“I arrived right about then and offered to buy Racan some lunch. At first he refused, saying he’d risen early because he had a matter of utmost importance to attend to; but when he tried to remember what it was, it slipped his mind entirely. It wasn’t until we were almost finished with lunch that he slapped his forehead and said, ‘Oh, now I remember what I had to do.’”
“And what was that?” asked the cardinal, who, as usual, took the greatest pleasure in Bois-Robert’s stories.
“He’d planned to go inquire about the health of Madame la Marquise de Rambouillet, who, since the misfortune that occurred to the Marquis de Pisany, had come down with a fever.”
“Indeed,” the cardinal said, “I heard from my niece that she was quite ill—as you probably already know, Le Bois. Please check on her if you pass by her house.”
“No need, Monseigneur.”
“No need? Why?”
“Because she has recovered.”
“Recovered! Who treated her?”
“Voiture.”
“Bah. Since when is he a doctor?”
“Never, Monseigneur, but Your Eminence knows that you don’t need a doctor to cure a fever.”
“How’s that?”
“All you need are two bears.”
“What? Two bears?”
“Quite so. Our friend Voiture heard that you could cure a person of fever by giving them a great surprise, so he went out into the streets looking for something Madame de Rambouillet would find surprising. That’s where he encountered a traveling animal show. ‘Pardieu!’ he said. ‘That’s just the thing.’ He hired this Savoyard and his animals and led them to the Hotel de Rambouillet. The marquise was within, sitting by the fire behind a folding screen. Voiture entered quietly, bringing the bears in behind the screen, and sat them up in two chairs behind the marquise. Madame de Rambouillet heard snuffling behind her, turned around, and saw two beastly snouts in her face. She nearly died of fright, but the fever was broken.”
“A fine story!” said the cardinal. “What do you think, Mulot?”
“I think that in the eyes of God, all means are good,” said the chaplain. Wine tended to bring out the religion in him, as it put him in a state of grace.
“God? You backwoods preacher! You’d put God into the low company of Voiture, a Savoyard, and two bears, all in Madame de Rambouillet’s parlor?”
“God is everywhere,” the chaplain said beatifically, raising his eyes, and his glass, to heaven. “But you, Monseigneur—you don’t believe in God!”
“What?” the cardinal cried. “I, not believe in God?”
“Are you telling me now that you do believe?” the priest said, regarding the cardinal with a pair of small black eyes illuminated by his nose.
“Of course I believe!”
“Come now, in your last confession you admitted you didn’t believe.”
“Lafollone! Le Bois! Don’t believe a word of what Mulot says. He’s so drunk he confuses a confession with a test of conscience,” the cardinal cried, laughing. “Are you nearly finished, Lafollone?”
“I am done, Monseigneur.”
“Good. Once you’re finished, say your goodbyes and leave us alone. I have to charge Le Bois with a secret commission.”
“And I, Monseigneur,” said Le Bois, “have a small petition to present to you.”
“Yet another protégé?”
“Say, rather, a protégée, Monseigneur: a lady.”
“Le Bois! You go too far, my friend.”
“Oh, Monseigneur! She’s seventy years old!”
“And what does this protégée do?”
“She writes verses, Monseigneur.”
“Verses?”
“Yes, and they’re quite beautiful! Would you like to hear them?”
“No, they would put Mulot to sleep and give Lafollone indigestion.”
“Please? Just four?”
“Oh, well—four should be no problem.”
“Here, Monseigneur,” said Bois-Robert, and he presented the cardinal with an engraving of Joan of Arc.
“But this is an engraving,” said the cardinal, “and you spoke of verses.”
“Read what is below the engraving, Monseigneur.”
“Ah! Very well.” The cardinal read the following four lines:
Can you grant me, Virgin adored,
Both your sweet eyes and the shining sword?
My sight is sweetest when I see my kingdom,
And my sword in fury shall give her Freedom!
“Well, well,” said the cardinal, and he read the lines again. “They’re quite good, these lines. Proud and powerful. Who wrote them?”
“Read the author’s name—it’s written below, Monseigneur.”
“Marie Le Jars, Demoiselle de Gournay. What!” the cardinal cried. “These lines are by Mademoiselle de Gournay?”
“By Mademoiselle de Gournay, yes, Monseigneur.”
“The same Mademoiselle de Gournay who published a volume titled The Shadow?”
“Yes, the one who published The Shadow.”
“But she’s the exact person I planned to send you to, Le Bois.”
“Really!”
“Take my carriage and bring her to me.”
“More down-at-heels wretches!” said Mulot. “If you send him chasing after every luckless poet, it will kill Monseigneur’s horses.”
“Monsieur Abbot,” said Bois-Robert, “God created monseigneur’s horses to be used, just as he did almoners of Sainte-Chapelle.”
“Ha! For once you have him, compère,” Richelieu laughed, while Mulot sputtered, speechless.
But the chaplain pulled himself together. “I am not the cardinal’s almoner!” he cried, exasperated.
“The Demoiselle de Gournay is already here,” Bois-Robert said.
“What? The Demoiselle de Gournay is here?” asked the cardinal.
“Yes. I expected, this morning, to solicit a favor for her from Your Eminence. Knowing Monseigneur’s generosity, I was sure you would grant it, so I asked her to come here between ten o’clock and ten-thirty. So she must be waiting.”
“Le Bois, you’re a gem of a man. Come, Father, one last glass. Lafollone, one more spoonful of the confit and then say grace. I must give an audience to Mademoiselle de Gournay, who is a noble lady and the adopted daughter of Montaigne.”
Lafollone beatifically crossed his hands on his belly and raised his eyes devoutly to heaven. “Lord God,” he said, “please grant us the grace to digest this good lunch upon which we have dined so well.”
This was what the cardinal called Lafollone’s grace. “And now, Messieurs,” said the cardinal, “you may leave.”
Lafollone and Mulot both rose at this dismissal, Lafollone beaming, Mulot still surly, and made for the door. Lafollone rolled out, saying, “Decidedly, His Eminence spreads an excellent lunch.”
Mulot, staggering like Silenus, raised his hands to heaven and sputtered, “A cardinal who doesn’t believe in God! It’s an abomination!”
As for Bois-Robert, he had already left His Eminence’s office, eager to announce his good news to his protégée.
For a moment, the cardinal was alone. But this was enough time for him to arrange his angular features, though his eyes remained thoughtful in his pale, severe face. “Ravaillac’s statement still exists,” he whispered. “Sully knows who has it. And, oh—I too shall know!”
And as Bois-Robert returned, leading the Demoiselle de Gournay by the hand, a smile, an unusual sight on his somber countenance, appeared momentarily on his lips.
XXVII
The Demoiselle de Gournay
As we have said, the Demoiselle de Gournay was a spinster, born in the mid-sixteenth century. She was of a good family from Picardy.
At the age of nineteen she had read, and been amazed by, Montaigne’s Essays. She decided she had to meet the author.
At that very time, Montaigne came to Paris. She quickly found out his address and sent him a letter of greeting, in which
she declared her high esteem for him and his book.
Montaigne came to see her the next day and was so taken with her youth and enthusiasm that he offered to regard her as a father does a daughter, an offer she gratefully accepted. From that day forward, she added to her signature, “Adopted Daughter of Montaigne.”
She wrote fairly good verse, as we have seen. But she had fallen into a state of misery and starvation by the time Bois-Robert, who was known as the Angel of Afflicted Muses, learned of her distress and decided to present her to Cardinal Richelieu.
Bois-Robert had seen the power of the cardinal, and he’d told her “To be blessed in this world by Monseigneur le Cardinal is nearly as good as to be blessed in the next by Our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Bois-Robert didn’t hesitate to introduce his protégée to the Place Royale, and by a strange coincidence he’d brought her to the cardinal’s waiting room on the very day His Eminence meant to send him to summon her.
The needy spinster was punctual, as if having been warned of the habits of the cardinal.
So it was, as we’ve said, that he received her with a smile and, knowing literary Paris as he did, added an à propos compliment about her book, The Shadow.
But the lady, unabashed, said, “You laugh at a poor old woman—but I suppose a genius must laugh, and who in all the world would begrudge you entertainment?”
The cardinal, astonished at such humility combined with presence of mind, was moved to apologize. Then, turning to Bois-Robert, he said, “Come, Le Bois, what would you ask of us for Mademoiselle de Gournay?”
“It is not for me to set bounds on Your Eminence’s generosity,” said Bois-Robert with a bow.
“Well, then,” said the cardinal, “I shall grant her a pension of two hundred crowns.”
That was a great deal at the time, especially for a poor spinster. Two hundred crowns in that period were twelve hundred livres, equal to four to five thousand francs in our time.
The Demoiselle de Gournay made a gesture of gratitude and began to utter her thanks, but Bois-Robert, who was not yet satisfied, interrupted her in mid-sentence. “Monseigneur said two hundred crowns?”
“Yes,” said the cardinal.
“That’s all very well for her, Monseigneur, and thank you. But Mademoiselle de Gournay has dependents.”
“Ah, she has servants?” said the cardinal.
“Yes, a daughter of the nobility cannot serve herself. Monseigneur understands that.”
“I do indeed. And how many domestics does Mademoiselle de Gournay have?” The cardinal was determined to meet if not exceed whatever Bois-Robert asked for.
“Well, she has Mademoiselle Jamyn,” replied Bois-Robert.
“Oh! Monsieur Bois-Robert,” murmured the spinster, “please don’t take liberties with the cardinal’s charity.”
“Trust me, trust me,” said Bois-Robert, “I know His Eminence.”
“And who is this Mademoiselle Jamyn?” asked the cardinal.
“The illegitimate child of Amadis Jamyn, and Mademoiselle de Gournay thanks you on her behalf,” said the persistent muse. “But there is also darling Piaillon.”
“Darling Piaillon?” asked the cardinal, while poor Mademoiselle de Gournay desperately gestured at Bois-Robert to stop, signals which Bois-Robert ignored.
“Darling Piaillon. Your Eminence doesn’t know darling Piaillon?”
“I must admit I do not, Le Bois.”
“But that is Mademoiselle de Gournay’s cat.”
“Monseigneur!” cried the poor spinster. “I must apologize!”
The cardinal waved his hand reassuringly. “I grant darling Piaillon an annual pension of twenty pounds, on the condition she be served tripe often.”
“Tripe it shall be, even à la mode de Caen, if Your Eminence demands it.”
“Thank you on behalf of my darling Piaillon,” said Mademoiselle de Gournay, “but . . .”
“What, Le Bois?” said the cardinal, who couldn’t help laughing. “There is a ‘but’?”
“There is, Monseigneur. For darling Piaillon has just had kittens.”
“Oh!” said the Demoiselle de Gournay, chagrined and rubbing one hand over the other.
“How many kittens?” asked the cardinal.
“Five!” said Bois-Robert.
“My!” said the cardinal. “Darling Piaillon is fruitful. No matter, Le Bois, I add a pistole for each kitten.”
“And now, Mademoiselle de Gournay,” said Bois-Robert, delighted, “I permit you to thank His Eminence.”
“Not yet, not yet,” said the cardinal. “It’s too soon for Mademoiselle de Gournay to thank me, as I hope to soon be thanking her.”
“What?” said Bois-Robert.
“Leave us alone, Le Bois. I have a favor to ask of mademoiselle.”
Bois-Robert gazed in surprise, first at the cardinal, then at Mademoiselle de Gournay.
“Oh, I see what’s in your mind, Master Droll,” said the cardinal. “But if I hear any remarks from you about Mademoiselle de Gournay’s honor, you’ll have me to deal with. Await mademoiselle in the antechamber.”
Bois-Robert bowed and left. He had no idea what this was about.
The cardinal waited until the door was closed before approaching Mademoiselle de Gournay, who had no more idea than Bois-Robert what he had in mind. “Yes, Mademoiselle,” he said, “I have a favor to ask of you.”
“What is it, Monseigneur?” the poor spinster asked.
“I need you to recall some memories. I’m sure it will be easy, for you have a good memory, don’t you?”
“Excellent, Monseigneur, so long as we don’t go back too far.”
“What I’d like to ask you about is something, or rather two things, that happened between May 9 and 11 in 1610.”
Mademoiselle started at that date, and looked anxiously at the cardinal. “May 9 to 11,” she repeated. “May 9 to 11, in 1610—that is to say, the year they assassinated our poor dear King Henri IV, the Beloved.”
“Exactly, Mademoiselle. And the question I need to ask you relates to his death.”
Mademoiselle de Gournay said nothing, but her anxiety increased.
“Don’t be upset, Mademoiselle,” said Richelieu. “My investigation doesn’t concern you and yours, only your devotion to the truth. The awards that Bois-Robert has solicited for you are not in question, for what I’ve granted you is far below your merit.”
“You must pardon me, Monseigneur,” said the poor spinster, “for I don’t understand.”
“Two words will make you understand. You knew a woman named Jacqueline Le Voyer, Dame de Coëtman, did you not?”
Mademoiselle de Gournay started and turned pale. “Yes,” she said. “She was from the same province as I. But thirty years my junior, if yet she lives.”
“I believe it was on the 9th or 10th of May, I’m not sure which, that she sent a letter addressed to Monsieur de Sully, to be given to the king.”
“Yes, it was on May 10, Monseigneur.”
“You know what was in that letter?”
“It was a warning that the king would be assassinated.”
“The letter named the conspirators?”
“Yes, Monseigneur,” the Demoiselle de Gournay said, trembling.
“You remember whom the Dame de Coëtman denounced?”
“I remember.”
“Would you tell me their names?”
“This is a very grave matter you ask me about, Monseigneur.”
“Indeed it is. I will name them, and I will be satisfied if you answer, yes or no, by a nod.” He paused. “Those named by the Dame de Coëtman were the queen mother, Concini the Maréchal d’Ancre, and the Duc d’Épernon.”
The Demoiselle de Gournay, more dead than alive, nodded her head in the affirmative.
“That letter,” continued the cardinal, “you gave to Monsieur de Sully, who to the fatal harm of the king did not show it to him—but you felt you had done all you could.”
“That’s it exactly,
Monseigneur,” said Mademoiselle de Gournay.
“This letter—you kept it?”
“Yes, Monseigneur, for only two people had the right to ask it of me: the Duc de Sully, to whom it was addressed, and the Dame de Coëtman, who had written it.”
“You never heard a word about this from the Duc de Sully?”
“No, Monseigneur.”
“Nor the Dame de Coëtman?”
“I heard she’d been arrested on the 13th. I haven’t seen her since and have no idea if she’s dead or alive.”
“So you have this letter?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“Then I must ask, my dear Demoiselle, for you to give it up to me.”
“Impossible, Monseigneur,” said the Mademoiselle de Gournay, with a firmness that, a moment before, would have seemed inconceivable.
“Why is that?”
“Because, as I’ve had the honor to tell Your Eminence a moment ago, only two people have a right to ask it of me: the Dame de Coëtman, who has been accused of complicity in this dark and terrible affair, and for whom it may serve as an exoneration; and Monsieur le Duc de Sully.”
“The Dame de Coëtman no longer needs exoneration, as she died last night between the hours of one and two in the morning, at the Convent of the Repentant Daughters.”
“God rest her soul,” said Mademoiselle de Gournay, crossing herself. “She was a martyr!”
“And as for the Duc de Sully,” continued the cardinal, “since he hasn’t cared about this letter for the last eighteen years, it’s unlikely he cares about it today.”
Mademoiselle de Gournay shook her head. “I can do nothing without the permission of Monsieur de Sully,” she said, “especially since the Dame de Coëtman is no longer of this world.”
“But suppose,” said Richelieu, “I said that the pensions I’ve granted you are the price of this letter?”
Mademoiselle de Gournay rose with supreme dignity. “Monseigneur,” she said, “I am a daughter of the nobility and therefore a gentlewoman, as you are a gentleman. I will starve to death if I must, but I will do nothing to betray my conscience.”
“Daughter of the nobility, you shall not starve to death, nor need you do anything to betray your conscience,” said the cardinal, visibly pleased to see such courage in a poor writer of books. “I guarantee that Monsieur de Sully will give you the permission you require. You may go yourself to the Hotel de Sully, with my Captain of the Guards as your escort, if you wish.”
The Red Sphinx Page 26