The young prince was facing Richelieu for the first time, hearing for the first time that voice against which everyone had warned him, and he was astonished at how that stern face could brighten with warmth, and how that commanding voice could soften.
“Monseigneur,” he replied, with a laugh edged with emotion, “Your Eminence is very good to concern himself with a young fool whose only thought is to amuse himself as best he can, and who, if asked how he might do better, wouldn’t know what to say.”
“A true son of Henri IV is good at everything, Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “because with that blood comes courage and intelligence. And that is why I cannot stand idly by and watch you go wrong, falling prey to the dangers that surround you.”
“Me, Monseigneur?” said the young man, surprised. “What are these dangers, and in what way might I go wrong?”
“Will you grant me a few minutes of your attention, Monsieur le Comte? And for those few minutes, will you listen to me seriously?”
“At my age and with my heritage, Monseigneur, that is my duty, even if you weren’t a minister of state and a man of genius. So I will listen to you—perhaps not seriously, but definitely with respect.”
“You arrived in Paris at the end of November—on the 28th, I believe.”
“The 28th, yes, Monseigneur.”
“You came bearing letters from Milan and Piedmont for Queen Marie de Médicis, for Queen Anne of Austria, and for Monsieur.”
The count stared at the cardinal, astonished and uncertain how to answer. But finally, faced by the truth and the brilliant man who spoke it, he said, “Yes, Monseigneur.”
“But as the two queens and Monsieur had gone to meet the king, you were obliged to wait in Paris for a week. Rather than remain idle, you wooed Madame de la Montagne, the sister of Marion Delorme. Young, handsome, wealthy, and the son of a king, you didn’t have too long to wait; within two days you were her lover.”
“So is that the wrong track you worry about, and the danger from which you’d protect me?” laughed the Comte de Moret, surprised that an important minister would concern himself with such trivia.
“No, Monsieur—we’re getting to it. No, I would hardly call taking a courtesan’s sister as a lover a dangerous diversion, though it was not entirely free of peril. That madman Pisany thought you were Madame de Maugiron’s lover, and wanted to murder you out of jealousy. Fortunately, his chosen assassin turned out to be more honest than heinous and, faithful to the memory of the great king, refused to lay a hand on his son. In the end he was a victim of his honesty; you saw him yourself, lying on a table and making his dying confession to a Capuchin.”
“Did I? And just exactly when was it,” said the Comte de Moret, hoping to embarrass Richelieu, “that I witnessed this painful spectacle?”
“December 5, at about six in the evening, in the common room of the Inn of the Painted Beard. Disguised as a Basque gentleman, you had just left Madame de Fargis who, herself disguised as a Catalan, had instructed you to meet with Queen Anne of Austria, Queen Marie de Médicis, and Monsieur at the Louvre between eleven o’clock and midnight.”
“My faith, Monseigneur! I have to admit the reputation of your police is entirely justified.”
“You are kind, Count. Now, do you think I went to the trouble to gather such information because I was worried you might become a threat to me?”
“I don’t know. It seems Your Eminence has taken a great deal of interest in me.”
“A great deal, Count. I wanted to save the son of Henri IV from becoming a threat to himself.”
“How so, Monseigneur?”
“The fact that Queen Marie de Médicis, who is Italian and Austrian, and Queen Anne, who is Austrian and Spanish, conspire against France is a crime—but family ties often outweigh even the duties of a crown. But to have the Comte de Moret, son of a Frenchwoman and of the most French king who ever lived, conspire with those two queens on the behalf of Spain and Austria, that I must prevent—by persuasion and prayer if possible, but by force if necessary.”
“Who told you I was conspiring, Monseigneur?”
“So far you have not conspired, Count, possibly thanks to your inborn noble instincts. And what these instincts should be telling you is that, as the son of Henri IV, who dedicated his life to opposing domination of France by Spain and Austria, you should not be serving their cause at the expense of the interests of France. Son of Henri IV, your father was murdered by Austria and Spain—do not sink so low as to ally with his assassins!”
“But why does Your Eminence say this to me instead of to Monsieur?”
“Monsieur has nothing to do with it—he is the son of Concini, not of Henri IV.”
“Monsieur le Cardinal, consider what you’re saying!”
“Yes, I know I risk the wrath of the queen mother, the wrath of Monsieur, even the wrath of the king, if the Comte de Moret leaves here determined to do me ill. But I prefer to think the Comte de Moret will be grateful for my concern, which has no source other than the great love and admiration I had for the king his father. I think, rather, that the Comte de Moret will keep what I say to himself, for his sake and for the sake of France.”
“Is Your Eminence asking me to give him my word?”
“We do not ask for such things from the son of Henri IV.”
“But Your Eminence didn’t invite me here just to give me advice. I believe I heard something about entrusting me with a mission.”
“Yes, Count, a mission that will take you far away from the dangers I fear.”
“So you wish me to put this danger behind me?”
Richelieu nodded.
“And therefore I am to leave Paris?”
“I would have you return to Italy.”
“Hmph!” said the Comte de Moret.
“Is there some reason why you don’t wish to return to Italy?”
“No, I would just rather stay in Paris.”
“So you refuse, Monsieur le Comte?”
“No, not completely—not if the mission can be delayed.”
“You must leave tonight; tomorrow, at the latest.”
“Impossible, Monseigneur,” said the Comte de Moret, shaking his head.
“What?” cried the cardinal. “France goes to war, and you decline to take part?”
“Not at all. But I intend not to leave Paris until the last possible moment.”
“This is your firm resolve, Monsieur le Comte?”
“It is my firm resolve, Monseigneur.”
“Your reluctance to leave is a sad blow to me. I was counting on your courage, your devotion, and your nobility in acting as escort for a young lady, the daughter of a man for whom I have the highest regard. I’m afraid I’ll just have to look elsewhere for someone willing to safeguard the travels of Mademoiselle Isabelle de Lautrec.”
“Isabelle de Lautrec!” cried the Comte de Moret. “It’s Isabelle de Lautrec you wish escorted back to her father?”
“Her very self. Why? Does that name surprise you?”
“Oh, pardon, Monseigneur, pardon!”
“No, don’t worry about it, Count. I’m sure I can find her another escort.”
“No, no, Monseigneur, look no further—the escort, the protector, the defender to the death of Mademoiselle de Lautrec is here before you! It is me, Monseigneur! It is me.”
“Oh?” said the cardinal. “So you’ll do it, then? I have nothing to worry about?”
“Nothing, Monseigneur!”
“You accept this charge?”
“I accept!”
“Well. In that case, here are my instructions.”
“I am listening.”
“I place in your charge Mademoiselle de Lautrec who, during the course of this journey, you will hold as safe and sacred as if she were your sister. . . .”
“I swear it!”
“. . . And conduct her to her father, who is in Mantua. Then you will return to join the army and take a command under the orders of Monsieur de Montmorency
.”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“And if it should happen—for you understand, a man of foresight must take everything into account—if it should happen that you should fall in love . . .”
The Comte de Moret started.
“Just supposing, you understand, because such things have been known to happen. Well, if that occurs, understand there is nothing I can do for you, Monsieur, who are the son of a king—but there’s a lot I can do for Mademoiselle de Lautrec and her father.”
“You can make me the happiest of men, Monseigneur. For I already love Mademoiselle de Lautrec.”
“Do you indeed? How are we to account for this? Is it, perhaps, that you came secretly to the Louvre one night, and were conducted up the back stair by Madame de Chevreuse disguised as a page, who admitted you to a dark corridor that led you to the queen’s chambers, where you met a certain someone? Could that be it? Why, what a miraculous coincidence!”
“Monseigneur,” said the Comte de Moret, regarding the cardinal with wonder, “my admiration for you almost matches my gratitude! But . . .” The count paused, worried.
“But what?” asked the cardinal.
“There’s just one thing I’m anxious about.”
“What’s that?”
“I love Mademoiselle de Lautrec, but . . . I don’t know if Mademoiselle de Lautrec loves me. I don’t know if, despite my devotion, she’ll accept me as her escort.”
“Well, Monsieur le Comte, it seems to me that that part is up to you.”
“But how? I don’t see how I’ll have a chance to make sure, if this departure, as Your Eminence says, must take place tonight, or tomorrow morning at the latest. How is this going to work out?”
“You’re quite right, Monsieur le Comte, there must be an interview between the two of you as soon as possible. However, I have other things to attend to. Please wait here for a moment, as I must issue some instructions that cannot wait.”
The Comte de Moret bowed, his eyes following this man in admiration mingled with astonishment, this man who manipulated all Europe from this study, and who, despite the threats that surrounded him, nonetheless found time to pay attention to the smallest of details.
The door closed behind the cardinal. The Comte de Moret remained behind, his eyes fixed on the portal until it opened again—and he saw in its frame not just the cardinal, but Mademoiselle de Lautrec herself.
The two lovers, simultaneously struck as if by an electric shock, gasped in astonishment. Then, with the rapidity of thought, the Comte de Moret darted to Isabelle, fell to his knees before her, seized her hand, and kissed it with such passion that the young woman knew she had found, not a dangerous heartbreaker, but an ardent admirer.
Meanwhile the cardinal, who had achieved his goal of prying the son of Henri IV away from the Court and making him an ally, celebrated the victorious conclusion to a heroic comedy written without the help of his usual collaborators, Messieurs Desmarests, Rotrou, L’Estoile, and Mairet.
(Corneille, it will be remembered, had not yet had the honor of being presented to the cardinal.)
XXXV
The King’s Council
The next big event, anxiously awaited by all—especially Richelieu, who was as sure of the king as anyone could be of Louis XIII—was a meeting of the King’s Council. This was to be held at the queen mother’s Luxembourg Palace, which had been built during her regency on the model of the palaces of Florence, and which contained the gallery of paintings Rubens had done ten years before, those magnificent works depicting the most important events in the life of Marie de Médicis, and which are now among the principal ornaments of the gallery of the Louvre.
This event was to be held that evening.
The council was primarily composed of the creatures of Queen Marie de Médicis. It was chaired by Cardinal Bérulle but conducted by Vautier, and included Maréchal de Marillac, who had been made a marshal without ever having been in a battle, and who the cardinal, in his memoirs, always referred to as Marillac the Sword, since his duel at the tennis courts with one Caboche, whom he’d killed before he had a chance to defend himself. The other member of the council was the Sword’s elder brother, Michel de Marillac, Minister of Justice and Keeper of the Seals, who was one of Madame de Fargis’s lovers.
When meeting on important matters, the King’s Council was augmented by some others our readers already know, namely the Duc d’Angoulême, the Duc de Guise, the Duc de Bellegarde, and Marshal Bassompierre.
Monsieur, also, had returned to the council, as it was now some time since his disgrace in the Chalais conspiracy. The king attended whenever there was a decision before the council important enough to require his presence. The council’s decisions had to be ratified by the king, who could approve, disapprove, or even completely change whatever it resolved.
Cardinal Richelieu, who was prime minister in practice if not yet in name, and who was to gain absolute power in later years, was at this point just one more voice in the council, though he was usually able to persuade the king to adopt his position, supported by the Marillacs, the Duc de Guise, the Duc d’Angoulême, and sometimes Marshal Bassompierre. He was consistently opposed by the queen mother, Vautier, Cardinal Bérulle, and two or three others who took their cues from Marie de Médicis.
This evening, Monsieur, on the pretext of his pretended quarrel with the queen mother, had sent word that he would not attend the council, though he knew that despite his absence, his mother would look out for his interests.
The King’s Council was scheduled to begin at eight o’clock. By a quarter past eight, everyone summoned was in attendance, standing behind their chairs and waiting for the queen mother to take her seat.
At half past eight, the king arrived. He saluted his mother, who rose to greet him, kissed her hand, and then sat beside her on a chair slightly higher than hers. Then he pronounced the traditional words, “You may take your seats, Messieurs.”
The ministers and the honorary councilors all sat in the chairs provided for them around the table, one for each member.
The king slowly looked around at everyone present, then said, in the same flat and melancholy tone in which he said everything, “I do not see my brother Monsieur. Where is he?”
“He has disobeyed your orders, so doubtless he dares not appear before Your Majesty,” said Vautier. “Is it your pleasure that we proceed without him?”
The king nodded. Then, addressing both the ministers and the honorary members, he said, “Messieurs, you all know why we are here today. We are considering whether we shall raise the siege of Casale and rescue Mantua in the name of the claims of the Duc de Nevers—claims we have affirmed and supported—and oppose the schemes of the Duke of Savoy in Montferrat. Although the right to declare war and peace is a royal right, we wish to hear your opinions in the hope they will cast some light on the matter before we make our decision, while reserving the right to make that decision regardless of your advice. I call upon our minister, Cardinal Richelieu, to summarize the state of affairs.”
Richelieu rose, bowed to the king and the queen mother, and said, “I will keep this brief. In his dying statement, Vincent de Gonzague, the Duke of Mantua, bequeathed all his rights to the Duchy of Mantua to the Duc de Nevers, who was his closest relative since he had no male heir. The Duke of Savoy had hoped to marry his son to Gonzague’s daughter, who as heiress to Mantua and Montferrat would thus augment his domain and make him a power in Italy. It is that ambition that has so often led him to betray his promises to France. This minister of His Majesty Louis XIII thinks it good policy to support Nevers, as placing a Frenchman on the thrones of Mantua and Montferrat will give us a position of strength in Lombardy. There, in between the Pope and the Venetians, we will be able to offset the power of Spain and Austria and neutralize their influence in northern Italy.
“The recent actions of this servant to His Majesty have been in service to this policy. It was to prepare the way for this Italian campaign that we sent a p
reliminary force south several months ago. That army, under the command of Marshal Créqui, was defeated, not by the Duke of Savoy, as the enemies of France have been quick to declare, but by incompetence almost amounting to treason, as our infantry and knights, unfed and unsupplied, deserted in the face of starvation.
“However, our policy is unchanged, and we have only been awaiting a favorable opportunity to continue the campaign. This minister of His Majesty believes that that time has come. With La Rochelle taken, our army and fleet are freed up for new commitments. The question before Your Majesty is, do we act now, or do we wait? This minister believes we should proceed with the war immediately, and I am ready to respond to any and all objections.”
And then, bowing to the king and to Queen Marie, the cardinal resumed his seat, leaving the floor to his opponents—or rather his only opponent, Cardinal Bérulle.
The latter, in his turn, knowing that this was his cue to respond, glanced at the queen mother. She replied with a small gesture, at which he rose, bowed to Their Majesties, and said, “This project of pursuing a war in Italy, despite the apparent good reasons put forth by Cardinal Richelieu, seems upon closer inspection not only dangerous, but outright impossible. Germany is now nearly subdued, which provides the Emperor Ferdinand with far more armies than France can muster. Moreover His Majesty Philip IV, the august brother of the queen, has from the mines of the New World sufficient treasure to raise more armies than even the ancient kings of Persia.
“Instead of meddling in Italy, the Emperor is certain to devote his efforts to further suppression of the unruly Protestants, to recover the bishoprics, monasteries, and other Church property they have unjustly seized. Why should France, the eldest daughter of the Church, oppose such a noble and Christian pursuit? Wouldn’t it be better for the king to emulate this policy and devote our efforts to eradicating heresy within our own borders, while the Emperor and the King of Spain do the same within the borders of Germany and the Netherlands? And yet, in direct opposition to such pious efforts, Monsieur de Richelieu proposes peace with England and an alliance with heretical powers, acts which can only tarnish His Majesty’s glory. Instead of making peace with England, should we not, while we have the chance, continue our war against Charles I and stop his persecution of English Catholics? Must France forget how the ladies and servants of Queen Henriette were driven from her, in violation of a solemn treaty? Will not the Lord reward the restoration of the true religion in England, as well as the expungement of heresy in France, Germany, and the Netherlands? In the sincere belief that I speak in the interests of France and throne, I place my humble opinion at Their Majesties’ feet.”
The Red Sphinx Page 33