Cardinal de Richelieu

A few months were enough to rid Cardinal de Richelieu of his most active enemies. One after another, in the first half of the year 1631, they disappeared from the scene by exile or imprisonment, in some cases ending in death.

After the crushing disappointment of the “Day of Dupes,” Marie de Médicis submitted to a kind of reconciliation with her “former creature” who had so convincingly proved his strength. Gaston d’Orléans too, led by his favourites, M. de Puylaurens and Président Le Coigneux, whom Richelieu thought it worth while to bribe heavily, visited the Cardinal and promised him his friendship. But it was not to be expected that either mother or son should be in earnest. Gaston hardly needed the discontent of his favourites—eager for places and honours which the Cardinal was not in a hurry to give—to throw him once more into violent opposition.

On January 30, attended by a dozen gentlemen, the young Prince appeared at the Petit-Luxembourg. He told the Cardinal “that he had come to retract the promise of friendship which he had given him a few days before; on the contrary, to declare his resentment that a man of his sort should so far have forgotten himself as to set the royal family in a blaze. That, owing his whole fortune and elevation to the Queen his benefactress, instead of proving his gratitude, as a good man and a faithful servant would have done, he had become her chief persecutor, by his artifices continually blackening her in the eyes of the King; and that as to himself, he had treated him not only without respect, but with insolence! And that he would have reproved him sooner, had he not been restrained by his quality as a priest; but that this would not save him in the future from the quite extraordinary treatment deserved by the gravity of his offences against personages of such dignity.”

“This discourse,” continues the chronicler, “was made with so much heat and such threatening gestures of hands and eyes, that the Cardinal made no answer, not knowing whether it was all in earnest or only meant to frighten him.”

The moment was alarming enough, for Monsieur’s people, so fierce were their looks, seemed to be waiting their moment to fall upon their prey. The Prince went down to his coach in a terrible humour, swearing and threatening all the way, while the Cardinal attended him bare-headed and prudently silent. It was not till the blustering company had driven off that he regained his usual composure. None the less, we are assured, he was extremely glad to see the King, who came dashing “à toute bride” to the door, as his champion and protector, not many minutes later.

Monsieur left Paris immediately for Orléans, where he swaggered for some weeks and tried to rouse a civil war by posing as a friend to the populace and a resister of taxation. Since he refused to submit to his brother and to return to Court, Richelieu was prepared to bring him to his senses by armed force. But he preferred self-banishment. In the middle of March he rode across country to Besançon, and then took refuge with the Duke of Lorraine. He was followed into exile by a number of persons of quality, notably his half-brother the Comte de Moret, the Duc d’Elbeuf, brother-in-law of the Duc de Vendôme, the Duc de Bellegarde, governor of Burgundy, and M. and Madame du Fargis, in disgrace at Court because of their intimate friendship with the brothers Marillac.

Each day of that winter and spring brought fresh and painful experience to Marie de Médicis. She saw herself checked in every direction by an enemy who worked with extraordinary prudence, keeping all the outward forms of due respect while he lured her gradually to ruin. No doubt her presence in Paris, her atmosphere of plot and intrigue, was dangerous to him, if not to the State. The question was, how to remove her from the centre of things without a public scandal.

In February the Court went to Compiègne for hunting, and to spend the Carnival. As Richelieu had foreseen, the Queen-mother was not deterred by “the incommodity of the season” from following the King: she would not repeat her mistake of St. Martin’s Day. At Compiègne the King made a last unsuccessful attempt to soften her heart towards the Cardinal. As she firmly refused to listen to any arguments, it was decided that she must be separated from a Court in which her presence was a centre for the factious and the ill-intentioned.

The Château of Compiègne was roused early on the morning of February 23. The King had announced that he would go hunting at dawn; and in fact he and the Cardinal, with a large attendance, rode out of the gates before either of the Queens was awake. Instead of turning into the dim glades of the forest, the royal party rode hard for Paris.

Père Suffren, the Maréchal d’Estrées—formerly known as Marquis de Coenores—and a Secretary of State, M. de la Ville-aux-Clercs, were left behind with the King’s apologies and farewells to his mother, whom he never saw again. They were also entrusted with a letter, begging Her Majesty to retire to Moulins, where she might live in all honour and liberty as governor of the Bourbonnais; it being understood that in her present mind she was no longer welcome at Court. This very unpleasant news was broken to Marie before she left her bed, not by the appointed messengers, but by Queen Anne, her daughter-in-law, who paid her a hurried visit before following the King, and parted from her with embraces and tears. “Both,” says Madame de Motteville, “were deeply moved at finding themselves the victims of the Cardinal de Richelieu, their common enemy. It was the last time they saw each other.”

As to Moulins, Marie would have none of it. She could not openly refuse to obey the King, but her excuses dragged on from day to day: bad roads and wintry weather; an epidemic in the Bourbonnais; the ruinous state of the Château de Moulins; a severe cold which kept her in her room. All the spring royal messengers were galloping between Compiègne and Paris. Sometimes they carried persuasion, sometimes threats. If the Queen-mother disliked the Bourbonnais, would she accept her old abode of Angers, with the government of Anjou? Let her remember that no law in Holy Scripture obliged a son to live always with his mother when of age to govern himself, whereas we are enjoined in divers places to obey the King, as God’s lieutenant on earth. And many more arguments; but in short, her disobedience was insupportable, and would in the end force the King to treat her more rigorously.

It appeared that of her own free will she would never leave Compiègne. In spite of the great courtesy shown her by M. d’Estrées, in command of the guard—every morning he came to her for the pass-word, and every night offered her the keys of the town—she treated herself as a prisoner. As the season advanced, though free of all the country round, she never went beyond the castle walls, hoping thus, says Aubery, to excite general hatred against the Cardinal.

In the meanwhile her friends disappeared one by one. Her physician, Vautier, was flung into the Bastille; the same fate befell the unlucky Bassompierre. The Duc de Guise, intriguing for Monsieur, his stepson-in-law, in his government of Provence, was forced to fly to Italy, a lifelong exile as it proved. The Princesse de Conti, the Duchesse d’Elbeuf (Henriette de Vendôme), the Duchesse de Roannez, the Maréchale d’Ornano, and other great ladies, were ordered to retire to their country houses; and the brilliant Princesse de Conti, sister of Guise, the Queen-mother’s constant friend, adored by Bassompierre, to whom they say she was secretly married, died at Eu of a broken heart on the last day of April.

In June a report reached the Queen-mother at Compiègne that a royal army was to be sent to remove her by force. If this story was invented with the object of driving her out of the kingdom, it served its end. On July 18, at ten o’clock at night, she left Compiègne on foot and almost alone—an easier escape than that from the Château de Blois. A coach and six, with outriders, was waiting in the shadow of the forest. The Queen intended to stop at La Capelle, a small strong place in Picardy, close to the frontier of the Low Countries: the governor, M. de Vardes, had promised to receive her. But this coming to Richelieu’s ears, the father of M. de Vardes, who had formerly commanded at La Capelle, was sent post-haste from Paris to supersede his son, and the gates were shut against the fugitive Queen. She was thus obliged to cross the frontier, which she did, never to return; and was received with great honour at Avesnes in Artois, by the officers of the Archduchess Isabel.

So the great Henry’s Florentine widow removed herself from the path of Cardinal de Richelieu; to his advantage and her own loss and ruin.

This political triumph was followed by new honours and personal dignities. For a year past he had borne, with other Cardinals, the new titles of Eminentissime and Eminence, decreed by Pope Urban VIII., and shared only by the ecclesiastical Electors of the Empire and the Grand Master of Malta. He had added to his worldly goods and to his spiritual power by becoming Coadjutor of the Abbot of Cluny, and the strength of his resolute will for reform was felt by the great religious orders as well as by the secular clergy.

In September 1631 letters patent from the King created him Duc de Richelieu and a peer of France, and he took his seat in Parliament with great state, escorted by the Prince de Condé, the Duc de Montmorency, and a crowd of the first men in France. From that time he bore the singular title of “Cardinal-Duc.” He also became governor of Brittany; and one fortified town after another, throughout the north of France, fell into his hands and were garrisoned by friends of his own. He rewarded the Prince de Condé and the Cardinal de la Valette with the governments of Burgundy and Anjou.

One foreign Power, at least, was not behindhand in paying homage to the man whom the King of France delighted to honour. The Republic of Venice sent him letters of Venetian nobility, to descend to any one of his relations he might choose. “And she sent them with ceremony by an express Gentleman, to whom His Eminence did not forget to present a very fine chain of gold.”

It seemed that Richelieu had little now to fear from open enemies at home, though the secret dread of assassination clung about him with reason to his life’s end. He had already shown a certain sense of security by acts of indulgence or of conciliation: the Duc de Vendôme had been set at liberty and the Duchesse de Chevreuse had been allowed to return to the Court, while her husband was made governor of Picardy. Champagne, the important frontier province, was given as a mark of royal confidence to the Comte de Soissons.

But there were those, not more guilty, but more dangerous from their very worth and mental distinction, who felt the weight of Richelieu’s vengeance. Michel de Marillac, counted in his own time among “martyrs of the State,” after languishing for many months in his prison at Châteaudun, died of grief at the tragic death of his soldier brother. The trial and death of Marillac “l’Epée” are generally allowed to be dark stains on the Cardinal’s career. Politically, there was no case against him, and the Parliament, when first approached by Richelieu’s tool, the notorious Laffemas, refused to commit him for trial. Richelieu then appointed a Royal Commission, which sat at Verdun, the charge against the Marshal being one of peculation and oppression when governor there. Even now the Cardinal failed to secure a condemnation. The Commissioners shrank from enforcing the extreme of the law against a distinguished soldier whose sins were common to his time and his trade, and the trial dragged on very slowly, till Richelieu brought matters to a point by summoning the Commission, strengthened by members of his own choosing and presided over by the new Chancellor, M. de Châteauneuf, to meet at his country-house of Rueil. Louis de Marillac was brought from the fortress of Ste. Menehould, where he had been imprisoned since his sudden arrest some fifteen months before. He was condemned to death, but only by a small majority of his judges. Threatening letters from the Queen-mother and Monsieur did him no good, but yet the Cardinal, in his own house and with a packed jury, could not secure unanimity. All France agreed with the prisoner’s own cry: “Condemned to die for hay and straw! Not reason enough to whip a lackey!”

He was beheaded in the Place de Grève on May 2, 1632, and buried in the Church of the Feuillants, long since swept away to make room for the Rue Castiglione. There might be read, for less than two hundred years, the simple and dignified epitaph in which his heirs handed down to posterity the high virtues of “this illustrious victim of a powerful and vindictive Minister.” Madame de Marillac, who bore the familiar name of Catherine de Médicis, died of grief within a few months of her husband.

A dozen years later, when Cardinal de Richelieu was dead, the Parliament of Paris registered a decree acquitting Louis de Marillac of the crimes for which he ostensibly suffered.

In that same year 1632 a still nobler head was to fall. The story of Henry de Montmorency’s ruin tangles itself with the treasonable adventures of Gaston d’Orléans.

Duke Charles of Lorraine, nominally a vassal of the Empire, had reasons of his own for giving trouble to France. For nearly a century she had held part of the old province of Lorraine, including the “Three Bishoprics,” Metz, Toul, and Verdun. In giving armed support to the exiled French prince, Charles IV. had the Empire at his back, and a successful invasion of France, with the consequent fall of Cardinal de Richelieu, was likely not only to restore his territory but to be a decisive incident in the Thirty Years’ War. At this moment of happy expectation, Monsieur fell in love with the young Princess Marguerite of Lorraine, the Duke’s sister. A year or two before he had been desperately in love with Princess Marie de Gonzague, daughter of the Duke of Mantua, and the Queen-mother had imprisoned her at Vincennes to be out of his way. This was a more serious affair. A secret, hurried marriage at Nancy united Gaston to the one woman who kept her hold on him through the rest of his frivolous life.

But even before the marriage, the Duke of Lorraine’s plans of conquest had fallen through. French armies had crossed his frontier, driving before them the small force which the Emperor had sent to his aid. From the stronghold of Metz, Louis XIII. and Cardinal de Richelieu were able to dictate their own terms. The Duke of Lorraine was to become a faithful ally of France, and all her enemies were to be expelled from his territory. In consequence of this treaty, Monsieur joined his mother at Brussels. Left to himself, he might have been reconciled with the King, and Richelieu did his best to that end; but his own friends and favourites found it to their interest to keep him in rebellion.

It was not till after the signature of the treaty that Louis XIII. was made aware of his brother’s marriage, to which he had definitely refused his consent. In this and other ways the Duke of Lorraine had played Richelieu false. The consequence was that a French army once more swept over the province, seizing towns and fortresses and bringing Richelieu’s favourite dream—that of extending the French frontier to the Rhine—perceptibly nearer.

At this moment, having taught the Duke a second severe lesson, Richelieu held his hand. The victories of Gustavus Adolphus in Germany were an effectual check on the house of Hapsburg, and hindered the advance of the Spanish and Imperial troops on the Rhine. A French army was needed at home. Monsieur had left Brussels with a small army of German, Walloon, and Spanish mercenaries, and had made a dash through Lorraine, Burgundy, and Auvergne on his way to Languedoc, with the encouragement of the Duc de Montmorency. Leaving Maréchal d’Effiat in command on the German frontier, Richelieu despatched Schomberg and La Force by different routes to the south.

Henry de Montmorency, by every title the flower of the French nobility, was now thirty-seven years old. He was descended in the direct line, through nineteen generations, from an ancestor who was baptized with Clovis. Ever since then the heads of the family had borne the proud legend of “Premier Chrestien que Roy en France; premier Seigneur de Montmorency que Roy en France; premier Baron de France.” Their war-cry was “Dieu ayde au premier Chrestien”; their motto, “Sans tache.” Montmorency’s father, his grandfather, and several of his ancestors had borne the title of Constable of France, and he was himself High Admiral, till Richelieu purchased the charge and assumed the duties under another name. He had succeeded to the government of Languedoc at his father’s death in 1614, before he was twenty. A popular governor of a very difficult province constantly torn by civil war, he spent the greater part of his time in the south. When not engaged in keeping down his turbulent Protestants or in managing his provincial Estates, always discontented, he was to be found in the front rank of Louis XIII.’s campaigns. He did not care greatly for life at Court, though, as a boy, he had been a special favourite with Henry IV., who gave him his name, and though, by the marriages of his half-sister and sister—one with the Duc d’Angoulême, the other with the Prince de Condé—he was nearly connected with the royal family. But he lived magnificently, when in Paris, at the Hôtel de Montmorency, and in the country at his châteaux of Écouen or Chantilly. He was the admiration of society—handsome, a bold rider, a fine dancer, and a very great flirt, in spite of the constant love between him and his young Roman wife, the best and most devoted of women, Maria Felice Orsini. Their story is among the most touching romances of the century.

In many ways the Duc de Montmorency stood above the ordinary ranks of the noblesse, and a little apart from them. As proud and sensitive as any, a certain high touch of generous chivalry kept him free of their vindictive prejudices—as Cardinal de Richelieu had proved in the day when Louis XIII. lay ill at Lyons. His loyalty to the King had always been unimpeachable.

But as early as 1629 the storm which was to sweep Montmorency into rebellion and ruin had begun to growl in the south. The governor of Languedoc felt a dangerous sympathy with his province, one of the old independent pays d’États, which saw itself deprived of power and autonomy in the matter of taxation by a centralizing edict. In the view of the provincial Estates, their “most sacred rights” were thus invaded and torn away. And there were not wanting enemies of Richelieu to fan the flame.

At first it seemed as if the Cardinal would yield to the remonstrances of Languedoc. During the winter of 1631-2 Montmorency was able to announce to his Estates that the hated edict would be withdrawn. However, months dragged on in useless argument with the Cardinal’s commissioners, who, in Montmorency’s own view, were merely amusing the Estates while they led them on to a deeper ruin; while his friends whispered that he himself, as well as his province, was on the brink of destruction. Some slight coldness at Court, consequent on a quarrel of his with the Duc de Chevreuse, was made to signify that his political opposition to Richelieu, frank and reasonable as it might be, would bring about sharp and terrible reprisals.

In this temper the proudest noble and most chivalrous man in France read a manifesto published by Gaston d’Orléans in June 1632, in which he summoned the French to rise on behalf of himself and the exiled Queen-mother, not against the King, but against the “tyrant” who had usurped his authority; while at the same time it was proposed to make Languedoc, already known to be disaffected, the scene of the new civil war.

There were circumstances which attached Montmorency to the Queen-mother’s cause. His wife was related to her, and had always been treated by her with the utmost kindness. If he had shown a friendliness to Richelieu which may have justified the Cardinal in being amazed at the present turn of events, it was yet most natural that he should feel resentment at the Queen’s forced exile. Richelieu and many historians following him have thrown the whole blame of the Duke’s rising on Madame de Montmorency and her affection for the Queen. Recent researches have shown this view to be most unfair. Through the spring and early summer of 1632 the Duchess was lying ill of fever and knew little of public events. It was not till the latest moment, too late for any drawing back, that she heard from her husband of Monsieur’s advance with his consent to Languedoc. With useless tears she learned that he, who had fought so loyally for the King, was now arming against him. When the Prince himself visited her on his arrival she said to him: “Sir, if M. de Montmorency could have deferred to the counsel of a woman, he would never have given you entrance into his government.”

The fatal step was taken with the full concurrence of the Estates of Languedoc, in session at Pézénas. D’Elbène, Bishop of Albi, who has been described as Montmorency’s evil genius, induced them formally to disregard the royal edict and to sign a solemn declaration in which they called on the Duke to make their interests his, as they would make his theirs, that all might act together for His Majesty’s service and the good of their country. Thus “the Estates signed their final abdication; and the Duke his death-warrant.”

Monsieur’s ride through France, with a group of wild companions, at the head of two thousand undisciplined horse, was not likely to do his cause good in the country. Clamouring constantly for pay and receiving nothing but fair words and promises, it was to be expected that the soldiers should provide for themselves. All along Monsieur’s route, his biographer tells us, at the earliest news of his approach, people fled from the villages and open country into the towns, which one and all shut their gates. But it was the season of fruit and crops, “so that the army had not much to suffer.” “Nous entrâmes dans la Limagne, qu’il faisoit beau voir en cette saison des fruits, si la licence des gens de guerre ne lui eût un moment fait changer de face.” And the fate of the Limagne—the most fertile district of Auvergne—was a sample of the rest.

Monsieur and his precious army entered Languedoc in the first week of August, two months before the Duc de Montmorency was ready for him. The session of the Estates was only just over; there had been no time to raise money, to collect troops, or to make sure of several strong places whose loyalty to the governor was doubtful. The King had still a powerful party in Languedoc, and the people generally, with a bitter experience, dreaded civil war. Meanwhile, with swift decision, directed from Paris by Richelieu, Marshals de Schomberg and de la Force were advancing from the east and the west, hemming in Languedoc and its unlucky governor.

The armies met at Castelnaudary—spelt by Aubery Castelnau-d’Arry—and the result of the fight was never doubtful. Though Monsieur had had some small successes since entering Languedoc, his friends and officers spoiled all by quarrels among themselves. Puylaurens, the Duc d’Elbeuf, and the Comte de Moret, each claimed the leadership under him, and all refused to give precedence to the Duc de Montmorency. He was bitterly reproached for the unreadiness which was no fault of his; and he, at least, dashed forward in a spirit of reckless despair to the encounter with the Maréchal de Schomberg and the Marquis de Brézé, whose army, though small, was perfectly disciplined, while that of Monsieur fell almost at once into panic and confusion.

Castelnaudary was rather a rout than a battle. Many of the mercenaries fled without striking a blow, and those who died fighting were mostly among the unfortunate “gens de qualité” who had thrown in their lot with Monsieur. Among these victims the most distinguished was young Antoine de Bourbon, Comte de Moret, son of Henry IV. by Jacqueline de Bueil: she long survived as Comtesse de Vardes, a devout and eccentric lady. Many persons believed that her son, who had taken orders and held, with other rich preferments, the Abbey of St. Étienne at Caen, was carried off alive into Italy after Castelnaudary, and ended his days, sixty years later, as a pious hermit in Anjou. The tradition is not without probability.

No such uncertainty hangs round the fate of Henry de Montmorency. He fell wounded in a desperate charge along a hollow lane, made in support of the Comte de Moret, whose men were in full flight before the enemy. The lane was commanded by royal musketeers, who shot down all the Duke’s followers except a few who dashed forward with him into the ranks of the “cardinalistes.” “I have sacrificed myself for cowards!” Henry cried to the officer who took him prisoner—the Comte de Saint-Preuil, himself one day to be condemned by Richelieu.

The King and the Cardinal were on their way to Languedoc when the short campaign thus suddenly ended. To make peace with Monsieur was their first care, and this was easily brought about. At first his demands were haughty and considerable, including a large sum of money, the return of the Queen-mother, a fortress or two, and a free pardon for the Duc de Montmorency. All these conditions were bluntly rejected. Richelieu was not impressed by the Prince’s solemn promise to love and esteem him in future.

Gaston’s first thought was to escape to Spain, but the way was blocked by the royal troops, and a very few days saw him in abject submission to the King. He even promised—surely an unnecessary baseness—to take no further interest in certain persons who had been united with him, and to make no complaint should the King punish them as they deserved. Having thus delivered up Montmorency and all those who had fought in his cause and the Queen-mother’s, Gaston rode off for Touraine with the Duc d’Elbeuf and a few others whom the King pardoned, while the remnant of his army straggled across the mountains into Spain.

Then the King and the Cardinal, from their head-quarters at Béziers, set about arranging the affairs of Languedoc; and seldom, in his political career, did Richelieu show a greater wisdom. While tremendous severity was shown to bishops, barons, all the feudal magnates who had encouraged or joined in the rebellion—death, confiscation, tearing down of castles and fortresses—the provincial Estates were very differently treated. They were convoked at Béziers, and most of their just demands were granted by the King. On payment of a heavy fine they kept to some extent their ancient liberties.

But a terrible example was made. After Castelnaudary the wounded governor had been taken to the castle of Lectoure, and at the end of October, nearly two months later, he was brought to Toulouse to be tried for his life. The King and the Cardinal were already there, and all the prayers of province and kingdom, of high and low, had for six weeks been prayed in vain. The fact that M. de Montmorency was one of the very greatest men in France, that his pardon was humbly begged for not only by his miserable wife, but by the Princesse de Condé, the Duc d’Épernon and his sons, the Ducs d’Angoulême, de Châtillon, de Chevreuse, and many others, only made his condemnation more sure. Richelieu was bent on teaching France, once for all, the lesson she had been slow in learning, that no head was high enough to escape the vengeance of the King. He listened, not untouched certainly, but unmoved, even to the crying in the streets—“Grâce, grâce! Miséricorde!”—with which, night and day, the people of Toulouse tried to soften the hearts of King and Minister. And if we are to believe the biographer of Père Joseph, any leanings towards mercy in either were checked by the fiery zeal of the “Eminence grise,” who pressed upon them both, in secret council of three, that “to pardon this criminal would encourage all the rebels in the kingdom, who would not fail to invite Monsieur to place himself once more at their head, since they would be sure of impunity ... whereas, a chief of this rank and quality being put to death, no one would henceforth dare to declare himself for the King’s brother.”

The trial, presided over by Richelieu’s Chancellor, Châteauneuf, was short and decisive: there was no doubt of the result; but we are told that the judges wept when they pronounced the sentence, and the courtiers wept when they heard it. Henry de Montmorency died that same day, October 30, 1632, on the scaffold at Toulouse, patiently and bravely, as became the “premier Chrestien.” In his will, made the day before, he left a valuable picture, a St. Sebastian, to Cardinal de Richelieu. The mourning throughout France was such as had not been seen since the death of King Henry IV.

Terrified by so sharp an object-lesson, Gaston d’Orléans made one more dash across France and again took refuge at Brussels. This was a consequence not at all intended by Cardinal de Richelieu.

Worry and strain, political anxieties constantly fresh, the knowledge that he was furiously hated by society, that dozens of desperate men had vowed to kill him, and were watching for their opportunity—a strong man would have felt the burden, and Richelieu, whatever the power of his spirit, was always delicate and frail of body. One of the worst illnesses of his life came upon him immediately after the death of the Duc de Montmorency.

The King hurried back to his hunting near Paris, and it had been arranged that the Cardinal should escort Queen Anne from Toulouse to Bordeaux, and then to La Rochelle, after which she was to honour him with a visit at his hardly finished, magnificent château and new town of Richelieu. It was a bad time of year for travelling, and the Queen and her ladies, one may believe, thought the whole thing a bore; but the Eminentissime had his reasons for insisting, and could not be refused.

He was ill when they left Toulouse. At Bordeaux he became worse, and was forced to take to his bed; a few days more saw him in apparent extremity. A weight of bad news fell upon him. The loyal Maréchal de Schomberg died in Languedoc, where he had succeeded Montmorency as governor. The death of Gustavus Adolphus seemed at first a mortal blow to the Protestant cause and the allies of France in Germany.

The Queen and her Court did not remain at Bordeaux throughout the Cardinal’s illness, but passed on to make their tour of the western provinces, his place as their entertainer being taken by the Commander de la Porte and the Marquis de la Meilleraye. The position was curious enough. At any moment news of the Cardinal’s death might have overtaken them. All France believed that he was dying; rumours flew through the provinces that he was already dead. People held their breath an instant, then forgot prudence and rejoiced, ten years too soon, as though the report must be true. M. de Châteauneuf and Madame de Chevreuse behaved with a rashness that seems amazing, whatever his passion for her and whatever her hatred of Richelieu. Even before the Queen left Bordeaux, while the Cardinal’s few devoted friends were watching by his sick bed, they, with the rest of the lively Court party, were dancing in public and private without even any outward show of anxiety, and it was they, in wild spirits, who made the dark and wintry journey to La Rochelle a voyage de plaisir. M. de Châteauneuf already imagined himself First Minister, and Madame de Chevreuse, ruling the Queen and him, saw France at her feet.

And then the Cardinal recovered. “From the gates of the tomb,” says M. Martin, “he rose terrible and struck down those imprudent persons who had dared to reach out with a too hasty hand towards his spoils.” The King travelled many leagues from Paris to meet him, and received him in his arms; the courtiers crowded to congratulate him, weeping for joy! A few weeks later, the one disgraced and in prison, the other an exile from Court, M. de Châteauneuf and Madame de Chevreuse had time to reflect on their own foolishness and the amazing fortunes of Cardinal de Richelieu.