THE DUC DE BEAUFORT.
The Duc de Beaufort is summoned to a private audience at the Louvre. On
his way up the grand staircase entering from the inner quadrangle he
meets his mother, the Duchesse de Vendôme, and his sister, the Duchesse
de Nemours, who, their attendance on the Queen over, are descending.
"Good God! Francis," cries his mother, raising her hands with a gesture
of horror, "I thought you were safe at Rambouillet. _You_ within the
Louvre at this moment? You must be mad!" And she throws herself upon
him and tries to bar his further passage.
"Oh, my brother!" exclaims his sister Nemours, in the same breath,
throwing her arms around his neck; "in the name of the Holy Virgin, do
not tempt your fate. Fly, dear Francis—fly, while you can—our coach is
waiting below—come with us instantly." And Madame de Nemours takes him
by the arm, and tries to draw him downwards.
Beaufort plants himself firmly on the stair. His first impulse is to
push them both forcibly aside, and to proceed; his next to curse their
folly in the spicy _argot_ of the _halles_. He does neither; but stands
open-mouthed, his fierce eyes demanding an explanation he does not
condescend to ask. The explanation is soon forthcoming.
"My son," cries his mother, bursting into tears, and seizing on his
hand to detain him, as he makes a motion as if to evade them, "listen
to me, I implore you. Your sister and I have been in waiting on the
Queen many hours to-day. She is terribly incensed against you. People
have been coming all day with tales to her here, at the Louvre. Crowds
have filled her audience chamber."
"_Mille Diables!_ What do you mean, mother?" bursts out Beaufort,
shaking himself free from both ladies. "You call me mad, if any one
be mad it is yourselves. I am here, summoned by the Queen herself, to
a private audience. _Ventre de ma vie!_"—Beaufort much affects some
of the favourite oaths of his grandfather, Henri Quatre—"what are her
Majesty's humours to me?"
"Oh, Francis," sobs the Duchesse de Nemours, "what have you done? You
have threatened the life of Cardinal Mazarin. The Queen knows it. She
has sent for you to secure your person. She can have no other motive.
Nothing can exceed her indignation. She said, in my hearing, that you
had personally insulted her; that your party, the _Importants_, were
the curse of her reign; and that the Duchesse de Montbazon corrupted
the princes of the blood by her intrigues. In the name of Heaven, do
not venture near her Majesty if you value your liberty, or even your
life!"
The Duchesse de Vendôme wrings her hands while her daughter is speaking.
"For my sake, quit Paris, my dear son. If you remain, not even Gondi
can save you. Come with us instantly, and cross the frontier while you
can."
Her words are broken; she trembles at her son's manifest danger;
Beaufort looks at her, shakes his head, and bursts into a loud laugh.
"You are a couple of lunatics, both of you"—and again he laughs—"I
shall not leave Paris; I will not even hide myself. Calm yourself,
mother,"—and he kisses her on the cheek—"her Majesty has summoned me to
a private audience. I shall obey her. She is no traitress. I have been
guilty of rudeness towards her. I go to wipe out the remembrance of it.
I am rough, but not brutal, especially to the Queen. Besides, _they
dare not arrest me_."[1]
[1] These words, spoken by the Duc de Beaufort, are the same as those
of the Balafré, at Blois, before his assassination by Henry III.
Saying which, he pushes his mother and sister, who still endeavour to
stop him, on one side, and bounds up the stairs.
It is evening. Anne of Austria is alone in a spacious withdrawing-room,
from which her private writing-closet opens. Four lofty windows turn
towards the river—one is open. She sits beside it, gazing at the
dazzling tints of the summer sunset that lace the western heavens
with bars of fire. In front rise the double towers of Notre-Dame. The
fretted spire of the Sainte-Chapelle glistens against a bank of heavy
clouds that are rapidly welling up from the south. These clouds deepen
with the twilight. The lustre of a stormy sunset soon fades out. The
sun disappears, and darker and denser clouds gather and thicken, and
obscure the light. Low thunder rumbles in the distance, and a few heavy
raindrops descend. Long shadows fall across the floor, the corners of
the room grow dark, and only a few bright gleams, lingering low on
the horizon, rest on the Queen's face and figure.
Anne of Austria has now passed into middle life; her form is full,
her movements heavy. The glorious eyes are still lustrous, but no
longer flash with the fire of youth. Her hair, though still abundant,
has lost its glossy brightness. Her dress is rich, her bearing cold
and stately. She affects a distant, almost a haughty manner, and is
severe in exacting the most rigid etiquette from all who approach her,
save alone the Cardinal. He comes and goes as he lists, smiling and
obsequious, but no longer humble or subservient as of yore. Indeed, at
times he treats her Majesty with absolute familiarity, to the utter
dismay of the Duchesse de Chevreuse and Mademoiselle de Hautefort. When
not engaged with Mazarin in state affairs, or in giving audiences, the
Queen passes her time in her oratory. Not only is she devout herself,
but exacts at all events the same outward show of piety from her ladies.
Twilight has deepened into gloom, ere the Duc de Beaufort enters.
He stands in shadow, and as he glances at the Queen, he inwardly
apostrophises his mother and sister as a couple of fools and gossips,
for imagining him to be in any danger of her displeasure. His
boisterous bearing—for he affects the manners of the lowest of the
populace, the better to sway them, and by so doing to embarrass the
minister—is visibly softened. He remembers with pain the insults of
which he has been guilty in turning his back on the Queen, when they
last met, and in refusing to receive her herald. He is both repentant
and flattered at her summons. His obeisance to her is unusually low,
and some tokens of emotion betray themselves on his dissipated, though
handsome countenance.
"Good evening, cousin," says Anne of Austria, as he enters, a gracious
smile upon her face, and with that queenly grace natural to her, she
presents her still beautiful hand to him, which he kisses kneeling.
"Where have you been these four days past? You are a stranger at the
Louvre."
Her voice is sweet, her look is gentle. It is impossible that what
Beaufort has heard can be true.
"Madame," he answers, bowing, "had I not been absent from Paris, I
should not have failed to present my duty to your Majesty. But I am
only just returned from a hunting-party at Rambouillet, whither I went
with my brother-in-law, Nemours. Until I came back I did not know that
you had asked for me. What can I do for your Majesty's service? I am
always at your command."
"Ah, cousin, you are always at my command, I know," answers the Queen,
repeating his words, and she gives a little laugh. Beaufort winces at
the covert rebuke. He feels that her meaning must be ironical, yet she
speaks caressingly, and the same gracious smile still plays about her
mouth.
"You once called me the most honourable man in France, Madame; I am
proud to remember it." Beaufort speaks roughly, and in a loud voice;
the momentary polish is passing away with the momentary emotion. "I
am what I ever was. I do not change. I wish I could say the same of
your Majesty. Madame, you have greatly altered," and he looks at her
straight in the face. Anne of Austria shifts her position, so as to sit
in shadow, then she replies:—
"I have no _special_ purpose in summoning you, cousin, save for the
satisfaction your presence here gives me." Again Beaufort feels the
covert stab, and observes that she studiously avoids noticing his
remarks on her altered conduct towards him.
"You and I," adds the Queen, in a voice strangely monotonous, "are
indeed old friends and comrades as well as cousins."
"You have not a truer friend in whole France than I am," answers the
Duke vehemently, and he advances a step or two towards the window, near
which the Queen sits, raises his hand to emphasise his words, and lets
it fall so heavily on a table near as to make the whole room echo. The
Queen still smiles graciously.
"Yes, Madame, I am no courtier; I hate courts; but before you made
that Italian _facchino_ your favourite you relied on Beaufort." As he
pronounced the Cardinal's name his face hardens and his hands clench
themselves; an almost imperceptible shudder passes over the Queen. Then
he continues:—
"Was it not to Beaufort that you entrusted the sacred person of his
Majesty and your own safety after the death of your husband, before the
Regency was settled?"
Anne of Austria bows her head in silence. She is evidently determined
not to take offence. If any one else had dared to mention the Cardinal
to her in such language she would have ordered him to the Bastille.
Had the Duke been less giddy this knowledge ought to have curbed him,
especially after the warning he had received; but his thoughts are now
passing into a different channel, and he heeds it not.
"Yes, cousin, I have known you long, and closely," is the Queen's
cautious rejoinder. "You have been at Rambouillet, Prince," she
continues; "have you had good sport? The canals there are, I am told,
full of fat carp. Do you love fishing?"
The Duke stares at her without replying. The Queen, who appears to
desire to continue the conversation, yet to avoid all discussion, still
speaks—
"My son will grow up to be a keen sportsman, I hope. The royal forests
must be better guarded. Did you and the Duc de Nemours find any deer at
Rambouillet?"
Spite of the Queen's unusual loquacity, there is something in her
manner which irritates the excitable Duke. He cannot altogether
convince himself that she is not mocking him. He had come certainly
repentant, but his fiery temper now overmasters him at the bare
suspicion.
"Did your Majesty send for me to put such questions as these?" cries he
roughly. "If so, I would rather have stayed at Rambouillet."
"Truly, Duke," replies the Queen evasively, colouring at his bluntness,
"it is difficult to content you. I have already said that I summoned
you for no special purpose, save that we might converse together"—and
she stops suddenly, and hesitates—"as cousins, and _as friends_."
This last word is spoken slowly and with manifest effort. Her voice,
which has a strange ring in it, is drowned by a clap of thunder,
still distant, and a flash of lightning illuminates the room for an
instant, and rests upon the long, fair hair and frowning countenance
of Beaufort. Her words are bland, but her bearing is distant and
constrained. Even the unobservant Beaufort is struck by this anomaly;
but he attributes it to some vestige of displeasure at his late conduct.
"I trust, Madame, you will always treat me with the confidence proper
to both these titles," he replies stiffly.
Her words appease, but do not satisfy him. Even while speaking, the
Queen has turned her head towards the door of her writing closet, and
listens. The wind roars without, and the waters of the Seine dash
themselves against the low walls that border the Quay, but no sound
within is audible. Anne of Austria resumes the conversation as though
talking against time. But Beaufort, naturally unobservant, is now too
much excited to notice this. He has forgotten all that his mother and
sister had said. Not the slightest suspicion crosses his mind.
"It is a boisterous evening," continues the Queen, looking out of
the window—a faint flash of lightning plays round her darkly robed
figure—"but the storm is still distant. By-the-bye, my cousin, am I
to congratulate you on being appointed beadle of Saint-Nicholas des
Champs?" asks the Queen, still smiling. "The bourgeoisie must be
greatly flattered by your condescension."
"That is a matter of opinion," answers Beaufort. "I glory in belonging
to the people. I would rather be called _Roi des Halles_ than King of
France."
The Queen says no more, again she listens. She seems more and more
embarrassed, and the conversation languishes. The Duke begins to be
conscious that something is amiss. He even goes the length of secretly
wishing that the interview were over. A heaviness oppresses him; it is
stiflingly hot, and the thunder sounds nearer. The image of his mother
weeping bitterly rises up, unbidden, before him. Can there be any truth
in her warning?
"Yes," continues Beaufort, after an awkward pause, "yes, I may be too
much of a _Frondeur_ to please you, Madame, and for my own safety
also." Again the Queen turns her head, and listens anxiously. "A
_Frondeur_ against a government headed by an alien—not a _Frondeur_
against you, my cousin—never against _you_. To _you_ I am ever loyal.
You know this." His voice grew thick. He is much moved. "You, my
cousin, can never forget my long exile, after the death of Cinq-Mars at
Lyons, for your sake. Surely you cannot forget?"
Anne moves uneasily; she taps her small foot on the floor impatiently.
Her eyes are bent outwards upon the approaching storm, which draws each
instant nearer. The heavens are now like a wall of blackness, save
where the lightning glitters for a moment. Yet she neither calls for
lights, nor closes the window.
"Next to the Duchesse de Chevreuse," Beaufort continues, "Richelieu
hated me, because I was devoted soul and body to you, and he knew it.
Ah, my cousin, had the Duchess and I, your two friends, spoken, where
would you have been now? Not on the throne, certainly. I carried your
secret safely into England with me—I would have carried it to the
grave—and you are Regent of France."
Whatever the Queen may feel, she carefully conceals it. A stony
expression spreads itself over her face, and the smile on her lip
becomes almost a grimace, her mouth is so tightly set.
"If I am grown rough and coarse," he continues, "like the rabble among
whom I live—if I offend you by my frankness, remember Beaufort was
faithful to you in adversity—most true and faithful."
The tears come into his eyes as he speaks; he brushes them off with his
sleeve. The Queen is not at all moved by this appeal. A third time she
turns her head as if listening for some expected sound—then, hearing
nothing, her eyelids drop, and she plays with her fan.
"These are difficult times, my cousin," she says at last, speaking
slowly. "Much depends on the princes of the blood. I reckon on you,
Duke, as a firm pillar of the State," and she touches him with her fan.
Beaufort starts. "Would I were such a pillar!" he exclaims with warmth.
"Take Gondi as your minister, my cousin. Send Mazarin back to the Roman
gutter from whence he sprung. You would have no more trouble with the
parliament. I warrant you they would obey you like lambs, my cousin.
Banish Mazarin, and I will lead you and the young King in triumph
throughout France. Not a _Frondeur_ would be left in the land. If there
were, I would shoot him with my own hand. Answer me, Madame; will you
try?"
Beaufort stretches out his hand as he speaks, to clasp that of the
Queen. Anne neither stirs, neither looks up, nor touches his hand.
To speak is evidently difficult to her. Surely she must be expecting
some one, for she again turns her head towards the writing-closet and
listens. A sharp clap of thunder rattles through the room; when it is
past her eyes rest upon the Duke, who is eagerly awaiting her reply.
The set smile is still on her lips; she is about to answer him, when a
distinct sound of footsteps is heard within in her writing-closet. A
page enters, and announces Cardinal Mazarin's arrival to consult her
Majesty on urgent state business. Beaufort's face darkens. Ere the
page has ceased speaking, the long-gathering storm bursts forth with
fury. A tremendous peal of thunder shakes the palace, and big drops of
rain are driven through the window. The Queen rises hastily and signs
to the page to close the sash. She is evidently greatly relieved. "I
regret this interruption, Prince," she says, speaking rapidly, "but
it is unavoidable. I must not keep the Cardinal waiting. I cannot,
however, consider your audience as over. Will your highness favour
me by remaining in the apartments of the ladies of honour until I am
free?" and, not waiting for his reply, she hastily passes into her
closet. Deluges of rain fall, flash after flash lights up the heavens,
and peals of thunder rapidly succeed each other.
The Duc de Beaufort finds the Duchesse de Chevreuse and Mademoiselle
de Hautefort sitting together in one of the apartments of the suite
allotted to the ladies in waiting. As he enters they both rise
hurriedly, and contemplate him in mute astonishment.
"Why, Duke," cries the Duchess, "is it possible? You here? You in the
Louvre?"
"And why not, madame? What do these chattering women mean?" he mutters
to himself. "One would think I were a monster."
"What! have you not heard, that you are accused of a plot to
assassinate the Cardinal?"
"The Queen knows the particulars," broke in Mademoiselle de Hautefort.
"She told me so at her lever this morning."
"Perhaps you will kindly inform me what these particulars are, madame?"
replies Beaufort savagely.
"Why, Duke, you must be out of your senses!"
"Not that I know of, madame; pray let me hear of what I am accused."
"Why, that in order to take the Cardinal's life you had stationed
soldiers in ambush along the road to Longchamps, to fire on him, as he
passed in his coach on his way to dine with the President Maison."
"The simple-hearted Cardinal! Imagine, your highness," cries the
Duchess, "Signor Giulio, after having said his prayers, trotting along
demurely in his red coach, a perfect angel—wanting only wings to fly
away from a wicked world, innocent of so much as an evil thought! We
know you are a _Frondeur_, Duke, but you are also a barbarian to desire
the life of such a saint," and the Duchess laughs her merry laugh.
"Perhaps, madame," says Beaufort, turning towards Mademoiselle de
Hautefort, "you will have the goodness to proceed in the relation of my
supposed crime?"
"I have neither the wit nor the high spirits of her Grace of Lorraine,"
replies she, "to jest. I assure you, Duke, it is a very grave matter.
You are in the utmost danger. The Cardinal has made her Majesty believe
that his life was only saved by the accidental arrival of the Duc
d'Orléans—who was going to dine at the same party—on horseback, and
who, as a violent shower of rain came on, dismounted and got into the
Cardinal's coach. His presence saved the Cardinal, the guard could not
fire upon his Royal Highness. You may imagine the agitation of her
Majesty."
"Capital, capital!" exclaims the Duchess, clapping her hands, and still
laughing; "admirably done. I never gave your highness credit for so
much invention. What a pity the Duc d'Orléans did not start a little
sooner," adds she, in a lower voice, "or that it rained! Signor Giulio
would have been in heaven by this time."
The Duc de Beaufort sees that Mademoiselle de Hautefort looks both
concerned and vexed at this levity. He had left his mother and sister
as he entered, in tears. Was it possible all this might be true?
"I beseech you, Duke, to leave the Louvre while you can," says
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, very earnestly.
"But I am waiting here, madame, at the express command of her Majesty,
until Mazarin, with whom she is now engaged in the council-chamber,
retires."
"Are they alone?" asks the Duchess.
"Yes, madame."
"Then, Duke, I do advise you at once to escape while you can. If her
Majesty told you to remain, and she is now closeted with Mazarin, the
sooner you pass the gates of Paris the better; unless your highness
particularly desire to air the best set of rooms in the Bastille; and
even they are dull," she adds, with that invincible desire to laugh and
make others laugh, at once her charm and her defect.
Careless as is the Duc de Beaufort, his confidence is shaken. He had
taken up his velvet cap to depart, when a knock is heard at the door.
"Come in," cries the Duchess.
It was Guitaut, Captain of the Queen's Guards. He walks up to the Duke,
and lays his hand on his shoulder: "I command your highness to follow
me, in the name of the King and of the Queen-Regent."
Even the Duchess becomes serious.
Beaufort eyes Guitaut for some time in silence. "This is very strange,
Guitaut. There must be some mistake. I am here by her Majesty's
commands, awaiting a further audience."
"I know nothing of that, your highness. My instructions are precise.
You are under arrest."
Beaufort unbuckles his sword. He presents it to Guitaut. Then he turns
to the Duchess and Mademoiselle de Hautefort, whose countenances
express the concern they both feel. "You are witness, ladies, that I,
a prince of the blood, am arrested when, in obedience to her Majesty's
commands, I am awaiting the honour of a further audience. _Pardieu_,
that sneaking varlet, Mazarin, shall pay for this. The Coadjutor will
revenge me. Lead on, Guitaut. Where is it to be? The Bastille?"
"I have orders to conduct your highness to the Castle of Vincennes,"
replies Guitaut, bowing.
"To Vincennes! And by the Queen's order! _Ventre de ma vie!_ she is a
traitress after all!"
[Illustration: Prosp. du Chasteau de Vincennes.
VINCENNES—OLD PRINT.]