear toward the Duc de Bouillon,
who is speaking to him; he speaks again! he gesticulates! he does not
cease! Oh, he'll be minister!"

"He will be minister!" said Fontrailles.

"He will be minister!" echoed the Comte du Lude.

"Oh, no doubt of it!" said Montresor.

"I hope he'll give me a regiment, and I'll marry my cousin," cried
Olivier d'Entraigues, with boyish vivacity.

The Abbe de Gondi sneered, and, looking up at the sky, began to sing to
a hunting tune.

       "Les etourneaux ont le vent bon,
        Ton ton, ton ton, ton taine, ton ton--"

"I think, gentlemen, you are more short-sighted than I, or else miracles
will come to pass in the year of grace 1642; for Monsieur de Bouillon is
no nearer being Prime-Minister, though the King do embrace him, than I.
He has good qualities, but he will not do; his qualities are not various
enough. However, I have much respect for his great and singularly
foolish town of Sedan, which is a fine shelter in case of need."

Montresor and the rest were too attentive to every gesture of the Prince
to answer him; and they continued:

"See, Monsieur le Grand takes the reins, and is driving."

The Abbe replied with the same air:

       "Si vous conduisez ma brouette,
        Ne versez pas, beau postillon,
        Ton ton, ton ton, ton taine, ton ton."

"Ah, Abbe, your songs will drive me mad!" said Fontrailles. "You've got
airs ready for every event in life."

"I will also find you events which shall go to all the airs," answered
Gondi.

"Faith, the air of these pleases me!" said Fontrailles, in an under
voice. "I shall not be obliged by Monsieur to carry his confounded
treaty to Madrid, and I am not sorry for it; it is a somewhat touchy
commission. The Pyrenees are not so easily passed as may be supposed;
the Cardinal is on the road."

"Ha! Ha!" cried Montresor.

"Ha! Ha!" said Olivier.

"Well, what is the matter with you? ah, ah!" asked Gondi. "What have you
discovered that is so great?"

"Why, the King has again shaken hands with Monsieur. Thank Heaven,
gentlemen, we're rid of the Cardinal! The old boar is hunted down. Who
will stick the knife into him? He must be thrown into the sea."

"That's too good for him," said Olivier; "he must be tried."

"Certainly," said the Abbe; "and we sha'n't want for charges against
an insolent fellow who has dared to discharge a page, shall we?" Then,
curbing his horse, and letting Olivier and Montresor pass on, he leaned
toward M. du Lude, who was talking with two other serious personages,
and said:

"In truth, I am tempted to let my valet-de-chambre into the secret;
never was a conspiracy treated so lightly. Great enterprises require
mystery. This would be an admirable one if some trouble were taken with
it. 'Tis in itself a finer one than I have ever read of in history.
There is stuff enough in it to upset three kingdoms, if necessary, and
the blockheads will spoil all. It is really a pity. I should be very
sorry. I've a taste for affairs of this kind; and in this one in
particular I feel a special interest. There is grandeur about it, as can
not be denied. Do you not think so, D'Aubijoux, Montmort?"

While he was speaking, several large and heavy carriages, with six and
four horses, followed the same path at two hundred paces behind these
gentlemen; the curtains were open on the left side through which to see
the King. In the first was the Queen; she was alone at the back, clothed
in black and veiled. On the box was the Marechale d'Effiat; and at
the feet of the Queen was the Princesse Marie. Seated on one side on
a stool, her robe and her feet hung out of the carriage, and were
supported by a gilt step--for, as we have already observed, there were
then no doors to the coaches. She also tried to see through the trees
the movements of the King, and often leaned back, annoyed by the passing
of the Prince-Palatine and his suite.

This northern Prince was sent by the King of Poland, apparently on a
political negotiation, but in reality, to induce the Duchesse de Mantua
to espouse the old King Uladislas VI; and he displayed at the court of
France all the luxury of his own, then called at Paris "barbarian and
Scythian," and so far justified these names by strange eastern costumes.
The Palatine of Posnania was very handsome, and wore, in common with the
people of his suite, a long, thick beard. His head, shaved like that
of a Turk, was covered with a furred cap. He had a short vest, enriched
with diamonds and rubies; his horse was painted red, and amply plumed.
He was attended by a company of Polish guards in red and yellow
uniforms, wearing large cloaks with long sleeves, which hung negligently
from the shoulder. The Polish lords who escorted him were dressed in
gold and silver brocade; and behind their shaved heads floated a single
lock of hair, which gave them an Asiatic and Tartar aspect, as unknown
at the court of Louis XIII as that of the Moscovites. The women thought
all this rather savage and alarming.

Marie de Mantua was importuned with the profound salutations and
Oriental elegancies of this foreigner and his suite. Whenever he passed
before her, he thought himself called upon to address a compliment to
her in broken French, awkwardly made up of a few words about hope
and royalty. She found no other means to rid herself of him than by
repeatedly putting her handkerchief to her nose, and saying aloud to the
Queen:

"In truth, Madame, these gentlemen have an odor about them that makes
one quite ill."

"It will be desirable to strengthen your nerves and accustom yourself to
it," answered Anne of Austria, somewhat dryly.

Then, fearing she had hurt her feelings, she continued gayly:

"You will become used to them, as we have done; and you know that in
respect to odors I am rather fastidious. Monsieur Mazarin told me, the
other day, that my punishment in purgatory will consist in breathing ill
scents and sleeping in Russian cloth."

Yet the Queen was very grave, and soon subsided into silence. Burying
herself in her carriage, enveloped in her mantle, and apparently taking
no interest in what was passing around her, she yielded to the motion of
the carriage. Marie, still occupied with the King, talked in a low voice
with the Marechale d'Effiat; each sought to give the other hopes which
neither felt, and sought to deceive each other out of love.

"Madame, I congratulate you; Monsieur le Grand is seated with the King.
Never has he been so highly distinguished," said Marie.

Then she was silent for a long time, and the carriage rolled mournfully
over the dead, dry leaves.

"Yes, I see it with joy; the King is so good!" answered the Marechale.

And she sighed deeply.

A long and sad silence again followed; each looked at the other and
mutually found their eyes full of tears. They dared not speak again;
and Marie, drooping her head, saw nothing but the brown, damp earth
scattered by the wheels. A melancholy revery occupied her mind; and
although she had before her the spectacle of the first court of Europe
at the feet of him she loved, everything inspired her with fear,