Instead of the hesitation with which he had accosted the cardinal a
quarter of an hour before, there might be read in the eyes of the young
king that will against which a struggle might be maintained, and which
might be crushed by its own impotence, but which, at least, would
preserve, like a wound in the depth of the heart, the remembrance of
its defeat.
“This time, my lord cardinal, we have to deal with something more
easily found than a million.”
“Do you think so, sire?” said Mazarin, looking at the king with that
penetrating eye which was accustomed to read to the bottom of hearts.
“Yes, I think so; and when you know the object of my request—”
“And do you think I do not know it, sire?”
“You know what remains for me to say to you?”
“Listen, sire; these are King Charles’s own words—”
“Oh, impossible!”
“Listen. ‘And if that miserly, beggarly Italian,’ said he—”
“My lord cardinal!”
“That is the sense, if not the words. Eh! Good heavens! I wish him no
ill on that account; one is biased by his passions. He said to you: ‘If
that vile Italian refuses the million we ask of him, sire,—if we are
forced, for want of money, to renounce diplomacy, well, then, we will
ask him to grant us five hundred gentlemen.’”
The king started, for the cardinal was only mistaken in the number.
“Is not that it, sire?” cried the minister, with a triumphant accent.
“And then he added some fine words: he said, ‘I have friends on the
other side of the channel, and these friends only want a leader and a
banner. When they see me, when they behold the banner of France, they
will rally around me, for they will comprehend that I have your
support. The colors of the French uniform will be worth as much to me
as the million M. de Mazarin refuses us,’—for he was pretty well
assured I should refuse him that million.—‘I shall conquer with these
five hundred gentlemen, sire, and all the honor will be yours.’ Now,
that is what he said, or to that purpose, was it not?—turning those
plain words into brilliant metaphors and pompous images, for they are
fine talkers in that family! The father talked even on the scaffold.”
The perspiration of shame stood on the brow of Louis. He felt that it
was inconsistent with his dignity to hear his brother thus insulted,
but he did not yet know how to act with him to whom every one yielded,
even his mother. At last he made an effort.
“But,” said he, “my lord cardinal, it is not five hundred men, it is
only two hundred.”
“Well, but you see I guessed what he wanted.”
“I never denied that you had a penetrating eye, and that was why I
thought you would not refuse my brother Charles a thing so simple and
so easy to grant him as what I ask of you in his name, my lord
cardinal, or rather in my own.”
“Sire,” said Mazarin, “I have studied policy thirty years; first, under
the auspices of M. le Cardinal Richelieu; and then alone. This policy
has not always been over-honest, it must be allowed, but it has never
been unskillful. Now that which is proposed to your majesty is
dishonest and unskillful at the same time.”
“Dishonest, monsieur!”
“Sire, you entered into a treaty with Cromwell.”
“Yes, and in that very treaty Cromwell signed his name above mine.”
“Why did you sign yours so lo down, sire? Cromwell found a good place,
and he took it; that was his custom. I return, then, to M. Cromwell.
You have a treaty with him, that is to say, with England, since when
you signed that treaty M. Cromwell was England.”
“M. Cromwell is dead.”
“Do you think so, sire?”
“No doubt he is, since his son Richard has succeeded him, and has
abdicated.”
“Yes, that is it exactly. Richard inherited after the death of his
father, and England at the abdication of Richard. The treaty formed
part of the inheritance, whether in the hands of M. Richard or in the
hands of England. The treaty is, then, still as good, as valid as ever.
Why should you evade it, sire? What is changed? Charles wants to-day
what we were not willing to grant him ten years ago; but that was
foreseen and provided against. You are the ally of England, sire, and
not of Charles II. It was doubtless wrong, from a family point of view,
to sign a treaty with a man who had cut off the head of the king your
father’s brother-in-law, and to contract an alliance with a parliament
which they call yonder the Rump Parliament; it was unbecoming, I
acknowledge, but it was not unskillful from a political point of view,
since, thanks to that treaty, I saved your majesty, then a minor, the
trouble and danger of a foreign war, which the Fronde—you remember the
Fronde, sire?”—the young king hung his head—“which the Fronde might
have fatally complicated. And thus I prove to your majesty that to
change our plan now, without warning our allies, would be at once
unskillful and dishonest. We should make war with the aggression on our
side; we should make it, deserving to have it made against us; and we
should have the appearance of fearing it whilst provoking it, for a
permission granted to five hundred men, to two hundred men, to fifty
men, to ten men, is still a permission. One Frenchman, that is the
nation; one uniform, that is the army. Suppose, sire, for example, that
you should have war with Holland, which, sooner or later, will
certainly happen; or with Spain, which will perhaps ensue if your
marriage fails” (Mazarin stole a furtive glance at the king), “and
there are a thousand causes that might yet make your marriage
fail,—well, would you approve of England’s sending to the United
Provinces or to Spain a regiment, a company, a squadron even, of
English gentlemen? Would you think that they kept within the limits of
their treaty of alliance?”
Louis listened; it seemed so strange to him that Mazarin should invoke
good faith, and he the author of so many political tricks, called
Mazarinades. “And yet,” said the king, “without manifest of my
authorization, I cannot prevent gentlemen of my states from passing
over into England, if such should be their good pleasure.”
“You should compel them to return, sire, or at least protest against
their presence as enemies in a allied country.”
“But come, my lord cardinal, you who are so profound a genius, try if
you cannot find a means to assist this poor king, without compromising
ourselves.”
“And that is exactly what I am not willing to do, my dear sire,” said
Mazarin. “If England were to act exactly according to my wishes, she
could not act better than she does; if I directed the policy of England
from this place, I should not direct it otherwise. Governed as she is
governed, England is an eternal nest of contention for all Europe.
Holland protects Charles II., let Holland do so; they will quarrel,
they will fight. Let them destroy each other’s navies, we can construct
ours with the wrecks of their vessels; when we shall save our money to
buy nails.”
“Oh, how paltry and mean is all this that you are telling me, monsieur
le cardinal!”
“Yes, but nevertheless it is true, sire; you must confess that. Still
further. Suppose I admit, for a moment, the possibility of breaking
your word, and evading the treaty—such a thing as sometimes happens,
but that is when some great interest is to be promoted by it, or when
the treaty is found to be too troublesome—well, you will authorize the
engagement asked of you: France—her banner, which is the same
thing—will cross the Straits and will fight; France will be conquered.”
“Why so?”
“Ma foi! we have a pretty general to fight under—this Charles II.!
Worcester gave us proofs of that.”
“But he will no longer have to deal with Cromwell, monsieur.”
“But he will have to deal with Monk, who is quite as dangerous. The
brave brewer of whom we are speaking, was a visionary; he had moments
of exaltation, of inflation, during which he ran over like an
over-filled cask; and from the chinks there always escaped some drops
of his thoughts, and by the sample the whole of his thought was to be
made out. Cromwell has thus allowed us more than ten times to penetrate
into his very soul, when one would have conceived that soul to be
enveloped in triple brass, as Horace had it. But Monk! Oh, sire, God
defend you from ever having anything to transact politically with Monk.
It is he who has given me, in one year, all the gray hairs I have. Monk
is no fanatic; unfortunately he is a politician; he does not overflow,
he keeps close together. For ten years he has had his eyes fixed upon
one object, and nobody has yet been able to ascertain what. Every
morning, as Louis XI. advised, he burns his nightcap. Therefore, on the
day when this plan, slowly and solitarily ripened, shall break forth,
it will break forth with all the conditions of success which always
accompany an unforeseen event. That is Monk, sire, of whom, perhaps,
you have never even heard—of whom, perhaps, you did not even know the
name, before your brother, Charles II., who knows what he is,
pronounced it before you. He is a marvel of depth and tenacity, the two
only things against which intelligence and ardor are blunted. Sire, I
had ardor when I was young; I always was intelligent. I may safely
boast of it, because I am reproached with it. I have done very well
with these two qualities, since, from the son of a fisherman of
Piscina, I have become prime minister to the king of France; and in
that position your majesty will perhaps acknowledge I have rendered
some service to the throne of your majesty. Well, sire, if I had met
with Monk on my way, instead of Monsieur de Beaufort, Monsieur de Retz,
or Monsieur le Prince—well, we should have been ruined. If you engage
yourself rashly, sire, you will fall into the talons of this politic
soldier. The casque of Monk, sire, is an iron coffer, and no one has
the key of it. Therefore, near him, or rather before him, I bow, sire,
for I have nothing but a velvet cap.”
“What do you think Monk wishes to do, then?”
“Eh! sire, if I knew that, I would not tell you to mistrust him, for I
should be stronger than he; but with him, I am afraid to guess—to
guess!—you understand my word?—for if I thought I had guessed, I should
stop at an idea, and, in spite of myself, should pursue that idea.
Since that man has been in power yonder, I am like one of the damned in
Dante whose neck Satan has twisted, and who walk forward looking around
behind them. I am traveling towards Madrid, but I never lose sight of
London. To guess, with that devil of a man, is to deceive one’s self
and to deceive one’s self is to ruin one’s self. God keep me from ever
seeking to guess what he aims at; I confine myself to watching what he
does, and that is well enough. Now I believe—you observe the meaning of
the word I believe?—I believe, with respect to Monk, ties one to
nothing—I believe that he has a strong inclination to succeed Cromwell.
Your Charles II. has already caused proposals to be made to him by ten
persons; he has satisfied himself with driving these ten meddlers from
his presence, without saying anything to them but, ‘Begone, or I will
have you hung.’ That man is a sepulcher! At this moment Monk is
affecting devotion to the Rump Parliament; of this devotion, I am not
the dupe. Monk has no wish to be assassinated,—an assassination would
stop him in the middle of his operations; and his work must be
accomplished;—so I believe—but do not believe what I believe, sire: for
as I say I believe from habit—I believe that Monk is keeping on
friendly terms with the parliament till the day comes for dispersing
it. You are asked for swords, but they are to fight against Monk. God
preserve you from fighting against Monk, sire; for Monk would beat us,
and I should never console myself after being beaten by Monk. I should
say to myself, Monk has foreseen that victory ten years. For God’s
sake, sire, out of friendship for you, if not out of consideration for
himself, let Charles II. keep quiet. Your majesty will give him a
little income here; give him one of your chateaux. Yes, yes—wait
awhile. But I forget the treaty—that famous treaty of which we were
just now speaking. Your majesty has not even the right to give him a
chateau.”
“How is that?”
“Yes, yes; your majesty is bound not to grant hospitality to King
Charles, and to compel him to leave France even. It was on this account
we forced him to quit you, and yet here he is again. Sire, I hope you
will give your brother to understand that he cannot remain with us;
that it is impossible he should be allowed to compromise us; or I
myself—”
“Enough, my lord,” said Louis XIV., rising. “In refusing me a million,
perhaps you may be right; your millions are your own. In refusing me
two hundred gentlemen, you are still further in the right; for you are
prime minister, and you have, in the eyes of France, the responsibility
of peace and war. But that you should pretend to prevent me, who am
king, from extending my hospitality to the grandson of Henry IV., to my
cousin-german, to the companion of my childhood—there your power stops,
and there begins my will.”
“Sire,” said Mazarin, delighted at being let off so cheaply, and who
had, besides, only fought so earnestly to arrive at that,—“sire, I
shall always bend before the will of my king. Let my king, then, keep
near him, or in one of his chateaux, the king of England; let Mazarin
know it, but let not the minister know it.”
“Good-night, my lord,” said Louis XIV., “I go away in despair.”
“But convinced, and that is all I desire, sire,” replied Mazarin.
The king made no answer, and retired quite pensive, convinced, not of
all Mazarin had told him, but of one thing which he took care not to
mention to him; and that was, that it was necessary for him to study
seriously both his own affairs and those of Europe, for he found them
very difficult and very obscure. Louis found the king of England seated
in the same place where he had left him. On perceiving him, the English
prince arose; but at the first glance he saw discouragement written in
dark letters upon his cousin’s brow. Then, speaking first, as if to
facilitate the painful avowal that Louis had to make to him,—
“Whatever it may be,” said he, “I shall never forget all the kindness,
all the friendship you have exhibited towards me.”
“Alas!” replied Louis, in a melancholy tone, “only barren good-will, my
brother.”
Charles II. became extremely pale; he passed his cold hand over his
brow, and struggled for a few instants against a faintness that made
him tremble. “I understand,” said he at last; “no more hope!”
Louis seized the hand of Charles II. “Wait, my brother,” said he;
“precipitate nothing; everything may change; hasty resolutions ruin all
causes; add another year of trial, I implore you, to the years you have
already undergone. You have, to induce you to act now rather than at
another time, neither occasion nor opportunity. Come with me, my
brother; I will give you one of my residences, whichever you prefer, to
inhabit. I, with you, will keep my eyes upon events; we will prepare.
Come, then, my brother, have courage!”
Charles II. withdrew his hand from that of the king, and drawing back,
to salute him with more ceremony, “With all my heart, thanks!” replied
he, “sire; but I have prayed without success to the greatest king on
earth; now I will go and ask a miracle of God.” And he went out without
being willing to hear any more, his head carried loftily, his hand
trembling, with a painful contraction of his noble countenance, and
that profound gloom which, finding no more hope in the world of men,
appeared to go beyond it, and ask it in worlds unknown. The officer of
musketeers, on seeing him pass by thus pale, bowed almost to his knees
as he saluted him. He then took a flambeau, called two musketeers, and
descended the deserted staircase with the unfortunate king, holding in
his left hand his hat, the plume of which swept the steps. Arrived at
the door, the musketeer asked the king which way he was going, that he
might direct the musketeers.
“Monsieur,” replied Charles II., in a subdued voice, “you who have
known my father, say, did you ever pray for him? If you have done so,
do not forget me in your prayers. Now, I am going alone, and beg of you
not to accompany me, or have me accompanied any further.”
The officer bowed and sent away the musketeers into the interior of the
palace. But he himself remained an instant under the porch watching the
departing Charles II., till he was lost in the turn of the next street.
“To him as to his father formerly,” murmured he, “Athos, if he were
here, would say with reason,—‘Salute fallen majesty!’” Then,
reascending the staircase: “Oh! the vile service that I follow!” said
he at every step. “Oh! my pitiful master! Life thus carried on is no
longer tolerable, and it is at length time that I should do something!
No more generosity, no more energy! The master has succeeded, the pupil
is starved forever. Mordioux! I will not resist. Come, you men,”
continued he, entering the ante-chamber, “why are you all looking at me
so? Extinguish these torches and return to your posts. Ah! you were
guarding me? Yes, you watch over me, do you not, worthy fellows? Brave
fools! I am not the Duc de Guise. Begone! They will not assassinate me
in the little passage. Besides,” added he, in a low voice, “that would
be a resolution, and no resolutions have been formed since Monsieur le
Cardinal Richelieu died. Now, with all his faults, that was a man! It
is settled: to-morrow I will throw my cassock to the nettles.”
Then, reflecting: “No,” said he, “not yet! I have one great trial to
make and I will make it; but that, and I swear it, shall be the last,
Mordioux!”
He had not finished speaking when a voice issued from the king’s
chamber. “Monsieur le lieutenant!” said this voice.
“Here I am,” replied he.
“The king desires to speak to you.”
“Humph!” said the lieutenant; “perhaps of what I was thinking about.”
And he went into the king’s apartment.