Cardinal de Richelieu

In the first days after Cardinal de Richelieu’s return from the south, few persons, certainly not himself, realized that his career was so near its end. The doctors, however, knew what they were doing when they healed the wounds in his arm; his chief surgeon remonstrated, but to no purpose, for the Cardinal would have it done. “He has dealt himself a mortal blow,” the surgeon said to a friend.

For the moment, infirm as he was, he took a new hold on life. During those autumn weeks at Rueil he was eager, imperious, restless, suspicious, ever planning for the future, in case he should survive the King; strangely haughty, irritable, and nervous, insisting that his armed guards should attend him everywhere, even in the royal presence. Louis XIII., himself too ill and depressed to enjoy his hunting as usual, was pestered by Chavigny and de Noyers with messages from the Eminentissime, insisting on the disgrace of four of his best-liked officers—among whom was M. de Troisville, or Tréville, the famous captain of musketeers—whose only crime was that they had formerly been friends of Cinq-Mars, and that Richelieu feared their hatred and their influence. The King resisted long, but at last, by sheer angry obstinacy, the Cardinal gained his point, and the four gentlemen were dismissed from the Court, though not from the army; the King showing “great displeasure, even to shedding of tears.”

In November His Eminence moved from Rueil to the Palais-Cardinal, and there, still magnificent though gloomy of spirit and too ill to be actually present, he entertained the Court with the performance of an “heroic comedy” called Europe, partly his own, partly the work of Desmarets. Here were celebrated the victories of France over Germany, Spain, and her own internal disloyalties, as well as her triumphs in art, commerce, and luxury. In truth, the piece was a glorification of the ministry of Armand de Richelieu.

It was not long before Nature took her revenge and justified the doctors. “On Friday, November 28, 1642, in the night,” says Aubery, “the Cardinal-Duc was attacked by a great pain in his side with fever. On Sunday, the pain and fever having much augmented, it was found necessary to bleed him twice, and the Duchesse d’Aiguillon and the Maréchaux de Brézé and de la Meilleraye decided to sleep at the Palais-Cardinal.” On Monday morning the Cardinal was better; but in the afternoon and night he became so much worse, with difficulty of breathing, that the doctors bled him again. On Tuesday the King ordered special prayers in all the Paris churches, and came himself from Saint-Germain to visit his dying Minister. Whether sorry or glad, who knows! At this supreme hour, as all through Richelieu’s career, there are contradictory accounts of the relations between the two men. Aubery’s dignified narrative shows us a gracious and sympathetic King, handing nourishment to the invalid, listening with sorrowful attention to the last counsels of the statesman who had led him and France so far, and who now, while reminding His Majesty of his past services and recommending his family and friends to his care, was chiefly concerned that Monsieur should have no share, now or ever, in the government, and that Cardinal Mazarin, the fittest of all the present Ministers, should take up the burden which must be laid down. For it was plain to Richelieu himself, as well as to King, friends, and physicians, that he had not many hours to live.

Louis did more than listen to the Cardinal’s dying prayers and counsels; he respected them. But gossips and memoir-writers agree that he left the Palais-Cardinal “fort gai,” laughing and joking with the Cardinal’s relations and admiring the splendours of the great house which now, by his will, was to become royal property.

When the King was gone, Richelieu asked his physicians how long he had to live. They replied evasively—they could not tell; there was no cause to despair, and so forth. Then he called for M. Chicot, the King’s physician, and told him to answer truly, not as doctor, but as friend. Chicot gave him twenty-four hours. “C’est parler, cela!” said Richelieu, and sent for the Curé of Saint-Eustache, his parish church, to receive his confession and to administer the last Sacraments.

“Treat me as the meanest of your parishioners,” he said to the priest; and the crowd in his room could hear, through their own sobs, the voice of their master repeating Pater and Credo, joining in prayers, declaring his faith in God and the Church, answering to the question whether he forgave his enemies: “I have had no enemies but those of the State.” It was a bold assertion from the lips of such a man, and the Bishop of Lisieux, standing by, was startled by the confident words. But one may very well imagine that Armand de Richelieu believed it of himself.

On Wednesday the doctors, having bled him again, the pain and fever growing steadily worse, made their bows and retired; they could do no more. A country quack was then allowed to try his skill: many such, probably, haunted the gates of the palace; but this man, Le Fèvre by name, had some friend at Court who admitted him to the sick-room, and the Cardinal did not refuse his remedies. At first they seemed successful. Soothing draughts and opium pills lulled the sharp pain, and when the King, who had remained at the Louvre, paid his second visit in the afternoon, the Cardinal appeared slightly better. The gossips say that Louis departed “less joyful.”

A quiet night brought so calm a morning—Thursday, December 4, 1642—that the Cardinal’s own people began to rejoice in the hope of his recovery; and if the doctors, knowing better, shook their heads, M. Le Fèvre had his moment of triumph. But the patient himself was not deceived.

Those to whom he gave audience in the course of that morning—gentlemen sent by the Queen and Monsieur—listened to the words of a dying man. Only on his death-bed assuredly would Richelieu have humbly begged Anne’s pardon for any causes of grievance which, “in the course of our lives,” she might have had against him.

“A little before noon,” says Aubery, “he felt extraordinarily weak, and perceiving thus that his end infallibly drew near, he said, with a tranquil countenance, to the Duchesse d’Aiguillon: ‘My niece, I am very ill; I am going to die; I pray you to leave me. Your tenderness affects me. Do not suffer the pain of seeing me die.’”

She, the person he had loved best, left him unwillingly and in tears, and his confessor was instantly called to say the prayers for the dying. A few minutes of unconsciousness, then two heavy sighs, and Cardinal de Richelieu was dead.

He was only fifty-seven; but the worn face, wasted body and whitened hair were those of a much older man. The Parisians came in immense crowds to look on him as he lay in state at the Palais-Cardinal, where the royal guards, even before he was dead, had replaced his own. He lay on a bed of brocade in his magnificent Cardinal’s robes and cap, with the ducal coronet and mantle at his feet. The captain of his guards, M. de Bar, sat in deep mourning at his right hand; and on either side, by the light of many tall wax tapers in great silver candlesticks, a double choir of monks intoned psalms perpetually.

On the evening of December 13 “the body of the Cardinal-Duc was transported from his palace to the Church of the Sorbonne on a magnificent car, covered with a great pall of black velvet crossed with white satin and enriched with the arms of His Eminence, embroidered in gold and silver—the six horses which drew it entirely covered with drapery of the same—surrounded by his pages, each holding a large candle of white wax, preceded and followed by so great a quantity of the same lights, which were carried and borne before the relations, connexions, friends, servants, and officers of the deceased, who were present in coaches, on horseback, and on foot, that the evening of the day on which that funeral took place was brighter than the noon: the wide streets of this city being found too narrow for the innumerable crowds of people by which they were lined, as in the greatest and most august ceremonies.”

So far the Gazette de France. With every mark, as it seems, of outward respect, the gleaming cavalcade made its way through the darkness of the city. They carried him over the Pont Neuf, where Henry’s statue commanded Paris and the Seine, and up the hill, through the old University quarter for which he had done so much, and laid him in the vault he had prepared for himself and his family under the stately new Church of the Sorbonne. His funeral ceremonies extended for weeks, far into the following year, with grand state services at Notre Dame and solemn requiems in all the churches of Paris. A long and flattering epitaph, engraved on copper and fastened to the wall of the crypt where he lay, was meant to keep his fame alive till France herself should be no more. It began: “Icy repose le grand Armand-Jean du Plessis, Cardinal de Richelieu, Duc et Pair de France: Grand en naissance, grand en esprit, grand en sagesse, grand en science, grand en courage, grand en fortune, mais plus grand encore en piété....” After describing the hero’s fine deeds and wonderful qualities, his genius, grace, and majesty, the epitaph—said to have been composed by Georges de Scudéry—went on to announce that “il est mort comme il a vécu, grand, invincible, glorieux et pour dernier honneur, pleuré de son Roi; et pour son éternel bonheur, il est mort humblement, chrétiennement et saintement....”

It was not till towards the end of the century that the marble tomb by Girardon was placed above the vault in the Church of the Sorbonne.

By his will, made at Narbonne, the Cardinal confirmed the promised gift he had made to the Crown in 1636 of the Palais-Cardinal, most of his magnificent gold and silver plate, diamonds, and a large sum of money. He divided his lands, châteaux, and other property between his nephew and great-nephews and Madame d’Aiguillon, leaving the lion’s share with his name and title, as has been said, to Armand de Vignerot, who was also entrusted with his precious library. Many of his artistic treasures and all his remaining jewellery went to Madame d’Aiguillon. With the most particular care and in the strongest words he guarded against any future dismemberment of the estates he left to his family. Fortunate for him that his fame and honour did not depend on the châteaux, the gardens, the forests, the collections and possessions of every kind which had so long shared his thoughts with France and her glory.

The legacies to his servants and humbler friends showed the Cardinal in his pleasantest light, as a just and generous master. Not one was forgotten, from his chaplains, officers and gentlemen, his secretaries and le petit Mulot, secretary’s clerk, to cooks, grooms, muleteers, and footmen. The smallest legacy was six years’ wages. That he did not forget past benefits was shown by a legacy to a M. de Broyé, the necessitous nephew of that Claude Barbin who had helped him to his place in the Ministry in the days of the Maréchal d’Ancre.

“He was extremely regretted,” says Montglat, “by his relations, friends, and servants, who were numerous; for he was the best master, relation, or friend that ever was; and provided that he was convinced a man loved him, his fortune was made; for he never forsook those who attached themselves to him.” At the same time, he was personally solitary and inaccessible, and after the death of Père Joseph, though surrounded by those whom loyalty or interest kept faithful to him, no man could call himself his intimate friend.

“Il est mort un grand politique”—a great politician is dead: these were the short cold words with which Louis XIII. honoured the memory of the man who had “raised France to her highest point since Charlemagne; crushed the Huguenot party, which had rebelled against five kings; humbled the House of Austria, which claimed to be the law-giver of Christendom; and established the King’s power so firmly, by subduing the princes, that nothing in the kingdom could resist him any more.”

As a King, there is no doubt that Louis regretted his great Minister; he had proved over and over again that he knew how to value the statesman who had given him new authority and France new prestige; he had proved it to the bitter cost of those who reckoned on his personal impatience, as a man, of the yoke laid upon him by a tyrannical and worrying tutor. That yoke was now removed; and though the King appeared to be Richelieu’s chief mourner, while following his last counsels and carrying out his policy, contemporaries were very sure that in the depths of his soul he was glad to be rid of him.

France, as a whole, drew a long breath of relief and joy. It was not only “les grands du royaume,” soon to be flocking back from prison and from exile, Monsieur, appearing once more at Court, the Duc de Vendôme, leaving his refuge in England, who welcomed their freedom from the political terror which had weighed down their gay lives; it was also the people of lower degree, citizens, peasants, who had felt the oppression of Richelieu’s heavy taxes. They had paid for his wars by pinching and starvation; for his objects they cared little, the vision of most of them being naturally bounded by their own parish. All through the provinces, in the villages, in the towns, large and small, even in Paris itself, blazing bonfires lit up the winter nights when the Eminentissime lay dead.

That well-known rondeau was one of the mildest among the satirical poems full of hatred, violence, and indecency which circulated in society after the death of him whom they called “le ministre des enfers.” And if his countrymen had listened for an echo of their rejoicing, they might have heard it in the “great contentment” of the enemies of France.

Cardinal de Richelieu’s noblest monument in Paris is his stately building of the Sorbonne. His resting-place in the crypt of its Church was disturbed in the Revolution, and his bones were scattered, but his embalmed face-mask was preserved by reverent hands and ultimately replaced in his tomb. The Church is no longer used for worship; but Armand de Richelieu still reclines there in marble peace. His eyes are raised to the heaven in which he certainly believed. He is supported in his mortal weakness by Religion, holding the book he wrote, when Bishop of Luçon, in defence of the Catholic Faith; and Science—in the likeness of his beloved niece, Madame d’Aiguillon—lies mourning at his feet.