The Cardinal did not forget that insult. He went at once to the King, and offered his resignation. Louis, who had no love for him, but only fear, nevertheless was terrified, understanding only too well who upheld his own power and his throne. He offered the Cardinal anything he desired, if he would remain. The Cardinal, then, in a low and hesitating voice, declared that he had no devotion except to the throne, and that he found it impossible to devote himself to the King if, in the King’s own household, there lived one who had vowed to continue his plottings against that royal authority. “Therefore,” said the Cardinal, sadly, “if I am to remain to serve your Majesty, I must ask, out of my love for you, Sire, that Prince Gaston be forced to swear the oath of loyalty.”
The Cardinal knew only too well the inherent pride and hauteur under the superficial mannerisms and laughter of the humming and singing Gaston. This was a petty revenge he had asked. But the King did not observe the pettiness. He was all aglow, touched, at this evidence of the Cardinal’s single-hearted devotion to him. He commanded that Gaston appear before him, in the presence of the Cardinal, and humbly swear that oath of loyalty to the Throne.
Gaston, still prostrated with sorrow over the death of his adored tutor, at first decided to refuse, let the heavens fall if they wished. But the Queen Mother, terrified at the danger about to fall upon her darling, implored him on her knees to humiliate himself, for her sake. “And,” she added slyly, through her tears, “wait your time, my sweetest boy. Wait your time! Is not your mother still beside you? We will find some way to circumvent this fiend of a Cardinal!”
Upon reflection on this, and also having a high regard for his own personal safety, Gaston consented to swear the oath. But in his burning heart, he added another score to settle with the Cardinal.
The Italian Queen Mother had the blood of vendettas in her veins. She, too, had her private, and shameful, reasons for hating the Cardinal. Had she not raised him from nothing, worked endlessly for his elevation to power, glory and influence? Yet, in the end, he had visited only remorselessness, cold indifference, and humiliation upon her, after he no longer needed her. A passionate and vicious Catholic, a Habsburg, she was now forced to watch him check the Habsburg power—that supreme and Catholic power!—and temporize with the Huguenot magnates (those vile heretics!). All in the name of France, the traitor had declared! What cared she, the Habsburg, the Italian, for France? What had she, the Catholic, the vindictive hater of Protestant England, the Netherlands, and the Huguenots of France, to do with the “tolerance” the Cardinal was continually urging?
Moreover, in her love for her younger son, Gaston, she had been imploring the King, whom she hated, to grant Gaston the governorship of Champagne or Burgundy. But this plan the Cardinal defeated with his usual subtlety and dexterity. This scarlet upstart had again frustrated her, flaunting the power she had given him in her own outraged face! In her own chamber, she wept, beat her pillows with her hands, cursed the Cardinal, sobbed, groaned, vowed vengeance, and drowned herself in floods of aching and burning tears. For still, in that coarse, violent and brutal heart lived a passion for the elegant Armand-Jean de Plessis, a passion she could never obliterate, and which was stung only to fresh excesses, voluptuously, at every new humiliation and frustration he inflicted upon her.
She had never had much fondness for Anne of Austria, though she had arranged the wedding between Anne and the King. But now, in this lovely and frightened, suffering and seduced girl, she found an ally against the Cardinal. Thus, these three, Marie de Medici, Gaston, and Anne, formed a nucleus of hatred and plotting, in the heart of the royal household. All three, now, having originally had only dislike, indifference, ridicule or aversion for the King, were aroused to the most fiery hatred against him, only slightly less than the mutual hatred they felt for the Cardinal.
Young Prince Gaston had just finished his breakfast, and was playing with his dogs in his bed-chamber, when his gentleman-of-the-chamber entered respectfully to announce the arrival of Monsieur Arsène de Richepin.
Gaston had a fondness for Arsène, as he had a fondness for all young men like himself: gay, irresponsible, reckless, brave and amusing. Arsène had written him yesterday, imploring him for this audience. So the prince put aside his dogs, and requested that Monsieur be admitted at once.
As he waited for Arsène, Gaston frowned. From the urgency of Arsène’s message, he had come to the conclusion that this was to be no light request made of him. Gaston, under his lightness, had true devotion for his few friends, and it irked him that he was now so powerless, watched constantly by the Cardinal’s spies, hated and suspected by his brother, Louis, the King. Nevertheless, he decided that if he could assist Arsène, he would do so.
He stood in his dressing-gown of red satin, by his window in the palace, glowering and biting his lip. This expression did not sit easily on an open and handsome countenance, already lined, despite his youth, with the thin furrows of natural laughter and vivacity. He was rather tall, well-made, and of a fair complexion, with dancing blue eyes and large quantities of thick, curling brown hair, which fell on broad, straight and soldierly shoulders. His every movement was quick and supple, full of grace and power and strength. Though he was dissipated, amorous, given to violent excesses in all things, his native and abundant health had not suffered, and his vitality was still enormous and bubbling. In the lines about his eyes, in his quick, lilting glance, in the curve of his humorous and mobile mouth, were the evidences of a nature which loved plotting for its own sake.
Arsène entered. He was dressed in somber black. His face was gaunt and haggard, his eyes sunken. He greeted the prince with deep reverence, but when he would have kissed Gaston’s hand, the young prince raised him with a gay laugh, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He was indeed delighted to see his old friend, in whom he knew there was no superficial treason, slyness or meanness. He led him to a love-seat near the bed, and they sat down on it together, looking into each other’s eyes.
In his exuberance, the prince burst gayly into a stream of witticisms, malicious light stories, laughter, and questions which he did not wait for Arsène to answer. As he did so, he kept his hand fondly on the other’s shoulder, pressing it heavily as he threw back his handsome head to laugh deliciously. Then, becoming aware at last, even in his selfishness, of Arsène’s dark pallor, of his heavy and reluctant smiles, and sick silence, he exclaimed:
“What ails you, Arsène?”
He no longer laughed. His own face became sober, and somewhat uneasy, and he was conscious again of his powerlessness in a pending emergency.
Arsène drew a deep breath; it quivered, like a suppressed moan. He looked for a long and piercing moment into Gaston’s eyes; then asked, in a low voice: “You have not yet heard, your Highness, about the Comte de Vitry?”
Gaston started. He drew back a little. “Paul?” Then after a moment, he said in a quicker and more disturbed voice: “Paul? What is wrong with Paul?”
He was not indifferent now. Among his very few friends, Paul had loomed as the kindest, the most loyal, the most devoted. Their encounters were rare, but when in contact with that gentle and noble nature, Gaston had felt some strong and simple virtue enter even himself. He seized Arsène’s wrists, and forced that sunken face to turn fully to him.
Arsène was silent a moment, then he whispered: “Paul has been murdered.”
Gaston sprang to his feet with a great muffled cry. “Murdered! It is not possible! Who would murder him?” Now his face turned ghastly; the blue eyes were full of fire.
“If your Highness will be seated, I will tell you everything,” said Arsène, gripping the back of the seat with straining hands.
Trembling, Gaston slowly sank back on the seat. His countenance, now, had become an evil white mask, and his very lips were colorless.
“It was by instigation of the Cardinal,” said Arsène.
“The Cardinal!” Gaston half-rose from the seat, and his nostrils flared. Then he was quiet. He waited.
“Paul was murdered by his peasants, for whom he had done so much, to whom he had devoted his fortune and his life,” whispered Arsène. He swallowed, as though his dry throat threatened to choke him.
“Go on,” said Gaston, in a whisper, also. His face, if possible, grew even whiter.
Arsène passed his hands over his face. He gasped. His agony was visible even to those careless eyes.
After a long moment, during which he struggled to speak through parched and shaking lips, he said: “You will remember, your Highness, that Paul lived only to enlighten, free and comfort his people. You have disapproved, I remember. I recall your arguments with Paul.—Nevertheless, you know his goodness of heart, his purity of motive, his visionary zeal.
“Some one, some fiend, convinced the Cardinal that all this was only a prelude to a plot, that our poor friend was intriguing, in some inexplicable way, for the destruction of France. Moreover, he had enemies, who hated him for his gentleness and tolerance and mercy. They affected to believe that should Paul’s methods gain new adherence, France was in danger—!”
“To hell with France!” said Gaston, quietly.
“So,” continued Arsène, “these enemies came to the Cardinal. He appointed a priest, one de Pacilli, to seduce the people, cause them to rise against the Comte. He did his work well! Paul was murdered, two nights ago, in his château. The priest’s body was found in the church. Some devoted soul accomplished that just execution.”
His voice trailed away. He could speak no more. He dropped his head on the back of the seat, and wept in appalling silence.
There was no sound in the chamber. Gaston stared blindly before him. His voice was hardly audible when he finally spoke:
“You are certain of all this? Who was this de Pacilli?”
Arsène struggled to control himself. “I met this priest some time ago. I did not recognize him at first. But I was plagued by some memory. It was only after I heard of Paul’s murder that I remembered seeing him once in the Cardinal’s entourage. Then, I knew the whole plot. I did not even need the explanations of the messenger who came to me.”
“The Cardinal!” whispered Gaston, still staring before him. And now a malignant smile touched his mouth.
“This morning,” continued Arsène, in that dry and fluttering whisper, “a young woman came to me, one Roselle. Her uncle, Crequy, is tavern-keeper on Paul’s estates.—It seems the people, before murdering Paul, had assassinated his steward, an old man. They thought they had also killed his granddaughter. But they failed in this. Crequy rescued her, and she lies hidden in his house, close to death. He dared not leave her. So, he sent his niece to me with the horrible news.”
His voice failed him.
Gaston did not speak. His brow wrinkled, knotted itself. Under that shelf, his eyes gathered fire and fury.
“They burned the château,” Arsène went on, after a long interval. “Now, the peasants lurk in their village, terrified, but still full of madness. They prowl like animals. Reason is beginning to return to them. They await vengeance. But the man responsible for this is safe from attack—”
Gaston turned to him. Though his face was so malignant, so terrible, his voice was very low: “What can I do?”
Arsène hesitated. But he looked fully at the young prince.
“This crime must be avenged. I, and my friends, are prepared to avenge it.”
Gaston lifted his hands, palm up. He looked at them steadfastly. Then, with a gesture more eloquent than words, he let them drop heavily upon his knees. But Arsène seized his arm.
“Private revenge can have no effect. These foul swine, these peasants, must be made to understand that their crime is against all authority! If they are not thoroughly and mercilessly punished for their treachery, their revolt against their lord, who knows what will be the end? Who knows what excesses the canaille will accomplish next?”
Even in his anguish, his torment of grief, he used this artfulness in appealing to the proud and haughty young prince. Gaston turned to him again, alertly listening, glowering, clenching his fists.
“Moreover,” said Arsène, softly, closely watching Gaston, “the Cardinal must be made to feel that there is another power in France beside his own—the power of justice—and that he cannot flout this power forever without feeling its weight.”
Gaston stood up, as if stung. An exultant wave of dark blood washed over his face.
“My friends,” said Arsène, “are willing to accomplish this double revenge—against rioters who defy the power of authority, and against the Cardinal, who abuses his office, and the trust of—the guileless, the weak. But they will not attempt to accomplish this revenge secretly and furtively, like brigands, like fleeing marauders. This would also be against established authority. They are lawful gentlemen. You know many of them, Monsieur. They wish to do this thing, in vengeance for many others, humiliated, humbled and injured by the Cardinal.”
Gaston turned, seemed about to speak, was silent. But the fire in his eyes increased.
“Moreover,” said Arsène, “they wish, after the vengeance is accomplished, to be immune from vindictive acts on the part of the Cardinal—for a little while at least. They wish to show that the things they will do were a due process of law, sanctioned by ones in supreme positions. They will have a double justification, then—against the Cardinal, against the people of Paul de Vitry.”
Gaston walked to the window. He tugged distractedly and murderously at the draperies. Without turning, he said, in a muffled voice: “What do you wish?”
Arsène grasped the back of the seat. “An order, Monsieur. An order for the just execution of the rebels.”
Gaston did not answer. His hand froze on the draperies. Then he said: “I cannot give this order.” His tone was full of heavy humiliation, and rage.
“But the Queen Mother, her Majesty, can give this order,” said Arsène, very softly.
Gaston wheeled swiftly away from the window. His mouth opened, closed tightly and grimly. His shaken breath escaped through his dilated nostrils.
Arsène approached him, and Gaston watched him come with suddenly veiled eyes. Though he did not retreat, he stiffened.
“It will not be hard to secure this order,” said Arsène. His face was contorted with his fierce and remorseless determination. “It needs only to be an ambiguous order. It needs only to say that Arsène de Richepin has been empowered by her Majesty to accomplish a certain mission, and that he is under her protection.”
Gaston was silent. He looked steadily down at his feet. “That is impossible,” he said coldly.
Arsène stopped in his approach. He drew a deep breath. “Then, Monsieur is perfectly willing that this latest atrocity of the Cardinal go unpunished, that he laugh exultantly to himself that no one dare oppose him, that all else in France is powerless, helpless before him?”
Gaston looked up. He put his hand to his throbbing throat. Then he said: “Wait a moment. I shall not be gone long.” He whirled away towards the door, walking with a rapid and disordered step. Arsène, exhausted, sank on a chair. Then, after a moment, he lifted his clenched fist, and cursed aloud.
But Gaston did not return for a long time. Half an hour passed, another half hour. Unable to contain himself in his growing anxiety and despair, Arsène took to pacing the room. “If I get no order, I shall do it, nevertheless,” he said, aloud. Within a few days, he would have fled to La Rochelle. But there was his father, who would remain, and who would feel the full weight of the Cardinal’s vengeance. There were those, also, of Les Blanches, who would hesitate to accomplish this thing, for fear of reprisals on their relatives, even though they, themselves, would also have fled to La Rochelle. Arsène’s distracted misery increased, but his savage determination did not lessen.
Then, in his pacing, he stopped short, wheeled about. The door had opened almost soundlessly. Gaston was entering. In his hand was a folded paper, sealed with a certain significant and flamboyant seal. He extended this to Arsène, with
out a word. But his face was moist, and there were deep purple clefts about his mouth.
CHAPTER XLIII
The Cardinal had just completed a long and arduous morning of audiences upon affairs of State.
Usually, after such a morning, he was prostrated, returning to his bed and remaining there the rest of the day and night, and not rising until late the next day. But he was not prostrated on this day. In truth, he felt an old resurgence of his earlier vitality and youth and exhilaration. His pains had almost vanished. His limbs did not feel weak or flaccid, and the ancient agonies of his mind had lifted so that he could operate in the present. For the first time in many weeks, he felt that France, the world, was of some importance, that they had taken on themselves, once more, the firm and solid outlines and substance of significance. Momentarily, he thought: this is the delusion of petty men. But he had the strength today to push this thought from him, to refuse to look back on the dark and shifting country in which he walked so often. He rejoiced that he could descend to the pettiness of lesser men and believe that the world was worth manipulating.
Moreover, there was the affair of La Rochelle. He intended to lead the campaign against that arrogant and embattled city, himself. For the first time, he mouthed the aphorisms of the Catholic reaction, asserting that the Protestants were attempting to counter-attack against that reaction, an attack which he could not countenance. But in fact, this alleged defiance of the powerful Huguenot magnates against the Catholic reaction did not give him concern. He was really uneasy because of the growing power of the Huguenot cities, and their continued threat against the unity of France. In defense of that unity, he had placated and tolerated them. Now that that very unity was threatened, he had decided to move against the Huguenots.
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