THE CARDINAL DUPED.
Anne of Austria seated herself beside a fire which burnt on the
hearth. She signed to her attendants to withdraw.
“Send hither to me the Duchesse de Chevreuse, if she has returned to the
château,” said she to one of the pages in waiting. Then Anne drew from
her bosom the letter she had just received. “It is incredible,” said
she, speaking to herself, “that he should so compromise himself! Pride
has turned his brain. Now it is my turn, Monsieur le Cardinal.” The
Duchess entered hastily. “Read, _ma belle_, read,” cried Anne, holding
out the despatch to her, “the fates favour us. Let us a lay a trap for
this wicked prelate.”
“_Ma foi_” replied the Duchess, after having reperused the letter
contained in the despatch, “even I could not have contrived it better.
Here is the Cardinal craving a private audience of your Majesty in the
absence of the King. It will be a declaration in form--such as he made
to me.”
“A declaration to me, Duchess? He would not dare----”
“Madame, he has been a soldier, and has passed his life along with a
great queen. He believes himself irresistible. Who knows if Marie de’
Medici did not tell him so?” Anne of Austria looked displeased. “Pardon
me, Madame, this saucy Cardinal, whom I call the _Court-knave_, makes me
forget myself. Your Majesty must receive him graciously.”
“Yes, he shall come,” cried Anne; “he shall come and pay for his
audacity, the hypocrite! But tell me, Duchess, tell me instantly, how
can I best revenge myself? I have a long account to settle. Shall I
command my valets, Laporte and Putange, to hide behind the arras and
beat him until he is half dead?”
“No, Madame, that would be too dangerous; he might cut off your head in
revenge, _à la reine Anne Boleyn_. We must mortify him--wound his
vanity: no vengeance equal to that with a man like the Cardinal. He is
intensely conceited, and proud of his figure. He imagines that he is
graceful and alluring--perhaps he has been told so by her Majesty--I
beg your pardon, Madame”--and the Duchess stopped and pursed up her
lips, as if she could say more but dared not.
“Did Marion de l’Orme betray him?” asked the Queen slily, “or do you
speak on your own knowledge?”
“I have it!” cried Madame de Chevreuse--not noticing the Queen’s
question--and her mischievous eyes danced with glee. “I will meet him
when he comes to-morrow, and persuade him to appear in the dress of a
Spaniard, out of compliment to you. Stay, he shall dance, too, and we
will provide a mandoline to accompany his voice. I will tell him that
you have long admired him in secret, and that if he appears in so
becoming a costume he is sure to be well received. A Spanish costume,
too, for he knows how you adore Spain, the spy--then he shall dance a
_sarabande_, a _bolero à l’Espagnol_, or sing----”
“Ha! ha! Duchess, you are _impayable_” and the Queen laughed until the
tears ran down her cheeks. “But will he be fool enough to believe you?
If he does, I will kill him with scorn, the daring Cardinal!” and Anne
of Austria drew herself up, looked into an opposite mirror, shook her
golden curls, and laughed again.
The next morning, at the hour of the Queen’s lever, the Cardinal
arrived. The Duchesse de Chevreuse met him and conducted him to a room
near the Queen’s saloon. She carefully closed the door, begged him to be
seated, and, with an air of great mystery, requested him to listen to
her before his arrival was announced to her Majesty. The Cardinal was
greatly taken aback at finding himself alone with the Duchess. She
looked so seductive; the dark tints of her luxuriant hair, hanging about
her neck and shoulders, harmonised so well with her _brunette_
complexion, her brown eyes bent smilingly upon him, her delicate robe
clinging to her tall figure, that he was almost tempted to repent his
infidelity to her, and that he had come for any other than for her.
“Your eminence is surprised to see me,” said she, smiling, and speaking
in the softest voice, and with the utmost apparent frankness, “but I am
not in the least jealous,” and she shook her finger at him.
The Cardinal reddened, and looked confused.
“Do you, then, Duchess, guess on what errand I have come?”
“Perfectly, perfectly; when I heard you had requested a private audience
in the absence of the King, I understood the rest.”
“Perhaps I have been indiscreet,” said Richelieu, and he sighed, “but I
was anxious to explain my position to the Queen. I fear that she
misconceives me; that she looks on me as her enemy; that she imagines
that I prejudice the King against her. I desire to explain my feelings
to her; they are of a mixed nature.”
“So I would suppose,” answered Madame de Chevreuse, primly, almost
bursting with suppressed laughter.
“Do you think, then, madame, that her Majesty might be induced to lay
aside her silence, her reserve? Are you authorised to admit me to her
presence?”
“I am, Cardinal.”
Richelieu’s face flushed deep, his eyes glistened.
“To a certain extent,” continued the Duchess, “the Queen is gratified by
your homage. Her Majesty has noted your slim yet manly form, your
expressive eyes. She admires your great talents.”
“Do I dream?” exclaimed Richelieu. “You, madame, are indeed magnanimous.
I feared that you might be indignant at what you might consider my
inconstancy.”
“No, Cardinal, you could not be inconstant, for you were never loved.”
Richelieu started.
“By me--I mean to say, your eminence. You really should spare me,” added
she, affectedly; “but I suppose I must speak. Anne of Austria, the
daughter of a hundred kings, the wife of your Sovereign, secretly loves
you, monseigneur. It is astonishing your extraordinary penetration never
discovered this before. Since you went into the Church you must have
grown modest; but love is blind, says the motto,” and the Duchess was
obliged to hold her handkerchief to her face to hide her laughter.
“What words of ecstacy do you utter, adorable Duchess! But you must be
aware of the coldness, the insulting scorn which the lovely Queen has
hitherto shown towards me. How could I venture to guess----”
“Ah, Cardinal, it is easy to see you are not so advanced in the art of
love as of politics. Let me advise you to read Ovid--a little of _The
Art of Love_--_pour vous remettre_. Did you learn so little, then, from
her late Majesty, Marie de’ Medici, as not to know that where most
Cupid triumphs he most conceals his wicked little person? That very
coldness and scorn you speak of are but proofs of the Queen’s passion.
But let me tell you one thing: the Queen fears you may deceive--betray
her; and you must excuse her in this, when you remember, monseigneur,
certain tales of treachery--all utterly false, of course--but then
pardon a woman’s fears. You must, to speak plainly, give her some
undoubted proof of your love.”
“Madame, you cannot doubt after what I have just heard that I can
hesitate in promising to do all and everything my royal mistress can
desire.”
The Duchess confessed afterwards to the Queen, that it was with the
utmost difficulty she could keep her countenance, so absolutely farcical
were his transports.
“Have a care what you promise,” said the Duchess to the Cardinal; “the
Queen is very _bizarre_, and perhaps may require something
impracticable.”
“Madame,” replied Richelieu, “to _me_ nothing in this realm is
impracticable; speak only her Majesty’s wishes, and I hasten to obey
them.”
“Well, then, to-night you must come at dusk to her apartments.” The
Cardinal bounded from his chair with delight. “To-night; but not in this
sombre, melancholy dress; you must wear a toilette a little _convenable_
to the part you hope to act--something brilliant, gaudy--_un pantalon
vert, par exemple_.” The Cardinal started. “At your knees little bells
must be fastened. You must have a velvet jacket, scarlet scarf, and, in
fact, all the _et cæteras_ of a Spanish dress. It will please the Queen,
and pay her a delicate compliment, to which, believe me, she will not
be insensible.”
All this time Richelieu had listened to the Duchess in an agony of
surprise and amazement. “But, madame,” said he, at length, “this is
impossible. I, a dignitary of the Church, a Cardinal. Much as I desire
to show my devotion to the Queen, she herself cannot expect from me so
strange, so extraordinary a proof----”
“Certainly, monseigneur, it is an extreme proof of your devotion, and as
such the Queen will regard it. She will be gratified, and at the same
time will be thoroughly convinced of your sincerity. However, pray do as
you please,” and the Duchess shrugged her shoulders; “I merely mention
her Majesty’s wishes; you are quite at liberty to refuse. I shall
therefore,” and she rose, “report your refusal.”
“Stop, Duchess, stop, I entreat you!” interrupted Richelieu, “you are so
precipitate! I will--I must! (But what a fearful degradation! I, the
prime minister of France, a prince of the Church, to appear in the
disguise of a mountebank!) Ah, madame, her Majesty is too hard on me;
but I adore, I worship her too much to refuse. Yes,--her wishes are my
law; I cannot, I dare not refuse. Tell the Queen, at twilight this
evening, I will present myself in her apartments.”
The Duchess waited no longer, but flew to acquaint the Queen with her
success. Neither could for a long time articulate a single syllable,
they were so overcome with laughter. Music was introduced behind the
_arras_, for the Cardinal was to be prevailed on to dance a _sarabande_.
Then they impatiently awaited the moment of his arrival. At last,
enveloped in a Spanish cloak that entirely concealed his dress, the
Cardinal entered. He was hastily rushing towards the Queen--Heaven only
knows with what intentions--when Madame de Chevreuse interposed:
“Not yet, Cardinal--not yet; you must show us your dress first, then you
must dance a _sarabande_, a _bolero_--something. Her Majesty has heard
of your accomplishments and insists on it.”
“Yes,” cried Anne of Austria, “I insist on it, monseigneur, and have
provided the music accordingly.”
The violins now struck up. Richelieu looked confounded. He was almost on
the point of rushing out, when a few words whispered to him by the
Duchess arrested him; they acted like a charm. Casting one deep,
impassioned glance at the Queen, who sat at a little distance reposing
on a couch, ravishing in beauty, her rosy lips swelling with
ill-suppressed scorn, he threw down his cloak, displaying his
extraordinary dress, bells, scarlet scarf and all, and began to
dance--yes, to dance!
Poor man! he was no longer young, and was stiff from want of practice;
so after a few clumsy _entrechats_ and _pirouettes_, he stopped. He was
quite red in the face and out of breath. He looked horribly savage for a
few moments. The music stopped also, and there was a pause. Then he
advanced towards the Queen, the little bells tinkling as he moved.
“Your Majesty must _now_ be convinced of my devotion. Deign, most
adorable Princess, to permit me to kiss that exquisite hand.”
[Illustration: CARDINAL RICHELIEU.]
The Queen listened to him in solemn silence. The Duchess leaned behind
her couch, a smile of gratified malice on her face. The Cardinal,
motionless before them, awaited her reply. Then Anne of Austria rose,
and, looking him full in the face, measured him from head to foot.
Anger, contempt, and scorn flashed in her eyes. At last she
spoke--ineffable disgust and disdain in her tone--“Your eminence is, I
rejoice to see, good for something better than a _spy_. I had hitherto
doubted it. You have diverted me immensely. But take my advice; when you
next feel inclined to pay your addresses to the Queen of France, get
yourself shut up by your friends for an old fool. Now you may go.”
Richelieu, who had gradually turned livid while the Queen spoke, waited
to hear no more. He covered himself with his cloak and rushed headlong
from the room.