Which shows how a King made reparation, and what came of it.
WHILE, as we have seen, Chavigni galloped off towards Tarascon, forgetting in the agitation produced by the tidings of Mazarin, to take those measures which he had proposed in regard to Villa Grande, Cinq Mars returned directly towards the palace, or rather, the house which had been converted into a palace for the King’s use. It was one of those old buildings which at that time were common in France, and which even now are often to be met with in cities where the remains of ancient splendour, left alone to the less destructive power of time, have not been demolished by the violence of turbulent times, or the still more inveterate enmity of modern improvement. The whole front, with the two octagonal towers at the sides, and the long corridors on the right and left hand of the court, were ornamented with a multitude of beautiful arabesques and bas reliefs. These last, the bas reliefs, entirely covered the principal façade of the building, and offered a number of pictures in stone, representing in some parts battles and triumphs, and in others displaying the humbler and more peaceful subjects of pastoral life and religious ceremonies. Amongst the rest was one medallion which caught the attention of Cinq Mars; and as the failing light prevented him from seeing it where he stood, he approached to observe it. The chisel of the sculptor usurping the place of the pencil, had there pourtrayed a landscape with a flock of sheep pasturing quietly by the side of a brook, while a shepherd appeared sleeping under a hill, down which a wolf was seen stealing upon the flock. Underneath was written in old gothic characters, Eveillez vous, le loup s’approche.
Cinq Mars smiled as he read it, applying the warning to himself. “Let him come,” said he, thinking of Richelieu; “he will be caught himself.” So saying, he turned, and entering the Palace, retired to his own apartments. He had not remained there long, however, before he was once more joined by Fontrailles. “Follow me quick, Cinq Mars,” cried the conspirator; “the King asks for you. Now is the moment to speak to him. He thinks that his peevishness hurt you this morning, and he is willing to make atonement.”
It may be well supposed that Cinq Mars lost no time in following his companion up the great staircase to the King’s apartments. It was, indeed, as Fontrailles had said. Since his return, Louis had enjoyed an hour of repose, which cleared from his mind the irritability induced by fatigue, and made him reproach himself for the unkindness he had shown to one so devotedly attached to him as the Master of the Horse. The remembrance of it oppressed him, and he sent for his favourite, not indeed to apologize, but to wipe away the impression that his irritability had caused, by more than usual kindness and familiarity. The two conspirators found Louis seated in a cabinet, which, being placed in one of the towers, partook of its octangular form. The walls were wainscoted with dark carved oak, and even the plafond was all of the same gloomy-coloured material, except a massy gilt cornice and projecting rose in the centre, from which hung a single silver lamp, the rays of which, falling on the figure of the King beneath, gave an additional paleness to his worn but fine countenance, and slightly touching upon his plain black velvet suit, shone full on the richly illuminated book in which he had been reading.
Louis raised his eyes as Fontrailles entered, and then turning them full on the noble countenance of Cinq Mars who followed, a pleased smile beamed for a moment on his lip, and he exclaimed, “Well, Cinq Mars, art thou Nimrod enough to hunt again to-morrow after our misfortunes of to-day? Come in, Monsieur de Fontrailles,” he continued, seeing that Fontrailles remained near the door, hesitating whether he should retire or not, now that he had done the King’s bidding in summoning the Grand Ecuyer. “Come in, I pray—Sit you down, Gentlemen—it is the King’s request: you, Cinq Mars, here—Monsieur de Fontrailles, there is a seat. Now,” he continued, glancing his eye round as the light of the lamp gleamed faintly on their several countenances—“now we look like some secret triumvirate met to decide the fate of nations.”
“And that might be too,” replied Cinq Mars: “your Majesty to command, and we to execute.”
The King took no notice, but went on with what he had himself been saying: “There is Cinq Mars looks like a noble prince, and Fontrailles like a wily minister, and I—— I believe,” he continued laughing, “I have left myself no place but that of secretary.”
“Alas!” said Cinq Mars with a deep sigh, “alas! that there should be any man in your Majesty’s dominions more a king than yourself.”
Fontrailles and the King both started; and the Conspirator internally pronounced “All is lost,” while Cinq Mars himself, who had spoken without thought, only felt the imprudence of his speech when it was beyond recall.
“Cinq Mars! Cinq Mars!” cried Louis, “that is a daring speech;—but I know it proceeded from your love for me, and therefore I pardon it. But I will tell you that no man is more a King in France than I am.”
“I crave your Majesty’s gracious pardon,” replied the Master of the Horse. “If I have offended your Majesty, it was from love for you alone that I spoke. My words were bolder than my thoughts, and I only meant to say that I could wish to see my Monarch show himself that great King which he naturally is. I would fain see the staff of command withdrawn from one who abuses it.”
“Cinq Mars,” answered the King, “that staff is in my own hand. It was but lent, my friend; and it is now resumed.”
The Master of the Horse paused for a moment, not exactly certain how far he could rely upon the King’s good humour, which he had already tried so incautiously, and turned his eyes towards Fontrailles, as if for counsel.
“Speak, Cinq Mars,” said Louis, seeing his hesitation, “speak boldly, and fear not; for I fully believe that all your wishes are for my service, and I would fain hear the voice of those that regard me with affection, rather than for their own interest; and one of these do I hold you to be.”
“Your Majesty does me justice,” replied Cinq Mars. “Let me not offend you then, when I say that the power you lent is scarcely resumed while the title under which it was enjoyed remains. The Cardinal Duke of Richelieu, my liege, is still Prime Minister of France. He has still all the power (though not exercised), the revenues, the offices. Our soldiers are fighting at his command, our provinces are governed by his creatures, our high posts are filled by his friends. He has an army for his servants, and more than the riches of a prince. Why not—oh, why not, Sire, break the enchanter’s wand that gave him so much sway, and sweep away the hordes that prey upon the State, like swarms of flies upon a slain deer? Why not direct the operations of your troops yourself, and let the armies of France be the armies of the King, and not of Richelieu? Why not chase from your councils a man who has so often abused the generous confidence of his Sovereign, and make him disgorge the ill-gotten wealth which he has wrung from the hearts of your people?”
As he spoke, Cinq Mars grew warm with his subject; his eye sparkled, his arm was extended with that wild and graceful energy for which he was conspicuous; his words flowed uninterrupted, with all the eloquence of enthusiasm, and his fine and princely features acquired a new and striking expression, while, animated in the cause of his Country’s liberty, he pleaded against the tyrant who had oppressed both king and people. Louis gazed on him at first as on one inspired; but as a host of consequences crowded on his mind, threatening him with a thousand vague and unsubstantial dangers, he placed his hands before his eyes, and remained for some moments in deep thought.
“My friend,” said he at length, “what is it you would have me do? This man—this bad man if you will—but still this great man—is like an oak whose roots are deep in the earth; you may hew them asunder one by one, but it requires a giant’s strength to pluck the tree up at once. Richelieu’s power may be taken from him gradually; but to attempt what you propose, would instantly cause a rebellion amongst my subjects. He has so many who depend upon him; he has so many that are allied to him—”
“What!” exclaimed Cinq Mars, “shall it be said that King Louis was afraid to dismiss his own minister?”
“Not afraid for myself, Sir,” replied the King, somewhat sharply; “but afraid of bringing the miseries of civil war upon my people.”
Perceiving that Cinq Mars was urging the King too impetuously, Fontrailles, who had hitherto remained silent, now joined in the conversation in a soft insinuating tone, calculated to remove any newly raised irritation from Louis’s mind. “All danger, Sire,” said he, still labouring to quiet the King’s fears without opposing his opinion, “all danger, which might otherwise be imminent, could easily be obviated, by commanding the noble Duke of Bouillon—”
At the name of the Duke of Bouillon Louis made an impatient motion with his hand. “He is Spanish at his heart,” said he; “that Duke of Bouillon is Spanish, rank Spanish. But what of him, Monsieur de Fontrailles?”
“Believe me, my Liege,” replied Fontrailles, “the Duke of Bouillon, whom I know well, is not so much a friend to Spain as he is an enemy to Richelieu. Remember, Sire, how he is linked with the Prince of Orange, the sworn adversary of Spain.”
Louis shook his head doubtingly. “But what of him, Fontrailles? Come, to the point.”
“Only this, Sire,” said Fontrailles. “The Duke commands an army in Italy devoted to your Majesty’s service; but permit me or Cinq Mars to give him private orders in your name to march them into France, and who shall dare to murmur at your royal will?”
“Why, that might be done, it is true,” answered Louis; “but I am afraid, mon Grand,” he continued, applying to Cinq Mars the term by which he distinguished him in his kindest and most familiar moments—“I am afraid, mon Grand, that though thou art a keen huntsman and a good soldier, thou wouldst make but a sorry minister.”
“I minister!” exclaimed the Grand Ecuyer; “God forbid! No, no, my Lord! never did such a thought cross my imagination. Believe me, Sire, I had no view of personal aggrandizement in the proposal I submitted to your Majesty.”
“But if you take from Richelieu his office, whom do you wish to substitute in his place?” demanded Louis; “some one must be minister.”
“True, my Liege; but are there not thousands well fitted for the post?” said Cinq Mars—“Politicians as deep, but more humane than Richelieu—Men who can govern, and yet not tyrannize? I will undertake to find such a one for your Majesty, and yet remain myself fully satisfied with being the humble friend of my royal master, and the sincere well-wisher of my native Country. But let me order, in your name, the Duke of Bouillon to march into France; and then, provided with sufficient forces to disarm this usurping Minister, and overawe rebellion, your own royal will will be your only guide.”
“At present,” said Fontrailles, “the King’s love for his people operates in two opposing directions, making him anxious to relieve them from the burden under which they groan, yet fearful of throwing a portion of them into rebellion. But by the presence of the Duke’s army, the Minister might be removed, without endangering the tranquillity of the realm.”
“True,” said Louis; “true. Monsieur de Fontrailles, you say right;” and placing his hand before his eyes, the King thought for a moment, struggling inwardly to exert the powers of his mind, and call up sufficient resolution to deliver himself from the thraldom in which he had so long been held. But dangers, and doubts, and difficulties swam before his mental vision, like motes dancing in the sunbeam; and never destined in life to overcome his long-encouraged inactivity, he strove to cast the responsibility from himself. “Well, well,” exclaimed he, “Cinq Mars, you shall decide it; I will leave the conduct of it all to you. But beware that you do not bring the miseries of civil war upon my kingdom; for be assured that if you do, I will require it of you deeply—It is your own seeking, and the consequences be upon your own head.”
“Let it be so, then, my Liege,” cried Cinq Mars, kissing the emaciated hand of the feeble Monarch; “it shall not be my fault if France and my Sovereign are not soon freed from the cloud that has so long overshadowed them both.”
“Well, well,” said Louis, “we will trust in God for the event. But beware of Bouillon; Cinq Mars, he is rank Spanish at his heart. And now, gentlemen, to bed, for we must rise in time for our sport. But, in truth, I fear I shall not hunt much longer—the body fails me, Cinq Mars, though I was once a thing of strength, as thou art.”
How Chavigni rode fifty miles to ride back again.
WHILE these schemes for the downfall of his Patron were going forward at Narbonne, Chavigni spurred on rapidly towards Tarascon, where the falling Minister lay sick, both in body and in mind. Besides the personal attachment of the Statesman to Richelieu, who had formed his fortunes, and led him in the way to greatness, every consideration of his own interest bade him oppose the resignation of the Cardinal, which he clearly saw would bring inevitable destruction upon all persons connected with the existing ministry.
He had long perceived that a powerful party was forming against Richelieu, especially since his absence and illness gave facility to their operations. All Chavigni’s talents and influence had been exerted to oppose them; but that the Cardinal would resign his high office, he had never suspected for a moment, and therefore the tidings brought by Mazarin came upon him like a thunder-stroke, taking from him all faculty of thought, but on that one thing. He was well aware too, that it was no easy task to turn Richelieu from his purpose; and as he rode on, his mind was solely occupied by a thousand tumultuous and ill-digested plans, for preventing the execution of what the Cardinal designed.
Daylight set in the west, and night fell heavily over the earth without exciting a thought in the bosom of Chavigni; for the irritation of his feelings took away all sensation of bodily fatigue, and almost all attention to external objects, till at length the failing pace of his horse showed him that he at least must have rest; and accordingly he paused for a short space at a little village, a few leagues from Tarascon, in order to refresh his beast. But even here the agitation of his mind prevented him from seeking any repose himself, and he continued walking up and down before the little auberge, for the time that he was thus compelled to remain.
It was considerably past midnight, when Chavigni arrived at the residence of the Minister. On entering the court-yard, all was in darkness, except where, in one spot, a light was seen burning in the chamber of the invalid, and throwing dark across the window the bent shadow of a sleeping attendant. The Statesman fastened his horse to one of the iron hooks in the court-yard, and advanced, intending to make himself heard by some one within, but he found that the grooms, grown negligent during their Lord’s sickness, had left the door unfastened, and pushing it with his hand, it readily gave way. “It is like his fate,” thought Chavigni: “while he is ill and sleeping, the gate is left open, and any one may enter.”
Passing onward through the hall, he now mounted the grand staircase, lighted by a lamp that had been left to die out as it might, and approached the room where the Cardinal lay.
The door of the antechamber opened stiffly, but still the drowsy attendant did not awake; and Chavigni passed on into the bed-chamber of the Cardinal, without any one being aware of his presence. “Were this but known,” thought the Statesman, “how many assassins’ hands would now be armed for this one man’s destruction!”
It was Richelieu alone, who, lying in feverish restlessness, caught the sound of approaching steps; and there was a sort of intensity in the glance which he fixed on the door communicating with the anteroom, which seemed to say that his judgment of the visitor’s purpose was not very favourable. However that might be, whether from the recklessness of illness, or from the torpor of one who regards the future as a blank, he took no farther notice of the sound he heard, than by fixing his eyes sternly on the door. But the next moment, as the light fell strongly on the face of his friend, the countenance of Richelieu brightened with a smile; and perceiving that Chavigni, who did not see he was awake, approached silently towards the attendant to rouse him, the Cardinal pronounced his name in an under-tone, and beckoned him towards his bedside.
“It is grateful,” said Richelieu, as the Statesman drew near, “to find that even declining fortunes cannot alienate some hearts. You have seen Mazarin, I suppose.”
Chavigni was about to answer, but the sound of the Cardinal’s voice had awakened the attendant, who was now gazing about in no small alarm, on perceiving a stranger standing by the Minister’s bedside. Richelieu, however, without showing any anger at his negligence, calmly commanded him to leave them; and as soon as they were alone, Chavigni proceeded. “I have seen Cardinal Mazarin, my Lord, and from him I have learned a piece of news which grieves me most deeply. I cannot believe that illness can have so far depressed the spirits of your Eminence, as to make you entertain the thought of casting from you all those high honours, which you have so long enjoyed, and of leaving France, in a moment of her greatest peril, to be governed by the hands of the weak and the designing.”
“It is not illness, Chavigni,” replied the Cardinal, with a melancholy shake of the head. “No! but my day is over. The power has passed from my hands, and it only remains for me to yield the name of it, before that too is taken from me by my enemies.”
“Pardon me, your Eminence,” said Chavigni; “but indeed the power is not gone from you. Under whose orders are our armies fighting? Under whose command is every city and fortress in France? Is it the character of a great man—is it the character of a brave man, to yield all without a struggle?—to cast away the sword he has so long wielded, and to give himself bound into the hands of his adversaries?”
“Mark me, Chavigni,” said Richelieu, raising himself upon his elbow, “Louis is now within the distance of a few leagues. He knows that I am ill—perhaps that I am dying; and yet, by no sign of common courtesy does he show that he remembers me. But that was not the beginning. I saw that my power was gone, when he dared, in the face of all the Council, to annul the sentence I had passed on that arrogant, stiff-necked Count de Blenau, who had the hardihood to defy the utmost extent of my power.” And the Minister’s eyes flashed with the memory of his anger.
“Had your Eminence followed my advice,” replied Chavigni, “that business would never have occurred. There is that sort of gallant magnanimity about Claude de Blenau which carries all before it; and I felt assured that neither fear nor interest would ever induce him to disclose any thing intrusted to his honour. Depend upon it, Monseigneur, that it is better not to meddle with such men, when we can avoid it.”
“Well, well, Sir,” exclaimed the Cardinal, impatiently, “without doubt you were quite right and I was quite wrong. But do not teach me to believe that you too, Chavigni, lose your respect for my person when my power is failing.”
“Pardon me, your Eminence,” replied Chavigni, in a tone of deep feeling, “you wrong me much. Your Eminence has been more than a father to me. During the continuance of your power you have always exerted it in my favour; and whether it remains with you or not, my respect and my affection will never fail to follow you in every situation. Believe me, Monseigneur, that it is that respect and affection, which brings me here even now, to petition that you will wave your intention of——”
“Chavigni, it is useless,” interposed the Cardinal. “I have only the choice left, to yield it of my own free will, or to have it wrenched from my unwilling hand. Judge which is the wisest—judge which is the best.”
“Were that certainly the case,” said Chavigni, thoughtfully.
“It is certainly the case,” replied the Minister. “There are many, many combined against me:—singly, they are but reeds, and one by one I would break them like reeds; but united together, and with the King at their head,”—and he shook his head despairingly,—“they are far too strong either for you or me!”
“But could no means be found to separate them? Bethink you, Monseigneur,—avarice, revenge, ambition, might sow the seeds of discord amongst them, and give them like sheep into our hands.”
“It is too late, my friend!” replied the Cardinal: “it is too late! Had I foreseen it, I might have prevented their combining. I might have crushed some, and bribed others; destroyed the powerful, and overawed the timid. But it is now too late!”
“But whom does your Eminence think particularly implicated?” demanded Chavigni.
“Oh, there are many—many—many!” replied Richelieu, withdrawing the thin pale hand he had stretched over his face as he finished the last desponding words “too late,” probably desirous of hiding the emotion produced by the conviction that his power was irretrievably gone. However, when that hand was removed, his countenance showed no traces of any remaining agitation. “There are many, Chavigni,” he said: “there are Vendome, and Bouillon, and noisy Beaufort, and turbulent Gaston of Orleans, and witty Marsillac, and cool, moralizing De Thou, who has so often dared to pry into my actions and condemn them;—then there is, above all, sly Fontrailles, and Cinq Mars, whom I——”
“Ha!” exclaimed Chavigni, as the Cardinal’s words recalled to his mind the conversation between Cinq Mars and Fontrailles—“I had forgot—like an idiot, I had forgot!” and he struck his clenched hand violently against his brow, as if he sought to punish his own folly. “But it is not yet too late,” he cried, “it is not yet too late.”
“Forgot what, Chavigni?” demanded the Cardinal, seeing with astonishment the emotion which was called up in his friend by the remembrance of so great an oversight. “Forgot what? Too late for what? What is it moves you so deeply?”
“Pardon me, your Eminence,” replied Chavigni, “I have not time to explain; only I have to ask two favours. The first is, that you will let me take a stout horse from your stables; mine will go no farther. The next,” he added, in a tone of greater composure, but still one of earnest entreaty—“the next is, if you had ever a regard for me—if ever I served you well and faithfully, that you will promise me to take no step in the business we have spoken of, till my return; which shall be before to-morrow evening.”
“It can make but little difference waiting till that time,” answered the Cardinal. “But what is the matter, Chavigni? What is it agitates you thus?”
“Have I your promise, Monseigneur?” asked Chavigni quickly.
“You have,” said Richelieu. “Out of regard for you, and solely because you ask it, I will suspend my resolution till your return.”
“Well then, God protect your Eminence till we meet again!” exclaimed the Statesman. “I go upon your service; and if I do not succeed, I care not how soon my head may be brought to the block, as a just punishment for my mad forgetfulness.” Thus saying, he quitted the room, and descending to the stables, called up the grooms whose sleepy movements ill accorded with the rapid emotions of his bosom. Now the stirrups were not long enough, then the girths had to be buckled tighter, then the bit was mislaid, and then the crupper could not be found. At length, however, the horse was fully prepared, and calling for a cup of wine, Chavigni drained it to the bottom, and galloping out of the court, was soon once more on the road to Narbonne. But it was in vain that he used whip and spur to arrive at that town before the hour appointed for the Italian’s departure. Ere he had measured half the way, the day rose bright over the hills before him, and clenching his hands, he exclaimed in the bitterness of disappointment, “Too late! I am too late!” Still, however, he went on at full speed, hoping that by sending out couriers in every different direction he might yet overtake the messenger.
Every one who has ridden from Tarascon to Narbonne must remember the picturesque beauties of that part of the country. At the spot where Chavigni had now arrived, high rocks breaking forth from a thick covering of wood skirted his way on each side, and having ascended to the top of the hill, an immense valley lay before him, scattered with forests and broken into a thousand inferior ridges, some of which bore upon their summits the steeple of a village church, some the ruins of those ancient towers which had been erected in days gone by to defend the passes from the neighbouring Moors of Spain. At his feet thin waves of white mist floating in the morning light, partially obscured the road he was going, till, rising out of the trees, it was seen winding along the mountains on the other side. Chavigni paused for a moment to trace its direction; and as he did so, his eye fell upon the figure of a single horseman, descending into the valley from the opposite hill.
“Whom have we here?” thought the Statesman, not without a faint hope that it might be the person he sought. Spurring on his horse, however, he rode forward to meet him; but on reaching the bottom of the descent, the figure he had seen from above became hidden by the windings of the road amongst the trees, and Chavigni’s heart fluttered lest the horseman, whoever he was, might have taken the other road which turned through the valley to the left.
At length, however, the sound of a horse’s feet was heard approaching quickly towards him, and, certain that he must now pass that way, the Statesman drew in his rein, and stood with his eyes intently fixed upon the spot where the road verged into the forest. As there was still a considerable descent from the spot where Chavigni paused to the bottom of the valley, the sound was heard for a long time coming nearer and nearer before any one appeared. At length, however, the horseman came in sight, presenting to the glad eyes of the Statesman the identical figure of the Italian, Villa Grande, with his long sword, extensive mustaches, and a pair of heavy pistols at his saddle-bow.
Chavigni doubted not that to possess himself of the papers which the Italian carried, would require a desperate struggle, but without a moment’s hesitation he drew his sword, and galloped on to attack him. No sooner had Villa Grande perceived a stranger on the road before him, than he reined in his horse; but now, as Chavigni rode on full speed towards him with a menacing attitude and drawn sword, the Italian, in his terror, conceived at once that it was a robber, and throwing himself to the ground in mortal fear, he fell on his knees, exclaiming—“I will give it you all—every ducat, only spare my life!”
“Rise, rise! cowardly villain!” cried Chavigni, catching the bridle of the Italian’s horse, which was starting away with a wild toss of the head, as the Statesman rode up;—“rise, Sir Poltroon! do you not know me?”
“Know you! know you!” exclaimed Villa Grande, gazing wildly at Chavigni. “Oh, Monseigneur, is it you? How you frightened me!” But Villa Grande, who had trembled sufficiently when he thought it was a robber, trembled ten times more than ever as he recognised the Statesman; and he could scarcely find strength in his knees to raise himself from the ground.
“Rise, Sir!” exclaimed Chavigni impatiently; “and instantly give me the treaty.”
“Treaty!” cried Villa Grande, still trembling, but endeavouring to put on a look of astonishment. “What treaty does Monseigneur mean? I know of no treaty.”
“Lying slave!” exclaimed Chavigni, striking him with the flat side of his sword; “if you do not produce it within ten seconds of time, by Heaven I will cut it out of your base cowardly heart!”
“But if I do——” said the Italian, seeing there was no escape left.
“Come, Sir,” cried the Statesman; “no buts for me. If you stand shuffling one minute more, I will run my sword through you, and search for it on your carcase myself.”
“Well, well! Monseigneur, I see you know it all, and therefore it will be no stain on my honour if I give it to you.”
“Honour!” cried Chavigni, with a scoff.—“Come, Sir, the treaty.”
Villa Grande approached his horse, and raising the flap of the saddle, with shaking hands, drew forth, from a pocket concealed in the padding, a large paper sealed in an envelope. Chavigni caught it eagerly from his grasp, and running his eye over the address, he read—“To Monseigneur the Duke de Bouillon, Commander-in-Chief of all the armies of France, warring in Italy.”—“Ha!” continued the Statesman, “this is not the road to Italy. What brings you here?” and he turned towards Villa Grande. But while the Statesman’s eyes were fixed upon the paper, the wily Italian had begun to creep towards the wood; Chavigni, however, perceiving his design, caught one of the pistols from the horse’s saddle-bow, and pointing it towards the fugitive, soon brought him back again. “Stand you there, Sir,” said he. “Now tell me what makes you here, when this packet was intended for Italy?”
“Why, Monseigneur—why—why—to tell the truth, there was another little despatch to be delivered on the frontiers of Spain; here it is;” and diving into a deep pocket in his doublet, he produced a packet smaller than the other, and gave it into Chavigni’s hand. “And now, Monseigneur, I have freely discovered all I know,” continued Villa Grande, “I hope that you, Monseigneur, will promise me your protection; for if the other party get hold of me, they will murder me to a certainty.”
Chavigni made no answer, but without any ceremony broke the seals of the two packets, and passing his horse’s bridle over his arm while he read them, he opened the treaty, and turned to the list of names by which it was signed. In the mean while, Villa Grande kept his eyes fixed upon him, watching for a favourable moment to escape, if the Statesman’s attention should be sufficiently engaged to allow him so to do.
“Ah! here I have them fairly written,” proceeded Chavigni, speaking to himself. “Philip, the most Catholic!—Olivarez!—then follow Gaston of Orleans; Cinq Mars, Grand Ecuyer—Fontrailles;—and a space—for Bouillon of course. Now let us see the letter to the noble Duke;” and he opened the one which he found in the same packet with the treaty. But as he read, his eye fixed with painful earnestness upon the paper, and the colour fled from his cheek. “God of Heaven! what is this?” said he, reading. “‘Though I doubt not, my noble friend, that after all which has lately passed, you would put your forces in motion at my simple desire, the King’s command is yet higher authority; and that I now send you, to march with all speed to the frontier, embarking five thousand foot at Porto Longone, to land at Marseilles. All this in case the friends and adherents of Richelieu should attempt to make head against the royal authority.’——”
“All is lost!” muttered Chavigni. “But let us see the whole, at least, to provide for our own safety;” and he again turned to the paper, which proceeded—“‘I send you the treaty with Spain for your signature, which is especially necessary to the article relative to your principality of Sedan. The troops of his Catholic Majesty are on the frontier, ready to march at our command; but I have been obliged to conceal from the King our Spanish connexion, as his hatred to that country is as great as ever.’”
“I have you! I have you! Monsieur Cinq Mars,” exclaimed Chavigni, clasping his hands with joy. “This treaty is your death warrant, or I know not King Louis.—Italian scoundrel!” he continued, turning to look for Villa Grande—“Ha! the slave has escaped—that must not be; he were the best witness in the world against them;” and springing from his horse, he tied him to a tree together with that of the Italian.
While Chavigni had been reading, with all his attention fixed upon the paper, and all his passions excited by its contents, Villa Grande, watching his moment, had crept gradually to the edge of the wood, and darted into a narrow path, half covered with branches. But though the way he had taken was thus, in a degree, concealed, it did not escape the quick eye of the Statesman; and as the motions of the Italian, till he had got into the wood, had been necessarily cautious, in order not to call his attention; Chavigni, following as fast as lightning, soon caught the sound of his retreating footsteps, reverberated from the rocks around. As he advanced, he called loudly to the Italian to stop, and that he should have a free pardon; but Villa Grande, trusting to the distance that was still between them, and hoping, if he could elude immediate pursuit, to be able to escape into Spain, continued running on, while Chavigni as perseveringly followed, threatening and promising by turns, but alike without effect.
At length the strength of the Italian, already diminished by fear, began to fail entirely; and Chavigni found that the distance between them was rapidly lessening, when in a moment the sound of footsteps, which had hitherto guided him, ceased entirely—a cry of agony reached his ear; and running still more quickly forward, he, too, had nearly been precipitated over the edge of a steep crag, which, in the hurry of his flight, the unhappy Italian had not noticed. The Statesman’s first impulse was to start back, for he was on the very brink of the precipice before he was aware; but soon recovering himself, he approached the edge, and looking over, beheld the mangled form of Villa Grande lying on some rough stony ground at the bottom of the rock.
“God of Heaven!” cried Chavigni, “what a fall! The poor wretch must surely be dead. However, he must not lie there, for the wolves will soon be at him;” and looking around, he sought for some way to descend the rock. It was a considerable time before he could accomplish his object, but at length he succeeded, and on arriving at the spot where Villa Grande lay, he found that the Italian, in his flight, had taken a diagonal path through the forest, which cut off a large bend in the main road, and joined it again by a zig-zag path down the rock at some distance. Thus the spot where Villa Grande was then lying, was about half a mile from the place at which he had first been encountered by Chavigni, if the high road was followed; but by the path through the wood the distance could not be more than a few hundred yards. Chavigni’s first care was to examine the body of the Italian, who was so entirely deprived of sense, that at first the Statesman believed him to be dead; but in a moment or two some signs appeared which led him to conclude that life was not completely extinct; and taking him in his arms he carried him to the spot where the horses stood. Here he placed him on the stout black hunter which Cinq Mars had lent, and led him slowly to a small town about a mile farther on the road.
It has been already stated, that hardly was there a village so small in the whole extent of France as not to be furnished with one or more of those agents of Richelieu’s minute policy, whose principal duty consisted in communicating every thing that passed around them to another class of superior agents, and also to facilitate all the secret operations of Government in the sphere ascribed to them. The actual pay received by these men was but small; but the favour shown to them on all occasions, and the facilities afforded to them in their more ordinary employments, put them above competition with others in the same class, and amply rewarded their private services: for it must always be remembered that their connexion with the Government was held as a profound secret, and consequently they always were seen to exercise some open trade, which, in most cases, prevented their less ostensible employment from being even suspected by their neighbours.
It was to the house of one of these inferior agents that Chavigni led the horse charged with the senseless body of Villa Grande; and having commanded that he should be taken in and placed in bed, he himself aided in endeavouring to recall him to life, partly from the natural humanity of his disposition, partly from those political considerations which were ever paramount in his mind. Villa Grande, if he could be restored, would prove, Chavigni knew, too excellent a witness against the conspirators whom he had served, to permit of his life being lightly cast away; especially as it was evident, that either fear or bribery would induce him to confess any thing: but even had it not been for this reflection, the Statesman’s natural disposition would probably have led him to succour the unhappy man, in whose misfortune he had been so greatly instrumental.
After many efforts, Villa Grande once more began to evince that the vital spark was not yet extinguished; and having so far succeeded, Chavigni, upon whose mind a thousand subjects of deep import were pressing every moment for attention, gave directions to the agent we have already mentioned, to show every attention to the wounded man, and to keep him, for that day, at his own house, which was situated a quarter of a league out of Limoux; but as soon as night came, to have him privately removed to Corneille, at which place a surgeon could be more easily procured from Carcasonne; and having reiterated the most strict injunctions to keep the whole business profoundly secret, lest the conspirators should learn the fate of their envoy, and take their measures accordingly, Chavigni once more turned his steps towards Tarascon, to recount to Richelieu the events of the day.
Which was written expressly to prove that there is many a Slip between the Cup and the Lip.
IT was the small Chapel of St. Catherine, otherwise called the Queen’s Chapel, attached to the Palace-church of St. Germain en Laye, to which Potier, Bishop of Beauvais, proceeded with slow steps from the door of private communication with the chateau, on a night in October, one thousand six hundred and forty-two. He was preceded by two young Abbés, carrying lighted tapers, and followed by a group, whose white garments spoke that they came on some occasion of joy. The first of these was Anne of Austria, with her eyes animated, and her countenance glowing with the interest she took in every thing which bore the least appearance of secrecy or romance. Her right arm was passed through that of the Marchioness de Beaumont, who moved on with a calm, rather grave countenance; while on the Queen’s left, walked a young lady in the first gay spring of life, ever and anon turning a smiling, playful glance behind to Pauline de Beaumont, who, leaning on the arm of Claude de Blenau, followed, agitated, blushing, and happy, towards the altar at which they were to be united for ever. Seguin, the Queen’s physician, and Henri de La Mothe, the Count’s page, were admitted as witnesses to the ceremony; and an attendant was stationed at the door, to guard against any troublesome devotee entering the church during the time it was thus occupied.
The idea of marrying Pauline de Beaumont privately to the Count de Blenau, had entirely originated with the Queen, whose passion for any thing romantic often threw both herself and her friends into situations of great danger. In the present instance, she represented to Madame de Beaumont that a thousand circumstances might occur in those unhappy times, to tear De Blenau again from her he loved; or that the Cardinal might positively prohibit their marriage, and then, she asked, who would dare to oppose him? whereas their private union would obviate all difficulties, and incur no danger.
Madame de Beaumont made many objections, and her daughter hesitated; but the wishes of the Queen overcame all the Marchioness’s scruples; and the entreaties of De Blenau were not less powerful with Pauline.
The appointed night being arrived, and all the arrangements having been made as privately as possible, Pauline, as we have said, followed her Mother and the Queen into the Chapel of St. Catherine. But as she did so, there was a sort of despondency fell upon her that she could not account for. As she leaned upon De Blenau, she felt that she was most happy in being united to him. She was agitated, it was true, but still it was natural that she should be so, she thought. All her duties, all her ideas, were, by one single word, about to suffer an entire change, yet that did not take from her happiness. But still there was an undefined fear, a sort of melancholy presentiment, which weighed upon her spirits she knew not why. She asked herself, was De Blenau less kind? Oh, no! And as the thought passed through her mind, she raised her eyes for a moment from the ground, on which they had been bent, and turned them on her lover. In so doing, they met the full, soft, affectionate gaze, with which De Blenau was at that moment regarding her, and a deep blush rose in her cheek, but soon faded away, and left her again pale and thoughtful. She had not, however, much time to analyse her feelings; for, by this time, the Bishop had reached the altar, and waited their approach.
Potier, Bishop of Beauvais, had little of that gentleness of disposition, or suavity of manner, calculated to re-assure Pauline. He had undertaken the office which he came there to fulfil, merely at the desire of the Queen, and that not without making considerable opposition. But, though Potier was obstinate, Anne of Austria was still more so. She had resolved that the ceremony should be performed, and that he should perform it, and she carried her point; but yet he made his dislike to the task very apparent, and regarded the innocent Pauline with no very friendly looks.
“Come, Mademoiselle,” said he, as Pauline seemed to linger for a moment, “you and Monsieur le Comte will have enough of each other’s society after my office is over. Let us proceed with the ceremony.”
The group arranged themselves round the altar, and the Bishop opening the book began to read. The promise, which was to bind her to De Blenau for ever, trembled on Pauline’s lips, when a confused noise at the private door leading to the Palace caught her ear, and she paused.
De Blenau, who had not heard it, turned towards her in surprise; but immediately the voice of the attendant, who had been stationed there as portgreve, was heard exclaiming to some one, who apparently endeavoured to make his way into the church, “Stand back, I say. You do not enter here! What is your authority?”
“My authority,” replied another voice, “is a warrant of Council. Oppose it if you dare. Strike him down, if he does not let you pass.” And immediately the door bursting open, an Officer of the Cardinal’s Guard, with a file of soldiers, entered the church.
“Guard the doors,” cried the Officer, “and let no one quit the place.” And giving his partizan to one of the soldiers, he advanced towards the high Gothic arch, forming the boundary between the main aisle and the Chapel of St. Catherine.
Pauline clung to De Blenau. “Oh, Claude!” cried she, “they are going to tear you from me again. My heart misgave me.—I was sure that something dreadful would interpose between us.”
De Blenau whispered a few words of comfort to her, and Potier himself was moved by her agitation. “Do not be afraid, young Lady,” said he; “we are on sacred ground.—Stop, sir,” he continued, advancing to the steps of the Chapel, which the Officer had just reached: “what seek you here? And how do you presume to bring armed men into this Church?”
“I come, sir,” answered the Officer, “with a warrant from his Majesty’s Council, to arrest Claude Count de Blenau;” and he made a step towards the Chapel.
“Hold!” exclaimed the Bishop, “You arrest him not here. This ground is sanctuary; and I command you, in the name of God and our holy religion, to withdraw your men, and instantly to quit this Church.” And he waved his hand with an air of dignified authority.
The Officer paused. “But, Monseigneur,” he replied, “the Count is charged with high treason.”
“With high treason!” exclaimed the Queen.—“With high treason!” echoed Pauline, clinging still closer to De Blenau’s arm, which she held encircled by both her own.
“He is charged with high treason,” repeated the Officer; “and I must fulfil my duty.”
“Were he charged with all the crimes which disgrace humanity,” replied the Bishop, “here he is sanctuarized; and I command you, on pain of excommunication—you, Sir Officer, and your soldiers, to quit the church. I stand not here to see this altar violated, whatever be your authority.”
The Officer paused a moment, uncertain how to act. “Well, holy Father,” replied he at length, “I obey; but I shall take especial care to guard every door of the church; so that if there be any blame, it does not fall on me.” And muttering between his teeth the discontent he did not dare to vent aloud, he slowly withdrew his men.
The eye of Anne of Austria watched them intently till the last soldier had passed through the door which communicated with the Palace. Then turning quickly to the Count, she exclaimed, “Fly quick, De Blenau, up that staircase, cross the jube, through the monks’ gallery round the choir. You will find a door on the right that leads into the King’s cabinet. Wait there till I send—Quick, fly—I desire—I command you.”
“Oh fly, Claude, fly!” reiterated Pauline, “they will murder you surely this time, if you do not fly.”
“Pardon me, your Majesty—pardon me, dear Pauline,” replied De Blenau; “it cannot be. There is no man in France more innocent, in deed, word, or even thought, of treason against his King and Country than I am; and Claude de Blenau flies from no one, so long as his honour and integrity remain by him: when these fail, then he may become a coward. But to these will I now trust, and instantly surrender myself to his Majesty’s warrant. I did not interfere while Monseigneur defended the rights of the sanctuary, for he did but the duties of his high office; nor indeed was I willing to yield my sword to a servant of Cardinal Richelieu. Take it, Henry,” he continued, unbuckling it from his side, and giving it to the Page; “take it, and keep it for your master.”
“De Blenau, you are an obstinate man,” said the Queen. “I will urge nothing; but look at this pale cheek, and fancy what the feelings of that sweet girl must be.” And she pointed to Pauline who stood by with the tears chasing each other down her face.
Notwithstanding the firmness with which he spoke, there had been many a bitter pang struggling in De Blenau’s breast. The appeal of the Queen, and the sight of Pauline’s distress, overcame his calmness; and starting forward, he caught her in his arms and pressed an ardent kiss upon her lips. “Dear, dear Pauline,” he exclaimed, “all will go well, be assured. My innocence will protect me.”
Pauline shook her head mournfully, but her heart was too full to reply.
“Then you will not fly?” demanded the Queen, with some degree of impatience.
“He is in the right, Madam,” said the Bishop. “As a good subject, he is bound to obey the laws of his country; and in duty to himself, he ought not to give weight to the charge against him by seeming afraid to meet it.”
Anne of Austria turned away with a look of angry disappointment. “Well, at all events,” said she, “let us conclude the ceremony which has been thus interrupted, and afterwards the Count can act as he pleases.”
De Blenau hesitated. He felt that what the Queen proposed, if carried into effect, would be the only consolation he could receive under the new misfortune that had befallen him; but he felt also that it was a selfishness to wish it, and he looked towards the Bishop who had so well supported his first resolution. But Potier bent his eyes gravely on the ground, disapproving the proposal, yet unwilling farther to oppose the Queen.
“It shall be as Pauline decides,” said De Blenau, taking her hand and raising it gently to his lips. “Pauline,” he continued, “you know how deeply I love you; you know how I have longed for the hour that should give me your hand. But I fear that I should be cruelly selfish, were I to ask you to become the bride of one whose fate is so uncertain—Speak, dear Pauline.”
Mademoiselle de Beaumont spoke not, but she raised her eyes to De Blenau with an expression which told that every feeling of her heart was given to him. The Marchioness, however, interposed. “No!” said she: “Claude, you are right; it is better to wait. The time will come, I feel sure, when you will be able to claim Pauline in the midst of smiles and happiness, instead of tears and danger. Does not your Majesty think this delay advisable?”
“My opinion has been expressed already,” replied Anne of Austria peevishly. “But it is not my affair—act as you think fit. But were I Pauline, and my lover gave me up so calmly, I would seek another in his absence to console me.”
De Blenau, deeply hurt, bit his lip, and by a strong effort forced himself to silence: but Pauline placed her hand in his, and raising her eyes to his face: “Fear not, Claude,” she said; “in life and in death, I am yours. None other shall ever possess the hand of Pauline de Beaumont.”
“You are a noble girl, Pauline,” exclaimed the Queen. “De Blenau, I was wrong; but it vexes me to see that you will always be more in the right than I am. Do not look so sad, Pauline. The more I think of it, the more I feel sure that De Blenau’s innocence will stand him in good stead yet, in spite of the meager Cardinal: and I begin to reckon also somewhat on my own influence with Louis; he is far kinder than in former days; and I will make it a point of earnest prayer, that De Blenau be fairly used. Besides, they have now no plea against him. There are no secret letters to be discovered—no correspondence with the public enemy.”
Pauline shook her head mournfully. A cloud had come over the sun of her days, and she fancied that he would never beam brightly again.
“If we could ascertain the reason of this arrest,” said Madame de Beaumont, “it might in some degree satisfy our minds.”
“That may be easily done,” replied the Bishop, “as Monsieur de Blenau is resolved to surrender himself. We can question the Officer, in regard to what occurred at the place from whence he comes; and by that means discover what circumstances have arisen to cast suspicion on the Count.”
What the Bishop proposed was instantly agreed to; and De Blenau sent forward his Page to inform the Officer of his determination.
Anne of Austria then took a few steps along the nave, and turned to see if he still held his resolution. De Blenau bowed. “I follow your Majesty,” he said “I feel that I have nothing to fear.” And they passed on slowly and sadly to the other end of the church.
As they went, Pauline still clung to the arm of her lover, as if she feared that every moment they would tear him from her; and tear after tear rolled silently down her cheeks. The heart of De Blenau also was too full for words, so that silence hung upon the whole party.
At the door which communicated with the Palace, stood the Cardinal’s Officer, with two or three of his men; and as she approached, the Queen desired him to follow her to the saloon. The Officer bowed low, and replied, that he would obey her commands; but immediately advancing to De Blenau, he laid his hand upon the Count’s arm. “In the King’s name, Monsieur le Comte de Blenau,” said he, “I arrest you for high treason. Behold my warrant.”
Pauline recoiled with a look of fear; and De Blenau calmly put the man’s hand from off his sleeve. “Pass on, Sir,” he said, “I am your prisoner.” The Officer hesitated; “Pass on, Sir,” repeated the Count; “you have my word. I am your prisoner.”
The man passed on, but not before he had made a sign to the soldiers who were with him, who suffered the Count and Pauline to pass, and then closing in, followed at a few paces distance.
On reaching the saloon, the Queen took her seat; and beckoning to Pauline, who, faint and terrified, was hardly able to support herself, she made her sit down on the footstool at her feet. “Now, Sir Officer,” said Anne of Austria, “what news bring you from Narbonne? How fares his Majesty the King?”
“May it please you, Madame,” he replied, “I come not from Narbonne, as your Majesty supposes, but from Tarascon, where the King had just arrived when I departed.”
“The King at Tarascon!” exclaimed Anne of Austria. “In the name of Heaven, what does he at Tarascon?”
“That is beyond my knowledge,” answered the Officer. “All I can tell your Majesty is, that for the last week there has been strange flying of couriers from one place to another. Monsieur de Chavigni has almost killed himself with riding between Tarascon and Narbonne. Every thing is altered, evidently, but no one knows how or why; and just as Aleron, Monsieur de Brezé’s maitre d’hotel, was about to give me the whole history, I received an order to set off for Paris instantly, and when I arrived there, to take twenty troopers from the caserne, and come on hither on the errand which I have the honour to perform.”
“But did you hear nothing?” demanded the Queen, earnestly. “Did this Aleron tell you nothing?”
“Nothing, Madame,” replied the Officer. “He had just made me promise inviolable secrecy, and we were interrupted before he began his tale; or I would have told your Majesty with pleasure.”
“But from report?” said the Queen. “Did you gain no knowledge from rumour?”
“Oh, there were rumours enough, truly,” answered the man; “but as fast as one came, it was contradicted by another. Some said that the troops at Perpignan had revolted, and some that Monsieur le Grand had killed Cardinal Mazarin. Others brought word that Monsieur de Noyers had tried to poison the King; and others, that the King had kicked Fontrailles for hunting in short boots.”
“Nonsense!” said the Queen; “all nonsense.—It is unfortunate,” she continued, musing, “that we can get no information. But tell me, where are you ordered to conduct Monsieur de Blenau?—To the Bastille?”
At the name of a place where both De Blenau and herself had suffered so much, and which was associated in her mind with every horrible idea, Pauline clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out the frightful visions it recalled.
“No, Madame,” replied the Officer, “I am commanded to conduct Monsieur de Blenau, as quickly as possible, to Tarascon; and allow me to remind your Majesty that the time is passing fast.”
De Blenau made a sign to the Officer, indicating that he was ready. He saw that Pauline’s hands still covered her eyes, and, wishing to spare her the pain of such a parting, he bowed profoundly to the Queen, and moved in silence to the door. The Queen and Madame de Beaumont saw his intention, and remained silent; but as he reached the door, he could not resist the desire to turn and look once more upon her whom he was leaving perhaps for ever—who had so nearly been his bride—whom he had loved so long—who had undergone so much for him. It was excusable, but the delay defeated his purpose. The sudden silence alarmed Pauline—she raised her eyes—she saw De Blenau in the act of departing, and the last fixed painful glance with which he regarded her. All but her love was that moment forgotten; and starting wildly forward, she threw herself into his arms, and wept bitterly on his bosom. But Madame de Beaumont advancing, gently disengaged her from his embrace: Pauline hid her eyes upon her mother’s shoulder; and De Blenau, with a heart ready to break, fled quickly from a scene that his fortitude could support no longer.