Eventually Baradas had withdrawn to his room, taken up pen, paper, and ink, and undertaken the effort of writing a letter, a colossal undertaking for the average gentleman of his time. After much massaging of his brow and scratching of his head, he was finished; he put the letter in his pocket, waited bravely for the king to return, and then, even more bravely, had asked His Majesty when he might present himself to the treasurer to receive his promised sum of money.
The king said he could present himself whenever he liked, as the treasurer was his to command. Baradas had kissed the king’s hand, then leaped down the stairs four at a time, jumped into one of the sedan chairs of the firm of “Michel and Cavois,” and had himself taken immediately to the cardinal, or rather to the cardinal’s former hotel.
There he found Secretary Charpentier, faithful to his duty, and duly presented himself. Charpentier received his note, read it, and recognizing the king’s signature, bowed respectfully to Monsieur Baradas and asked him to wait for a moment. He left with the note and, five minutes later, came back with a bag of gold containing three thousand pistoles.
At the sight of this bag, Baradas, unable to believe it, felt his heart leap. Charpentier offered to count out the sum before his eyes, but Baradas, who was eager to clutch the blessed bag to his chest, was willing to forego this. However, Charpentier insisted, and Baradas, who still felt weak after his wound, didn’t feel that he could wrest the bag away from him. So he waited until Charpentier was done, and then lugged the bag down to his waiting sedan chair.
There, Baradas reached into the bag and drew out a handful of gold and silver crowns, which he offered to Charpentier. The secretary merely bowed and refused. Baradas was astonished at this, staring at Charpentier as he went back through the door of the hotel.
But bit by bit, Baradas got over his amazement. Once recovered, he ordered the chair porters to guard his bag, then went to the next house over, stepped up to the door, and knocked. He drew his laboriously written letter from his pocket and presented it to the elegantly dressed doorman who answered his knock, saying “For Mademoiselle Delorme.”
He accompanied the letter with two crowns, which the doorman refused as scrupulously as Charpentier had. Then Baradas returned to his chair and, with that commanding voice that belongs only to those who have money in their pockets, called out to his porters, “To the Louvre!”
And the porters, who hadn’t failed to note the weight and rotundity of Baradas’s bag, departed at a rate that would do credit to modern marathon athletes.
After a quarter of an hour, Baradas, who had not for a moment stopped stroking the bag that was his traveling companion, was at the door of the Louvre. There he met Madame de Fargis, who was just descending from another sedan chair.
The two recognized each other, and a smile curved the sensual lips of the mischievous young woman, as she saw the effort Baradas was making with his injured arm to lift the heavy bag. She asked, with mocking courtesy, “Would you like me to assist you, Monsieur Baradas?”
“Thank you, Madame,” replied the page. “If, on your way, you should happen to see my comrade Saint-Simon, and could ask him to come down here, that would be much appreciated.”
“Of course,” replied the young coquette. “My pleasure, Monsieur Baradas.” And she ran nimbly up the stairs, lifting the hem of her dress to reveal the curve of her calf, giving just enough of a look to enable one to guess the shape of the rest.
Five minutes later, Saint-Simon came down. Baradas had generously paid off his porters, and now the two men, joining their efforts, managed to lift the heavy bag up the stairs, much as in that painting of Paul Véronese where we see two young men in party dress carrying a large amphora containing enough wine to make twenty men drunk.
Meanwhile, Louis XIII had extended his evening dinner for five hours, during which he’d conversed with his fool, who hadn’t failed to notice His Majesty’s increasing sadness.
Louis XIII was sitting on one corner of the broad hearth in his parlor, behind the table, while l’Angely, on the other side, crouched in a high chair like a parrot on its perch, resting his feet on the lowest rung to make a table of his knees, on which he rested his plate with an aplomb in accord with his careful sense of balance.
The king lacked an appetite and merely nibbled at a few dried cherries, wetting his lips from a glass that glittered with the gold and blue royal crest. He wore atop his head his black felt hat adorned with black plumes, the broad brim casting a shadow over his features that matched their expression.
L’Angely, on the contrary, was ravenous, and had made up for missing his usual second dinner at five or six o’clock by sliding toward himself all the food the king disdained, mainly a huge pheasant paté and a woodcock stuffed with figs. After offering them to the king, who declined, he cut fat slices of both paté and fowl and transferred them to his plate. After attacking first the paté, then the woodcock, and finally the figs, he poured himself a glass of the cardinal’s wine, which was none other than what we now call Bordeaux. The king and the cardinal, who had the two worst stomachs in the kingdom, always drank this fine wine watered, but l’Angely, who could digest anything, drank it straight, enjoying its bouquet and smooth savor.
The first bottle of this wine had already been set empty on the hearth, and was soon to be joined by a second—which l’Angely, as a connoisseur, kept at an appropriate distance from the fire. Though it was still standing on the table, it was sufficiently empty to show that it wouldn’t be there long, as l’Angely’s deep respect for its qualities caused him to give it frequent caresses as he filled his glass. The fool, who like the Greek philosophers was an enemy to redundancy, was almost inclined to set his glass aside and, like a child drinking from a stream, pour the wine directly into his cupped hand.
As l’Angely tenderly caressed the bottle once again, he uttered a sigh of satisfaction, just as Louis let out a sigh of sadness. L’Angely paused, the bottle in one hand, a wishbone in the other. “It seems,” he said, “that being a king is no fun, especially if you happen to be the king.”
“Ah, my poor l’Angely,” said the king, “I’m so very unhappy.”
“Tell me all about it, my son. It will console you,” said l’Angely, placing the now-empty bottle on the hearth and cutting himself a slice of pie.
“Everyone steals from me, everyone lies to me, everyone betrays me.”
“True! Did you only just notice this?”
“No, I’ve just been confirming it.”
“Come, come, my son, do not succumb to pessimism. I confess that, for my part, I’m inclined to think things are not so bad. I’ve dined well, this pie is good, the wine was excellent, the Earth rotates slowly enough that it does not throw me off, and I feel in my whole body a warmth of pleasant well-being that enables me to view life through a rosy glow.”
“L’Angely!” Louis XIII said tartly. “No heresy, or I’ll have you whipped.”
“What?” replied l’Angely. “Is it heresy to view life through a rosy glow?”
“No, but it’s heresy to say the Earth rotates.”
“Well, ma foi, I’m not the first man to say it. I believe Messieurs Copernicus and Galileo were ahead of me.”
“Perhaps, but the Bible says otherwise, and you can’t pretend that Copernicus and Galileo were wiser than Moses!”
“H’mm,” said l’Angely.
“See here,” the king insisted, “if the Earth turned and the Sun were immobile, then how was Joshua able to stop the Sun for three days?”
“Are you quite sure that Joshua stopped the Sun for three days?”
“Not Joshua, but the Lord.”
“And you think the Lord gave him this extra time because he needed it to chase five Canaanite kings into a cave so he could wall them up? By my faith, if I were the Lord, instead of stopping the Sun, I would have brought on the night, to give those poor devils a chance to escape.”
“L’Angely, l’Angely,” the king said sadly, “you’re worse than a
Huguenot.”
“Careful, Louis—you’re closer to a Huguenot than I am, assuming you’re the actual son of your father.”
“L’Angely!” snapped the king.
“You’re right, Louis,” said l’Angely, renewing his attack on the figs. “Let’s not talk about theology. So you say, my son, that everyone betrays you?”
“Everyone, l’Angely!”
“Even your mother?”
“Especially my mother.”
“Bah! What about your brother?”
“My brother, more than anyone!”
“At last. And here I thought you thought it was only the cardinal who was deceiving you.”
“On the contrary, l’Angely, I believe Monsieur le Cardinal was the only one who wasn’t deceiving me.”
“What? Is the whole world turned upside down, then?”
Louis nodded his head sadly.
“And yet I hear that, in your joy to be rid of him, you’ve promised grand gifts to your whole family!”
“Alas!”
“I hear you gave sixty thousand livres to your mother, thirty thousand to the queen, and one hundred fifty thousand livres to Monsieur.”
“Well, l’Angely, that’s what I’ve promised them.”
“So you haven’t given it to them yet? Good!”
“L’Angely,” said the king, “I’ve had a sudden inspiration.”
“Not to burn me as a heretic or hang me as a thief, I hope!”
“No, not that. Since I have some money . . .”
“You have money?”
“Yes, my child.”
“Word of honor?”
“Faith of a gentleman! And plenty of it.”
“In that case, see here,” said l’Angely, caressing the bottle once again, “use it to buy more of this wine, my son. Invest it in the 1629 vintage!”
“No, that’s not what I’m inspired to do. Besides, you know I drink only water.”
“Parbleu! And that’s why you’re so sad.”
“No, it would just be crazy for me to be happy.”
“Well, I’m crazy, but I’m not happy about it. Come, tell me your inspiration!”
“I have decided to make your fortune, l’Angely.”
“My fortune? Me? What do I need with a fortune? I have food and shelter here at the Louvre. When I need money, I probe your pockets and take what I find. Not that I ever found much. But it’s enough for me, and I have no complaints.”
“I know you never complain, and this saddens me.”
“Why must you always grieve? What an awful personality you have.”
“You never complain—you, whom I give nothing—but they complain continually, though I give to them constantly.”
“Let them complain, my son.”
“But if I died, l’Angely . . .”
“Great, another cheerful thought. At least wait until after Carnaval.”
“. . . If I died, they’d drive you away without a sou.”
“Well, then, I’d go.”
“But what would become of you?”
“I’d become a Trappist monk! Why not? They have a monastery right near the Louvre.”
“They all hope I’ll die, you know. What do you say to that, l’Angely?”
“I say you should continue to live, just to infuriate them.”
“But life is not much fun, l’Angely.”
“Do you think it will be better once you’re buried at Saint-Denis?”
“It’s no fun anywhere, l’Angely,” said the king, mournfully.
“Louis, I warn you, you’ll be even more bored when you’re dead. You’re starting to make my bones rattle.”
“So you don’t want me to make you rich?”
“I want you to let me finish my wine and my paté!”
“I could give you three thousand pistoles, like I gave Baradas.”
“You gave Baradas three thousand pistoles?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you must be proud. There’s money well spent.”
“You think it’s a waste of money?”
“On the contrary! He’ll share it out with all the pretty boys and beautiful girls.”
“You know, l’Angely, I don’t think you believe in anything.”
“Not even the virtue of Monsieur Baradas.”
“Just speaking with you is a sin.”
“Quite so, if speaking truth is a sin. Shall I give you some advice, my son?”
“What’s that?”
“Go to the chapel, pray for my salvation, and leave me to eat my dessert in peace.”
“Good advice can come even from the mad,” said the king, rising. “I will go and pray.” And the king went off to his chapel.
“So you will pray for me,” said l’Angely, “and I will eat, drink, and sing for you, and we will see which is of most benefit.”
And, indeed, as Louis XIII, sadder than ever, closeted himself in his chapel, l’Angely, who had finished the second bottle, opened the third and began a song:
When I’m weary, I invite
Bacchus in for the night
Then happily I rest
As if I’d gold in my chest
More gold in my coffer
Than Croesus could offer
I couldn’t ask for more
Dance around the floor
No laurels I need
No honors, no greed
Kings, queens, nobles, princes
Can’t better my prances
So pour me champagne
To distract my brain
Draw out my troubles
With a glass full of bubbles
Better drunk in my room
Than stone dead in a tomb!
XLIII
Et tu, Baradas?
When Louis came out of his chapel, he found l’Angely slumped over the table, head resting on his arms, asleep or pretending to sleep.
He looked on sadly for a moment, and then this weak and selfish half-man, who despite his terrible upbringing was occasionally illuminated by an instinctive flash of truth and decency, was seized by a great compassion for his companion in misery. L’Angely was so devoted—not to cheering him up, as other fools had done for their kings, but to simply walking with him down the dark corridors of the monotonous hell of depression. Louis remembered the offer he’d made the fool with his typical recklessness, which l’Angely had not refused so much as evaded. He remembered the good humor and patience with which l’Angely suffered his bouts of ill temper, his selfless devotion though surrounded by ambition and greed—and then, picking up pen, ink, and paper, he wrote a draft granting l’Angely the same amount he’d given to Baradas, and slipped it into his pocket quietly, so as not to wake him. Then he returned to his suite, where he listened for an hour as his minstrel played the lute. After that, he called Beringhen to help him into bed, then sent for Baradas to come talk with him.
Baradas arrived, still gleeful from having counted and recounted his three thousand pistoles, stacking and restacking them.
The king had him sit on the foot of the bed, and said with an air of reproach, “Why are you so cheerful?”
“I’m cheerful,” Baradas replied, “because I have no reason not to be—in fact, quite the contrary!”
“Why is that?” asked Louis with a sigh.
“Has Your Majesty forgotten that he granted me three thousand pistoles?”
“No, indeed. I remember.”
“Well, then: three thousand pistoles! I must admit to Your Majesty that I wasn’t really expecting it.”
“Why not?”
“Ah, man proposes, but God disposes!”
“But if the man is a king?”
“Nonetheless, God is still God!”
“And so?”
“So, Sire, it was paid, every coin, cash on the barrelhead! Peste! Monsieur Charpentier is in my opinion a much greater man than Monsieur de La Vieuville, who when I asked for money just waved his arms and whispered, ‘I swim, I swim, I swim. . . .’”
“So you got your three thousand pistoles.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“And so you’re rich?”
“Yes, ha ha!”
“What are you going to do now? Are you going to act the bad Christian and spend it all on gambling and women, like the prodigal son?”
“Oh, Sire!” Baradas said, pretending to be hurt. “Your Majesty knows I never gamble.”
“So you say, at least.”
“And as for women, I can’t stand them.”
“Is that really true, Baradas?”
“I am constantly quarreling with Saint-Simon about this very subject, holding up Your Majesty to him as an example.”
“It’s true, Baradas: women were created for the peril of our souls. It wasn’t woman who was seduced by the serpent—she is the serpent itself!”
“It’s just as you say, Sire! I’m going to commit that maxim to memory and write it down in my prayer book!”
“Speaking of prayer, I had my eyes on you during mass last Sunday, Baradas, and you seemed quite distracted.”
“If so, it was only because my eyes turned the same way as Your Majesty’s, toward Mademoiselle de Lautrec.”
The king bit his mustache and changed the subject. “So, what will you do with your money?”
“If it was three or four times as much, I’d use it to fund pious works,” said the page, “like dedicating the foundation of a convent or the erection of a chapel, but with such a limited amount . . .”
“You know I’m not rich, Baradas,” said the king.
“Oh, I’m not complaining, Sire, quite the contrary. But with, as I said, such a limited amount, I’ll first give half of it to my mother and my sisters.”
The Red Sphinx Page 41