“You can see it whenever you like, Monsieur!”
The count rubbed his hands together. “A million,” he whispered. “You’re right, Madame, this is a matter worthy of discussion! But how do you know this money is really . . . available?”
“That’s easily explained. The Comte de Moret took charge of the affair and sent Gaetano ahead with orders to test the waters.”
“And that’s why Gaetano arrived to see his sister last night?”
“Exactly. His sister brought the proposal to me, so if it miscarried I’d be the only one who was compromised.”
“How could it miscarry?” the count asked.
“It seemed possible . . . you might refuse it.”
The count was thoughtful for a moment. “What guarantees am I offered?”
“Cash.”
“But, then, what guarantees would they ask of me?”
“A hostage.”
“A hostage? Who?”
“Me. It makes sense that you’d send your wife away from a fortress on the verge of a siege where you’re planning to defend to the death. You can say you’re sending me to my mother at Selimo, but actually let me know where to meet you later in France—since I assume you’ll negotiate for a safe haven there.”
“And how will the million be paid?”
“In gold.”
“When?”
“As soon as, in exchange for the money Gaetano brings you, you sign an order of capitulation and hand me over as the hostage.”
“Send him. When Gaetano returns tonight with the gold, be ready to go with him.”
That night at eight o’clock, the Comte de Moret, still under the name of Gaetano, entered the gates of Fort Pinerolo with a mule loaded with gold, as he’d promised Cardinal Richelieu. And he left, as he’d promised himself, with the countess.
The capitulation came two days later, after the cardinal had placed the fortress under siege. The garrison was allowed to leave with their lives and all their baggage.
LXXII
The Eagle and the Fox
Two days later, Cardinal Richelieu occupied Fort Pinerolo just as Charles-Emmanuel was leading troops from Turin to lift the siege. When the latter was only three leagues from Turin, his scouts informed him that a body of eight hundred men under the Savoy banner was coming to meet him. He sent one of his officers forward on reconnaissance, and he reported back that, to his astonishment, the troops were the garrison of Pinerolo returning to Turin.
The fortress had surrendered.
This news was a terrible blow to Charles-Emmanuel. He paused, turned pale, put a hand to his forehead, and then called the commander of his cavalry. “Charge that rabble,” he said, pointing to the poor devils who’d had no choice but to leave their garrison, since the governor had surrendered it. “And if possible, leave no one standing.”
The order was executed to the letter: three-quarters of the wretches were put to the sword.
The fall of Pinerolo, the cause of which was still unknown to the Duke of Savoy, forced him to reconsider his position. It was disastrous. All the tricks and intrigue of a reign of nearly forty-five years—a reign composed entirely of tricks and intrigue—had come to this: the army of a terrible enemy was in the heart of his domain. His only recourse now was to throw himself into the arms of the Spaniards and Austrians, begging for aid from Spinola—a Genoese, and thus an enemy—or Wallenstein—a Bohemian, and thus a barbarian.
One must bend before the iron hand of necessity. The duke sent to Spinola, the Spanish commander-in-chief, and to Collalto, the German commander in Italy, asking them for aid against the French.
But Spinola, that canny warrior, was camped in Milan, from which he’d been keeping an eye on Charles-Emmanuel; he hadn’t the least bit of sympathy for that intriguing and ambitious princeling, who had so many times, through his deceptions and reversals, caused Spinola to draw his sword and then put it back in its sheath. As for Collalto, he had but a single goal in Italy: equip and enrich his army and himself, and as a climax to the campaign, like a true condottiere, to take and pillage Mantua. Men of this stamp were understandably little moved by the pleas of the Duke of Savoy.
Spinola declared that he couldn’t divide his army, as he needed all his troops for his operations in Montferrat.
Collalto was another matter. As we said, he could call on as many men as he needed from Germany. Wallenstein, at the head of the horde, led over a hundred thousand men—or rather was led by them—frightening Ferdinand with their power, sometimes even frightening himself, so he was willing to hire them out to whoever could afford them. So the negotiations between Collalto and Charles-Emmanuel were simply a matter of money; a few words and a large coffer of cash yielded the Duke of Savoy ten thousand men.
It was only Charles-Emmanuel’s fervent hatred of France that allowed him to strike this terrible bargain, for he was bringing into Piedmont an enemy more terrible than the one he wanted to drive out. The French soldiers marched under rigorous discipline, plundering nothing but money; the Germans, on the contrary, stole everything they could carry.
The Duke of Savoy soon realized that his best chance was to make one last attempt to come to terms with Richelieu. Thus, two days after taking Pinerolo, as the cardinal worked in the same chambers where Count Urbain had received his countess on the morning after Gaetano’s arrival, he was informed of the visit of a young officer in the service of Cardinal Antonio Barberini, the pope’s nephew and his envoy to Charles-Emmanuel.
The cardinal immediately guessed what this was about. Latil had announced the officer, and as the cardinal had great confidence in both the courage and the insight of his lieutenant of the guards, he said “Come here.”
“At your command, Your Eminence,” Latil replied, touching his hat.
“Do you know this envoy from Monseigneur Barberini?”
“He’s new to me, Your Eminence.”
“And his name?”
“Also unknown to me.”
“To you, but maybe not to me.”
Latil shook his head. “There aren’t many names I don’t recognize.”
“What’s he called?”
“Mazarino Mazarini, Monseigneur.”
“Mazarini! You’re right, I don’t recognize that name, Étienne. I don’t like to play if I can’t see my neighbor’s cards. Is he young?”
“Twenty-six; twenty-eight at the most.”
“Handsome or ugly?”
“Good-looking.”
“Useful to both a woman and a prelate! What part of Italy is he from?”
“By his accent, I’d say the nobility of Naples.”
“Sophisticated and subtle, then. Is he well groomed?”
“Like a coquette.”
“So, to summarize: twenty-eight years old, handsome, well turned out, sent by Cardinal Barberini, the nephew of Urban VIII—he’s either a useful idiot, or a capable agent, and we’ll soon know which. In either event, thanks to you, he won’t surprise me. Have him enter.”
Five minutes later, the door opened again and Latil announced, “Captain Mazarino Mazarini!”
The cardinal glanced at the young officer. He was just as Latil had described him.
For his part, as he bowed respectfully to the cardinal, the young officer, whom we’ll call Mazarin—for that was his name after he became a French citizen in 1639, and thus he is known to the history of the realm—made as complete a survey of His Eminence as a man with a quick and incisive mind can do at a glance.
We have once already, depicting Sully and Richelieu, showed the past meeting the present. Depicting Richelieu and Mazarin, we show the present meeting the future. But this time, instead of titling our chapter “The Two Eagles,” we must call it “The Eagle and the Fox.”
The fox came in with his astute and sidelong glance.
The eagle fixed him with his sharp and penetrating gaze.
“Monseigneur,” said Mazarin, pretending to be flustered, “forgive my emotion in finding myself before
the leading political genius of the century—I, a mere captain of the papal forces, and so young.”
“Indeed, Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “you’re only twenty-six?”
“Thirty, Monseigneur.”
The cardinal laughed. “Monsieur,” he said, “when I went to Rome to be consecrated as a bishop, Pope Paul V asked me my age, and like you, I exaggerated—I said I was twenty-five though I was only twenty-three. He made me a bishop, and after the ceremony I threw myself at his feet and asked for absolution. I confessed that I’d lied and added two years to my age, and he gave it to me. Would you like absolution?”
“I will ask for that, Monseigneur,” replied Mazarin with a smile, “on the day I’m made a bishop.”
“Is that your ambition?”
“I hope, Your Eminence, to someday be a cardinal.”
“That won’t be hard, with the resources you have.”
“And what would Monseigneur say these resources are?”
“First, the mission you’ve been given, which I’m told is on behalf of Cardinal Antonio Barberini.”
“That rope is a thin one, since I’m merely a protégé of a nephew of His Holiness, and not of His Holiness himself.”
“When I see a protégé of any of the nephews of His Holiness, I see the influence of His Holiness.”
“However, you know what His Holiness thinks of his nephews.”
“I recall that, in a moment of candor, he said that his first nephew, Francesco Barberini, when he left the Collegio Romano, was good only for saying paternosters; his brother Antonio, who sent you to me, was strong only in the stench of his trousers, which is why he’d given him a cardinal’s robe; that Cardinal Antonio, when young, was nicknamed Demosthenes because he stammered and got drunk three times a day; and last of all Taddeo, who was named Generalissimo of the Holy See, was better with a knitting needle than a sword.”
“Ah, Monseigneur! I’ll press that question no further. But having said what the uncle thinks of his nephews, I imagine you can tell me what the nephews think of their uncle.”
“That the favors they receive from Urban VIII are legitimate rewards for the pains they took to get him elected. On the first round of voting, the future pontiff had no supporters. But the nephews bought off the Roman populace, paying them to shout beneath the windows of Castel Sant’Angelo, “Barberini as pope, or death and fire!” At the next round, he got five votes, which was significant: only thirteen were needed. Two cardinals led the faction that was opposed to Barberini at all costs. Within three days, both cardinals passed away, one struck, they say, by apoplexy, while the other succumbed to an aneurysm. They were replaced by two Barberini supporters, which gave him seven votes. Two other opposing cardinals died soon thereafter. Then came word of an outbreak of plague; everyone was eager to get out, so the conclave was rushed to its conclusion. In the end, Barberini had fifteen votes, two more than the thirteen he needed.”
“That wasn’t too high a price, considering the great reforms proclaimed as soon as His Holiness Urban VIII assumed the papal throne.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Richelieu. “He forbade the Recollects to wear sandals and pointed hoods in the manner of the Capuchin Order; he defended the renaming of the Carmelites as the Reformed Carmelites; he demanded that the Spanish Premonstratensians revert to their old, somber habits and give up their proud new ones. He beatified two Theatine fanatics, André Avelino and Gaetano Tiane; a Barefoot Carmelite, Felix Cantalice; an Illuminatus, the Florentine Carmelite Corsini; two female ecstatics, Magdalena de Pazzi and Elizabeth, Queen of Portugal; and finally the blessed Saint Roch and his dog.”
“Ah, well,” said Mazarin. “It’s clear Your Eminence is up to date on His Holiness, his nephews, and the Court of Rome.”
“But you, who seem like a sensible man,” said Richelieu, “why are you in the pay of such nonentities?”
“We start where we can with what we have, Monseigneur,” said Mazarin with a sly smile.
“That’s so,” said Richelieu. “And now we’ve talked enough about them; what about us? What do you hope to get from me?”
“Something you’ll never agree to.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s absurd.”
“Why undertake such a mission?”
“Because it brings me before the man I admire most in the world.”
“What is it, then?”
Mazarin shrugged. “I am to inform Your Eminence that due to the capture of Fort Pinerolo, the Duke of Savoy has become gentle as a lamb and supple as a serpent. Through this envoy, he begs Your Eminence, who is known for his generosity, if, for the sake of the king’s sister the Princess of Piedmont, you would return Fort Pinerolo, as this would greatly advance the cause of peace.”
“My dear Captain,” replied Richelieu, “it’s as well that you started out as you did, or I’d have wondered why you were fool enough to take such a mission, or if you simply thought that I was a fool. In any case: no! Giving up Fort Pinerolo was one of Henri III’s greatest shames, and regaining it will be one of the glories of the reign of Louis XIII.”
“Are those the terms in which you would have me state your reply?”
“No, not exactly.”
“Then how, Monseigneur?”
“Like this: His Majesty has not yet learned of our conquest of Pinerolo; I can do nothing until he informs me whether he wishes to keep it, or prefers to give it up as a courtesy to his sister. I’m told the king has left Paris bound for Italy, so we must wait until he arrives in Lyon or Grenoble. At that time, we can enter into serious negotiations and perhaps render a more positive response.”
“Rest assured, Monseigneur, I shall deliver your response verbatim. Just allow me, if you please, to give them some hope.”
“What will they do with that?”
“Nothing—but it may be useful to me.”
“Do you plan to stay in Italy?”
“No, but I want to accomplish as much as I can before I leave.”
“You don’t think Italy has sufficient scope for your ambitions?”
“Italy is a shambles, and has been for centuries, Monseigneur. The last hundred years, as you know better than I, have been a disaster, the final collapse of all that remained from the feudal era. The two pillars of the Middle Ages, the Church and the Empire, are in disarray; once the pope and the emperor were the twin hands of God, but since Rudolph of Hapsburg, the emperors have been a series of despots, and since the rise of Luther, the pope is no more than the leader of a sect.”
Mazarin appeared hesitant to continue. “Go on,” said Richelieu. “I’m listening.”
“You, listening to me, Monseigneur! Until today I doubted myself, but if you listen to me, I’ll doubt myself no more.
“There are still Italians, but Italy is no more. Spain holds four of its capitals, Naples, Milan, Florence, and Palermo. France wants Savoy and Mantua. Venice is in decline, and Genoa gets by from day to day. A frown from Philip IV or Ferdinand II can shake even the pope, successor though he is to Gregory VII. Every man of leadership calls for freedom, but their voices lack strength; the nobles have crushed the people, and have themselves been reduced to mere courtiers. The nobility is powerless, seeing plots and invisible enemies on all sides, so they surround themselves with standing armies, with mercenaries and thugs, terrified of poison, cowering inside chain mail. Worse, they’ve handed over the Council of Trent to the Inquisition. The courage to fight in the open, to take the war to the battlefield, is gone, and with it the heart of the people. Maintaining order is everything, and order is the death of life.”
“If you leave Italy, where will you go?”
“Wherever there are revolutions, Monseigneur: maybe England, but probably France.”
“If you come to France, will you seek me out?”
“I would be happy and proud to do that, Monseigneur.”
“Monsieur Mazarini, I hope we shall meet again.”
“That is my one desire, Monseigneur.�
��
And the artful Neapolitan bowed to the ground and backed out of the chamber.
“I had heard,” the cardinal murmured, “that the rats were leaving the sinking ship; I didn’t expect to meet one who might weather the storm.” And he added softly: “This young captain will go a long way, especially if he trades his uniform for a cassock.”
Then, rising, the cardinal stepped out into the antechamber, where he paced back and forth so thoughtfully that he almost overlooked the arrival of a courier, who gave him a letter from France. “Ah!” said the cardinal, seeing that the courier was covered in dust. “This letter must be urgent.”
“Quite urgent, Monseigneur.”
Richelieu took the letter and opened it; the letter was brief, but, as we shall see, was of some importance:
Fontainebleau, March 17, 1630
The king has left for Lyon, but got no farther than Troyes before he returned to Fontainebleau. Beware: he’s in love!
P.S.: If the courier has arrived before the 25th, give him fifty pistoles!
The cardinal read the letter over several times. He recognized the handwriting as that of Saint-Simon, who wasn’t in the habit of conveying false information. But this news seemed so unlikely, he was doubtful.
“No matter,” he said to Latil. “Get me the Comte de Moret; this is rather in his line.”
“Has Monseigneur forgotten,” Latil laughed, “that the Monsieur de Moret is escorting his beautiful hostage to Briançon?”
“Seek him out wherever he is and tell him to come without delay. I’m sending him to Fontainebleau with the news that we’ve taken Pinerolo!”
Latil bowed and went out.
LXXIII
“Aurora”
As we said in our previous chapters, King Louis XIII, harassed by his mother; fearful of his brother after granting him too much power; aware that Queen Anne, despite her disavowals, continued to meet and conspire with the Spanish ambassador—the king, separated from the cardinal, his political touchstone, had fallen into a melancholy that nothing could allay. What was especially irksome was the understanding, affirmed by the moral sense God gave him, that Richelieu was more essential to the survival of the State than he himself was. And yet everyone around him, with the exception of l’Angely, his fool, and Saint-Simon, whom he’d made grand equerry, either openly opposed this essential man, or conspired secretly against him.
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