A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “But playing in the chapel—” Anne said, looking to Richelieu to aid her.

  This time the Cardinal said, “Majesty, Jesus said that we must be as little children if we wish to enter His kingdom. God is not offended by a happy child.” He watched Louis, smiling slightly. “Jules is right. Let him enjoy himself.”

  Louis squealed as he slipped on the slick inlaid flooring, skidded, slid, then fell. For a moment his face reddened and puckered; then, as his mother started toward him with a worried oath, abruptly he laughed.

  “There, you see,” said Mazarin, going to help the boy to his feet. He smoothed the blue velvet doublet with the long, lace-edged peplums, smiling at Louis as he did. “You are very good at running, mon Dauphin.” He stumbled a little over the title, but covered it with gentle laughter. “It is good that you run well.”

  “I do,” said the boy. He looked up at his mother. “She doesn’t like me to run.”

  Immediately Anne’s face changed. “I want you to be careful of yourself, Louis,” she said, correcting him sweetly so that he could not become angry with her. “You are the hope of France. It would not do if you were to hurt yourself.” In an undervoice she added to Richelieu, “Since le Duc de Soissons, I do not feel safe for him. I know that I am in disgrace, but since the revolt, I think we are surrounded by enemies.”

  “De Soissons paid the price of his treason, Majesty,” Richelieu said, then gestured toward Louis, bending toward him as far as he could without pain. “You are a very remarkable little boy, Louis. So many have such high hopes for you.”

  “I am not a little boy,” he said indignantly. “Babies are little. I’m not a baby.” He lifted his head, his eyes bright with challenge. “I’m not a baby,” he repeated forcefully.

  “Of course,” said Mazarin. “But mothers are like that. They always think we are little children. My own mother was forever fussing over me when I was young, trying to guard me and to keep me from harm.” It was not the truth but it had the desired effect.

  Louis heaved an enormous sigh and went slowly back to his mother’s side. “You are a good mother, Mother.”

  She leaned down, though it was awkward to do so, and kissed the top of his head. “Thank you, mon Dauphin.”

  Richelieu favored the two with a rare, unguarded smile. “It does my heart good to see you this way, my boy,” he said to Louis. “And you, Majesty,” he added to Anne, warmth in his pain-dulled eyes. He gestured in the direction of the door. “Come; let us walk a little way together,” he said, knowing that the servants would notice this and that word of it would pass to their masters. It would still some of the more unpleasant rumors circulating in the court, at least for a while. “Now that you are to be a Cardinal, Abbe, you may walk beside me.”

  “It is a great honor,” said Mazarin with feeling, for he was aware of the shifting currents of the court and recognized what Richelieu planned by this. “Do you think,” he went on, bending down to address Louis, “that I might have the privilege of holding your hand, Highness?”

  “I can keep up without holding hands,” Louis said grandly.

  “I can see that,” said Mazarin, wholly unflustered. “But it would be a generous thing for you to do, if you are willing. You are the Dauphin, the Heir of France, and therefore I would be fortunate to be permitted to hold your hand while we walk.” He did not want the boy to realize that he was being held back, that he was being guarded, for the independent three-year-old would want to run off on his own, which could not be permitted.

  “I will consider it,” said Louis, making his thinking face. He pointed to Richelieu. “What do you say? You are the First Minister of France; would you let him do this?”

  “I’ve already asked him, mon Dauphin,” said Richelieu, his face showing the depth of his devotion to the little boy. “But you must decide for yourself.”

  “Is he trustworthy?” Louis asked, using a word he did not quite understand but had heard often in the last few months.

  “I believe so,” said Richelieu. “I trust him.”

  “So.” Louis folded his arms and glowered. “All right, Abbe, you may hold my hand while we walk, but only until I say you must stop.”

  Mazarin bowed. “I thank you, Highness.” He held out his hand, doing his best not to engulf Louis’ completely.

  “There,” said Louis, holding his arm up to show his mother and Richelieu that he had done it. “We can walk now.”

  They were a strange procession, the two churchmen flanked by the Queen and the Dauphin. They went slowly down the halls of the Louvre toward Anne’s personal apartments. Servants bowed as they passed and occasionally courtiers moved gallantly out of the way for them.

  “Le Duc de Soissons chose his hour badly, for himself,” said Richelieu, including both Anne and Mazarin in his audience. “Had he been more alert, he would have realized that it takes more than one battle to win a campaign.”

  “And he died in that battle,” said Anne with hard satisfaction. “There was no victory for him at all.”

  “No, there was not,” said Richelieu, leaning a little more heavily on Mazarin’s arm. “Still, it is a warning to us all to be alert to treachery. De Soissons was not the only discontented man at court, Majesty, and it is fitting that none of us deceive ourselves into believing otherwise.”

  “I have not been deceived that way since I came here as a bride, and that was more than twenty-five years ago.” There was a look in her face then, of despair and outrage, but she hid it at once behind an assumed serenity. “I remember when you joined the King’s Council. I had already been married ten years.”

  “I remember as well, Majesty,” said Richelieu, enjoying his moment of nostalgia. “That was in April, and by the end of August La Vieuville was gone and I was First Minister.” He looked over to see how the Dauphin was managing.

  “I can manage for myself,” said Louis with great pride. “Mazarin is not holding me up.”

  “Certainly not,” said Mazarin, who was. “Le Dauphin is so strong he has no need of me.”

  Richelieu shook his head. “Ah, no. That is an error of youth, mon Dauphin, to think that your strength alone is sufficient for the Heir to France. You will need the strength of many to hold you up, for there are others who will try to bring you down. Courtiers are fickle, but friends are true.”

  Louis had been listening with mild curiosity, but at the last he shook his head. “My father’s friends are courtiers.” The last word brought a frown to his pretty face.

  “So they are,” said Richelieu in a tone so neutral that while Louis looked confused, Anne stifled an irritated laugh.

  “Listen to the Cardinal,” said Mazarin. “He loves you, mon Dauphin, and he gives you his wisdom.”

  “I know,” said Louis, his attention taken by two women dressed at the height of style, their puffed, brocaded sleeves so full that the rosette confining them at the elbow was of heavy ribbon twice-sewn. Their shortened stomachers were edged in jewels and pearls, and since they had just come from Mass, each wore a crucifix suspended on the corsage. For head covering they had wired hoods on their capes. Louis laughed and pointed. “Bird cages!” he shouted in delight. “They are bird cages.”

  One of the women turned toward him indignantly, then realized who it was and dropped him a curtsy, simpering.

  “You’re very charming,” said Louis, using the compliment he had often heard addressed to his mother.

  “Thank you, mon Dauphin,” said the woman, prepared to linger and take advantage of being in the presence of the Queen and the Dauphin.

  Mazarin intervened. “Pardon, Madame,” he said with courtesy, “but we do not wish to detain you.”

  The young woman stepped back at once, looking uncertain and affronted. “I did not mean—” she began.

  “No one thought you did,” Mazarin lied smoothly.

  She gave a little curtsy and withdrew, her cheeks scarlet.

  “Very neat,” Richelieu approved. “I lack your patience.”

>   “It comes from attending the Papal Court,” said Mazarin. “There we do not mention that two of the Cardinals and a host of lesser prelates are blood relatives of the Pope—it is bad manners, you know. You learn not to speak of such things, to pretend they do not exist, all the while knowing what everyone else knows. The court here does not seem so complicated, or not in that way, for here one need not speak indirectly all the time. This is easier, but the other is excellent preparation for the diplomatic life.” He inclined his head toward Anne. “If you would rather I assume a more oblique manner, Majesty, you have only to request it and I will comply at once.”

  Anne shook her head. “No. Continue as you consider best.”

  Mazarin was about to answer, but Louis demanded his attention. “I want to have a musquet. I want to learn to shoot.”

  “Not again,” murmured his mother.

  “I want to shoot my enemies!” Louis hooted loudly.

  “Mon Dauphin,” said Mazarin, undismayed by this sudden outburst of childish ferocity, “when you can hold the musquet properly and fire it without assistance, then we will ask Monsieur Peyrer de Troisvilles himself to instruct you.”

  “That man!” said Anne with feeling.

  “He is the leader of the King’s Musqueteers,” Mazarin pointed out. “He is surely the correct teacher for the Dauphin, when the time comes. Or, if Monsieur Peyrer de Troisvilles is no longer their leader, whatever man holds that post must instruct the Dauphin.”

  They had reached the door to the Queen’s apartments; several ladies-in-waiting were in the first salon, most of them occupied with sewing or reading. They all rose as Anne and her company came through the door, and all curtsied, first to the Queen, then to the Cardinal.

  “And to me!” Louis crowed, and stood at chest-out attention while the ladies-in-waiting curtsied to him as well.

  “Majesty, we will leave you here, in the hands of your good ladies.” Richelieu stepped back and gave a general blessing. “Pray for the welfare of the King, the Queen, the Dauphin, and the Kingdom of France,” he said, and turned to leave.

  “Eminence,” Anne said, stopping him. “I want to consult with you before tomorrow.”

  Richelieu nodded at once. “This evening. The Abbe will accompany me, to prepare him for his tasks to come.” He did not bother to look at Mazarin, but once again moved away, relying on Mazarin to stay at his side.

  “My coach is waiting to take us to my palace,” said Richelieu. “It is all very well to have my own chapel and apartments in the Louvre, but the servants here are worse than a nest of serpents. I want to have my staff about me, and no unfriendly ears pressed to the keyhole.” He kept his voice low now, and he motioned to Mazarin to do the same.

  “I can understand very well, Eminence,” said Mazarin at once, with an involuntary glance over his shoulder. “Is it the de Soissons affair again?”

  “No. And nothing more of that until we depart.” He sighed once, his eyes distant. “It is difficult to know when one is acting in their own interests if they appear to be acting in yours.”

  “Truly,” said Mazarin, uncertain where Richelieu was leading. “I have seen it often in Rome.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Richelieu, world-weary. “For all the intrigue we endure here, I have no doubt that the Church is far more extreme.”

  “It is accomplished in different ways. Here it is known that blood ties are of great meaning, but”—they were nearing the coaching gate of the west courtyard and there were more people in the wide corridor—“in the Church it is said that the Blood of Christ supercedes all other blood, and that the ties of family are behind—”

  “That is the same everywhere!” snapped Richelieu, his patience growing thin.

  “—but it is not so.” He would have gone on to describe the ways in which Cardinal Barberini and the rest were related to Urbano VIII, but sensed that Richelieu was not in the mood to discuss what he already knew.

  Four lackeys hurried up and knelt in front of Richelieu. As he extended his hand so that they could kiss his episcopal ring, he said, “I want my coach at once. There is a doucement for you if we do not wait more than a quarter of an hour.”

  The oldest lackey jumped to his feet and signaled the others to come with him. “At once, Eminence.”

  “I left word that the horses were not to be unharnessed,” Richelieu mused. “I trust they obeyed my instructions.” He gave Mazarin a critical look. “When you have your own palace, you must take care to staff it well. Make sure your servants know that it is you they must please. If they do not please you, you must dismiss them at once, or they will sow dissension among their fellows and you will be subject to intrigues and distress.” He regarded the activity in the courtyard where a squad of King’s Guards were drilling. Three officers of the Cardinal’s Guard were watching them from the outer gateway. “You see, the lackeys have not informed my Guards that they are to be ready for escort duty at once. They do not have their horses ready, they are at leisure, which means that it will be at least a quarter of an hour before we depart. I will complain of these lackeys to the King, and perhaps something will be done.”

  “And if nothing is done?” Mazarin asked, curious to know how far Richelieu was prepared to pursue the matter.

  “Then I will speak to my Guard, and they will attend to the matter.” He squinted as one of the lackeys went running up to the three Cardinal’s Guard officers, gesturing urgently. The Guards straightened their mantles and went toward the stable. “I will not say that the lackeys are redeemed,” Richelieu remarked as he watched his officers, “but one of them has shown a little sense, and that is a valuable thing.”

  “Eminence,” said Mazarin, knowing how quickly Richelieu tired, “shall I send for a chair, so that you may sit down until your coach is brought?”

  Richelieu shook his head, and fell silent. Although he was clearly in some pain, he paced in the entrance, making an occasional observation to Mazarin until his coach was brought to him. “Come, Abbe,” he said as the steps were lowered and one of his personal lackeys stationed himself to assist the Cardinal into the carriage.

  Mazarin complied, settling back onto the squabs with relief. “Did they earn their doucement?”

  “No, but I want to learn the name of the young lackey who alerted my Guards. I may have work for him one day.” He dragged his traveling cushions around him to protect him from the discomfort of the short journey to his palace. “I must make an effort to find out his name.”

  “Would you like me to attend to that, Eminence?” Mazarin offered.

  Richelieu did not answer at once. He listened to the sound of his Guard approaching on horseback, then felt the coach lurch as his two lackeys climbed onto the back. “I would deem it a favor, Jules.”

  “It is done,” said Mazarin with pride. “By the end of the week, I will give you the name.”

  “Thank you,” said Richelieu as the coach started to move. “We must talk. We must talk,” he said in an undervoice. “There is something afoot, and it troubles me.”

  “Something afoot?” Mazarin repeated as the coach passed through the gate. “The de Soissons plot is not ended?”

  Richelieu waved that aside. “It is not de Soissons. Or if it is, we can find no link.” He steeled himself as the coach swung onto the uneven cobbles of the Paris streets. “But I can smell treason. It is in the air. Someone, someone very high, is attempting … I do not know. It may be open revolt, like de Soissons, it may be something more insidious. I do not know, and that is the worst part of it, that I do not know.” His voice became harsher and his eyes—usually cool—grew hot.

  Mazarin could think of nothing to say for a little while; at last he said, “Is there no one you might speak with?”

  “Oh, I might speak with any number of people,” said Richelieu sarcastically. “And that would serve no purpose but to warn my enemies and the enemies of France that they must be more cautious or strike at once. I am not willing to aid them so much. Well, you will be a
Cardinal by Christmas, and that might make a difference to them.”

  “How?” asked Mazarin, sensing that Richelieu was gambling.

  “They are not counting on support for me or for King Louis. They—whoever they are—have assumed that my position would be essentially unchanged; now that you are finally going to be elevated, matters are very different. Perhaps all those infuriating delays have worked to our benefit after all. It allowed them to assume: assumptions are dangerous.” He stared out the window at the shop signs in the narrow street. “I remember when my niece married d’Enghien last February, I thought then that I sensed something in the wind, but I attributed it to the envy of those who had not been as fortunate as Clemence was in her husband. There were plenty to mutter that a de Maille-Breze did not deserve a Prince of the Blood, and I put it down to malice. Cinq-Mars made a few jokes about it, and some of the others as well.”

  “You warned me yourself, Eminence, that malice often hides itself in mirth. It was insulting for him to make light of your niece’s marriage, no matter what he thought of it.” Mazarin’s indignation was as keen as if the insult had been personal, which to some degree it was, since he was a man with nieces of his own.

  “Cinq-Mars is a favorite of the King’s. What would be an insult in another is a good jest from him.” Richelieu pointed out the window. “Le Chat Ivre. I’ve always liked that one.” The sign showed a portly tabby cat sprawled back with a cup spilling wine in one paw.

  “It is amusing,” said Mazarin, aware that Richelieu had closed him off for the time being. “I like the one at the corner, with the dancing calf.”

  “Yes,” said Richelieu, becoming more withdrawn. “There will be rain again before nightfall. That will make our return to the Louvre inconvenient, but…”

  “But it is for the Queen and the Dauphin,” Mazarin finished for him.