Mazarin Triumphant.
Of my life during the next few months there is little to tell, beyond
the ordinary perils of a soldier's career. I carried the green scarf
of Mazarin into several desperate battles, and stained my sword at the
taking of more than one hostile town. I marched and fought, was
wounded and got well again, was complimented by Turenne and rewarded by
the Queen-Regent. In fine, I figured as a successful soldier as far as
my youth permitted.
Fortune favoured me, as the jade often does those who care nothing for
her frowns or smiles, and in the affair at Brie Comte Robert, when the
Court was once more in danger, I distinguished myself sufficiently to
be thanked by our youthful monarch in person.
But the praises and rewards showered upon me were not honestly earned,
for my deeds were due to recklessness rather than to true bravery. Day
and night I was ready to take my life in my hands, and I lived in a
whirl of excitement. I made no new friends, though many dashing
spirits offered me comradeship. My heart was still sore for the loss
of Raoul, and except for Pillot and the sturdy Englishman, John
Humphreys, I went my way alone.
While at Pontoise I saw much of Humphreys, who, in his bluff hearty
way, did a good deal to cheer me. He talked freely of Raoul, and I
liked to listen to his praises of my dead friend. However, the fortune
of war was soon to cut me adrift from him. Things were going very
badly for us just at that time, and Turenne could barely hold his own.
The Duke of Lorraine had returned to help Conde, and the Spanish
general, Fuensaldana, was hurrying with a strong army to the Duke's
side.
"The Cardinal has played a clever game," remarked Pillot, one evening,
"but he has lost now. I heard it whispered this afternoon that he is
likely to take another journey."
"The Queen will not desert him," said I.
"She cannot help herself, monsieur. Even her strongest friends are
clamouring for the Cardinal's dismissal."
The next day I found that Pillot was right, and it was from Humphreys I
heard it.
"The matter has been all arranged," said he. "The King is to be asked
to dismiss Mazarin, and he will agree. When that is done, it is
thought the princes will lay down their arms."
"And if not?"
"The fighting will continue, I suppose. But even Turenne will not be
able to defeat Conde and Lorraine and the Spaniards. They are too many
for him."
"He will do his best."
"I grant you that, but even Turenne cannot accomplish impossibilities."
This was almost the last chat I had with Humphreys for several months.
Things turned out as he had prophesied. Mazarin quitted the Court, and
I accompanied him on the journey to Sedan. For a beaten man he was
very cheerful, and I felt sure that, even then, he was reckoning on a
triumphant return.
"This travelling is troublesome, De Lalande," said he, pleasantly, "but
I have no doubt we shall find rest after a while."
Now, although I served him faithfully and to the best of my ability,
the Cardinal was no favourite of mine, yet I found it impossible not to
admire him. My old idea of the huge spider returned to me in stronger
force. He was always spinning, and with patience almost incredible.
Now a thread was broken, now several; sometimes it seemed as if the web
were entirely destroyed; yet still he persevered, never disheartened,
never discouraged, never once, as far as I could judge, losing hope.
Couriers from the Court followed us on every stage, bringing countless
letters and messages, and Mazarin was always ready to send back
instructions or advice. He would write a despatch at two in the
morning as cheerfully as at ten, and the worst tidings found him cool
and collected. Even Pillot began to admire the man, though the poor
fellow was in despair at being taken farther and farther away from his
beloved Paris. He did not grumble, save in a comical manner, but his
long absence from the capital was undoubtedly a sore trial to him.
One evening--we were entering Soissons, if my memory serves me--a
messenger galloped up in hot haste, and delivered a letter to the
Cardinal, who was, at the moment, on horseback. He read it through,
and turning to the courier, said calmly, "Tell the Marshal there is no
need for alarm; I will find a plan."
During the remainder of the journey he rode in deep thought, but on
reaching the house where he was to stay for the night, he said, with a
smile, "De Lalande, I have yet another piece of work for you. Come to
me in the morning as soon as you have breakfasted."
I saluted, and, turning away, ordered Pillot to see that the horses
were ready early, as we might have a long journey the next day.
"Perhaps it is to Paris, monsieur," he suggested, his eyes sparkling.
"I wonder if we could find our way to the inn in the Rue de Roi? I
fear not. It is so long since we were there. The citizens will take
me for a peasant!"
"Hardly that!" I answered laughing. "But why do you think we may go to
Paris?"
"I do not know," said he comically, "perhaps because I hoped it might
be so."
Poor Pillot was fated to be disappointed, as I discovered in the
morning. Mazarin had apparently been up for hours when I entered his
room. His table was littered with papers and letters, one of which was
addressed to the Duke of Lorraine.
"De Lalande," said he without ceremony, "how would you like to be
captured by the Spaniards?"
"Captured by the Spaniards, my Lord?"
"Why, yes," said he, "it does not sound pleasant, but I fear that is
what will happen to you. This letter is addressed to the Duke of
Lorraine, but it is really meant to fall into the hands of the Spanish
general."
"I understand, my Lord," I replied, though not with any degree of truth.
"Hardly, De Lalande," said he lightly, "but I will make it clear to
you. Marshal Turenne has too many foes, and if we can induce
Fuensaldana to retreat, it will be a point in our favour. Should this
letter fall into his hands he will decide to go, but the affair
requires caution. That is why I have selected you. The Spaniards are
near Compiegne, and I want you to be taken prisoner as soon as
possible."
"I will do my best, my Lord, though it is a queer errand," I replied as
I took my leave.
"_Parbleu!_ this Cardinal is a cunning fox," exclaimed Pillot, when I
informed him of the kind of adventure in which we were engaged. "The
Spaniards will think Lorraine is making friends with the Court; they
will take fright and decamp. Truly this Mazarin is a shrewd rascal.
But," he added more soberly, "the affair will be awkward for monsieur."
"Why, yes; it will not be altogether pleasant," I replied, "but the
Spaniards will soon release me."
Mounting our horses, we rode off, and by early evening had reached the
neighbourhood of the Spanish camp.
"Monsieur will soon have his wish," whispered Pillot, as we proceeded
through a small hamlet. "See, the road yonder is blocked by a body of
horsemen. Does monsieur intend to show fight?"
"Why, no; yet I must not be caught too easily, or I shall arouse
suspicion. Let us ride on carelessly, and turn when it is just too
late."
"Monsieur may get a bullet," suggested Pillot, but I told him I must
chance that, though he was, on no account, to risk his own life.
Accordingly we proceeded along the road toward the Spanish outpost,
when suddenly a gruff voice roared some words in a foreign tongue. I
have often laughed since at the remembrance of Pillot's face at this
time. The fellow was a born actor and might have made a fortune on the
stage. Now, his eyes rolled in fright, he was the very picture of
misery, and he cried in trembling accents, "Fly, monsieur, fly, or we
are dead men! Oh, good people, I pray you, do not hurt us. I will
give you five pistoles--ten even----"
"Be still!" I exclaimed roughly, "what a coward you are!"
Again the gruff voice sounded, and just as I turned my horse's head, a
dozen men, or more, came rushing up, while some one shouted in bad
French, "Halt, or we fire!"
Pillot gave a scream of fright and jumped down, while I galloped off.
The ride was not a long one, however, for my horse had scarcely got
into his stride when a bullet struck him and he rolled over, pinning my
leg to the ground. In an instant the soldiers were around me, and
Pillot was crying fearfully, "Do not kill him, good people. He is a
high officer and a friend of the King's. He is on an errand for His
Majesty now. Oh, I will give you five, ten pistoles, and----"
"Cease that noise and answer my questions," exclaimed some one in
French. "Who is your master, and where is he going?"
I did not hear Pillot's reply. My leg had been released, but the pain
caused me to faint, and several days passed before I was able to
understand what had happened. Then I found myself in a bed in a small
chamber, with Pillot waiting upon me. He would not talk much at first,
but after a time he recounted in high glee how the soldiers had
discovered Mazarin's note, and how the Spanish general had almost
immediately broken up the camp and withdrawn the greater part of his
troops.
"And where are we now?" I asked.
"In Compiegne, monsieur. The surgeon says you will not be fit for the
field for months, but in a fortnight or so I am going to take you in a
carriage to Paris," and his face beamed with delight.
"I wonder if the Cardinal knows what happened?"
"Yes, monsieur. I sent him word by a trusty courier. Monsieur should
be made a nobleman."
I did not wish that, but I was gratified when, on the very day before
setting out for Paris, a special courier brought me this note, written
by the Cardinal himself:
"Well done, De Lalande! Get well soon. Your services will not be
forgotten."
My leg was still painful, and I could not use it at all, but Pillot had
hired a roomy carriage, and fitted it up with soft cushions. Indeed,
his thoughtfulness was remarkable, and he treated me with as much care
as if I had been a child. We did the journey by easy stages, and I at
length found myself back in my old rooms.
The surgeon whom Pillot now called in gave me small hope of a speedy
recovery, and as a matter of fact I did not leave the house till the
beginning of the new year. Before that time, however, many changes
occurred. Conde marched south with his troops and the Court returned
to Paris. This was a pleasant change, as John Humphreys was once more
at the Louvre, and hardly a day passed without his spending an hour or
so with me.
Naturally, he brought all the news; so that I could easily follow the
course of events. Day by day the Royal power increased; the people
were becoming fond of their youthful monarch, and Turenne was more than
holding his own against the rebels.
"Faith!" exclaimed Humphreys, one evening towards the close of the
year, "it looks as if that Cardinal of yours were going to win, after
all. He is back in France with an army, and is hurrying to meet the
Marshal!"
"He will be in Paris before long," said I laughing, "and then we shall
see a sight."
Every day now brought news of some fresh success, and much of the glory
fell to the share of Mazarin. People began to talk of him as a great
general, and to compare him, as a soldier, with Conde and Turenne.
This was, of course, very absurd, but the talk increased the Cardinal's
popularity.
At the beginning of the new year, 1653, my leg was so much stronger
that I was able to go out, and every day I walked a little distance in
the streets, accompanied by Pillot. I could not ride as yet, but even
that I was able to manage by the time Mazarin returned to Paris.
Yes, the great struggle was over, and, as I had foreseen in the
beginning, the _Frondeurs_ had been smitten hip and thigh. Conde,
overshadowed by the genius of Turenne, was a fugitive; Gaston of
Orleans, who ever blew hot and cold in one breath, had left the capital
in disgrace; the parliament men had been brought to their knees; and
that sturdy rogue, De Retz, having lost all his power, was openly
arrested and imprisoned at Vincennes.
But the crowning triumph was the return, on 2nd February, of my early
patron to the city which had hounded him out with hoots and jeers and
savage threats of death. The streets were gaily decorated, and the
citizens, apparently all of one mind, held high holiday in favour of
the recalled exile.
I listened in vain for the ribald songs, the biting jests, the terrible
threats and vows of vengeance; in their stead I heard praises of the
Queen-Mother; openly expressed admiration of the youthful monarch, who
has, since then, advanced his country to the highest pinnacle of fame;
and words of good-will towards the wily Italian, who, whatever his
defects, had toiled hard and successfully for France.
"The people are like dolls that jump when the showman pulls the
strings," remarked Pillot, as we made our way through the throng.
But if the common people bawled themselves hoarse in welcoming the man
they had more than once threatened to murder, the higher classes
tripped each other up in their eagerness to render him homage. Louis
himself rode in state six miles from the city to greet him, and the
proudest nobles in the land were glad to appear in the Cardinal's
train. The Royal Guard was mounted at the gate in his honour, and
thousands welcomed, with joyful shouts, the Italian priest who had
returned to govern their country as a master.
The _Black Mantles_ and the clergy, the cadets of illustrious houses,
the inferior nobles, and those who had raised themselves within an ace
of princely rank, nay, even princes of the blood royal, bent the knee
to this man against whom all France had pitted itself in vain! The
triumph, indeed, was such as falls to the lot of few men, and it must
be said that Mazarin bore his honours well. Many enemies who had
insulted or injured him were in his power, but he took no vengeance,
bidding them live at peace and devote their talents to the advancement
of their country.
For my own part I had no cause to complain. On the very day after his
arrival he sent for me to attend him in his apartments at the Louvre.
"Well, De Lalande," said he smiling, "so we are back in our old
quarters! Have you recovered from your accident?"
"Yes, my Lord, I thank you."
"You are not looking well; you must go away for a change! Let me see,
did we not have a talk once about a place called Vancey?"
"That was my father's estate, my Lord."
"Ah, and then it passed into the hands of Baron Maubranne? Your
father, if I remember rightly, offended Cardinal Richelieu? Strange,
that the father should anger one cardinal and the son gain the goodwill
of another! Now, listen to me, De Lalande. Go home and rest, and tell
your parents that the title-deeds of Vancey are following you."
"My Lord!" I gasped.
"There are those who call Mazarin a niggard," said he, still smiling,
"but there will be at least one to hold him a good paymaster. You have
done your share, De Lalande, and now I will do mine. There, go now;
you must be anxious to see your parents. Some day I may need your
services again."
* * * * *
I suppose that the story of my adventures really ends with my dismissal
from the Cardinal's room, but there are a few matters on which my
readers may like a little further information.
I need not dwell on my reception at home; of my father's pride, of my
mother's unfeigned joy as she kissed and embraced me; nor is it
necessary to add that the Cardinal was as good as his word, and that
Vancey has long since been once again in the possession of the De
Lalandes. I may, however, say a word or two about those whose
acquaintance I made during that stirring period of my life.
Lautrec, of the gorgeous attire, followed the fortunes of Conde and was
slain outside Bordeaux. Young Armand d'Arcy clung to the weak Gaston
of Orleans and left Paris with the disgraced Duke. He was one of the
first to congratulate me on my success, though he would never bow the
knee to Mazarin. John Humphreys fought his way to a high rank in the
Queen's Guards, and might have gained even further honours, but, in
1660, he returned to England with King Charles, and had his rich
estates restored to him.
My old friend, Roland Belloc, had deservedly gained the King's favour,
and spent several happy years as the youthful monarch's personal
attendant, instructing him in the art of horsemanship and in the use of
a soldier's weapons. Afterwards he retired on an ample pension to his
country seat, and frequently paid a visit to Vancey, where he was
always sure of a cordial welcome.
The unlucky Peleton never left the Bastille. Harassed by his own
difficulties, Conde had forgotten his prisoner, who remained in his
cell until released by a merciful death.
As for Pillot, I tried hard to induce him to stay at Vancey, but he
could not tear himself from his beloved Paris; so I set aside for him a
sum of money on which he was able to live in comfort.
Only one other matter remains to be told, and my readers will readily
guess what it is. As soon as the troubles were at an end, I posted
down to Aunay, where I was received by the ladies with every mark of
pleasure. The old friendship was renewed, and in course of time Marie
de Brione accompanied me to Vancey as my wife. Madame Coutance rarely
visited Paris again, but spent the rest of her life quietly either on
her own estate or with her niece at Vancey.