Chavigni gazed at the paper in amazement, and then at the face of Monsieur Callot, who, totally unconscious of the contents, remained very nonchalantly expecting the reward. “Ten thousand crowns!” cried the Statesman, giving way to his passion. “Ho! without there! take this fellow out and flog him with your hunting whips out of Narbonne. Away with him, and curry him well!”
The grooms instantly seized upon poor Callot, and executed Chavigni’s commands with high glee. The robber, however, though somewhat surprised, bore his flagellation very patiently; for under the jerkin which he wore, still lay the rusty iron corslet we have before described, which saved him from appreciating the blows at their full value.
The matter, however, was yet to be remembered, as we shall see; for when Callot, on his return to the forest, informed his captain what sort of reward he had received for the packet, the Norman’s gigantic limbs seemed to swell to a still greater size with passion, and drawing his sword he put the blade to his lips, swearing, that before twelve months were over, it should drink Chavigni’s blood: and promises of such sort he usually kept most punctually.
Wherein De Blenau finds out that he has made a mistake, and what follows.
HAVING now conducted our truly-begotten friend, the Sieur Marteville, considerably in advance of the rest of the characters in this true history, it becomes us to show our impartiality by detailing the principal actions of our other personages, and also to display the causes which brought the noble Count de Chavigni to such a distance as Narbonne, a little town in the southern nook of Languedoc, not above a few leagues from Perpignan. However, as all these circumstances are naturally explained in the history of the Count de Blenau, we may as well follow him on the useless pursuit into which he had been led by the precipitancy of Monsieur Henry de La Mothe, his page, who would have saved his master a great deal of trouble and distress, as we all know, if he had thought fit to see the Marquise de Beaumont; but young hounds will often cry upon a wrong scent, and mislead those who should know better.
Thus it happened in the present instance; and De Blenau, blinded by anxiety for Pauline, took the suspicions of his Page for granted, without examination. He knew that Chavigni scrupled not at any measures which might serve a political purpose; he knew that the Norman was in the immediate employment of the Statesman, and was still less delicate in his notions than his master; and he doubted not that Pauline, having been discovered issuing from the Bastille, had been carried off without ceremony, and sent from Paris under the custody of the ci-devant robber. At all events, De Blenau, as he rode along, composed a very plausible chain of reasoning upon the subject; and far from supposing that the Norman would avoid the wood in the neighbourhood of Mesnil, he concluded, from his knowledge of Marteville’s former habits, that a forest filled with robbers would fulfil all his anticipations of Paradise, and be too strong an attraction to be resisted.
Thus cogitating, he rode on to Decize, and thence to Corbigny, where day once more broke upon his path; and having been obliged to allow the horses a few hours’ rest, he tried in vain for some repose himself. Auxerre was his next halt, but here only granting his domestics one hour to refresh, he passed the Yonne, and soon after entered Champagne, which traversing without stopping, except for a few minutes at Bar sur Seine, he reached Troyes before midnight, with man and horse too wearied to begin their search before the following morning.
It unluckily so happened that De Blenau did not alight at the hotel of the Grand Soleil, where he might have gained such information as would in all probability have prevented his farther proceedings; and as the keeper of the auberge where he stopped, was at open war with the landlord of the Grand Soleil, to all the inquiries which were made the next morning, the only reply the aubergiste thought fit to give was, that “indeed he could not tell; he had never seen such a person as De Blenau described the Norman to be, or such a lady as Pauline;”—though, be it remarked, every body in the house, after having gazed at Marteville and Louise for a full hour on their arrival, had watched their motions every day, and had wondered themselves stiff at who they could be and what they could want. At length, however, De Blenau caught hold of an unsophisticated hostler, of whom he asked if within the last ten days he had seen a carriage stop or pass through the town containing two such persons as he described.
The hostler replied, “No; that they seldom saw carriages there; that a tall gentleman, like the one he mentioned, had ridden out of the town just two days before with a lady on horseback; but Devil a carriage had there been in Troyes for six years or more, except that of Monseigneur the Governor.”
De Blenau, glad of the least intimation where news seemed so scanty, now described the Norman as particularly as he could from what he had seen of him while speaking to Chavigni in the Park of St. Germain’s, dwelling upon his gigantic proportions, and the remarkable cut upon his cheek.
“Yes, yes!” replied the hostler, “that was the man; I saw him ride out with a jolie demoiselle on the road to Mesnil St. Loup; but Devil a carriage has there been in Troyes for six years or more, except that of Monseigneur the Governor.”
“Well, well,” replied De Blenau, wishing if possible to hear more, “perhaps they might not be in a carriage. But can you tell me where they lodged while in the city of Troyes?”
Even the obtuse faculties of the hostler had been drilled into knowing nothing of any other auberge in the town but his own. “Can’t tell,” replied he. “Saw him and the lady ride out on horseback; but Devil a carriage has there been in Troyes for six years or more, except that of Monseigneur the Governor.”
It may have been remarked, that a certain degree of impatience and hastiness of determination was one of the prevailing faults of De Blenau’s disposition; and in this case, without waiting for farther examination, he set out in pursuit of the Norman as soon as his horses were ready, merely inquiring if there was any castle in the neighbourhood of Mesnil which might serve for the confinement of State prisoners.
The landlord, to whom the question was addressed, immediately determined in his own mind, that De Blenau was an agent of the Government; and replied, “None, that he knew of, but the old Chateau of St. Loup; but that Monseigneur had better have it repaired before he confined any one there, for it was so ruinous they would get out, to a certainty, if they were placed there in its present state.”
De Blenau smiled at the mistake, but prepossessed with the idea that the Norman was carrying Pauline to some place of secret imprisonment, he determined at once to proceed to the spot the aubergiste mentioned, and to traverse the wood from the high road to Troyes, as the most likely route on which to encounter the Norman, against whom he vowed the most summary vengeance, if fortune should afford him the opportunity.
As, from every report upon the subject, the forest had been for some time past the resort of banditti, De Blenau gave orders to his servants to hold themselves upon their guard, and took the precaution of throwing forward two of his shrewdest followers, as a sort of reconnoitring party, to give him intelligence of the least noise which could indicate the presence of any human being besides themselves. But all these measures seemed to be unnecessary; not a sound met the ear; and De Blenau’s party soon began to catch glimpses of the old Chateau of St. Loup, through the breaks in the wood; and gradually winding round towards the east, gained the slope which gave them a clear view of the whole building.
The whole appearance of the place was so desolate and dilapidated, that the first glance convinced De Blenau that Chavigni would never dream of confining Pauline within such ruinous walls; as the mere consideration of her rank would prevent him from using any unnecessary severity, though her successful attempt to penetrate into the Bastille afforded a plausible excuse for removing her from Paris. However, in order not to leave the least doubt upon the subject, he mounted to the court-yard, and having ascertained that every part of the building was equally unfit for the purposes of a prison, and that it was actually uninhabited except by owls and ravens, he determined to cross to a town, the spire of whose church he saw rising on the opposite hill, and to pursue his search in some other direction.
Descending, therefore, by the same slope which he had previously mounted, he wound round the base of the hill much in the same path by which Callot had conducted the Norman and Louise. The stream, however, formed the boundary of his approach to the castle on that side; and passing the rocks, which we have already mentioned as strewed about at the foot of the precipices, he followed the course of the river, till, winding into the wood, the castle, and the hill on which it stood, were lost to the sight. Here as he rode slowly on, revolving various plans for more successfully pursuing the Norman, and reproaching himself for not having made more accurate inquiries at Troyes, his eye was suddenly attracted by the appearance of something floating on the river like the long black hair of a young woman.
De Blenau’s heart sank within him; his courage failed, his whole strength seemed to give way, and he sat upon his horse like a statue, pointing with his hand towards the object that had thus affected him, but without the power of uttering any order concerning it.
In the mean while the hair waved slowly backwards and forwards upon the stream, and one of the servants perceiving it, dismounted from his horse, waded into the water, and catching it in his grasp, began dragging the body to which it was attached towards the brink. As he did so, the part of a red serge dress, such as that in which Pauline had visited the Bastille, floated to the surface, and offered a horrible confirmation of De Blenau’s fears. The first shock, however, was passed, and leaping from his horse with agony depicted in his straining eye, he sprang down the bank into the stream, and raising the face of the dead person above the water, beheld the countenance of Louise.
Perhaps the immoderate joy which De Blenau felt at this sight might be wrong, but it was natural; and sitting down on the bank, he covered his face with his hands, overcome by the violent revolution of feeling which so suddenly took place in his bosom.
In the mean while his servants drew the body of the unfortunate girl to the bank, and speedily discovered that the mode of her death had been of a more horrible description than even that which they had at first supposed; for in her bosom appeared a deep broad gash as if from the blow of a poniard, which had undoubtedly deprived her of life before her murderer committed the body to the stream.
According to the costume of her country, Louise had worn upon the day of her death two large white pockets above the jupe of red serge. These were still attached to the black velvet bodice which she displayed in honour of her marriage with the Norman, and contained a variety of miscellaneous articles, amongst which were several epistles from her husband to herself in the days of their courtship, which showed De Blenau that she had been employed as a spy upon Pauline and Madame de Beaumont ever since their arrival at St. Germain’s: added to these was a certificate of marriage between Jean Baptiste Marteville and Louise Thibault, celebrated in the chapel of the Palais Cardinal, by François Giraud. All this led De Blenau to conclude, that he had been misled in regard to the cause of Pauline’s absence from St. Germain’s; and he accordingly proceeded to the little bourg of Senecy on his return towards Troyes, making his men bear thither the body of Louise with as much decent solemnity as the circumstances admitted. Having here intrusted to the good Curé of the place the charge of the funeral, and given two sums for the very different purposes of promoting the discovery of the murderer and buying a hundred masses for the soul of the deceased, De Blenau pursued his journey, and arrived at Troyes before night.
Putting up this time at the hotel of the Grand Soleil, De Blenau soon acquired sufficient information to confirm him in the opinion that the Norman had been accompanied by Louise alone; but at the same time, the accounts which the people of the house gave respecting the kindness and affection that Marteville had shown his bride, greatly shook the suspicions which had been entertained against him by De Blenau, who, unacquainted with any such character as that of the Norman, knew not that there are men who, like tigers when unurged by hunger, will play with their victims before they destroy them.
The next morning early, all was prepared for the departure of De Blenau, on his return to Moulins, when his farther progress in that direction was arrested by the arrival of Henry de La Mothe, his page, accompanied by one of the King’s couriers, who immediately presented to the Count two packets, of which he had been the bearer from St. Germain’s. The first of these seemed, from the superscription, to be a common official document; but the second attracted all his attention, and made his heart beat high by presenting to him the genuine hand-writing of Pauline de Beaumont. Without meaning any offence to Royalty, whose insignia were impressed upon the seal of the other packet, De Blenau eagerly cut the silk which fastened the billet from Pauline. It contained only a few lines, but these were quite sufficient to give renewed happiness to the heart of him who read it. She had just heard, she said, that the King’s messenger was about to set out, and though they hardly gave her time to fold her paper, yet she would not let any one be before her in congratulating him on his freedom to direct his course wheresoever he pleased. She could not divine, she continued, whether his choice would lead him to St. Germain’s, but if it did, perhaps he might be treated to the history of an errant Demoiselle, who had suffered various adventures in endeavouring to liberate her true Knight from prison.
De Blenau read it over again, and then turned to the other paper, which merely notified that the King, contented with his loyal and peaceable behaviour while relegué in Bourbon, had been graciously pleased to relieve him from the restrictions under which he had been placed for his own benefit and the State’s security; and informed him, in short, that he had leave, liberty, and licence, to turn his steps whithersoever he listed.
“To St. Germain’s!” cried De Blenau gaily. “To St. Germain’s! You, Henry de La Mothe, stay here with François and Clement. Take good care of Monsieur l’Ordinaire, and see that he be rewarded.”—The messenger made him a reverence.—“After you have reposed yourself here for a day,” continued the Count, “return to Moulins; pay notre Propriétaire, and all that may be there due. There is the key of the coffre fort. Use all speed that you well may, and then join me at home. And now for St. Germain’s.”
So saying, he sprang on his horse as light as air, gave the well-known signal with his heel, and in a moment was once more on the road to Paris.
Although I find a minute account of De Blenau’s whole journey to St. Germain’s, with the towns and inns at which he stopped, marked with the precision of a road-book, I shall nevertheless take upon myself the responsibility of abridging it as far as well can be, by saying that it began and ended happily.
The aspect of St. Germain’s, however, had very much changed since De Blenau left it. Louis had now fixed his residence there; his confidence in the Queen seemed perfectly restored; every countenance glowed with that air of satisfaction, which such a renewal of good intelligence naturally produced; and the Royal residence had once more assumed the appearance of a Court.
The first welcome received by De Blenau was from his gallant friend Cinq Mars, at whose request his recall had been granted by the King, and who now, calculating the time of the exile’s return, stood at the door of De Blenau’s hotel, ready to meet him on his arrival.
“Welcome, welcome back! my long-lost friend, Claude de Blenau,” exclaimed Cinq Mars, as the Count sprang from his horse; “welcome from the midst of prisons and trials, perils and dangers!”
“And well met, gallant Cinq Mars, the noble and the true,” replied De Blenau. “But tell me, in heaven’s name, Cinq Mars, what makes all this change at St. Germain’s? Why, it looks as if the forest were a fair, and that the old town had put on its holiday suit to come and see it.”
“Nay, nay! rather, like a true dame that dresses herself out for her lover’s return, it has made itself fine to receive you back again,” replied the Master of the Horse. “But if you would really know the secret of all the change that you see now, and will see still more wonderfully as you look farther, it is this. Richelieu is ill at Tarascon, and his name is scarcely remembered at the Court, though Chavigni, that bold rascal, and Mazarin, that subtle one, come prowling about to maintain, if possible, their master’s sway. But the spell is broken, and Louis is beginning to be a King again: so we shall see bright days yet.”
“I hope so; in truth I hope so, Cinq Mars,” replied De Blenau. “But, at all events, we will enjoy the change so far as it has gone. And now, what news at the Palace? How fare all the lovely ladies of the Court?”
“Why well,” answered Cinq Mars; “all well; though I know, De Blenau, that your question, in comprising a hundred, meant but one only. Well, what say you?—I have seen thy Pauline, and cannot but allow that thy taste is marvellous good. There is a wild grace about her, well worth all the formal dignity of a court. One gets tired of the stiff courtesy and the precise bow; the kissing of hands and the lisping of names; the Monseigneurings and the Madamings. Fie! one little touch of nature is worth it all.”
“But answer me one question, Monsieur le Grand,” said De Blenau. “How came there a report about, that Pauline had been carried off by some of the Cardinal’s people, and that no one knew where she was? for such a tale reached me even in Bourbon.”
“Is it possible that you are the last to hear that story?” exclaimed Cinq Mars. “Why, though the old Marquise, and the rest at the Palace, affect to keep it a secret, every one knows the adventures of your demoiselle errante.”
De Blenau’s cheek flushed to hear such a name applied to Pauline; but Cinq Mars continued, observing that his friend was hurt—“Nay, nay, every one admires her for the whole business, and no one more than I. But, as I was saying, all the world knows it. The Queen herself told it to Monsieur de Lomenie, and he to his cousin De Thou, and De Thou to me; and so it goes on. Well, but I must take up the gossip’s tale at the beginning. The Queen, wishing to communicate with you in prison, could find no messenger, who, for either gold or fair words, would venture his head into the rat-trap, except your fair Pauline; and she, it seems, attempted twice to get into the Bastille, once by day and once at night, but both times fruitlessly. How it happened I hardly remember, but by some means Chavigni, through some of his creatures, winded the whole affair; and posting from Chantilly to Paris, catches my fair lady in the very effort, disguised as a soubrette; down he pounces, like a falcon on a partridge, and having secured the delinquent, places her in a carriage, which, with the speed of light, conveys her away to his castle in Maine, where Madame la Comtesse de Chavigni—who, by the way, is an angel according to all accounts—receives the young lady and entertains her with all kindness. In the mean while, Monsieur le Comte de Blenau is examined by the King in person, and instead of having his head cut off, is merely relegué in Bourbon; upon which Chavigni finds he has lost his labour, and is obliged to send for the pretty prisoner back again with all speed.”
Although De Blenau was aware, from his own personal experience, that Cinq Mars had mistaken several parts of his history, he did not think fit to set him right; and the Master of the Horse proceeded: “However, let us into thy hotel. Get thy dinner, wash the dust from thy beard, array thyself in an unsullied doublet, and we will hie to the dwelling of thy lady fair, to glad her eyes with the sight of thy sweet person.”
De Blenau smiled at his friend’s raillery, and as the proposal very well accorded with his wishes, every moment seeming mis-spent that detained him from Pauline, he changed his dress as speedily as possible, and was soon ready to accompany Cinq Mars to the Palace.
As they proceeded on their way towards the gates of the Park, a figure presented itself, which, from its singularity, was worthy of notice. It was that of a tall, thin raw-boned man, who, naturally possessing a countenance of the ugliest cast of Italian ugliness, had rendered it still more disagreeable by the enormous length of his mustaches, which would have far overtopped his nose, had it been a nose of any ordinary proportion; but a more extensive pear-shaped, ill-adapted organ never projected from a human countenance; and this, together with a pair of small, flaming black eyes, which it seemed to bear forward with it above the rest of the face, protruding from a mass of beard and hair, instantly reminding the beholder of a badger looking out of a hole. The chin, however, bore no proportion to the nose, and seemed rather to slink away from it in an oblique direction, apparently overawed by its more ambitious neighbour.
The dress of this delectable personage was a medley of the French and Flemish costumes. He wore a grey vest of silk, with sleeves slashed at the elbow, and the shirt, which was not conspicuously clean, buttoned at the wrist with agate studs. His haut de chausse, which was of deep crimson, and bore loops and ribbons of yellow, was fringed round the leg, near the knees, with a series of brazen tags or points but indifferently silvered; and as he walked along with huge steps, these aforesaid tags clattered together with a sort of important sound, which, put in combination with the rest of his appearance, drew many a laugh from the boys of St. Germain’s. Over his grey vest was drawn a straight-cut doublet of yellow silk, without sleeves; and a pair of long boots, of untanned leather, covered all defects which might otherwise have been apparent in his hose. His dress was completed by a tawdry bonnet with a high black plume: and a Toledo blade of immeasurable length, with a worked iron hilt and black scabbard, hung by his side, describing with its point various strange figures on the dust of the road.
“Here comes Villa Grande, the Italian lute-player,” exclaimed Cinq Mars the moment he saw him. “Do you know him, De Blenau?”
“I have heard him play on his instrument and sing at your house,” replied De Blenau; “and from his language that night, may say I know him through and through, for a boasting coxcomb, with as much courage as the sheath of a rapier,—which looks as good as a rapier itself till it is touched, and then it proves all emptiness. Mind you how he boasted of having routed whole squadrons when he served in the Italian horse? and I dare say he would run from a stuffed pikeman in an old hall.”
“Nay, nay; you do him wrong, Claude,” replied Cinq Mars. “He has rather too much tongue, it is true; but that is not always the sign of a bad hound. I must speak to him, however, for he does me service.—Well, Signor Villa Grande,” continued he, addressing the Italian, who now approached, swinging an enormous cane in his hand, and from time to time curling up the ends of his mustaches; “you remember that you are to be ready at a moment’s notice. Be sure, also, that your mind be made up; for I tell you fairly, the service which you undertake is one of danger.”
“Monsieur,” replied the Italian with a strong foreign accent, “I will be ready, when you call upon me, in shorter time than you could draw your sword; and as for my mind being made up, if there were an army drawn out to oppose my progress, I would be bound to carry the despatch to the Duke of Bouillon, or die in the attempt. Fear not my yielding it to any body; piutosto morir vol’io, as the song has it,” and he hummed a few bars of one of his native airs.—“Oh Dio!” continued he, recognising De Blenau, who had turned away on perceiving that Cinq Mars spoke to the Italian on some business of a private nature. “Oh Dio! Monsieur le Comte de Blenau, is it really you returned at last? Benedetto quel giorno felice! Doubtless you are aware of the glorious plans of your friend Monsieur le Grand.”
“Good day, Signor,” answered De Blenau; “I know of no one’s plans but my own, the most glorious of which, within my apprehension at present, is to get to the Palace as soon as possible. Come, Cinq Mars, are you at leisure?” and he took a step or two in advance, while the Master of the Horse gave the Italian a warning to put a bridle on his tongue, and not to let it run so loosely without any regard to necessary caution.
“For Heaven’s sake, take care what you are about, Cinq Mars!” said De Blenau, when he was again joined by his friend. “Of course you are the best judge of your own plans; but unless you have a mind to ruin them all, do not trust them to such a babbling idiot as that; and beware that, in attempting to catch a lion, you do not get torn yourself.”
“Oh, no fear,” replied the Grand Ecuyer; “that fellow knows nothing more than it is absolutely necessary for him to know, and as for the rest, I have plunged into a wide sea, Claude, and must swim to land somehow.”
They had by this time reached the gates of the Palace, and Cinq Mars, knowing that some meetings are better in private, left his friend, and turned his steps towards the apartments of the King.
In the mean while, De Blenau proceeded with a rapid pace towards that part of the Palace which had been assigned to Madame de Beaumont; and his heart beat with that wild uncontrollable emotion, which the meeting with one dearly loved can alone produce. At that very moment similar sensations were throbbing in the bosom of Pauline de Beaumont, who from the window had seen the approach of Cinq Mars and another; and long before her eye could distinguish a feature, her heart had told her who it was. A sort of irresistible impulse led her, at first, to fly towards the door by which she expected him to enter; but before she was half across the room, some other feeling came over her mind. She returned to her seat at the window, and a blush stole over her cheek, though there was no other person present to observe her emotion or pry into its cause.
The door was partially open, and more than once she raised her eyes towards it, and thought that De Blenau was long in coming so short a distance. But presently she heard his step, and there was an impatient eagerness even in the sound of his footfall that convinced her he lost no time. Another moment and he entered the room—Every feeling but one was at an end, and Pauline was in his arms.
It is not at the moment when a lover has endured many sorrows, and escaped from many dangers, that a gentle heart can practise even the every-day affectations which a great part of the world are pleased to mistake for delicacy; and far less inclined to attempt it than any other person in the world, was Pauline de Beaumont. The child of nature and simplicity, her delicacy was that of an elegant mind and a pure heart. Of what she did feel she concealed little, and affected nothing; and De Blenau was happy.
Of course there was a great deal to be told, and De Blenau was listening delighted to an account of the considerate kindness with which the Countess de Chavigni had treated his Pauline, when the sound of voices approaching towards them stopped her in her history.
It is precisely at such moments as those when we wish every body but ourselves away, that the world is most likely to intrude upon us; and Pauline and De Blenau had not met more than five minutes, as it seemed to them, when the Queen and Madame de Beaumont entered the apartment.—How long they had been really together is another question, for lovers’ feelings are not always the truest watches.
“Welcome, my faithful De Blenau,” said the Queen. “We encountered the Grand Ecuyer but now, who told us where we should find you. For my own part, I suppose I must in all justice forgive your paying your devoirs here before you came to visit even me. However, ere there be any one near to overhear, I must thank you for all you have done for me, and for all you have suffered on my account. Nor must I forget my little heroine here, who went through all sorts of peril and danger in conveying my message to you in the Bastille.”
“Your Majesty was very good in sending me such an angel of comfort,” replied De Blenau. “And certainly, had it not been for the commands she brought me, I believe that his most Christian-like Eminence of Richelieu would have doomed me to the torture for my obstinacy.”
“Put it in other words, De Blenau,” said Anne of Austria. “You mean that you would have endured the torture sooner than betray your Queen. But truly, Pauline must have a stout heart to have carried through such an undertaking; and I think that the fidelity and attachment which you have both shown to me, offers a fair promise for your conduct towards each other. What say you, Madame de Beaumont?”
“I think, Madame,” replied the Marchioness, “that Pauline has done her duty with more firmness than most girls could have commanded; and that De Blenau has done his as well as it could be done.”
“Pauline merits more praise than her mother ventures to give,” said the Queen. “But I had forgot the King’s summons; and probably he is even now waiting for us. Come, Pauline; come, De Blenau. Louis gives high commendation to your demeanour in prison; let us see how he greets you out of it.”
A message had been conveyed to Anne of Austria, just before the arrival of De Blenau, intimating that the King desired to see her; and she now led the way to the Salle Ronde, as it was then called, or the Salle des Muses, as it was afterwards named by Louis the Fourteenth, where the King waited her approach. Although the uncertain nature of Louis’s temper always made her feel some degree of apprehension when summoned to his presence, the kindness he had lately shown her, and the presence of a large proportion of her friends, made her obey his call with more pleasure than she usually felt on similar occasions.
Louis’s object, in the present instance, was to inform the Queen of the journey he was about to make into the neighbourhood of Perpignan, in order to confirm the inhabitants of Roussillon in their new allegiance to the crown of France; and Cinq Mars, who had always sincerely wished the welfare of Anne of Austria, took this opportunity of insinuating to the King, that to show publicly his restored confidence in the Queen, so far from lessening his authority, even in appearance, would be in truth only asserting his own dignity, from which the proceedings of Richelieu had so greatly derogated.
De Blenau and Pauline followed a step or two behind the Queen and Madame de Beaumont, and would willingly have lingered still longer by themselves; but as something must always be sacrificed to appearance, they quickened their pace as Anne of Austria approached the door of the Salle Ronde, and came up with her just as she entered the room in which the principal part of the French court was assembled. The moment she appeared, Louis advanced towards the Queen from the brilliant circle in which he stood, and embraced her affectionately. “Welcome, my fair lady,” said he. “I see you have brought the new returned exile with you.—Monsieur de Blenau, I am glad to see you at court;—this is a pleasanter place than where we met last.”
“I can assure you, Sire,” replied De Blenau, “that I will never be willingly in circumstances to meet your Majesty there again.”
“I do not doubt it, I do not doubt it,” said the King. “You should thank Heaven that delivered you from such peril, Sir Count.—Madam,” he continued, turning to the Queen, “I requested to see you, not only for the pleasure which your presence must always give, but to inform you, that affairs of state will shortly call me to Narbonne, in Languedoc, from whence I shall return with all convenient speed.”
“Your Majesty soon leaves St. Germain’s,” replied the Queen. “I do not think you love it for a sojourn, as in other days.”
“Not so,” answered Louis; “so well do I love it, that I had purposed to have worn out the rest of my days here, had not the duties of my station called me hence: but my return will be speedy if God give me life.—What man can say how long he may remain? and I feel many a warning that my time will be but short in this world.—Ha! what mean those drops in your eyes?—I did not know, Anne, that such were your feelings.” And he pressed the Queen’s hand, which he had continued to retain in his.
“Oh Louis!” replied Anne of Austria, and by that simple exclamation conveyed a more delicate reproach to the heart of her husband than she could have done by any other expression in the range of language. Louis felt it, and drawing her arm kindly through his own, he proposed aloud that the whole party should walk forth upon the terrace. It was the Queen’s favourite spot, and she easily understood that it was meant as some atonement for many a former slight. Those, too, who stood round and saw what had taken place, began to perceive that a new star was dawning in the horizon, and turned their eyes to watch its progress and court its influence.
The King and Queen were followed by the greater part of the court; and during the walk Louis continued to manifest that kindness towards his wife, which had it been earlier shown, might have given him a life of happiness. “Let me beg you, Madam,” said he, as at length they turned to enter the Palace, “not only to be careful of our children, for that I am sure you will be, but also to be careful of their mother, for my sake.”
The Queen’s feelings were overpowering; the tears rolled rapidly down her cheeks, taking from her all power of utterance, and quitting the King, after pressing his hand to her lips, she retired to her own apartments, to indulge in solitude the new and delightful emotions which her husband’s unexpected kindness had excited.
Which shows that the Moment and the Manner have often more to do with Success than the Matter.
THE various preparations for the King’s journey into Roussillon occupied no small space of time. Litters and carriages were to be provided; relays of horses to be stationed on the road; cooks and victuallers were to be sent forward; and a thousand other arrangements to be made, required either by the general difficulty of locomotion in those days, or by the failing health of the King. It was not then, as in the present time, when monarchs and subjects travel with equal facility all over the globe: when a king gets into his travelling chaise with no more to do than a private man, and is carried along over a level road without let or hindrance, jolt or jumbling, to whatsoever place his fancy may incline him. The journey of a sovereign was then as formidable an undertaking as the passage of the Great Desert to a modern traveller, and required fully as much provision and circumspection.
One great object of Richelieu’s policy had been to diminish the feudal influence of the nobility, and by forcing them to reside with the Court, to break through their constant communication with their vassals. In pursuit of this, he had drawn the greater part of the nobles to Paris; and now that his absence and declining favour with the King dissolved the charm which seemed to hold them in the capital, they congregated at St. Germain’s like a flock of bees, that, having lost their hive, flew forth in search of a new one. Many of these were bound, by their various offices in the household, to accompany the King in his present journey; others were particularly invited to do so either by Louis himself or by Cinq Mars and Fontrailles, who sought to surround the King with those who, on any sudden emergency, might support their party against the Cardinal; and a crowd of others, from vanity or interest, curiosity or ambition, were glad to follow in the train of the Monarch.
Thus the greater part of the nobles who had flocked to St. Germain’s, on Richelieu’s departure from Paris, now again left it in order to take part in the journey to Narbonne. As all the horses, and every sort of accommodation on the direct road, were engaged for the service of the King and those immediately attendant upon him, the greater part of the Court took the indirect roads by which they could always be near the Royal party; and the rest followed a day or two after, taking advantage of whatever conveniences might be left unappropriated.
There were one or two, however, who departed before Louis, and of these the principal was Chavigni, who set out accompanied by a few servants, two or three days prior to that appointed for the King’s expedition. His ostensible destination was, like that of the rest of the Court, to Narbonne; but turning to the left, he directed his course towards Tarascon, and having travelled with the utmost rapidity, while Louis proceeded by easy stages, he had quite sufficient time to communicate fully with Richelieu, and proceed to Narbonne before the King’s arrival.
The journey into Roussillon had been undertaken by the express advice of Richelieu; and though Cinq Mars ventured boldly to attack the conduct of the Cardinal in every respect, to place all his measures in the worst point of view, and to encourage every sentiment in the King’s mind which was in opposition to those of the Minister, still no change, or even a proposal of change in the Government had been mentioned, up to the time of the Court reaching Narbonne. Richelieu was still Prime Minister, and the Council remained composed of persons devoted to his interest, though the views of Cinq Mars were already spoken of in more than one circle, and the consent of the King was so far assumed as a matter decided, that the two parties were distinguished by the names of Royalist and Cardinalist.
While the Court remained with the army near Perpignan, and after its removal to Narbonne, Richelieu still lay dangerously ill at Tarascon. His mind was deeply depressed, as well as his corporeal powers; and in the opinion of all, a few weeks were likely to terminate both his ministry and his existence, even if the eager hand of his enemies did not hurry him onward to more rapid destruction. But the fiery spirit of Cinq Mars brooked no delay: the lazy course of natural decay was too slow for his impatience; and though De Thou, who accompanied his friend to Narbonne, reiterated in his ears the maxims of caution and wisdom, on the other hand Fontrailles, fearful lest he should lose the merit and consequent influence he should acquire by the removal of Richelieu, never ceased to urge the favourite to hurry on the completion of their design.
In the mean time, every thing seemed favourable to the conspirators; and Cinq Mars felt confident that the secret inclination of Louis would second all his views; but nevertheless, he wished for some more public and determinate expression of the King’s opinion, before he asked his consent to the measures which had been concerted. After the arrival of the Court at Narbonne, however, the Monarch’s conduct in respect to Richelieu became of so decisive a character, that no farther delay appeared necessary. Within a few miles of the place where the Cardinal lay ill, the King seemed entirely to have forgotten that such a man existed, or only to remember him with hatred. His name, if it was ever mentioned, instantly called into Louis’s countenance an expression of uneasiness and disapprobation; and by no chance was the King ever heard to pronounce it himself. By all these circumstances, Cinq Mars was determined to communicate to Louis, as soon as possible, the schemes which had been formed for freeing the country from the yoke of Richelieu. He suffered, however, several days to elapse in waiting for a favourable opportunity, and at length, as often happens, growing impatient of delay, took perhaps the most inauspicious moment that could have been selected. It was on a morning when every thing had gone wrong with Louis.
Notwithstanding his failing health, he still clung to his accustomed amusements, and very often rode forth to hunt when he was very unfit for any bodily exercise. On these occasions, the distressing consciousness of his decaying powers always rendered him doubly irritable; and on the day which Cinq Mars unfortunately chose to broach the subject of the dismissal of Richelieu, a thousand trivial accidents had occurred to increase his ill humour to the highest pitch. His horse had fallen with him in the chase; they had beat the country for hours without finding any game worthy of pursuit; and when at length they did rouse a fine boar, and had brought him to bay, he broke out after killing two of the King’s best hounds, and plunged into the deepest part of the forest. Louis was returning home from this unsuccessful chase, when Cinq Mars, turning his eyes towards the towers of Tarascon, which just then were seen rising above the trees in the distance, pointed to them with his hunting-whip, saying, “There lies the Cardinal!”
“Well, Sir,” exclaimed Louis eagerly, catching at any thing on which to vent his irritability—“do you wish me to go and see him? Doubtless he will be glad of the visit. Let us go.” And he reined in his horse, as if with the intention of turning him towards Tarascon.
“Far be it from me to advise your Majesty so to do,” replied Cinq Mars, who clearly perceived that the King’s answer proceeded only from casual irritation. “It was the sight of the old towers of the Chateau, that called the Cardinal to my mind. In truth, I had almost forgotten him.”
“Forgotten him, Cinq Mars!” cried the King. “I think he has done enough to make himself remembered.”
“He has indeed, Sire,” replied Cinq Mars, “and his memory will long last coupled with curses in the heart of every true Frenchman. But there he lies; I trust, like the Tarasque, hideous but harmless, for the present.”
“What do you mean by the Tarasque?” demanded Louis; “I never heard of it.”
“It is merely a whimsical stone dragon, Sire,” replied Cinq Mars, “that lies carved in the Church of St. Marthe, at Tarascon on the Rhone—a thing of no more real use than the Cardinal de Richelieu.”
“Of no use, Sir!” exclaimed the King, his eye flashing fire. “Do you think that we would repose such trust, and confide our kingdom’s weal to one who is of no use? Silence, Sir!” he continued, seeing Cinq Mars about to reply: “No more of this subject—we have heard too much of it.”
Cinq Mars was too wise to add another word, and the King rode on to Narbonne, maintaining a sullen silence towards all around him.
Of the conversation which had passed not one word had escaped the ears of Fontrailles; and the moment the cortège had dismounted, he followed the Master of the Horse towards a distant part of the grounds which lay behind the Chateau. Cinq Mars walked on as if he did not see him, and at last finding that he persisted in following, he stopped abruptly, exclaiming, “Well, Fontrailles! well! what now? What would you say? I can guess it all, so spare yourself the trouble.”
“You mistake me, Cinq Mars,” replied Fontrailles, “if you think I would blame you. You did your best, though the time was not the best chosen; but all I wish to press upon you is, not to let this dispirit you. Let the subject die away for the present and seem forgotten, till the King is in a better mood. Every hour of his neglect is death to Richelieu; and besides, the King’s consent is not absolutely necessary to us.”
“To me, absolutely necessary,” replied Cinq Mars, “for I stir not one step without it.”
“Nay, the King’s private consent to you is of course necessary,” answered Fontrailles; “but you surely do not think of informing him of the treaty with Spain. After the affair is finished, and Richelieu’s power at an end, Louis will see the necessity of it; but such, you must know, is his hatred towards Spain, that he would consider the very proposal as little better than high treason.”
“I am not yet determined in that respect,” answered Cinq Mars; “my conduct will of course be decided by how I find the King inclined. I like no concealments, where they can be avoided. But in the first place, Villa Grande must carry the treaty to——”
Cinq Mars paused; for, as he spoke, Chavigni turned sharp round from an alley close by, and passed on. The Statesman bowed, en passant, to the Master of the Horse, who but slightly returned his salutation, while, on the other hand, Fontrailles doffed his hat and inclined his head with a hypocritical smile, in which habitual servility was strongly blended with triumphant malice.
Chavigni spoke not, but there were two or three words had caught his ear as he passed, which at once turned his suspicions into the right channel, and stimulated him to know more. We have already said that it was a maxim with the Statesman, that in politics nothing is mean; and he would have felt not the slightest hesitation in listening to the conversation of Cinq Mars, could he have done so without being observed. To effect this, it was necessary to take a large round in order to approach the alley in which the two conspirators walked without drawing their attention to himself; but as he turned to do so, he observed the Master of the Horse separate from his companion and come towards the spot where he stood, and not wishing to put Cinq Mars on his guard, by showing that he was watched, he turned away and directed his steps towards the Château.
“Must carry the treaty—” thought Chavigni. “Who must carry the treaty? If I could but have heard that name, I should then have had the clue in my hands. However, Monsieur de Cinq Mars, you shall be well looked to, at least—take care that you trip not—for if you do, you fall.” Thus thinking, he passed on to the stables, where his horses stood, intending, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, and the failing light, to ride over to Tarascon and communicate with Richelieu, even if he should be obliged to become a borrower of the night for a dark hour or twain. His grooms, however, taking advantage of his absence, had dispersed themselves in various directions in search of amusement to pass the hours in the dull town of Narbonne; and consequently Chavigni could find no one to saddle his horses for the proposed journey.
Irritated at this impediment, he was about to quit the stable in search of some of the truant grooms, when he again perceived Cinq Mars approaching, accompanied by the Italian Villa Grande. They were in earnest conversation, and Chavigni, knowing that Cinq Mars had horses lodged next to his own, drew back, and searching for a crevice in the wooden partition, which was as old and decayed as he could desire, he applied himself to listen to all that passed as soon as the Master of the Horse and his companion entered the adjoining stable. The first words he heard were from the Italian. “You know, Monseigneur,” said he, “that the utmost a man can do, is to die in defence of his charge; and that will I do, sooner than yield to any man that which you intrust to my hands.”
“Well, well,” replied Cinq Mars, “there is no need of so many professions, good Sir. To-morrow morning then, at day-break, you set out. That is the horse—mind you use him well, but spare not his speed. Salute the noble Duke on my part with all kindness and love. At nine you come for the treaty: but mark that you keep your time, for at ten I must be with the King.”
“But Monseigneur, Monseigneur!” cried Villa Grande, as Cinq Mars turned to leave him; “perhaps your lackeys will not let me have the horse.”
“Well then, when you come to-night,” replied the Grand Ecuyer, “you shall have an order for him.”
“Now then, your secret is in my power,” thought Chavigni, as Cinq Mars and his companion left the spot. “Monsieur de Villa Grande, I will instantly make out an order for your arrest to-morrow morning, and save you the trouble of your journey.—Salute the noble Duke!” he continued, meditating on the words of Cinq Mars—“What Duke?—It must be Gaston of Orleans—But he is a royal Duke—But we shall see.” And as he walked on towards the Chateau he bent his eyes upon the ground, revolving in his mind the various plans which suggested themselves for withdrawing his patron and himself from the brink of that political precipice on which they stood.
His thoughts, however, which for a moment wandered to every different circumstance of his situation, seeking amongst the many dangers that surrounded, some favourable point on which to found a hope, were all suddenly recalled to one object, by the approach of Cardinal Mazarin, who by his hurried step and anxious countenance appeared to be troubled by some unforeseen event.
Notwithstanding their being linked in one cause, notwithstanding their present interests drawing together, notwithstanding all the apparent friendship that existed between them, Chavigni looked upon the Cardinal as one who with less zeal had rivalled him in the favour of Richelieu, and who with less talent had insinuated himself as much into the affairs of Government; and Mazarin, although obliged to coalesce with Richelieu’s favourite, looked forward to the day when the struggle for pre-eminence between them would come to a climax, and one would rise upon the ruin of the other: and he saw clearly that when that day did arrive, all his own subtlety would hardly qualify him to compete with the bold mind and vigorous talents of Chavigni, unless he could in the first instance gradually acquire for himself such a superiority of interest, as to enable him to command rather than contend for the highest station.
The natural effect of these conflicting interests was a feeling of jealous suspicion in the mind of each, which in Mazarin only appeared by the care he took to strengthen his influence wherever it was most opposite to that of Chavigni; while at the same time, he showed his fellow statesman an outward respect and deference almost amounting to servility. But on the other part, Chavigni’s hasty disposition made his dislike more apparent, though he took no means of injuring his rival.
As they approached each other, the Cardinal made a sign to the Page who attended him to remain behind, and folding the train of his robe over his arm, he advanced quickly to Chavigni, embracing him with the greatest semblance of attachment. “My excellent friend,” he exclaimed, “I have sought you everywhere: let me beg you to fly instantly to Tarascon, or all our hopes are ruined.”
“In truth,” replied Chavigni, not allowing Mazarin to explain the motives of his request; “your Eminence requires what I can hardly comply with; as I have but now got business on my hands which needs some time to manage. But may I crave the object which would be gained by my going to Tarascon? I should think that he who could stay two hostile armies on the point of battle, was fully sufficient to any stroke of policy.”
There was a sarcastic smile on the lip of Chavigni, as he alluded to the peace which Mazarin had procured at Cazal, at the moment when the French and Spanish armies were about to engage; but the Cardinal would see only the compliment. “You are too kind,” replied he; “but in this instance, you only can succeed; you only, I feel assured—and that not without the exertion of all your influence—can prevent the Cardinal Prime Minister from sending his resignation to the King.”
“His resignation!” exclaimed Chavigni, starting back with unfeigned astonishment. “In the name of Heaven, what do you mean?”
“I mean this, Chavigni,” replied Mazarin, “that unless you reach Tarascon before daylight to-morrow morning, and use every argument in your power to produce, the courier, who bears the official resignation of his Eminence of Richelieu, will have set out for this place. I saw the paper signed to-day, with my own eyes, before I came away; and all that my utmost entreaties could gain was, that it should be delayed till to-morrow morning, in hopes of your arrival before that time. His Eminence feels convinced that the King’s favour and his own power are lost for ever; and in truth I begin to think so too.”
“Madness and folly!” exclaimed Chavigni, striking his hand against his forehead with vexation. “Madness and folly!—Rascal, saddle me a horse,” he continued to a groom, who now loitered into the court with that sort of slow indifferent air which would put an angel in a passion. “Where, in the name of all the devils, have you been lingering? Pardon me, your Eminence—but I am vexed. I did not think his great mind was so overthrown.—Saddle me a horse, I say. Slave, must you stand eaves-dropping? Better you had been born deaf than overhear my conversation. There are such things as oubliettes to cure listeners. Saddle me a horse, I say.”
“Will you not take some of my servants with you?” said Mazarin; “they are all in readiness.”
“No, no,” replied Chavigni, “I go alone. Do not let it get abroad that I am gone. I will be back betimes to-morrow.”
“You had better take one servant, at least,” said the Cardinal. “The roads are not safe. It is dangerous.”
“Dangerous!” exclaimed Chavigni. “Who thinks of danger when his all is at stake? Your Eminence has a great regard for human lives, I know—for mine more especially. But depend upon it, I shall come home safe to-morrow, though I go alone to-night. Now, Sir,” he continued to the groom, who led forth a strong black hunter for his service, “girth up the saddle a little tighter: unbuckle that cross from his poitral; I am neither going on a pilgrimage nor a procession.”
And now, walking twice round the horse to see that all the caparisons were in right order, he sprang into the saddle, and dashing his rowels into the hunter’s flank, galloped out of the court-yard, bowing with a smile as he passed by Mazarin, who started back a step, as the horse’s feet, in the rapidity of its course, struck fire with the stones of the pavement.