“I thought about her words all night long, and it seemed to me that in my sojourn at Court and my position near the queen, there was more than had appeared at first. The next day, the king redoubled his attentions. That week, he had visited the queen’s inner circle three times, something that never happened. This time he approached me directly, and spoke to no one but me. But at the first word he said to me, I bowed and excused myself on the pretext of being indisposed, asking the queen for permission to withdraw.
“Queen Anne seemed to disapprove of my behavior. When I asked her why she was so cool to me, she replied, ‘I have nothing against you; I only regret that you seem unable to do for us something that would be of genuine service.’ The queen mother was even colder to me than the queen.”
“And,” asked the cardinal, “did you understand what kind of service the queen had hoped for?”
“I had a vague idea, Monseigneur, and at the realization I felt myself blush to my brows. However, as the queen continued to favor me, I set my qualms aside and have tried to serve her these past months as best I could. But yesterday, Monseigneur, to the amazement of myself and of the two queens, His Majesty, who for weeks had not come near the queen’s circle of ladies, unexpectedly showed up, and for once he was smiling. He greeted his wife, kissed his mother’s hand, and walked straight up to me. The queen has allowed me to sit in her presence, but at the sight of the king I stood up. But he made me sit down again and, while playing with Gretchen, the dwarf who’d been sent to the queen by her niece, the Infanta Claire-Eugénie, the king spoke to me. He inquired after my health, and told me that the next time he invited the queens to join him in a hunt, he would like me to accompany them.
“These attentions from the king to a woman were so extraordinary that I felt all eyes were upon me, and I blushed more fiercely than ever. I don’t know what I said to His Majesty—or, rather, I didn’t say anything, just stammered disconnected words. I tried to get up. The king held me by the hand. I felt paralyzed on my chair. To hide my embarrassment, I took little Gretchen in my arms. But to do that, I had to look up, and when he saw my face, he said, ‘Why are you crying?’ And I realized that tears were flowing silently from my eyes and rolling down my cheeks.
“I don’t know what meaning the king gave to my tears, but he stroked my hand and gave a bonbon to the dwarf, who took it with a wicked laugh, and then she slid from my arms and went to whisper to the queen. I felt I had no one to turn to; I didn’t dare to get up and I didn’t dare to stay. It was unbearable—I felt the blood roaring in my ears, my temples throbbed, the furniture seemed to tremble and the walls to sway. My senses left me, and I fainted.
“When I came to myself, I was lying on my bed, with Madame de Fargis near at hand.”
“Madame de Fargis,” repeated the cardinal, with a smile.
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“Go on, my child.”
“I ask nothing more. For what she told me was so astounding, her knowing congratulations were so humiliating, her suggestive advice so strange and unforeseen, that I hardly know how to describe them to Your Eminence.”
“Yes,” said the cardinal. “She told you the king was in love with you, did she not? She congratulated you for accomplishing a miracle that even the queen could not, and encouraged you to return His Majesty’s love as best you could, so that once you were within his good graces you could replace his sulky favorites and apply your newfound influence to serve the political interests of my enemies.”
“Your name was not mentioned, Monseigneur.”
“No, it wouldn’t be, not at first. But otherwise I guessed what she told you, did I not?”
“Almost word for word, Monseigneur!”
“And how did you reply?”
“I didn’t. All the vague premonitions of evil I’d felt when the king was first paying me his attentions were coming true. They wanted to make a political tool out of me. I started to cry and couldn’t stop. The queen came in and hugged and kissed me, but this embrace, instead of consoling me, froze me to the heart. It seemed to me that such a kiss must hide a secret poison, a kiss given from a queen to encourage a girl to love and desire her own husband!
“The queen took Madame de Fargis aside and exchanged a few quiet words with her, and then said, ‘Good night, dear Isabelle. You can believe everything Fargis says, especially when she assures you of the appreciation we shall have for your devotion.’ And she left the room.
“Madame de Fargis remained. She told me that I was free to do what I wanted—in other words, free to love the king. She spoke for a long time while I remained silent, trying to make me understand that it was a good thing to have won the king’s love and would all be for the best. No doubt she thought she had me convinced, for finally she kissed me in her turn and left. But no sooner had she closed the door behind her than my mind was made up: I would come to you, Monseigneur, to throw myself at your feet and tell you everything.” “What you have told me, my child,” said the cardinal, “is no more than the story of your fears. These fears are neither a sin nor a crime, but, on the contrary, proof of your innocence and your loyalty, so I don’t see why you need to come to me on your knees and tell your story in the form of a confession.”
“But I haven’t told you everything, Monseigneur. This antipathy, or rather this fear the king inspires in me, is not something I feel toward all men. My only hesitation in coming to you, Your Eminence, is not that I must tell you ‘The king loves me,’ but rather that I must say ‘Monseigneur, I fear because I love another.’”
“And this other, is it a crime to love him?”
“No, Monseigneur—but it is . . . dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Why? At your age, both society and nature agree that it’s the purpose of a woman to love and to be loved.”
“But not when she fears that her love is above her in rank and in birth.”
“Your birth, my child, is quite good, and your family name, though it doesn’t shine with the luster it did a hundred years ago, is still on par with the finest names in France.”
“Monseigneur, Monseigneur, don’t encourage me in a foolish and dangerous hope!”
“Do you fear the one you love does not love you?”
“On the contrary, Monseigneur, I believe he does love me . . . and that’s what frightens me.”
“You believe in this love?”
“I have confessed it to you.”
“And now that your confession is made, you said you had a plea for me.”
“A prayer, rather, Monseigneur: the king’s love has put me in a position where, even if he doesn’t pursue it, I will be pressured into returning it. And while I may manage to put them off for a while, at some point they’ll see that I’m not going to do what they wish, and then . . . My prayer, Monseigneur, is that you will send me to join my father. However dangerous it is there, it is less dangerous for me than here.”
“If I were dealing with a heart less pure and less noble than yours, I would join with those who aren’t afraid to tarnish your purity and break your heart—I too would say, let this king, who has never loved anything in the world, fall in love with you, and maybe, in time, you will love him in return. I would say, pretend to be the tool of these women who conspire at the humiliation of France, while working for her greatness as my secret ally. But you are not made for such intrigues. If you want to leave France, you shall go. If you want to join your father, I will give you the means to do so.”
“Oh! Thank you!” the girl cried, seizing the cardinal’s hand and covering it with kisses before the cardinal could do anything to resist.
“The road you choose will not be without danger.”
“For me, Monseigneur, the real dangers are at this Court, where I feel threatened by mysterious and unknown perils, where I feel as if the ground trembles beneath me as I walk, and where I fear I shall lose the innocence in my heart and the purity of my thoughts. Keep me from these queens who conspire, these princes who pretend love they do no
t feel, these scheming courtiers who advise women to do impossible things as if they were easy and natural, these regal voices that promise to reward shame with honor. Save me from all this, Monseigneur, so that I may keep what the Lord has given me honest and pure, and I will be forever grateful.”
“I am unable to refuse one who makes me such a plea as that. Rise. Everything will be ready for you within the hour—at least, there will be nothing to prevent you from leaving.”
“Am I absolved, Monseigneur?”
“One who is not at fault needs no absolution.”
“Bless me, at least, and your blessing will ease my troubled heart.”
“The hands I extend to you, my child, soiled as they are with politics and worldly concerns, are less pure than your heart, troubled though it is. It is up to God to bless you, not to me, and I pray that he will bless you with his supreme goodness rather than my poor reverence.”
At this, the clock struck nine. Richelieu went to his desk, rang a bell, and Guillemot stepped in. “Have the people I was expecting arrived yet?” the cardinal asked.
“This very moment. The duke is in the portrait gallery.”
“Alone or accompanied?”
“With a young man.”
“Mademoiselle,” said the cardinal, “before answering you fully, or at least in more detail, I need to speak with the two people who have just arrived. Guillemot, escort Mademoiselle de Lautrec to my niece’s house, and return in half an hour to see if I’m free.”
And, bowing respectfully to Mademoiselle de Lautrec, who followed his footman out, he opened the door to the portrait gallery where he’d kept waiting, albeit briefly, the Duc de Montmorency and the Comte de Moret.
XXXIV
In Which Cardinal Richelieu Writes a Comedy
Without the Help of His Collaborators
The two princes had been waiting only a moment, and as they were aware of the cardinal’s many responsibilities and how much his time was in demand, they would have been willing to wait considerably longer before taking offense. Though he hadn’t yet reached the heights of power he would command after the famous event that history would call the Day of Dupes, the cardinal was already regarded, in fact if not officially, as the prime minister. This was especially true in matters of peace and war, where his opinion and the weight of his genius were eternally opposed by the hatred of the two queens and their allies on the Council of State, who met at the queen mother’s Luxembourg Palace under the leadership of Cardinal Bérulle. When the two sides could not agree, the king intervened, approving or disapproving. This approval sometimes favored Richelieu and sometimes the queen mother, depending on the mood of King Louis XIII.
The critical matter to be decided in the next two or three days was not whether to go to war in Italy—that had already been decided on—but who would command the army. It was this important issue as regarded the two princes that the cardinal had in mind when he had written to ask the Duc de Montmorency to visit him, along with the Comte de Moret; but his interview with Isabelle de Lautrec had caused him to alter his intentions for the count.
This was the first time Montmorency had come face to face with Richelieu since the execution of his cousin, the duelist Bouteville, but we have seen that the noble Governor of Languedoc had taken the first step toward a reconciliation at Princesse Marie de Gonzague’s soirée, where he had approached Madame de Combalet, who hadn’t failed to report such an honor to her uncle. The cardinal was too wise a politician not to recognize that this show of respect for the niece was a message to the uncle, and that the prince was making an overture of peace.
As for the Comte de Moret, that was something else. This young man, so forthright, so French in character though surrounded by Italians and Spaniards, only twenty-two yet already known for his courage, was someone the cardinal wanted to conciliate, protect, and encourage—especially since he was the only son of Henri IV who had never openly conspired against him. The Comte de Moret, away from court intrigues, honored with a command in the army, serving France and the policies of the Duc de Richelieu, would be a counterweight against his half-brothers the Vendômes, who were in prison for conspiring against the cardinal.
In the cardinal’s opinion, it was high time the young prince was taken in hand. Embroiled in the intrigues of Queen Anne and the queen mother, or taken as a lover by Madame de Fargis or Madame de Chevreuse, he would soon be bound too tightly to escape, even if he wished to do so.
The cardinal offered his hand to Monsieur de Montmorency, who accepted it and shook it sincerely, but he did not allow himself such familiarity with the Comte de Moret, who was of royal blood, and bowed almost as if he was before Monsieur.
After the initial exchange of compliments, the cardinal said, “Duke, when it came to war at La Rochelle, I wanted sole command of the naval campaign, so I purchased the title of Admiral of France from you and paid the price you requested. Today, I’m not here to sell you something, but to give you better than I’ve taken.”
“His Eminence believes,” said the duke with his most gracious smile, “that when it comes to service and the good of the State, to ensure my dedication it would be best to start with a promise?”
“No, Monsieur le Duc, I know that no one is more generous than you with your energy and blood. And it is because I recognize your courage and loyalty that I speak to you so directly.”
Montmorency bowed.
“When your father died, though you were heir to his fortune and his titles, there was one charge you could not inherit because of your extreme youth: that of Constable of France. The fleur de lys sword cannot be borne by a child. Moreover, there was a strong arm already available to take it and wield it faithfully, that of the Seigneur de Lesdiguières. He was appointed constable, and retired only when he reached the age of eighty-five. Since then his son, Marshal Créqui, has aspired to replace him. But the sword of the constable is no family heirloom. This year, Monsieur de Créqui had his chance at conquest when he was offered the command of the expedition formerly led by the Duc de Nevers, but instead he declared for the queen mother, against me and against France. While I live, he will never be constable!”
The Duc de Montmorency could not contain his gasp of pure joy, an evidence of his satisfaction that did not escape the cardinal’s notice. Richelieu continued, “The dedication I failed to find in Marshal Créqui I expect to find in you, Prince. Your relationship with the queen mother must not influence your love for France, because, make no mistake about it, the result of this war in Italy is crucial to the power and standing of France.”
The Comte de Moret appeared to be listening attentively, so the cardinal turned to him. “You do well to pay heed, my young prince, for no one should love our France more than you, that France for which your august father gave everything, even his life.”
And then, as he could see that the Duc de Montmorency eagerly awaited the conclusion of his speech, he said, “To get to the point, with the same frankness and honesty I hope for in return, if I am granted responsibility for the conduct of this war, you, my dear Duke, will have the main command of the army. And if, when the siege of Casale is lifted, you are the first one through the gate, you will find behind that door the sword of the constable, which will thus be borne by your family for the third time. If you wish to pass that sword on to someone else, you may, but I want you to bear it, and I offer it freely. Reflect on that, Monsieur le Duc.”
“Your hand, Monseigneur,” said Montmorency. The cardinal held out his hand. “In the name of France, Monseigneur, be my liege and accept my service. I swear to obey Your Eminence in every respect, except where it would compromise the honor of my name.”
“I am no prince to be a liege, Monsieur le Duc,” said Richelieu with supreme dignity, “but I am a gentleman. Rest assured, I would never ask a Montmorency to do anything he would be ashamed of.” “When do we move, Monseigneur?”
“As soon as we can, Monsieur le Duc. Assuming the direction of the war is entrusted to me,
I expect to take the field at the beginning of next month.”
“Then there is no time to lose, Monseigneur. I shall depart for my province this evening, and on the tenth of January I will be in Lyon with a hundred gentlemen and five hundred cavalry.”
“But shouldn’t you consider that someone else might be put in charge of directing the war?” said the cardinal. “What would you do if that happened?”
“No one but Your Eminence deserves to lead this enterprise, and I will obey no one but you and His Majesty Louis XIII.”
“Go, then, Prince. And know that I fully expect you to earn the constable’s sword.”
“Shall I take my young friend the Comte de Moret with me?”
“No, Monsieur le Duc. I have a particular mission in mind to offer Monsieur le Comte de Moret. If he turns me down, he will be free to join you. I intend to propose a mission to him that will require courage, a steady hand, and the dedication of those who accompany him.”
The duke and the Comte de Moret exchanged a few words in voices too low for the cardinal to hear, and Moret said to the duke, “Lend me Galaor.”
Then, with joy in his heart, the duke seized the cardinal’s hand, gripped it gratefully, and rushed from the study.
Left alone with the Comte de Moret, the cardinal approached him and said, with respect and warmth, “Count, given my position and my age, which is twice yours, I hope you will pardon me when I say that of all King Henri’s children, you are the only one who truly resembles him, and I hope to love the son as I loved the father.”
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