Louis nodded.
“Then,” Baradas continued, “I’ll divide the remaining fifteen hundred pistoles into two shares. The first seven hundred fifty will go to buy me two good horses to take on Your Majesty’s Italian campaign, along with weapons, and pay and clothing for a lackey.”
The king nodded his approval. “And as for the remaining seven hundred fifty, what will you do with that?”
“I will keep it as a reserve, with a bit for pocket money. God bless you, Sire,” Baradas continued, raising his eyes to heaven, “for such good deeds that enable others to rescue orphans and console widows.”
“Embrace me, Baradas—embrace me!” cried the king, moved to tears. “Use the money as you say, my child, and I will make sure you never want for more.”
“Sire,” said Baradas, “you are magnificent, majestic, and wise as Solomon—plus you have the advantage over him in the eyes of the Lord in not having three hundred wives and eight hundred . . .”
“The Lord preserve me!” cried the king, terrified by the mere idea, and raising his own hands to heaven. “But this conversation is a sin, Baradas, for it smacks of ideas that contradict morality and religion.”
“Your Majesty is right,” said Baradas. “Shall I go and do some pious reading?” The page knew that was the quickest way to quell the king. He got up, pulled down Gerson’s Eternal Consolation from a shelf, sat down near but not on the bed, and began to read from it in a voice full of unction.
By the third page, the king was asleep.
Baradas stood up on tiptoe, replaced the book on the shelf, went quietly to the door to let himself out, and then returned to the dice game with Saint-Simon that the king’s summons had interrupted.
The next morning, at ten o’clock, the king went down from the Louvre to his carriage, and was borne to the office where, for the last two days, so many things he’d never suspected had appeared in their true guise.
He found Charpentier awaiting him. The king was pale, tired, and depressed. He asked if the daily reports had arrived yet.
Charpentier replied that as Father Joseph had retired to his monastery, there would be no report from him, only from Souscarrières and Lopez.
“And have these reports arrived?” asked the king.
“As I had the honor to tell His Majesty,” said Charpentier, “knowing that today they would be dealing with His Majesty himself, both Messieurs Lopez and de Souscarrières said they would bring their reports personally. The king may simply read their reports himself, and call upon them for further clarification.”
“Where are these reports?”
“Monsieur Lopez is here with his; but in order to leave enough time for His Majesty to speak with him and then open the correspondence of Monsieur le Cardinal, I have made the appointment with Monsieur de Souscarrières for noon.”
“Ask Lopez to come in.”
Charpentier went out and, a few seconds later, announced Don Ildefonse Lopez.
Lopez came in, hat in hand and bowing to the ground.
“Fine, Monsieur Lopez, fine,” said the king. “I know you of old, as one who’s cost me dear.”
“How so, Sire?”
“Isn’t it at your shop the queen buys her jewelry?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Well, the day before yesterday, the queen asked me for twenty thousand livres for a string of pearls, which she wanted to buy from you.”
Lopez laughed and, in laughing, revealed a set of teeth that could have passed for pearls.
“What are you laughing at?” asked the king.
“Sire, shall I speak with you exactly as I spoke with Monsieur le Cardinal?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, then, in today’s report to His Eminence is a full paragraph on this string of pearls—or rather, its significance.”
“Read me this paragraph.”
“As the king commands, but Your Majesty will understand it better if I explain a few things first.”
“Proceed.”
“On December 22, Her Majesty the Queen appeared at my shop, under the pretext of buying a string of pearls.”
“Under the pretext, you say?”
“Under the pretext, yes, Sire.”
“What was her real purpose?”
“To meet with the Spanish Ambassador, the Marquis de Mirabel, who happened to be there.”
“He ‘happened’ to be there?”
“Of course, Sire. It is always by happenstance that Her Majesty the Queen meets the Marquis de Mirabel, who can only present himself at the Louvre with advance notice on certain days.”
“That was done by my order—upon the advice of the cardinal.”
“Therefore Her Majesty the Queen, if she has something to convey to the ambassador or to her brother the King of Spain, must meet the ambassador somewhere by chance, since she can’t see him otherwise.”
“And this ‘happenstance’ occurred at your shop?”
“With the permission of Monsieur le Cardinal.”
“So the queen met with the Spanish Ambassador?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Did they have a long conference?”
“They had time to exchange only a few words.”
“We desire to know what those words were.”
“I’ve already told Monsieur le Cardinal.”
“But he didn’t tell me. His Eminence was very discreet.”
“Let me say in advance that I don’t wish to distress Your Majesty.” “Just tell me what they said.”
“What I shall repeat to Your Majesty was overheard by my diamond cutter.”
“He understands Spanish?”
“He does, since Monsieur le Cardinal ordered that he should secretly learn it. But as nobody knows this, the speakers were unguarded. They said:
“The ambassador: ‘Her Majesty has received by way of the Governor of Milan and the Comte de Moret, a letter from her illustrious brother?’
“The queen: ‘Yes, Monsieur.’
“‘Has Your Majesty thought about its contents?’
“‘I’ve thought about them, but must think some more before I answer him.’
“‘Answer how?’
“‘By means of a box supposed to contain fabrics, but which will actually contain this little dwarf you see playing with Madame de Bellier and Mademoiselle de Lautrec.’
“‘You think she can be trusted?’
“‘She was a gift to me from my aunt Claire-Eugénie, Infanta of the Netherlands, and acts in the interest of Spain.’”
“In the interest of Spain . . .” repeated the king. “It seems everything around me is in the interest of Spain—of my enemies, in other words. And this little dwarf?”
“She was sent off yesterday in her box, but before that, she told Monsieur de Mirabel, in very good Spanish, ‘Madame my mistress told me she has considered her brother’s advice, and if the king’s health continues to deteriorate, she will take measures not to be caught off guard.’”
“Not to be caught off guard,” the king repeated.
“We do not understand what that means, Sire,” Lopez said, lowering his head.
“But I understand,” said the king, frowning, “and that’s enough. Did the queen mention that she’d soon be able to pay for this necklace she’s buying from you?”
“I’ve already been paid, Sire,” said Lopez.
“What, you’ve been paid?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“By whom?”
“By Monsieur Particelli.”
“Particelli? The Italian banker?”
“Yes.”
“But I was told he’d been hanged.”
“Quite so, quite so,” said Lopez, “but before he died, he sold his bank to Monsieur d’Émery, a good honest man.”
“Everyone,” murmured Louis XIII, “everyone robs me and deceives me! And the queen has not seen Monsieur de Mirabel since?”
“The reigning queen, no; the queen mother, yes.”
“My mothe
r? When was this?”
“Yesterday.”
“To what end?”
“To announce that the Cardinal was overthrown, that Bérulle had replaced him, and that Monsieur had been appointed lieutenant general, so the ambassador could write to King Philip IV or the count-duke and tell them the Italian war is as good as off.”
“What, the war in Italy is off?”
“Those were Her Majesty’s very words.”
“Oh, I see. I understand. They will treat this second army like the first, leaving it without pay, without food, without clothes. Oh, the wretches! The wretches!” cried the king, pressing his forehead into his hands. “Do you have anything else to tell me?”
“Some minor matters, Sire. Monsieur Baradas visited my shop this morning to buy some jewelry.”
“What kind of jewelry?”
“A necklace, a bracelet, and some hairpins.”
“For how much?”
“For three hundred pistoles.”
“Why would he want this necklace, bracelet, and hairpins?”
“Probably for some mistress, Sire.”
“What?” said the king. “Last night he told me he hates all women. Anything else?”
“That’s all, Sire.”
“To summarize: Queen Anne and Monsieur de Mirabel agreed that, if my condition worsens, she will not be caught off guard. The queen mother told Monsieur de Mirabel that he can report to His Majesty Philip IV that Monsieur de Bérulle has replaced Monsieur de Richelieu and my brother is lieutenant general, so the Italian war is as good as off. Finally, Monsieur Baradas is using the money I gave him to buy necklaces, bracelets, and hairpins. Well done, Monsieur Lopez; you’ve told me what I needed to know. Continue to serve me well—or serve Monsieur le Cardinal, which is the same thing—and don’t miss a word of what passes at your shop.”
“I hope Your Majesty will not endanger my business.”
“Come, come, Monsieur Lopez. I merely hope to have an end to all these treasons. Now, on your way out, if you see Monsieur de Souscarrières, send him in.”
“I’m here, Sire,” a voice said. Souscarrières appeared in the doorway, hat in hand, bent in an elaborate court bow.
“Ah! You were listening, Monsieur,” said the king.
“Not at all, Sire! It’s just that my zeal for serving Your Majesty is so great that I guessed Your Majesty wished to see me.”
“Ah-ha! And do you have plenty of interesting things to tell me?”
“Two days’ worth of reports, Sire.”
“Then tell me what happened two days ago.”
“The day before yesterday, Sire, Your Majesty’s august brother hired a chair and was taken to meet the envoy of the Duc de Lorraine and the Spanish Ambassador.”
“No surprise there. Continue.”
“Yesterday, at about eleven o’clock, Her Majesty the queen mother hired a chair to carry her to Lopez’s shop, as did the Ambassador of Spain.”
“I know what they said to each other. Continue.”
“Yesterday, Monsieur Baradas took a chair from the Louvre to the house of Monsieur le Cardinal in the Place Royale. He went in and, five minutes later, came out with a heavy sack of money.”
“I’m aware of it.”
“From the cardinal’s door, he went to the door of his neighbor.”
“Which neighbor?” the king asked, agitated.
“Mademoiselle Delorme.”
“Mademoiselle Delorme! Did he visit Mademoiselle Delorme?”
“No, Sire, he just knocked on the door, and when a servant answered, he gave him a letter.”
“A letter!”
“Yes, Sire. Then, the letter delivered, he got back in the chair and was returned to the Louvre. This morning, he went out again. . . .”
“Yes. He was taken to Monsieur Lopez’s shop, where he bought some jewelry, and then . . . and then where did he go?”
“He returned to the Louvre, Sire, but reserved the use of a chair for the entire night.”
“Do you have anything else to tell me?”
“About what, Sire?”
“About Monsieur Baradas!”
“No, Sire.”
“Then you may go.”
“But, Sire, I need to report about Madame de Fargis.”
“Go.”
“About Monsieur de Marillac.”
“Go.”
“About Monsieur your brother!”
“That’s enough for today. Go!”
“But what about that wounded Étienne Latil, who was taken to see Monsieur le Cardinal at Chaillot?”
“I don’t care. Go.”
“In that case, Sire, I withdraw.”
“Yes. Withdraw.”
“Can I, in withdrawing, dare to hope that the king is pleased with me?”
“Only too pleased!”
Souscarrières bowed and backed out.
The king didn’t even wait till he was gone before knocking on the panel.
Charpentier appeared.
“Monsieur Charpentier,” the king said, “when the cardinal had business with Mademoiselle Delorme, how did he call her?”
“It’s quite simple,” Charpentier said. He pressed the spring, opened the secret portal, rang the bell between the two doors, and said to the king, “If Mademoiselle Delorme is at home, she will come at once. Does His Majesty wish to receive her alone, or does he wish me to stay?”
“Leave me alone.”
Charpentier left. As for Louis XIII, he waited eagerly in front of the secret passage.
After a few seconds, his eager ears heard the sound of a light step. “Ah,” he said, “finally I’ll know the truth.”
He’d hardly finished when the door opened and Marion, wearing a white satin dress with a simple string of pearls at her neck, a forest of dark curls falling on her round white shoulders, appeared in all her eighteen-year-old beauty.
Louis XIII, though rarely susceptible to the beauty of women, stepped back, amazed.
Marion entered, made an adorable little bow in which respect was cleverly mingled with coquetry, then cast down her eyes, modest as a milkmaid. “My king, to whom I have always hoped to have the honor to appear,” she said, “has sent for me. On my knees I must hear his words; at his feet I must receive his orders.”
The king stammered out a few incoherent words, which gave Marion a chance to enjoy the effect of her entrance. “Impossible,” the king said, “impossible. Am I wrong, or are you not Mademoiselle Marie Delorme?”
“But no, Sire! For you, I am just Marion.”
“So, if you are Marion . . .”
Marion bowed, eyes downcast in perfect humility.
“. . . If you are Marion,” continued the king, “you should have received a letter yesterday.”
“I receive many every day,” said the courtesan, laughing.
“A letter that arrived between five and six o’clock.”
“Between five and six o’clock, Sire, I received fourteen letters.”
“Did you keep them?”
“I burned twelve of them. The thirteenth I keep near my heart. Here is the fourteenth.”
“This is his writing,” the king cried. Hastily he took the letter from Marion’s hands. He turned it over and over, and said, “It’s still unopened.”
“As it came from someone near to the king, and as I was aware that today I might have the supreme honor of meeting Your Majesty, I was careful to keep the letter exactly as I received it.”
The king looked at Marion in amazement, then shook the letter angrily. “Bah!” he said. “I want to know what this letter says.”
“There is a way, Sire, to open it without breaking the seal.”
“If I were a police lieutenant, I might do that,” said Louis XIII, “but I am a king.”
Marion gently took the letter from his hands. “But as it is addressed to me, I may open it.” And she unsealed the envelope and gave the letter to Louis XIII.
Louis XIII hesitated a moment, but all th
e dark feelings that advise a jealous heart made that moment a short one. He read it aloud in a low voice, his tone sinking ever lower as he read.
We must admit, the contents of the letter were not the sort to bring a cheerful expression to Louis’s face—a place where, if such an expression ever appeared, it didn’t last more than a few minutes.
Herewith, the contents of the letter:
Lovely Marion,
I am twenty years of age; some women have not only been good enough to tell me that I’m a pretty lad, they have gone on to do such things that left no doubt but that they believed it. Also, I’m the leading favorite of King Louis XIII, who, though stingy, was just somehow inspired to give me the gift of three thousand pistoles.
My friend, Saint-Simon, informs me that you are not only the best-looking girl in the world, but moreover the best in every other way as well. Well, I propose we join together to take a month and spend those three thousand pistoles that idiot king gave me. Say, a thousand pistoles on clothes and jewelry, another thousand on horses and carriages, and the last thousand on games and parties. Does this proposition suit you? If you say Yes, I can be there in no time with the money bag. If you say No, I’ll tie the bag around my neck and throw myself in the river.
But you will say Yes, won’t you? You wouldn’t wish to be responsible for the death of a poor lad who has committed no crime other than to love you madly without ever having seen you.
Reply by tomorrow night, and my money bag and I will be at your feet.
Your devoted,
Baradas
Louis read these last lines in a voice so tremulous that it was nearly unintelligible, even if he’d been speaking loud enough to be heard.
The letter ended, his arms dropped, nerveless, the hand holding the letter resting on his knee.
His face as white as the paper, his eyes rose toward heaven in despair, and, like Caesar, who, barely seeming to feel the stabs of the other conspirators, cried out “Et tu, Brutus!” when struck by the only hand that was dear to him, Louis XIII exclaimed, in an agonized voice:
“Et tu, Baradas!”
And, without sparing another glance for Marion Delorme, without seeming to even notice she was there, the king threw his cloak over his shoulder, put his hat on his head, pulling it down over his eyes, ran down the stairs, out the door, and into his carriage. A servant closed the door behind him as he cried, “To Chaillot!”
The Red Sphinx Page 42