Twenty Years After

by Alexander Dumas

  Bernouin reentered the study and came out again a few seconds later. “Enter, Monsieur,” he said, holding open the door.

  Mazarin had needed the brief delay to get hold of his emotions upon hearing of the letter’s origin. Meanwhile his shrewd mind was trying to figure out Cromwell’s motive in sending the missive.

  The young man appeared in the door of the study, holding his hat in one hand and the letter in the other. Mazarin rose and said, “Monsieur, you claim you have a letter for me?”

  “Here it is, Monseigneur,” said the young man.

  Mazarin took the letter, opened it, and read:

  Mister Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, bears this letter of introduction to His Eminence Cardinal Mazarin, at Paris. He has, in addition, a second, more confidential letter.

  OLIVER CROMWELL

  “Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, “give me this second letter and take a seat.”

  The young man drew a second letter from his pocket, gave it to the cardinal, and sat down.

  However, the cardinal, having taken the letter, thoughtfully turned it over and over in his hand instead of opening it, and then decided to sound out the messenger with some questions, as his experience had convinced him that few men could hide their secrets if watched closely while interrogated. “You’re very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for the difficult job of ambassador, which taxes even veteran diplomats.”

  “Monseigneur, I am twenty-three, but Your Eminence shouldn’t be fooled into thinking me young. In my way I am older than you, though I lack your wisdom.”

  “How is that, Monsieur?” said Mazarin. “I don’t understand you.”

  “They say, Monseigneur, that years of suffering count double—and I have suffered for twenty years.”

  “Ah, yes, I see,” said Mazarin, “a lack of fortune. You are poor, aren’t you?” And he added to himself, “These English revolutionaries are all beggars and peasants.”

  “Monseigneur, I should have a fortune of six million, but it was stolen from me.”

  “So, you’re not a commoner, then?” said Mazarin, astonished.

  “If I bore my proper title, I’d be a lord; if I wore my real name, you’d know me by one of the most illustrious in England.”

  “What is your name, then?” asked Mazarin.

  “I’m known as Monsieur Mordaunt,” said the young man, bowing.

  Mazarin saw that Cromwell’s envoy wished to maintain his incognito. He paused a moment, considering the young man more closely than he had before. The young envoy was unmoved. “To the devil with these Puritans!” Mazarin said under his breath. “They’re carved of marble.” Then, aloud, he said, “But your noble relatives are still alive?”

  “One of them is, yes, Monseigneur.”

  “And can’t he help you?”

  “I’ve presented myself three times to my uncle to implore his aid, and three times I’ve been driven from his door.”

  “Oh, Lord help us, good Monsieur Mordaunt!” said Mazarin, hoping to trap the young man with false pity. “Mon Dieu, your story moves me! So, you don’t know the true facts of your high birth?”

  “I have only recently learned the truth.”

  “And until you knew that . . . ?”

  “I’d considered myself an abandoned child.”

  “So, you’ve never seen your mother?”

  “I did, Monseigneur, when I was a child—she came three times to my nursery, and I remember the last time as if it were yesterday.”

  “You have a good memory,” said Mazarin.

  “Oh, yes, Monseigneur,” said the young man, with a strange emphasis that sent a chill down the cardinal’s spine.

  “And who raised you?” asked Mazarin.

  “A French nurse, who drove me away when I was five years old because she hadn’t been paid, though she told me the name of the uncle my mother had spoken of.”

  “What happened to you?”

  “I took to crying and begging on the highways, until a minister from Kingston took me in. He instructed me in the Calvinist faith, taught me everything he knew, and helped me in trying to find my family.”

  “And this research . . . ?”

  “It was in vain. It was chance that finally led me to the truth.”

  “You discovered what had become of your mother?”

  “I learned that she’d been murdered by my uncle with the help of four accomplices, and that I’d been expelled from the nobility and stripped of all my rights by King Charles I.”

  “Ah, now I understand why you serve Monsieur Cromwell. You hate the king.”

  “Yes, Monseigneur, I hate him!” the young man said. Mazarin was astonished by his diabolical expression as he uttered these words: unlike most complexions, which flush red, this young man’s face was livid and suffused with gall.

  “Your story is a terrible one, Monsieur Mordaunt, and touches me deeply; but fortunately, you now serve an all-powerful master who will help you in your quest. People in power have a great deal of information available to us.”

  “Monseigneur, offer the slightest scent to a well-bred hunting dog, and he’ll follow the trail to the end.”

  “But this uncle you mentioned, would you like me to speak to him?” said Mazarin, who thought it would be useful to have an ally near to Cromwell.

  “Thank you, Monseigneur, but I’ll speak to him myself.”

  “But didn’t you say he mistreated you?”

  “He’ll treat me better the next time I see him.”

  “So, you have a way to make him listen?”

  “I have a way to make him afraid.”

  Mazarin stared at the young man but was met by such a fiery glare that he looked down. Unwilling to continue the conversation, he opened the letter from Cromwell. Gradually the young man’s eyes returned to their usual glassy passivity, and he fell into a deep reverie. After reading the first few lines, Mazarin glanced up to see if the young man was watching him, and noticing his indifference, he shrugged slightly and said to himself, “To pursue your agenda by using those who are pursuing their own is one way to conduct affairs. Let’s see what this letter is all about.”

  We reproduce it here verbatim:106

  To His Eminence

  Monseigneur Cardinal Mazarini

  I would like, Monseigneur, to know your intentions concerning current affairs in England. Our neighboring realms are too close for France not to care about our situation, or for us not to care about France. The English are almost unanimously opposed to the tyranny of King Charles and his supporters. Placed at the head of this movement by the public’s trust, I appreciate more than anyone its nature and consequences. Today we go to war, and I will engage King Charles in a decisive battle. I will prevail, for the hope of the nation and the will of the Lord is with me. Once defeated, the king has no more resources in England or Scotland; if he is not taken or killed, he will try to escape to France to raise money, recruit soldiers, and buy arms. France has already received Queen Henriette, and thereby, unintentionally perhaps, contributed to sustaining the fires of civil war in our country; but Madame Henriette is a Daughter of France and is entitled to her hospitality. For King Charles, it is another story; if he receives refuge and aid, France would insult the English people and their government in a manner tantamount to open hostility . . .

  At this point Mazarin, uneasy at the turn the letter had taken, stopped reading to glance once more at the young man. He was still lost in reverie, so Mazarin continued.

  It is urgent, Monseigneur, that I know therefore the intentions of France; the interests of that realm and that of England, though seemingly different, are closer than they may appear. England needs domestic tranquility to complete the expulsion of its king, while France needs peace to secure its young monarch’s throne; you, as much as we, need stability as we consolidate the power of our governments.

  Your disputes with your parliament, your noisy quarrels with the princes who today are with you and tomorrow are against you, the p
opular uprising fomented by the coadjutor, President Blancmesnil, and Councilor Broussel; all this disorder, in short, which afflicts every level of government should make you wary of involvement in a foreign war—for then England, overexcited by enthusiasm for new ideas, would ally with Spain, who already desires such an alliance. So, I thought, Monseigneur, knowing your prudence and how affairs affect your personal situation, that you would prefer to focus your energies within the bounds of France and leave affairs in England to its new government. Such neutrality consists solely of denying King Charles entry to French territory, and all French arms, money, and troops, as he is a monarch entirely foreign to you.

  This letter is confidential, which is why I send it to you by a trusted and devoted servant; it is intended to give Your Eminence forewarning of what measures I will take in certain events. Oliver Cromwell feels he can communicate better with an intelligence like that of Mazarini than with a queen who, though admirable for her firmness, is too susceptible to the privileges of royal birth and divine right.

  Farewell, Monseigneur. If I receive no response within two weeks, I will consider that my overtures have been rejected.

  OLIVER CROMWELL

  “Monsieur Mordaunt,” said the cardinal, raising his voice to arouse the dreamer, “my response to this letter from General Cromwell will be more satisfactory to him if no one else knows that I’ve made it. Wait for my reply, therefore, at Boulogne-sur-Mer,107 and promise me you’ll leave for there by tomorrow morning.”

  “I shall, Monseigneur,” replied Mordaunt, “but how many days would Your Eminence have me wait for your response?’

  “If you haven’t received it in ten days, you may depart.”

  Mordaunt bowed.

  “That’s not all, Monsieur,” continued Mazarin. “Your personal story deeply moved me, and in addition, Monsieur Cromwell’s letter names you an ambassador. So, tell me, I repeat, what can I do for you?”

  Mordaunt thought for a moment, and, after some visible hesitation, had opened his mouth to speak, when Bernouin rushed in, leaned toward the cardinal’s ear, and spoke softly. “Monseigneur,” he whispered, “Queen Henriette, accompanied by an English gentleman, has just entered the Palais Royal.”

  Mazarin started in his chair, a movement that didn’t escape the notice of the young man, and he suppressed the confidence he was about to share.

  “Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “I hope you understand that I picked Boulogne because I assumed any city in France would suffice for you, but if you prefer another, name it; however, you can see that, surrounded by the inquisitive whom I can escape only by discretion, I’d prefer no one know of your visit to Paris.”

  “I depart, then, Monsieur,” said Mordaunt, turning toward the door through which he’d entered.

  “No, not that way, Monsieur, please!” said the cardinal quickly. “Exit through this gallery, which will take you to the vestibule. I wish no one to see you leave, as our interview must remain secret.”

  Mordaunt followed Bernouin, who led him into an adjoining chamber, where an usher showed him the way out.

  Then Bernouin hurried back to his master to admit Queen Henriette, who was already crossing the window gallery outside.

  XLI

  Mazarin and Queen Henriette

  The cardinal stood up and hurried to receive the Queen of England, joining her in the middle of the gallery that led to his study. He was all the more respectful of this queen who came without servants or jewelry because inside he was ashamed of his own avarice and lack of heart. As for the queen, supplicants learn to keep careful control of their expressions, and the daughter of Henri IV smiled as she went to meet a man she hated and despised.

  “Oh ho!” Mazarin said to himself. “What a pleasant smile! Is she coming to ask me for money?” He gave a worried glance toward the door of his strong-room, and even turned the bezel of his magnificent diamond ring around to the inside of his palm. Unfortunately, this gem didn’t have the power of Gyges’s ring,108 which when turned could render its wearer invisible.

  And Mazarin would have liked to be invisible at that moment, because he guessed that Madame Henriette came to ask for something. When a queen he’d treated so poorly came with a smile on her lips instead of a threat, she wanted something.

  “Monsieur le Cardinal,” said the august visitor, “it occurred to me to talk first to the queen, my sister, about the affair that brings me to you, but then I thought that politics is really the province of men.”

  “Madame,” said Mazarin, “Your Majesty overwhelms me with this flattering distinction.”

  He’s being very gracious, thought the queen. Can he have guessed why I’ve come?

  They’d arrived in the cardinal’s study, and once he’d seated the queen in his own armchair, he said, “Now give your orders to this most respectful of your servants.”

  “Alas, Monsieur,” the queen replied, “I lost the habit of giving orders when I had to turn to prayer. I’ve come now to pray to you, and will be only too happy if you hear my prayers.”

  “I’m listening, Madame,” said Mazarin.

  “Monsieur le Cardinal, it concerns the war that my husband wages against his rebellious subjects. You might not be aware that there is fighting in England,” said the queen with a sad smile, “and that there will soon be a decisive battle.”

  “I had no idea, Madame,” said the cardinal with a slight shrug. “Hélas! Our own conflicts absorb all the time and energy of a poor minister as infirm and incapable as I am.”

  “Well, Monsieur le Cardinal,” said the queen, “I must inform you that my husband, Charles I, is about to make a final effort. In the event of his defeat”—Mazarin gave a start—“for we must prepare for anything, he wishes to retire to France to live here as a private individual. What do you say to this idea?”

  The cardinal listened without a line on his face betraying his innermost thoughts and feelings; his expression was mild and pleasant, as usual, and when the queen had finished, he said in his softest voice, “Do you think, Madame, that France, agitated and unruly as it is now, is a safe harbor for a dethroned king? The crown already rests uneasily on the brow of King Louis XIV; how could he support a double burden?”

  “The weight of a crown hasn’t been so heavy as far as I’m concerned,” interjected the queen with a sad smile, “and I ask no more for my husband than has been done for me. You see that we’re very modest monarchs, Monsieur.”

  “Oh, but you, Madame!” the cardinal said hastily, to forestall this subject before it could turn to reproaches. “You are another matter entirely, a daughter of Henri IV, of that great, of that sublime king . . .”

  “Which doesn’t prevent you from refusing hospitality to his son-in-law, does it, Monsieur? You should nonetheless recall that that great, that sublime king, when threatened much as my husband is now, asked for aid from England, and England granted it—although Queen Elizabeth wasn’t his niece.”

  “Peccato!” said Mazarin, finding it hard to contradict such simple logic. “Your Majesty doesn’t understand me; she misjudges my intentions, doubtless because I express myself poorly in French.”

  “Speak Italian then, Monsieur; Queen Marie de Médicis, our mother, taught us that language before the old cardinal, your predecessor, sent her off to die in exile. If that great, that sublime King Henri of whom you spoke just now is watching us, he must be astonished at how you combine such profound admiration for him with such scant regard for his family.”

  Sweat began to bead Mazarin’s forehead. “My admiration is, on the contrary, so great and so real, Madame,” said Mazarin, declining the queen’s offer to change language, “that if King Charles I—whom God protect from all misfortune!—were in France, I would offer him my house, my own home, though sadly that would be no safe haven. Someday the people will burn my house as they burned that of Marshal d’Ancre. Poor Concino Concini! All he ever thought of was the good of France.”

  “Yes, Monseigneur, just like you,” said the q
ueen ironically.

  Mazarin pretended not to understand the double meaning behind this remark and continued to look sorry about the fate of Concino Concini.

  “So, then, Monseigneur le Cardinal,” said the queen impatiently, “what do have to tell me?”

  “Oh, Madame,” cried Mazarin, as if deeply moved, “Madame, will Your Majesty permit me to give you some advice? Please understand that before I do anything so bold, I place myself entirely at Your Majesty’s feet to serve your desires.”

  “Speak, Monsieur,” replied the queen. “The advice of a man as prudent as you must certainly be good.”

  “Madame, believe me, the king must defend himself to the bitter end.”

  “So he has, Monsieur, and in the coming final battle he’ll commit all his resources, though they’re less than those of his enemies, to show that he’s determined not to give up without a fight—but then what? What happens if he’s defeated?”

  “Well, Madame, in that case, my advice, though I know it’s presumptuous to offer it, is that His Majesty shouldn’t leave his own realm. Absent kings are soon forgotten; if he comes to France, his cause is lost.”

  “But then,” said the queen, “if that’s your advice and you really support his best interests, send him some money and troops! I can do nothing more for him, I’ve sold everything down to my last diamond, I have nothing left, as you know better than anyone, Monsieur. Had I still any jewelry, I’d have bought firewood to warm my daughter and myself last winter.”

  “Oh, Madame,” said Mazarin, “Your Majesty doesn’t know what she’s asking. From the moment that foreign aid enters a conflict to keep a king on his throne, it’s an admission that he no longer has the loyalty of his subjects.”

  “In fact, Monsieur le Cardinal,” said the queen, impatient with following his subtle mind through the maze of his words, “in fact, tell me yes or no: if the king stays in England, will you send him any help? If he comes to France, will you give him hospitality?”