Part 27
Raoul, after one last glance cast at the Comte de La Fère, followed M. de Condé.
Philippe d'Anjou and the queen then seemed to consult one another as if to take their leave.
“Family matter,” said Mazarin suddenly, keeping them in their seats. “The gentleman here brings the king a letter in which Charles II, fully restored to the throne, requests an alliance between Monsieur, the king's brother, and Mademoiselle Henriette, granddaughter of Henri IV... will you present your letter of credence to the king, Monsieur le Comte.”
Athos remained for a moment stupefied. How could the minister know the contents of a letter that had never left him for an instant? Nevertheless, still master of himself, he extended his dispatch to the young king Louis XIV, who took it blushing. A solemn silence reigned in the cardinal's chamber. It was broken only by the sound of the gold that Mazarin, with his yellow, dry hand, was piling into a casket during the king's reading.
Chapter XLI — The Account
The cardinal's malice left the ambassador little to say; yet the word restoration had struck the king, who, addressing the count, upon whom he had kept his eyes fixed since his entrance:
“Monsieur,” said he, “be so good as to give us some details upon the state of affairs in England. You come from that country, you are French, and the orders I see shining upon your person announce a man of merit as well as a man of rank.”
“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, turning toward the queen mother, “is a former servant of Your Majesty, M. le Comte de La Fère.”
Anne of Austria was forgetful like a queen whose life had been mingled with storms and fair days. She looked at Mazarin, whose evil smile promised her some piece of darkness; then she solicited an explanation from Athos by another glance.
“Monsieur,” the cardinal continued, “was a Tréville musketeer, in the service of the late king... Monsieur knows England perfectly, where he has made several journeys at various times; he is a subject of the highest merit.”
These words alluded to all those memories that Anne of Austria always trembled to evoke. England was her hatred for Richelieu and her love for Buckingham; a Tréville musketeer was the whole odyssey of the triumphs that had made the young woman's heart beat, and of the perils that had half uprooted the young queen's throne.
These words had great power, for they rendered all the royal persons mute and attentive, who, with very diverse sentiments, began to reconstruct at once the mysterious years that the young had not seen, that the old had believed forever effaced.
“Speak, Monsieur,” said Louis XIV, the first to emerge from trouble, from suspicions and memories.
“Yes, speak,” added Mazarin, to whom the little spite done to Anne of Austria had just restored his energy and his gaiety.
“Sire,” said the count, “a sort of miracle has changed the whole destiny of King Charles II. What men had not been able to do until then, God resolved to accomplish.”
Mazarin coughed, writhing in his bed.
“King Charles II,” Athos continued, “departed from The Hague, no longer as a fugitive or as a conqueror, but as an absolute king who, after a journey far from his kingdom, returns amid universal blessings.”
“A great miracle indeed,” said Mazarin, “for if the news has been true, King Charles II, who has just returned amid blessings, departed amid musket shots.”
The king remained impassive.
Philippe, younger and more frivolous, could not repress a smile that flattered Mazarin like an applause of his jest.
“Indeed,” said the king, “there has been a miracle; but God, who does so much for kings, Monsieur le Comte, nevertheless employs the hand of men to make his designs triumph. To what men does Charles II principally owe his restoration?”
“But,” interrupted the cardinal without any care for the king's amour-propre, “does not Your Majesty know that it is to M. Monck?...”
“I ought to know it,” replied Louis XIV resolutely; “however, I ask the ambassador the causes of this M. Monck's change.”
“And Your Majesty touches precisely the question,” answered Athos; “for, without the miracle of which I have had the honor to speak, M. Monck would probably have remained an invincible enemy to King Charles II. God willed that a strange, bold and ingenious idea should fall into the mind of a certain man, while a devoted, courageous idea fell into the mind of a certain other. The combination of these two ideas brought such a change in M. Monck's position, that, from a bitter enemy, he became a friend to the fallen king.”
“That is precisely the detail I asked for,” said the king... “Who are these two men of whom you speak?”
“Two Frenchmen, Sire.”
“Truly, I am glad of it.”
“And the two ideas?” cried Mazarin. “I am more curious about ideas than about men, myself.”
“Yes,” murmured the king.
“The second, the devoted, reasonable idea... the less important, Sire, was to go and dig up a million in gold buried by King Charles I at Newcastle, and to buy, with that gold, Monck's concurrence.”
“Oh! oh!” said Mazarin, revived at the word million... “but Newcastle was precisely occupied by that same Monck?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Cardinal, which is why I dared call the idea courageous as well as devoted. It was therefore a question, if M. Monck refused the negotiator's offers, of reinstating King Charles II in the ownership of that million which one must wrest from the loyalty and no longer from the loyalism of General Monck... This was done despite some difficulties; the general was loyal and let the gold be carried off.”
“It seems to me,” said the king, timid and dreamy, “that Charles II had no knowledge of that million during his stay in Paris.”
“It seems to me,” added the cardinal maliciously, “that His Majesty the King of Great Britain knew perfectly the existence of the million, but that he preferred two millions to one.”
“Sire,” replied Athos with firmness, “His Majesty King Charles II found himself in France so poor, that he had no money to take the post; so devoid of hopes, that he thought several times of dying. He was so ignorant of the existence of the million of Newcastle, that without a gentleman, a subject of Your Majesty, moral depositary of the million and who revealed the secret to Charles II, this prince would still be vegetating in the most cruel oblivion.”
“Let us pass to the ingenious, strange and bold idea,” interrupted Mazarin, whose sagacity presaged a check. “What was that idea?”
“Here it is. M. Monck alone opposing the restoration of His Majesty the fallen king, a Frenchman imagined suppressing that obstacle.”
“Oh! oh! but that is a scoundrel, that Frenchman,” said Mazarin, “and the idea is not so ingenious that it would not get its author hanged or broken on the wheel in the Place de Grève by sentence of Parliament.”
“Your Eminence is mistaken,” said Athos dryly; “I did not say that the Frenchman in question had resolved to assassinate Monck, but rather to suppress him. The words of the French language have a value that gentlemen of France know absolutely. Besides, it is a matter of war, and when one serves kings against their enemies, one has not Parliament for judge, one has God. So this French gentleman imagined seizing the person of M. Monck, and he executed his plan.”
The king warmed to the account of noble deeds. The young brother of His Majesty struck the table with his fist, crying:
“Ah! that is fine!”
“He carried off Monck?” said the king; “but Monck was in his camp...”
“And the gentleman was alone, Sire.”
“That is marvelous!” said Philippe.
“Indeed, marvelous!” cried the king.
“Bah! there are the two little lions unchained,” murmured the cardinal.
And with an air of vexation that he did not disguise:
“I am ignorant of these details,” said he; “do you guarantee their authenticity, Monsieur?”
“All the more easily, Monsieur le Cardinal, since I have seen the events.”
“You?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The king had involuntarily drawn near the count; the Duc d'Anjou had turned about, and pressed Athos on the other side.
“After, Monsieur, after?” they both cried at the same time.
“Sire, M. Monck, being taken by the Frenchman, was brought to King Charles II at The Hague. The king restored liberty to M. Monck, and the general, grateful, gave in return to Charles II the throne of Great Britain, for which so many valiant men had fought without result.”
Philippe clapped his hands with enthusiasm. Louis XIV, more reflective, turned toward the Comte de La Fère:
“Is that true,” said he, “in all its details?”
“Absolutely true, Sire.”
“One of my gentlemen knew the secret of the million and had kept it?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“The name of that gentleman?”
“It is your servant,” said Athos simply.
A murmur of admiration came to swell Athos's heart. He might be proud with less. Mazarin himself had lifted his arms to heaven.
“Monsieur,” said the king, “I shall seek, I shall try to find a means of rewarding you.”
Athos made a movement.
“Oh! not for your probity; to be paid for that would humiliate you; but I owe you a reward for having participated in the restoration of my brother Charles II.”
“Certainly,” said Mazarin.
“Triumph of a good cause that fills with joy the whole house of France,” said Anne of Austria.
“I continue,” said Louis XIV. “Is it also true that a man penetrated as far as Monck, into his camp, and carried him off?”
“That man had ten auxiliaries taken from an inferior rank.”
“Only that?”
“Only that.”
“And you name him?”
“M. d'Artagnan, formerly lieutenant of the musketeers of Your Majesty.”
Anne of Austria blushed, Mazarin became ashamed and yellow; Louis XIV darkened, and a drop of sweat fell from his pale brow.
“What men!” he murmured.
And, involuntarily, he launched at the minister a glance that would have terrified him, had not Mazarin at that moment hidden his head under the pillow.
“Monsieur,” cried the young Duc d'Anjou, placing his white and fine hand, like that of a woman, upon Athos's arm, “tell that brave man, I pray you, that Monsieur, the king's brother, will drink tomorrow to his health before a hundred of the best gentlemen of France.”
And in finishing these words, the young man, perceiving that enthusiasm had disordered one of his ruffles, occupied himself with restoring it with the greatest care.
“Let us speak of business, Sire,” interrupted Mazarin, who did not enthuse and who had no ruffles.
“Yes, Monsieur,” replied Louis XIV. “Begin your communication, Monsieur le Comte,” added he, turning toward Athos.
Athos began indeed, and solemnly proposed the hand of Lady Henriette Stuart to the young prince, brother of the king. The conference lasted an hour; after which, the doors of the chamber were opened to the courtiers, who resumed their places as if nothing had been suppressed for them in the occupations of that evening.
Athos then found himself near Raoul, and father and son could press hands.
Chapter XLII — Where M. de Mazarin Shows Himself Prodigious
While Mazarin sought to recover from the hot alarm he had just had, Athos and Raoul exchanged a few words in a corner of the chamber.
“So here you are in Paris, Raoul?” said the count.
“Yes, Monsieur, since M. le Prince returned.”
“I cannot converse with you in this place, where we are observed, but I am going home presently, and I expect you there as soon as your service will permit.”
Raoul bowed. M. le Prince was coming straight to them. The prince had that clear and deep gaze which distinguishes birds of prey of noble species; his very physiognomy offered several distinctive traits of that resemblance. It is known that, in the Prince de Condé, the aquiline nose issued sharp, incisive, from a slightly retreating forehead, lower than high; which, according to the mockers of the court, pitiless even toward genius, constituted rather an eagle's beak than a human nose in the heir of the illustrious princes of the house of Condé. That penetrating gaze, that imperious expression of the whole physiognomy, ordinarily troubled those to whom the prince addressed speech more than would have the majesty or regular beauty of the conqueror of Rocroy. Besides, the flame mounted so quickly to those protruding eyes, that in M. le Prince every animation resembled anger. Now, by reason of his quality, everyone at court respected M. le Prince, and many even, seeing only the man, pushed respect to terror.
Therefore, Louis de Condé advanced toward the Comte de La Fère and Raoul with the marked intention of being saluted by one and of addressing the other.
None saluted with more reserved grace than the Comte de La Fère. He disdained to put into a bow all the nuances that a courtier ordinarily borrows only from the same color: the desire to please. Athos knew his personal worth and saluted a prince as a man, correcting by something sympathetic and indefinable what might be wounding to the pride of supreme rank in the inflexibility of his attitude.
The prince was going to speak to Raoul. Athos anticipated him.
“If the Vicomte de Bragelonne,” said he, “were not one of the very humble servants of Your Highness, I would beg him to pronounce my name before you... my prince.”
“I have the honor of speaking to M. le Comte de La Fère,” said M. de Condé at once.
“My protector,” added Raoul, blushing.
“One of the most honest men of the kingdom,” the prince continued; “one of the first gentlemen of France, and of whom I have heard so much good, that often I desired to count him among my friends.”
“An honor of which I should be worthy, my lord, only by my respect and my admiration for Your Highness.”
“M. de Bragelonne,” said the prince, “is a good officer who, as one sees, has been at a good school. Ah! Monsieur le Comte, in your time, generals had soldiers...”
“That is true, my lord; but today, the soldiers are generals.”
This compliment, which smacked so little of a flatterer, made thrill with joy a man whom all Europe regarded as a hero and who might be blasé upon praise.
“It is unfortunate for me,” replied the prince, “that you withdrew from service, Monsieur le Comte; for, shortly, the king must occupy himself with a war with Holland or a war with England, and occasions will not be lacking for a man like you who knows Great Britain as France.”
“I believe I can tell you, my lord, that I did wisely to withdraw from service,” said Athos smiling. “France and Great Britain are henceforth going to live like two sisters, if I trust my presentiments.”
“Your presentiments?”
“See here, my lord, listen to what is said yonder at M. le Cardinal's table.”
“At play?”
“At play... Yes, my lord.”
The cardinal had indeed just raised himself on an elbow and made a sign to the young brother of the king, who approached him.
“My lord,” said the cardinal, “have all those écus d'or gathered up, I pray you.”
And he pointed to the enormous heap of tawny and brilliant pieces that the Comte de Guiche had little by little raised before him, thanks to a most fortunate vein.
“For me?” cried the Duc d'Anjou.
“Those fifty thousand écus, yes, my lord; they are yours.”
“You give them to me?”
“I played for your benefit, my lord,” replied the cardinal, growing weaker by degrees, as if that effort of giving money had exhausted in him all physical or moral faculties.
“Oh! my God,” murmured Philippe, almost dizzy with joy, “what a fine day!”
And he himself, making a rake with his fingers, drew a part of the sum into his pockets, which he filled...
However, more than a third still remained on the table.
“Chevalier,” said Philippe to his favorite the Chevalier de Lorraine, “come.”
The favorite ran up.
“Pocket the rest,” said the young prince.
This singular scene was taken by none of the bystanders but as a touching family festival. The cardinal gave himself the airs of a father with the sons of France, and the two young princes had grown up under his wing. No one therefore imputed to pride or even to impertinence, as would be done in our days, this liberality of the First Minister. The courtiers contented themselves with envying... The king turned his head away.
“Never have I had so much money,” said the young prince joyously, crossing the chamber with his favorite to go win his carriage. “No, never... How heavy it is, a hundred and fifty thousand livres!”
“But why does M. le Cardinal give all that money at once?” asked M. le Prince low to the Comte de La Fère. “He is then very ill, that dear cardinal?”
“Yes, my lord, very ill no doubt; he has besides a bad look, as Your Highness may see.”
“Certainly... But he will die of it!... A hundred and fifty thousand livres!... Oh! that is beyond belief. Come, count, why? Find us a reason.”
“My lord, have patience, I pray you; there is M. le Duc d'Anjou coming this way talking with the Chevalier de Lorraine; I should not be surprised if they spared me the pain of being indiscreet. Listen to them.”
Indeed, the chevalier was saying to the prince half-voice:
“My lord, it is not natural that M. Mazarin gives you so much money... Take care, you are going to let pieces fall, my lord... What does the cardinal want of you to be so generous?”
“When I told you,” murmured Athos in M. le Prince's ear; “here perhaps is the answer to your question.”
“Say then, my lord?” reiterated impatiently the chevalier, who, weighing his pocket, computed the quota of the sum that had fallen to him by ricochet.
“My dear chevalier, a wedding gift.”
“How, a wedding gift!”
“Eh! yes, I am marrying!” replied the Duc d'Anjou, without perceiving that he was at that very moment passing before M. le Prince and Athos, who both saluted him profoundly.
The chevalier cast at the young duke a glance so strange, so hateful, that the Comte de La Fère trembled at it.
“You! marrying!” he repeated. “Oh! it is impossible. You would do that folly!”
“Bah! it is not I who do it; they make me do it,” replied the Duc d'Anjou. “But come quickly; let us go spend our money.”
Thereupon, he disappeared with his companion laughing and talking, while brows bent along his passage.
Then M. le Prince said low to Athos:
“So that is the secret?”
“It is not I who told it to you, my lord.”
“He is marrying the sister of Charles II?”
“I believe so.”
The prince reflected a moment and his eye shot a vivid flash.
“Come,” said he with slowness, as if speaking to himself, “here are the swords on the hook again... for a long time!”
And he sighed.
All that this sigh contained of ambitions darkly stifled, of extinguished illusions, of deceived hopes, Athos alone divined it, for alone he had heard the sigh.
Straightway M. le Prince took leave, the king was departing. Athos, with a sign he made to Bragelonne, renewed the invitation made at the beginning of this scene.
Little by little the chamber became deserted, and Mazarin remained alone, prey to sufferings he no longer thought to dissimulate.
“Bernouin! Bernouin!” he cried in a broken voice.
“What does my lord want?”
“Guénaud... let Guénaud be called,” said his Eminence; “it seems to me that I am going to die.”
Bernouin, dismayed, ran to the cabinet to give an order, and the groom who ran to fetch the physician crossed the king's carriage in the Rue Saint-Honoré.
Chapter XLIII — Guénaud
The cardinal's order was pressing: Guénaud did not make himself waited for.
He found his patient thrown back on the bed, the legs swollen, livid, the stomach compressed. Mazarin had just undergone a rude attack of gout. He suffered cruelly and with the impatience of a man who is not accustomed to resistance. At Guénaud's arrival:
“Ah!” said he, “now I am saved!”
Guénaud was a very learned and very circumspect man, who needed not the criticisms of Boileau to have a reputation. When he was face to face with disease, were it personified in a king, he treated the patient like a Turk by a Moor. He did not therefore reply to Mazarin as the minister expected: “Here is the physician; farewell the disease!” Quite the contrary, examining the patient with a very grave air:
“Oh! oh!” said he.
“What now! Guénaud?... What an air you have!”
“I have the air that is needed to see your evil, my lord, and an evil most dangerous.”
“The gout... Oh! yes, the gout.”
“With complications, my lord.”
Mazarin raised himself on an elbow, and questioning with look, with gesture:
“What are you telling me there! Am I more ill than I believe myself?”
“My lord,” said Guénaud, sitting near the bed, “Your Eminence has worked much in your life, Your Eminence has suffered much.”
“But I am not so old, it seems to me... The late M. de Richelieu was but seventeen months younger than I when he died, and died of mortal disease. I am young, Guénaud, think of it: I am scarce fifty-two years old.”
“Oh! my lord, you have much more than that... How long did the Fronde last?”
“To what purpose, Guénaud, do you ask me that question?”
“For a medical calculation, my lord.”
“But something like ten years... more or less.”
“Very well; please count each year of Fronde as three years... that makes thirty; now, twenty and fifty-two make seventy-two years. You are seventy-two years old, my lord... and that is a great age.”
In saying that, he felt the patient's pulse. That pulse was filled with such unfortunate prognostics, that the physician pursued forthwith, despite the patient's interruptions:
“Let us put the Fronde years at four years apiece, that is eighty-two years that you have lived.”
Mazarin became very pale, and in an extinguished voice he said:
“You speak seriously, Guénaud?”
“Alas! yes, my lord.”
“You then take a roundabout way to announce to me that I am very ill?”
“My faith, yes, my lord, and with a man of the spirit and courage of Your Eminence, one should not take a roundabout way.”
The cardinal breathed so difficultly, that he inspired pity even in the pitiless physician.
“There is disease and disease,” resumed Mazarin. “From certain ones one escapes.”
“That is true, my lord.”
“Is it not?” cried Mazarin almost joyous; “for, after all, what would power serve, force of will? What would serve genius, your genius to you, Guénaud? What finally would serve science and art, if the patient who disposes of all that cannot save himself from peril?”
Guénaud was about to open his mouth. Mazarin continued:
“Think,” said he, “that I am the most confident of your clients, think that I obey you blindly, and that consequently...”
“I know all that,” said Guénaud.
“I shall be cured then?”
“My lord, there is neither force of will, nor power, nor genius, nor science that resist the evil that God no doubt sends, or that he casts upon the earth at creation, with full power to destroy and kill men. When the evil is mortal, it kills, and nothing helps...”
“My evil... is... mortal?” asked Mazarin.
“Yes, my lord.”
His Eminence collapsed for a moment, like the unhappy man whom a fall of column has just crushed... But it was a soul well tempered or rather a mind well solid, that the mind of M. de Mazarin.
“Stories of the world, in your language.”