“Gentlemen, let’s lard,” said the king, furious. And he threw himself on a loin of veal and began to pierce it with no less fury than if his larding needle was a sword and the veal was the cardinal.
“My faith, Louis!” said l’Angely. “I think this time it’s you who got larded!”
XXX
As the King Was Larding
It was remarks like these—from his own entourage, even, who spared him nothing—that put the king into a rage against his minister and made him take those sudden and unexpected resolutions that were the bane of the cardinal’s policy and patience.
If the enemies of His Eminence took advantage of Louis XIII in one of those moments of fury, he could be persuaded to adopt the most desperate decisions, or make them the most wonderful promises, even if he couldn’t keep them.
However, as the bile evoked by the Duc d’Angoulême’s words rose in his throat, the king, still stabbing his loin of veal, looked around, seeking someone who would give him a plausible excuse to vent his anger. His eyes fell on his two musicians, who stood on a low dais, one scratching at his lute and the other scraping his viola, with the same ill-temper as the king stabbing his veal.
He noticed something he’d paid no attention to earlier: each was only half-dressed. Molinier wore a doublet but no hose, while Justin, clad in a jerkin and hose, had no doublet.
“Hey!” said Louis XIII. “What is this, a masquerade?”
“Hold on!” said l’Angely. “I’ve got the answer to that.”
“Fool,” said the king, “you’d better not disappoint me.”
Louis XIII gave privileges to l’Angely granted to no one else. Unlike other kings, when he was alone with his fool, instead of being amused, Louis XIII usually talked with him of death. The king was fascinated by the most morbid and fantastic concepts. L’Angely often accompanied him on his thought-journeys beyond the grave. He was the Horatio to this other Prince of Denmark who was seeking—who can say?—perhaps, like the first, the murderers of his father. Their talks were like Hamlet’s conversation with the gravedigger, but far more grave.
In verbal jousts with l’Angely, it was usually the king who eventually gave up and gave in to the jester. This occasion was no different.
“Come,” said Louis XIII, “explain yourself, fool!”
“Louis, called Louis the Just because you were born under the sign of Libra, be worthy for once of that name, despite the way my colleague Nogent insulted you earlier. Yesterday, based on who knows what folly, you, King of France and Navarre, pleading poverty, cut the annual salary of these musical wretches in half. However, Sire, people who are paid only half their salaries can only halfway afford to dress. So you see, if you must quarrel with someone about their outfits, quarrel with me, as I was the one who advised them to dress this way.”
“The advice of a fool!” said the king.
“Only if it fails them,” replied l’Angely.
“Well, then,” said the king, “I forgive them.”
“Thank His Most Gracious Majesty Louis the Just,” said l’Angely.
The two musicians stood up and bowed.
“Fine, fine!” said the king. “Enough!”
Then he looked around to see who was properly imitating him in his diversion.
Desnoyers prodded a hare, La Vieuville a pheasant, Nogent a beef tenderloin, while Saint-Simon, who wasn’t too proud for it, assailed the plate of bacon. Bassompierre was talking with the Duc de Guise, Baradas was playing with a cup-and-ball, while the Duc d’Angoulême lay back in a chair, sleeping or pretending to sleep.
“What are you saying to the Duc de Guise, Marshal?” asked the king. “It must be very interesting.”
“It is to us, yes,” replied Bassompierre. “The Duc de Guise is seeking to quarrel with me.”
“About what?”
“It seems Monsieur de Vendôme is bored in his prison.”
“Good!” said l’Angely. “Though he always seemed equally bored at the Louvre!”
“And so,” continued Bassompierre, “he wrote to me.”
“To you?”
“He probably thinks I’m in favor.”
“And what does my brother of Vendôme want?”
“He wants you to send him one of your pretty pages,” said l’Angely.
“Quiet, fool!” said the king.
“He wants to be released from Vincennes to join the Italian campaign.”
“Right!” said l’Angely. “Let the Piedmontese watch out if they turn their backs on him.”
“And you replied to him?” asked the king.
“Yes, saying it was a waste of time unless he wanted to try asking to join the staff of Monsieur de Guise.”
“Why is that?”
“Because Madame de Conti, the duke’s sister, is my mistress.”
“And how did you respond to that, de Guise?”
“I told him that meant nothing, as all Vendôme’s aunts have been my mistresses, and I didn’t like him any the better for it.”
The king turned. “And you, my cousin of Angoulême, what are you doing?”
“I dream, Sire.”
“Of what?”
“Of the war in Piedmont.”
“And what do you dream?”
“I dream, Sire, that Your Majesty leads his army on a march into Italy, and on one of the highest rocks in the Alps he finds his name inscribed beside that of Hannibal and Charlemagne. What do you think of my dream, Sire?”
“We approve of this dream,” said l’Angely. “See to it that others dream the same way.”
“And who commands the troops for me? My brother, or the cardinal?” asked the king.
“Pay attention,” said l’Angely. “If it’s your brother, he’ll command as your subordinate, but if it’s the cardinal, he’ll be your superior.”
“Where the king is,” said the Duc de Guise, “no one else commands.”
“Right!” said l’Angely. “That’s exactly how it was with your father, General Scarface, in the time of King Henri III.”
“Which didn’t turn out very well for him,” said Bassompierre.
“Gentlemen,” said the king, “the war in Piedmont is no small affair, and despite the disagreement between me and my mother, it has been decided upon in the King’s Council. My Cousin of Angoulême and Monsieur de Guise, I must warn you, the queen mother’s party is very much in favor of Monsieur having the command.”
“Sire,” replied the Duc d’Angoulême, “I say openly and in advance, I believe it should be Monsieur le Cardinal. After his success at La Rochelle, I think it would be doing him a great disservice to deprive him of the command—subordinate to the king, of course.”
“That’s your opinion?” said the king.
“Yes, Sire.”
“Do you know that two years ago, the cardinal wanted to put you in Vincennes, and I was the one who prevented it?”
“Your Majesty was in error.”
“How so?”
“If His Eminence wanted to put me in Vincennes, I’m sure I deserved it.”
“Profit from the example of your cousin of Angoulême,” said l’Angely. “He is a man of experience.”
“I presume, Cousin,” said the king, “that if I offered you command of the army, your opinion would be different?”
“If my king, whom I respect and must obey, ordered me to take command of the army, I would do so. But if I could, I would take that command and offer it to His Eminence, saying, ‘Just give me a subcommand equal to that of Messieurs de Bassompierre, de Bellegarde, de Guise, and de Créqui, and I will be happy.’”
“Peste!” said Bassompierre. “Monsieur d’Angoulême, I had no idea you were so modest.”
“I am modest in my judgments, Marshal, but proud when I compare myself to others.”
“And you, Louis, who would you choose?” asked l’Angely. “The cardinal, Monsieur, or yourself? As for me, as I’ve told you, I’d pick Monsieur.”
“And why is that, fool?�
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“Since he was ‘ill’ all through the Siege of La Rochelle, he should be well rested in time for Italy. Perhaps hot countries suit your brother better than cold countries.”
“Not when they’re too hot,” said Baradas.
“Oh, so you decide to get a word in, then?” said the king.
“Yes, when I have something to say,” Baradas replied. “Otherwise, I am silent.”
“And why aren’t you larding?”
“Because my hands are clean and I don’t want to soil them, and because I’m in a good mood and don’t want to be in a bad one.”
“Well,” said Louis XIII, drawing a flask from his pocket, “this will restore your scented hands.”
“What’s that?”
“Orange-water.”
“You know I detest your orange-water.”
The king stepped up to Baradas and splashed orange-water on his face. Scarcely had the drops touched the young man when he leaped up, snatched the bottle from the king’s hands, and smashed it on the floor.
“See, gentlemen,” said the king, turning pale. “What would you do to a page if he was as guilty of such an insult to you as this ruffian has been to me?”
Everyone was quiet. Only Bassompierre was unable to keep his tongue still. “Sire, I would thrash him.”
“So, you would thrash me, Monsieur le Maréchal?” Baradas cried. And drawing his sword in the presence of the king, he charged the marshal. The Duc de Guise and the Duc d’Angoulême seized him.
“Monsieur Baradas,” said Bassompierre, “as it is forbidden, under penalty of the loss of the offending hand, to draw a sword before the king, for the respect that I owe him I will stand in his place and give you the lesson you’ve earned. Georges, give me a larding needle.”
Taking the small cooking implement from the squire, Bassompierre said, “Release Monsieur Baradas.”
They let Baradas go, and, despite the king’s cries, he made a furious attack upon the marshal. But the marshal was an old and experienced fencer who, if he’d rarely drawn sword against an enemy, had often sparred with his friends. With perfect form, and without taking so much as a step back, he parried the favorite’s every blow, and at the first opportunity thrust the needle into his opponent’s shoulder and left it there.
“Take that, little man,” he said. “It’s better than a thrashing, and you’ll remember it longer.”
Seeing the blood stain Baradas’s sleeve, the king let out a cry. “Monsieur de Bassompierre,” he said, “leave me, and never return!”
The marshal took up his hat. “Sire,” he said, “will Your Majesty allow me to appeal this judgment?”
“To whom?” asked the king.
“To the king—once he awakes.”
And while the king shouted, “Doctor Bouvard! Get Doctor Bouvard,” Bassompierre shrugged and went out, waving adieu to the Duc d’Angoulême and the Duc de Guise, while muttering, “Him, the son of Henri IV? Never!”
XXXI
The Shop of Ildefonse Lopez
Our readers may recall from Souscarrières’s report to the cardinal that Madame de Fargis and Monsieur de Mirabel, the Spanish Ambassador, had exchanged a letter in Lopez’s jewelry store.
But what Souscarrières didn’t know was that the jeweler Lopez belonged body and soul to the cardinal, which was very much in his interest, because in his dual capacity as a Muslim and a Jew—he could pass at will for either a Jew or a Mohammedan—he needed a patron who could defend him in the event of an accusation of heresy, despite the care he took to eat pork every day to prove he was a follower of neither Moses nor Mohammed.
And yet, one day, he almost fell afoul of the stupidity of a Master of Requests. He was accused of secretly paying agents on Spain’s behalf, so the Master of Requests appeared one day, audited his books, and found the following entry incriminating: “Guadamassil for Señor de Bassompierre.”
Lopez, warned that he could be accused of high treason on the basis of this “payment” to Marshal Bassompierre, hastened to consult Madame de Rambouillet who was, along with the lovely Julie, one of his best customers. He begged for her protection, protesting that his only crime was the entry in his ledger that read, “Guadamassil for Señor de Bassompierre.”
Madame de Rambouillet called down her husband and told him about the case. He immediately went to the Master of Requests, who was his friend, and asserted Lopez’s innocence.
“And yet, my dear Marquis, one thing is clear,” said the Master of Requests. “Guadamassil!”
The marquis paused. “Do you speak Spanish?” he asked the court official.
“No.”
“Do you know what ‘Guadamassil’ means?”
“No—but by the name alone, I deem it must be very significant!”
“Well, my dear sir, it means that Monsieur de Bassompierre ordered . . . a Guadamassil tapestry for his wall.”
The Master of Requests refused to believe it. The marquis had to bring him a Spanish dictionary so the Master of Requests could see for himself what the word meant.
In fact, Lopez was of Moorish origin; but as the last Moors were expelled from Spain in 1610, Lopez had gone to France to plead for the interests of the fugitives. It was then that he’d become acquainted with the Marquis de Rambouillet, who spoke Spanish.
Lopez was sharp. He advised a Parisian merchants’ guild on a fabric shipment to Constantinople, and the enterprise was successful. The merchants cut him in on the profits. With this he bought a diamond in the rough and had it cut, polished, and sold so profitably that soon everyone was sending him their raw diamonds. In no time he was the leading jeweler in Paris, and since he employed the most skilled gem-cutters, all the most beautiful jewels of the era passed through his hands. One of his men was so skilled that he was able to split a flawed diamond into two perfect halves with a single blow.
During the Siege of La Rochelle, the cardinal had sent Lopez to Holland to commission new ships and buy up everything available that could float. While he was there, he acquired a large collection of items from India and China and brought them back to France for sale, thus creating the French market for Oriental bric-a-brac.
By the time he’d finished his sojourn in Holland, he’d made his fortune as an importer, meanwhile covertly completing his mission for the cardinal.
Lopez had also taken note of the coincidence of the simultaneous visits to his shop of the Spanish Ambassador and Madame de Fargis, and his diamond cutter had spotted the exchange of the letter. Thus the cardinal had dual confirmation of this intelligence, which only gave him a greater regard for the efforts of Souscarrières.
The cardinal therefore knew that, when the queen, on the morning of the fourteenth, ordered sedan chairs for guests to be carried to Lopez’s shop, it wasn’t a sign of a woman who wanted to buy jewelry, but rather of one who wanted to sell a kingdom.
Thus on December 14, at around eleven in the morning, while Monsieur de Bassompierre was planting a larding needle in Baradas’s shoulder, the queen was stepping out with Madame de Fargis, Isabelle de Lautrec, Madame de Chevreuse, and Patrocle, her first esquire.
Madame de Bellier, her premier lady-in-waiting, arrived with a covered parrot cage in one hand and a letter in the other.
“Oh, mon Dieu, what do you have there?” asked the queen.
“A gift for Your Royal Majesty from Her Highness the Infanta Claire-Eugénie.”
“So this comes from Brussels?” the queen asked.
“Yes, Your Majesty—and here is a letter from the princess explaining the gift.”
“Let’s have a look,” said the queen, overcome by feminine curiosity and reaching for the cage’s cover.
“Not yet,” said Madame de Bellier, drawing back the cage. “Your Majesty must read the letter first.”
“And who brought this cage and its letter?”
“Michel Dause, Your Majesty’s apothecary. Your Majesty knows that he is our correspondent in Belgium. Here is Her Highness’s letter.”
The queen took the letter, opened it, and read:
My Dear Niece,
I send you a wonderful parrot which, if you do not frighten it, you will discover can compliment you in five different languages. It is a good little animal, very sweet and loyal. You will never, I am sure, have reason to complain of it.
Your Devoted Aunt,
Claire-Eugénie
“Ah!” said the queen, “it talks, it talks!”
Immediately, a small voice came from under the cloth that said, in French, “Queen Anne of Austria is the most beautiful princess in the world.”
“Ah! How wonderful!” cried the queen. “Now I would like, my dear bird, to hear you speak Spanish.”
“Yo quiero Doña Ana hacer por usted todo para que sus deseos lleguen.”
“Now in Italian,” said the queen. “Do you have something to say to me in Italian?”
The bird didn’t delay—immediately they heard the same voice say, in an Italian accent, “Darei la mia vita per la carissima padrona mia.”
The queen clapped her hands with joy. “And what are the other languages my parrot speaks?” she asked.
“English and Dutch, Your Majesty,” replied Madame de Bellier.
“In English, in English!” said Anne of Austria.
And the parrot, without further ado, immediately said, “Give me your hand and I shall give you my heart.”
“Ah!” said the queen. “I didn’t quite understand. Do you know English, my dear Isabelle?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“What did it mean?”
“The parrot said, ‘Give me your hand and I shall give you my heart.’”
“Oh! Bravo!” said the queen. “And now, what was that last language you said it speaks, Bellier?”
“Dutch, Madame.”
“Oh, what bad luck!” cried the queen. “None of us here understands Dutch.”
“Wait, Your Majesty,” said Madame de Fargis. “Beringhen is from Friesland, he knows Dutch.”
“Call Beringhen,” said the queen. “He should be in the king’s antechamber.”
Madame de Fargis went and brought back Beringhen. He was a tall and handsome lad, with blond hair and a red beard, half Dutch and half German, though he’d been raised in France. The king was very fond of him, and he was devoted to the king in return. Madame de Fargis came in tugging him by the sleeve; he didn’t know what he was wanted for and, faithful to his orders, it was only at the express command of the queen that he left his post in the royal antechamber.
The Red Sphinx Page 29