MONSIEUR AND MONSIGNOR
BEFORE daybreak, Péron was forced to provide a meal for Monsieur, who,
finding himself in an uncomfortable situation, was disposed to be as
peevish and refractory as possible. Without a single trait of his great
father, Henri Quatre, Gaston de Bourbon, Duke of Anjou and of Orleans,
inherited all the deceit, the petty ambition, and the vindictiveness of
his mother, Marie de’ Medici, lacking however her tenacity of purpose.
While the Thirteenth Louis inherited the sternness of the great Henri,
the younger brother was as unstable as water. Shut up, against his
will, in the house at Poissy, and knowing himself to be once more in
the clutches of the cardinal, whose distrust of him was only equalled
by his contempt, Monsieur had but one thought, and that was of the
safest way to desert his fellow-conspirators.
He demanded food and wine to keep up his failing spirits, and when
both were brought from the Golden Pigeon, he ate voraciously and drank
deeply, gaining in courage at every potation. He had no fear of the
king, his brother, Louis had always forgiven him, although it was
with the indifference of disdain; but of Richelieu he had a wholesome
dread, and he knew that monsignor, despising and suspecting him,
knowing him to have been many times guilty, desired above all else to
cut him off from the line of succession. The more wine he drank the
more determined he became to extricate himself from this difficulty,
as he had extricated himself from many others. To a man who had but
little shame, it mattered not how much had been revealed by M. de
Nançay or by others. Monsieur seldom stopped for a lie, and never for a
prevarication.
When they set out on their ride to Paris, he was in a humor to betray
his best friends, and he showed it by a peevish lack of courtesy toward
Mademoiselle de Nançay. He would not approach her, but insisted on
riding at the head of the party, kept under guard by Péron, however,
who was continually afraid he would try to give them the slip. The
prince had been provided with a mask, and, muffled in his cloak, was
not recognized by any of the party except the captain of the guard sent
by the cardinal. This man had ridden behind Monsieur but a little way
when he leaned over and spoke in a whisper to Péron.
“Pardieu!” he said with a grimace, “I see what bird we have caught. He
took but one trait of his father, and that is his seat in the saddle;
he rides like a Béarnese.”
Péron made a sign to him to keep silence, and the little troop moved
on; mademoiselle and her woman in the center, and Choin commanding the
men in the rear, for they were not without anticipation of a skirmish
in the forest between Poissy and St. Germain-en-Laye. They had set
out at daybreak from the house of the Image de Notre Dame, to avoid
any attempt at an early rescue of the Duke of Orleans, and now the
sun was just rising over a quiet landscape. In the east the sky was
golden; two great white clouds, touched with rose and amethyst, floated
upward before the sun, as though the morning spread its wings. The
first long shafts of sunlight made wide avenues of glory through the
forest, and there was the merry twittering of birds in every thicket.
Péron felt his spirits rise with the day; whatever the outcome of
his mission, he had steadily endeavored to do his duty, and he had
assuredly accomplished something of importance. Aware now of how
nearly Renée de Nançay had defeated his plans, he could not suppress a
feeling of curiosity to know how she regarded the turn of events. He
cast more than one searching glance at her erect figure, as she rode
in their midst, but he could make nothing of that mask, and she had
not vouchsafed him a word that morning. He had sent her a breakfast,
but had received no thanks; and when they were preparing to depart,
she had mounted before he could come to her assistance, being delayed
by Monsieur’s peevish assertions of authority. He remembered the look
of contempt she had given the prince, and he saw that she was as
anxious now to avoid Gaston as he was to avoid her. They made a strange
party. Good discipline and a recognition of the importance of their
errand kept the soldiers quiet and orderly, and the two women were as
speechless as mutes; while a little in advance rode Monsieur, masked
and muffled, and as fretful as a spoiled child caught in a naughty act.
Notwithstanding the anxieties of the leaders, the ride through the
forest was quiet enough, and they entered St. Germain-en-Laye at a
sharp canter, passing through the principal street and out again
without a pause; for in the towns was the greatest risk that the
identity of d’Orléans would be discovered. As the morning advanced,
they began to meet travellers on the highroad, and Monsieur sank yet
deeper into the folds of his cloak and grew more and more sullen. Once
Péron was certain that the prince was recognized. A party of horsemen
rode by, manifestly fresh from court and wearing the colors of Condé,
and more than one of them turned sharply to stare at the masked rider.
However, no one accosted them, and Péron breathed freer at the end of
each league. Their horses were fresh and covered the ground easily, and
it was not long before they came in sight of Ruel. As they drew near,
Péron, who was now at mademoiselle’s side, addressed her.
“This time we will go through Ruel, Mademoiselle de Nançay,” he said
with a smile.
“As you please,” she answered with a shrug of her shoulders; “this time
I gain nothing and lose nothing by it.”
“Forgive me for having duped you, mademoiselle,” he replied, “and
believe me that I respect such loyalty to your convictions.”
“It is I who should beg your pardon, M. de Calvisson,” she said
frankly; “I said sharp things to you last night, but I recall them.
Sir, I do not blame you for your attachment to the cardinal; he is, at
least, a man. As for that creature yonder,” she threw out her hand with
a gesture of contempt,--“St. Denis! he is not worthy a thought, much
less a drop of an honest man’s blood. That cowardly, treacherous boy
would sell the noblest men of France for the sake of his own miserable
comfort. Heaven forgive me, if I have ever furthered any cause of his;
I can never forgive myself!”
Her vehemence, the earnest tone of her voice, though she spoke so low,
gave Péron a glimpse of another Renée de Nançay,--not the spoiled,
haughty beauty, but an earnest, passionate woman. He glanced at
Monsieur’s unconscious figure and smiled; his own heart was lighter.
“It is a pity,” he answered, as low spoken as she, “that the brother of
his majesty should be--what he is!”
“’Tis a pity, monsieur,” Renée replied sharply, “that he was ever born.”
“At least he has served one useful purpose,” Péron said: “he has shown
Mademoiselle de Nançay that he is not worth the trouble that he has
made in this realm.”
“If I were the king,” she retorted, “I would soon end it; I would shut
Monsieur up in the Castle of Vincennes.”
“Ah, mademoiselle, you forget what the life of the king would be,” he
replied; “you forget the tears and intercessions of Madame la Mère.”
“Tears are easier shed than blood,” she said; then added suddenly,
“there is some unusual stir in Ruel; there is the cardinal’s livery.”
They were entering the town, and Péron, looking about for the first
time, saw that, as mademoiselle had said, there was an unusual
commotion. The courtyard of the inn was crowded, and there were,
too, the colors of Richelieu. Monsieur had perceived them and fallen
back, nearer to Renée than he had been the whole morning, and was
evidently uneasy and angry. Péron urged his horse past the others, and
approaching the inn inquired the meaning of the stir.
“The cardinal is here,” was the reply; “he came this morning.”
Further inquiry developed the fact that monsignor had reached his own
house at Ruel some hours earlier and was there then. This was better
fortune than Péron could have expected, and it lifted a load from his
heart. It was easier to get Monsieur to the cardinal’s house here
unnoticed than in Paris, where he was almost certain to be recognized
at once. But it was no easy matter to get the unhappy prince to see
the affair in the same light. To his mind it was no better to face
Richelieu at Ruel than at the Palais Cardinal. Monsieur had never been
able to meet an ordeal, and he was not any better prepared than usual.
At first he refused loudly to move an inch, holding his horse’s head
steadily toward Paris and declaring that he would see no one, go to no
one but the king.
“Your highness may be recognized if you speak so plainly,” Péron
reminded him, “and in that case I cannot answer for the results.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Gaston, in alarm; “surely, man, they would not hurt
me! My brother would never forgive them if they dared to touch me.”
“Your highness is safe,” Péron replied dryly, “but you would be more
so with the cardinal. He is a wise man and will devise some way out of
this difficulty, I doubt not.”
Monsieur gasped; he was relieved, but he could not make up his mind.
Péron laid his hand on his bridle rein.
“M. le Prince,” he said bluntly, “yonder come some gay gentlemen;
if I mistake not, M. de Bassompierre is among them. If he sees your
highness, this matter will be the talk of the galleries of the Louvre
to-night, the gossip of the Marais, the tattle of the Port Antoine.”
“Parbleu!” ejaculated Monsieur, in a vexed tone, “you are right. Go on,
man, to the cardinal--or to the devil--it must be my unlucky star!”
Péron did not wait for another change; he gave his orders quickly,
and they all proceeded at a trot to the cardinal’s house. The court
was full of musketeers, and there was a guard at the door; but Péron
was recognized and easily gained admittance for himself, Monsieur,
and the two women. The others remained without, finding friends and
comrades among the guards. Péron sent a message to the cardinal, and in
a few moments received his orders to leave mademoiselle and her woman
in the anteroom below and to come to him with his prisoner, of whose
importance a hint had been conveyed. An usher led them up the broad
stairs, and opened the door for them to enter the cardinal’s presence.
The prince was still masked and muffled, and walked sullenly into the
room, which was a large one, richly furnished and with a bright fire
burning on the hearth. The hangings were of splendid tapestry, and
the floor was covered with fine rugs. Richelieu was better able to
gratify his taste for magnificence now than when the young Bishop of
Luçon bought the second-hand black velvet bed of his aunt, Madame de
Marconnay, and borrowed money to buy his first silver dishes.
Péron followed close on the heels of Monsieur and closed the door
behind them. They found the cardinal alone; he was standing with his
back to the fire, and he had the advantage, for the light fell full on
their faces, leaving his in the shadow. He was not a large man, thin
and of medium stature, yet in his red robes and with his coal-black
moustache and chin tuft and his white hair, he was at once an imposing
and remarkable figure. The restless genius of the man shone through
the immovable mask of his pale face, as the fire burns within an
alabaster lamp. Péron saw that he recognized Monsieur at a glance; he
did not show any surprise, however, but briefly ordered Péron to keep
the door against all comers; then he turned to the prince with a cold
smile on his thin lips.
“Will your highness be seated?” he said smoothly. “Had I known that
they would find you at Poissy, I should have prepared a more suitable
reception.”
Finding that he was known, the Duke of Orleans flung himself into a
chair by the fire and tore off his mask, disclosing a flushed and angry
but frightened face.
“As usual,” he said sullenly, “I have been treated with malice. I am
always persecuted, I tell you, monsignor; my brother shall hear my
version of this.”
Richelieu looked at him with fierce eyes.
“His majesty has already heard your highness many times,” he remarked
dryly. “The story is always much the same.”
“I have been badly used,” retorted Monsieur. “If anything goes wrong,
I am always the one to be blamed; if any man is a traitor, I am always
accused of being his accomplice, yet no brother could love the king
more dearly than I!”
“Your highness has a singular way of showing your affection,” Richelieu
rejoined calmly. “It should be remembered that the King of France is
the state, and he who fosters conspiracy against the state fosters it
against his majesty.”
“You are fond of giving me advice, monsignor,” d’Orléans said sullenly,
“but you cannot prove--this time--that I have singed my fingers.”
“Ah, M. le Prince, that is an old argument,” returned the cardinal,
“and you and I are old friends. Let us remember M. de Montmorency and
M. de Chalais, and a few more whom I might name, and then let us adjust
our thoughts to the matter in hand.”
Monsieur made no reply; he thrust his feet out before the fire and sank
deeper into his chair. Richelieu looked at him from head to foot, with
a glance that was full of the most profound contempt.
“I have talked with the king,” he said coldly, “and his majesty is
not disposed to let this matter pass without a public example. The
queen-mother and your highness cannot have equality with the king;
neither can we close our eyes to these intrigues, which not only
corrupt the loyalty of our great nobles but lay our affairs open to the
court at Madrid. This realm cannot be ruled by two factions; one must
fall. Naturally, his majesty is not disposed to be at the head of that
one.”
“I do not believe that my brother intends any evil against me!”
retorted the prince; but his face grew a shade paler, and his lynx-eyed
adversary noted the change.
“There always comes a time when a king must sacrifice his feelings as a
man,” he remarked dryly.
“Ah, yes--I remember that you made Louis do so in the case of
Mademoiselle de la Fayette,” Monsieur retorted spitefully.
“And this being a far more serious matter demands a more serious
remedy,” replied the cardinal, unmoved. “Is it natural, in making an
example, that the most important man in a faction--the one in whose
name all the treasonable correspondence is conducted--should be passed
over with forgiveness while the lesser ones suffer? In a sense, that
was the case when Henri de Montmorency lost his head, but your highness
knows that it is not my way. I shall feel it my duty to advise his
majesty to administer justice, and justice alone.”
The prince writhed under those pitiless black eyes.
“I have done nothing,” he said, weakening more and more; “it is all
the fault of the others; I only listened--I intended no harm! Madame,
my mother, is ever urging me to do something for her--to advance
her cause. I am a dutiful son and an affectionate brother. Pardieu!
monsignor, what can I do? Intercede for me with Louis, and I will
furnish all the information you may desire--and I can furnish much, for
they have been intriguing with Spain to compass your overthrow.”
There was a flash of triumph in Richelieu’s pale face, but he never
removed his glance from Monsieur, who lay now in a miserable heap in
his chair.
“It is possible that an arrangement can be made,” monsignor said
coldly, opening a parchment and placing it on his desk with a pen
beside it; “the king may again pardon your indiscretion if you sign
the agreement drawn up some time since. It is simple; in the event of
his majesty’s death--which God forbid--you will be cut off from the
succession and will have no share in the regency.”
“Pardieu!” cried Gaston, in a burst of temper, rising from his seat and
stamping his foot on the floor, “I will not sign it!”
“Ah! you refuse?” remarked the cardinal, looking at him unmoved; “then,
your highness, I must lay the evidence in my hands before the council,
and your only hope will be in the king’s clemency.”
There was a pause, and the two stood looking at each other. Richelieu
was as calm and cold as ever, while the prince was white with fury, and
terror was growing in his eyes.
“Morbleu, you are a devil!” he said, flinging himself into his chair
and bursting into tears.
Monsignor looked up at the clock.
“In half an hour,” he said, “his majesty’s provost-marshal will be here
from Paris. It is for your highness to decide whether you will return
with him or not.”
“You dare not!” cried Monsieur, with a snarl, “you have no warrant.”
Richelieu showed him a paper bearing the royal seal.
“This was signed yesterday in the Louvre, M. d’Orléans,” he said.
The prince stared at it, his lips parting and his breath coming short.
“I would not have believed it of Louis!” he exclaimed, wringing his
hands.
The cardinal said nothing more, but stood looking at the clock. In the
pause they heard the trampling of horses’ feet in the court.
“’Tis the provost-marshal,” Richelieu said calmly, “and ten minutes too
early.”
Monsieur rose to his feet and staggered to the desk, uttering a great
oath in his passion of shame and fear.
“Save me, M. le Cardinal,” he cried, “I cannot go with the
provost-marshal. Mon Dieu! I will sign anything rather than that.”