Wallenstein put two of his corps, those led by Gallas and Aldringen, under the command of Collalto, an Italian general, and dispatched them to Italy to besiege Mantua and support Charles-Emmanuel.
On the eastern horizon, Richelieu looked toward Venice and Rome. Venice had promised to create a diversion by attacking Milan, but Venice was no longer the power that once had made daring raids on Constantinople, Cyprus, and the Morea. But the Venetians fulfilled the rest of their promises, sending wheat, ammunition, reinforcements, and funds to Mantua, as well as cutting off food supplies to the besiegers.
Deprived of food, drink, and fodder, unable to breach Mantua’s walls due to a lack of artillery, the Imperials were about to lift the siege when aid came from an unexpected quarter. The pope allowed them to resupply from the Papal States, provided they did so by buying bread, wine, and hay from one of his nephews (one of the few who hadn’t been granted an ecclesiastical office). So as always, it was the pope, and an Italian pope at that, who betrayed Italy. He was a Barberini, naturally, of the same family that had stripped and sold the bronze plaques from the Pantheon of Agrippa.
Nearer to the cardinal, south of Savoy, was Spinola, the Genoese condottiere in the service of Spain. He’d marched into Montferrat when the Imperials had entered the Duchy of Mantua, more to block the relief of the city than to resume the siege of Casale. He had six thousand foot and three thousand horse, nine thousand troops with which to oppose the French if they tried to rescue Mantua. If Mantua fell, the twenty-five or thirty thousand Imperials who’d besieged it would be freed up to join Spinola in taking Casale and then driving the French from Italy.
To the west, Richelieu’s horizons were darker still. At least Collalto and Spinola were visible enemies, openly opposed to him. That wasn’t the case in France: there, the cardinal’s enemies were like miners, digging underground in the dark to attack from hiding, while wearing a mask of friendship in the light. Louis, though aware that his life and reputation were linked to those of his minister, was worn out by these endless conspiracies—disgusted with everything, more melancholy than ever, he was prey to constant anxiety. His closest kin—mother, wife, and brother—all lived for a single hope: the fall of the cardinal. With every word and act devoted to that end, they made Louis’s court a sour and bitter place, even while their efforts reinforced the king’s conviction that he had no influence, no grandeur, and no royalty without the cardinal.
The king began to comprehend that these attacks on the cardinal were really just a prelude to their real aim, which was his own fall, by guile or by open attack. So Louis redoubled his defense of the cardinal, persuaded that to do so was to defend himself.
The flight of the Duc d’Orléans to Nancy, the secret letter decoded by Rossignol, and especially the treacherous negotiations between the Prince and Wallenstein, all convinced the king that a time was coming when Gaston, supported from outside by Austria, Spain, and Savoy, and from within by Queen Marie, Queen Anne, and malcontents of every stripe, would raise the banner of revolt.
And, indeed, there was no shortage of malcontents. The Duc de Guise was angry that he hadn’t been given command of the army, and conspired with Madame de Conti and the Duchesse d’Elbeuf to plot against Richelieu. The judges at the Châtelet in Paris, incensed by new fees imposed on officers of the judiciary, refused to render justice. The lawmakers of Parliament were so upset by an increase in their taxes that they secretly offered to support the Duc d’Orléans if he promised to abolish the fees when he came to power.
We’ve gone into enough detail about the cardinal’s police to make it clear that he was aware of all these malcontents, and had his eye on their intrigues. But despite these threats, he was convinced the king would nonetheless come to rejoin him, for two reasons: first, he knew the king’s incurable melancholy and ennui would send him back to the army, if only to once again hear the glorious sound of victory, and the praise that goes with it; and second, since the king had named Gaston both Lieutenant General of Paris and Commander of the Army of Champagne, Gaston potentially had enough power, with the support of his mother and the queen, to drive the king from Paris, and maybe even from France. Gaston might take advantage of the king’s absence to conspire against the cardinal and maybe even the king, but once Louis XIII had joined him, Richelieu feared nothing. He knew Gaston well enough to know that, if faced by an army commanded by the cardinal and the king himself, Monsieur would abandon his allies and accomplices and beg forgiveness, as he’d done before.
His review of the horizons of Europe complete, the cardinal turned from the dangers in the distance toward nearby Turin, to see how well Montmorency was following his instructions. Let’s go and see for ourselves.
LXVII
Old Lovers Reunited
The Duc de Montmorency, without revealing the true nature of his trip, had invited his friend the Comte de Moret to accompany him to Turin, and Moret had accepted eagerly.
The gravity of the historical events we recount sometimes distracts us from the joys or sorrows they bring to the hearts of our characters. We mentioned the besieging of Mantua without relating how this siege dismayed the heart of the son of Henri IV.
Indeed, Isabelle, trapped in that city with her father, might suffer misery, famine, even death—all the risks associated with a siege by barbarians such as those who made up the Imperial hordes. So the Comte de Moret had volunteered to go and help defend Mantua—especially once he’d heard that Richelieu had sent his rival, Monsieur de Pontis, to that city as an engineer. Moret was eager not just to defend Isabelle against the besiegers, but also to oppose whatever influence de Pontis might gain with Monsieur de Lautrec.
But Richelieu didn’t have so many loyal hearts and minds around him that he was willing to deprive himself of a man who, by rank alone, should stand near the king and cardinal—and who, by his courage and quick thinking, had already done great things, and might be called upon to do more. However, to reassure his young protégé, the cardinal informed him that he’d written to Monsieur de Lautrec, advising him to remember the promise the cardinal had made to the two young people, and to respect his daughter’s commitment to the count.
Not that we wish to portray our hero as any better than he was: the blood of Henri IV flowed in his veins, and that made him, if not unfaithful, at least a little inconstant. Though he stuck to his oath to Isabelle never to have any wife but her, it would be untrue to say that, after the last campaign, thoughts of another hadn’t entered his head while approaching Paris with his brother and the cardinal. Thoughts of a dark-haired woman, wearing a red Basque cap, whose red mouth had given him kisses at the Inn of the Painted Beard so bold that his lips burned again at the thought of them.
And more: he remembered the night when, leaving Princesse Marie de Gonzague’s soirée, he and that enticing woman who’d played the role of his cousin had exchanged promises to meet again—promises that circumstances had forestalled, but which he intended to make good. But chance interfered once again: by the time the Comte de Moret had arrived in Paris, Madame de Fargis—we assume our readers had guessed it was her—had already left the capital, doubtless in the service of one of even higher rank. So Jac-quelino, to his great regret, was unable to renew his acquaintance with his beautiful cousin Marina.
But the elegant court of the Duke of Savoy was a place he remembered fondly: he’d spent a month there two years before when on his way back from Italy, when he’d been given messages for Monsieur and the two queens. It was a court where opportunities for romance were not hard to find.
And, indeed, there were few courts as addicted to gallantry and romance as that of the Duke of Savoy. Dissolute himself, Charles-Emmanuel possessed that charm and urbanity that gave others the permission to indulge themselves. If, after all we’ve said about him, we wanted to further round out his personality, we would add that he was stubborn, ambitious, and wasteful. But he hid his hypocrisy under such an accomplished air of grandeur that his overspending passed for genero
sity, his ambition as a desire for glory, and his stubbornness as firmness and consistency. Unfaithful in his alliances, greedy for others’ wealth, wasteful of his own, ever poor but lacking in nothing, he continually outfoxed Austria, Spain, and France, taking from whoever offered the most, and giving in return the least he could get away with, particularly in matters of war.
And he made war on his neighbors whenever it seemed to his advantage, because he was tormented by the need to increase his domains. Though forced eventually to sue for peace, in the subsequent treaty he always managed to insert a few ambiguous clauses that enabled him to violate it later. A master of delaying tactics, he was a modern Fabius of diplomacy. He had managed to marry himself to King Philip’s daughter Catherine, and his son to King Henri IV’s daughter Christine—though these two alliances provided only partial protection against the consequences of his habitual treachery. This time, at last, he faced his most formidable opponent, Cardinal Richelieu—and it would break him.
The Duke of Savoy gave a warm welcome to his two visitors: Montmorency, preceded by his reputation for courage, charm, and generosity; and Moret, who was remembered for his gallantry on his last visit. Madame Christine was particularly gracious to the young prince who so resembled Henri IV, and treated him like a brother.
Knowing Montmorency’s romantic tendencies, Charles-Emmanuel had summoned to court all the most beautiful women of Turin and the surrounding area, in hopes of enticing the duke’s interest from France to Savoy. But among all those beautiful faces, Antoine de Bourbon looked in vain for the one he’d hoped to see, that of the Countess Matilda of Espalomba.
There’s a story about this lovely countess which, as it occurred before the opening chapter of this book, and didn’t bear on the subsequent story of our prince, we haven’t shared with our readers. One day, Charles-Emmanuel had seen a new star appear at his court, an unknown moon, pale and shining, in orbit around a planet that shed no light of its own. Though he came from one of the leading families of the realm, Count Urbain of Espalomba had married a commoner—Matilda of Cisterna, the loveliest flower of the Aosta Valley, to paraphrase Shakespeare—and brought his bride to Court.
Charles-Emmanuel, though sixty-seven, had preserved during his long reign those habits of gallantry that led him to treat his court like a private harem, where he had but to toss his ducal handkerchief to make his choice. Dazzled by the beauty of the Countess of Espalomba, he’d let her know that she had only to say the word to be the next Duchess of Savoy; but that word the lovely countess never said.
For once, the duke’s heart was ignited, not by vulgar ambition, but by the burning flame of love. But the countess, just eighteen years old, had already set eyes on the Comte de Moret, a young prince of twenty-two: April and May came together, and spring was declared with a kiss.
The Count of Espalomba had his suspicions, but only about the Duke of Savoy. With his eye fixed on Charles-Emmanuel, he could see nothing else, and so it was that in the shadow of the old husband’s jealousy, the two young lovers found happiness.
But the sovereign’s eye was sharper than that of the husband—the duke suspected something, though he wasn’t sure what. He mulled it over: Count Urbain was poor and avaricious, and had come to court seeking the duke’s favor, so Savoy named the count Governor of Fort Pinerolo, with orders to take immediate command.
There the countess was sent as well to be locked away in a safe place, like a rich gem in a coffer to which only the duke held the key. Forced to separate, the young lovers had wept and promised each other eternal fidelity; we’ve seen how well the Comte de Moret kept his part of that oath.
Meanwhile, Matilda had no choice but to while away the time on her own; the chances for romance in Pinerolo were few and unappealing, especially after one had loved a young and handsome king’s son. Matilda had learned that the count had left Savoy right after her departure, and she was grateful that her lover hadn’t wanted to stay in a court that lacked her presence. For the past eighteen months, she’d dreamed of their reunion. So she was overjoyed when she learned her husband had been asked to leave Pinerolo and spend a few days in the capital during the fêtes planned to welcome the two princes to the Court of Turin.
At last the two lovers were reunited! Did each bring to this meeting an equal share of love? We dare not say—but each brought an equal share of youth, the thing that love resembles most.
However, once again their bliss was to be short-lived. The princes had only a few days to spend in Turin—but the Italian campaign could last for months, even years, so there might yet be opportunities for further reunions. They were careful to meet in secret, after which, thanks to information from his beautiful lover, the Comte de Moret was able to draw a detailed plan of Fort Pinerolo. Upon studying it, he was delighted to see that the bedchambers of the count and countess were at opposite ends of the château.
So the lovers set up a method of secret communication. When the young bride had left the lovely Aosta Valley, she’d brought along her slightly older foster sister, Jacintha—a standard precaution when a young woman married an older husband, as sisters made natural allies in marriages of convenience. Jacintha had a brother named Selimo who was two or three years older, so they arranged that he would bring the count, under the assumed name of Gaetano, to meet her at Pinerolo. What could be more natural than that a brother should come with his friend to visit his sister, especially when that sister lived with ten or twelve people in a grand abode that could easily house fifty? Once under the same roof, the youths would be poor lovers indeed if they couldn’t manage to see each other three or four times a day, and at least once every night.
They worked all this out within the first day of seeing each other again. The young are said to be heedless of the future, but this pair of lovers, on the contrary, took the future quite seriously.
These arrangements were made right under Count Urbain’s nose, whose suspicions were once again all directed at the Duke of Savoy. But the duke had either given up hope of winning the lady’s love or, fickle as always, had decided that he preferred to torment Urbain by denying him his salary, on the pretext that money was so tight, he was going to have to beg his own subjects for contributions!
For his part, the Duc de Montmorency was the happiest man on earth. Young, handsome, wealthy, and wearing, after the royal houses, the greatest name in France, the ladies simply flocked to him. Flattered by the master of one of the most sophisticated courts in Europe, his vanity was stroked at every turn. For example, once, when leading the court from the table to the ballroom, the Duke of Savoy had called out, “Since you arrived, Duke, our ladies speak of nothing but how handsome you are, abandoning their husbands to worry and sorrow.”
The eight days the two ambassadors spent at Turin or in Rivoli Castle passed in dinners, balls, cavalcades, and fêtes of every sort—and meanwhile the cardinal met with Victor-Amadeus in the castle or, as the cardinal preferred, in the village of Bunolonga. The cardinal liked Bunolonga better since it was only an hour’s ride from Susa, and there the Prince of Piedmont came to him, rather than he to the Prince of Piedmont.
LXVIII
The Cardinal Takes the Field
The negotiations were intense. Each party had to deal with a formidable opponent. Charles-Emmanuel wanted peace for himself, but all-out war between France and the House of Austria, in hopes he could remain neutral until the opportunity came to reap the greatest reward by throwing his support behind one crown or the other. But the cardinal had already chosen the day he would go to war with Austria—the day that Gustavus Adolphus marched into Germany.
The cardinal turned the question from peace to war, asking Victor-Amadeus, “What price would the Duke of Savoy ask to declare for France, open his borders, and add ten thousand men to the army of the king?”
Since all possibilities, and this one in particular, had been foreseen by Charles-Emmanuel, Victor-Amadeus was ready with his answer: “It would take the King of France to attack Milan and the
Republic of Genoa, with which Charles-Emmanuel is at odds, and to refuse all proposals of peace from the House of Austria until Milan is conquered and Genoa destroyed.”
Here was a new proposal indeed, one that showed how the situation had evolved since the Treaty of Susa. The cardinal appeared surprised by this proposal, but quickly replied, in terms preserved for us by historians of the time: “What’s this, Prince? My king sends his army to ensure the freedom of Italy, but the Duke of Savoy wants him to use it to destroy the Republic of Genoa, with whom His Majesty has no quarrel? France will willingly use its good offices and authority to negotiate with the Genoese to give satisfaction to the Duke of Savoy, but declaring war on them is out of the question. Now, if the Spaniards put the king into the position of having to attack Milan, he’ll probably do it, and pursue it with all rigor—and the Duke of Savoy can rest assured that once he prevailed, the king wouldn’t keep any domains that didn’t belong to him. The king, in the person of his minister, gives his word as to that.”
The proposal had been quite specific, and so was the reply. Victor-Amadeus, backed into a corner, asked for a few days to consult with his father. Three days later, in fact, he was back in Bunolonga. “My father,” he said, “fears that my brother-in-law Louis will come to terms with the King of Spain before the aims of the war are achieved. Prudence prevents him from declaring for France unless the king commits not to lay down arms until Milan has fallen.”
Richelieu simply referred him back to the terms of the Treaty of Susa. Victor-Amadeus asked for more time to confer with his father, and returned again, saying “The Duke of Savoy is prepared to adhere to the terms of the treaty, provided the ten thousand infantry and one thousand horse he provides are used to help reduce the Republic of Genoa, that matter to be concluded before embarking on another.”
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