In which the Unknown of the Hostelry of Les Medici loses his Incognito.
This officer, who was sleeping, or preparing to sleep, was,
notwithstanding his careless air, charged with a serious
responsibility.
Lieutenant of the king’s musketeers, he commanded all the company which
came from Paris, and that company consisted of a hundred and twenty
men; but, with the exception of the twenty of whom we have spoken, the
other hundred were engaged in guarding the queen-mother, and more
particularly the cardinal.
Monsignor Giulio Mazarini economized the traveling expenses of his
guards; he consequently used the king’s, and that largely, since he
took fifty of them for himself—a peculiarity which would not have
failed to strike any one unacquainted with the usages of that court.
That which would still further have appeared, if not inconvenient, at
least extraordinary, to a stranger, was, that the side of the castle
destined for monsieur le cardinal was brilliant, light and cheerful.
The musketeers there mounted guard before every door, and allowed no
one to enter, except the couriers, who, even while he was traveling,
followed the cardinal for the carrying on of his correspondence.
Twenty men were on duty with the queen-mother; thirty rested, in order
to relieve their companions the next day.
On the king’s side, on the contrary, were darkness, silence, and
solitude. When once the doors were closed, there was no longer an
appearance of royalty. All the servitors had by degrees retired.
Monsieur le Prince had sent to know if his majesty required his
attendance; and on the customary “No” of the lieutenant of musketeers,
who was habituated to the question and the reply, all appeared to sink
into the arms of sleep, as if in the dwelling of a good citizen.
And yet it was possible to hear from the side of the house occupied by
the young king the music of the banquet, and to see the windows of the
great hall richly illuminated.
Ten minutes after his installation in his apartment, Louis XIV. had
been able to learn, by movement much more distinguished than marked his
own leaving, the departure of the cardinal, who, in his turn, sought
his bedroom, accompanied by a large escort of ladies and gentlemen.
Besides, to perceive this movement, he had nothing to do but to look
out at his window, the shutters of which had not been closed.
His eminence crossed the court, conducted by Monsieur, who himself held
a flambeau, then followed the queen-mother, to whom Madame familiarly
gave her arm; and both walked chatting away, like two old friends.
Behind these two couples filed nobles, ladies, pages and officers; the
flambeaux gleamed over the whole court, like the moving reflections of
a conflagration. Then the noise of steps and voices became lost in the
upper floors of the castle.
No one was then thinking of the king, who, leaning on his elbow at his
window, had sadly seen pass away all that light, and heard that noise
die off—no, not one, if it was not that unknown of the hostelry des
Medici, whom we have seen go out, enveloped in his cloak.
He had come straight up to the castle, and had, with his melancholy
countenance, wandered round and round the palace, from which the people
had not yet departed; and finding that no one guarded the great
entrance, or the porch, seeing that the soldiers of Monsieur were
fraternizing with the royal soldiers—that is to say swallowing
Beaugency at discretion, or rather indiscretion—the unknown penetrated
through the crowd, then ascended to the court, and came to the landing
of the staircase leading to the cardinal’s apartment.
What, according to all probability, induced him to direct his steps
that way, was the splendor of the flambeaux, and the busy air of the
pages and domestics. But he was stopped short by a presented musket and
the cry of the sentinel.
“Where are you going, my friend?” asked the soldier.
“I am going to the king’s apartment,” replied the unknown, haughtily,
but tranquilly.
The soldier called one of his eminence’s officers, who, in the tone in
which a youth in office directs a solicitor to a minister, let fall
these words: “The other staircase, in front.”
And the officer, without further notice of the unknown, resumed his
interrupted conversation.
The stranger, without reply, directed his steps towards the staircase
pointed out to him. On this side there was no noise, there were no more
flambeaux.
Obscurity, through which a sentinel glided like a shadow; silence,
which permitted him to hear the sound of his own footsteps, accompanied
with the jingling of his spurs upon the stone slabs.
This guard was one of the twenty musketeers appointed for attendance
upon the king, and who mounted guard with the stiffness and
consciousness of a statue.
“Who goes there?” said the guard.
“A friend,” replied the unknown.
“What do you want?”
“To speak to the king.”
“Do you, my dear monsieur? That’s not very likely.”
“Why not?”
“Because the king has gone to bed.”
“Gone to bed already?”
“Yes.”
“No matter: I must speak to him.”
“And I tell you that is impossible.”
“And yet——”
“Go back!”
“Do you require the word?”
“I have no account to render to you. Stand back!”
And this time the soldier accompanied his word with a threatening
gesture; but the unknown stirred no more than if his feet had taken
root.
“Monsieur le mousquetaire,” said he, “are you a gentleman?”
“I have that honor.”
“Very well! I also am one, and between gentlemen some consideration
ought to be observed.”
The soldier lowered his arms, overcome by the dignity with which these
words were pronounced.
“Speak, monsieur,” said he; “and if you ask me anything in my power——”
“Thank you. You have an officer, have you not?”
“Our lieutenant? Yes, monsieur.”
“Well, I wish to speak to him.”
“Oh, that’s a different thing. Come up, monsieur.”
The unknown saluted the soldier in a lofty fashion, and ascended the
staircase; whilst a cry, “Lieutenant, a visit!” transmitted from
sentinel to sentinel, preceded the unknown, and disturbed the slumbers
of the officer.
Dragging on his boots, rubbing his eyes, and hooking his cloak, the
lieutenant made three steps towards the stranger.
“What can I do to serve you, monsieur?” asked he.
“You are the officer on duty, lieutenant of the musketeers, are you?”
“I have that honor,” replied the officer.
“Monsieur, I must absolutely speak to the king.”
The lieutenant looked attentively at the unknown, and in that look,
however rapid, he saw all he wished to see—that is to say, a person of
high distinction in an ordinary dress.
“I do not suppose you to be mad,” replied he; “and yet you seem to me
to be in a condition to know, monsieur, that people do not enter a
king’s apartments in this manner without his consent.”
“He will consent.”
“Monsieur, permit me to doubt that. The king has retired this quarter
of an hour; he must be now undressing. Besides, the word is given.”
“When he knows who I am, he will recall the word.”
The officer was more and more surprised, more and more subdued.
“If I consent to announce you, may I at least know whom to announce,
monsieur?”
“You will announce His Majesty Charles II., King of England, Scotland,
and Ireland.”
The officer uttered a cry of astonishment, drew back, and there might
be seen upon his pallid countenance one of the most poignant emotions
that ever an energetic man endeavored to drive back to his heart.
“Oh, yes, sire; in fact,” said he, “I ought to have recognized you.”
“You have seen my portrait, then?”
“No, sire.”
“Or else you have seen me formerly at court, before I was driven from
France?”
“No, sire, it is not even that.”
“How then could you have recognized me, if you have never seen my
portrait or my person?”
“Sire, I saw his majesty your father at a terrible moment.”
“The day——”
“Yes.”
A dark cloud passed over the brow of the prince; then, dashing his hand
across it, “Do you still see any difficulty in announcing me?” said he.
“Sire, pardon me,” replied the officer, “but I could not imagine a king
under so simple an exterior; and yet I had the honor to tell your
majesty just now that I had seen Charles I. But pardon me, monsieur; I
will go and inform the king.”
But returning after going a few steps, “Your majesty is desirous,
without doubt, that this interview should be a secret?” said he.
“I do not require it; but if it were possible to preserve it——”
“It is possible, sire, for I can dispense with informing the first
gentleman on duty; but, for that, your majesty must please to consent
to give up your sword.”
“True, true; I had forgotten that no one armed is permitted to enter
the chamber of a king of France.”
“Your majesty will form an exception, if you wish it; but then I shall
avoid my responsibility by informing the king’s attendant.”
“Here is my sword, monsieur. Will you now please to announce me to his
majesty?”
“Instantly, sire.” And the officer immediately went and knocked at the
door of communication, which the valet opened to him.
“His Majesty the King of England!” said the officer.
“His Majesty the King of England!” replied the valet de chambre.
At these words a gentleman opened the folding-doors of the king’s
apartment, and Louis XIV. was seen, without hat or sword, and his
pourpoint open, advancing with signs of the greatest surprise.
“You, my brother—you at Blois!” cried Louis XIV., dismissing with a
gesture both the gentleman and the valet de chambre, who passed out
into the next apartment.
“Sire,” replied Charles II., “I was going to Paris, in the hope of
seeing your majesty, when report informed me of your approaching
arrival in this city. I therefore prolonged my abode here, having
something very particular to communicate to you.”
“Will this closet suit you, my brother?”
“Perfectly well, sire; for I think no one can hear us here.”
“I have dismissed my gentleman and my watcher; they are in the next
chamber. There, behind that partition, is a solitary closet, looking
into the ante-chamber, and in that ante-chamber you found nobody but a
solitary officer, did you?”
“No, sire.”
“Well, then, speak, my brother; I listen to you.”
“Sire, I commence, and entreat your majesty to have pity on the
misfortunes of our house.”
The king of France colored, and drew his chair closer to that of the
king of England.
“Sire,” said Charles II., “I have no need to ask if your majesty is
acquainted with the details of my deplorable history.”
Louis XIV. blushed, this time more strongly than before; then,
stretching forth his hand to that of the king of England, “My brother,”
said he, “I am ashamed to say so, but the cardinal scarcely ever speaks
of political affairs before me. Still more, formerly I used to get
Laporte, my valet de chambre, to read historical subjects to me, but he
put a stop to these readings, and took away Laporte from me. So that I
beg my brother Charles to tell me all those matters as to a man who
knows nothing.”
“Well, sire, I think that by taking things from the beginning I shall
have a better chance of touching the heart of your majesty.”
“Speak on, my brother—speak on.”
“You know, sire, that being called in 1650 to Edinburgh, during
Cromwell’s expedition into Ireland, I was crowned at Scone. A year
after, wounded in one of the provinces he had usurped, Cromwell
returned upon us. To meet him was my object; to leave Scotland was my
wish.”
“And yet,” interrupted the young king, “Scotland is almost your native
country, is it not, my brother?”
“Yes; but the Scots were cruel compatriots for me, sire; they had
forced me to forsake the religion of my fathers; they had hung Lord
Montrose, the most devoted of my servants, because he was not a
Covenanter; and as the poor martyr, to whom they had offered a favor
when dying, had asked that his body might be cut into as many pieces as
there are cities in Scotland, in order that evidence of his fidelity
might be met with everywhere, I could not leave one city, or go into
another, without passing under some fragments of a body which had
acted, fought, and breathed for me.
“By a bold, almost desperate march, I passed through Cromwell’s army,
and entered England. The Protector set out in pursuit of this strange
flight, which had a crown for its object. If I had been able to reach
London before him, without doubt the prize of the race would have been
mine; but he overtook me at Worcester.
“The genius of England was no longer with us, but with him. On the 5th
of September, 1651, sire, the anniversary of the other battle of
Dunbar, so fatal to the Scots, I was conquered. Two thousand men fell
around me before I thought of retreating a step. At length I was
obliged to fly.
“From that moment my history became a romance. Pursued with persistent
inveteracy, I cut off my hair, I disguised myself as a woodman. One day
spent amidst the branches of an oak gave to that tree the name of the
royal oak, which it bears to this day. My adventures in the county of
Stafford, whence I escaped with the daughter of my host on a pillion
behind me, still fill the tales of the country firesides, and would
furnish matter for ballads. I will some day write all this, sire, for
the instruction of my brother kings.
“I will first tell how, on arriving at the residence of Mr. Norton, I
met with a court chaplain, who was looking on at a party playing at
skittles, and an old servant who named me, bursting into tears, and who
was as near and as certainly killing me by his fidelity as another
might have been by treachery. Then I will tell of my terrors—yes, sire,
of my terrors—when, at the house of Colonel Windham, a farrier who came
to shoe our horses declared they had been shod in the north.”
“How strange!” murmured Louis XIV. “I never heard anything of all that;
I was only told of your embarkation at Brighthelmstone and your landing
in Normandy.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Charles, “if Heaven permits kings to be thus ignorant
of the histories of each other, how can they render assistance to their
brothers who need it?”
“But tell me,” continued Louis XIV., “how, after being so roughly
received in England, you can still hope for anything from that unhappy
country and that rebellious people?”
“Oh, sire! since the battle of Worcester, everything is changed there.
Cromwell is dead, after having signed a treaty with France, in which
his name is placed above yours. He died on the 5th of September, 1658,
a fresh anniversary of the battles of Dunbar and Worcester.”
“His son has succeeded him.”
“But certain men have a family, sire, and no heir. The inheritance of
Oliver was too heavy for Richard. Richard was neither a republican nor
a royalist; Richard allowed his guards to eat his dinner, and his
generals to govern the republic; Richard abdicated the protectorate on
the 22nd of April, 1659, more than a year ago, sire.
“From that time England is nothing but a tennis-court, in which the
players throw dice for the crown of my father. The two most eager
players are Lambert and Monk. Well, sire, I, in my turn, wish to take
part in this game, where the stakes are thrown upon my royal mantle.
Sire, it only requires a million to corrupt one of these players and
make an ally of him, or two hundred of your gentlemen to drive them out
of my palace at Whitehall, as Christ drove the money-changers from the
temple.”
“You come, then,” replied Louis XIV., “to ask me——”
“For your assistance, that is to say, not only for that which kings owe
to each other, but that which simple Christians owe to each other—your
assistance, sire, either in money or men. Your assistance, sire, and
within a month, whether I oppose Lambert to Monk, or Monk to Lambert, I
shall have reconquered my paternal inheritance, without having cost my
country a guinea, or my subjects a drop of blood, for they are now all
drunk with revolutions, protectorates, and republics, and ask nothing
better than to fall staggering to sleep in the arms of royalty. Your
assistance, sire, and I shall owe you more than I owe my father,—my
poor father, who bought at so dear a rate the ruin of our house! You
may judge, sire, whether I am unhappy, whether I am in despair, for I
accuse my own father!”
And the blood mounted to the pale face of Charles II., who remained for
an instant with his head between his hands, and as if blinded by that
blood which appeared to revolt against the filial blasphemy.
The young king was not less affected than his elder brother; he threw
himself about in his fauteuil, and could not find a single word of
reply.
Charles II., to whom ten years in age gave a superior strength to
master his emotions, recovered his speech the first.
“Sire,” said he, “your reply? I wait for it as a criminal waits for his
sentence. Must I die?”
“My brother,” replied the French prince, “you ask me for a million—me,
who was never possessed of a quarter of that sum! I possess nothing. I
am no more king of France than you are king of England. I am a name, a
cipher dressed in fleur-de-lised velvet,—that is all. I am upon a
visible throne; that is my only advantage over your majesty. I have
nothing—I can do nothing.”
“Can it be so?” exclaimed Charles II.
“My brother,” said Louis, sinking his voice, “I have undergone miseries
with which my poorest gentlemen are unacquainted. If my poor Laporte
were here, he would tell you that I have slept in ragged sheets,
through the holes of which my legs have passed; he would tell you that
afterwards, when I asked for carriages, they brought me conveyances
half-destroyed by the rats of the coach-houses; he would tell you that
when I asked for my dinner, the servants went to the cardinal’s kitchen
to inquire if there were any dinner for the king. And look! to-day,
this very day even, when I am twenty-two years of age,—to-day, when I
have attained the grade of the majority of kings,—to-day, when I ought
to have the key of the treasury, the direction of the policy, the
supremacy in peace and war,—cast your eyes around me, see how I am
left! Look at this abandonment—this disdain—this silence!—Whilst
yonder—look yonder! View the bustle, the lights, the homage!
There!—there you see the real king of France, my brother!
“In the cardinal’s apartments?”
“Yes, in the cardinal’s apartments.”
“Then I am condemned, sire?”
Louis XIV. made no reply.
“Condemned is the word; for I will never solicit him who left my mother
and sister to die with cold and hunger—the daughter and grand-daughter
of Henry IV.—if M. de Retz and the parliament had not sent them wood
and bread.”
“To die?” murmured Louis XIV.
“Well!” continued the king of England, “poor Charles II., grandson of
Henry IV. as you are, sire, having neither parliament nor Cardinal de
Retz to apply to, will die of hunger, as his mother and sister had
nearly done.”
Louis knitted his brow, and twisted violently the lace of his ruffles.
This prostration, this immobility, serving as a mark to an emotion so
visible, struck Charles II., and he took the young man’s hand.
“Thanks!” said he, “my brother. You pity me, and that is all I can
require of you in your present situation.”
“Sire,” said Louis XIV., with a sudden impulse, and raising his head,
“it is a million you require, or two hundred gentlemen, I think you
say?”
“Sire, a million would be quite sufficient.”
“That is very little.”
“Offered to a single man it is a great deal. Convictions have been
purchased at a much lower price; and I should have nothing to do but
with venalities.”
“Two hundred gentlemen! Reflect!—that is little more than a single
company.”
“Sire, there is in our family a tradition, and that is, that four men,
four French gentlemen, devoted to my father, were near saving my
father, though condemned by a parliament, guarded by an army and
surrounded by a nation.”
“Then if I can procure you a million, or two hundred gentlemen, you
will be satisfied; and you will consider me your well-affectioned
brother?”
“I shall consider you as my saviour; and if I recover the throne of my
father, England will be, as long as I reign at least, a sister to
France, as you will have been a brother to me.”
“Well, my brother,” said Louis, rising, “what you hesitate to ask for,
I will myself demand; that which I have never done on my own account, I
will do on yours. I will go and find the king of France—the other—the
rich, the powerful one, I mean. I will myself solicit this million, or
these two hundred gentlemen; and—we will see.”
“Oh!” cried Charles, “you are a noble friend, sire—a heart created by
God! You save me, my brother; and if you should ever stand in need of
the life you restore me, demand it.”
“Silence, my brother,—silence!” said Louis, in a suppressed voice.
“Take care that no one hears you! We have not obtained our end yet. To
ask money of Mazarin—that is worse than traversing the enchanted
forest, each tree of which inclosed a demon. It is more than setting
out to conquer a world.”
“But yet, sire, when you ask it——”
“I have already told you that I never asked,” replied Louis with a
haughtiness that made the king of England turn pale.
And as the latter, like a wounded man, made a retreating
movement—“Pardon me, my brother,” replied he. “I have neither a mother
nor a sister who are suffering. My throne is hard and naked, but I am
firmly seated on my throne. Pardon me that expression, my brother; it
was that of an egotist. I will retract it, therefore, by a sacrifice,—I
will go to monsieur le cardinal. Wait for me, if you please—I will
return.”