CHAPTER III.
Which shows a new use for an old Castle; and gives a good receipt for leading a man by the nose.
NOW if the reader imagined that I wrote the whole of the twelfth chapter of the last volume for the sole purpose of telling a cock and a bull story about a country innkeeper and conjuror’s first cousin, he was very much mistaken. Let him immediately transport himself back to the little village of Mesnil St. Loup, and let him remember the church, and the old trees, and the ruined castle beyond, with all the circumstances thereunto appertaining; and if any thing that has since passed has put the particulars out of his mind, let him return to the aforesaid twelfth chapter, and learn it by heart, as a penance for having forgotten it. But if, on the contrary, he remembers it fully—I will go on with my story.
It was in the old Chateau of St. Loup, near the village of Mesnil, on a sultry evening about the end of September, that a party was assembled, who, in point of rank and greatness of design, had seldom been equalled within those walls, even when they were the habitation of the great and beautiful of other days. But years and centuries had passed since they had been so tenanted. The court-yard was full of weeds, and grass, and tangled shrubs: the ivy creeping over the ruined walls obtruded its long branches through the unglazed windows, and the breaches which the siege of time had effected in the solid masonry, gave entrance to the wind of night and the wintry tempest.
The chamber that had been chosen for a place of meeting on the present occasion was one which, more than any other, had escaped the hand of desolation. The casements, it is true, had long ceased to boast of glass, and part of the wall itself had given way, encumbering with its broken fragments the farther end of the great saloon, as it had once been called. The rest, however, of the chamber was in very tolerable repair, and contained also several pieces of furniture, consisting of more than one rude seat, and a large uncouth table, which evidently had never belonged to the castle in its days of splendour.
At the head of this table sat Gaston Duke of Orleans, the younger brother of the King, leaning his head upon his hand in an attitude of listless indifference, and amusing himself by brushing the dust which had gathered on the board before him, into a thousand fanciful shapes with the feather of a pen—now forming fortifications with lines and parallels, and half moons and curtains—and then sweeping them all heedlessly away—offering no bad image of the many vast and intricate plans he had engaged in, all of which he had overthrown alike by his caprice and indecision.
Near him sat his two great favourites and advisers, Montressor and St. Ibal: the first of whom was really the inconsiderate fool he seemed; the second, though not without his share of folly, concealed deeper plans under his assumed carelessness. These two men, whose pride was in daring every thing, affected to consider nothing in the world worth trouble or attention, professing at the same time perfect indifference to danger and uncomfort, and contending that vice and virtue were merely names, which signified any thing, according to their application. Such was the creed of their would-be philosophy; and Montressor lost no opportunity of evincing that heedlessness of every thing serious which formed the principal point of his doctrine. In the present instance he had produced a couple of dice from his pocket, and was busily engaged in throwing with St. Ibal for some pieces of gold which lay between them.
Two more completed the party assembled in the old Chateau of St. Loup. The first of these was Cinq Mars: his quick and ardent spirit did not suffer him to join in the frivolous pastimes of the others, but on the contrary, he kept walking up and down the apartment, as if impatient for the arrival of some one expected by all; and every now and then, as he turned at the extremity of the chamber, he cast a glance upon the weak Duke and his vicious companions, almost amounting to scorn.
Beside the Master of the Horse, and keeping an equal pace, was the celebrated President De Thou, famed for unswerving integrity and the mild dignity of virtuous courage. His personal appearance, however, corresponded ill with the excellence of his mind; and his plain features, ill-formed figure, and inelegant movements, contrasted strongly with the handsome countenance and princely gait of Cinq Mars, as well as the calm pensive expression of his downcast eye, with the wild and rapid glance of his companion’s.
As the time wore away, the impatience of Cinq Mars visibly increased; and every two or three minutes he would stop, and look out from one of the open casements, and then approaching the table would take one of the torches, of which there were several lighted in the room, and strike it against the wall to increase the flame. “It is very extraordinary,” cried he at length, “that Fontrailles has not yet arrived.”
“Oh! no, Cinq Mars,” replied De Thou, “we are a full hour before the time. You were so impatient, my good friend, that you made us all set off long before it was necessary.”
“Why, it is quite dark,” said the Master of the Horse, “and Fontrailles promised to be here at nine.—It is surely nine, is it not, Montressor?”
“Size ace,” said the Gambler, “quatre à quatre, St. Ibal. I shall win yet!”
“Pshaw!” cried Cinq Mars—“who will tell me the time? I wish we could have clocks made small enough to put in our pockets.”
“I will show you what will tell us the hour as well as if we had,” answered De Thou. “Look out there in the west! Do you see what a red light the sun still casts upon those heavy masses of cloud that are coming up? Now the sun goes down at seven; so you may judge it can scarce be eight yet.”
“Cinq quatre!” cried Montressor, throwing. “I have lost, after all—Monsieur De Thou, will you bet me a thousand crowns that it is not past eight by the village clock of Mesnil St. Loup?”
“No, indeed!” replied the President; “I neither wish to win your money, Monsieur Montressor, nor to lose my own. Nor do I see how such a bet could be determined.”
“Oh! if you do not take the bet, there is no use of inquiring how it might be determined,” rejoined Montressor. “Monseigneur,” he continued, turning to the Duke of Orleans, who had just swept away his last fortification, and was laying out a flower-garden in its place; “can you tell how in the name of fortune these chairs and this table came here, when all the rest of the place is as empty as your Highness’s purse?”
“Or as your head, Montressor,” answered the Duke. “But the truth is, they were the property of poor old Père Le Rouge, who lived for many years in these ruins,—half-knave, half-madman,—till they tried and burnt him for a sorcerer down in the wood there at the foot of the hill. Since then it has been called the Sorcerer’s Grove, and the country people are not fond of passing through it, which has doubtless saved the old Conjuror’s furniture from being burnt for firewood; for none of the old women in the neighbourhood dare come to fetch it, or infallibly it would undergo the same fate as its master.”
“So, that wood is called the Sorcerer’s Grove,” said St. Ibal, laughing: “that is the reason your Highness brought us round the other way, is it not?”
Gaston of Orleans coloured a good deal at a jest which touched too near one of his prevailing weaknesses; for no one was more tinctured with the superstition of the day than himself, yet no one was more ashamed of such credulity. “No, no!” answered he; “I put no faith in Père Le Rouge and his prophecies. He made too great a mistake in my own case to show himself to me since his predictions have proved false, I will answer for him.”
“Why, what did he predict about you, Monseigneur?” asked De Thou, who knew the faith which the Duke still placed in astrology.
“A great deal of nonsense,” answered the Duke, affecting a tone very foreign to his real feelings. “He predicted that I should marry the Queen, after the death of Louis. Now, you see, I have married some one else, and therefore his prophecy was false. But however, as I said, these chairs belonged to him: where he got them I know not—perhaps from the Devil; but at all events, I wish he were here to fill one now; he would be a good companion in our adventures.” As he spoke, a bright flash of lightning blazed through the apartment, followed by a loud and rolling peal of thunder, which made the Duke start, exclaiming, “Jesu! what a flash!”
“Your Highness thought it was Père Le Rouge,” said St. Ibal; “but he would most likely come in at the door, if he did come; not through the window.”
Gaston of Orleans heard the jests of his two companions without anger; and a moment or two after, Cinq Mars, who stood near one of the dilapidated casements, turned round, exclaiming, “Hark! I hear the sound of a horse’s feet: it is Fontrailles at last. Give me a torch; I will show him where we are.”
“If it should be the Devil now——” said Montressor, as Cinq Mars left the room.
“Or Père Le Rouge,” added St. Ibal.
“Or both,” said the Duke of Orleans.
“Why for cunning and mischief they would scarcely supply the place of one Fontrailles,” rejoined St. Ibal. “But here comes one or the other,—I suppose it is the same to your Royal Highness which.”
“Oh, yes!” answered the Duke, “they shall all be welcome. Nothing like keeping good company, St. Ibal.”
As he spoke, Cinq Mars returned, accompanied by Fontrailles, both laughing with no small glee. “What makes ye so merry, my Lords?” exclaimed Montressor; “a laugh too good a thing to be lost. Has Monsieur de Fontrailles encountered his old friend Sathanus by the road-side, or what?”
“Not so,” answered Cinq Mars, “he has only bamboozled an innkeeper. But come, Fontrailles, let us not lose time: will you read over the articles of alliance to which we are to put our names; and let us determine upon them to-night, for, if we meet frequently in this way, we shall become suspected ere our design be ripe.”
“Willingly for my part,” replied Fontrailles, approaching the table, and speaking with some degree of emphasis, but without immediately deviating into declamation. “There certainly never was a case when speedy decision was more requisite than the present. Every man in this kingdom, from the King to the peasant, has felt, and does now feel, the evils which we are met to remedy. It is no longer zeal, but necessity, which urges us to oppose the tyranny of this daring Minister. It is no longer patriotism, but self-defence. In such a case, all means are justifiable; for when a man (as Richelieu has done) breaks through every law, human and divine, to serve the ungenerous purpose of his own aggrandizement; when he sports with the lives of his fellow-creatures with less charity than a wild beast; are we not bound to consider him as such, and to hunt him to the death for the general safety?”
De Thou shook his head, as if there was something in the proposition to which he could not subscribe; but Cinq Mars at once gave his unqualified assent, and all being seated round the table, Fontrailles drew forth some papers, and proceeded.
“This, then, is our first grand object,” said he: “to deprive this tyrant, whose abuse of power not only extends to oppress the subject, but who even dares, with most monstrous presumption, to curb and overrule the Royal authority, making the Monarch a mere slave to his will, and the Monarch’s name but a shield behind which to shelter his own crimes and iniquities—I say, to deprive this usurping favourite of the means of draining the treasures, sacrificing the honour, and spilling the blood of France; thereby to free our King from bondage, to restore peace and tranquillity to our country, and to bring back to our homes long banished confidence, security, and ease—To this you all agree?”
A general assent followed, and Fontrailles went on.
“Safely to effect our purpose, it is not only necessary to use every energy of our minds, but to exert all the local power we possess. Every member, therefore, of our association will use all his influence with those who are attached to him by favour or connexion, and prepare all his vassals, troops, and retainers, to act in whatsoever manner shall hereafter be determined, and will also amass whatever sums he can procure for the general object. It will also be necessary to concentrate certain bodies of men on particular points, for the purpose of seizing on some strong fortified places. And farther, it will be advisable narrowly to watch the movements of the Cardinal, in order to make ourselves masters of his person.”
“But whose authority shall we have for this?” demanded De Thou; “for while he continues Prime Minister by the King’s consent, we are committing high treason to restrain his person.”
“We must not be so scrupulous, De Thou,” rejoined Cinq Mars; “we must free his Majesty from those magic chains in which Richelieu has so long held his mind, before we can expect him to do any thing openly: but I will take it upon me to procure his private assent. I have sounded his inclinations already, and am sure of my ground. But proceed, Fontrailles: let us hear what arrangements you have made respecting troops, for we must have some power to back us, or we shall fail.”
“Well, then,” said Fontrailles, “I bring with me the most generous offers from the noble Duke of Bouillon. They are addressed to you, Cinq Mars, but were sent open to me. I may as well, therefore, give their contents at once, and you can afterwards peruse them at your leisure. The Duke here offers to place his town and principality of Sedan in our hands, as a depôt for arms and munition, and also as a place of retreat and safety, and a rendezvous for the assembling of forces. He farther promises, on the very first call, to march his victorious troops from Italy, when, as he says, every soldier will exult in the effort to liberate his country.”
“Generously promised of the Duke,” exclaimed Montressor, slapping the table with mock enthusiasm. “My head to a bunch of Macon grapes, he expects to be prime minister in Richelieu’s place.”
“The Duke of Bouillon, Monsieur de Montressor,” replied Cinq Mars somewhat warmly, “has the good of his country at heart; and is too much a man of honour to harbour the ungenerous thought you would attribute to him.”
“My dear Cinq Mars, do not be angry,” said Montressor. “Don’t you see how much the odds were in my favour? Why, I betted my head to a bunch of grapes, and who do you think would be fool enough to hazard a full bunch of grapes against an empty head? But go on, Fontrailles; where are the next troops to come from?”
“From Spain!” answered Fontrailles calmly; while at the name of that country, at open war with France, and for years considered as its most dangerous enemy, each countenance round the table assumed a look of astonishment and disapprobation, which would probably have daunted any other than the bold conspirator who named it.
“No, no!” exclaimed Gaston of Orleans, as soon as he had recovered breath. “None of the Spanish Catholicon for me;” alluding to the name which had been used to stigmatize the assistance that the League had received from Spain during the civil wars occasioned by the accession of Henry IV. to the throne. “No, no! Monsieur de Fontrailles, this is high treason at once.”
St. Ibal was generally supposed, and with much appearance of truth, to have some secret connexion with the Spanish court; and having now recovered from the first surprise into which he had been thrown by the bold mention of an alliance with that obnoxious country, he jested at the fears of the timid and unsteady Duke, well knowing that by such means he was easily governed. “Death to my soul!” exclaimed he. “Your Highness calls out against high treason, when it is what you have lived upon all your life! Why, it is meat, drink, and clothing to you. A little treason is as necessary to your comfort as a dice-box is to Montressor, a Barbary horse to Cinq Mars, or a bird-net and hawking-glove to the King. But to speak seriously, Monseigneur,” he continued, “is it not necessary that we should have some farther support than that which Monsieur de Bouillon promises? His enthusiasm may have deceived him;—his troops may not be half so well inclined to our cause as he is himself;—he might be taken ill;—he might either be arrested by the gout, to which he is subject; or by the Cardinal, to whom we all wish he was not subject. A thousand causes might prevent his giving us the assistance he intends, and then what an useful auxiliary would Spain prove. Besides, we do not call in Spain, to fight against France, but for France. Spain is not an enemy of the country, but only of the Cardinal; and the moment that man is removed, who for his sole interest and to render himself necessary has carried on a war which has nearly depopulated the kingdom, a lasting and glorious peace will be established between the two countries; and thus we shall confer another great benefit on the nation.”
“Why, in that point of view, I have no objection,” replied the Duke of Orleans. “But do you not think that Louis will disapprove of it?”
“We must not let him know it,” said Montressor, “till Richelieu is removed, and then he will be as glad of it as any one.”
“But still,” rejoined the Duke with more pertinacity than he generally displayed, “I am not fond of bringing Spanish troops into France. Who can vouch that we shall ever get rid of them?”
“That will I,” answered St. Ibal. “Has your Highness forgot what good faith and courtesy the Spanish government has shown you in your exile; as also the assistance it yielded to your late Royal Mother? Besides, we need not call in a large body of troops. What number do you propose, Fontrailles?”
“The offer of Spain is five thousand,” replied Fontrailles; “with the promise of ten thousand more, should we require it. Nothing can be more open and noble than the whole proceeding of King Philip. He leaves it entirely to ourselves what guarantee we will place in his hands for the safety of his troops.”
“Well, well,” said the Duke of Orleans, getting tired of the subject, “I have no doubt of their good faith. I am satisfied, St. Ibal; and whatever you think right, I will agree to. I leave it all to you and Montressor.”
“Well then,” said Fontrailles hastily, “that being settled, we will proceed—”
“Your pardon, gentlemen,” interposed De Thou, “I must be heard now—Your schemes extend much farther than I had any idea of—Cinq Mars, I was not informed of all this—had I been so, I would never have come here. To serve my country, to rid her of a Minister who, as I conceive, has nearly destroyed her, who has trampled France under his feet, and enthralled her in a blood-stained chain, I would to-morrow lay my head upon the block—Frown not, Monsieur de Fontrailles—Cinq Mars, my noble friend, do not look offended—but I cannot, I will not be a party to the crime into which mistaken zeal is hurrying you. Are we not subjects of France? and is not France at war with Spain? and though we may all wish and pray God that this war may cease, yet to treat or conspire with that hostile kingdom is an act which makes us traitors to our country and rebels to our King. Old De Thou has but two things to lose—his life and his honour. His life is valueless. He would sacrifice it at once for the least benefit to his country. He would sacrifice it, Cinq Mars, for his friendship for you. But his honour must not be sullied: and as through life he has kept it unstained, so shall it go with him unstained to his last hour. Were it merely personal danger you called upon me to undergo, I would not bestow a thought upon the risk: but my fame, my allegiance, my very salvation are concerned, and I will never give my sanction to a plan which begins by the treasonable proposal of bringing foreign enemies into the heart of the land.”
“As to your salvation, Monsieur le President,” said Montressor, “I’ll undertake to buy that for you for a hundred crowns. You shall have an indulgence to commit sins ad libitum, in which high treason shall be specified by name. Now, though these red-hot heretics of Germany, who seem inclined to bring that fiery place upon earth, which his Holiness threatens them with in another world, and who are assisted by our Catholic Cardinal with money, troops, ammunition, and all the hell-invented implements of war,—though these Protestants, I say, put no trust in the indulgences which their apostacy has rendered cheap in the market, yet I am sure you are by far too staunch a stickler for all antique abuses to doubt their efficacy. I suppose, therefore, when salvation can be had for a hundred crowns, good Monsieur de Thou, you can have no scruple on that score—unless indeed you are as stingy as the dog in the fable.”
“Jests are no arguments, Monsieur de Montressor,” replied De Thou, with stern gravity; “you have a bad habit, young Sir, of scoffing at what wiser men revere. Had you any religion yourself of any kind, or any reason for having none, we might pardon your error, because it was founded on principle. As for myself, Sir, what I believe, I believe from conviction, and what I do, I do with the firm persuasion that it is right; without endeavouring to cloak a bad cause with a show of spirit, or to hide my incapacity to defend it with stale jokes and profane raillery. Gentlemen, you act as you please; for my part I enter into no plan by which Spain is to be employed or treated with.”
“I think it dangerous too,” said the unsteady Duke of Orleans.
“Ten times more dangerous to attempt any thing without it,” exclaimed Fontrailles.—“Should we not be fools to engage in such an enterprise without some foreign power to support us? We might as well go to the Palais Cardinal, and offer our throats to Richelieu at once.”
Montressor and St. Ibal both applied themselves to quiet the fears of the Duke, and soon succeeded in removing from his mind any apprehensions on the score of Spain: but he continued from time to time to look suspiciously at De Thou, who had risen from the table, and was again walking up and down the apartment. At length Gaston beckoned to Cinq Mars, and whispered something in his ear.
“You do him wrong, my Lord,” exclaimed Cinq Mars indignantly, “I will answer for his faith. De Thou,” he continued, “the Duke asks your promise not to reveal what you have heard this night; and though I think my friend ought not to be suspected, I will be obliged by your giving it.”
“Most assuredly,” replied De Thou; “his Highness need be under no alarm. On my honour, in life or in death, I will never betray what I have heard here. But that I may hear as little as possible, I will take one of these torches, and wait for you in the lower apartments.”
“Take care that you do not meet with Père Le Rouge, Monsieur de Thou,” exclaimed St. Ibal as De Thou left them.
“Cease your jesting, gentlemen,” said Cinq Mars; “we have had too much of it already. A man with the good conscience of my friend De Thou, need not mind whom he meets. For my own part, I am resolved to go on with the business I have undertaken; I believe I am in the right; and if not, God forgive me, for my intentions are good.”
The rest of the plan was soon settled after the President had left the room; and the treaty which it was proposed to enter into with Spain was read through and approved. The last question which occurred, was the means of conveying a copy of this treaty to the Court of King Philip without taking the circuitous route by the Low Countries. Numerous difficulties presented themselves to every plan that was suggested, till Fontrailles, with an affectation of great modesty, proposed to be the bearer himself, if, as he said, they considered his abilities equal to the task.
The offer was of course gladly accepted, as he well knew it would be: and now being to the extent of his wish furnished with unlimited powers, and possessed of a document which put the lives of all his associates in his power, Fontrailles brought the conference to an end: it being agreed that the parties should not meet again till after his return from Spain.
A few minutes more were spent in seeking cloaks and hats, and extinguishing the torches; and then descending to the court-yard, they mounted their horses, which had found shelter in the ruined stable of the old castle, and set out on their various roads. By this time the storm had cleared away, leaving the air but the purer and the more serene; and the bright moon shining near her meridian, served to light Cinq Mars and De Thou on the way towards Paris, while the Duke of Orleans and his party bent their steps towards Bourbon, and Fontrailles set off for Troyes to prepare for his journey to Spain.
CHAPTER IV.
Intended to prove that keen-sighted politicians are but buzzards after all, and to show how Philip the woodman took a ride earlier than usual.
IWISH to Heaven it were possible, in a true story, to follow the old Greek’s rule, and preserve at least unity of place throughout. It would save a great deal of trouble, both to writer and reader, if we could make all our characters come into one hall, say their say, and have done with it. But there is only one place where they could be supposed to meet—heroes and heroines, statesmen and conspirators, servant and master, proud and humble—the true Procrustes’ bed which is made to fit every one. However, as before I could get them there, the story would be done, and the generation passed away, I must even violate all the unities together, and gallop after my characters all over the country, as I have often seen a shepherd in the Landes of France, striding here and there upon his long stilts after his wilful and straggling sheep, and endeavouring in vain to keep them all together. I must ask the reader, therefore, to get into the chaise with me, and set off for Chantilly; and as we go, I will tell him a few anecdotes, just to pass the time.
It was a common custom with Louis the Thirteenth to spend a part of the morning in that large circular piece of ground at Chantilly, called then, as now, the Manège; while his various hunters, in which he took great delight, were exercised before him. Here, while the few gentlemen that generally accompanied him, stood a step behind, he would lean against one of the pillars that surrounded the place, and remark, with the most minute exactitude, every horse as it passed him, expressing his approbation to the grooms when any thing gave him satisfaction. But on the same morning which had witnessed at St. Germain the arrest of De Blenau, something had gone wrong with the King at Chantilly. He was impatient, cross, and implacable: and Lord Montague, an English nobleman, who was at that time much about him, remarked in a low voice to one of the gentlemen in waiting, “His Majesty is as peevish as a crossed child, when Cinq Mars is absent.”
The name of his Grand Ecuyer, though spoken very low, caught the King’s ear.
“Do any of you know when Cinq Mars returns?” demanded he. “We never proceed well when he is not here.—Look at that man now, how he rides,” continued Louis, pointing to one of the grooms; “would not any one take him for a monkey on horseback? Do you know where Cinq Mars is gone, Mi Lor?”
“I hear, Sire,” replied Lord Montague, “that he is gone with Monsieur de Thou to Troyes, where he has an estate, about which there is some dispute, which Monsieur de Thou, who is learned in such matters, is to determine.”
“To Troyes!” exclaimed the King, “that is a journey of three days—Did not some of you tell me, that Chavigni arrived last night, while I was hunting?”
“I did so, please your Majesty,” replied one of the gentlemen; “and I hear, moreover, that the Cardinal himself slept at Luzarches last night, with the purpose of being here early this morning.”
“The Cardinal at Luzarches!” said the King, a cloud coming over his brow. “It is strange I had not notice—We shall scarce have room for them all—I expect the Queen to-night—and the Cardinal and her Majesty are as fond of each other as a hawk and a heron poulet.”
Louis was evidently puzzled. Now the best way to cut the Gordian knot of an embarras, is to run away from it, and let it settle itself. It is sure to get unravelled somehow; and by the time you come back, a thousand to one the fracas is over. Louis the Thirteenth, who of all men on earth hated what is called in the vulgar tongue a piece of work, except when he made it himself, was very much in the habit of adopting the expedient above mentioned, and, indeed, had been somewhat a loser by the experiment. However, it was a habit now, confirmed by age, and therefore more powerful than Nature. Accordingly, after thinking for a moment about the Queen and the Cardinal, and their mutual hatred, and their being pent up together in the small space of Chantilly, like two game cocks in a cock-pit; and seeing no end to it whatever, he suddenly burst forth—
“Come, Messieurs, I’ll go hunt. Quick! saddle the horses!” and casting kingly care from his mind, he began humming the old air Que ne suis je un Berger! while he walked across the manège towards the stables. But just at that moment, Chavigni presented himself, doffing his hat with all respect to the King, who could not avoid seeing him.
Louis was brought to bay, but still he stood his ground. “Ah! good day, Monsieur de Chavigni,” exclaimed he, moving on towards the stables. “Come in good time to hunt with us. We know you are free of the forest.”
“I humbly thank your Majesty,” replied the Statesman; “but I am attending the Cardinal.”
“And why not attend the King, Sir? Ha!” exclaimed Louis, his brow gathering into a heavy frown. “It is our will that you attend us, Sir.”
Chavigni did not often commit such blunders, but it was not very easy to remember at all times to pay those external marks of respect which generally attend real power, to a person who had weakly resigned his authority into the hands of another: and as the Cardinal not only possessed kingly sway, but maintained kingly state, it sometimes happened that the King himself was treated with scanty ceremony. This, however, always irritated Louis not a little. He cared not for the splendour of a throne, he cared not even for the luxuries of royalty; but of the personal reverence due to his station, he would not bate an iota, and clung to the shadow when he had let the substance pass away. The Statesman now hastened to repair his error, and bowing profoundly, he replied, “Had I not thought that in serving the Cardinal I best served your Majesty, I should not have ventured on so bold an answer; but as your Majesty is good enough to consider my pleasure in the chase, and the still greater pleasure of accompanying you, your invitation will be more than an excuse for breaking my appointment with the Cardinal.”
To bear the burthen of forcing one of the Council to break his engagement with the prime Minister, and all for so trifling a cause as an accidental hunting-party, was not in the least what the King wished or intended, and he would now very willingly have excused Chavigni’s attendance; but Chavigni would not be excused.
The wily Statesman well knew, that Richelieu had that day a point to carry with the King of the deepest importance as to the stability of his power. The Queen, whom the Cardinal had long kept in complete depression, being now the mother of two princes, her influence was increasing in the country to a degree that alarmed the Minister for his own sway. It was a principle with Richelieu always to meet an evil in its birth; and seeing plainly that as the King’s health declined—and it was then failing fast—the party of Anne of Austria would increase, if he did not take strong measures to annihilate it—he resolved at once to ruin her with her husband, to deprive her of her children, and, if possible, even to send her back to Spain. “And then,” thought he, “after the King’s death I shall be Regent.—Regent? King! ay, and one more despotic than ever sat upon the throne of France. For twenty years this young Dauphin must be under my guidance; and it will be strange indeed if I cannot keep him there till my sand be run.” And the proud man, who reasoned thus, knew not that even then he trembled on the verge of the grave.
Des rapides bienfaits du temps,
Nos désirs embrassent des âges,
Et nous n’avons que des instans.”
However, the object of his present visit to Chantilly was to complete the ruin of the Queen; and Chavigni, who suffered his eyes to be blinded to simple right and wrong by the maxims of State policy, lent himself entirely to the Cardinal’s measures, little imagining that personal hatred had any share in the motives of the great Minister whose steps he followed.
A moment’s reflection convinced Chavigni that he might greatly promote the object in view by accompanying the King in the present instance. He knew that in difficult enterprises the most trifling circumstances may be turned to advantage; and he considered it a great thing gained at that moment, to lay Louis under the necessity of offering some amends, even for the apparent trifle of making him break his appointment with Richelieu. In riding with the King, he would have an opportunity of noting the Monarch’s state of mind, which he perceived was unusually irritated, and also of preparing the way for those impressions which Richelieu intended to give: and accordingly he avoided with consummate art any subject which might open the way for Louis to withdraw his previous order to accompany him.
Having already followed one royal hunt somewhat too minutely, we will not attempt to trace the present; only observing that during the course of the day, Chavigni had many opportunities of conversing with the King, and took care to inform him that the campaign in the Netherlands was showing itself much against the arms of France; that no plan was formed by the Government, which did not by some means reach the ears of the Spanish generals, and consequently that all the manœuvres of the French troops were unavailing; and from this, as a natural deduction, he inferred, that some one at the court of France must convey information to the enemy; mingling these pleasant matters of discourse, with sundry sage observations respecting the iniquity and baseness of thus betraying France to her enemies.
Louis was exactly in the humour that the Statesman could have wished. Peevish from the absence of Cinq Mars, and annoyed by the unexpected coming of Richelieu, he listened with indignation to all that Chavigni told him, of any one in France conveying intelligence to a country which he hated with the blindest antipathy.
The predominant passion in the King’s mind had long been his dislike to Spain, but more especially to Philip, whom he regarded as a personal enemy: and Chavigni easily discerned, by the way in which the news he conveyed was received, that if they could cast any probable suspicion on the Queen, (and Chavigni really believed her guilty,) Louis would set no bounds to his anger. But just at the moment he was congratulating himself upon the probable success of their schemes, a part of the storm he had been so busily raising fell unexpectedly upon himself.
“Well, Monsieur de Chavigni,” said the King, after the chase was over, and the Royal party were riding slowly back towards Chantilly, “this hunting is a right noble sport: think you not so, Sir?”
“In truth I do, Sire,” replied Chavigni; “and even your Majesty can scarce love it better than myself.”
“I am glad to hear it, Sir,” rejoined the King, knitting his brows; “’tis a good sign. But one thing I must tell you, which is, that I do not choose my Royal forests to be made the haunt of worse beasts than stags and boars.—No wolves and tigers.—Do you take me, Sir?”
“No, indeed, Sire,” replied Chavigni, who really did not comprehend the King’s meaning, and was almost tempted to believe that he had suddenly gone mad. “Allow me to remind your Majesty that wolves are almost extinct in this part of France, and that tigers are altogether beasts of another country.”
“There are beasts of prey in every part of the world,” answered the King. “What I mean, Sir, is, that robbers and assassins are beginning to frequent our woods; especially, Sir, the wood of Mantes. Was it that, or was it the forest of Laye, in which the young Count de Blenau was attacked the other day?”
It was not easy on ordinary occasions to take Chavigni by surprise, and he was always prepared to repel open attack, or to parry indirect questions, with that unhesitating boldness, or skilful evasion, the proper application of which is but one of the lesser arts of diplomacy; but on the present occasion, the King’s question was not only so unexpected as nearly to overcome his habitual command of countenance, but was also uttered in such a tone as to leave him in doubt whether Louis’s suspicions were directed personally towards himself. He replied, however, without hesitation: “I believe it was the wood of Mantes, Sire; but I am not perfectly sure.”
“You, of all men, ought to be well informed on that point, Monsieur de Chavigni,” rejoined the King, “since you took care to send a servant to see it rightly done.”
The matter was now beyond a doubt, and Chavigni replied boldly: “Your Majesty is pleased to speak in riddles, which I am really at a loss to comprehend.”
“Well, well, Sir,” said Louis hastily, “it shall be inquired into, and made plain both to you and me. Any thing that is done legally must not be too strictly noticed; but I will not see the laws broken, and murder attempted, even to serve State purposes.”
Thus speaking, the King put his horse into a quicker pace, and Chavigni followed with his mind not a little discomposed, though his countenance offered not the slightest trace of embarrassment. How he was to act, now became the question; and running over in his own mind all the circumstances connected with the attack upon the Count de Blenau, he could see no other means by which Louis could have become acquainted with his participation therein, than by the loquacity of Philip, the woodman of Mantes: and as he came to this conclusion, Chavigni internally cursed that confident security which had made him reject the advice of Lafemas, when the sharp-witted Judge had counselled him to arrest Philip on first discovering that he had remarked the livery of Isabel and silver amongst the robbers.
In the present instance the irritable and unusually decided humour of the King, made him fear that inquiries might be instituted immediately, which would not only be dangerous to himself personally, but might probably overthrow all those plans which he had been labouring, in conjunction with the Cardinal, to bring to perfection. Calculating rapidly, therefore, all the consequences which might ensue, Chavigni resolved at once to have the Woodman placed in such a situation as to prevent him from giving any farther evidence of what he had seen. But far from showing any untimely haste, though he was the first to dismount in the court-yard in order to offer the King his aid in alighting, yet that ceremony performed, he loitered, patting his horse’s neck, and giving trifling directions to his groom, till such time as Louis had entered the Palace, and his figure had been seen passing the window at the top of the grand staircase. That moment, however, Chavigni darted into the Chateau, and seeking his own apartments, he wrote an order for the arrest of Philip the woodman, which with the same despatch he placed in the hands of two of his most devoted creatures, adding a billet to the Governor of the Bastille, in which he begged him to treat the prisoner with all kindness, and allow him all sort of liberty within the prison, but on no account to let him escape till he received notice from him.
We have already had occasion to see that Chavigni was a man who considered State-policy paramount to every other principle; and naturally not of an ungentle disposition or ignoble spirit, he had unfortunately been educated in a belief that nothing which was expedient for the statesman could be discreditable to the man. However, the original bent of his mind generally showed itself in some degree, even in his most unjustifiable actions, as the ground-work of a picture will still shine through, and give a colour to whatever is painted above it. In the present instance, as his only object was to keep the Woodman out of the way till such time as the King’s unwonted mood had passed by, he gave the strictest commands to those who bore the order for Philip’s arrest, to use him with all possible gentleness, and to assure his wife and family that no harm was intended to him. He also sent him a purse, to provide for his comfort in the prison, which he well knew could not be procured without the potent aid of gold.
The two attendants, accustomed to execute commands which required despatch, set out instantly on their journey, proceeding with all speed to Beaumont, and thence to Pontoise, where crossing the river Oise they soon after arrived at Meulan: and here a dispute arose concerning the necessity of calling upon two Exempts of that city to aid in arresting Philip the woodman, the one servant arguing that they had no such orders from their Lord, and the other replying that the said Philip might have twenty companions for aught they knew, who might resist their authority, they not being legally entitled to arrest his Majesty’s lieges. This argument was too conclusive to be refuted; and they therefore waited at Meulan till the two Exempts were ready to accompany them. It being night when they arrived at Meulan, and the two Exempts being engaged in “potations deep and strong,” drinking long life to the Cardinal de Richelieu, and success to the royal prisons of France, some time was of course spent before the party could proceed. However, after the lapse of about an hour, discussed no matter how, they all contrived to get into their saddles, and passing the bridge over the Seine, soon reached the first little village, whose white houses, conspicuous in the moon-light, seemed, on the dark back-ground of the forest, as if they had crept for protection into the very bosom of the wood; while it, sweeping round them on every side, appeared in its turn to afford them the friendly shelter that they sought.
All was silence as they passed through the village, announcing plainly that its sober inhabitants were comfortably dozing away the darkness. This precluded them from asking their way to Philip’s dwelling; but Chavigni had been so precise in his direction, that notwithstanding the wine-pots of Meulan, the two servants, in about half an hour after having entered the wood, recognized the abreuvoir and cottage, with the long-felled oak and piece of broken ground, and all the other et-cetera, which entered into the description they had received.
There is nothing half so amusing as the bustle with which little people carry on the trifles that are intrusted to them. They are so important, and so active, one would think that the world’s turning round upon its axis depended upon them; while all the mighty business of the universe slips by as quietly as if the wheels were oiled; and the government of a nation is often decided over a cup of coffee, or the fate of empires changed by an extra bottle of Johanisberg.
But to return. Chavigni’s two servants, with the two Exempts of Meulan, were as important and as busy as emmets when their hill is disturbed—or a sous-secretaire when he opens his first despatch, and receives information of a revolution in the Isle of Man—or the fleas in an Italian bed, when you suddenly light your candle to see what the Devil is biting you so infernally—or the Devil himself in a gale of wind—or any other little person in a great flurry about nothing. So having discovered the cottage, they held a profound council before the door, disputing vehemently as to the mode of proceeding. One of the Exempts proposed to knock at the door, and then suddenly to seize their prisoner as he came to open it; but Chavigni’s servants, though somewhat dipped in the Lethean flood, in which the Exempts of Meulan had seduced them to bathe, remembered the strict orders of their master, to treat Philip with all possible gentleness, and judging that the mode proposed might startle him, and affect his nerves, they decided against the motion.
A variety of other propositions were submitted, and rejected by the majority, each one liking nobody’s suggestion but his own; till one of the Exempts, not bearing clearly in mind the subject of discussion, knocked violently at the door, declaring it was tiresome to stand disputing on their feet, and that they could settle how they should gain admission after they had got in and sat down.
This seemed a very good motion, and settled the matter at once; and Philip, who was in that sound and fearless sleep which innocence, content, and labour can alone bestow, not exactly answering at first, they all repeated the noise, not a little enraged at his want of attention to personages of such high merit as themselves.
The moment after, the Woodman appeared at the window, and seeing some travellers, as he imagined, he bade them wait till he had lighted a lamp, and he would come to them. Accordingly, in a moment or two Philip opened the door, purposing either to give them shelter, or to direct them on their way, as they might require; but when the light gleamed upon the black dresses of the Exempts, and then upon the well-known colours of Isabel and silver, the Woodman’s heart sank, and his cheek turned pale, and he had scarcely power to demand their errand.
“I will tell you all that presently,” replied the principal servant of the two, who, like many another small man in many another place, thought to become great by much speaking. “First let us come in and rest ourselves; for as you may judge by our dusty doublets, we have ridden far and hard: and after that I will expound to you, good friend, the cause of our coming, with sundry other curious particulars, which may both entertain and affect you.”
Philip suffered them to enter the house, one after another, and setting down the lamp, he gazed upon them in silence, his horror at gentlemen in black coats and long straight swords, as well as those dressed in Isabel and silver, being quite unspeakable.
“Well, Monsieur Philip le Bucheron,” said the spokesman, throwing himself into the oaken settle with that sort of percussion of breath denoting fatigue: “you seem frightened, Monsieur Philip; but, good Monsieur Philip, you have no cause for fear. We are all your friends, Monsieur Philip.”
“I am glad to hear it, Sir,” replied the Woodcutter; “but may I know what you want with me?”
“Why, this is the truth, Monsieur Philip,” replied the servant, “it seems that his Majesty the King, whom we have just left at Chantilly, is very angry about something,—Lord knows what! and our noble employer, not to say master, the Count de Chavigni, having once upon a time received some courtesy at your hands, is concerned for your safety, and has therefore deemed it necessary that you should be kept out of the way for a time.”
“Oh, if that be the case,” cried Philip, rubbing his hands with gladness, “though I know not why the King’s anger should fall on me, I will take myself out of the way directly.”
“No, no, Monsieur Philip, that won’t do exactly,” answered the servant. “You do not know how fond my master is of you; and so concerned is he for your safety, that he must be always sure of it, and therefore has given us command to let you stay in the Bastille for a few days.”
At that one word Bastille, Philip’s imagination set to work, and instantly conjured up the image of a huge tower of red copper, somewhat mouldy, standing on the top of a high mountain, and guarded by seven huge giants with but one eye apiece, and the like number of fiery dragons with more teeth and claws than would have served a dozen. If it was not exactly this, it was something very like it; for Philip, whose travels had never extended a league beyond the wood of Mantes, knew as much about the Bastille as Saint Augustin did of Heaven,—so both drew from their own fancy for want of better materials.
However, the purse which Chavigni’s attendants gave him in behalf of their master, for they dared not withhold his bounty, however much they might be inclined, greatly allayed the fears of the Woodman.
There is something wonderfully consolatory in the chink of gold at all times; but in the present instance, Philip drew from it the comfortable conclusion, that they could not mean him any great harm when they sent him money. “I know not what to think,” cried he.
“Why, think it is exactly as I tell you,” replied the servant, “and that the Count means you well. But after you have thought as much as you like, get ready to come with us, for we have no time to spare.”
This was the worst part of the whole business. Philip had now to take leave of his good dame Joan, which, like a well-arranged sermon, consisted of three distinct parts; he had first to wake her, then to make her comprehend, and then to endure her lamentation.
The first two were tasks of some difficulty, for Joan slept tolerably well—that is to say, you might have fired a cannon at her ear without making her hear—and when she was awake, her understanding did not become particularly pellucid for at least an hour after. This on ordinary occasions—but on the present Philip laboured hard to make her mind take in that he was arrested and going to the Bastille. But finding that her senses were still somewhat obdurate, and that she did nothing but rub her eyes, and stretch and yawn in his face, he had recourse to the same means morally, which he would have used physically to cleave an oak; namely, he kept shouting to her, “Bastille! Bastille! Bastille!” reiterating the word upon her ear, just in the same manner that he would have plied the timber with his axe.
At length she comprehended it all. Her eye glanced from the inner room upon the unwonted guests who occupied the other chamber, and then to the dismayed countenance of her husband; and divining it suddenly, she threw her arms round the athletic form of the Woodman, bursting into a passion of tears, and declaring that he should not leave her.
Of course, on all such occasions there must follow a very tender scene between husband and wife, and such there was in the present instance: only Joan, availing herself of one especial privilege of the fair sex, did not fail, between her bursts of tears and sobs, to rail loudly at the Cardinal, the King, and all belonging to them, talking more high treason in five minutes, than would have cost any man an hour to compose; nor did she spare even the Exempts, or the two gentlemen in Isabel and silver, but poured forth her indignation upon all alike.
However, as all things must come to an end, so did this; and Philip was carried away amidst the vain entreaties his wife at length condescended to use.
The only difficulty which remained was, how to mount their prisoner, having all forgot to bring a horse from Meulan for that purpose; and Philip not choosing to facilitate his own removal by telling them that he had a mule in the stable.
However it was at length agreed, that one of the Exempts should walk to the next town, and that Philip should mount his horse till another could be obtained. As the party turned away from the hut, the chief servant, somewhat moved by the unceasing tears of Joan, took upon him to say that he was sure that Charles the Woodman’s son, who stood with his mother at the door, would be permitted to see his father in the Bastille, if they would all agree to say, that they did not know what was become of him, in case of any impertinent person inquiring for him during his absence.
This they all consented to, their grief being somewhat moderated by the prospect of communicating with each other, although separated; and Philip once more having bid his wife and children adieu, was carried on to a little village, where a horse being procured for him, the whole party took the road to Marly, and thence proceeded to Paris with all possible diligence.
Day had long dawned before they reached the Bastille, and Philip, who was now excessively tired, never having ridden half the way in his life, was actually glad to arrive at the prison, which he had previously contemplated with so much horror.
Here he was delivered, with the lettre de cachet, and Chavigni’s note, to the Governor; and the servant again, in his own hearing, recommended that he should be treated with all imaginable kindness, and allowed every liberty consistent with his safe custody.
All this convinced the Woodcutter, as well as the conversation he had heard on the road, that Chavigni really meant well by him; and without any of those more refined feelings, which, however they may sometimes open the gates of the heart to the purest joys, but too often betray the fortress of the breast to the direst pains, he now felt comparatively secure, and gazed up at the massy walls and towers of the Bastille with awe indeed, but awe not unmingled with admiration.