THE END OF THE CARDINAL.
When the Louvre was a walled and turreted stronghold, with moat and
drawbridge, bastion and tower, lying on grassy banks beside the river
Seine, then unbordered by quays and untraversed by stone bridges, an
ancient castle, strongly fortified, stood in the open country, hard
by, without the city walls. In the time of Charles VI., the mad king,
husband of the notorious Isabeau de Bavière, this castle belonged to
Bernard Comte d'Armagnac, Constable of France, the ally of the English
against his own sovereign, and a leader in those terrible civil wars
that desolated France throughout the space of two reigns. Hither the
English and the Burgundians often repaired, to meditate some murderous
_coup de main_ upon the capital, to mass their bloodthirsty troops
for secret expeditions, or to seek a safe retreat when the fortune
of war was adverse. As time went by this castle grew grey with age;
the rebel nobles to whom it belonged were laid in their graves; no
one cared to inhabit a gloomy fortress, torn and battered by war and
sacked by marauders. The wind howled through the desolate chambers,
owls hooted from the rents in its turrets, and noisome reptiles
crawled in the rank weeds which choked up its courts. It came to be
a gruesome place, lying among barren fields, where the ruffians and
desperadoes of the city resorted to plan a murder or to hide from
justice. This God-forgotten ruin and the foot-trodden fields about it
were purchased at last by wealthy nobles, who loved the fresh country
breezes beyond the new streets which now arose on this side of the
river. The materials of the old castle served to furnish walls for
the palaces of the Rambouillets and the Mercœurs, historic names in
every age of the national annals. Here they kept their state, until
Cardinal Richelieu, either by fair means or foul, it mattered little
to him, bought and destroyed their spacious mansions, pulled down all
that remained of the castle walls, filled up the ditches, levelled the
earth, and, on the ill-omened spot, raised the sumptuous pile known
as the Palais Cardinal, near, yet removed from, the residence of the
sovereign at the Louvre. The principal buildings ran round an immense
central square, or courtyard, planted symmetrically with trees and
adorned with fountains and statues. From this central square four other
smaller courts opened out towards each point of the compass. There was
a chapel splendidly decorated, and, to balance that, two theatres, one
sufficiently spacious to hold three thousand spectators, painted on
panel by Philippe de Champagne. There were ballrooms furnished with
a luxury unknown before; boudoirs—or rather bowers—miracles of taste
and elegance; galleries filled with pictures and works of art, and
countless suites of rooms, in which every decoration and adornment
then practised were displayed. Over the grand entrance in the Rue
Saint-Honoré appeared, carved in marble, the arms of Richelieu,
surmounted by a cardinal's hat and the inscription "Palais Cardinal."
Spacious gardens extended at the rear.
Still the Cardinal, like Wolsey at Hampton Court, added wall to wall of
the already overgrown palace, and bought up street after street within
the city to extend the gardens, until even the subservient Louis showed
some tokens of displeasure. Then, and not till then, did the Cardinal
cease building. At his death he presented his palace to the sovereign;
and from that day to this the Palais Cardinal, now Palais Royal, has
become an appanage of the State.
Before us stands the Palais Cardinal—solitary, in the midst of lonely
gardens, sheltered by waving groves. The greensward is divided by
straight walks, bordered by clipped lime-trees, rounded at intervals
into niches for statues and trophies; balustraded terraces border deep
canals, and fountains bubble up under formal groups of yew or cypress.
The palace casts deep shadows on the grass. It is very still. High
walls encircle the enclosure. The very birds are mute. Not the bay
of a hound is heard. Moss gathers on the paths and among the tangled
shrubberies, and no flowers catch the radiance of the sunshine.
Within is the great, the terrible Cardinal. The ground is sacred to
the despot of France, the ruler of the monarch, the glance of whose
eye is death or fortune. Journeying direct from Lyons in his chamber
on wheels—after the execution of Cinq-Mars—to Fontainebleau, where
he rested, he is come here to die. Yonder he lies on a bed of state,
hung with embroidered velvet in a painted chamber, the walls covered
with rare pictures and choicest tapestry, the windows looking towards
the garden. The moment approaches when he will have to answer for his
merciless exercise of absolute power over king and people, to that
Heavenly Master whose priest and servant he professes to be. How will
he justify his bitter hatred, his arrogant oppression of the great
princes and nobles of France? How will he meet the avenging ghosts of
the chivalrous Montmorenci, the poetic Chalais, the gallant Cinq-Mars,
the witty Saint-Preuil, the enthusiastic Urbain Grandier, in the
unknown country whither he is fast hastening? Who tried to seduce,
then to ruin, the Queen, Anne of Austria, and send her back, divorced
and disgraced, into Spain? Who turned the feeble Louis into a servile
agent of his ambition, and exercised over his weak mind a tyranny as
shameful to himself as degrading to the sovereign? True, Richelieu may
plead reasons of State, a rebellious nobility, traitorous princes, and
an imbecile king; but the isolation of the throne, begun under his
rule, was both barbarous and impolitic, as after ages showed. True, he
possessed rare genius, and his life was industriously devoted to what
he called "_the glory of France_"; but it was a mean and selfish glory,
to attain which he had waded through the noblest blood of the land.
Look at him now—he has just received extreme unction. A hypocrite to
the last, he folds his hands on his breast and exclaims—"This is my
God; as in his visible presence, I declare I have sacrificed myself to
France." When he is asked by the officiating priest—"If he forgives his
enemies?"—he replies, "I have no enemies but those of the State." Now
the hand of death is visibly upon him. In a loose robe of purple silk,
he lies supported by pillows of fine lace. He is hardly recognisable,
so great have been his sufferings, so complete is his weakness; his
bloodless lips pant for breath, his hollow eyes wander on vacancy,
his thin fingers work convulsively on the sheets, as though striving
against the approach of invisible foes.
But, before he departs, a signal honour is reserved for him. Behold,
the rich velvet curtains, heavy with golden embroideries, are held
aside by pages who carry plumed hats in their hands, and Louis XIII.
enters hastily. He is bareheaded, and is accompanied by the princes
of the blood and the great ministers of State. Louis is so shrunken
and attenuated, so white and large-eyed, that in any other presence
he might have been deemed a dying man himself. As he advances to the
_ruelle_ that encloses the bed, he composes his thin lips and pinched
face into a decent expression of condolence. How can he but _affect_ to
deplore the death of a minister whose fierce passions overshadowed his
whole life like a moral upas-tree? Nevertheless the fitting phrases are
spoken, and he embraces the ghastly form stretched out before him with
a semblance of affection. The expiring Cardinal presses the hand of
his master, and makes a sign that he would speak. Louis bows down his
head to catch the feeble voice, which says—"Sire, I thank you for this
honour; I have spent my whole life in your service. I leave you able
ministers; trust them, Sire; but,"—and he stops and struggles fearfully
for breath,—"but, beware of your Court. It is your _petit coucher_ who
are dangerous. Your favourites have troubled me more than all your
enemies." Then the Cardinal sinks back, fainting on his pillows.
Louis withdraws with affected concern; but, ere he reaches the spacious
anteroom, lined with the Cardinal's retainers in magnificent liveries,
he bursts into an inhuman laugh—"There goes a great politician to his
death," he says to Chavigny, who is beside him, and he points with his
thumb towards the Cardinal's chamber; "a wonderful genius. Now he is
gone I shall be free—I shall reign." He chuckles with delight at the
idea of being at last rid of the Cardinal; and a grim smile spreads
itself over his ashen face.
It is a ghastly joke, as cruel as it is selfish. As if Louis's life
were bound up in the existence of his great minister—he is himself a
corpse within a year!