A Chapter of mighty import, which may be read or not, as the Reader thinks fit, the Book being quite as well without it.
WITH the happy irregularity of all true stories, we must return, for a moment, to a very insignificant person,—the Woodman of Mantes. Indeed, I have to beg my reader’s pardon for saying so much about any one under the rank of a Chevalier at least; but all through this most untractable of all histories, I have been pestered with a set of shabby fellows in very indifferent circumstances. Woodcutters, robbers, gentlemen’s servants, and the like, who make themselves so abominably useful, that though we wish them at the Devil all the time, we can no way do without them. Let the sin not be attributed to me; for I declare, upon my conscience, that when first I undertook to record this tale, I attempted a thorough reform; I superseded a great number of subordinate characters, put others upon the retired list, and dismissed a great many as useless sinecurists; but when I had done, all was in confusion; and then, after considering matters for half an hour, and turning over a page or two in the book of Nature, I found, that the most brilliant actions and the greatest events were generally brought about from the meanest motives and most petty causes: I perceived, that women and valets de-chambre govern the world: I found that saur-kraut had disagreed with Sarah Duchess of Marlborough, made her insolent to Queen Anne, made Queen Anne threaten to box her ears, made England resign her advantages over France—placed the Bourbon dynasty on the throne of Spain, and changed the face of Europe even to the present day. So, if saur-kraut did all this, surely I may return to Philip, the woodman of Mantes.
Chavigni, as we have seen, cast his purse upon the ground, and rode away from the cottage of the Woodman, little heeding what so insignificant an agent might do or say. Yet Philip’s first thought was one which would have procured him speedy admission to the Bastille, had Chavigni been able to divine its nature. “The young Count shall know all about it,” said Philip to himself. “That’s a great rogue in Isabel and silver, for all his fine clothes, or I’m much mistaken.”
His next object of attention was the purse; and after various pros and cons, Inclination, the best logician in the world, reasoned him into taking it. “For,” said Philip, “dirty fingers soil no gold;” and having carefully put it into his pouch, the Woodman laid his finger upon the side of his nose, and plunged headlong into a deep meditation concerning the best and least suspicious method of informing the young Count de Blenau of all he had seen, heard, or suspected. We will not follow the course of this cogitation, which, as it doubtless took place in the French tongue, must necessarily suffer by translation, but taking a short cut straight through all the zig-zags of Philip’s mind, arrive directly at the conclusion, or rather at the consequences, which were these. In the first place, he commanded his son Charles to load the mule with wood, notwithstanding the boy’s observation, that no one would buy wood at that time of the morning, or rather the night; for, to make use of Shakspeare’s language, the Morn, far from being yet clad in any russet mantle, was snugly wrapped up in the blanket of the dark, and snoring away, fast asleep, like her betters.
Precisely in the same situation as Aurora, that is to say, soundly sleeping, till her ordinary hour of rising, was Joan, the Woodman’s wife. Philip, however, by sundry efforts, contrived to awaken her to a sense of external things; and perceiving that, after various yawns and stretches, her mind had arrived at the point of comprehending a simple proposition, “Get up, Joan, get up!” cried he. “I want you to write a letter for me; writing being a gift that, by the blessing of God, I do not possess.”
The wife readily obeyed; for Philip, though as kind as the air of spring, had a high notion of marital privileges, and did not often suffer his commands to be disputed within his little sphere of dominion. However, it seemed a sort of tenure by which his sway was held, that Joan, his wife, should share in all his secrets; and accordingly, in the present instance, the good Woodman related in somewhat prolix style, not only all that had passed between Chavigni and Lafemas in the house, but much of what they had said before they even knocked at his door.
“For you must know, Joan,” said he, “that I could not sleep for thinking of all this day’s bad work; and, as I lay awake, I heard horses stop at the water, and people speaking, and very soon what they said made me wish to hear more, which I did, as I have told you. And now, Joan, I think it right, as a Christian and a man, to let this young cavalier know what they are plotting against him. So sit thee down; here is a pen and ink, and a plain sheet out of the boy’s holy catechism,—God forgive me! But it could not go to a better use.”
It matters not much to tell all the various considerations which were weighed and discussed by Philip and his wife in the construction of this epistle. Suffice it to say, that like two unskilful players at battledoor and shuttlecock, they bandied backwards and forwards the same objections a thousand times between them, for ever letting them drop, and taking them up again anew, till such time as day was well risen before they finished. Neither would it much edify the world, in all probability, to know the exact style and tenor of the composition when it was complete, although Philip heard his wife read it over with no small satisfaction, and doubtless thought it as pretty a piece of oratory as ever was penned.
It is now unfortunately lost to the public, and all that can be satisfactorily vouched upon the subject is, that it was calculated to convey to the Count de Blenau all the information which the Woodcutter possessed, although that information might be clothed in homely language, without much perfection, either in writing or orthography.
When it had been read, and re-read, and twisted up according to the best conceit of the good couple, it was intrusted to Charles, the Woodman’s boy, with many a charge and direction concerning its delivery, For his part, glad of a day’s sport, he readily undertook the task, and driving the laden mule before him, set out, whistling on his way to St. Germain’s. He had not, however, proceeded far, when he was overtaken by Philip with new directions; the principal one being to say, if any one should actually see him deliver the note, and make inquiries, that it came from a lady. “For,” said Philip,—and he thought the observation was a shrewd one,—“so handsome a youth as the young Count must have many ladies who write to him.”
Charles did not very well comprehend what it was all about, but he was well enough contented to serve the young Count, who had given him many a kind word and a piece of silver, when the hunting-parties of the court had stopped to water their horses at the abreuvoir. The boy was diligent and active, and soon reached St. Germain. His next task was to find out the lodging of the Count de Blenau: and, after looking about for some time, he addressed himself, for information, to a stout, jovial-looking servant, who was sauntering down the street, gazing about at the various hotels, with a look of easy nonchalance, as if idleness was his employment.
“Why do you ask, my boy?” demanded the man, without answering his question.
“I want to sell my wood,” replied the Woodman’s son, remembering that his errand was to be private. “Where does he lodge, good Sir?”
“Why, the Count does not buy wood in this hot weather,” rejoined the other.
“I should suppose the Count does not buy wood, himself, at all,” replied the boy, putting the question aside with all the shrewdness of a French peasant; “but, perhaps, his cook will.”
“Suppose I buy your wood, my man,” said the servant.
“Why, you are very welcome, Sir,” answered Charles; “but if you do not want it, I pray you, in honesty, show me which is the Count de Blenau’s hotel.”
“Well, I will show thee,” said the servant; “I am e’en going thither myself, on the part of the Marquise de Beaumont, to ask after the young Count’s health.”
“Oh, then, you are one of those who were with the carriage yesterday, when he was wounded in the wood,” exclaimed the boy. “Now I remember your colours. Were you not one of those on horseback?”
“Even so,” answered the man; “and if I forget not, thou art the Woodman’s boy. But come, prithee, tell us what is thy real errand with the Count. We are all his friends, you know; and selling him the wood is all a tale.”
Charles thought for a moment, to determine whether he should tell the man all he knew or not; but remembering the answer his father had furnished him with, he replied, “The truth then is, I carry him a note from a lady.”
“Oh, ho! my little Mercury!” cried the servant; “so you are as close with your secrets as if you were an older politician. This is the way you sell wood, is it?”
“I do not know what you mean by Mercury,” rejoined the boy.
“Why he was a great man in his day,” replied the servant, “and, as I take it, used to come and go between the gods and goddesses; notwithstanding which, Monsieur Rubens, who is the greatest painter that ever lived, has painted this same Mercury as one of the late Queen’s[A] council, but nevertheless he was a carrier of messages, and so forth.”
[A] Alluding, no doubt, to the picture of the reconciliation of Mary de Medicis and her son Louis XIII. in which Mercury seems hand in glove with the cardinals and statesmen of the day.
“Why, then, thou art more Mercury than I, for thou carriest a message, and I a letter,” answered Charles, as they approached the hotel of the Count, towards which they had been bending their steps during this conversation. Their proximity to his dwelling, in all probability, saved Charles from an angry answer; for his companion did not seem at all pleased with having the name of Mercury retorted upon himself; and intending strongly to impress upon the Woodman’s boy that he was a person of far too great consequence to be jested with, he assumed a tone of double pomposity towards the servant who appeared on the steps of the hotel. “Tell Henry de La Mothe, the Count’s page,” said the servant, “that the Marquise de Beaumont has sent to inquire after his master’s health.”
The servant retired with the message, and in a moment after Henry de La Mothe himself appeared, and informed the messenger that his master was greatly better. He had slept well, he said, during the night; and his surgeons assured him that the wounds which he had received were likely to produce no farther harm than the weakness naturally consequent upon so great a loss of blood as that which he had sustained. Having given this message on his master’s account, Henry, on his own, began to question the servant concerning many little particulars of his own family; his father being, as already said, Fermier to Madame de Beaumont.
Charles, the Woodman’s son, perceiving that the conversation had turned to a subject too interesting soon to be discussed, glided past the Marchioness’s servant, placed the note he carried in the hand of the Count’s Page, pressed his finger on his lip, in sign that it was to be given privately, and detaching himself from them, without waiting to be questioned, drove back his mule through the least known parts of the forest, and rendered an account to his father of the success of his expedition.
“Who can that note be from?” said the Marchioness de Beaumont’s servant to Henry de La Mothe. “The boy told me, it came from a lady.”
“From Mademoiselle de Hauteford, probably,” replied the Page, thoughtfully. “I must give it to my master without delay, if he be strong enough to read it. We will talk more another day, good friend;”—and he left him.
“From Mademoiselle de Hauteford!” said the man. “Oh, ho!”—and he went home to tell all he knew to Louise, the soubrette.
The Marquis de Cinq Mars, the Count de Fontrailles, and King Louis the Thirteenth, all making fools of themselves in their own way.
THERE are some spots on the earth which seem marked out as the scene of extraordinary events, and which, without any peculiar beauty, or other intrinsic quality to recommend them, acquire a transcendent interest, as the theatre of great actions. Such is Chantilly, the history of whose walls might furnish many a lay to the poet, and many a moral to the sage; and even now, by its magnificence and its decay, it offers a new comment on the vanity of splendour, and proves, by the forgotten greatness of its lords, how the waves of time are the true waters of oblivion.
Be that as it may, Montmorency, Conde, are names so woven in the web of history, that nothing can tear them out, and these were the lords of Chantilly. But amongst all that its roof has sheltered, no one, perhaps, is more worthy of notice than Louis the Thirteenth: the son of Henry the Fourth and Mary de Medicis, born to an inheritance of high talents and high fortune, with the inspiring incitement of a father’s glory, and the powerful support of a people’s love.
It is sad that circumstance—that stumbling block of great minds—that confounder of deep-laid schemes—that little, mighty, unseen controller of all man’s actions, should find pleasure in bending to its will, that which Nature originally seemed to place above its sway. Endued with all the qualities a throne requires, brave, wise, clear-sighted, and generous; with his mother’s talents and his father’s courage, the events of his early life quelled every effort of Louis’s mind, and left him but the slave of an ambitious minister! a monarch but in name! the shadow of a King! How it was so, matters not to this history—it is recorded on a more eloquent page. But at the time of my tale, the brighter part of life had passed away from King Louis; and now that it had fallen into the sear, he seemed to have given it up as unworthy a farther effort. He struggled not even for that appearance of Royal state which his proud Minister was unwilling to allow him; and, retired at Chantilly, passed his time in a thousand weak amusements, which but served to hurry by the moments of a void and weary existence.
It was at this time, that the first news of the Cardinal de Richelieu’s illness began to be noised abroad. His health had long been declining; but so feared was that redoubtable Minister, that though many remarked the increased hollowness of his dark eye, and the deepening lines upon his pale cheek, no one dared to whisper what many hoped—that the tyrant of both King and people was falling under the sway of a still stronger hand.
The morning was yet in its prime. The grey mist had hardly rolled away from the old towers and battlements of the Chateau of Chantilly, which, unlike the elegant building afterwards erected on the same spot, offered then little but strong fortified walls and turrets.—The heavy night-dew lay still sparkling upon the long grass in the avenues of the Park, when two gentlemen were observed walking near the Palace, turning up and down the alley, then called the Avenue de Luzarches, with that kind of sauntering pace which indicated their conversation to be of no very interesting description.
Perhaps, in all that vast variety of shapes which Nature has bestowed upon mankind, and in all those innate differences by which she has distinguished man’s soul, no two figures or two minds could have been found more opposite than those of the two men thus keeping a willing companionship—the Count de Fontrailles, and the Marquis de Cinq Mars, Grand Ecuyer, or, as it may be best translated, Master of the Horse.
Cinq Mars, though considerably above the common height of men, was formed in the most finished and elegant proportion, and possessed a native dignity of demeanour, which characterized even those wild gesticulations in which the excess of a bright and enthusiastic mind often led him to indulge.
On the other hand, Fontrailles, short in stature, and mean in appearance, was in countenance equally unprepossessing. He had but one redeeming feature, in the quick grey eye, that, with the clear keenness of its light, seemed to penetrate the deepest thoughts of those upon whom it was turned.
Such is the description that history yields of these two celebrated men; and I will own that my hankering after physiognomy has induced me to transcribe it here, inasmuch as the mind of each was like his person.
In the heart of Cinq Mars dwelt a proud nobility of spirit, which, however he might be carried away by the fiery passions of his nature, ever dignified his actions with something of great and generous. But the soul of Fontrailles, ambitious, yet mean, wanted all the wild ardour of his companion, but wanted also all his better qualities; possessing alone that clear, piercing discernment, which, more like instinct than judgment, showed him always the exact moment of danger, and pointed out the means of safety.
And yet, though not friends, they were often (as I have said) companions; for Cinq Mars was too noble to suspect, and Fontrailles too wary to be known—besides, in the present instance, he had a point to carry, and therefore was doubly disguised.
“You have heard the news, doubtless, Cinq Mars,” said Fontrailles, leading the way from the great Avenue de Luzarches into one of the smaller alleys, where they were less liable to be watched; for he well knew that the conversation he thus broached would lead to those wild starts and gestures in his companion, which might call upon them some suspicion, if observed. Cinq Mars made no reply, and he proceeded. “The Cardinal is ill!” and he fixed his eye upon the Master of the Horse, as if he would search his soul. But Cinq Mars still was silent, and, apparently deeply busied with other thoughts, continued beating the shrubs on each side of the path with his sheathed sword, without even a glance towards his companion. After a moment or two, however, he raised his head with an air of careless abstraction: “What a desert this place has become!” said he; “look how all these have grown up, between the trees. One might really be as well in a forest as a royal park now-a-days.”
“But you have made me no answer,” rejoined Fontrailles, returning perseveringly to the point on which his companion seemed unwilling to touch: “I said, the Cardinal is ill.”
“Well, well! I hear,” answered Cinq Mars, with a peevish start, like a restive horse forced forward on a road he is unwilling to take. “What is it you would have me say?—That I am sorry for it? Well, be it so—I am sorry for it—sorry that a trifling sickness, which will pass away in a moon, should give France hopes of that liberation, which is yet far off.”
“But, nevertheless, you would be sorry were this great man to die,” said Fontrailles, putting it half as a question, half as an undoubted proposition, and looking in the face of the Marquis, with an appearance of hesitating uncertainty.
Cinq Mars could contain himself no more. “What!” cried he vehemently, “sorry for the peace of the world!—sorry for the weal of my country!—sorry for the liberty of my King! Why, I tell thee, Fontrailles, should the Cardinal de Richelieu die, the people of France would join in pulling down the scaffolds and the gibbets, to make bonfires of them!”
“Who ever dreamed of hearing you say so?” said his companion. “All France agrees with you, no doubt; but we all thought that the Marquis de Cinq Mars either loved the Cardinal, or feared him, too much to see his crimes.”
“Fear him!” exclaimed Cinq Mars, the blood mounting to his cheek, as if the very name of fear wounded his sense of honour. He then paused, looked into his real feelings, shook his head mournfully, and after a moment’s interval of bitter silence added, “True! true! Who is there that does not fear him? Nevertheless, it is impossible to see one’s country bleeding for the merciless cruelty of one man, the prisons filled with the best and bravest of the land to quiet his suspicions, and the King held in worse bondage than a slave to gratify the daring ambition of this insatiate churchman, and not to wish that Heaven had sent it otherwise.”
“It is not Heaven’s fault, Sir,” replied Fontrailles; “it is our own, that we do suffer it. Had we one man in France who, with sufficient courage, talent, and influence, had the true spirit of a patriot, our unhappy country might soon be freed from the bondage under which she groans.”
“But where shall we find such a man?” asked the Master of the Horse, either really not understanding the aim of Fontrailles, or wishing to force him to a clearer explanation of his purpose. “Such an undertaking as you hint at,” he continued, “must be well considered, and well supported, to have any effect. It must be strengthened by wit—by courage—and by illustrious names.—It must have the power of wealth, and the power of reputation.—It must be the rousing of the lion with all his force, to shake off the toils by which he is encompassed.”
“But still there must be some one to rouse him,” said Fontrailles, fixing his eyes on Cinq Mars with a peculiar expression, as if to denote that he was the man alluded to. “Suppose this were France,” he proceeded, unbuckling his sword from the belt, and drawing a few lines on the ground with the point of the sheath: “show me a province or a circle that will not rise at an hour’s notice to cast off the yoke of this hated Cardinal. Here is Normandy, almost in a state of revolt;—here is Guienne, little better;—here is Sedan, our own;—here are the Mountains of Auvergne, filled with those whom his tyranny has driven into their solitude for protection; and here is Paris and its insulted Parliament, waiting but for opportunity.”
“And here,” said Cinq Mars, with a melancholy smile, following the example of his companion, and pointing out with his sword, as if on a map, the supposed situations of the various places to which he referred—“And here is Peronne, and Rouen, and Havre, and Lyons, and Tours, and Brest, and Bordeaux, and every town or fortress in France, filled with his troops and governed by his creatures; and here is Flanders, with Chaunes and Mielleray, and fifteen thousand men, at his disposal; and here is Italy, with Bouillon, and as many more, ready to march at his command!”
“But suppose I could show,” said Fontrailles, laying his hand on his companion’s arm, and detaining him as he was about to walk on—“but suppose I could show, that Mielleray would not march,—that Bouillon would declare for us,—that England would aid us with money, and Spain would put five thousand men at our command,—that the King’s own brother—”
Cinq Mars waved his hand: “No! no! no!” said he, in a firm, bitter tone: “Gaston of Orleans has led too many to the scaffold already. The weak, wavering Duke is ever the executioner of his friends. Remember poor Montmorency!”
“Let me proceed,” said Fontrailles; “hear me to an end, and then judge. I say, suppose that the King’s own brother should give us his name and influence, and the King himself should yield us his consent.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Cinq Mars, pausing abruptly.—The idea of gaining the King had never occurred to him; and now it came like a ray of sunshine through a cloud, brightening the prospect which had been before in shadow. “Think you the King would consent?”
“Assuredly!” replied his companion. “Does he not hate the Cardinal as much as any one? Does not his blood boil under the bonds he cannot break? And would he not bless the man who gave him freedom? Think, Cinq Mars!” he continued, endeavouring to throw much energy into his manner, for he knew that the ardent mind of his companion wanted but the spark of enthusiasm to inflame—“think, what a glorious object! to free alike the people and their sovereign, and to rescue the many victims even now destined to prove the tyrant’s cruelty!—Think, think of the glorious reward, the thanks of a King, the gratitude of a nation, and the blessings of thousands saved from dungeons and from death!”
It worked as he could have wished. The enthusiasm of his words had their full effect on the mind of his companion. As the other went on, the eye of Cinq Mars lightened with all the wild ardour of his nature; and striking his hand upon the hilt of his sword, as if longing to draw it in the inspiring cause of his Country’s liberty, “Glorious indeed!” he exclaimed,—“glorious indeed!”
But immediately after, fixing his glance upon the ground, he fell into meditation of the many circumstances of the times; and as his mind’s eye ran over the difficulties and dangers which surrounded the enterprise, the enthusiasm which had beamed in his eye, like the last flash of an expiring fire, died away, and he replied with a sigh, “What you have described, Sir, is indeed a glorious form—But it is dead—it wants a soul. The King, though every thing great and noble, has been too long governed now to act for himself. The Duke of Orleans is weak and undecided as a child. Bouillon is far away—”
“And where is Cinq Mars?” demanded Fontrailles,—“where is the man whom the King really loves? If Cinq Mars has forgot his own powers, so has not France; and she now tells him—though by so weak a voice as mine—that he is destined to be the soul of this great body to animate this goodly frame, to lead this conspiracy, if that can be so called which has a King at its head, and Princes for its support.”
In these peaceable days, when we are taught to pray against privy conspiracy, both as a crime and misfortune, the very name is startling to all orthodox ears; but at the time I speak of, it had no such effect. Indeed, from the commencement of the wars between Henri Quatre and the League, little else had existed but a succession of conspiracies, which one after another had involved every distinguished person in the country, and brought more than one noble head to the block. Men’s minds had become so accustomed to the sound, that the explosion of a new plot scarcely furnished matter for a day’s wonder, as the burghers of a besieged city at length hardly hear the roaring of the cannon against their walls; and so common had become the name of conspirator, that there were very few men in the realm who had not acquired a just title to such an appellation.
The word “conspiracy,” therefore, carried nothing harsh or disagreeable to the mind of Cinq Mars. What Fontrailles proposed to him, bore a plausible aspect. It appeared likely to succeed; and, if it did so, offered him that reward for which, of all others, his heart beat—Glory! But there was one point on which he paused: “You forget,” said he,—“you forget that I owe all to Richelieu,—you forget that, however he may have wronged this country, he has not wronged me; and though I may wish that such a being did not exist, it is not for me to injure him.”
“True, most true!” replied his wily companion, who knew that the appearance of frank sincerity would win more from Cinq Mars than aught else: “if he has done as you say, be still his friend. Forget your country in your gratitude—though in the days of ancient virtue patriotism was held paramount. We must not hope for such things now—so no more of that. But if I can show that this proud Minister has never served you; if I can prove that every honour which of late has fallen upon you, far from being a bounty of the Cardinal, has proceeded solely from the favour of the King, and has been wrung from the hard Churchman as a mere concession to the Monarch’s whim; if it can be made clear that the Marquis Cinq Mars would now have been a Duke and Constable of France, had not his kind friend the Cardinal whispered he was unfit for such an office:—then will you have no longer the excuse of friendship, and your Country’s call must and shall be heard.”
“I can scarce credit your words, Fontrailles,” replied Cinq Mars. “You speak boldly,—but do you speak truly?”
“Most truly, on my life!” replied Fontrailles. “Think you, Cinq Mars, if I did not well know that I could prove each word I have said, that thus I would have placed my most hidden thoughts in the power of a man who avows himself the friend of Richelieu?”
“Prove to me,—but prove to me, that I am not bound to him in gratitude,” cried Cinq Mars vehemently,—“take from me the bonds by which he has chained my honour, and I will hurl him from his height of power, or die in the attempt.”
“Hush!” exclaimed Fontrailles, laying his finger on his lip as they turned into another alley, “we are no longer alone. Govern yourself, Cinq Mars, and I will prove every tittle of what I have advanced ere we be two hours older.”
This was uttered in a low tone of voice; for there was indeed another group in the same avenue with themselves. The party, which was rapidly approaching, consisted of three persons, of whom one was a step in advance, and, though in no degree superior to the others in point of dress, was distinguished from them by that indescribable something which constitutes the idea of dignity. He was habited in a plain suit of black silk with buttons of jet, and every part of his dress, even to the sheath and hilt of his couteau de chasse, corresponding. On his right hand he wore a thick glove, of the particular kind generally used by the sportsmen of the period, but more particularly by those who employed themselves in the then fashionable sport of bird-catching; and the nets and snares of various kinds carried by the other two, seemed to evince that such had been the morning’s amusement of the whole party.
The King, for such was the person who approached, was rather above the middle height, and of a spare habit. His complexion was very pale; and his hair, which had one time been of the richest brown, was now mingled throughout with grey. But still there was much to interest, both in his figure and countenance. There was a certain air of easy self-possession in all his movements; and even when occupied with the most trivial employment, which was often the case, there was still a degree of dignity in his manner, that seemed to show his innate feeling of their emptiness, and his own consciousness of how inferior they were, both to his situation and his talents. His features at all times appeared handsome, but more especially when any sudden excitement called up the latent animation of his dark-brown eye, recalling to the minds of those who remembered the days gone before, that young and fiery Prince who could not brook the usurped sway even of his own highly talented mother, but who had now become the slave of her slave. The consciousness of his fallen situation, and of his inability to call up sufficient energy of mind to disengage himself, generally cast upon him an appearance of profound sadness: occasionally, however, flashes of angry irritability would break across the cloud of melancholy which hung over him, and show the full expression of his countenance, which at other times displayed nothing but the traces of deep and bitter thought, or a momentary sparkle of weak, unthinking merriment. So frequent, however, were the changes to be observed in the depressed Monarch, that some persons even doubted whether they were not assumed to cover deeper intentions. It might be so, or it might not; but at all events, between the intervals of these natural or acquired appearances, would often shine out strong gleams of his mother’s unyielding spirit, or his father’s generous heart.
The rapid pace with which he always proceeded, soon brought the King close to Cinq Mars and Fontrailles. “Good-morrow, Monsieur de Fontrailles,” said he, as the Count bowed low at his approach. “Do not remain uncovered. ’Tis a fine day for forest sports, but not for bare heads; though I have heard say, that if you were in the thickest mist of all Holland, you would see your way through it.—What! mon Grand Ecuyer,” he continued, turning to Cinq Mars; “as sad as if thou hadst been plotting, and wert dreaming even now of the block and axe?” And with a kind and familiar air, he laid his hand upon his favourite’s arm: who on his part started, as if the Monarch had read his thoughts and foretold his doom.
A single word has sometimes lost or won an empire. Even less than a single word, if we may believe the history of Darius’s horse, who, being a less loquacious animal than Balaam’s ass, served his master without speaking. However, Fontrailles fixed his eye on Cinq Mars, and seeing plainly the effect of Louis’s speech, he hastened to wipe it away. “To calculate petty dangers in a great undertaking,” said he, “were as weak as to think over all the falls one may meet with in the chase, before we get on horseback.”
Both Cinq Mars and the King were passionately fond of the noble forest sport, so that the simile of Fontrailles went directly home, more especially to the King, who, following the idea thus called up, made a personal application of it to him who introduced it. “Jesu, that were folly indeed!” he exclaimed, in answer to the Count’s observation. “But you are not fond of the chase either, Monsieur de Fontrailles, if I think right; I never saw you follow boar or stag, that I can call to mind.”
“More my misfortune than my fault, Sire,” replied Fontrailles. “Had I ever been favoured with an invitation to follow the royal hounds, your Majesty would have found me as keen of the sport as even St. Hubert is said to have been of yore.”
“Blessed be his memory!” cried the King. “But we will hunt to-day; we will see you ride, Monsieur de Fontrailles. What say you, Cinq Mars? The parties who went out to turn a stag last night (I remember now) presented this morning, that in the bosquet at the end of the forest, near Argenin, is quartered a fat stag of ten, and another by Boisjardin; but that by Argenin will be the best, for he has but one refuite by the long alley.—Come, gentlemen, seek your boots,—seek your boots; and as our Grand Veneur is not at Chantilly, you, Cinq Mars, shall superintend the chase. Order the Maitre valet de chiens to assemble the old pack and the relais at the Carrefour d’Argenin, and then we will quickly to horse.” So saying, he turned away to prepare for his favourite sport; but scarcely had gone many paces ere he slackened his pace, and allowed the two gentlemen to rejoin him. “What think you, friend?” said he, addressing Cinq Mars; “they tell me, the Cardinal is sick. Have you heard of it?”
“I have heard a vague report of the kind,” replied Cinq Mars, watching his master’s countenance, “but as yet nothing certain. May I crave what information your Majesty possesses?”
“Why, he is sick, very sick,” replied Louis, “and perchance may die. May his soul find mercy! Perchance he may die, and then—” And the King fell into deep thought.
It is possible that at that moment his mind was engaged in calculating all that such an event as the death of Richelieu would produce; for, gradually, as if he dreamed of ruling for himself, and as hope spread out before him many a future year of power and greatness, his air became more dignified, his eye flashed with its long repressed fire, and his step acquired a new degree of firmness and majesty.
Fontrailles watched the alteration of the King’s countenance, and, skilful at reading the mind’s workings by the face, he added, as if finishing the sentence which Louis had left unconcluded,—but taking care to blend what he said with an air of raillery towards the Master of the Horse, lest he should offend the irritable Monarch—“And then,” said he, “Cinq Mars shall be a Duke. Is it not so, Sire?”
Louis started. His thoughts had been engaged in far greater schemes; and yet rewarding his friends and favourites, always formed a great part of the pleasure he anticipated in power, and he replied, without anger, “Most likely it will be so—Indeed,” he added, “had my wishes, as a man, been followed,”—and he turned kindly towards the Master of the Horse,—”it should have been so long ago, Cinq Mars. But Kings, you know, are obliged to yield their private inclinations to what the State requires.”
Fontrailles glanced his eye towards the Grand Ecuyer, as if desiring him to remark the King’s words. Cinq Mars bent his head, in token that he comprehended, and replied to the King: “I understand your Majesty; but, believe me, Sire, no honour or distinction could more bind Cinq Mars to his King, than duty, gratitude, and affection do at this moment.”
“I believe thee, friend,—I believe thee, from my soul,” said Louis. “God forgive us that we should desire the death of any man! and surely do not I that of the Cardinal, for he is a good Minister, and a man of powerful mind. But, withal, we may wish that he was more gentle and forgiving. Nevertheless, he is a great man. See how he thwarts and rules half the Kings in Europe—See how he presses the Emperor, and our good brother-in-law, Philip of Spain; while the great Gustavus, this northern hero, is little better than his general.”
“He is assuredly a great man, Sire,” replied Cinq Mars. “But permit me to remark, that a great bad man is worse than one of less talents, for he has the extended capability of doing harm; and perhaps, Sire, if this Minister contented himself with thwarting Kings abroad, he would do better than by opposing the will of his own Sovereign at home.”
The time, however, was not yet come for Louis to make even an attempt toward liberating himself from the trammels to which he had been so long accustomed. Habit in this had far more power over his mind than even the vast and aspiring talents of Richelieu. No man in France, perhaps, more contemned or hated the Cardinal than the royal slave whom he had so long subjugated to his burdensome sway. Yet Louis, amidst all his dreams for the future, looked with dread upon losing the support of a man whom he detested, but upon whose counsels and abilities he had been accustomed to rely with confidence and security.
Cinq Mars saw plainly the state of his master’s mind; and as he entered the Palace, he again began to doubt whether he should at all lend himself to the bold and dangerous measures which Fontrailles had suggested.
In which is shown how a great King hunted a great beast, and what came of the hunting.
WHILE the King’s mind, as he returned to the Chateau de Chantilly, was agitated by vague hopes and fears, which, like the forms that we trace in the clouds, rolled into a thousand strange and almost palpable shapes before his mind’s eye, and yet were but a vapour after all; and while the thoughts of Cinq Mars ran over all the difficulties and dangers of the future prospect, reverted to the obligations Richelieu had once conferred upon him, or scanned the faults and crimes of the Minister, till the struggle of patriotism and gratitude left nothing but doubt behind: the imagination of Fontrailles was very differently occupied. It was not that he pondered the means of engaging more firmly the wavering mind of Cinq Mars. No, for he had marked him for his own; and, from that morning’s conversation, felt as sure of his companion as the ant-lion does of the insect he sees tremble on the edge of his pit. Neither did he revolve the probable issue of the dangerous schemes in which he was engaging both himself and others; for he was confident in his powers of disentangling himself, when it should become necessary to his own safety so to do, and he was not a man to distress himself for the danger of his friends. The occupation of his mind as they approached the Castle, was of a more personal nature. The truth is, that so far from discomposing himself upon the score of distant evils, the sole trouble of his thoughts was the hunting-party into which he had entrapped himself. Being by no means a good horseman, and caring not one sous for a pastime which involved far too much trouble and risk to accord in any degree with his idea of pleasure, Fontrailles had professed himself fond of hunting, merely to please the King, without ever dreaming that he should be called upon to give farther proof of his veneration for the Royal sport.
He saw plainly, however, that his case admitted of no remedy. Go he must; and, having enough philosophy in his nature to meet inevitable evils with an unshrinking mind, he prepared to encounter all the horrors of the chase, as if they were his principal delight.
He accordingly got into his boots with as much alacrity as their nature permitted, for, each weighing fully eight pounds, they were somewhat ponderous and unmanageable. He then hastily loaded his pistols, stuck his couteau de chasse in his belt, and throwing the feather from his hat, was the first ready to mount in the court-yard.
“Why, how is this, Monsieur de Fontrailles?” said the King, who in a few minutes joined him in the area where the horses were assembled. “The first at your post! You are, indeed, keen for the sport. Some one, see for Cinq Mars.—Oh! here he comes: Mount, gentlemen, mount! Our Ordinaries of the chase, and Lieutenants, await us at the Carrefour d’Argenin,—Mount, gentlemen, mount! Ha! have you calculated your falls for to-day, Monsieur de Fontrailles, as you spoke of this morning?” And the King’s eyes glistened with almost childish eagerness for his favourite pastime.
In the mean while, Cinq Mars had approached with a slow step and a gloomy countenance, showing none of the alacrity of Fontrailles, or the enthusiastic ardour of the King. “There are other dangers than falls to be met with in chase, my liege,” said the Master of the Horse, with a bitter expression of displeasure in his manner; “and that Claude de Blenau could inform your Majesty.”
“I know not what you mean, Cinq Mars,” answered the King. “De Blenau is a gallant cavalier; as staunch to his game as a beagle of the best; and though he shows more service to our Queen than to ourself, he is no less valued for that.”
“He is one cavalier out of ten thousand—“ replied Cinq Mars, warmly: “my dearest companion and friend; and whilst Cinq Mars has a sword to wield, De Blenau shall never want one to second his quarrel.”
“Why, what ails thee, Cinq Mars?” demanded the King with some surprise. “Thou art angry,—what is it now?”
“It is, Sire,” replied the Master of the Horse, “that I have just had a courier from St. Germain, who bears me word, that, three days since past, the Count, as your Majesty and I have often done, was hunting in the neighbourhood of Mantes, and was there most treacherously attacked by an armed band, in which adventure he suffered two wounds that nearly drained his good heart of blood. Shall this be tolerated, Sire?”
“No, indeed! no, indeed!” replied the King with much warmth. “This shall be looked to. Our kingdom must not be overrun with robbers and brigands.”
“Robbers!” exclaimed Cinq Mars, indignantly. “I know not—they may have been robbers; but my letters say, that one of them wore colours of Isabel and silver.”
“Those are the colours of Chavigni’s livery,” replied the King, who knew the most minute difference in the bearing of every family in the kingdom, with wonderful precision. “This must be looked to, and it shall, or I am not deserving of my name. But now mount, gentlemen, mount! we are waited for at the rendezvous.”
The Carrefour d’Argenin, at which the King and his attendants soon arrived, was a large open space in the forest, where four roads crossed. Each of these, but one, cut into a long straight avenue through the wood, opened a view of the country beyond, forming a separate landscape, as it were, framed, or to use the French term, encadré, by the surrounding trees. The sun had not yet risen sufficiently to shine upon any of these forest roads; but the sweeping hills and dales beyond, were to be seen through the apertures, richly lighted up by the clear beams of the morning; though occasionally a soft wreath of mist, lingering in the bosom of some of the hollows, would roll a transient shadow over the prospect. Louis had chosen this spot for the rendezvous, perhaps as much on account of its picturesque beauty, as for any other reason. Deprived, as he was, of courtly splendour and observance, his mind, unperverted by the giddy show and tinsel pomp that generally surrounds a royal station, regarded with a degree of enthusiasm the real loveliness of Nature; and now it was some time before even the preparations for his favourite sport could call his attention from the picturesque beauty of the spot.
The policy of Richelieu, which had led him to deprive the King of many of the external marks of sovereignty, as well as of the real power, taught him also to encourage all those sports which might at once occupy Louis’s mind, and place him at a distance from the scene of government. Thus, the hunting equipage of the King was maintained in almost more than royal luxury.
The first objects that presented themselves, in the Carrefour d’Argenin, were a multitude of dogs and horses, grouped together with the lieutenants of the forest, and the various officers of the hunt, under those trees which would best afford them shade as the sun got up. Various piqueurs and valets were seen about the ground, some holding the horses, some laying out the table for the royal dejeûné, and some busily engaged in cutting long straight wands from the more pliable sort of trees, and peeling off the bark for a certain distance, so as to leave a sort of handle or hilt still covered, while the rest of the stick, about three feet in length, remained bare. These, called “batons de chasse,” were first presented to the King, who, having chosen one, directed the rest to be distributed among his friends and attendants, for the purpose of guarding their heads from the boughs, which in the rapidity of the chase, while it continued in the forest, often inflicted serious injuries.
The Maître valet de chiens, and his ordinaries, each armed with a portentous-looking horn, through the circles of which were passed a variety of dog couples, were busily occupied in distributing the hounds into their different relays, and the grooms and other attendants were seen trying the girths of the heavy hunting saddles, loading the pistols, or placing them in the holsters, and endeavouring to distinguish themselves fully as much by their bustle as by their activity.
However, it was an animated scene, and those who saw it could not wonder that Louis preferred the gay excitement of such sports, to the sombre monotony of a palace without a court, and royalty without its splendour.
After examining the preparations with a critical eye, and inquiring into the height, age, size, and other distinctive signs of the stag which was to be hunted, Louis placed himself at the breakfast-table which had been prepared in the midst of the green, and motioning Cinq Mars and Fontrailles to be seated, entered into a lively discussion concerning the proper spots for placing the relays of horses and dogs. At length it was determined that six hounds and four hunters should be stationed at about two leagues and a half on the high road; that twelve dogs and four piqueurs, with an ordinary of the chase, should take up a position upon the side of a hill under which the stag was likely to pass; and that another relay should remain at a spot called Le Croix de bois, within sight of which the hunt would be obliged to come, if the animal, avoiding the open country, made for the other extremity of the forest.
It fell upon Cinq Mars to communicate these directions to the officers of the hunt, which he did in that sort of jargon, which the sports of the field had made common in those days, but which would now be hardly intelligible. He was engaged in giving general orders, that the horses should be kept in the shade and ready to be mounted at a moment’s notice, in case the King, or any of his suite should require them, and that the ordinary should by no means let slip any of the dogs of the relay upon the stag, even if it passed his station, without especial orders from the piqueurs of the principal hunt—when suddenly he stopped, and pointing with his hand, a man was discovered standing in one of the avenues, apparently watching the Royal party.
The circumstance would have passed without notice, had it not been for the extraordinary stature of the intruder, who appeared fully as tall as Cinq Mars himself. Attention was farther excited by his disappearing as soon as he was observed; and some grooms were sent to bring him before the King, but their search was in vain, and the matter was soon forgotten.
The minute relation of a Royal hunt in France, anno 1642, would afford very little general interest. Enough has been said to show how different were the proceedings of that time from our method of conducting such things in the present day; and those who want farther information on the subject may find it in a very erudite treatise, “De la Chasse, &c.” by Le Mercier, in the year fifty-six of the same century. We must, however, in a more general manner, follow the King over the field, though without attempting to describe all the minute occurrences of the day, or the particulars of etiquette usual on such occasions.
The stag, poor silly beast, who had been dozing away his time in a thicket at about half a mile distance, was soon roused by the very unwished appearance of the huntsmen, and taking his path down the principal avenue, bounded away towards the open country, calculating, more wisely than the beast recorded by our old friend Æsop, that the boughs might encumber his head gear. The horns sounded loud, the couples were unloosed, the dogs slipped, and away went man and beast in the pursuit. For a moment or two, the forest was filled with clang, and cry, and tumult:—as the hunt swept away, it grew fainter and fainter, till the sound, almost lost in the indistinct distance, left the deep glades of the wood to resume their original silence.
They did not, however, long appear solitary, for in a few minutes after the hunt had quitted the forest, the same tall figure, whose apparition had interrupted Cinq Mars in his oratory concerning the relays, emerged from one of the narrower paths, leading a strong black horse, whose trappings were thickly covered with a variety of different figures in brass, representing the signs of the zodiac, together with sundry triangles, crescents, and other shapes, such as formed part of the astrological quackery of that day. The appearance of the master was not less singular in point of dress than that of the horse. He wore a long black robe, somewhat in the shape of that borne by the order of Black Friars, but sprinkled with silver signs. This, which made him look truly gigantic, was bound round his waist by a broad girdle of white leather, traced all over with strange characters, that might have been called hieroglyphics, had they signified any thing; but which were, probably, as unmeaning as the science they were intended to dignify.
To say the truth, the wearer did not seem particularly at his ease in his habiliments; for when, after having looked cautiously around, he attempted to mount his horse, the long drapery of his gown got entangled round his feet at every effort, and it was not till he had vented several very ungodly execrations, and effected a long rent in the back of his robe, that he accomplished the ascent into the saddle. Once there, however, the dexterity of his horsemanship, and his bearing altogether, made him appear much more like the captain of a band of heavy cavalry than an astrologer, notwithstanding the long snowy beard which hung down to his girdle, and the profusion of white locks that, escaping from his fur cap, floated wildly over his face, and concealed the greater part of its features.
The horseman paused for a moment, seemingly immersed in thought, while his horse, being a less considerate beast than himself, kept pawing the ground, eager to set off. “Let me see,” said the horseman; “the stag will soon be turned on the high road by the carriers for Clermont, and must come round under the hill, and then I would take the world to a chapon de Maine, that that fool Andrieu lets slip his relay, and drives the beast to water. If so, I have them at the Croix de bois. At all events, one must try.” And thus speaking, he struck his horse hard with a thick kind of truncheon he held in his hand, and soon was out of the forest.
In the mean while the King and his suite followed close upon the hounds; the Monarch and Cinq Mars, animated by the love of the chase, and Fontrailles risking to break his neck rather than be behind. The road for some way was perfectly unobstructed, and as long as it remained so, the stag followed it without deviation; but at length a train of carriers’ waggons appeared, wending their way towards Clermont. The jingling of the bells on the yokes of the oxen, and the flaunting of the red and white ribbons on their horns, instantly startled the stag, who, stopping short in his flight, stood at gaze for a moment, and then darting across the country, entered a narrow track of that unproductive sandy kind of soil, called in France landes, which bordered the forest. It so happened,—unfortunately, I was going to say, but doubtless the stag thought otherwise—that a large herd of his horned kindred were lying out in this very track, enjoying the morning sunshine, and regaling themselves upon the first fruits that fell from some chesnut-trees, which in that place skirted the forest.
Now the stag, remembering an old saying, which signalizes the solace of “company in distress,” proceeded straight into the midst of the herd; who being fat burghers of the wood, and like many other fat burghers somewhat selfish withal, far from compassionating his case, received him with scanty courtesy, and, in short, wished him at the devil. However, no time was to be lost; the dogs were close upon his steps; “sauve qui peut!” was the word among the stags, and away they all went, flying in every direction.
The hunters had as little cause to be pleased with this manœuvre as the stags; for the hounds being young, were deceived by a strong family likeness between one of the herd and the one they had so long followed, and all of the dogs but four, yielding up the real object of pursuit, gave chase to the strange stag, who, darting off to the left, took his way towards the river. Cinq Mars and most of the piqueurs, misled by seeing the young hounds have so great a majority, followed also. It was in vain the King called to him to come back, that he was hunting the wrong beast, and was as great a fool as a young hound; he neither heeded nor heard, and soon was out of sight.
“Sa christi!” cried Louis, “there they go, just like the world, quitting the true pursuit to follow the first fool that runs, and priding themselves on being in the right, when they are most in error; but come, Monsieur de Fontrailles, we will follow the true stag of the hunt.”
But Fontrailles too was gone. The separation of the hounds had afforded an opportunity of quitting the sport not to be neglected, and he had slunk away towards the Palace by the nearest road, which, leading through a narrow dell, skirted the side of the hill opposite to that over which the King’s stag had taken his course. However, he still heard from time to time the dogs give tongue, and the hunting cry of the King; who, without considering that no one followed, gave the exact number of mots on his horn, followed by the haloo, and the “Il dit vrai! il dit vrai!” which the piqueurs ordinarily give out, to announce that the dog who cried was upon the right scent. Still Fontrailles pursued his way, when suddenly he perceived the stag, who, having distanced the King, was brought to bay under the bank over which his road lay.
At that season of the year, the stag is peculiarly dangerous, but Fontrailles did not want personal courage, and, dismounting from his horse, he sprang to the bottom of the bank; where, drawing his couteau de chasse, he prepared to run in upon the beast; but remembering at the moment that the King could not be far distant, he paused, and waiting till Louis came up, held the stirrup and offered his weapon to the Monarch, who instantly running in, presented the knife with all the dexterity of an experienced sportsman, and in a moment laid the stag dead at his feet.
It was now the task of Fontrailles to keep off the hounds, while the King, anxious to have all the honours of the day to himself, began what is called in France the “section” and “curée aux chiens” without waiting for piqueurs or ordinaries. Nevertheless, he had only time to make the longitudinal division of the skin, and one of the transverse sections from the breast to the knee, when the sound of a horse’s feet made him raise his head from his somewhat unkingly occupation, thinking that some of the other hunters must be now come up.
“Que Diable!” cried the King, viewing the strange figure of the Astrologer we have already noticed in this profound chapter. “Je veux dire, Vive Dieu! What do you want? and who are you?”
“A friend to the son of Henri Quatre,” replied the stranger, advancing his horse closer to the King, who stood gazing on him with no small degree of awe—for be it remembered, that the superstitious belief in all sorts of necromancy was at its height both in England and France.
“A friend to the son of Henri Quatre! and one who comes to warn him of near-approaching dangers.”
“What are they, friend?” demanded the King, with a look of credulous surprise: “Let me know whence they arise and how they may be avoided, and your reward is sure.”
“I seek no reward,” replied the stranger, scornfully. “Can all the gold of France change the star of my destiny? No! Monarch, I come uncalled, and I will go unrewarded. The planets are still doubtful over your house, and therefore I forewarn you ere it be too late—A Spaniard is seeking your overthrow, and a woman is plotting your ruin—A Prince is scheming your destruction, and a Queen is betraying your trust.
“How!” exclaimed Louis. “Am I to believe—”
“Ask me no questions,” cried the stranger, who heard the trampling of horses’ feet approaching the scene of conference. “In this roll is written the word of fate. Read it, O King! and timely guard against the evil that menaces.” So saying, he threw a scroll of parchment before the King, and spurred on his horse to depart; but at that moment, the figure of Cinq Mars, who by this time had run down the stag he had followed, presented itself in his way, “What mumming is this?” cried the Master of the Horse, regarding the stranger.
“Stop him! Cinq Mars,” cried Fontrailles, who foresaw that the stranger’s predictions might derange all his schemes. “He is an impostor: do not let him pass!” And at the same time he laid his hand upon the Astrologer’s bridle. But in a moment, the stranger spurring on his charger, overturned Fontrailles, shivered the hunting sword, which Cinq Mars had drawn against him, to atoms with one blow of his truncheon, and scattering the grooms and huntsmen like a flock of sheep, was soon out of reach of pursuit.
“What means all this?” exclaimed Cinq Mars;—“explain Fontrailles! Sire, shall we follow yon impostor?”
But Louis’s eyes were fixed with a strained gaze upon the scroll, which he held in his hand, and which seemed to absorb every faculty of his soul. At length he raised them, mounted his horse in silence, and still holding the parchment tight in his hand, rode on, exclaiming, “To Chantilly.”