“Monsieur l’Officier,” he cried, “let me confess my sins.”
The officer refusing, Bonacieux screamed so shrilly that the other threatened:
“Shut up, idiot, or I’ll clap a gag on you!”
Bonacieux considered these words minatory yet reassuring. Were he destined for execution on the Place de Grève, no gagging was necessary, for the carriage was arriving … was crossing … and now had left the fatal spot far behind.…
One more station to his Calvary remained: the Croix-du-Trahoir. This time, no doubt remained, for all minor criminals were put to death there. What vanity for the haberdasher to flatter himself that he was worthy of Saint-Paul or the Place de Grève! Alas, no: journey’s end was surely the Place de la Croix-du-Trahoir! He could not yet distinguish that dreadful cross but he could almost feel it advancing to meet him. Twenty paces from it, he heard a tumult of voices. The carriage stopped.
This was more than poor Bonacieux could stand. Crushed by the emotions he had undergone, our haberdasher uttered so feeble a moan that you would have sworn it was the last sigh of a dying man.
This time he really fainted.
XIV
THE MAN OF MEUNG
The crowd near the Croix-du-Trahoir was not awaiting a victim; it was contemplating a man who had just been hanged. The carriage stopped for a moment, then pursued its way along the Rue Saint-Honoré, to turn down the Rue des Bons-Enfants, and finally pull up before a low square door. Two guards bundled Bonacieux, supported by the officer, down a corridor, up a stairway, and suddenly by a wholly mechanical process, Bonacieux found himself in an antechamber.
He walked as a somnambulist, dimly perceiving objects as through a mist, apprehending sounds that he could not identify. Had his life depended upon it, he could have summoned no gesture of apology, no cry for mercy. He occupied a hard wooden bench, a dazed man, his back glued to the wall, his arms hanging limply at his sides, in exactly the place where the guards had deposited him.
Presently he looked about him. There seemed to be no sign of danger … he saw no object threatening his life … he realized that he sat on a comfortably upholstered bench … the walls were lined with handsome Cordovan leather … great red damask curtains, fastened by gold clasps, fluttered at the window.…
Gradually, convinced that his fears were exaggerated, he proceeded to wag his head up and down, right and left. As nobody seemed to object to this, he gathered sufficient courage to pull back first his right leg, then his left; finally, with the help of both hands, he lifted himself from the bench and rose to his feet.
Just then an officer—a man of pleasant mien—opened a door, said a few words to somebody within, and turning to the haberdasher:
“Are you Bonacieux?”
“Yes, Monsieur l’Officier,” Bonacieux stammered, more dead than alive. “At your service, Monsieur.”
“Step in here, please,” said the officer, effacing himself to allow a startled, silent Bonacieux to enter a room where he sensed that he was being expected. It was a large room, set aside from the rest of the mansion and richly tapestried; weapons of all kinds adorned the walls; a fire burned in the grate though it was but late September. A square table stood conspicuously in the middle of the room, covered with books and papers, and over them a huge map of the city of La Rochelle.
A man stood with his back to the fireplace. Of medium size, of proud and haughty mien, he had a noble brow, piercing eyes, and a thin face, its thinness emphasized by a slight mustache and a short tapering beard. Though he was scarcely thirty-six or at most thirty-seven, his hair, mustache and beard were turning gray. He wore no sword but otherwise he looked every inch a soldier. A patina of dust on his buff boots indicated that he had been riding on horseback that day.
It was Armand-Jean Duplessis, Cardinal de Richelieu. But nothing in his appearance suggested the man as he is represented today. Here was no broken-down old man, suffering like a martyr, his body bent, his voice failing, his frame buried in an armchair as in a tomb, a being still alive only by virtue of his genius and standing up to all Europe only by virtue of his inflexible will. No, here was the Cardinal as he really looked at this period, a gallant and gifted cavalier, already frail, physically, but sustained by that moral power which made him one of the most extraordinary men who ever lived. Here was the statesman who had upheld the Duc de Nevers in his Duchy of Mantua, who had captured Nîmes, Castres and Uzès, and who, even now, was preparing to drive the British from the Isle de Ré and to besiege La Rochelle.
At first glance nothing in his appearance denoted a prince of the Church; only those who knew him could have guessed who he was.
The unhappy haberdasher stood by the door; the man by the fireplace gazed at him piercingly as though to read every circumstance of his past. After a moment of silence, he asked:
“Is this the man Bonacieux?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“Good. Give me those papers, please. Thank you; you may withdraw.”
The officer picked up a sheaf of papers from the table, handed them to the gentleman, bowed low and retired. Bonacieux recognized these papers as the record of his examination at the Bastille. From time to time, the gentleman by the fireside raised his eyes from the script and plunged them, daggerlike, through Bonacieux’s heart. After ten minutes of reading and ten seconds of scrutiny the Cardinal must have decided that no man with a face like Bonacieux’s could have plotted against the State. Still, it might be useful to question him further.
“You are accused of high treason,” he said slowly.
“So I have been told, Monseigneur.” Bonacieux was careful to address his questioner by the title he had heard the officer use. “But I swear I know nothing of all this.”
“You have plotted with your wife,” the Cardinal repressed a smile, “with Madame de Chevreuse and with My Lord Duke of Buckingham.”
“No, Monseigneur, but I have heard my wife mention those names.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“I heard my wife say that the Cardinal de Richelieu lured the Duke of Buckingham to Paris in order to ruin both him and the Queen.”
“Your wife said that?” the Cardinal demanded.
“Yes, Monseigneur. But I told her she was wrong to talk about such things. I said that His Eminence was incapable—”
“Hold your tongue, fool!”
“That is exactly what my wife said, Monseigneur.”
“Do you know who abducted your wife?”
“No, Monseigneur.”
“Yet you have suspicions.”
“Ay, Monseigneur, I had suspicions. But I dismissed them after talking with Monsieur le Commissaire.”
“Your wife escaped. Did you know that?”
“I learned it in prison, Monseigneur. I was told of it by Monsieur le Commissaire, a most kindly and understanding gentleman.”
Again the Cardinal repressed a smile:
“Then you are ignorant of what has happened to your wife since her flight?”
“Ay, Monseigneur. Doubtless she returned to the Louvre.”
“She had not returned by one o’clock this morning.”
“Ah God! What can have happened to her?”
“We shall find out, you may be sure. No one can conceal anything from the Cardinal. The Cardinal knows everything.”
“In that case, Monseigneur, do you think the Cardinal would kindly tell me what has happened to my wife?”
“He may and he may not. First, you must confess all you know of your wife’s relations with Madame de Chevreuse.”
“Monseigneur, I know nothing at all. I have never seen Madame de Chev—”
“When you went to call for your wife at the Louvre, did you always take her straight home?”
“Almost never. She always had to do some shopping. I usually left her at the draper’s.”
“What draper’s?”
“There were two, Monseigneur.”
“Where did they live?”
�
�One in the Rue de Vaugirard, the other in the Rue de La Harpe.”
“Did you accompany your wife into these houses?”
“Never, Monseigneur. I used to wait at the door.”
“What excuse did she give you for going in alone?”
“She gave me no excuse. She told me to wait and I waited.”
“What an accommodating husband you are, Monsieur Bonacieux!”
The haberdasher thrilled as he heard himself addressed by name. Things seemed to be going better; perhaps his trouble was clearing up.
“Would you recognize the doors of these houses?”
“Certainly.”
“Where exactly are these drapers’ establishments?”
“Number 25 Rue de Vaugirard, Number 75 Rue de La Harpe.”
“Excellent!” the Cardinal commented. Then he took up a silver bell, rang it and, addressing an officer who appeared immediately:
“Find out if Rochefort is here,” he whispered. “If so, send him in at once.”
“The Comte de Rochefort is here and craves immediate audience with Your Eminence.”
(“Your Eminence,” Bonacieux thought, his eyes agoggle.)
Five seconds later, the door opened, a person entered—
“That’s the man,” Bonacieux cried.
“The man?”
“That’s the man who abducted my wife.”
His Eminence again shook the silver bell. The officer reappeared:
“Hand this fellow over to the guards. I shall want him presently.”
“No, no, Monseigneur, it is not the man … I made a mistake … I was thinking of another man who does not look like this gentleman at all … This gentleman here is a respectable man.…”
“Take away this idiot,” the Cardinal said curtly. Once again Bonacieux found an officer picking him up bodily and conveying him forcibly to a pair of guards.
The gentleman whose entrance caused Bonacieux’s dismissal watched his exit impatiently. As soon as the door closed, he turned to the Cardinal:
“They saw each other,” he whispered.
“You mean—?”
“The Queen … the Duke.…”
“Where?” asked the Cardinal.
“At the Louvre.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain, Monsieur le Cardinal.”
“How do you know this?”
“I heard it from Madame de Lannoy. Your Eminence knows how devoted she is to your interests.”
“Why did she not inform me earlier?”
“By chance or by intention, Her Majesty made Madame de Surgis sleep in her chamber; she kept her at her side all day. Madame de Lannoy was denied access—”
“Well, we have been roundly beaten. The point now is to take vengeance.”
“Your Eminence may count upon my wholehearted efforts.…”
In answer to the Cardinal’s further questions, Rochefort explained what had happened. The Queen was with her ladies-in-waiting in her bedroom when a servant presented Her Majesty with a handkerchief from her laundress, where-upon Her Majesty displayed much concern. In spite of the rouge on her cheeks, she turned very pale and asked her ladies to await her for ten minutes. She left through the door of her alcove.
“Why didn’t Madame de Lannoy inform you of this at once?” the Cardinal interrupted.
“Madame de Lannoy could not make out what was going on. The Queen had told her ladies to wait for her; Madame de Lannoy dared not disobey Her Majesty.”
The Queen, Rochefort reported, was away from her bedchamber for three-quarters of an hour; Dona Estefana alone accompanied her. She returned, picked up a small rosewood casket stamped with her coat-of-arms, and went away again. This time she was not gone long, but she returned without the casket.
“Does Madame de Lannoy know what was in this casket?”
“The diamond studs His Majesty gave the Queen.”
“And Her Majesty returned without the casket?”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
“Madame de Lannoy thinks Her Majesty gave it to Buckingham.”
“She is certain of it.”
“How can she be certain?”
“During the course of the day, Madame de Lannoy, as Lady of the Queen’s Wardrobe, looked for this casket, seemed worried not to find it and finally asked the Queen about it—”
“And the Queen—?”
“The Queen blushed. She explained embarrassedly that, having broken one of the studs the day before, she had sent it to her goldsmith to be repaired.”
“We must immediately find out from the goldsmith if this is true or not.”
“Send to the jeweler’s at once to find out if the repairs were made.”
“I have already done so, Your Eminence.”
“And the goldsmith—?”
“… knows absolutely nothing about the matter.”
“Good, good, Rochefort, all is not lost! Perhaps, indeed, everything is for the best.”
“Indeed I have no doubt that Your Eminence’s genius—”
“… will yet repair the blunders of his agent! Is that what you mean?”
“That is precisely what I would have said had Your Eminence let me finish my sentence.”
“Meanwhile, do you know where the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham are hiding?”
“No, Monseigneur. My agents could discover nothing positive on that score.”
“I happen to know.”
“You, Monseigneur?”
“Yes. Or at least I have shrewd suspicions. One stayed at 25 Rue de Vaugirard, the other at 75 Rue de La Harpe.”
“Does Your Eminence wish me to have them arrested?”
“Too late. Both will have fled by now.”
“We should at least make sure of this.”
“Well, take ten of my guardsmen and search both houses thoroughly.”
“I shall go instantly, Monseigneur.”
Left alone, the Cardinal reflected for an instant, then rang the bell a third time. The same officer reappeared.
“Bring the prisoner in again,” the Cardinal ordered.
Monsieur Bonacieux was introduced afresh and, at a sign from the Cardinal, the officer withdrew.
“You have deceived me,” the Cardinal said sternly.
“I? I deceive Your Eminence!”
“When your wife went to the Rue de Vaugirard and the Rue de La Harpe, she was not calling on drapers.”
“What was she up to then, dear God?”
“She was visiting the Duchesse de Chevreuse and the Duke of Buckingham.”
“Yes,” cried Bonacieux, recalling what he could of these errands. “Your Eminence is right. Several times I told my wife it was surprising to find drapers living in such houses, without signs at the door. But she always laughed at me. Ah, Monseigneur,” the haberdasher threw himself at the statesman’s feet, “how truly you are the great Cardinal, the man of genius whom all the world reveres.”
Petty as was his triumph over so base a creature as Bonacieux, His Eminence nevertheless savored it gratefully for a moment. Then, almost immediately, inspired anew, he smiled ever so fleetingly and offered the haberdasher his hand.
“Come, rise, friend, you are a worthy man.”
“The Cardinal has touched my hand! I have touched the hand of the great man! The great man has called me his friend.”
“Yes, my friend, yes,” said the Cardinal with that paternal tone which he could assume on occasion, but which did not deceive those who knew him, “as you have been unjustly suspected, you shall be rewarded. Here, take this purse; it has one hundred pistoles in it. And pardon me for misjudging you.”
“I pardon you, Monseigneur!” Bonacieux hesitated to take the purse, fearing that the Cardinal was jesting. “But Your Eminence is free to arrest me, to have me tortured, even to have me hanged; you are the master and I can have nothing to say. I pardon you, Monseigneur. You cannot mean that!”
“My dear Monsieur Bonacieux, you are acting most gen
erously and I thank you. Take this purse and let there be no hard feelings between us.”
“Hard feelings? No, Monseigneur, I am delighted—”
“Adieu, then. Or rather au revoir, for I hope that we shall meet again.”
“Whenever Monseigneur wishes. I am always at Your Eminence’s orders.”
“We shall meet again often, you may be sure. I have enjoyed our conversation very much.”
“Oh, Monseigneur!”
“Au revoir, Monsieur Bonacieux.” The Cardinal motioned him out. “Au revoir.”
Bonacieux bowed to the very ground and retreated, bowing. When he reached the antechamber, the Cardinal heard him shouting at the top of his lungs:
“Vive Monseigneur! Long live His Eminence! Hurrah for the Cardinal!”
This vociferous manifestation of the haberdasher’s enthusiasm brought another fleeting smile to the Cardinal’s lips. As the cheers faded into the distance:
“Good!” said His Eminence. “There goes a man who would give his life for me.”
Then he returned to the map of La Rochelle on his table and, having examined it minutely, picked up a pencil and traced the line along which, eighteen months later, the famous dyke was to block the port of the beleaguered city. Rochefort entered. Though lost in the most vital and detailed planning, the Cardinal nevertheless looked up and rose eagerly.
“Well?”
“Well, Your Eminence, a young woman of some twenty-six years of age stayed in the Rue de Vaugirard; a man of about forty in the Rue de La Harpe. The lady spent four days here, the gentleman five; she left last night, he this morning.”
“It was our friends, of course!” The Cardinal glanced at the clock. “Too late now to catch them: Madame de Chevreuse is at Tours, Buckingham at Boulogne. We shall have to settle all this in London.”
“What are Your Eminence’s orders?”
“The strictest silence about what has happened … let the Queen believe herself perfectly secure, she must not dream we know her secret … she must be made to believe we are following up some other plot.… send for the Keeper of the Seals.”
“What has Your Eminence done with that fellow—”
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