“But the astrologer Vautier saw it in the stars! Very well, let them try to stop me—or, rather, my army. They hope to undermine me here, to sabotage me and forestall our march. But for the good of France we march to Mantua and Montferrat, small domains perhaps, but in strategic positions. The fortress of Casale is the key to the Alps! In the hands of Savoy, that key would be at the disposal of Austria and Spain.
“Then there’s Mantua, the domain of the Gonzaga family, after Venice the last center of the arts in Italy. Mantua, which at once overlooks Tuscany, Venice, and the Papal States. What use to raise the siege of Casale if one fails to save Mantua? I’m negotiating with Gustavus Adolphus, but what use to ally with the Protestants of the north before I have crushed the Protestants of the south? If this southern campaign succeeds, I could concentrate in these hands power both spiritual and temporal, and guide France for the rest of my life. And to think that what stands in my way is a charlatan, Vautier, and an idiot, Bérulle!”
He rose. “And moreover,” he added, “to think that I’m balked by this daughter-in-law and this mother-in-law, when I hold proof of the adultery of one and the complicity in the murder of Henri IV of the other. But though the words are nearly bursting from my mouth, I dare not breathe them—because it would mean a stain upon the glory of the crown of France!”
“Uncle!” cried Madame de Combalet, in alarm.
“Oh, I have my witnesses,” the cardinal said. “For Queen Anne of Austria, there’s Madame de Bellier and ‘Patroclus.’ For Marie de Médicis there’s the Escoman woman. I’ll yet find her, maybe in the dungeon of the Daughters of Repentance—and if she’s dead, poor martyr, I’ll nonetheless have words with her cadaver.” He strode back and forth in agitation.
“My dear Uncle,” said Madame de Combalet, placing herself in his path. “Don’t talk about this tonight. Leave it for tomorrow.”
“You’re right, Marie,” Richelieu said, stopping himself by sheer force of will. “What have you done today? Where have you been?”
“I went to Madame de Rambouillet’s.”
“What happened there? Anything good? What says the illustrious ‘Arthenice’?” asked the cardinal, trying to smile.
“She presented us with a young poet just arrived from Rouen.”
“Do they make poets in Rouen? It’s only three months since Rotrou arrived, fresh off the boat.”
“In fact, it was Rotrou who presented him.”
“And what is this poet called?”
“Pierre Corneille.”
The cardinal shrugged, as if to say: an unknown. “And I suppose he arrives with a tragedy in his pocket?”
“With a comedy, in five acts.”
“And the title?”
“Mélite.”
“That’s not a name from history.”
“No, its source is pure fantasy. Rotrou says the work is destined to eclipse all poetry, past, present, and future.”
“Sheer impertinence!”
Madame de Combalet delicately changed the subject. “Then Madame de Rambouillet presented us with a real surprise: she’d secretly had constructed, beyond the wall facing the Three Hundred, and unknown to anyone but the masons and carpenters, an addition to her hotel—a beautiful new chamber, all hung in blue velour, gold, and silver. I’ve never seen anything decorated in such exquisite taste.”
“Would you like something like it, Marie? Nothing could be easier—I’ll include it in the palace I’m building.”
“Thank you, but for me, please remember, all I need is an austere monastic cell—so long as it’s near you.”
“Is that all the news?”
“Not quite all—though I’m not sure if I should tell you the rest.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the rest involves . . . a sword.”
“Duels! Always duels!” Richelieu hissed. “What must I do to rid France of this insane obsession with honor?”
“This time it wasn’t a duel, just a simple encounter. The Marquis de Pisany was brought to the Hotel de Rambouillet disabled by a wound.”
“A dangerous wound?”
“No, because he has the luck to be a hunchback: the blade hit the top of his hump and, unable to penetrate, slid down his side. ‘My God,’ the surgeon said, ‘it slid along the side of his chest and went through his left arm.’”
“Do we know the cause of this fight?”
“I think he mentioned the Comte de Moret.”
“The Comte de Moret,” Richelieu repeated, frowning. “I think I’ve heard that name in these last three days. And he gave this pretty sword wound to the Marquis de Pisany?”
“No, it was one of the marquis’s friends.”
“His name?”
Madame de Combalet hesitated, knowing how much her uncle hated dueling. “My dear Uncle,” she said, “you know what I said: this wasn’t a duel, or a summons of honor, or even a meeting. The opponents just had a disagreement at the door of the hotel.”
“But who was this opponent? His name, Marie.”
“A certain Souscarrières.”
“Souscarrières!” said Richelieu. “I know that name.”
“Perhaps, but I can assure you, my dear Uncle, that he’s not to blame.”
“Who?”
“Monsieur de Souscarrières.”
The cardinal drew a notebook from his pocket and consulted it. He seemed to find what he sought.
“The Marquis de Pisany,” continued Madame de Combalet, “drew first and lunged like a madman, according to Voiture and Brancas, who were witnesses.”
“Here he is—the very man,” murmured the cardinal. And he knocked on a panel.
Charpentier appeared. “Call for Cavois,” said the cardinal.
“Uncle! You’re not planning to arrest this young man and bring him to trial?” exclaimed Madame de Combalet, clasping her hands.
“On the contrary,” the cardinal said, laughing: “I just might make his fortune.”
“Oh! Don’t mock, Uncle!”
“With you, Marie, I never mock. This Souscarrières has, at this moment, his fortune in his hands. Even better, it’s the fortune he needs. It’s up to him not to fumble it.”
Cavois came in. “Cavois,” said the cardinal to the captain of his guards, who was still half asleep, “go to the house at Rue Traversière and Rue Sainte-Anne and seek out a certain cavalier who calls himself Pierre de Bellegarde, Marquis de Montbrun, Sieur de Souscarrières.”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“If you find him at home, tell him that despite the late hour, I would like the pleasure of a brief chat with him.”
“And if he refuses to come?”
“Oh, Cavois, I think you can handle a little problem like that. Willing or unwilling, I want to see him. Is that clear?”
“Within the hour he will be at Your Eminence’s service,” Cavois said, bowing.
At the door, the captain of the guards met a new arrival. He deferred to the newcomer with such respect that he was obviously important.
And in fact, it was none other than that famous Capuchin, du Tremblay, known to all as Father Joseph, or His Gray Eminence.
XII
His Gray Eminence
Father Joseph was so well known as the cardinal’s “second soul” that upon seeing him, the minister’s confidential servants withdrew at once, so that in Richelieu’s chambers the Éminence grise had the privilege of respectful space about him.
Madame de Combalet, no less than the others, was subject to the unease inspired by this silent apparition. At the sight of Father Joseph, she presented her forehead to the cardinal for a goodbye kiss. “Please, dear Uncle,” she said, “don’t work too late.”
Then she retired, eager to escape through the door opposite the one through which the monk had entered, keeping half the room between herself and the new arrival as he approached the cardinal.
By the date of our story, the religious orders—except the Oratory of Jesus, founded by Cardinal Bérulle i
n 1611 and confirmed, after long opposition, by Pope Paul V in 1613—had mostly fallen under the influence of the cardinal-minister. He was recognized as the protector of the Benedictines of Cluny, the Cistercians of Saint-Maur, the Premonstratensians, the Dominicans, the Carmelites, and finally the whole hooded family of the monks of St. Francis: the Miners, Minims, Franciscans, Capuchins, and so on. In recognition of this protection, all these orders, whether preaching, begging, teaching, or spreading propaganda, wherever they traveled, acted as a covert source of intelligence, all the more trustworthy since the main source of information was the confessional.
Chief over all this religious police, zealous in its duty of surveillance, was the Capuchin Father Joseph, experienced in the ways of diplomacy and intrigue. Like those who came after him, such as Sartine, Lenoir, and Fouché, he had a genius for espionage. Through his influence his brother, Leclerc du Tremblay, had been named Governor of the Bastille, so that a prisoner detected, denounced, and arrested by du Tremblay the Capuchin was shackled, jailed, and guarded by du Tremblay the Governor. And if the unfortunate died in prison, as was so often the case, his confession and last rites were administered by du Tremblay the Capuchin—which kept it all in the family.
Father Joseph’s ministry was divided into four divisions, each headed by a Capuchin. He had a secretary named Father Ange Sabini, who acted as Joseph to Father Joseph. When his business required him to travel, he rode on horseback, followed by Father Ange on a second horse. But one day, Father Joseph rode a mare while Father Ange’s mount was a stallion, and the two animals formed a conjunction in which their riders found themselves in roles so grotesque that Father Joseph felt his dignity required him to abandon that means of mobility. Thereafter, he rode in a litter or carriage.
However, in the usual course of his duties when he needed to remain incognito, Father Joseph traveled on foot, pulling his cowl down over his eyes so as not to be recognized—easy enough in the Paris of that time, thronged as it was with monks of every order.
That very night, Father Joseph had been out, anonymous and afoot.
The cardinal, sitting keen-eyed at his desk, waited until the first door had closed on his captain and the second on his niece, then turned to Father Joseph. “Well,” he said, “so you have something to tell me, my dear du Tremblay?” The cardinal had retained the habit of calling the monk by his family name.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” he replied, “and this is the second time I’ve had the honor of trying to see you!”
“I’ve heard. It led me to hope you might have learned something about the Comte de Moret—of his return to Paris, and of the reasons for that return.”
“I don’t know exactly what Your Eminence wants to know, but I think I’ve picked up the trail.”
“Ah-ha! Your white-cloaks have been at work. They’ve found . . .?”
“Nothing special. They’ve learned only that the Comte de Moret was staying at the Hotel de Montmorency with Duke Henri II, and came out at night to visit a lady who lives in the Rue de la Cerisaie opposite the Hotel Lesdiguières.”
“Rue de la Cerisaie, opposite the Hotel Lesdiguières . . . but that’s the house of the two sisters of Marion Delorme!”
“Yes, Monseigneur, of Madame de la Montagne and Madame de Maugiron, but it’s uncertain which of the two is his lover.”
“Well, I’ll soon know,” said the cardinal.
And signaling the Capuchin to pause in his report, he began to write on a slip of paper:
Which of your two sisters is the Comte de Moret’s lover?
And who is the other’s lover? Is there an unhappy rival?
Then he turned to a panel above the desk, which opened when he pressed a button. This panel communicated with the neighboring house, and when opened revealed a gap the thickness of the wall to another panel on the other side. Between the doors were two doorbells, one left, one right, that activated an invention so new that it was unknown to any but the cardinal.
The cardinal placed the paper in between the doors, rang the bell on the right, and then closed his panel. “Go on,” he said to Father Joseph, who had watched without any evidence of surprise.
“I was saying, Monseigneur, that the white-cloaks had done some work for us, but that Providence, which watches over Monseigneur’s affairs, had done the most.”
“You’re sure, du Tremblay, that Providence watches over me in particular?”
“What better occupation, Monseigneur?”
The cardinal, who asked nothing better than to believe it, smiled and said, “Let’s hear the report of Providence on Monsieur le Comte de Moret.”
“Well, Monseigneur, I’d learned from the white-cloaks, as I’d had the honor to tell Your Eminence, that the Comte de Moret had been in Paris for eight days, that he lodged with Monsieur de Montmorency and had a mistress in the Rue de la Cerisaie, which was little enough.”
“I think you are unfair to the good fathers. Who does what he can, does all he must—and there is always Providence, which can do all. Let’s hear what Providence has done.”
“Only set me face to face with the count himself.”
“You’ve seen him?”
“As certain as I have the honor to see you, Monseigneur.”
“And he, he saw you?” asked Richelieu anxiously.
“He saw me, but didn’t recognize me.”
“Sit down, du Tremblay, and tell me all about it!”
Richelieu was accustomed to offer the Capuchin the false courtesy of a seat, knowing he wouldn’t take it. Joseph nodded and continued: “Here’s how the thing happened, Monseigneur. I had just left the white-cloaks and was on my way to bring their information to you when I saw people running toward the Rue de l’Homme-Armé.”
“Speaking of the Rue de l’Homme-Armé, isn’t there an inn there which you’ve had under your eye? The Inn of the Painted Beard?”
“That’s where the crowd was running, Monseigneur.”
“And you joined the crowd?”
“Your Eminence knows well I wouldn’t fail to do so. It seems a kind of assassination had been performed upon a poor devil named Étienne Latil, a former retainer of Monsieur d’Épernon.”
“Of Monsieur d’Épernon? Then remember this Étienne Latil, du Tremblay—he may be useful someday.”
“I doubt it, Monseigneur.”
“Why is that?”
“I think he’s taken a voyage from which no one returns.”
“Ah, yes—you said he’d been murdered.”
“Exactly, Monseigneur. Believed dead at first, he’d revived and called for a priest . . . and there I was.”
“Providence indeed, du Tremblay! And you gave him his confession, I presume?”
“In full.”
“And there was something of import in it?”
“Monseigneur shall judge,” said the Capuchin, with a laugh, “but only if you absolve me of revealing his confession.”
“Very well, very well,” said Richelieu, “I absolve you.”
“Well, Monseigneur, Étienne Latil was assassinated for refusing to assassinate . . . the Comte de Moret.”
“And who would have a motive for killing this young man who, at least till now, has joined neither faction nor cabal?”
“A rival in love.”
“You’re sure?”
“I believe so.”
“But you don’t know who killed this man?”
“No, Monseigneur, and neither did he. He knew only that it was a hunchback.”
“We have two hunchbacked swordsmen in Paris: the Marquis de Pisany and the Marquis de Fontrailles. It might be Pisany, who himself received a sword-wound last night at nine o’clock, at the gate of the Hotel de Rambouillet, at the hands of his friend, Souscarrières. But Fontrailles should be watched nonetheless.”
“I’ll have him watched, Monseigneur, but stay a moment—I’ve something even more extraordinary to tell Your Eminence.”
“Speak, speak, du Tremblay. Your story is captivating.�
��
“Well, Monseigneur, here’s what’s even more extraordinary: while I was hearing Latil’s confession, who should walk into the room but the Comte de Moret himself?”
“What, at the Inn of the Painted Beard?”
“Yes, Monseigneur, at the Inn of the Painted Beard. The Comte de Moret himself came in, dressed as a Basque esquire; he stepped up to the wounded man and laid a purse of gold on the table next to him. ‘If you recover,’ he said, ‘take yourself to the hotel of the Duc de Montmorency. If you die, die in the faith of the Lord, certain that there will be prayers at mass for the salvation of your soul.’”
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