MAZARIN PLAYED OUT.
The marriage bells peal merrily for the august espousals of Louis XIV.
with the Infanta Maria Theresa, daughter of the King of Spain. The
troubles of the Fronde are over. Gondi, the Coadjutor, now Cardinal
de Retz, is imprisoned. Cardinal Mazarin has cemented a peace between
France and Spain. He has triumphed.
Mazarin left Paris with a great retinue of coaches, litters, and mules,
attended by bishops, secretaries, lawyers, and priests, to meet the
Spanish ambassador, Don Luis Da Haro, on the frontier, there to arrange
the preliminaries of the treaty and the marriage. Don Luis had already
arrived, attended with equal splendour. A whole month was lost in
the all-important question of precedence. Should Mazarin call on Da
Haro, or Da Haro "drop in" on Mazarin? This momentous point was never
settled. Mazarin, the wily Italian—_Il Signor Faquino_, as the Prince
de Condé calls him—took to his bed, hoping that the anxiety felt for
his health by Da Haro would induce him to pocket his Castilian dignity
and make the first advance. But Da Haro was not to be caught, and
obstinately shut himself up, ate, drank, and made merry with the most
dogged patience, and the most entire want of sympathy. So it ended in
this wise—no visit was made at all. The great plenipotentiaries met,
quite unofficially, on the Island of Pheasants, in the middle of the
River Bidassoa, dividing France and Spain. There the real business was
very soon despatched. In process of time, the King and the Infanta were
married.
The Infanta was very small, fair, and plump. There was an utter absence
of expression in her freshly complexioned face; her eyes were large and
gentle, but said absolutely nothing of any soul within. Her mouth was
large, her teeth were irregular. Her dress horrified the French ladies.
It was unanimously voted tawdry, ill-made, and unbecoming. As for the
ladies in attendance on her, it was not possible to find words to paint
their grotesqueness. They were black-skinned, scraggy, and awkward.
They had hideous lace, and wore enormous farthingales. One of them, the
"governess of the Infanta," is gibbeted in the pages of history as "a
monster." She unhappily wore what are designated as "_barrels_" under
her dress. Such was the first effect of _crinoline_ on the ladies of
the French nation.
The Duchesse de Noailles was appointed lady of the bedchamber to the
new Queen. She was recommended to this office by the Queen-dowager,
Anne of Austria, her aunt.
Cardinal Mazarin has now reached the summit of power. He has imprisoned
his rival, Cardinal de Retz, and has tranquillised a great nation. He
has even received the solemn thanks of the once turbulent parliament.
He has equalled, if not exceeded, the renown of Richelieu. After the
sounding of those marriage bells he returns to Paris, to repose upon
his laurels. See him! the artistic egotist, who all his life has fed
on the choicest grapes from his neighbour's vine, and sipped the most
fragrant honey from flowers not his own. See him within his magnificent
palace, the outward and visible evidence of the enormous wealth which
he no longer fears to display. Louis XIV. looks on him as a father.
Anne of Austria trembles when he frowns. All France is subservient
to his rule. The walls of his chamber are lined with artistic
plunder:—pictures set in gorgeous frames of Florentine carving;
statues, mirrors, and glittering chandeliers; tables and consoles
bearing ornaments of inestimable value, in marble, bronze, porcelain,
pottery, enamel, and gems. Richest hangings of tapestry, and brocaded
satin and velvet, more costly than the gold which surrounds them, shade
the intrusive sunshine, and tone all down to that delicious half light
so dear to the artistic sense. Everything has been arranged by the
hand of a master; and there he sits, this master, dying. The seeds of
disease, sown on the frontier where he was detained by Da Haro, have
developed into a mortal malady.
He has just risen from his bed. He reposes in a chair on wheels, in
which he is rolled from frescoed gallery to marble vestibule; from
corridors of pictures to precious libraries; from dainty retiring-rooms
to painted pavilions, from guard-room saloon—those superb saloons where
he received the Court.
He even penetrates to the stables, and surveys his priceless stud; he
ventures into the magnificent gardens which surround his palace, to
feast his eyes on all his vast possessions. Returning again, greatly
fatigued, to the picture-gallery, he bids his attendants pause. He
rests, absorbed in thought, under a Holy Family, by Raphael, a work
beyond price, now in the Louvre. Here he desires his attendants to
leave him. His secretary, who is never beyond call, he commands to wait
his pleasure in the anteroom, behind the thick silken hangings that
veil the door. Inadvertently this door is left ajar, and the secretary,
curious to know what his master is doing, looks through a chink in
the curtain, and watches him. The Cardinal, when he has glanced round
carefully—to be sure he is alone—lays hold of a crutch placed ready to
his hand, and with the utmost difficulty struggles to his feet, for
they are swollen, and almost useless from gout. After many efforts
he disengages himself from the chair, and reaches the ground, then,
balancing himself upon the crutch and any object near at hand, he moves
a few steps, stopping for lack of breath. (The secretary doubts if he
should not rush in before he falls, so uncertain and tottering are
Mazarin's movements, but he forbears, fearful of angering the Cardinal,
whom suffering has made irritable.)
Mazarin sighs deeply as he limps on from picture to picture, and
surveys his favourite works.
"I feel better," he says, speaking aloud. "If I could only get my
breath, I should recover. _Diamine!_ I shall—I will recover. I
cannot leave my pictures—such a collection,"—and he turns round with
difficulty, and surveys the galleries—"not yet complete—to pass into
other hands. No, no—it cannot be; I feel stronger already. I—alone in
my gallery—without those spies always about me to see my weakness—I
can breathe." And he draws a long breath. The long breath ends in a
groan. "That divine Raffaello!" and again he sighs, and turns to the
gem of his collection, a Nativity. "Raffaello is my religion. _Credo
in Raffaello!_ What _anima_! That exquisite Virgin! and the Christ
nestling in her arms! I wonder who sat for that virgin? She must have
been a perfect creature! I salute her _di cuore_. That picture came to
me from the King of Spain—a bribe. Who cares? I never refuse a present.
The King knows my taste. He sent me word there were many more to come
if I concluded a peace. I did conclude a peace; I took that picture
and others; but _Sangue di Dio_, I was faithful to France. Ah, ha!
I was too sharp for him—a dull king! That _torso_ there, dug up at
Portici—what stalwart limbs! what grand proportions! How finely the
shadows fall upon the thigh from that passing cloud. Aha! my foot!"
(and he shakes on his crutches so violently the secretary's head and
shoulders are inside the room, only the Cardinal does not see him).
"I am better now," falters Mazarin, "much better"; then, taking a few
steps onwards, he pauses before a Titian. "Venus, my Goddess!—_Laus
Veneri_. Oh, the warmth of the flesh tints, the turn of that head and
neck—divine! I gave a great price for that picture; but, _Cospetto!_ it
was not my own money," and he laughs feebly. "It will sell for double!
That Paolo Veronese and that Tintoretto yonder came from the sale of
Charles I. of England, after his execution—those English ruffians!
What supple forms, what classic features!—like my native Romans in
the Imperial city, where the very beggars think themselves equal to
kings; and so they are, _per Dio_. Glorious Italy! _Ah, cielo!_" and
he creeps on to a favourite landscape by Caracci, lit, as it were, by
the living sunshine of the south. "Ah, that sun—I feel it—wonderful!
wonderful!—a gem of the eclectic school of Bologna, given to me by
the Archbishop. Poor man, he was not, like me, satisfied with art—ha,
ha!"—his laugh ends in a severe fit of coughing. "He liked nature. He
could not stand inquiry.—I helped him. Oh, my foot!" (And he totters so
helplessly, that the secretary, watching him with curious eyes, again
nearly rushes in; for if Mazarin dies his salary ceases.) Recovering,
however, he steadies himself against the pedestal of a marble group
just arrived from Rome, "Leda and the Swan." He drags himself with
difficulty into the recess where it was placed, shifting his position,
in order to catch the precise light in which to view the rounded limbs
of the figure. "What grace, what _abandon_, in that female form!—a
trifle _leste_ for the gallery of a prelate—presented, too, by a lady—a
woman of taste, above prejudices. No one has seen it. I must invite the
Court—the Queen-mother will be scandalised. Ha, ha! the Queen-mother!"
and he feebly winks and laughs; his laugh brings on another fit of
convulsive coughing. (The secretary is on the threshold.) "I must not
die before I have disposed of my pictures," Mazarin mutters, breathing
again; "I cannot bear to die!—now, too, that I have triumphed over all
my enemies." The Cardinal sighs heavily, shakes his head, and casts a
longing glance round the painted walls. He tries to move onwards; but
his strength fails him, suddenly his hands are cramped, the crutch
falls on the floor, he groans, sinks into a chair, and faintly calls
for assistance.
The secretary is with him in an instant, and summons the attendants.
Weary, and utterly exhausted, they lay him on his bed, where he weeps
and groans, as much from anguish of mind as from bodily pain. He feels
that nothing can amuse or delight him more, neither singing men nor
singing women, the wonders of art, or the flattery of Courts. From
henceforth to him the world must evermore be mute; the flowers in the
gardens he has created shall no longer fling their scented blossoms at
his feet; to him the birds are dumb in the groves he has planted, the
fruits cease to be luscious, and the sun is already darkened by the
shadow of death. His face turns of an ashy hue, and he feebly calls for
his physician.
One of the many attendants that hover about his bed (each one hoping to
be remembered in that will of his, of which all Paris has heard), flies
to fetch him. He appears in the person of Guénaud, the Court doctor of
that day.
Mazarin has revived a little. He is propped up on pillows, to relieve
his breathing, which, by reason of the oppression on his chest, is
laboured and difficult. At the sight of Guénaud he trembles; his teeth
chatter. He has summoned the leech, and now he dares not hear what he
has to say. Mazarin, with his sensuous Italian temperament, clings
wildly to life. He shrinks from the dark horrors of the grave—he, who
adores sunshine, warmth, open air, and beauty.
"Well, Guénaud, well. You are in haste to come to me."
"Your eminence sent for me," replied the physician gravely, bowing to
the ground; then he contemplates the Cardinal with that all-seeing eye
for obvious symptoms and for remote details, that makes the glance of a
doctor so awful to the sick.
"I—I am better, Guénaud—much better, _now_; I had fatigued myself among
my pictures. But I did much, Guénaud—I did _too_ much. I even crawled
to my stables—to my garden; I am gaining strength. To-morrow——"
Mazarin stops; a severe fit of coughing almost suffocates him. Again
the ashy hue—grey as the shadows of departing day when the sun
has set—overcasts his features. Guénaud does not reply, but still
contemplates his patient attentively. The Cardinal looks up; a hectic
colour flushes his cheeks.
"Come," says he, "speak; be honest with me. I am better?" Guénaud bows.
"I trust so," replies he.
"_Sangue di Dio!_"—and the Cardinal grows crimson, and clenches his
thin fingers with nervous agony—"speak. Your silence agitates me. What
have you to tell me? How long have I to live? Shall I recover?"
Guénaud shakes his head. Mazarin's face again becomes of a sudden
deadly pale. He leans back on his pillows, and sniffs a strong essence
in a filigree bottle lying by his side. "Guénaud," says he, "I dread
death, but I am no coward. I am prepared for the worst."
"I rejoice to hear it," answers the physician solemnly, feeling his
pulse. "You will have need of all your fortitude."
"Is it so? Well, then, let me hear my fate!"
"Your eminence cannot live long. Nothing can save you."
A strange look of determination comes into the Cardinal's eyes as
Guénaud speaks. Mazarin was, as he said, no coward; but the flesh was
weaker than the spirit, and shrank from suffering and disease. Now that
he has heard the truth, he bears it better than would appear possible
in one so slight, nervous, and attenuated.
"I cannot flatter your eminence," continues Guénaud, "your disease is
incurable; but I admit that remedies may prolong your life, though they
cannot preserve it. Remedies, ably administered, can do much, even in
fatal cases."
"I respect your frankness, doctor," says the Cardinal calmly. "Speak
out, how long can I last?"
"Your eminence may hope to live for two months, perhaps, by following
the rules I shall prescribe."
"Well, well—two months! Ah, it is a short time,"—and a nervous spasm
passes over his face, and his hands twitch with a convulsive spasm. "I
do not die of old age; I have sacrificed my life to France and to the
King. I never got over that negotiation at the Pyrenees. Well, well—so
be it. At least, I know my fate. This interval must be consecrated to
the care of my soul. Two months! I shall do my best. All my brother
prelates will assist me——"
"To live, your eminence?"
"No, no, Guénaud,"—and the shadow of a smile passes over his thin
white lips,—"no, no, not to live, but to die; to die for the sake of
the abbeys, bishoprics, and canonries my death will leave vacant. In
two months one may have a world of indulgences; that is something. The
Holy Father will rejoice at having my patronage; he is sure to give
me a helping hand; and plenty of indulgences. I stand well with the
Pope, Guénaud. But—but my pictures, my statues—a collection I have been
making all my life, at such a vast expense. Who knows, Guénaud? you may
be mistaken," he added, brightening up, his mercurial nature rushing
back into its accustomed channel at the recollection of what had been
the passion of his life. "Who knows, I may get better!" and his eye
turns sharply upon the physician, with a sparkle of its accustomed
fire; "eh, Guénaud—who knows?" Guénaud bows, but is silent. "You may be
mistaken. _Non importa_, I must think of my soul. It is indeed a great
trial—a sore trial—a man of my age, too, with so many years to live!
and such a collection! You know my collection, Guénaud?"
"Yes, your eminence," answers he, bowing.
"The finest in Europe," sighs Mazarin, "and not yet finished; fresh
works coming in daily. A great trial—but I must think of my soul. Go
now, Guénaud; come again to-morrow. Perhaps—who knows?—you may see
some change, some improvement—who knows?"
Guénaud shakes his head silently, and withdraws.
Meanwhile the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria, informed of Mazarin's
desperate condition, hastens to visit him. She is attended by her
gossiping ladies, eager to catch every word, and with nods and winks,
and sighs of affected sympathy—to comment on her sorrowful expression.
Her Majesty is pale and sad; tears gather in her eyes as she advances
towards the bed on which Mazarin lies, and she asks with a timid yet
tender voice after his health. He replies that he is very ill, and
repeats to her what Guénaud had told him. If I were to add that he
displayed to the Queen and her ladies one of his bare legs, to afford
ocular demonstration of his reduced condition, I fear I should be
accused of imitating the _mauvaise langue_ of Madame de Noailles.
But he really did so, to the great grief of Anne of Austria, and to
the utter discomfiture and horror of her less sympathising ladies
in waiting, who rapidly retreat into the recesses of the windows,
or behind the draperies of the apartment, to escape so unpleasant a
spectacle.
"Look!" exclaims Mazarin, thrusting forward his leg—"look, Madame, at
the deplorable condition to which I am reduced by my incessant anxiety
for the welfare of France! And to leave my pictures too,—my statues.
Ah, Madame, it is a bitter trial!"
Soon after this extraordinary interview, and when all the world
believed Mazarin to be dead or dying, the cunning Italian, determined
once more to dupe the whole Court, and deceitful in his death as he
had been in his life, gave orders that his convalescence should be
announced. He caused himself to be painted white and red, dressed in
his Cardinal's purple robes, and placed in a sedan chair with all the
glasses down. Thus he was wheeled along the broad terraces of his
garden, taking care to be well observed by the vast crowd collected
by the news of his recovery. For a moment he presented the appearance
of health and vigour. But the effort he had forced himself to make,
in order to enact this ghastly comedy, was too much for his remaining
strength. He swooned in his sedan chair, and was brought back and
placed on his bed, never to rise again. Thus died as he had lived,
Cardinal Mazarin, a dissembler and a hypocrite; but a great minister.
Not cruel or bloodthirsty, like Richelieu, though equally unscrupulous,
Mazarin gained the end he had in view by patience, cunning, and
intrigue. At his death he left France, already exhausted by the wars
of the Fronde, completely subdued; and in such a state of abject
submission to the throne, as paved the way to the extravagance and
oppression of Louis XIV's reign.