A Candle For d'Artagnan

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  And when they finally lay in each other’s arms, joyously weary, Charles tangled his hands in Olivia’s hair and held her so that her mouth was pressed to his neck still. “You have me now, you have me now, you have me now,” he whispered to her, and, to her amazement, laughed in triumph.

  Text of letter from Isaac de Portau to Jean-Arnaud du Peyrer de Troisvilles.

  To the leader of the King’s Musqueteers, greetings.

  I have followed the instructions you have given me, and I must report that your fears appear to be well-founded, for although I have not identified those active in the conspiracy to bring down Richelieu and his Italian sycophant, I am convinced now that such a conspiracy does, in fact, exist, and that those active in the plan must act quickly or be discovered, for ours is not the only service investigating the current state of affairs.

  I suggest that His Majesty’s brother, d’Orleans, might be approached. We know he is ambitious and that he has not achieved all that he has wanted in life, but he is not a traitor. He does not always get on with Monsieur le Grand, nor can it be said that Cinq-Mars is any better inclined to him. D’Orleans has the advantage of position, and though he has not always been the recipient of the King’s good attention, he is his brother and a man of some character. The courtiers dare not ignore him or slight him, except those closest to His Majesty.

  In regard to those who are close to Louis and in his good graces, there are those who have heard Cinq-Mars complain of the treatment the King has shown him of late. His Majesty has always demanded much of those he favors, and Cinq-Mars is no exception, though it is plain he wishes to be—why else is he called Monsieur le Grand? How many times has His Majesty upbraided his favorite in public, or slapped him for bringing displeasure to His Majesty? We have seen how His Majesty has vented the extremity of his temperament on the young man, and offered advancement in place of apology. Yet Cinq-Mars has power, of a kind, and as long as the King places his affection on that handsome young man, Cinq-Mars will look to higher things for himself, for he has grown more arrogant as the years have passed. You would think that he were Louis’ heir.

  You know more than I that the King is a man of mercurial mind, and that he often passes from the keenest enthusiasms to the deepest melancholy without apparent reason. When he is in good humor, he is willing to extend himself for those around him, but he will not tolerate any slights to his position, and increasingly it is thought that Cinq-Mars has trespassed in that way, which might account for the conduct Cinq-Mars displays.

  Some of the discontented courtiers are inclined to blame Richelieu for their difficulties. I am no friend of the Cardinal’s, but it is useless to blame him for everything, as some do. If Richelieu is to be brought down, let it be by honorable means, not treachery. You see, I do not think the King is the object of these rumors we have heard whispered for so long, but Richelieu and Mazarin. It is bad doings to plot against Princes of the Church. Those who attempt to do away with the Cardinals will be excommunicated without doubt, and therefore they would not be tolerated at court.

  I propose that you be at pains to protect yourself from whatever the future brings in regard to Richelieu. If Henri Coiffier de Ruze believes that his position as Monsieur le Grand will protect him from the Cardinal or the King, he, or those who like him enjoy the privilege of the King’s favor, will discover their error before they are much older. Whether it is Cinq-Mars himself or his associates who are behind the rumors, I do not know, but it does not matter. De Soissons rebelled, and he is dead, though he was a Prince of the Blood. Le Grand Cinq-Mars has no Blood Royal to protect him; the King’s affections are not enough to save him from Louis’ wrath, if His Majesty is pressed, not with his caprice and his brooding, for it is said that His Majesty sees enemies everywhere when that blackness is upon him. You yourself have remarked on this to me before; from what I have learned, your assumptions are correct.

  If you wish me to reveal what I have learned, pray tell me how and to whom. I will carry my report and any message you wish to whomever you designate, and I will keep the entire affair a matter of secrecy. I will put myself at the disposal of anyone you require I do. If you would rather I speak only to you, or that I speak of this to no one, I will do so. I am your man, and the King’s man unto death.

  Isaac de Portau

  The King’s Musqueteers

  First Company

  On the 20th of April, 1642.

  Do not keep.

  7

  Richelieu’s eyes were wet stones in his face. “Are you certain?” he asked the frightened boy who stood on the other side of his writing table. The windows of his study were open and the scent of May drifted in on the slow breeze.

  “I am, Eminence,” said the page. “I have seen them meet several times now, and they … they speak in whispers.”

  “Which you are at pains to overhear?” Richelieu asked, expecting no answer and getting none. He moved back in his chair and studied his visitor. “Why did you decide to come to me?”

  “I … I thought that … you would have to know.” He stared at the standish, as if he could read his future in the ink. “It was … wrong of them to … to—”

  “Plot,” said Richelieu directly. “It was wrong of them to plot against me.”

  “But they were found out. They were. The King’s brother has … learned of this. He has watched them … and he is working to trap them.” The boy coughed once, then fiddled with his soft lace collar.

  “Are you certain?” Richelieu demanded, his voice low and his eyes harder than ever.

  “Yes,” said the page. “You see … he caught me listening. A few days ago.” This time instead of coughing he cleared his throat. “I don’t know how he found me, but he did. He knew I was listening. He wanted to know if I had listened before. He made me tell him what I knew, and then made me swear that I would do nothing. He said that I was not to inform on anyone and that I should speak only to him. But I couldn’t do that, could I?” This last was a plea as his blue eyes brimmed with tears.

  “It would seem not,” said Richelieu. “Tell me, how long ago did d’Orleans catch you? How long has he known about this?”

  “It was … three weeks ago,” the page said uncertainly.

  “Three weeks ago?” repeated Richelieu. “No more?”

  “A day or two, perhaps,” said the page, his gaze now fixed on the squared toes of his shoes.

  “So, it is at least a month since d’Orleans learned of the plot. Yet he has said nothing of it. Or if he has, it has not been to warn me, as you have done.” He tapped his fingers on the shiny surface of his writing table. “Then what is his purpose?”

  “He … is going to trap them,” said the page unhappily.

  “Is he.” Richelieu sighed once and closed his eyes for an instant as the pain in his vitals flared. “Undoubtedly he will, in good time.”

  The page gave a sickened, relieved smile. He stood a little straighter, but his manner was far from confident. As he watched the Cardinal, he began to fidgit again.

  “It was wise of you to come to me,” Richelieu said at last. “I will see that you are rewarded for all you have done.” He moved his chair back a little farther. “You have spoken to no one other than the Due d’Orleans about the plot, you say?”

  “Only to you, and to him because he made me,” said the page. He rubbed his hands on his long velvet peplums.

  “I think perhaps it would be best if we continue in this way for a while. Do not let d’Orleans know that you have spoken to me; if you do, you will suffer for it, I promise you.” Richelieu spoke almost gently, but his implacability was apparent in every aspect of his demeanor. “I will feign ignorance for a while longer, to see if we can avert scandal. After de Soissons, His Majesty does not want scandal.” He studied the page again, as if looking for the one weakness he could use. “I wish you to report to me every morning, promptly after Mass. I will hear what you have to say. It does not matter if you have nothing to tell me; I would rather tha
t than have you make up something, for that would confuse my purpose, and you would answer for it.”

  The page had been listening closely, his eyes large. It troubled him to admit that the Cardinal was an impressive man, one who commanded more than respect or obedience, but devotion. “Yes, Eminence,” he said, not knowing what he was expected to do next. He wanted to leave the room, but he dared not make a move without Richelieu’s permission.

  “If I learn that you have attempted to gain advantage with others through revealing this information to them in any way, I will see to it that you are sent to the Choir. You are still young enough for them to make use of you.” He let this sink in, then added for emphasis, “Betray me and you will sing soprano all the rest of your life.”

  The page was white as new linen. “I understand, Eminence.”

  “Tres bien,” said Richelieu with a slight, flinty smile.

  “Every morning after Mass.” He bowed his head, trying to keep his teeth from chattering.

  “And if anyone should wonder at the sudden piety you show, you may tell them that you have a relative and you are seeking my aid in securing him a post. Let it be known that you are pestering me, so that the court will be amused.” He looked at the boy’s face. “Complain of my hesitation and lack of concern.”

  “Eminence,” said the page, perplexed. He concentrated on what Richelieu was telling him, knowing that the Cardinal would carry out his threat if he were to fail in the task set.

  Richelieu glanced away toward the window. “What is your name, boy?” Such a pleasant day, he thought.

  “Fontaine de Rochard,” he answered at once, trying to make this sound more impressive than it was.

  “I am not sure…” said Richelieu, letting the page know from his lack of knowledge of his family that Fontaine was not well-connected, if the boy did not realize that already. “From Auvergne, perhaps?” It was his one concession; it gave Fontaine some small part of his dignity.

  “The estate is a small one, near Riom,” said Fontaine. “There are four sons younger than I am, and our means are … modest.” His father had taught him to use such language and now that he was at court, he was grateful for it.

  “An excellent reason for you to pester me,” said Richelieu with another hard smile. “Five sons. And a small estate, you say? How small?”

  Fontaine took a little courage from this question. “There is a chateau, and lands attached. We grow oats and barley, we raise sheep and hogs and have a dairy, cows and goats.”

  “Cheese, then?” suggested Richelieu. “Much like the farmers in the region.”

  “Yes,” said the page, flushing at this description. “My father is a younger son and we are a cadet branch of the family.” It was not an easy admission to make, and he could not look at the Cardinal as he said this, but he managed to stand straight through it all.

  This time Richelieu’s expression was more sympathetic. “It would be well for you to be diligent, Fontaine, for a boy in your position has need of powerful friends if you are not to end up farming as your father does.” He intended his statement to cut, and saw from the expression on Fontaine’s face that he had succeeded.

  Fontaine bit back the retort that sprung to his lips. He ducked his head. “Yes, Eminence.”

  “You can turn this difficult time to your advantage. You may decide that it is best to serve my interests as a means to serve your own.” He looked directly at the boy, giving him time to think. “I reward those who are in my service. I will look out for your welfare if you discharge the tasks I set you.”

  “Eminence.” Fontaine was squirming inwardly, but did little more than scuff at the carpet with his shoe. He was not pleased to be so completely in the Cardinal’s hands, but was wise enough in the ways of the court to know that if he were to rise above his current place, he would do it only with the aid of a powerful patron—and few were more powerful than Richelieu.

  “Well?” Richelieu asked when he was sure that the boy had considered his plight.

  “I am…” He faltered and tried again. “I am honored to be chosen to assist you, Eminence. I will strive to be worthy of your confidence.” This time his bow was formal and faultless.

  “Very wise,” said Richelieu. “Now, be about your duties and listen carefully to all that you hear. Make sure that what you tell me is accurate; do not attempt to change what you have heard and seen: above all, do not interpret what you have heard; I want only to know as precisely as possible what it is. If you are accurate your rewards will be greater than if you are not. I will await your report tomorrow morning.” He held out his hand so that Fontaine could kneel and kiss his ring, then he lifted a little silver bell, ringing it once.

  A lackey came through the door and bowed. “Eminence.”

  “This page is Fontaine de Rochard. He has four younger brothers. Is there any place for them in my service?” Richelieu watched the lackey without expression.

  “I will inquire,” said the lackey, bowing again.

  “Good. Take the boy with you and find out what you can about his family.” He made a gesture of dismissal, then took a document from a case and began to read it, not looking up when the door closed.

  A short while later, however, he left his study and went slowly toward his private apartments, alone. He was tired to the core, but knew there was no rest for him this side of Heaven. His head throbbed and the constant acidic ache in his side seemed worse today than it had been for a while. He had drunk pearls dissolved in wine on the recommendation of his physician, but it seemed to give little benefit, and had destroyed three pearls as well. He thought of the women he remembered from his youth, who made potions and salves from herbs. If the pain continued to worsen, he would be driven to speak with one of those crones, and that made him shudder. It was in God’s hands, he reminded himself. As a Prince of God’s Church, his body was entrusted to His keeping.

  Once in his bedroom, Richelieu allowed himself the luxury of resting on his chaise, extra cushions making him sigh with the only comfort he trusted. As he lay back, he weighed what Fontaine had said. It made an infuriating sense, and that worried him. He could readily believe that Cinq-Mars would mount an attack against the First Minister, confident that the King would deny him nothing once Richelieu was gone. The rest—that Cinq-Mars was conducting secret negotiations with another country—was less credible, but not impossible, given the audacity Cinq-Mars had shown of late. Richelieu closed his eyes, trying to decide how he would proceed. He did not want to challenge Cinq-Mars outright, for the King was currently despondent and could not be relied upon to act for the benefit of France. There would have to be another way, and Richelieu would have to be certain that he did not enter into the dispute directly unless it was absolutely necessary.

  And there was Anne, he thought. She needed his protection more than she had before; if Cinq-Mars were plotting against him, he was also plotting against Anne, for as the Queen and Louis’ wife, she was as much a stone in his path as Richelieu was.

  Unless, said a part of his mind that seemed never to sleep, she is part of it, as well, and is trying to gain power not only over you, but over the King, to insure that her children would not be subjected to any more mistreatment or suspicions. If she thought that with Cinq-Mars as an ally she would at last be rid of the stigma of bearing sons not of the King’s loins, then she might throw in her lot with him. He sighed, and the pain flared. Anne, Anne, Anne, he thought. You cannot be part of this. You cannot have taken such a foolish chance with your life and the lives of two sons. She had been unwise before, he reminded himself with stern rigor. There was that Englishman Buckingham, who had courted her so openly that it was the talk of Europe. Perhaps it was just as well that his manservant killed him for his idolatry of Anne. There were other instances Richelieu was aware of, a few of them concealed from the King, that revealed more of her unhappiness and desperation than her political acumen. If Anne has sided with Cinq-Mars, he thought, he did not know what he would do to extricate he
r before the plot was revealed. He frowned, his eyes closed. He had to consider how best to proceed.

  Cinq-Mars had to be brought down, he decided as he drifted into an uneasy half-sleep. It was most crucial that the rule of Monsieur le Grande be ended. Gaston, Due d’Orleans was the key.

  Shortly before sunset Richelieu was awakened by one of his manservants, who bowed to the Cardinal and reminded him that he was to dine that night at the King’s banquet. He brought a basin filled with warm water and a ewer of spirits of wine so that Richelieu could wash his hands.

  Richelieu made himself stand and go about his toilette as if nothing unusual had happened that day. “I will need a fresh collar,” he said, indicating the wilted lace of the one he was wearing. “Something more fitting for the occasion.”

  “As you say, Eminence,” the manservant agreed, inclining his head.

  When he had dried his hands, Richelieu daubed attar of roses at his wrists, sniffing the overpowering odor of roses with satisfaction. “I would like my writing set brought to me here,” he said when his manservant had given him a new, wider collar of gorgeous Belgian lace with gold thread mixed with the white.

  “At once, Eminence,” said the manservant, and withdrew.

  But when the paper, standish, quills, and sand had been brought to him, Richelieu sat for some little time, staring toward the branch of candles set on his table. His salutation to Anne of Austria was all he had written on the page. After a while, he put a corner of the paper into the flame of the nearest candle and held it until it was burning. Then he dropped it into a vase before leaving his private apartments.

  The Louvre was shining with torchlight; a line of splendid carriages waited to discharge their titled occupants at the largest of the coaching doors. Richelieu used his time to gather his thoughts, wondering how he might find an excuse to speak with Gaston d’Orleans alone without half the guests taking note of it.