A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Eminenza,” said the simply habited Abbe as he knelt and waited for the Cardinal to proffer his ring to be kissed.

  With a little shake to his head Barberini did this, motioning his visitor to rise as soon as the obedience was performed. “Well, we are assured of Louis’ support,” said the Cardinal without preamble. “I have just had word.”

  If this information evoked any emotion in the Abbe, nothing of it was revealed by his handsome features. “To what degree?”

  “He will request that you become a citizen of Francia, that you be accepted into the diplomatic service of that country, and that you be made a Cardinal, as befits your station.” Barberini placed the letter on his writing table and folded his hands.

  “And ordination? Must I be a priest?” The Abbe touched his pectoral crucifix. “I have not that vocation.”

  Barberini sighed. “Giulio, what a stickler you can be.” He closed his eyes. “Thus far, neither His Majesty nor His Holiness have insisted that you be a priest; it is enough that you are an Abbe. This is the least of our concerns.”

  Giulio smiled, his expressive brown eyes filling with warmth. “Not for me, Eminenza. Forgive me for speaking of this again, but it is no minor thing with me.”

  “Your ‘tranquility of soul’—yes, I know,” said Barberini as tolerantly as possible. “That was more than a decade ago. Surely…” He did not finish. “There is no reason for us to discuss this. There is no reason at all.”

  “As you wish, Eminenza.” Though the words were dutiful, his manner was firm.

  “More of your insolence, I suppose,” Barberini said, his rebuke marred by a chuckle. “It speaks well of you. A diplomat needs insolence to carry out his tasks.” He indicated the upholstered bench on the other side of his writing table. “Sit down. There are many things we must decide.”

  Giulio Mazarini sat down at once. “What is needed of me?”

  “There are a few matters”—he indicated the letter without touching it—“suggested here that demand our attention before we respond. And we must respond quickly, before the official statements are issued.”

  “Certainly,” said Giulio, his face once again without expression beyond polite interest.

  “There is the matter of Richelieu and the Protestants.” Barberini fully expected an outburst; he regarded Giulio narrowly.

  “Our disagreements are known to you,” he said carefully, hesitating just long enough to hold back any hasty words. “When I came back to Roma, we discussed the matter then.”

  “So we did,” said Barberini. “But that was seventeen, eighteen months ago. There have been changes.” He placed the tips of his fingers together and regarded Giulio over them.

  “My purpose as extraordinary nuncio in Parigi was to establish peace between Francia and Espagna. How the great Richelieu dealt with the rest was not in my purview.” He was sitting a little straighter, but nothing in the tone of his voice revealed his emotions.

  Barberini shook his head. “Giulio, caro Giulio, this is not a diplomatic assembly. We are two friends, and what we say will not go beyond this door.” He offered a kindly smile. “Tell me, Giulio, how you would assess the troubles Richelieu has had with the Protestants and—”

  “I would not presume to assess, not after so long a time and at such distance,” said Giulio more sharply.

  “Your defense of Richelieu is admirable. I pray that if ever I require your defense you will do as well by me as you have by him.” He coughed delicately. “But about the Protestants?”

  “There are many Protestants in Francia. There are several factors to consider.” He shifted on the bench. “Eminenza, I beg your forgiveness, but I do not believe that I can comment on what has happened in Parigi since I returned to Roma. It is not only that I do not wish to speak ill of my great mentor, but that I am not abreast of events there.”

  Barberini lifted one tufted brow, his childlike face suddenly very ironic. “What? In all this time you have received no word at all from Parigi?”

  Giulio had the good sense to be silent. He met Barberini’s gaze evenly, his attitude unchanged. “Perhaps we should speak at a more convenient time,” he said at last.

  “There is no convenient time to speak of these matters,” snapped Barberini, relenting. “Very well. I accept your silence. I will not demand to know what has been sent to you under the rose. I have had my own observers there and I suppose I must be guided by what they tell me.” He waited, leaving this opening for Giulio. “But if there is something…?”

  “No; nothing. Yours is a wise decision, Eminenza,” said Giulio. He looked down at his long, shapely hands. “In the matter of citizenship?”

  “You must accept those terms. You cannot act for Louis if you are not one of his countrymen.” Barberini opened his hands, then laid the fingertips together once more. “Citizenship is for the sake of the world, not the sake of the soul. You are part of the Church, which is more than any nation. If to serve God and His Church we must make concessions in the world, it is a small enough price to pay.”

  “I do not object to the terms.” Giulio looked up at the ceiling. “If Francia is to be my work, then”—he changed from Italian to French—“then I will be French. It is no disgrace to be French, Eminence.”

  Barberini’s French was not as good as Giulio’s, but serviceable enough. “It is no disgrace to be Christian anywhere in the world, so long as you are not Protestant.”

  Giulio crossed himself. “God will protect me.”

  “As He will all of us, we pray forever.” This was an automatic sentiment, expressed with slight impatience. “Have you considered your suite?”

  “I have,” said Giulio, still speaking French. “I have relatives, of course, to be with me in time to come. Richelieu advises me to make most of my household with French servants, so that I will not seem as much a foreigner.” He rose and went to the window. “For the most part I agree, though I have insisted that my cooks come from Roma.”

  “What does Richelieu say to that?” Barberini asked, amused.

  “He concurs.” Giulio took a deep breath. “For two reasons: he has advised me that there could be attempts on my life, and that poison would be the most expected means of harming me. His second reason,” he went on with a most charming smile, “is that he knows Italian cooks are superior to French ones.”

  Barberini laughed once, and Giulio joined with him. “You’re right. And so is His Eminence.” He grew serious as he regarded the letter again. “What about the rest of your suite?”

  “I have decided that I will employ French officers as my private couriers. This way it cannot be said that I have used my station to compromise Louis, since his own men would not act against their oaths to him.” Giulio had become serious with mercurial swiftness. “I do not want to give any occasion for doubts to arise. I want the French to know that I am one of them.”

  “And your name?” said Barberini. “What have you decided about that? Giulio Mazarini is an Italian no matter what nation he serves.”

  “Yes,” said Giulio with resignation. “I cannot dispute that. It is Richelieu’s recommendation that I adapt my name, so that I will be French, but also so it will not appear that I am trying to hide my origins.”

  “Richelieu often has excellent sense,” said Barberini. “So, what is it to be?”

  “Jules Mazarin,” said Giulio thoughtfully, tasting the name to see how it felt in his mouth.

  “Mazarin could be Venetian,” approved Barberini. “You will not find opposite to such a name here.”

  “Nor in France, I hope,” said Giulio. “I’ve practiced writing it; the most difficult thing is to leave off the last i.” He gestured self-effacingly. “Tell me, will Bichi and Bagni support me?”

  “Of course. You need not ask,” said Barberini. “Since your successful negotiation of the Treaty of Cherasco they have had faith in you, and they see that your affiliation with the French is for the benefit of the Church and the nation.” He had drawn himself up and
spoke as if addressing a large number of people instead of this single Abbe.

  Giulio turned his back on the window. “I do not ask for pride, Eminence. That would show more clearly than any other sin that I am not suited to fill this post. I ask because once I leave for France, I will have to rely on your aid without being able to solicit it.”

  Barberini gave Giulio a measuring look. “We have striven for years to bring this about. You have no reason to suppose that we would desert you now.”

  “No reason,” repeated Giulio, his eyes fixed on a point some distance beyond the opposite wall. “You will have messengers from those who will not wish me to continue in my work. You will hear things of me, and some of them will be lies.”

  “Certainly; that is the way of the world.” Barberini waited until he had Giulio’s full attention. “That is why you must choose your suite carefully, and why your messengers must be wholly reliable and devoted to you. Any other course is folly.”

  “Yes,” said Giulio. He glanced once at the letter on the writing table, then looked deliberately away. “I have made several inquiries already. I will arrange for personal couriers after I have myself established.”

  “You and your suite?” Barberini suggested.

  “You mean in case I should need to have it appear that I am not making use of couriers?” Giulio said, and just for a moment his attractive features hardened to show his tremendous will beneath his pleasant manner.

  “Among other things,” said Barberini, being deliberately obscure.

  “I have not yet discussed the matter with those who have consented to come with me,” said Giulio, choosing his words with great care. “That is not to say that they have not broached the matter to me; Bondama Clemens was most forthcoming.”

  “And the others?” Barberini inquired at his blandest.

  “It will take time for me to be certain, but I believe that most of those accompanying me are astute enough to understand what our game is.” He paused, one hand resting on the crucifix he wore. “Is it fitting, I wonder, for a churchman to expect others to compromise themselves for the sake of the Church? I believe that what we do we do for the benefit of all the souls in Europe, in Christendom, but for that benefit, I require those most closely allied with me to accept hazards that are more truly mine than theirs. What will God make of that when He judges my soul, do you think?”

  “That you were obedient to the Will of God and the Pope,” said Barberini at once. “You have work to do in the world, Abbe, and there is no reason for you to think that your work is less in the Way of God than the prayers of a cloistered nun. As long as we are on the earth, we must—”

  Giulio held up his hand. “Yes, I have said those things to myself, and most of the time I persuade myself. But what of the others? Do they believe I am entitled to…?”

  “Why would they agree to form your suite if they did not?” Barberini demanded, his small eyes narrowing. “Who doubts your right?”

  “No one. Save myself.” Giulio crossed the study in four long strides.

  “This from the man who rode between two attacking armies shouting ‘Peace!’?” Barberini nodded once. “It is no wonder that Richelieu and Louis want your services. If you were willing to do so much then, you are entitled to like service from those who have accepted your protection.” He held up the letter. “You are not unopposed. Those who go with you know that, and they are aware that your protection is their protection.”

  Giulio crossed himself. “May there be no blood on my hands at the end of my life. God give me His aid.”

  “He has done so already, by bringing you to Richelieu’s attention, and by giving you courage. Give thanks in your prayers that God made His Gifts known to you early.” Barberini picked up a small silver bell and rang it. “My page will bring us refreshments.”

  “Thank you,” said Giulio, who did not want any.

  “Bichi will be joining us directly. He has some information to pass along to you.” He read through the letter once more, shaking his head. “You must send a courier to Richelieu soon. I do not like what we have heard about his health. He is vulnerable if his health fails.”

  “He is vulnerable in any case,” said Giulio grimly.

  “But doubly so…” Barberini stopped as there was a discreet knock on the door. “Who is it?”

  “Lionello,” said the page in a high, nasal voice.

  “Bolognese,” said Barberini softly. “Don’t comment on his accent, will you?”

  “Naturally not,” said Giulio. “Have him enter.” He resumed his seat on the bench, resigning himself to boredom and worry.

  “Come in,” called out Antonio, Cardinal Barberini, reverting to Italian. “And bring our refreshment.”

  Lionello was no older than nine, taller than most for his age, but gawky, all arms and legs. He held the tray he carried as if he expected it to explode. It was not possible to bow, but he lowered his head, first to his master and then to Giulio. “I tried to find some berries, but they are not ripe yet, master.”

  “That’s all right,” said Barberini, directing Lionello to put the tray down on the corner of his writing table.

  As he obeyed, Lionello looked toward Giulio. “They say you are going to Francia to serve the King.”

  “Yes, I have heard that, as well,” said Giulio, doing his best to appear unconcerned.

  “Such matters are not for pages to discuss; certainly there is no reason for you to talk of it.” Barberini’s words were sharp, and he directed them at Lionello in his most impressive tone. “If I learn that you have been listening to gossip, or spreading it yourself, then I will see that you are sent home to Bologna at once, and there entered in monastic service—preferably with a silent Order.”

  Lionello’s hands shook as he stepped back. “I have said nothing. I repeat only what I hear, my master.” He kept his eyes lowered as he said this.

  “A little less defiance, if you will,” said Barberini, reaching out and forcing the boy to look up. “It is in your eyes, carino, and God knows it as surely as He knows the limits of the oceans.”

  Giulio signaled to Barberini, then said in his mildest way, “Don’t be too harsh with him, Eminenza. He knows that the others gossip and bear tales, and it is not surprising that he wishes to be like the rest, with his own tale to tell.”

  “No servant of mine is permitted to gossip,” insisted Barberini. “If you do, boy, you will rue the day, you have my promise of it.”

  Lionello cowered back. “I never speak, Eminenza. Never.”

  “For your own sake I hope you are right,” said Barberini with a significant nod to Mazarini. “The Abbe here will not hesitate to say that you overheard us speaking and therefore are to blame for the spreading of secrets, and distorting them as well.” He indicated the door. “I will want you to return shortly, so do not dawdle in the kitchen.”

  “Of course not,” muttered Lionello, bowing his way from the august presence of Antonio, Cardinal Barberini. He closed the door and walked away heavily, so that the sound of his retreating steps would be clearly audible to the Cardinal and his guest.

  “Was it necessary to terrify him?” Giulio asked sympathetically.

  “You know the answer to that; think of how many times plans have been compromised by the gossip servants repeat, or by information taken by subtlety or bribe. Why do you, of all men, ask me this?” He folded his arms and managed to look like an overgrown child. “You are intending to deal with the French, Giulio. Your servants will be the single biggest danger around you.” He looked toward the tray. “Bless the Name of God and have some of this food, will you?”

  Giulio crossed himself and lowered his eyes. “I thank you for your generosity and God for His Goodness.”

  Barberini shrugged. “How the work of God is to be done on scraps and a few sips of wine, I do not know, and do not”—he lifted an admonitory finger—“preach the Loaves and Fishes to me, Abbe. I know that God’s Word is enough to feed the soul of all men.” He looked
over at the tray. “Cheese and apples. It could be worse. And the wine isn’t too bad.”

  “Italian?” asked Giulio as he reached for the bottle to pour some for himself and host.

  “Umbrian, a bit strong.” He held out his hand for one of the two large cups. “Apples, and wrinkled at that.”

  “Last autumn’s apples,” said Giulio, making conversation as he cut one of the two apples in half with the small knife provided. “His Holiness has given me permission to wear the pluvial while officiating in France, no matter what rank I have achieved.”

  “Sensible, given the post you are to fill eventually.” He bit into the apple. “Too dry.”

  “Old apples are dry,” Giulio said, eating as if this were the sweetest and ripest fruit plucked fresh from the tree. “The wine will end your thirst.”

  “Oh, stop it, Abbe,” said Barberini with a combination of amusement and irritation. “You are not on diplomatic duty here, and if the apples are not to your liking, you may tell me so without hesitation.”

  “I would never give so much an offence,” said Mazarini, in such a tone that it was impossible to be certain whether or not he was serious. He chewed in silence, then addressed Cardinal Barberini once more, this time with greater formality. “When I return to France, I will want to keep you and our friends informed of what I do, but that will require French couriers. Therefore I may require that we select meeting places away from Roma where a messenger would attract less suspicion than he might here.”

  “It will be decided,” Barberini gave his word. “Before you depart all such sites will be established. We will also try to have messengers waiting for your dispatches at all times, but that is less certain.” He yawned suddenly. “I don’t know how it is, but just as most of the world is recovering from mid-day slumber, I am in need of it.”

  “Is it the heat of the day?” ventured Giulio politely.

  “I don’t think so,” said the Cardinal as he took a generous sip of the wine. “If it were, the heat is greater earlier, and that should give me more fatigue.”