Agony
The day that the deed of gift had been sent to the king, the cardinal
caused himself to be transported to Vincennes. The king and the court
followed him thither. The last flashes of this torch still cast
splendor enough around to absorb all other lights in its rays. Besides,
as it has been seen, the faithful satellite of his minister, young
Louis XIV., marched to the last minute in accordance with his
gravitation. The disease, as Guenaud had predicted, had become worse;
it was no longer an attack of gout, it was an attack of death; then
there was another thing which made that agony more agonizing still,—and
that was the agitation brought into his mind by the donation he had
sent to the king, and which, according to Colbert, the king ought to
send back unaccepted to the cardinal. The cardinal had, as we have
said, great faith in the predictions of his secretary; but the sum was
a large one, and whatever might be the genius of Colbert, from time to
time the cardinal thought to himself that the Theatin also might
possibly have been mistaken, and that there was at least as much chance
of his not being damned, as there was of Louis XIV. sending back his
millions.
Besides, the longer the donation was in coming back, the more Mazarin
thought that forty millions were worth a little risk, particularly of
so hypothetic a thing as the soul. Mazarin, in his character of
cardinal and prime minister, was almost an atheist, and quite a
materialist. Every time that the door opened, he turned sharply round
towards that door, expecting to see the return of his unfortunate
donation; then, deceived in his hope, he fell back again with a sigh,
and found his pains so much the greater for having forgotten them for
an instant.
Anne of Austria had also followed the cardinal; her heart, though age
had made it selfish, could not help evincing towards the dying man a
sorrow which she owed him as a wife, according to some; and as a
sovereign, according to others. She had, in some sort, put on a
mourning countenance beforehand, and all the court wore it as she did.
Louis, in order not to show on his face what was passing at the bottom
of his heart, persisted in remaining in his own apartments, where his
nurse alone kept him company; the more he saw the approach of the time
when all constraint would be at an end, the more humble and patient he
was, falling back upon himself, as all strong men do when they form
great designs, in order to gain more spring at the decisive moment.
Extreme unction had been administered to the cardinal, who, faithful to
his habits of dissimulation, struggled against appearances, and even
against reality, receiving company in his bed, as if he only suffered
from a temporary complaint.
Guenaud, on his part, preserved profound secrecy; wearied with visits
and questions, he answered nothing but “his eminence is still full of
youth and strength, but God wills that which He wills, and when He has
decided that man is to be laid low, he will be laid low.” These words,
which he scattered with a sort of discretion, reserve, and preference,
were commented upon earnestly by two persons,—the king and the
cardinal. Mazarin, notwithstanding the prophecy of Guenaud, still lured
himself with a hope, or rather played his part so well, that the most
cunning, when saying that he lured himself, proved that they were his
dupes.
Louis, absent from the cardinal for two days; Louis with his eyes fixed
upon that same donation which so constantly preoccupied the cardinal;
Louis did not exactly know how to make out Mazarin’s conduct. The son
of Louis XIII., following the paternal traditions, had, up to that
time, been so little of a king that, whilst ardently desiring royalty,
he desired it with that terror which always accompanies the unknown.
Thus, having formed his resolution, which, besides, he communicated to
nobody, he determined to have an interview with Mazarin. It was Anne of
Austria, who, constant in her attendance upon the cardinal, first heard
this proposition of the king’s, and transmitted it to the dying man,
whom it greatly agitated. For what purpose could Louis wish for an
interview? Was it to return the deed, as Colbert had said he would? Was
it to keep it, after thanking him, as Mazarin thought he would?
Nevertheless, as the dying man felt that the uncertainty increased his
torments, he did not hesitate an instant.
“His majesty will be welcome,—yes, very welcome,” cried he, making a
sign to Colbert, who was seated at the foot of the bed, and which the
latter understood perfectly. “Madame,” continued Mazarin, “will your
majesty be good enough to assure the king yourself of the truth of what
I have just said?”
Anne of Austria rose; she herself was anxious to have the question of
the forty millions settled—the question which seemed to lie heavy on
the mind of every one. Anne of Austria went out; Mazarin made a great
effort, and, raising himself up towards Colbert: “Well, Colbert,” said
he, “two days have passed away—two mortal days—and, you see, nothing
has been returned from yonder.”
“Patience, my lord,” said Colbert.
“Are you mad, you wretch? You advise me to have patience! Oh, in sad
truth, Colbert, you are laughing at me. I am dying, and you call out to
me to wait!”
“My lord,” said Colbert, with his habitual coolness, “it is impossible
that things should not come out as I have said. His majesty is coming
to see you, and no doubt he brings back the deed himself.”
“Do you think so? Well, I, on the contrary, am sure that his majesty is
coming to thank me.”
At this moment Anne of Austria returned. On her way to the apartments
of her son she had met with a new empiric. This was a powder which was
said to have power to save the cardinal; and she brought a portion of
this powder with her. But this was not what Mazarin expected; therefore
he would not even look at it, declaring that life was not worth the
pains that were taken to preserve it. But, whilst professing this
philosophical axiom, his long-confined secret escaped him at last.
“That, madame,” said he, “that is not the interesting part of my
situation. I made, two days ago, a little donation to the king; up to
this time, from delicacy, no doubt, his majesty has not condescended to
say anything about it; but the time for explanation is come, and I
implore your majesty to tell me if the king has made up his mind on
that matter.”
Anne of Austria was about to reply, when Mazarin stopped her.
“The truth, madame,” said he—“in the name of Heaven, the truth! Do not
flatter a dying man with a hope that may prove vain.” There he stopped,
a look from Colbert telling him that he was on a wrong tack.
“I know,” said Anne of Austria, taking the cardinal’s hand, “I know
that you have generously made, not a little donation, as you modestly
call it, but a magnificent gift. I know how painful it would be to you
if the king——”
Mazarin listened, dying as he was, as ten living men could not have
listened.
“If the king——” replied he.
“If the king,” continued Anne of Austria, “should not freely accept
what you offer so nobly.”
Mazarin allowed himself to sink back upon his pillow like Pantaloon;
that is to say, with all the despair of a man who bows before the
tempest; but he still preserved sufficient strength and presence of
mind to cast upon Colbert one of those looks which are well worth ten
sonnets, which is to say, ten long poems.
“Should you not,” added the queen, “have considered the refusal of the
king as a sort of insult?” Mazarin rolled his head about upon his
pillow, without articulating a syllable. The queen was deceived, or
feigned to be deceived, by this demonstration.
“Therefore,” resumed she, “I have circumvented him with good counsels;
and as certain minds, jealous, no doubt, of the glory you are about to
acquire by this generosity, have endeavored to prove to the king that
he ought not to accept this donation, I have struggled in your favor,
and so well have I struggled, that you will not have, I hope, that
distress to undergo.”
“Ah!” murmured Mazarin, with languishing eyes, “ah! that is a service I
shall never forget for a single minute of the few hours I still have to
live.”
“I must admit,” continued the queen, “that it was not without trouble I
rendered it to your eminence.”
“Ah, peste! I believe that. Oh! oh!”
“Good God! what is the matter?”
“I am burning!”
“Do you suffer much?”
“As much as one of the damned.”
Colbert would have liked to sink through the floor.
“So, then,” resumed Mazarin, “your majesty thinks that the king——” he
stopped several seconds—“that the king is coming here to offer me some
small thanks?”
“I think so,” said the queen. Mazarin annihilated Colbert with his last
look.
At that moment the ushers announced that the king was in the
ante-chambers, which were filled with people. This announcement
produced a stir of which Colbert took advantage to escape by the door
of the ruelle. Anne of Austria arose, and awaited her son, standing.
Louis XIV. appeared at the threshold of the door, with his eyes fixed
upon the dying man, who did not even think it worth while to notice
that majesty from whom he thought he had nothing more to expect. An
usher placed an armchair close to the bed. Louis bowed to his mother,
then to the cardinal, and sat down. The queen took a seat in her turn.
Then, as the king looked behind him, the usher understood that look and
made a sign to the courtiers who filled up the doorway to go out, which
they instantly did. Silence fell upon the chamber with the velvet
curtains. The king, still very young, and very timid in the presence of
him who had been his master from his birth, still respected him much,
particularly now, in the supreme majesty of death. He did not dare,
therefore, to begin the conversation, feeling that every word must have
its weight not only upon things of this world, but of the next. As to
the cardinal, at that moment he had but one thought—his donation. It
was not physical pain which gave him that air of despondency, and that
lugubrious look; it was the expectation of the thanks that were about
to issue from the king’s mouth, and cut off all hope of restitution.
Mazarin was the first to break the silence. “Is your majesty come to
make any stay at Vincennes?” said he.
Louis made an affirmative sign with his head.
“That is a gracious favor,” continued Mazarin, “granted to a dying man,
and which will render death less painful to him.”
“I hope,” replied the king, “I am come to visit, not a dying man, but a
sick man, susceptible of cure.”
Mazarin replied by a movement of the head.
“Your majesty is very kind; but I know more than you on that subject.
The last visit, sire,” said he, “the last visit.”
“If it were so, monsieur le cardinal,” said Louis, “I would come a last
time to ask the counsels of a guide to whom I owe everything.”
Anne of Austria was a woman; she could not restrain her tears. Louis
showed himself much affected, and Mazarin still more than his two
guests, but from very different motives. Here the silence returned. The
queen wiped her eyes, and the king resumed his firmness.
“I was saying,” continued the king, “that I owed much to your
eminence.” The eyes of the cardinal devoured the king, for he felt the
great moment had come. “And,” continued Louis, “the principal object of
my visit was to offer you very sincere thanks for the last evidence of
friendship you have kindly sent me.”
The cheeks of the cardinal became sunken, his lips partially opened,
and the most lamentable sigh he had ever uttered was about to issue
from his chest.
“Sire,” said he, “I shall have despoiled my poor family; I shall have
ruined all who belong to me, which may be imputed to me as an error;
but, at least, it shall not be said of me that I have refused to
sacrifice everything to my king.”
Anne of Austria’s tears flowed afresh.
“My dear Monsieur Mazarin,” said the king, in a more serious tone than
might have been expected from his youth, “you have misunderstood me,
apparently.”
Mazarin raised himself upon his elbow.
“I have no purpose to despoil your dear family, nor to ruin your
servants. Oh, no, that must never be!”
“Humph!” thought Mazarin, “he is going to restore me some scraps; let
us get the largest piece we can.”
“The king is going to be foolishly affected and play the generous,”
thought the queen; “he must not be allowed to impoverish himself; such
an opportunity for getting a fortune will never occur again.”
“Sire,” said the cardinal, aloud, “my family is very numerous, and my
nieces will be destitute when I am gone.”
“Oh,” interrupted the queen, eagerly, “have no uneasiness with respect
to your family, dear Monsieur Mazarin; we have no friends dearer than
your friends; your nieces shall be my children, the sisters of his
majesty; and if a favor be distributed in France, it shall be to those
you love.”
“Smoke!” thought Mazarin, who knew better than any one the faith that
can be put in the promises of kings. Louis read the dying man’s thought
in his face.
“Be comforted, my dear Monsieur Mazarin,” said he, with a half-smile,
sad beneath its irony; “the Mesdemoiselles de Mancini will lose, in
losing you, their most precious good; but they shall none the less be
the richest heiresses of France; and since you have been kind enough to
give me their dowry”—the cardinal was panting—“I restore it to them,”
continued Louis, drawing from his breast and holding towards the
cardinal’s bed the parchment which contained the donation that, during
two days, had kept alive such tempests in the mind of Mazarin.
“What did I tell you, my lord?” murmured in the alcove a voice which
passed away like a breath.
“Your majesty returns my donation!” cried Mazarin, so disturbed by joy
as to forget his character of a benefactor.
“Your majesty rejects the forty millions!” cried Anne of Austria, so
stupefied as to forget her character of an afflicted wife, or queen.
“Yes, my lord cardinal; yes, madame,” replied Louis XIV., tearing the
parchment which Mazarin had not yet ventured to clutch; “yes, I
annihilate this deed, which despoiled a whole family. The wealth
acquired by his eminence in my service is his own wealth and not mine.”
“But, sire, does your majesty reflect,” said Anne of Austria, “that you
have not ten thousand crowns in your coffers?”
“Madame, I have just performed my first royal action, and I hope it
will worthily inaugurate my reign.”
“Ah! sire, you are right!” cried Mazarin; “that is truly great—that is
truly generous which you have just done.” And he looked, one after the
other, at the pieces of the act spread over his bed, to assure himself
that it was the original and not a copy that had been torn. At length
his eyes fell upon the fragment which bore his signature, and
recognizing it, he sunk back on his bolster in a swoon. Anne of
Austria, without strength to conceal her regret, raised her hands and
eyes toward heaven.
“Oh! sire,” cried Mazarin, “may you be blessed! My God! May you be
beloved by all my family. Per Baccho! If ever any of those belonging to
me should cause your displeasure, sire, only frown, and I will rise
from my tomb!”
This pantalonnade did not produce all the effect Mazarin had counted
upon. Louis had already passed to considerations of a higher nature,
and as to Anne of Austria, unable to bear, without abandoning herself
to the anger she felt burning within her, the magnanimity of her son
and the hypocrisy of the cardinal, she arose and left the chamber,
heedless of thus betraying the extent of her grief. Mazarin saw all
this, and fearing that Louis XIV. might repent his decision, in order
to draw attention another way he began to cry out, as, at a later
period, Scapin was to cry out, in that sublime piece of pleasantry with
which the morose and grumbling Boileau dared to reproach Moliere. His
cries, however, by degrees, became fainter; and when Anne of Austria
left the apartment, they ceased altogether.
“Monsieur le cardinal,” said the king, “have you any recommendations to
make to me?”
“Sire,” replied Mazarin, “you are already wisdom itself, prudence
personified; of your generosity I shall not venture to speak; that
which you have just done exceeds all that the most generous men of
antiquity or of modern times have ever done.”
The king received this praise coldly.
“So you confine yourself,” said he, “to your thanks—and your
experience, much more extensive than my wisdom, my prudence, or my
generosity, does not furnish you with a single piece of friendly advice
to guide my future.”
Mazarin reflected for a moment. “You have just done much for me, sire,”
said he, “that is, for my family.”
“Say no more about that,” said the king.
“Well!” continued Mazarin, “I shall give you something in exchange for
these forty millions you have refused so royally.”
Louis XIV. indicated by a movement that these flatteries were
displeasing to him. “I shall give you a piece of advice,” continued
Mazarin; “yes, a piece of advice—advice more precious than the forty
millions.”
“My lord cardinal!” interrupted Louis.
“Sire, listen to this advice.”
“I am listening.”
“Come nearer, sire, for I am weak!—nearer, sire, nearer!”
The king bent over the dying man. “Sire,” said Mazarin, in so low a
tone that the breath of his words arrived only like a recommendation
from the tomb in the attentive ears of the king—“Sire, never have a
prime minister.”
Louis drew back astonished. The advice was a confession—a treasure, in
fact, was that sincere confession of Mazarin. The legacy of the
cardinal to the young king was composed of six words only, but those
six words, as Mazarin had said, were worth forty millions. Louis
remained for an instant bewildered. As for Mazarin, he appeared only to
have said something quite natural. A little scratching was heard along
the curtains of the alcove. Mazarin understood: “Yes, yes!” cried he
warmly, “yes, sire, I recommend to you a wise man, an honest man, and a
clever man.”
“Tell me his name, my lord.”
“His name is yet almost unknown, sire; it is M. Colbert, my attendant.
Oh! try him,” added Mazarin, in an earnest voice; “all that he has
predicted has come to pass, he has a safe glance, he is never mistaken
either in things or in men—which is more surprising still. Sire, I owe
you much, but I think I acquit myself of all towards you in giving you
M. Colbert.”
“So be it,” said Louis, faintly, for, as Mazarin had said, the name of
Colbert was quite unknown to him, and he thought the enthusiasm of the
cardinal partook of the delirium of a dying man. The cardinal sank back
on his pillows.
“For the present, adieu, sire! adieu,” murmured Mazarin. “I am tired,
and I have yet a rough journey to take before I present myself to my
new Master. Adieu, sire!”
The young king felt the tears rise to his eyes; he bent over the dying
man, already half a corpse, and then hastily retired.