A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Eminence,” called out one of his escorts, for at night he traveled with six of his Guards to protect him.

  “Yes?” He did not like the testy sound of his voice, for it often seemed that his men thought he was afraid when he spoke in that tone. “Are we there?”

  “The Duc d’Orleans is in the carriage behind you and has asked to be allowed to go ahead.” The Guardsman said this without expression, merely reporting the request of the man behind him who was of superior rank.

  Richelieu smiled. “It is the pleasant duty of all subjects of France to defer to the Blood Royal,” he said with habitual smoothness. “Pray inform le Due that I will allow him to pass.”

  The Guardsman touched his hat and rode back to the carriage behind. When he returned, he reported, “D’Orleans sends his thanks, Eminence.”

  “Excellent,” said Richelieu, confident now that he would have his opportunity to converse with Gaston d’Orleans without any undue comment. He allowed himself the first real hope he had felt since the page Fontaine had come to him. Even when his coach did not advance and Gaston d’Orleans’ rattled past his—which Richelieu would ordinarily consider to be a terrible affront—his good humor did not desert him.

  As courtesy demanded, Richelieu left his coach to find the Due d’Orleans waiting for him, his retinue around him. As he held out his ring, he said, “It was a privilege to do this service for you, Duc.”

  Gaston d’Orleans, rising from his knee, looked Richelieu directly in the eye. “Precedent, Eminence.”

  “Certain; a Due of the Blood Royal must always have claim of a Due’s relative such as I am. I, too, have an elder brother.” He gave d’Orleans a wintery smile. “But then, I gave up the claims of precedent for Armand-Jean du Plessis de Richelieu when the Church became my estate and the Kingdom of France my ward.” He bowed to d’Orleans, making much of the courtesy since it was not strictly required to show such deference to the King’s younger brother. “Give me the pleasure of your company as far as the banqueting hall.” It was a marvelous trap, thought Richelieu, for if d’Orleans were to refuse, the insult would be so overwhelming that it would bring too much attention to both of them. “It has been too long since we talked, has it not?” He indicated the wide corridor. “And if we linger here too much longer, we will cause as much of a line as the carriages do.”

  Gaston d’Orleans did his best to appear delighted with Richelieu’s suggestion. “It is always a pleasure to walk in the company of so august a minister as yourself, Eminence.” He gestured to three of the men accompanying them. “Go ahead. The Cardinal and I will follow.”

  Two of the three exchanged uncertain looks, but were sensible enough not to question Richelieu here where all the world might see. One of them bowed to Gaston. “It is our pleasure to follow you.”

  D’Orleans waved his agreement to the three. “I did not anticipate meeting you, Eminence,” he said to Richelieu as a ploy to bring their conversation to an early conclusion.

  “Nor had I,” said Richelieu. “It is fortunate the way such things fall out, don’t you agree?” He paused to bow to the Spanish Ambassador. “I have had it in my mind for several days that I should ask you to spare me a few minutes for conversation, but my duties are such that it did not seem possible. Then God was good and threw us together in this way.”

  “Yes,” said d’Orleans, scowling.

  “I believe it would be wise for us to discuss the Dauphin, who is your nephew and will one day rule France.” He was being unusually blunt, but feared he would not have much more time to speak with d’Orleans.

  “With the guidance and mercy of God,” said d’Orleans with the same tone as he used for the responses in Mass.

  “Truly, truly,” said Richelieu, concealing his irritation. “But God relies on His children to use the sense He gave them. We must do what we can to protect the boy and to ensure his reign will be a long and prosperous one, unbeset with unrest and injustice.”

  “You believe that we have had such under the rule of my brother?” d’Orleans inquired haughtily.

  Richelieu refused to respond to this blatant challenge. “I can only pray that God will show us His compassionate face, for there have been many unfortunate incidents during His Majesty’s reign that will have to be answered before the Judgment Seat. As First Minister of France, I pray God may grant me His vision for wisdom so that our sins will not be multiplied.” He turned the corner and saw that they were nearing the banqueting hall. “I have been concerned of late at the unrest that is present in the court, and the wrongs which have gone unredressed.”

  “If God will not hear you, whom will He hear?” D’Orleans laughed at his own witticism. “The Dauphin is a little boy. He has many years before there will be any burdens placed on him.” He shrugged. “It is not for me to decide, in any case. My brother is King, not I, and his wife is the mother of the Dauphin.” With that calculated insult, he bowed to Richelieu and entered the banqueting hall on his own.

  Richelieu watched him go, his anger growing steadily, though no trace of his emotion appeared in his demeanor. He allowed Roger de Saint-Lary de Bellegarde to kiss his ring and gave his blessing to the Archbishop of Paris, Jean Francois de Gondi de Retz; his temper began to cool.

  One of Louis’ favorites came up to Richelieu; he was resplendent in blue-and-gold velvet, with a profusion of lace at his wrists. He wore a golden sash that gathered in a rosette above the lace-edged peplums and his sword was for nothing more episcopal than ceremony. With an elegant flourish, he knelt to kiss the ring before saying that the Cardinal was awaited.

  “I shall come at once,” said Richelieu, starting to fume again at this unsuitable escort. What was Louis thinking of, to send one of his creatures to fetch him as if he were nothing more than a servant or one of his housemen? He schooled his features to a calm he did not feel and made his way through the enormous hall toward the high table where the King and those of his nearest court ate.

  He had almost reached the dais when he saw Mazarin signal to him from a place not far below. “Your pardon,” he said to the courtier who accompanied him. “I must have a word with Cardinal Mazarin.”

  The courtier stopped, looking a bit bewildered in all his finery, for he was not used to having to acquiesce to anyone but Louis. “If…” He did not know how to go on.

  Richelieu did not wait for any response from the courtier, for that might be interpreted as waiting for permission, which he would never do. He stepped to the side of the vast table and waited while Mazarin made his way to his side. “What is it? Half the room knows you are speaking with me.”

  “I am your … assistant. It is fitting that we speak in public,” said Mazarin, displaying more Roman sensibilities than Parisian. “They all know we speak—they might as well see it happen.”

  “You may think otherwise when you hear the gossip; never mind.” He looked at Mazarin with curiosity. “What is it?”

  “Gossip, actually. There has been a fresh spate of curiosity as to the parentage of Philippe.” The Dauphin’s brother, two years younger than Louis, was a baby that most of the court tried to forget.

  Richelieu grew tense. “For how long?” he asked.

  “A week, perhaps two. There are those who are saying outrageous things…” He hesitated. “Amico mio, there are those who say that they are convinced that … that you are the father of the boys, that you have been the Queen’s lover many years … for all the years her husband has not been.” He folded his arms, his face revealing nothing of what he said. To those watching them—and there were many—they might have been speaking of nothing more than a question of courtesy.

  “Ah. They are trotting that one out again, are they?” said Richelieu, his voice all but purring. “The page was right, I see now.” He gave Mazarin a single nod. “You did well to warn me, and I thank you for your concern. I will bear this in mind while we dine this evening.”

  Mazarin’s long, handsome face did not alter, but there was a frown in his eye
s. “I must speak to you. It is urgent.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Richelieu. “Tonight, then, when this is over. Come to my palace and we will discuss this in more detail.” He looked over his shoulder and saw that Louis was scowling at him. “After this interminable banquet.”

  “As you will, Eminence.” Mazarin lowered his head. “I did not intend to alarm you unduly.”

  “You didn’t,” said Richelieu. “You have only confirmed my suspicions. I will speak to the Queen and—” He made an abrupt gesture. “Tonight.”

  “Tonight,” agreed Mazarin, turning to make his way back to his place at the table.

  Richelieu hurried to the dais, taking his place four seats from His Majesty’s right hand. He murmured a brief apology, which the King did not hear, but accepted, and waited while a lackey pulled out his chair for him. Gradually the room grew silent, and attention was directed toward him. He stood, his hands placed together, and began to invoke blessings on the banquet, the food, the company, and the glorious reign of Louis XIII, all the while hoping to discover who among the company was plotting against him, who was so implacable an enemy that he or they were willing to bring down the kingdom to destroy him.

  Text of a letter from Cardinal Jules Mazarin to his second cousin, Gennaro Colonna, written in French.

  May God, Who watches over all His flock, even those who are strayed, guide and keep you in these difficult days. I am not astonished to learn of the decision of your parents, for surely you have tried their patience and the patience of those who have known you for many years. I pray that you will consider your current difficulty and accept the suggestion I am going to make to you.

  To have the sin of another on your head, especially so grievous a sin as suicide, is a fate that I would not wish on the most obstinate heretic, and yet you, who are my blood, have brought it on yourself. The dishonor touches us all, and I must support your father in his decision. No man wishes to disinherit and disown his children, especially his sons, yet in a case such as yours, you have brought such disgrace to the name that to allow you to remain within the family would besmirch the name more than is permissible among noble families.

  Whatever convinced you that you could lie with Dona Levana, make her your mistress, or rather your whore, and not have any consequence to your act? This was not some common slut, or girl from a brothel, this was a woman of birth as good as your own, with a contract of marriage arranged for her from the time she was ten years old. That you could seduce her deliberately, compromise her so completely that not even the most penitent convent could receive her, is debauchery of a sort that I can hardly fathom, though I see sin around me in plenty every day. You have betrayed her, Gennaro, and you have betrayed the family.

  This has been a summer of betrayal, it appears. Not two weeks ago the King’s brother, Gaston d’Orleans revealed a terrible plot against Cardinal Richelieu. The King’s favorite, Henri Coiffier de Ruze de Cinq-Mars, was revealed to have entered into secret treaties with the King of Spain, and to have planned the murder of Richelieu as well as others.

  You may consider Cinq-Mars’ plight, cousin, and be thankful that yours will not end on the execution block. You, like Cinq-Mars, have been favored with an active mind and a high station in life, but both of you have squandered your gifts in debauchery. You both have reason to be grateful to those above you and to your families, but you both have treated those who have aided you and your families with a contempt that is not shown a starving cur in the streets. You both have sinned with your bodies and have abused the flesh God has seen fit to clothe you in. Dona Levana della Robbia, in her despair at what you wrought upon her, has taken her life with her own hand, and the guilt for that lies on your soul as much as hers. Cinq-Mars has betrayed the affection of the King and has brought ruin upon himself for what he attempted to do. He has shown himself unworthy of the favor the King had lavished upon him, and he will pay the price of his treason with his life in this world and with his soul in the next.

  Bearing all this in mind, I admonish you to pay close attention to what I have, for the sake of your father and of the family of the lady you have ruined, arranged for you. It is apparent that you cannot remain in Italy, or, indeed, in Europe. Therefore, with the assistance of friends both here in France and in Spain as well, I have entered your name into a company of men bound for the New World with the Spanish to the city of Tenotsticlan, which is the capital of a people who live for the shedding of blood and who are obstinate in their refusal to accept Our Lord as their savior. The fighting men will be needed when these savages attack those who have come in the name of God to offer them salvation.

  I urge you to accept this opportunity at once and to go to Madrid for the purpose of joining the company of men in question. As you see, I have enclosed a letter of introduction to the company, and the assurance that you will be loyal to the leaders of the expedition. You will have some chance to improve yourself if you are willing to travel to the New World.

  Should you believe that it would be acceptable to remain here, confident that in time your father will welcome you back as his prodigal son, or that the della Robbia family will in time come to forgive you for what you have caused to happen to Dona Levana, I offer you this tale in the hope you will take it as an example and learn from its precepts.

  Many centuries ago there were two brothers, sons of a King, though each was from a different mother, who were the delight and hope of their father, and who were given every advantage that the sons of Kings may have. Each was taught the way of arms and of letters, so that they might better govern. Because each was the son of a Princess and of Royal Blood, it was agreed from the first that when the time came, the King should arrange a series of tests to determine which of his sons would be his heir.

  One of the sons excelled at arms and was known for his skill as a soldier. In battle there was no one braver or more fierce; the very mention of his name brought dread to the enemies of the King when they heard it. The other son was of a more subtle nature, more given to learning and to study, and he excelled in the ways of the court and of religion. He learned to value the teachings of God and the treasures of the mind. Yet there was a secret between them: one brother was of a chaste temperament and the other was debauched.

  But so close was their bond that neither revealed this dreadful secret. When the King came to hear of it, he refused to believe it until proof of such debauchery was procured. Then he summoned his two sons and addressed them: “It has come to my ear that one of you has taken it upon himself to bring disgrace to this House, to conduct himself in a way that no son should, let alone the son who will one day rule in my place. I demand that you reveal which of you has become debauched.”

  To the astonishment of the court and the King, both sons insisted that he was the one, and the only one, who was debauched. No argument or exhortation could change them from their assertions, and no action on the part of the King was able to wring from them the truth about their actions.

  In desperation, the King took the advice of his aides and decided to put each of his sons to the test, subjecting both to the same tests, not only to determine who would rule, but to find out which of them was the debauched son and undeserving of advancement and favor.

  The first test was given to both, and though it favored one over the other, it was decided that it would be fair, since the second test would favor the other. The first test was this: it was known that the forces of the enemy to the east had gathered on the border and were prepared for war. Each of the King’s sons was sent to the place, and given the task of subduing the enemy and restoring order. The first son gathered his company of soldiers about him and rode with all due haste to the border, where he caused the nearest towns to be walled and reinforced their ranks with his soldiers. When he was satisfied with the preparations, he led his men on a daring midnight attack and caught the enemy napping in every sense. The force of the northernmost flank of enemy soldiers was defeated, and order was established in the region, wi
th the King’s son preventing all looting and similar excesses with the full might of the King’s law.

  The second son approached the matter in a different way, going with two scholars to the center of the realm of the enemy; and presenting themselves as nothing more than men in search of learning, they set out to confound the enemy with false reports and misleading documents, and with the discovery of the plans that had been laid. For every letter and dispatch they intercepted, another one was substituted, misleading and filled with lies. In this way, the order of the opposition was quickly destroyed, and the King’s second son left the capital of the enemy without ever being discovered.

  When the aides of the King assessed what the two brothers had done, they were constrained to believe that each had proved as capable as the other, and could not advise the King in regard to the favor of either youth.

  So it was determined that a second test would be made, and that both would be asked to address the same problem. But this time it was agreed in the King’s Council that there would be a temptation added to the task, so that the debauchery of one or the other could be established.

  In the kingdom there was a monastery where the monks had devoted themselves to the care of those afflicted in their minds. Among those living in that place was one who was believed to have murdered many people in terrible ways. It was set to the King’s sons to go there and discover who among the mad was the murderer and to bring him to justice. It was thought that among the mad the debauched son would make himself known to them.

  The first son set out alone but for his squire, determined to challenge those who were mad and see which among them would answer his challenge. In this way he was convinced he would learn the identity of the murderer. He was admitted by the monks with all respect and deference, and taken to the infirmary where the mad were kept.

  He delivered his challenge, but reckoned without the subtle ways of madness, for many answered his challenge, some as cunning as foxes, some angry as bears; he was forced to battle with many of them, and at the end of it came no nearer to finding the murderer. He ordered all those who had opposed him locked in chains, which the monks at once did. Again he issued his challenge, this time upon threat of torture, then he set about testing each of the madmen in turn. At the end of it he was no nearer an answer than before, and the monks were displeased at the conduct of the son, who was then decried as the debauched son for the torture and killing of the madmen.