LOUIS had not long to wait; scarcely a moment passed before Marie de’ Medici appeared. She entered hastily; marks of violent agitation were on her countenance; her brows were knit; her eyes flashed. She was in the prime of middle life, but grown stout and unwieldy; her delicate complexion had become red and coarse, and her voice was loud and harsh; but her height, and the long habit of almost absolute command, gave her still an imposing presence. Louis involuntarily shuddered at her approach; he had been long accustomed to tremble at her frown. His first impulse was to fly by the same door through which Mademoiselle de Hautefort had vanished. He rose, however, bowed low before her, and offered her a seat.
“My son,” she cried in a husky voice, walking straight up to him, “I have come to request you instantly to banish Richelieu. If you do not, I shall return to Florence. The insolence of that villain whom I have made your minister is intolerable. He has disobeyed my express commands!”
“What has Richelieu done, madame?”
“Is it not enough that I, your mother, who have governed France almost from your birth, should declare to you my pleasure? Would you prefer a lackey to your own mother?”[21] “Let it suffice that Richelieu has offended me past forgiveness. Sit down, my son”—and she seized on the terrified Louis, and almost forced him into a chair beside the table—“here are my tablets; write instantly an order that within twenty-four hours Richelieu leaves France forever.”
Louis took the tablets, but his trembling hands could not hold them. The jewelled leaves of ivory, set in gold, fell on the ground with a crash. There was a pause.
“What! Louis, you hesitate to obey me?” and the Queen’s fierce eyes darted a look of fury at the King, whose slender figure positively seemed to shrink as she laid her hand upon him.
“My mother,” he said, in a faltering voice, “you have told me nothing. A great minister like Richelieu cannot be dismissed on the instant.”
“Yes, he can, if there be another to replace him, a better than he; one who knows the respect due to the Queen-dowager of France, the widow of Henry the Great, your mother, and still Regent of the kingdom.”
“But, Madame, what has Richelieu done to offend you?” and the King had the courage to meet his mother’s glance unmoved.
“He has dared to disobey my positive orders. I had appointed the Duc d’Epernon governor of Poitiers. He has placed there a creature of his own. After this insult, you will understand, I can never again sit at the Council with Richelieu.”
“Well, Madame, and suppose you do not!” rejoined the King, whose nervous dread was rapidly giving place to resentment at his mother’s arrogance. “I shall still be King of France, and Richelieu will be my minister.”
“Undutiful boy!” exclaimed Marie de’ Medici, and she raised her hand as if to strike him; “You forget yourself.”
“No, Madame, it is you who forget that, if I am your son, I am also your king. You may strike me, if you please, Madame,” added he in a lower voice, “but I will not sign the exile of Richelieu.” The countenance of Louis darkened with growing passion; the threatening aspect of his mother standing before him with upraised arm, aroused him to unwonted courage. “I will not exile Richelieu. I leave him to settle his differences with you and your favourites—their claims do not concern me. I will have no more Concini, madame; I would rather abdicate at once.” And turning on his heel, without another word, or even saluting the Queen, he left the room.
A sudden dizziness, an overwhelming conviction of something new and strange in her position, sobered the passion of Marie de’ Medici the instant the King was gone. She stood motionless where he had left her, save that her uplifted arm dropped to her side. A mournful look—the shadow of coming misfortunes—clouded her face. Silent and dejected, the tears streaming from her eyes, she withdrew. When she had reached her own apartments, she commanded that no one should be admitted.
That same day the King left Compiègne, taking with him only two attendants. No one knew whither he was gone.
Early the next morning the Queen-mother’s ladies were startled by the appearance of Cardinal Richelieu in her anteroom. It was long since he, who was wont never to be absent from her service, had been seen there.
“Tell her Majesty,” he said to the Duchesse d’Epernon, “that I am come on urgent state business, by the express command of the King, and that I must speak with her in person.”
After some delay he was admitted into the Queen’s apartment.
Marie de’ Medici wears a long robe of black velvet, and a widow’s coif upon her head. She looks old, worn, and anxious; she is neither imperious nor angry. She begins to realise that power is passing from her; she is intensely curious, not to say alarmed, as to what the intelligence may be, of which the Cardinal is the bearer; and she now secretly repents that she has quarrelled with him.
The Cardinal wears a close-fitting black soutane bound with purple, and a beretta of the same colour on his head; he has nothing of the churchman in his appearance. He is still a young man, upright in figure and easy in manner, attractions which he owes to his early military training. He has piercing black eyes, light brown hair that lies straight upon his forehead, and a pale, thoughtful face, already lined with wrinkles. His closely shutting mouth, thin-lipped and stern, expresses inflexible determination. His manners are composed, almost gentle; his voice melodious. He has not yet become the imperious autocrat—the merciless butcher of the chivalrous nobles of France—of after years. Chalais and Montmorenci have not yet fallen by his order on the scaffold; and Cinq-Mars is a precocious lad, living with his mother on the banks of the Loire. Without vanity he knows that he has genius to conceive great deeds, and industry to elaborate every necessary detail. Already the consciousness of growing greatness forces itself upon him. The incompetence of the King, his indolent acquiescence in all his measures, the jealousy between Louis and his mother whom the King has hitherto not dared to check, his alienation from the young Queen his wife, open before Richelieu’s mental vision a vista of almost boundless power. Now he stands in the presence of his early benefactress, the sovereign to whom he would have been faithful, had such fidelity been consistent with the welfare of France and his own ambition. Spite of habitual self-control, he is greatly moved at her forlorn condition. He still hopes that he may save her from an overwhelming calamity.
Richelieu advances to where the Queen-mother is seated beside the hearth, and after making a profound obeisance waits for her to address him.
“You bear to me a message from my son. What can he have to say to me, that he cannot speak himself?” Marie asks with dignity.
“Nothing, my most gracious mistress,” replies Richelieu, almost submissively, “if your Majesty will deign to be guided by my counsel.”
“You call me your mistress, Cardinal,” says Marie bitterly; “but you have left my service, and you disobey my positive commands. How can I treat with such a hypocrite?”
“Madame, I beseech you, let not personal animosity towards myself—be I innocent or guilty of what you accuse me—blind you to the danger in which you now stand.”
“Danger! What do you mean? To what danger do you allude?”
“The danger that threatens you, Madame, in the displeasure of his Majesty.”
“Ah, I perceive. My son strikes through you, my creature, that he may crush me. I congratulate your eminence on your triumphant ingratitude.”
“Madame,” and the Cardinal wrings his hands and advances a step or two nearer the Queen with an air of earnest entreaty, “hear me, I implore you. Let us not lose precious time in mere words. I have come here in a twofold character, as your friend and as minister of state. Permit me first to address you as the former, Madame, your counsellor and your sincere friend.” As he speaks his voice trembles, his manner is almost humble as he seeks to allay the stormy passions that gather on the brow of his royal mistress.
Marie de’ Medici is so much taken aback at this unusual display of feeling in the stern Cardinal, that though her eyes glisten with anger she makes no reply.
“Your Majesty, in honour and greatness,” continued Richelieu, “stands next to the throne. Be satisfied, Madame, with the second place in the kingdom. Your own age, Madame,”—Marie starts—“and the increased experience of his Majesty, justify you in committing the reins of government into his hands and into the hands of such ministers as he may appoint.”
“Yourself, for instance,” breaks in Marie bitterly.
“Madame, I implore you, by the respect and the affection I bear you, not to interrupt me. Withdraw, graciously and cheerfully, from all interference with state affairs. Resign your place at the council. Dismiss those nobles who, by their rebellious conduct, excite his Majesty’s displeasure, specially the Duc d’Epernon.”
“Never!” exclaims Marie passionately. “I will not resign my place at the council, nor will I sacrifice my supporter, the Duc d’Epernon. My son is incapable of governing. He has ever been the tool of those about him. I am his best substitute. This is a miserable plot by which you basely seek to disgrace me by my own act—to rise by my fall.”
“Oh, Madame, to whom I owe so much,” pleads Richelieu, “whom I would now serve while I can, hear me. I speak from my heart—I speak for the last time. Be warned, I beseech you.” His hands are still clasped, his voice falters, tears flow down his cheeks. Any one less obstinately blind than the Queen would have been warned by the evidence of such unusual emotion in a man ordinarily so cold and impassible as the Cardinal.
“Ha, ha, you are an admirable actor, Cardinal!” cries she. “But what if I refuse to listen to a traitor? Who named me[22] ‘Mother of the kingdom?’ Who vowed to me ‘that the purple with which I invested him would be a solemn pledge of his willingness to shed his blood in my service’? I know you, Armand de Plessis.”
For some minutes neither utters a word. When he addresses the Queen again, Richelieu has mastered his feelings and speaks with calmness, but his looks express the profoundest pity.
“I am no traitor, Madame, but the unwilling bearer of a decision that will infinitely pain you, if you drive me to announce it. But if you will condescend to listen to my counsel, to conciliate your son the King, and disarm his wrath by immediate submission, then that terrible decision never need be revealed. That you should be wise in time, Madame,” adds he, in a voice full of gentleness, contemplating her with the utmost compassion, “is my earnest prayer.”
Before he had done speaking the Cardinal sinks on his knees at her feet, and draws forth from his breast a paper, to which are appended the royal seals. Marie, whose usual insolence and noisy wrath have given place to secret fear, still clings to the hope that she is too powerful to be dispensed with, and that by a dauntless bearing she will intimidate Richelieu, and, through him, the King, replies coldly—
“I have given you my answer. Now you can withdraw.” Then, rising from her chair, she turns her back upon Richelieu—who still kneels before her—and moves forward to leave the room.
“Stay, Madame!” cries Richelieu, rising, stung to the quick by her arrogant rejection of his sympathy, and ashamed of the unwonted emotion the forlorn position of his royal mistress had called forth; “stay and listen to this decree, in the name of his Majesty.” And he unfolds the parchment. “Once more, Madame, understand. Unless you will on the instant resign your seat in the Council of State and dismiss the Duc d’Epernon—a man suspected of a hideous crime, which you at least, Madame, ought never to have forgotten—from his attendance on your person, I am commanded by his Majesty——”
“Dismiss D’Epernon!—my only trusty servant, D’Epernon, who has defended me from your treachery!”—breaks in Marie passionately, her voice rising higher at every word—“Never—never! Let me die first! How dare you, Cardinal Richelieu, come hither to affront the mother of your King? I will NOT dismiss the Duc d’Epernon. It is you who shall be dismissed!”—and she glares upon him with fury—“despised, dishonoured, blasted, as you deserve.”
“If you refuse, Madame—and let me implore you to reflect well before you do,” continues the Cardinal, quite unmoved by her reproaches—“I have his Majesty’s commands to banish you from Court, and to imprison you during his pleasure within this palace.”[23]
No sooner has he uttered these words than the Queen, who stands facing the Cardinal, staggers backwards. A deadly pallor overspreads her face. She totters, tries to grasp the arm of the chair from which she has risen, and before Richelieu, who watches her agony with eyes rather of sorrow than of anger, can catch her, she has fallen fainting on the floor.
At his cries the Queen’s ladies appear. He leaves her to their care, and proceeds to the apartments of Anne of Austria, whom, through Madame de Chevreuse, he informs of what has occurred.
Anne of Austria, on hearing that the Queen-mother was disgraced, saw in her unfortunate mother-in-law, who had never ceased to persecute her and to arouse the jealousy of the King, only an unhappy parent. She flew to her, threw herself into her arms, and readily promised to employ all the influence she possessed to mitigate the royal wrath.
ANNE OF AUSTRIA has left Compiègne and the royal prisoner, and is now at Saint-Germain. The château stands upon the crest of a hill, backed by a glorious forest that darkens the heights encircling Paris.
It is spring; the air is warm and genial, the sky mildly blue; light clouds temper the bright sunshine that plays upon the southern façade of the palace, and glistens among the elms which form magnificent avenues in the surrounding park.
The King has not yet returned, and the Queen and her ladies, relieved of his dreary presence, revel in unusual freedom. Concerts, suppers, dances, repasts in the forest, and moonlight walks on the terrace, are their favourite diversions. Anne of Austria has not positively forgotten the lonely captive at Compiègne, but is too much engrossed with her own affairs to remember more than her promise to assist her. That atmosphere of flattery a woman loves so well and accepts as an offering exacted by her beauty breathes around her. Monsieur Gaston, Duc d’Orléans, the King’s only brother, is always by her side. Monsieur is gay, polished, gallant; tall and slight like his brother, and pale-faced, but not, as with Louis, with the pallor of disease. He has much of his mother’s versatile nature without her violent temper. Like her he is fickle, weak, and treacherous, incapable of any deep or stable feeling. Monsieur talks to the Queen of Madrid, and sympathises with her attachment to her brother, to whom Anne writes almost daily long letters in cipher (always committed to the care of the Duchesse de Chevreuse), notwithstanding the war between France and Spain. The chivalrous Duc de Montmorenci, more formal and reserved than Monsieur, but equally devoted; the Duc de Bellegarde, no longer the ideal of manly beauty dear to the heart of poor Gabrielle d’Estrées, but grey-headed and middle-aged, though still an ardent servant of the fair, with the chivalric manners and soldier-like freedom of the former reign; gallant, rough, generous Bassompierre, who was to pay so dearly by twelve years’ imprisonment in the Bastille his opposition to the Cardinal; and Maréchal d’Ornano, the beau sabreur of that day, were also in attendance, each one the object of the King’s morbid jealousy.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort rarely leaves the Queen. She rejoices almost more than her mistress in the King’s absence. The Duchesse de Chevreuse, bewitching and spiteful, closely attended by the Comtes Chalais and Louvigni, whom she plays one against the other; the Duchesse de Montbazon, her step-mother, whose imperious eyes demand worship from all who approach her, ever in the company of De Rancé,[24]—by-and-by to found the order of La Trappe,—are some of the Ladies who form the Queen’s Court.
One moonlit night the Queen and her ladies had lingered late on the stately terrace, built by Henry IV., which borders the forest and extends for two miles along the edge of the heights on which the château stands. The Queen and her brother-in-law, Monsieur Duc d’Orléans, have seated themselves somewhat apart from the rest on the stone balustrade that fronts the steep descent into the plains around Paris. Vineyards line the hillside, which falls rapidly towards the Seine flowing far beneath, its swelling banks rich with groves, orchards, villas, and gardens. Beyond, the plain lay calm and still, wrapped in dark shadows, save where the moonbeams fall in patches and glints of silvery light. Of the great city which spreads itself beyond, not a vestige is to be seen. All human lights are extinguished, but the moon rides high in the heavens in fields of azure brightness, and the stars shine over the topmost heights, where, on the very verge of the horizon, and facing the terrace, the towers of the Cathedral of Saint-Denis break the dusky sky-line.
A range of hills links this far-off distance with the sombre masses of the adjoining forest. Great masses of trees surge up black in front, swaying hither and thither in the night breeze; the rustling of their leaves is the only sound that breaks the silence. For a time the Queen sits motionless.
“What a lovely night,” she says at last, as she casts her eyes out over the broad expanse of earth and sky. “Oh, that the world could be ever as calm and peaceful!”
A sad look comes into her eyes,—she heaves a deep sigh, throws back her head and gazes upwards. The softened rays of the moon shine upon her face, light up the masses of her golden hair, and play among the folds of a long white robe which encircles her to the feet. She sits framed, as it were, in a circle of supernatural lustre. Monsieur is beside her, rapt in admiration. The beautiful vision before him intoxicates his senses. The landmarks of social restriction, of tyrannous etiquette, have vanished, gone, with the sun and the daylight. He forgets that she is a great queen, the wife of his brother—his Sovereign; he forgets that their attendants, though invisible, are at hand, that a glittering palace lies hid among the woods, with its attendant multitudes; he forgets all save that she is there before him, a dazzling presence, sprung, as it seems, out of the darkness of the night. He gazes at her with speechless rapture. Words which had often before trembled on his lips must now be uttered. He is about to speak, when the Queen, unconscious of what is passing within him, awakes from her reverie and points to the forest.
“See, Gaston, how the moon plays upon those branches. I could almost believe that some fantastic shapes are gliding amongst the trees. Let us go back; the forest is horribly dark, it frightens me.” And she shudders.
“I can see nothing but you, my sister,” answers Monsieur, softly. “You are the very goddess of the night.” And his eyes rest on her with an impassioned gaze.
Anne of Austria still looks fixedly into the thicket, as if fascinated by the mystery of the great woods. Again she shudders and wraps the light mantle she wore closer around her.
“It is late, my brother,” she says, rising. “If I stay longer I shall have evil dreams. Let us go.”
“Oh, my sister! oh, Anne!” cries the Duke, “let us stay here for ever.” And he caught one of the folds of her white robe, kissed it, and gently endeavoured to draw her, again, toward the balustrade.
“By no means,” replied the Queen, startled, for the first time meeting his eyes. “Ah, my brother,” adds she, becoming suddenly much confused, “are you sure you do not frighten me more than the strange shapes among the trees?”
“Trust me,” cries Monsieur ardently, retaining her robe almost by force. “Tell me you will trust me—now, always. Ah, my sister, my heart bleeds for you. Never, never will you find one so devoted to you as I——”
There was a certain eloquence in his words, a truth in his protestings, that seemed to touch her. Anne flushes from head to foot.
“Monsieur—Gaston—let me go.” And she disengages herself with difficulty. Monsieur now rose. “Where is the Duchesse de Chevreuse?” asks Anne, not knowing what to say.
“No fear for her: she is well attended,” replies Monsieur in a voice full of vexation. “Every one is in good luck but me. I never saw a man so madly in love as poor Chalais, and the Duchess returns it.”
The Queen is now walking onwards at as rapid a pace as the uncertain light permitted, along the terrace. Monsieur follows her.
“Yes—in love,”—and Anne laughs her silvery laugh; “but that is not the way I would give my heart if I gave it at all, which I don’t think I am tempted to do.” And she looked back archly at Monsieur, whose countenance fell. “Chalais is one among so many,” continues the Queen, trying to resume her usual manner. “The Duchess is very benevolent.”
“Alas, my poor Henry!” answers Monsieur, “with him it is an overwhelming passion. Louvigni and the others admire and court the Duchess; but they are not like Chalais—he worships her. The Duchess is a coquette who uses him for her own purposes. She is now inciting him to head a dangerous conspiracy against the Cardinal. Chalais has opened the matter to me; but they go far—dangerously far. I cannot pledge myself to them as yet.”
“Oh, Gaston!” exclaims the Queen, stopping, and laying her hand eagerly on his arm; “if you love me as you say you do, join in any conspiracy against the Cardinal.”
The Queen speaks with vehemence. A sudden fire shot into her eyes, as she turns towards Monsieur. Her delicate hand still rests for an instant upon him, and is then withdrawn.
“Fair sister,” replies the Duke, “You cannot pretend to misunderstand me. For your service I would risk anything—how much more a tussle with an arrogant minister, who has outraged me—as much as he has you. Perhaps, Anne, I would risk too much for your sake.” And the enamoured look again comes into his eyes. But the Queen draws back, and turns her head away. “Deign to command me, sister—Queen,” he adds, “only to command me, and I will obey.”
Anne is now walking onwards. For a few moments she does not reply.
“If you would serve me—let Richelieu be banished,” says she at last imperiously. “I care not whither. Nothing is too bad for him. He has dared to insult me. You, Gaston, are safe, even if you fail. My brother will receive you at Madrid; I will take care of that.”
“I am overcome by your gracious consideration for my welfare,” cries Monsieur, catching at her words. “But, my sister,” continues he gravely, “do you know what this plot means? Assassination is spoken of. At this very moment I wager my life the Duchess is employing all her seductions to draw Chalais into a promise of stabbing the Cardinal.”
“Stabbing the Cardinal? Impossible! Chalais would not commit a crime. You make me tremble. The Duchess told me nothing of this. She must have lost her head.”
“I know that Chalais is fiercely jealous. He is jealous of every one who approaches the Duchess, and we all know that the Cardinal is not insensible to her charms——”
“Odious hypocrite!” breaks in the Queen.
“As long as Richelieu lives,” continues Monsieur, “my mother will not be set at liberty. He dreads her influence. He knows she has a powerful party.”
“It is infamous!” exclaims Anne of Austria.
“The Cardinal persuades the King that he alone can govern France, and that our mother desires to depose him and appoint a regency, which I am to share with her; that you, my sister, conspire against him with Spain. My brother, weak, irresolute, insensible to you, believes all that is told him. I, my mother’s only friend, dare not assist her. You, his wife, the loveliest princess in Europe—nay, in the whole world,”—and his kindling eyes fix themselves upon her—“he repulses. You might as well be married to an anchorite. Thank God, his Majesty’s health is feeble, his life very uncertain. If he dies I shall be King of France, and then——” He pauses, as if hesitating to finish the sentence. “Ah, my sister!” he exclaims, stopping and trying to detain her. “Had I been blessed with such a consort I would have passed my life at her feet. Would that even now I might do so! The dark canopy of these ancient trees—the silence, the solitude, make all possible. Speak to me, Anne; tell me—oh, tell me that I may hope. Do not turn away from me——”
The Queen had stopped. She stands listening to him with her face turned towards the ground.
The moon is fast sinking behind the distant tree-tops, and the deepest shadows of the night darken their path which had now left the terrace, and lay beneath the trees. The wind sighs and moans in the adjoining forest, and an owl hoots from an ivy-covered tree. For some minutes the Queen moves not. Her whole figure is in shadow. Was she listening to the voices of the night? or was she deeply musing on what she had heard? Who can tell?
Some sudden resolve seemed, however, to form itself in her mind. She roused herself, and motions to Monsieur with her hand to go onwards. “Alas, my brother,” she says with a deep sigh, “do not press me, I beseech you. You know not what you say. Such words are treason.” And she hurries onwards into the gloom. “Head the conspiracy against the Cardinal,” she continues, moving quickly forward as if afraid to hear more; “restrain the violence of Chalais, who loves you well and will obey you. I will temper the indiscretion of the Duchess. She is an excellent lieutenant, inspired in her readiness of resource and ingenuity in intrigue; but—she is a bad general. We must be careful, Gaston, or we shall all find ourselves prisoners in the Bastille.”
“No, by Saint Paul! not so, my sister,” and Monsieur laughs gaily, for his facile nature dwelt upon nothing long, and his thoughts had now been diverted into other channels. “No; but we will have Richelieu there! Bassompierre and D’Ornano are with us; they swear that they will shut him up in an iron cage—as Louis XI. did Cardinal Balue—for life, and feed him on bread and water. Corps de Dieu! I should like to see it.”
“But I will have no blood shed,” rejoins the Queen; “remember that.”
“My sister, your word is law. When I have learnt more from Chalais, I will inform you of every detail.”
They had now reached the château. The windows shone with light. Torches fixed in the ground burnt round the great quadrangle, and a guard of musketeers, assembled near the entrance, presented arms as the Queen passed.
A page appeared, and handed a despatch to Mademoiselle de Mérigny, who had now joined the Queen. She presented it to her Majesty. Anne broke the seals. As she read she coloured, then laughed. “Gaston,” whispered she, turning to Monsieur, “this is the most extraordinary coincidence. We have been talking of the Cardinal, and here is a letter from him in which he craves a private audience. You shall learn by-and-by what it means.”
“Par Dieu!” exclaimed Monsieur, full of wonder.
“Tell no one of this but Chalais,” again whispered the Queen. Then she lightly laid her small hand within that of Monsieur; they mounted the grand staircase together, and passed through the long suite of the royal apartments. All were blazing with light; on either side of the great gallery stood the Court, ranged in two lines, waiting her Majesty’s pleasure. As she passed, led by Monsieur, she bowed slightly, and, with a wave of the hand, dismissed the assembly. At the door leading to her private apartment Monsieur pressed her hand, raised it to his lips, and, glancing at her significantly, bowed and retired.
ANNE OF AUSTRIA seated herself beside a fire which burnt on the hearth. She signed to her attendants to withdraw.
“Send hither to me the Duchesse de Chevreuse, if she has returned to the château,” said she to one of the pages in waiting. Then Anne drew from her bosom the letter she had just received. “It is incredible,” said she, speaking to herself, “that he should so compromise himself! Pride has turned his brain. Now it is my turn, Monsieur le Cardinal.” The Duchess entered hastily. “Read, ma belle, read,” cried Anne, holding out the despatch to her, “the fates favour us. Let us a lay a trap for this wicked prelate.”
“Ma foi” replied the Duchess, after having reperused the letter contained in the despatch, “even I could not have contrived it better. Here is the Cardinal craving a private audience of your Majesty in the absence of the King. It will be a declaration in form—such as he made to me.”
“A declaration to me, Duchess? He would not dare——”
“Madame, he has been a soldier, and has passed his life along with a great queen. He believes himself irresistible. Who knows if Marie de’ Medici did not tell him so?” Anne of Austria looked displeased. “Pardon me, Madame, this saucy Cardinal, whom I call the Court-knave, makes me forget myself. Your Majesty must receive him graciously.”
“Yes, he shall come,” cried Anne; “he shall come and pay for his audacity, the hypocrite! But tell me, Duchess, tell me instantly, how can I best revenge myself? I have a long account to settle. Shall I command my valets, Laporte and Putange, to hide behind the arras and beat him until he is half dead?”
“No, Madame, that would be too dangerous; he might cut off your head in revenge, à la reine Anne Boleyn. We must mortify him—wound his vanity: no vengeance equal to that with a man like the Cardinal. He is intensely conceited, and proud of his figure. He imagines that he is graceful and alluring—perhaps he has been told so by her Majesty—I beg your pardon, Madame”—and the Duchess stopped and pursed up her lips, as if she could say more but dared not.
“Did Marion de l’Orme betray him?” asked the Queen slily, “or do you speak on your own knowledge?”
“I have it!” cried Madame de Chevreuse—not noticing the Queen’s question—and her mischievous eyes danced with glee. “I will meet him when he comes to-morrow, and persuade him to appear in the dress of a Spaniard, out of compliment to you. Stay, he shall dance, too, and we will provide a mandoline to accompany his voice. I will tell him that you have long admired him in secret, and that if he appears in so becoming a costume he is sure to be well received. A Spanish costume, too, for he knows how you adore Spain, the spy—then he shall dance a sarabande, a bolero à l’Espagnol, or sing——”
“Ha! ha! Duchess, you are impayable” and the Queen laughed until the tears ran down her cheeks. “But will he be fool enough to believe you? If he does, I will kill him with scorn, the daring Cardinal!” and Anne of Austria drew herself up, looked into an opposite mirror, shook her golden curls, and laughed again.
The next morning, at the hour of the Queen’s lever, the Cardinal arrived. The Duchesse de Chevreuse met him and conducted him to a room near the Queen’s saloon. She carefully closed the door, begged him to be seated, and, with an air of great mystery, requested him to listen to her before his arrival was announced to her Majesty. The Cardinal was greatly taken aback at finding himself alone with the Duchess. She looked so seductive; the dark tints of her luxuriant hair, hanging about her neck and shoulders, harmonised so well with her brunette complexion, her brown eyes bent smilingly upon him, her delicate robe clinging to her tall figure, that he was almost tempted to repent his infidelity to her, and that he had come for any other than for her.
“Your eminence is surprised to see me,” said she, smiling, and speaking in the softest voice, and with the utmost apparent frankness, “but I am not in the least jealous,” and she shook her finger at him.
The Cardinal reddened, and looked confused.
“Do you, then, Duchess, guess on what errand I have come?”
“Perfectly, perfectly; when I heard you had requested a private audience in the absence of the King, I understood the rest.”
“Perhaps I have been indiscreet,” said Richelieu, and he sighed, “but I was anxious to explain my position to the Queen. I fear that she misconceives me; that she looks on me as her enemy; that she imagines that I prejudice the King against her. I desire to explain my feelings to her; they are of a mixed nature.”
“So I would suppose,” answered Madame de Chevreuse, primly, almost bursting with suppressed laughter.
“Do you think, then, madame, that her Majesty might be induced to lay aside her silence, her reserve? Are you authorised to admit me to her presence?”
Richelieu’s face flushed deep, his eyes glistened.
“To a certain extent,” continued the Duchess, “the Queen is gratified by your homage. Her Majesty has noted your slim yet manly form, your expressive eyes. She admires your great talents.”
“Do I dream?” exclaimed Richelieu. “You, madame, are indeed magnanimous. I feared that you might be indignant at what you might consider my inconstancy.”
“No, Cardinal, you could not be inconstant, for you were never loved.”
Richelieu started.
“By me—I mean to say, your eminence. You really should spare me,” added she, affectedly; “but I suppose I must speak. Anne of Austria, the daughter of a hundred kings, the wife of your Sovereign, secretly loves you, monseigneur. It is astonishing your extraordinary penetration never discovered this before. Since you went into the Church you must have grown modest; but love is blind, says the motto,” and the Duchess was obliged to hold her handkerchief to her face to hide her laughter.
“What words of ecstacy do you utter, adorable Duchess! But you must be aware of the coldness, the insulting scorn which the lovely Queen has hitherto shown towards me. How could I venture to guess——”
“Ah, Cardinal, it is easy to see you are not so advanced in the art of love as of politics. Let me advise you to read Ovid—a little of The Art of Love—pour vous remettre. Did you learn so little, then, from her late Majesty, Marie de’ Medici, as not to know that where most Cupid triumphs he most conceals his wicked little person? That very coldness and scorn you speak of are but proofs of the Queen’s passion. But let me tell you one thing: the Queen fears you may deceive—betray her; and you must excuse her in this, when you remember, monseigneur, certain tales of treachery—all utterly false, of course—but then pardon a woman’s fears. You must, to speak plainly, give her some undoubted proof of your love.”
“Madame, you cannot doubt after what I have just heard that I can hesitate in promising to do all and everything my royal mistress can desire.”
The Duchess confessed afterwards to the Queen, that it was with the utmost difficulty she could keep her countenance, so absolutely farcical were his transports.
“Have a care what you promise,” said the Duchess to the Cardinal; “the Queen is very bizarre, and perhaps may require something impracticable.”
“Madame,” replied Richelieu, “to me nothing in this realm is impracticable; speak only her Majesty’s wishes, and I hasten to obey them.”
“Well, then, to-night you must come at dusk to her apartments.” The Cardinal bounded from his chair with delight. “To-night; but not in this sombre, melancholy dress; you must wear a toilette a little convenable to the part you hope to act—something brilliant, gaudy—un pantalon vert, par exemple.” The Cardinal started. “At your knees little bells must be fastened. You must have a velvet jacket, scarlet scarf, and, in fact, all the et cæteras of a Spanish dress. It will please the Queen, and pay her a delicate compliment, to which, believe me, she will not be insensible.”
All this time Richelieu had listened to the Duchess in an agony of surprise and amazement. “But, madame,” said he, at length, “this is impossible. I, a dignitary of the Church, a Cardinal. Much as I desire to show my devotion to the Queen, she herself cannot expect from me so strange, so extraordinary a proof——”
“Certainly, monseigneur, it is an extreme proof of your devotion, and as such the Queen will regard it. She will be gratified, and at the same time will be thoroughly convinced of your sincerity. However, pray do as you please,” and the Duchess shrugged her shoulders; “I merely mention her Majesty’s wishes; you are quite at liberty to refuse. I shall therefore,” and she rose, “report your refusal.”
“Stop, Duchess, stop, I entreat you!” interrupted Richelieu, “you are so precipitate! I will—I must! (But what a fearful degradation! I, the prime minister of France, a prince of the Church, to appear in the disguise of a mountebank!) Ah, madame, her Majesty is too hard on me; but I adore, I worship her too much to refuse. Yes,—her wishes are my law; I cannot, I dare not refuse. Tell the Queen, at twilight this evening, I will present myself in her apartments.”
The Duchess waited no longer, but flew to acquaint the Queen with her success. Neither could for a long time articulate a single syllable, they were so overcome with laughter. Music was introduced behind the arras, for the Cardinal was to be prevailed on to dance a sarabande. Then they impatiently awaited the moment of his arrival. At last, enveloped in a Spanish cloak that entirely concealed his dress, the Cardinal entered. He was hastily rushing towards the Queen—Heaven only knows with what intentions—when Madame de Chevreuse interposed:
“Not yet, Cardinal—not yet; you must show us your dress first, then you must dance a sarabande, a bolero—something. Her Majesty has heard of your accomplishments and insists on it.”
“Yes,” cried Anne of Austria, “I insist on it, monseigneur, and have provided the music accordingly.”
The violins now struck up. Richelieu looked confounded. He was almost on the point of rushing out, when a few words whispered to him by the Duchess arrested him; they acted like a charm. Casting one deep, impassioned glance at the Queen, who sat at a little distance reposing on a couch, ravishing in beauty, her rosy lips swelling with ill-suppressed scorn, he threw down his cloak, displaying his extraordinary dress, bells, scarlet scarf and all, and began to dance—yes, to dance!
Poor man! he was no longer young, and was stiff from want of practice; so after a few clumsy entrechats and pirouettes, he stopped. He was quite red in the face and out of breath. He looked horribly savage for a few moments. The music stopped also, and there was a pause. Then he advanced towards the Queen, the little bells tinkling as he moved.
“Your Majesty must now be convinced of my devotion. Deign, most adorable Princess, to permit me to kiss that exquisite hand.”
The Queen listened to him in solemn silence. The Duchess leaned behind her couch, a smile of gratified malice on her face. The Cardinal, motionless before them, awaited her reply. Then Anne of Austria rose, and, looking him full in the face, measured him from head to foot. Anger, contempt, and scorn flashed in her eyes. At last she spoke—ineffable disgust and disdain in her tone—“Your eminence is, I rejoice to see, good for something better than a spy. I had hitherto doubted it. You have diverted me immensely. But take my advice; when you next feel inclined to pay your addresses to the Queen of France, get yourself shut up by your friends for an old fool. Now you may go.”
Richelieu, who had gradually turned livid while the Queen spoke, waited to hear no more. He covered himself with his cloak and rushed headlong from the room.
THE King returns to Saint-Germain as suddenly as he had departed; he commands a hunt in the forest at noon. The château wears an air of unusual gaiety. The King and Queen start together from the quadrangle, but they do not address each other. Anne, who rides on in front, attended by Monsieur, is positively dazzling in her sunny beauty. Her delicate cheeks are flushed with excitement. A small velvet cap, with a heron’s plume, rests on her head, and an emerald-coloured riding-dress, bordered with gold, sets off her rounded figure. She is followed by her ladies, many of whom wear masks to protect their complexions. The maids of honour are in blue, with large hats overtopped by enormous feathers.
Near them rides the King. He is much too shy to address Mademoiselle de Hautefort before such an assemblage; but his eyes constantly follow her, and he is infinitely gratified by the reserve of her manner towards the young gallants of the Court. Behind him rides the Grand Falconer, followed by the huntsmen, the piqueur, the whippers-in, and the falcons, hooded and chained to the wrists of their bearers. Last come the dogs—the sad King’s special favourites. The brilliant cavalcade flashes among the glades, which intersect the forest in every direction. The gaily caparisoned steeds, and their still gayer riders, the feathers, the lace, the embroidery, flutter in and out among the openings of the wood, and are lost in the many paths, where every turn is so like the other, yet each marked by some special beauty. Most of the ladies are mounted on palfreys, but some prefer litters; others are drawn up and down in cumbrous coaches, that threaten each moment to overturn on the gnarled roots of beech and oak that break the sward. On the riders dash between the giant tree-trunks, unhidden by the luxuriant foliage that masses the woods in summer—for the season is spring—and the trees are covered with but a slight shade of green leaves just bursting from the grey boughs. Yonder they dart under a pine-tree that darkens the ground, its spiky branches casting forth an aromatic perfume. Then beneath a cherry-tree, white with snowy blossoms, on among a maze of goss and yellow broom that streak the underwood with fire.
The birds sing in the bushes, the bees buzz among the blossoms, and the horses’ hoofs crush the tender mosses and the early flowers that carpet the ground. At the approach of the hunters hares and rabbits run lightly away, and timid does, with their young at their side, scamper far into the deepest recesses of the woods. Now the bugles sound, the dogs bay loudly; they spread themselves from side to side and disappear among the coppice, and the whole glittering company, gilded coaches, litters and all follow them, and dash out of sight and are hidden among the trees.
It was arranged that the hunt should lead towards a noble mansion lying on the confines of the forest, in the direction of Bondy, where the host, apprized of the intended honour, had prepared an ample collation.
Etiquette demanded that the King and Queen should be served apart from the rest. After their repast was finished and their attendants had withdrawn, the Queen approached nearer to the King. He started up and turned towards the door. Anne followed him. The long ride in the forest had flushed her cheeks. She looked brilliant. “Your Majesty will not refuse to speak to me, surely,” said she in the softest tones of her naturally sweet voice, and she raised her glorious eyes, which would have melted any other man but Louis, beseechingly.
The King shook his head sullenly.
“What have I done that your Majesty should scorn me?” said she, stretching out her beautiful hand with the most winning gesture to detain him.
Louis shrank from her touch, and turned his back upon her.
“Sire, will you not at least hear me, as you would hear the least of your subjects?” and the Queen’s eyes filled with tears and her hand dropped to her side.
“What have you to say to me?” asked Louis harshly, not looking at her.
“When I last saw your Majesty at Compiègne,” replied she with a faltering voice, “your mother, the Queen-dowager”—at her name Louis shuddered—“was mistress of the palace and of France. She sat at the royal board; she presided at the Council of State; your Majesty obeyed and loved her as a son. She is now a prisoner—disgraced, forsaken, ill.” The Queen’s voice became so unsteady that she was obliged to stop, and unbidden tears rolled down her cheeks. “What has this great Queen done to deserve your Majesty’s displeasure?” she added after a pause.
“Madame, it is no affair of yours,” answered Louis gruffly. “I refuse to give you my reasons. I act according to the advice of my council. Do not detain me,” and he turned again to leave the room. Anne placed herself in front of him; her head was thrown back, her figure raised to its full height, the tears on her eyelids were dried; she was no longer timid, but exasperated.
“If I have ventured to intercede for the Queen-mother,” said she with dignity, “it is because she implored me to do so. She wept upon my bosom. Her heart was all but broken. I comforted her as a daughter. I promised her to use such feeble powers as I had, to soften your heart, Sire. It is a sacred pledge I am discharging.”
“You are a couple of hypocrites!” exclaimed Louis with great irritation, facing round upon her. “You hate each other. From my mother I have freed myself; but you—” and he surveyed her savagely from head to foot—“you, Madame Anne of Austria, you remain.”
“Yes, I remain,” returned Anne, “until, as I am told, you crave a dispensation from the Pope and send me back to Madrid.” These last words were spoken slowly and with marked emphasis. “I am a childless queen,” and she shot a bitter glance at Louis, who now stood rooted to the spot and listened to her with an expression of speechless amazement.
“Who told you, Madame, that I sought a dispensation from the Pope, and to send you back to Madrid?” asked Louis sharply. Then, without waiting for an answer, he put his hand to his forehead as if some sudden thought had struck him, knit his brows, and was lost in thought.
“I have heard so, no matter how,” answered the Queen coolly, “and on excellent authority. Sire,” she cried passionately, no longer able to restrain her feelings, “you use me too ill—rather than suffer as I do I will leave France for ever; I will not bear the mockery of being called your wife—I would rather bury myself in a convent at Madrid.”
Louis was so completely abstracted, that although he had asked her a question, he had forgotten to listen to her reply. Now he caught at her last word.
“Madrid? Yes, Madame, I believe it. Your heart is there. I know it but too well. Would you had never left Madrid! Ever since you came into France you have desired my death that you might wed a comelier consort.”
Louis could scarcely articulate, so violently was he excited. Anne did not stir, only her glowing eyes followed, as it were, each word he uttered.
“You talk of the Queen-mother, do you know that she warned me long ago that you were dishonouring me?”
“Oh, Sire, if you forget who I am,” exclaimed the Queen, “remember at least that I am a woman!” and she burst into tears, and for a few moments sobbed bitterly.
“Can you deny it, Madame,” continued the King, with rising fury, his mouth twitching nervously, as was his wont when much agitated—“can you deny it? Am I not become a jest among my own courtiers? You, the Queen of France, openly encourage the addresses of many lovers. You are wanting, Madame, even in the decency of the reserve becoming your high station,” and Louis clenched his fist with rage.
“I deny what you say,” returned the Queen boldly; “I have discoursed with no man to the dishonour of your Majesty.” She was trembling violently, but she spoke firmly and with dignity. “If I am wanting in concealment,” added she, “it is because I have nothing to conceal.”
“I do not believe you,” answered the King rudely.
“No, Sire, you do not, because you are my enemy. Your mind is poisoned against me. You encourage the lies of Richelieu, you slander me to my own attendants. Worse than all, you dare to couple my name with that of the Duc d’Orléans, your own brother. It is a gross calumny.”
Her voice rose as she spoke; the power of truth and innocence was in her look—it was impossible not to believe her. For an instant the King’s suspicions seemed shaken. He followed eagerly every word she uttered; but at the name of Monsieur a livid paleness overspread his face; for a moment he looked as if he would have swooned. Then recovering himself somewhat he came close up to her, and with a wild look he scanned her curiously, as though to read some answer to his suspicions. “Who can have told her? who can have told her?” he muttered half aloud—“a secret of state too. It is not possible that—” The last words were spoken so low that they were lost. Louis was evidently struggling with some painful but overwhelming conviction. His head sunk on his breast. Again he became lost in thought. Then, looking up, he saw that the Queen was watching him. She was waiting for him to speak. This awakened him suddenly to a consciousness of what was passing, and his anger burst forth afresh.
“You say I am your enemy—yes, I am, and with reason. Are you not devoted to the interests of Spain, now at war with France? Do you not betray me in letters to your brother? Answer me.” It was now the Queen’s turn to falter and turn pale. The King perceived it. “I have you there, Madame Anne; I have you there;” and he laughed vindictively. “My life is not safe beside you. Like my great father, I shall die by an assassin whose hand will be directed by my wife!” A cold shiver passed over him. “Richelieu has proofs. Vrai Dieu, Madame, he has proofs. It is possible,” he added, with a sardonic smile, which made him look ghastly, “that you may return to Madrid sooner than you imagine—you and the Duchesse de Chevreuse, your accomplice.”
“Not sooner than I desire, Sire, after your unworthy treatment,” exclaimed Anne, proudly, her anger overcoming her fears that her letters might have been really deciphered. “I come of a race that cannot brook insult; but I can bear disgrace.”
Louis, who felt that the Queen was getting the better of him, grew furious—“I will have no more words, Madame,” shouted he; “we will deal with facts. I shall appeal to my minister and to my council. For myself, I am not fit to govern,” he added, in an altered voice, and with the forlorn air of a man who cannot help himself.
“Speak not to me, Sire, of Richelieu and the council over which he presides,” cried Anne, goaded beyond endurance. “Richelieu is a traitor, a hypocrite, a libertine—not even his sovereign’s wife is sacred to him!”
“Ah, Madame, it is natural that you and Richelieu should disagree,” retorted the King, with an incredulous sneer. “He is a match for you and for the Duchess your counsellor—the Duchess whose life disgraces my Court.”
Anne had now thrown herself into a chair, her hands were crossed on her bosom, her eyes bent steadily on the King, as if prepared for whatever fresh extravagance he might utter. Even the enraged Louis felt the influence of her fixed, stern gaze. He ceased speaking, grew suddenly confused, paced up and down hurriedly, stopped, essayed again to address her—then abruptly strode out of the room.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The Queen and her ladies are seated on a stone balcony that overlooks the parterre and the park of Saint-Germain. Below, the King’s violins are playing some music of his composition, set to words in praise of friendship, full of covert allusions to Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The Queen’s fair young face is clouded with care; she leans back listlessly in her chair, and takes no heed of the music or of what is passing around her. The Chevalier de Jars approaches her. There is something in his air that alarms her; she signs to him to place himself beside her.
Mademoiselle de Hautefort, conscious that every one is watching the effect of the music and the words upon her, sits apart at the farther end of the gallery, from which the balcony projects, almost concealed from view. A door near her opens noiselessly, and the King puts in his head. He peers round cautiously, sees that no one has perceived him, and that Mademoiselle de Hautefort is alone, then he creeps in and seats himself by her side. He looks saddened and perplexed.
“Why do you shun me?” he asks, abruptly.
“Did you miss me?” His voice sounds so strange and hollow that Mademoiselle de Hautefort looks up into his face. Something has happened; what could it be? Some misfortune to the Queen is always her first thought. Before she can reply, Louis sighs profoundly, so profoundly that he almost groans, contemplating her, at the same time, with looks of inexpressible sorrow. “Alas!” exclaims he at last, “I had hoped so much from this interview when we parted at Fontainebleau; I have lived upon the thought, and now—my dream is ended; all is over!” The maid of honour grows alarmed: either he is gone mad, she thinks, or something dreadful has happened.
“I cannot conceive what you mean, Sire?” she replies, not knowing what to say.
“Are you, too, false?” he continues, “with those eyes so full of truth? Yet it must be you, it can be no other. False like the rest; a devil with an angel’s face!” The maid of honour is more and more amazed. “Yet I trusted you; with my whole heart I trusted you,” and he turns to her with a piteous expression, and wrings his hands. “I unfolded to you my forlorn and desolate condition. It might have touched you. Tell me,” he continues, in a tone of anguish, “tell me the truth; was it you who betrayed me?”
Mademoiselle de Hautefort is terribly confused. She understands now what the King means; a mortal terror seizes her; what shall she say to him? She is too conscientious to deny point-blank that she has told his secret, so she replies evasively, “that she is his Majesty’s faithful servant.”
“But, speak,” insists the King, “give me a plain