But what was one more trick of persuasion and perception to a man who’d been hoodwinking the diplomats of Europe for over twenty years? From the moment the king heard these words it seemed he’d taken a poisoned dart to the heart. He lost all confidence and, suddenly uncertain, cast anxious looks at the assembly surrounding him. He tried again and again to catch the queen mother’s eye, but she, engrossed in the pleasure of speaking with her sister-in-law, and moreover warned off by a glance from Mazarin, didn’t seem to notice her son’s pleading glances.
From then on, all music, flowers, lights, even beauty itself seemed hateful and tedious to Louis XIV. Back in his chair, after he’d bitten his lips a dozen times, stretched out his arms and legs as if confined, like a well-bred child who, not daring to yawn, seeks every other way possible to express his boredom, after having once more tried and failed to implore mother and minister, he turned a desperate look toward the door, that is, toward freedom.
At this door, framed by the doorway against which he was leaning, he saw, standing out in strong contrast to his surroundings, a proud and spare figure, with an aquiline nose, a severe but sparkling eye, hair long and gray, and a black mustache, a veritable model of military virtue, whose gleaming gorget, shining like a mirror, broke all the reflected lights of the hall into shimmering flashes. This officer wore on his head a gray felt hat with a red plume, proof that he was there on duty rather than for his pleasure; if he’d been a courtier rather than a soldier he’d have been holding his hat in his hand, as one must always pay a price for pleasure.
What showed even more clearly that this officer was on duty and performing a familiar task was the way in which he watched, arms folded and with utter indifference, the party with all its joys and disappointments. He seemed above it all, like a philosopher—but all old soldiers are philosophers, with a much greater understanding of disappointment than of joy, which they’ve had little opportunity to sample.
So, he stood there, leaning against the richly carved door frame, until the king’s sad and anxious eyes met his own. And it wasn’t the first time, it seemed, that the officer’s eyes had met such a look, because as soon as he saw the expression on Louis XIV’s face, he knew just what was passing in the king’s heart, his anxiety and the desire for freedom from what oppressed him. Instantly seeing what duty required of him, the officer stood tall and said, in a voice that resounded like that of a commander on the battlefield: “On the service of the king!”
At these words, which burst like a roll of thunder above the sound of the orchestra, the singers, the talkers, and the strutters, the cardinal and the queen mother looked with surprise at His Majesty. Louis XIV, pale but resolute, supported by his thought being echoed and magnified by the voice of his Lieutenant of Musketeers, rose from his chair and took a step toward the door.
“Are you leaving, my son?” asked the queen, while Mazarin contented himself with an inquiring glance, which might have seemed concerned if it hadn’t been so piercing.
“Yes, Madame,” replied the king. “I am fatigued and would like to write this evening.”
A smile touched the lips of the minister, who appeared, with a nod, to give the king his permission.
Monsieur and Madame hastened to give orders to their guards to present arms. The king bowed, crossed the hall, and approached the door, where a double file of twenty musketeers awaited His Majesty. At the end of the line stood the impassive officer with his naked sword in his hand.
As the king passed, the crowd stood, some on tiptoe, to watch him go by. Ten musketeers preceded him out into the antechamber, ten more falling in behind the king and Monsieur, who wanted to accompany His Majesty. Assorted servants followed, a little procession escorting the king toward his designated lodging, the same apartment occupied by Henri III when he’d convened the Estates General.
Monsieur had given his orders. The musketeers, led by their officer, entered the narrow passage that connected one wing of the château to the other. This passage began in a small, square antechamber that was dark and somber, even on sunny days. There Monsieur held up a hand to Louis XIV and said, “You’re passing, Sire, the very spot where the Duc de Guise received the first thrust of the poniard.”35
Even the king, nearly ignorant of history, had heard of this event, though he knew nothing of its context or details. “Ah!” he said, shuddered and stopped. Everyone else, both before and behind him, stopped as well.
“The duke, Sire,” continued Gaston, “was about where I am, walking in the direction Your Majesty was walking; Monsieur de Loignac was where your Lieutenant of Musketeers is standing, and Monsieur de Sainte-Maline and the King’s Ordinaries were behind and around him. It was there that he was struck.”
The king turned toward his officer of musketeers in time to see a cloud pass across his bold and martial countenance. “Yes, from behind,” murmured the lieutenant with a gesture of supreme disdain. And he turned as if to continue their march, as though uncomfortable between walls that had witnessed such treachery.
But the king, who appeared eager to learn, seemed disposed to pause and look around the lethal location. Gaston understood his nephew’s curiosity. “See, Sire,” he said, taking a torch from the hands of Monsieur de Saint-Rémy, “here is where he fell. There was a bed against the wall, and he tore down its curtains as he collapsed.”
“Why is there a hollow in the parquet floor at this spot?” asked Louis.
“Because that’s where his blood pooled,” said Gaston. “The blood soaked deep into the oak and it was only by gouging out the wood that it was effaced—and yet,” added Gaston, holding the torch near, “you can still see a reddish tint that has resisted all attempts to scrub it away.”
Louis XIV raised his head. Perhaps he was thinking of the bloodstain he’d been shown one day at the Louvre, where the blood of Concini had been spilled at the command of his father, Louis XIII. “Let’s go,” he said.
The march immediately resumed, for emotion had given his voice an as-yet-unaccustomed tone of command.
They arrived at the apartment reserved for the king, which communicated with the narrow passage by which he’d approached, as well as with a staircase that overlooked the courtyard. Gaston said, “I hope Your Majesty will accept this apartment, unworthy though it is to receive him.”
“Uncle,” replied the young prince, “I thank you for your cordial hospitality.”
Gaston bowed to his nephew, who embraced him, and then went out. Of the twenty musketeers who’d escorted the king, ten accompanied Monsieur back to the reception hall, which was still busy despite His Majesty’s departure. The other ten were assigned their night posts by their officer, after he’d spent five minutes exploring all the surrounding chambers, surveying them with that cold and considering regard that was less the fruit of experience than of a certain tactical genius.
Then, with all his people placed, he chose for his headquarters an adjacent antechamber in which he found a large armchair, and next to it a lamp, some wine, water, and a half-loaf of bread. He turned up the lamp, drank half a glass of wine, curled his lip in a scornful smile, sat down in the big chair and prepared to fall asleep.
IX In Which the Stranger from the Inn of The Médicis Drops His Incognito
Despite his air of nonchalance, the officer who was settling down to sleep was burdened with a grave responsibility. Lieutenant of the King’s Musketeers, he commanded the entire company of one hundred twenty men that had come from Paris, but other than the twenty already referred to, the other hundred were detailed to guard the queen mother and, especially, the cardinal. Monsignor Giulio Mazarini was thrifty, and instead of traveling with his own guards, he economized by using the king’s, taking fifty of them for himself—which, to a stranger to this Court, might have seemed an unusual escort for a foreigner. What such a stranger might have found even more unseemly, even extraordinary, was that the wing of the château occupied by the cardinal was brilliant with lights and busy with visitors. The musketeers who m
ounted guard over the doors of this wing admitted only couriers who brought the cardinal, even while traveling, his urgent correspondence. Twenty men were on duty outside the queen mother’s rooms; thirty were resting to be ready to relieve their companions the next day.
In contrast, the wing assigned to the king showed only darkness, silence, and solitude. Even the château’s servants had one by one withdrawn. Monsieur le Prince had sent to inquire whether His Majesty required his attendance, and the Lieutenant of the Musketeers, who was accustomed to this nightly question, gave the customary negative reply. After this, all prepared for an early bed, as if in a good bourgeois household. And yet, from the rooms assigned to the king, it was easy to hear the festive music that issued from the richly illuminated windows of the great hall.
Ten minutes after arriving in his rooms, Louis XIV had been able to recognize, by the grand procession that eclipsed his own entourage, the departure of the cardinal, who moved toward his bedroom accompanied by a numerous escort of gentlemen and ladies. To observe all this activity the king had only to look out his windows, whose shutters stood still open. His Eminence crossed the courtyard, his way lit by Monsieur himself, who bore a torch; they were followed by the queen mother, leaning on Madame’s arm, the two whispering on their way like two old friends. Behind these two couples came columns of ladies, pages, and officers, their torches illuminating the courtyard like a walking bonfire surrounded by reflections from the windows; then the procession disappeared inside, moving toward the upper floors.
No one thought of the king, leaning on his balcony, from which he’d sadly watched this flow of noise and light—no one, that is, but the stranger from the Inn of the Médicis, whom we saw go out wrapped in his black cloak. He had gone straight up to the château and circled the main palace, watching, from behind his melancholy face, the people who still thronged it. Then, noticing that no one was guarding the main gate, since Monsieur’s guards were all fraternizing with the royal troops, discreetly, or rather indiscreetly, sharing out the Beaugency wine, he entered, passing through the people lingering in the courtyard until he came to the landing of the stairs leading to the cardinal’s wing.
Doubtless it was the torchlight and busy passage of pages and servants that drew him that way. But he was stopped by a horizontal musket and the challenge of a guard. “Where are you going, friend?” demanded the sentry.
“I go to see the king,” replied the stranger, with cool hauteur.
The soldier called one of His Eminence’s ushers, who, in the tone of a functionary directing a petitioner to a sub-minister, said, “You want the other stairs across the way.”
And the usher, without sparing another thought to the stranger, returned to his conversation.
The stranger made no reply, just turned and crossed to the indicated staircase. On that side there was no noise and few torches lit the gloom, through which a single sentry paced like a shadow. It was so quiet the stranger could hear the sound of his footsteps and the noise of his spurs when his heels struck the flagstones. This sentry was one of the twenty musketeers assigned to the king’s service, and he mounted his guard with the stiffness and impassivity of a statue. “Who goes there?” he said.
“A friend,” replied the stranger.
“What do you want here?”
“To speak to the king.”
“Oh ho! My dear Monsieur, that’s out of the question.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the king has gone to bed.”
“To bed, already?”
“Yes.”
“No matter; I must speak with him.”
“And I tell you that’s impossible.”
“But…”
“Be off!”
“What about the password?”
“I don’t have to give you a password. Be off.”
And this time the sentry added to his words a threatening gesture. But the stranger never moved a hair and seemed rooted in place. “Monsieur le Mousquetaire,” he said, “are you a gentleman?”
“I have that honor.”
“Well! So am I, and between gentlemen there ought to be some measure of consideration and respect.”
The sentry lowered his weapon, impressed by the dignity with which the stranger had delivered these words. “Speak, Monsieur,” he said, “and if what you need is within my power…”
“Thank you. You have an officer, I suppose?”
“Yes, Monsieur, our lieutenant.”
“Well, I would like to speak to your lieutenant.”
“Ah! That’s another thing entirely. Follow me, Monsieur.”
The stranger saluted the sentry in a lofty manner and mounted the stairs, while the sentry called ahead, “Lieutenant, a visitor!”
This word was passed from sentry to sentry until it reached the officer’s antechamber and roused him. He dragged on his boots, rubbed his eyes, threw on his coat, and then stepped toward the stranger as he came in. “What can I do for you, Monsieur?” he asked.
“You are the officer on duty, the Lieutenant of Musketeers?”
“I have that honor,” replied the officer.
“Monsieur, I absolutely must speak with the king.”
The lieutenant looked closely at the stranger, and in that look, brief though it was, he learned all he needed to know, perceiving a proud distinction concealed by common clothes. “I don’t take you for any kind of fool,” he replied, “yet it seems to me you must know, Monsieur, that no one approaches the king without his consent.”
“He will consent, Monsieur.”
“Permit me to doubt it, Monsieur; the king retired more than a quarter of an hour ago and by now must be nearly undressed. Besides, the order has gone out.”
“When he knows who I am,” said the stranger, lifting his chin, “he will withdraw the order.”
The officer was growing increasingly surprised and increasingly impressed. “If I agree to announce you, Monsieur, will you at least consent to tell me what name to announce?”
“You will announce His Majesty Charles II, King of England, Scotland, and Ireland.”*
The officer stifled a cry of astonishment and recoiled slightly, his pale face showing an unexpectedly poignant expression on the visage of such a man of action. He looked closer and said, “Oh, yes, Sire! In fact, I should have recognized you.”
“You’ve seen my portrait?”
“No, Sire.”
“Or did you see me at Court before I was expelled from France?”
“No, Sire, not that either.”
“How could you recognize me, then, if you’ve seen neither my portrait nor my person?”
“Sire, I saw His Majesty the King, your father, on a terrible occasion.”
“The day…”
“Yes.”
A dark cloud passed over the prince’s face, but then, waving it away, he said, “Do you still see any problem with announcing me?”
“Pardon me, Sire,” replied the officer. “I couldn’t imagine I was addressing a king under so simple an exterior, though as I had the honor to tell Your Majesty a moment ago, I’d seen King Charles I… but excuse me, I must go warn the king.”
He turned, then retracing his steps, he asked, “Your Majesty doubtless wishes this interview to remain a secret?”
“I don’t insist upon it, but if it’s possible…”
“Quite possible, Sire, for I can dispense with notifying the First Gentleman on duty; but Your Majesty will have to consent to give me his sword.”
“Ah, right. I’d forgotten that no one may go in to see the King of France while armed.”
“Your Majesty may insist on an exception, but then it will be my responsibility to notify the First Gentleman.”
“Here is my sword, Monsieur. Would you care to announce me to His Majesty now?”
“This very moment, Sire.”
The officer immediately marched to the king’s door, which the valet de chambre opened to him. “His Majesty, the King of England!” t
he officer announced.
“His Majesty, the King of England!” repeated the valet de chambre.
At these words an attending gentleman opened the inner door of the king’s apartments to reveal Louis XIV without hat or sword, doublet unlaced, and advancing with every indication of surprise. “You, my Brother! You, at Blois!” cried Louis XIV, dismissing with a gesture the gentleman and valet, who withdrew into an antechamber.
“Sire,” replied Charles II, “I was on my way to Paris in hopes of seeing Your Majesty when I heard of your visit to this city. I extended my stay, as I have something very important to say to you.”
“Does this chamber suit you, Brother?”
“Perfectly, Sire, for it seems private enough.”
“I’ve sent my gentleman and my valet into the next room. Outside this room is the antechamber, where you saw just one officer, right?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Well, then! Speak, Brother; I’m listening.”
“I’ll begin, then, Sire, and may Your Majesty take pity on the troubles of my house.”
The King of France blushed, covering it by drawing together two armchairs.
“Sire,” said Charles II, “I need not ask Your Majesty if he knows the deplorable details of my history.”
Louis XIV colored even more, and then, placing a hand over that of the King of England, he said, “My Brother, I’m ashamed to say that the cardinal rarely speaks of politics in front of me. Worse, in former days I had La Porte,36 my personal valet, read history to me in the evening, but the cardinal stopped these readings and sent La Porte away, so that I must beg my Brother Charles to tell me everything, speaking as if to a man who knows nothing.”
“Well, Sire, I think that by starting at the beginning I may have a better chance of touching Your Majesty’s heart.”
“Speak, Brother, speak.”
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