It was eleven o'clock on the following day when Edward Langdale appeared
at the door of Monsieur de Tronson. The laquais said he did not know
whether his master was visible or not, but he would see; and, leaving
the young Englishman in an ante-chamber, he went in and remained some
five minutes. At his return he asked Edward to follow, and introduced
him into the bed-chamber of the secretary, who welcomed him, he thought,
rather coldly.
"I hear, Monsieur de Langdale," said De Tronson, "that you have
accurately fulfilled the injunctions of his Eminence and your word.
That, my good cousin, Madame de Lagny, has told me; but I think you
should have been here earlier."
"It was my intention, sir," replied Edward, seating himself in a chair
to which the secretary pointed, near that in which he himself sat,
wrapped in a large dressing-gown, by the fire, though it was the month
of July.
"After having left my name in the ante-chamber of his Eminence, I went
to my auberge for a few minutes, and then came out, with the intention
of paying my respects to you; but I was stopped by a great crowd of
people and forced to witness a dreadful scene, which rendered me
incapable of holding any rational conversation with any one."
"Ha! you were there!" exclaimed the secretary, suddenly roused from the
sort of listless mood in which he seemed plunged when Edward entered.
"What happened? Tell me all. But first shut that door, if you please. I
am ill, or I would not trouble you; but it is well to have no listening
ears in this place, whatever one has to say."
Edward closed the door, and, although unwillingly, detailed all that he
had witnessed of the execution of the unhappy Chalais.
De Tronson was moved far more than the young man expected. He put his
hand over his eyes, murmuring, "Poor lady! Unhappy young man!" and
Edward thought he saw some tears steal down his cheek. "I call God to
witness," he exclaimed, at length, "that I had no share in this affair!
Though my relations with Monsieur de Chalais were very slight, I would
have saved him if I could,--saved him from himself, I mean."
He sank into silence; and, to change the conversation, Edward said, "I
would have been here earlier this morning, but I thought you would
probably be at the council."
"There will be no council to-day," replied the secretary, shaking his
head: "we are all made sick by this affair. It has been like one of
those epidemic blasts that sweep over the marshes, filling every one
they touch with fever. I did not know you had waited on his Eminence:
that was what I alluded to,--not a mere formal visit to me. That was all
well; but you had better let him know that you are here. I know not that
he will see you; but you must show every token of respect--especially
just now."
"Shall I go to his apartments, then?" asked Edward.
"No, no," said De Tronson, with somewhat of the petulance of illness:
"call a servant."
The servant was soon called, and De Tronson bade him go to the apartment
of his Eminence. "Seek out one of his secretaries," he said, "and, if
you cannot find one, ask for his chaplain. Request him to present my
duty to the cardinal and tell him that Monsieur de Langdale, the young
English gentleman he knows of, is with me, waiting his Eminence's
pleasure. Say I would have come myself, but I am ill of fever."
The man retired and was absent only a few minutes ere he returned with
the simple words, "His Eminence cannot be interrupted to-day." Edward
heard the reply with regret; for time was passing away, his journey was
just beginning when those who sent him imagined it was ended, and his
funds were diminishing every hour. But, even while taking leave of
Monsieur de Tronson and expressing a sincere hope that he would soon be
better, a servant in purple livery entered, and, bowing to Monsieur de
Tronson, announced that his Eminence would see Monsieur de Langdale.
"Go, go! quickly!" said De Tronson, in a low voice; "but be careful."
And Edward followed the attendant from the room.
"Now for my fate," thought the young man, as he crossed the little
bridge over the moat. "Such scenes as that of yesterday harden rather
than soften. Methinks I could meet death more easily now than I could
have done four-and-twenty hours ago. Yet why should I think the cardinal
wishes me ill? He has been kind to me, however cruel he may be to
others. But why should I call him cruel? I know nothing of that young
count's guilt or innocence; and the horrid accessories of his fate were
certainly none of the minister's devising."
Thus thinking, he followed through the long passages of the castle till
he came to a door where stood one of the cardinal's guard, and there the
servant paused and knocked. A page opened it, and to his guidance Edward
was consigned. He was then led through an ante-room, and then through
the room where he had seen Richelieu before, to another smaller chamber,
where he once more found himself in the presence of the man whose life
and power were so often in the balance, but whose will in reality, from
that time forward, was fate in France.
Richelieu, though habited in clerical garb, was in what may be called
half-dress, and the _robe de chambre_ which he wore above his cassock
was of bright colors and a mere mundane form. His pointed beard, or
royal, as it was then called, with the dark mustache and the rich lace
collar, which might have suited any gay cavalier of the court, also had
a very lay appearance; and at once it flashed across the mind of the
young Englishman that he had seen him somewhere in another costume.
Where, for an instant he could not recollect; but he had not half
traversed the room before the magic power of association brought back a
night not more than a week before, when, walking in one of the corridors
of that very chateau, he had met a man descending to the dungeons in
which the unhappy Chalais was confined; and that man was before him. He
shuddered when his mind instinctively combined the visit of that night
with the scene of the day before; but in the look and manner of the
cardinal at that moment there was nothing to inspire awe or indicate any
cruelty or even harshness of character. His face was grave,--very grave;
but with a mild gravity much like that of the famous bust which is,
perhaps, the only good likeness of that extraordinary man. In his hand
was a book,--the famous Imitation of Christ; but he had let it drop upon
his knee when the door opened; and one who did not know him would have
said, to see him, "There is some calm student of theology a little
disturbed by being interrupted."
"Come in, young gentleman, and take a seat," said Richelieu, as the page
closed the door. "You have kept your word well with me, I find."
"I always try to do so, my lord cardinal," replied Edward, seating
himself near the minister.
"Lord cardinal!" said Richelieu, with a faint smile: "that is English,
and somewhat Roman too. But what matters it? You heretics from the other
side of the sea sometimes give us a lesson about dignities. Eminence!
Any man can reach that title of right in other paths besides the Church,
if he be wise, and brave, and firm,--ay, firm: he must be firm! Many a
man who might be great, by some small weakness in his own nature yielded
to, even once too often, mars all the results of higher qualities. Well,
you have returned, as you promised; but you have come at a time when we
are all sad,--very sad. I thought I would not see any one this morning,
but take counsel with the only happy ones,--the dead. However, on second
thoughts, I resolved to admit you, as you had performed your part of our
bargain well, and your last conversation pleased me."
He spoke in a sort of meditative tone, and, when he stopped, Edward had
nothing to reply but, "Your Eminence is gracious."
"Not so," answered Richelieu: "I am not gracious. I was not formed so by
nature. I can be kind, I think, to those who love me,--affectionate,
merciful; but graciousness implies some tenderness, and I am not tender.
Nay, not even tender to myself; for I declare to Heaven that, did I find
in my own heart the weakness that would yield right and justice to
prayers and tears and entreaties, I would pluck out that heart and
trample it under foot!"
His tone was somewhat vehement, and his eye sparkled; but after a moment
or two all was calm again; and he asked, even with a smile, "What think
you, young gentleman, men will say of me hereafter?"
"I have neither wisdom, your Eminence, nor experience sufficient to
divine," answered Edward; "neither can any one say till a period, I
trust, far, far distant."
"You mean when I am dead," said Richelieu. "Who can say how soon that
may be? How long can a poor human frame bear the labors, the anxieties,
the cares that I undergo,--the struggle against factions, the struggle
against oneself, the crushing out of sympathies, the resistance of all
kindly feelings, the endurance of ingratitude, falsehood, treachery, the
malice and the envy of the many, the undeserved hatred of not a few?
Happy the monk in his cloister! happy the ecclesiastic in his chair!
Miserable, miserable is the man whom either personal ambition, or idle
vanity, or the desire of serving his country, leads to the thorny paths
of state or places on the tottering pinnacle of power!"
"Thank Heaven!" said Edward, interested deeply, "there can be no chance
of my ever having to verify the truth of what your Eminence says."
"Who can tell?" rejoined Richelieu. "I have seen many rise to high place
with less opportunity than you. I myself,--did I ever think at your age
of being seated where I am now? You have talents, daring, firmness.
Ambition grows like a worm upon a leaf, destroying what supports it. The
moth may have laid its egg in your heart even now; and in ten years
hence you may be what you dream not. But let us talk of other things. I
am sorry you have come here just now, young gentleman."
"May I presume to ask why, my lord?" said Edward.
Richelieu paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then raised his keen
dark eyes to the young man's face. "To answer you fully I must say what
ought to flatter you and what cannot do so. You have pleased me; you
have high qualities which I esteem; I think you will be faithful to any
one to whom you attach yourself; and you have talents and courage to
serve him well. But your mind is not clear enough, your experience is
too little, your prejudices too great, for you to judge sanely of acts
which have lately been done here. In bidding you return after your late
journey and see me before you went farther, I wished to gain you to my
service,--not by bribes, not by promises, but by winning your esteem and
showing you friendship; and I can be a good friend. What is it that
passes over your brow? I thought so: you judge I can be a deadly enemy
also. Sir, I tell you, on my life and on my faith, I know no enemies but
those of France. I have endured much, but I have never struck a blow but
for the best interests of my king and my country. Even that young man
who perished yesterday, had he not warning sufficient? Had I not passed
over follies without number? Had I not forgiven designs against my own
power and life? They were nothing so long as the safety of France was
not involved. But when his pertinacious treason went into schemes to
bring foreign troops into the land, to overthrow a mighty policy, to
thwart his sovereign's will, to shake his throne, ay, and, perchance to
touch his life, what were mercy but folly? what were clemency but
treason?"
"I presume not, your Eminence," said Edward, bewildered by a
conversation so strange and unexpected, "to judge even in my own heart
of your conduct in circumstances of which I know nothing. I will own
that a great part of the scene I was yesterday forced to witness struck
me with horror; but even now, as I passed the bridge, I said to myself,
'I know nothing of that young man's guilt or innocence; and the dreadful
accessories of his death were certainly not of the cardinal's
devising.'"
"You did me that justice, did you?" said Richelieu, with a well-pleased
look: "let me tell you, sir, there is many a man in France who will deny
it to me. Ay, it was horrible, they tell me. But I had naught to do with
that. Did I steal away the executioner of the court or of the city? Did
I have any share in any of the details left to the common justice of the
land? Inexorable I was bound to be, even to a mother's prayers and
tears, though they wrung my heart. This court--this turbulent and
factious court--needed an example; a traitor deserved a traitor's death.
Both have been given; for there was not one mitigating circumstance, not
one palliation or excuse. Death was his doom; but God knows, could I
have spared one additional pang to his poor mother or to himself, I
would have done it."
"Indeed, I believe you, my lord cardinal," replied Edward, moved by the
apparent sincerity of the minister and the warmth and fire with which he
spoke.
"And yet," said Richelieu, more calmly, "were it to be done over again,
I would do it: nay, I will do it; for, though the medicine be strong,
the malady of this land of France cannot be cured by a single dose. I
will advise my king, as I have advised him, to show no mercy to
persisting traitors. Let the blame fall on me: I care not. But save
France!"
When men high in power have been forced into severe and terrible
measures by motives which seem to them perfectly sufficient at the time,
they sometimes feel a doubt when the execution of their purpose is over,
and, though they may scorn to make a defence before the world, they will
seek out some individual, however insignificant, who will listen while
they plead their own cause,--apparently to him, but in reality to
themselves. They will go over again all the reasoning, state all the
motives afresh, which at first carried them forward, in order to prove
to conscience that there was in the deed none of the selfishness which
each human sinner of us all knows too well is in his own heart. Such,
doubtless, was the case with Richelieu at the moment when the visit of
Edward Langdale gave him the opportunity of justifying the death of
Chalais to a foreign and impartial ear.
There might be a little deceit in this,--self-deceit; but in his
eagerness, in the strong current of his language, and in the earnest
vehemence of his manner, there was much that struck, ay, and captivated,
his young companion. Let any one suppose himself in the presence of
Cromwell or Cæsar,--and Richelieu was little less, if at all,--hearing
him defend his most doubtful actions, and motive his most ruthless
course, and they can conceive the sensations of Edward Langdale. Edward
compared the cardinal to neither; but he knew that he was in the
presence of the greatest and most powerful man who had yet appeared in
that age,--a man famous for stern discretion and unfaltering firmness of
purpose,--and that some strong and terrible emotions within him had led
him to pour forth in his presence views, principles, purposes, but dimly
discerned by any one at that time. It was a somewhat awful confidence
Richelieu placed in him; and when the minister paused the youth knew not
what to reply, but repeated, mechanically, not knowing why, the words,
"Ay, save France!"
Richelieu gazed at him for a moment with his bright eyes, full of
thought. It is known how, like most great men, he was somewhat
superstitious, and, forgetting probably that he had himself used the
words a moment before, he answered, "Young man, that is my oracle. Save
France! I will, if it be in me, though a thousand heads should fall, and
my own the last,--though it should cost a river of blood and a river of
tears. I will save France. I will put her upon the pinnacle of
countries, where she ought to stand; and after my day men shall say of
her, 'This is the great leader of the nations, in arts, in science, and
in arms.'"
He stopped and gazed into vacancy, as if he already saw the beautiful
future of which he spoke, and then, as if feeling that the vehemence of
his feelings had carried him beyond his usual reserve, he composed his
countenance; the fire of the eye went out; the features, which had been
much moved, became calm and still; and the phantasmagoric light which
had covered his face with great images passed away, leaving almost a
blank behind.
"Let us talk of what we were speaking about a few minutes since," he
said, not losing the expression of sympathy and admiration which had
come upon young Langdale's face. "I was referring to the possibility of
your attaching yourself to me, and meriting and meeting higher honors
and distinction than there seems any likelihood of your obtaining in
your own country. I offer you no unworthy incentive, for, if I
understand you, you are incapable of being moved by such; but I offer
you my friendship. Have I not given you the best proof of it?--not by
bestowing on you the hand of a noble French heiress,--that is
nothing,--but by speaking to you as Richelieu rarely speaks to any
one,--by showing you the things that lie within this bosom?"
Keen and acute as the young Englishman had become, he saw that he was
perhaps in more danger now than he had ever been before; that he was
standing on the edge of a precipice, and that the very confidence which
the cardinal had accidentally placed in him was only the tottering stone
which might fall and hurl him over the brink. Habitual boldness came to
his aid, however. "Let me recall to your Eminence," he said, "that
England and France are at war." A slightly scornful smile, at what he
thought a subterfuge, curled Richelieu's lip. "I assure you, sir,"
continued Edward, earnestly, "that, were such not the case, I would
grasp eagerly at an offer which can be rarely made to any one. I fear
not danger, though I know your service might be dangerous, (pardon my
plain speaking.) But on that score I should have no apprehension; for I
am convinced that if that service proved fatal to me it would be by my
own fault. But what your Eminence wants is one who will be faithful and
true to you. What would you think of me if, at the first prospect of
somewhat higher fortunes, I were not only to abandon my country, but to
leave those who have treated me most kindly, educated, trusted me? Would
not all the good opinions you have entertained of me vanish? Would you
not view me as base, treacherous, worthless? Could you ever confide in
me, esteem me more? Should I thenceforward be the man you want?"
"There is some truth in what you say," said the minister, slowly. "Yet,
after what has passed, there may be something to consider. Are you
aware, young gentleman, that I know more of you than I have seemed to
know?--that I know all?"
"Yes," answered Edward, at once: "I have seen that some time. I know
that if you were to hang me on that tree the world would hold you
justified. But I do not think you will do it."
"Pshaw!" said Richelieu, "I care not for the world. But what makes you
think I will not do it?"
"Because your Eminence has shown me the principles on which you act,"
said Edward; "and such a deed would not be within those principles. If
you hanged me now, it would be because I refused to serve a country at
war with my own,--not because I came into France under a false name and
with the safe-conduct of another."
"Good," said the cardinal, "and true! But you forget another reason,--or
from the idle babble of the day you may have learned to believe it not a
good one: you do not mention that I promised to let you go on to your
journey's end."
"I had forgotten it," said the lad; "but there might be many an excuse,
or I may say reason, for passing over that promise. You may have learned
more since you made it."
"Young man, do you wish to be hanged?" asked the cardinal, with a smile.
"Far from it, monseigneur," said Edward, gravely; "but I wish to act
honestly and bravely. I told your Eminence that my only motive for not
grasping eagerly at your generous proposal was, that France and England
are at war, that if I now took service here you yourself could never
trust me, and that I should feel myself unworthy of the trust of any
one."
"That objection may be sooner removed than you imagine," said Richelieu.
"Your gilded butterfly--your Buckingham--cannot flaunt it in the
sunshine forever. Already he has plunged his monarch into difficulties
which may, and will, produce sad consequences hereafter. An unnatural
war of a brother-in-law against his wife's brother, for no reasonable
cause, cannot long please the people of England. The Parliament--that
handcuff of kings--is already screwing the bolt tighter; and we may
leave it safely to compel a peace before your journey to the east is
over. I will exact one promise from you, which keep as I keep mine. It
is the only condition I put to your safety. Go on your way. Serve your
lord faithfully: I will take no umbrage at that: then return to France
as soon as you hear that peace is concluded between our two
countries;--nay, I know you will return, for there is a lure you will
not miss to follow, my young hawk; but come to visit me, and have your
best hopes confirmed by serving one who can reward as well as punish. Do
you promise me this?"
"I do, most readily," replied Edward, "and most gratefully thank your
Eminence for kindness I have perhaps not deserved."
"You have deserved better by refusing me just now," said Richelieu,
"than you would have done by yielding. I could _not_ have trusted you.
Go to, now. Men say that everybody must obey me, or I am a fiend. You
have judged better of the Cardinal de Richelieu."
"You gave me the means of judging, my lord," said Edward; "if all men
had the same, perhaps----"
"They would misconstrue me," said the minister. "But one thing remember:
If, in an open and unguarded moment, I have been led to show you
thoughts and feelings I do not usually suffer to appear, as you are a
man of honor, you will keep them to yourself. Breathe not one word to
any one of aught that has passed here. Say not to Lord Montagu, or any
one, Richelieu says this, or, Richelieu said that. By this I will test
your discretion."
"I will not forget," said Edward; "but, if I hear any one assail your
Eminence's motives, I may be permitted, surely, to defend them by the
means you yourself have afforded me."
"Let my motives take care of themselves, young man," said the minister,
sternly. "You may say that the cardinal treated you well,--kindly,
liberally,--and, although he had every right to stop you, sent you on to
Lord Montagu, though he knew your errand and his. Compliment his
lordship for me. And now farewell. I will to work. My spirit was
somewhat crushed with care, anxiety, and thought; but I am better for
this conversation."
Edward rose to retire, but the cardinal made him a sign to stay, saying,
"I forgot to ask what reception you met from the fiery Soubise."
"I did not see the prince, my lord," replied Edward: "he had gone to the
sea-coast. But we found the Duc de Rohan at Deux Rivières, and he was
fiery enough. He calmed his passion before I left, however, and promised
to convey what I had said to his brother, which he did, as I know by a
letter sent after me by that nobleman himself."
"Ha! De Rohan is a good man, and might be a great one," said Richelieu:
"he will be a loyal subject before two years have passed. As for
Soubise, he is weak and full of passions. What said his letter?"
"It is in the hands of Madame de Lagny, my lord," replied Edward; "but I
think I can repeat it word for word;" and he did so without omitting a
syllable.
Richelieu listened attentively; and at the words, "Tell the insolent
varlet that he shall never see her face again, the devil, the pope, and
the cardinal to boot," he laughed low, remarking, "We will dispense with
the devil, and need not trouble the pope: but the cardinal says you
_shall_ see her face again; and she shall be your wife in the face of
the whole world, or my name is not Richelieu. One of the two brothers
shall sign the contract, or both shall rot in exile. Now, fare you well,
my young friend. The time is not far distant when not even a Huguenot
prince shall dare to name me, or the pope either, in such company. Have
you money sufficient?"
"Enough till I can get more, I thank your Eminence," replied Edward.
He would have made the same answer if he had possessed much less; for he
would not have had any man say that he had received a livre from the
cardinal, had it been to save him from starving. He was turning to
depart; but the memory of all that great but terrible man had done for
him within the last few days came flashing across his mind, and he
paused, saying, with true emotion, "I will make no professions, my lord
cardinal, but this: Your great and extraordinary kindness shall never
be forgotten as long as Edward Langdale lives." Richelieu waved his
hand, but with a well-pleased look, and the youth retired.
"I have heard of such long memories before," said the minister to
himself. "Well, we shall see."