We must leave Edward Langdale for some half-hour, and carry the gentle
reader with us to another part of the old Chateau of Nantes. No one can
venture to say that we have not adhered to him through good and evil
with the tenacity of true friendship; but we must now either turn to a
different personage and another scene, or embarrass our after-narrative
with that most ugly beast, an explanation, which so frequently in
romance and poem follows the most brilliant heroes and most beautiful
heroines like an ill-favored cur.
In a fine long room with windows looking upon the Loire, about half-past
ten o'clock in the morning, was a gentleman between forty and fifty
years of age,--nearer the former than the latter period. The chamber was
well tapestried, and furnished with chairs scattered about in different
directions, and a large table a good deal to the right of the occupant
of the room. A smaller table was close at his hand, covered with papers
and materials for writing, which he was using slowly and deliberately,
sometimes carrying his hand to his head as if in thought, and then again
resuming the pen and writing a line or two. In person he was somewhat
above the middle height, with straight, finely-cut features and hair
very slightly mingled with gray. The face in itself was somewhat stern,
and the small pointed beard and mustache gave somewhat of a melancholy
look; but on that morning the expression was cheerful,--nay, even
good-humored; and the hand that held the pen was as soft and delicate as
that of a woman. His dress was principally scarlet, as that of a high
ecclesiastic of the Romish Church; but above all he wore a light
dressing-gown of dark purple trimmed with sable. Such was Richelieu as
he appeared in 1627; and those who have been accustomed to associate his
name with nothing but deeds of blood and tyranny might well feel
surprised could they see the bland expression of that noble countenance,
that smooth white hand, and, still more, could they look over his
shoulder and perceive that what he was writing was no grave despatch, no
terrible order, no elaborate state paper, but--some verses,--grave,
indeed, but neither sad nor stern.
The door opened, and the cardinal laid down his pen. Monsieur de Tronson
paused, as if for permission to advance, and Richelieu beckoned him
forward, saying, "Come in, Mr. Secretary; come in. I am enjoying a space
of leisure after so many busy and anxious days. Till one, I have little
to do and less to think of."
"Your Eminence will allow me to remind you," said Tronson, advancing and
standing by his side, "that this morning you appointed the hour of ten
to see that young English gentleman."
"True," said the cardinal. "I have not forgotten." And he pointed with
his hand to the larger table, on which lay one of Master Ned's
unfortunate leathern bags; adding, "What do you make of the case? Think
you he is the person he represents himself, or, as our hard-headed
friends before Rochelle will have it, a spy from England?"
"The passport is evidently signed by your Eminence," answered Tronson;
"and the young man himself has the manners of a gentleman of
distinction. He is highly educated, too,--a profound Greek and Latin
scholar: so says Father Morlais, whom I sent to have some conversation
with him. He is somewhat bluff and abrupt in his manners, it is true, as
most of these islanders are; but still his whole demeanor strikes me as
dignified, and even graceful. He can be no common spy, your Eminence:
that is clear; and if Buckingham has chosen him for an agent he has
chosen strangely well."
"As to his learning," replied Richelieu, "that signifies little. Many a
poor scholar is willing to risk his neck in the hope of promotion. We
have employed such ourselves, my good friend. Then, as to dignity of
manner, it is easily assumed. But his abruptness and _brusquerie_ offer
a different indication. It requires long habit to know when to be rude
and harsh, when soft and gentle. How old did you say?"
"From eighteen to nineteen at the utmost," said Tronson: "he appears
even less."
"Well, but this girl who is with him?" asked the cardinal: "what of
her?"
"That seems easily explained, monseigneur," replied the secretary, with
a smile: "she is, it would seem, of high family,--related to Monsieur de
Soubise on the one side," (the cardinal's brow became ominously dark,)
"and to Madame de Chevreuse on the other."
For an instant Richelieu's brow became darker still; and, with
uncontrollable vehemence, he exclaimed, "Ah! she has escaped me, as she
thinks; but she will find that I forget not my enemies,--nor my friends,
Tronson,--nor my friends," he added, with one of those subtle smiles
which had at least as much of the serpent in them as the dove.
Tronson turned a little pale, for that peculiar smile was known at the
court by this time, and it was not supposed to be favorable to those on
whom it was bestowed. But the secretary was too wise to notice it; and
he merely asked, "Who has escaped, your Eminence?--this young lady? She
was safe in the castle not an hour ago."
"No, no, man; no," answered Richelieu. "I mean Madame de Luynes,--Madame
de Chevreuse, Tronson. Have you not heard? She quitted Nantes at
daybreak this morning for Le Verger. Strange!" he continued, speaking to
himself: "'twas only last night; and yet she must have heard enough to
frighten her. Can the king betray himself and me? She must have learned
something. What is the girl's name, Monsieur de Tronson?"
"Lucette du Mirepoix, she says," replied the secretary.
"Lucette de Mirepoix du Valais," said the cardinal, slowly and
thoughtfully: "the same,--the same, Tronson. Do you not remember there
was much contention, some six years ago, between Madame de Luynes and
this scheming rebel Soubise, about the guardianship of this very girl?
There the duchess was right, for she would have brought her into the
bosom of the Church; but Soubise was too quick for her, and sent the
child away,--perhaps to England, to make sure she should be brought up
in heresy. But my fair duchess shall find me worse to deal with than
Soubise. But you said just now," he continued, in a calmer tone, "that
all could be easily explained. What did you mean, my friend?"
"Merely that her travelling with this youth is a problem easily solved,"
answered the secretary. "Last night, when they parted, there were some
warm kisses passed,--not at all fraternal, your Eminence; and, putting
those gentle signs in connection with some words and rosy blushes, I
conclude that they are bent on matrimony. Probably they have found
difficulties at home, and, as is not unfrequent with these English, they
have gone off together."
"Is the young man of noble birth, think you?" asked the cardinal,
thoughtfully.
"Not of high rank, even amongst the English," answered Tronson: "his
very name shows it."
Richelieu smiled, but this time it was a bland and pleasant smile. "We
will punish her," he said, speaking to himself,--"punish both!"
"But, your Eminence, if the safe-conduct be yours, as I think, and the
young man be really what he pretends, you will hardly----"
"Hand me that leathern bag and the knife," said the minister,
interrupting him, and seemingly paying not the slightest attention to
the secretary's words. "And now," he continued, when De Tronson had
obeyed, "let the youth be brought to me; and have the girl taken to the
adjoining room, ready to be brought in when I require her: see that no
one converses with her, my excellent good friend."
The secretary bowed his head and withdrew, repeating to himself, "'My
excellent friend!'--I have someway offended him. His words are too
kind!" But then, after a moment's thought, he murmured, in almost the
same words which Richelieu had used a minute or two before, "Can the
king have betrayed me? If so, he has betrayed himself too; for God knows
I advised him solely for his benefit."
Louis XIII. had now been on the throne of France about sixteen years,
and Richelieu had not been actually of the king's council more than
three; but both had been long enough before the world's eyes for men to
have learned that a king could betray his best friends from fear or
weakness, and that a minister could be most gentle in manners when he
was the most savage at heart. Richelieu was fond of cats, and perhaps
learned some lessons from his favorites. However, in the present
instance Tronson guessed rightly: the king had betrayed him to his
powerful minister. The night before, nearly at midnight, the cardinal
had carried to the king the confession of the unhappy Count de Chalais,
drawn from him in his dungeon by the minister himself,--perhaps--nay,
probably--by the most unworthy artifices. In recompense for an act which
put an end to one of the monarch's painful fits of hesitation, Louis
revealed to Richelieu the names of those who, in the confidence of loyal
friendship, had opposed some of the minister's favorite schemes; and
Tronson was one. Thus, he had guessed right. Whether Richelieu had
guessed right likewise no one can tell. That Louis had communicated the
confession of Chalais to some of his inferior confidants, who had
warned Madame de Chevreuse to fly, is very probable; but most
improbable that he had warned her himself. She was the friend,
companion, counsellor of his unhappy queen, and was hated by himself as
well as by his minister. The king's hatred, however, was merely the
reflex of his hatred for another. The enmity of Richelieu was more
personal and of long standing. When Marie de Rohan had married the
Constable Duke of Luynes, the now potent cardinal had been but a petty
agent of the queen-mother; and he had been treated by the proud woman
with some contempt. Again, in appearance the king, the constable, and
all the ministers had solicited for Richelieu the cardinal's hat from
Rome, but he had discovered that Luynes secretly opposed what he
publicly asked; and he attributed this treachery to the suggestions of
the duchess.
When, after the death of her first husband, Marie de Rohan married the
princely Duc de Chevreuse, and Richelieu rose rapidly to the height of
power, the enmity between them was no longer concealed, except by the
courtly varnish of external politeness,--and, indeed, not always by
that.
Thus, when sitting there in his apartments in the Chateau of Nantes,
there was perhaps no one in France whom Richelieu desired to mortify and
humiliate personally more than Marie de Rohan, Duchess of
Chevreuse:--no, not even her distant relatives the Prince de Soubise and
his brother the Duc de Rohan, though both had opposed the royal forces
in the field, and the reduction of both to submission was essential to
his policy. For them he had some respect, and no individual enmity; but
toward her there was a rancor which prompted to any act that would sting
rather than destroy. At that time even Richelieu had cause to follow the
course which had been pursued by Luynes, and to avoid carrying
resentments too far. He was not yet so firmly seated in power that, if
he made great enemies, he might not be thrown aside by a fickle king.
Otherwise it might seem strange that he dared not follow the same bold
course against Madame de Chevreuse which he soon pursued against the
unfortunate Chalais, and later against Montmorency and Cinq Mars. But,
as I have said, his fingers were not so tightly fixed round the staff of
command that he could venture to assail in front the mighty houses of
Montbazon and Lorraine, while Vendôme and Condé were already his
enemies. It was perhaps meditation upon subjects such as these that
occupied the minister's deepest thoughts while he opened with a sharp
penknife the leathern bag which De Tronson had brought him, took out
several letters, cut the silk, and read the contents; for he did all
with an absent air. But Richelieu's mind was one of those which can
carry on two processes at once,--one deep, intense, and mighty, the
consideration of vital questions, the other the mere observation and
recognition of objects--for the time, at least--less important. He
seemed to pay little attention to those letters; yet not one word
escaped him, and when he had done he replaced them in the bag and cast
it behind his chair, but within reach of his hand. He then took up, from
the little table close by, the paper on which he had previously been
writing, and was reading over the verses, when the door opened, and an
exempt of the court appeared, looking at the minister with a sort of
inquiring air. Richelieu bowed his head, and the man, stepping back, but
holding open the door, introduced Edward Langdale and retired into the
ante-chamber.