‘What was the point? I would have waited forever. You never believed in me.’
‘Don’t blame me. It was your choice to rebel. I’m here because of you, not the other way round.’
‘So tell me . . . If you don’t feel responsible, why are you trying so hard to justify yourself?’
There was enough truth in the statement to make the cardinal flinch, and he glanced away, stung. When he looked back at the marquis, the mask had returned, rigid with authority.
‘It appears this conversation is at an end. Make your choice.’
‘I’ve already made it. I’m not going to confess.’
‘Don’t be so naive. It’s just a matter of time. Breaking a man isn’t complicated – time-consuming perhaps, but not complicated. First the rack, then the whip, then the rope, then fire. Then if necessary I’ll have you nailed to a wall and let you hang by your palms . . . Now understand that I don’t want to do this. Spare yourself. If not for you, then for me.’
‘You call that an offer? Why should I care what you feel?’
This time the cardinal remained silent.
Richelieu expected Cinq-Mars to crumble in a matter of moments. The man was all bluster, no heart. However, he kept his word and even seemed to find nobility in suffering. Perhaps it was all he had left. The rack was normally sufficient to break a man, but after wavering at the beginning, he grew stronger – hurling insults through locked teeth – intolerable to the end. Even the lash couldn’t silence him, and it was only when they started ripping out his nails that he could no longer hide the pain. It wasn’t enough to make him confess, however, and after running out of fingers and toes they moved on to the flaming torch. The work was all smoke and heat, noisy in the extreme. Nevertheless, the gaoler went about his business with grim purpose as the cardinal sat on a stool and endured the spectacle while rubbing his face in silent frustration. Until, after two hours of screams and burnt flesh, Richelieu couldn’t stand it any longer and told the gaoler to stop. There would be no confession and, without that, it was nothing more than gore and revenge.
Only two parts of the marquis’ body had escaped the fire, his palms and the soles of his feet, and he crouched naked in the dark, unable to lie down. Blackened and scabbed, squatting on all fours, he seemed more animal than man – panting for breath and reeking of sweat and burned hair. Richelieu looked at him through weary eyes, planting down his crosier and hauling himself from his stool before yelling at the guards to ‘give the man some food, water and a comfortable bed’. After which he shuffled for the door, never once looking back.
* * *
Sebastian had no desire to see the marquis’ trial but went nonetheless. Having been responsible for his arrest, he felt obliged to see the matter through to the end. Besides, he didn’t have anything else to do, no work at the palace – or for Richelieu either. The cardinal had been as good as his word, rewarding him with a pension of four hundred livres a year, to be collected from the court bursar every second Thursday. Not a fortune but more than sufficient for rooms, furnishings, food and the odd luxury – with enough left over to send something to Audrien’s family at the start of each month. Mostly he spent his time reading, continuing to make his way through the cardinal’s library, beginning with Plato and working through the Greeks before progressing onto Rome. However, having recently become bogged down in Aristotle, he was secretly glad of the break.
Despite his hatred of Cinq-Mars, Sebastian found himself developing a certain respect for the man as the proceedings wore on. The atmosphere was intimidating – an oak-panelled chamber, its far wall dominated by a vast coat-of-arms – below it, an empty throne reserved for the King. Seventy peers sat in rows, dressed in full pomp, all stern-faced and ermined, observing the defendant over crossed arms. Their disapproval was clear and the result never in doubt, but Cinq-Mars didn’t appear to care and leaned back in his chair with scornful indifference. When questioned, he immediately admitted his guilt, showing no remorse whatsoever. His audience made a dutiful attempt to appear outraged – as if the thought of seizing power had never once crossed their minds. With tuts and cries of ‘Shame! Shame!’, they commanded the marquis to show contrition and behave as his rank demanded. Naturally, he refused, revelling in his defiance and accepting his punishment with equanimity, even forgiving the judge on the grounds of having no part in the matter despite being forced to deliver the final blow.
* * *
The execution itself took place in Lyons. A thin city, it bristled with tall, anaemic buildings that looked too slender to support their weight – geometric and functional constructions, a place for business but not to live. So, after walking the narrow streets and finding little to do, Sebastian gave up and decided to join his fellow travellers in the tavern, drifting through the days between drink and sleep, until the end arrived with an overcast sky and slight drizzle.
As with most executions, the beheading drew large crowds, particularly as it involved the spilling of noble blood. Keen to avoid the tumult, Sebastian took the precaution of renting a balcony, where he could sit and observe the spectacle over a bottle of wine. He had never seen a public execution before and it was every bit as dispiriting as he had imagined. There was no doubt what the people had come to see. Some even brought their children. They stood row on row on row, munching cakes as they ogled the block – a lone altar, its significance made clear by the expanse of bare platform around it.
Cinq-Mars didn’t die until early evening. Determined to extract as much money from the audience as possible, the organiser insisted on having the prisoners executed one by one, finishing with the marquis. Each was led by cart to the stage, then permitted a lengthy speech begging forgiveness. The majority were desperate affairs that their victims were too inarticulate to express: crimes forced by hunger or poverty, starving families left behind, drunken mistakes, a sixteen-year-old pleading he was too young to die.
To his credit, Cinq-Mars remained arrogant to the end. Before even stepping onto the scaffold he demanded a higher rostrum on the grounds of his lineage. The mob, by now mostly drunk, enjoyed this show of rebellion and cheered him on. Next he refused to remove his hat, furious at having to bare his scalp before an executioner of such low social rank. This only further excited the crowd, who continued to roar their support as he struggled against the increasingly frustrated guards. Then, as his hat was about to be ripped from his head, he managed to break free and toss it into a sea of outstretched arms. The people had now stirred themselves into such a frenzy that Sebastian worried they might actually storm the stage. Sensing the danger, the soldiers ended it immediately, marching the marquis straight to the block and ordering the axeman to begin.
The beheading itself was vile to watch, a protracted and visceral death. The executioner had been taken ill, replaced by a novice who in his panic had forgotten to sharpen his sword. After a few ineffectual blows that had left his early victims howling in agony, one of the soldiers had been despatched to find a substitute blade. The best he could manage was an adze. A farmer’s tool, it was better designed for chopping wood than necks, and it took thirty bludgeons to remove Cinq-Mars’ head, each one spraying blood over the roaring crowd. Sebastian endured it with a repelled fascination, forcing himself through every crunch, spurt and gurgle. Finally he turned away and worked through the remainder of his wine, not finishing until long after the body had been taken away and all that remained was a few people huddled in the sheen of the square.
Sebastian had hoped to find redemption in the marquis’ trial and execution; a satisfaction in the knowledge that what he had done was right, that he hadn’t shied from the consequences of his actions. But he felt no different – if anything, worse. It was his fault the marquis was dead. And however much he reminded himself that if Cinq-Mars had succeeded, the cardinal would have been the one facing the axe, it still didn’t soothe his conscience. Then he understood why Richelieu had chosen to stay in Paris. It wasn’t out of cowardice, but the knowledge that while
heaven might bring salvation, it rarely comes on earth.
* * *
Freedom was a novelty for Sebastian and his first few months back in Paris proved pleasant enough. He managed to find an unused room in a church garret on the Île Saint-Louis. The rent was low despite the central location, primarily due to the formidable climb. He didn’t mind. The view provided ample compensation – a sweep across the river and the weave of streets beyond. He could see all the bridges onto the island: the neat-cut stone of the Pont Neuf; the high-arched Pont Saint Michel, clumped with teetering houses; the lopsided Pont aux Changes still sagging from its load. It gave him a sense of being part of, but also removed from, the city. Every day he could see subtle changes: pillars of wooden scaffolding sprouting above the skyline, the charred blots and scabs from innumerable fires, pyramids of crates rising and shrinking along the jetties by the Place de Grève. Bewitched, he would often lose himself in its intricacies and end up having to turn his chair round, forced to use his bed as a desk in an effort to get anything done.
With autumn, the problems became apparent. First there was the cold. The room had no fire or heating of any kind and he was reduced to a life spent under blankets and layers of tightly knitted underwear, all of which had to be tailor-made at considerable expense. Far worse was the boredom. After a while what once had seemed like freedom became a prison cell. He had a better view, perhaps, but his existence was no different. Every day he would sit alone, with nothing to occupy himself except drawn-out meals, ablutions and sleep. And over time he came to detest his drab walls, and the once-inspiring view now seemed to taunt him, an unending and fantastical universe of which he could never be part. Often he would simply give up, grab his coat and spend a few sous getting drunk in the local tavern, if only to provide the illusion of heat to cold-gnawed bones.
He tried to address his situation by filling his days as best he could, busying himself with long walks; touring the churches of Paris; studying both mathematics and the basics of clock-making; even rowing (something of a struggle as he could barely hold both oars at the same time). Once he had dreamed of stability, but now he viewed it with horror – a life mapped in front of him, inevitable as the clock, flat and unchanging normality as far as the eye could see.
Often he thought back to his time serving the cardinal, remembering some near-disaster or close-escape, and he would find himself smiling. Part of him sensed there was more to come and that he would see Richelieu again. There had been no final farewell, and loose ends were against the cardinal’s nature. Though, as the months passed by, even Sebastian began to have doubts. So when the day finally arrived and the cardinal’s servant appeared at the door, he couldn’t be sure whether it was an invitation or simply a messenger announcing his death.
Retrieving his coat from the stand in the corner – adult-sized of course – he made the slow descent to ground-level and then out onto the street, where a carriage waited by the step, its door held open. He recognised it immediately: the mottled sheen of its leather, the gravel-pocked mudguards, the seats between which the cardinal had lain in his stretcher, even Gilles the coachman. Exchanging a cordial salut, he hoisted himself up, closed the door and sat down. It was only with the crack of the whip that he thought to ask why Richelieu had chosen to summon him. By then, of course, it was already too late.
* * *
At night, the Palais-Cardinal was at its most imposing – a block of shadow on shadow, its vast and looming wings suffocating in their embrace. In the silence, all Sebastian could hear was the chatter of wheels and the iron clack of horseshoes on stone, the tempo slowing from gallop to canter to trot. Finally, the coach rocked to a stop and a footman appeared at the window, opening the door before leading him through a back entrance, up a steep flight of wooden stairs and down a portrait-lined corridor. The journey ended in a ballroom, dominated by a long wall of swag curtains, rumpled by the weight of their luxuriance. Behind them, threads of light filtered in through the shuttered windows, catching the cloth in glints and sparkles. The waxed floor was empty apart from a chaise longue and a table with a single chair. A blanket had been placed over the couch and a shrivelled head was poking out of the end. It was, of course, Richelieu – no one else would justify such a setting. Then Sebastian was aware of something else, the absence of other life. There were no guards, attendants, not even his physician. It was as if, like some grand old creature, he had wandered into the desert to die alone, too proud to endure the embarrassment of his indignities. And in truth he did not look dignified. He looked old and crumpled with age, as though left in water too long, his eyes the yellow of a stagnant pool.
‘You look well, Sebastian. It appears retirement has done you good.’
‘Thank you, Your Eminence. You too are looking better . . .’
‘Don’t bother. I’m dying. There’s no need to pretend otherwise.’ The voice was thin and vaporous, more like a sigh.
‘There is hope. A thousand people in Notre Dame are praying for your recovery.’
‘I doubt it will offset the million who want me dead . . . Anyway, I have a question for you.’
‘Certainly.’
‘How is it that I’ve risen to the highest office in the land, yet I look back at my life and see only failure?’
‘You haven’t failed. You’ve spent your life working for the people of France.’
‘Dispense with the flattery. The truth is that nothing has changed. We’re still at war, still one battle away from defeat. The people are still poor, still suffering.’ He stared up at the ceiling, his jaundiced eyes confronted by a life that offered little more than a vague wash of disappointment. ‘I had dreams once, but . . . I can punish. I can tax. I can kill, but only destroy, never create. The truth is that I’ve steered the ship, but we’re no closer to land. And soon what little I’ve achieved will be forgotten. Every day a little less . . . until all that’s left is a name.’
‘How can you say you’ve achieved nothing? We’re still here. You’ve kept us safe for twenty years.’ Sebastian sounded almost indignant, as though he was the one being belittled.
‘Yes, but what is safe? I’ve kept control, I’ve run the King’s affairs. But is one person happier because of me? Or richer? Or wiser? Is one more person alive because of what I did?’
‘I’m sorry, Your Eminence, but if you want pity don’t look to me. You’ve had a life I can’t even imagine – power, money, command. You’ll be remembered forever. What could you possibly have to regret?’
‘You’re right. It’s probably just self-pity. I’ve never thought of myself as the self-piteous kind, never had the time for it I suppose, but what else is a man meant to do on his deathbed? What’s left but the past? Anyway, enough of this maundering. This evening is for your benefit, not mine.’ He chuckled to himself for no obvious reason – apparently a personal joke. ‘I thought all those years of service deserved some kind of reward.’
‘You’ve already given me a pension for life. What else could I need?’
The cardinal raised his eyebrows and clapped his hands together smartly. A moment or two later, a side door opened and a man appeared wearing a soldier’s tabard, Greek helmet and holding a sword. Mystified, Sebastian stared, unsure what to say – if anything at all. Then to his amazement, the man performed the opening soliloquy from his play. He looked across at Richelieu.
‘I hope you don’t mind, it took a little longer than I anticipated. I had one of my agents borrow the manuscript while you were away at the trial. And . . . I . . . well . . . affairs of state.’
Sebastian nodded, barely paying attention as he watched in delighted bewilderment, still unable to believe what was taking place. Slowly the story unfolded before him, scene by scene – featuring props, a backdrop, even a small ocean of rippled silk. A vicious satire of court, it portrayed an inverted society where only the feckless, idle and dissolute prospered – and Sebastian expected it to have suffered the censor’s pen. But not a line had been removed, even the few
that bordered on treason, though the actors couldn’t help the odd hesitation under the cardinal’s unforgiving eye.
Sebastian watched with mixed feelings. Pleasure, certainly – the satisfaction of observing his own talent and knowing it was being watched by perhaps the greatest mind in all of France – but frustration too. And during the final speech, he wept silently to himself. Not at the words, but the knowledge this would be its first and last performance – an orchid, blazing into bloom one night only to be gone the next, unnoticed and without purpose.
‘It really is excellent,’ Richelieu concluded as they clapped the players off the stage. ‘As good as anything Molière produced. You should write another of these dramas of yours. It would be a shame to see such talent go to waste.’
‘Then let it be performed in public. Nobody need know I wrote it.’
‘I’m dying, Sebastian. If I recover, I will gladly support it. Frankly, I’ve little else to do nowadays. But I won’t lie to you. Expect nothing. I’ve no wish to make promises I can’t fulfil, I admire you too much for that.’ Then the cardinal reached out and grasped Sebastian’s arm. It reminded him of the hand of his dying father, and he flinched, but said nothing, instead forcing a smile and giving another round of applause.
* * *
A week later, the cardinal was dead. The news travelled fast, and over a distance commensurate with his reputation. First his palace, then Paris, then the Île de France, then Normandy, Picardy, Burgundy and out into the border regions of Lorraine and Limousin – even through Spain and the Low Countries.
Richelieu had been hated by so many for so long that initially a manic joy took hold. Bonfires were lit all over France and bells rung. People believed a poison had been removed from the King’s ear, and whatever their desire, the cardinal’s death seemed to answer it: the poor thought taxes would be lifted, the church prayed for unity, the nobility saw a chance to regain their rights. However, in spite of all their hope the King did not suddenly come to his senses. No Parlement was convened, no edicts were made, no laws rescinded. And slowly the joy ebbed into uncertainty. Richelieu had been in power so long – for many, nearly all their lives. To them, he was the government, and without him, the country seemed to be drifting, a feeling that only deepened when the King became mortally ill.
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