“With a few more jewels added to the crown,” said Mazarin.
The Comte de Guiche was silent, and the king kept his expression neutral, while Mazarin exchanged a look with Anne of Austria that seemed to thank her for her intervention.
“No matter,” said Philippe, smoothing his hair. “My cousin Charles may not be good-looking, but he’s very brave and fights like a paladin, and if he continues to fight well, no doubt he’ll end up winning a famous battle! Like Rocroi…”
“He has no troops,” interrupted the Chevalier de Lorraine.
“The King of Holland, his ally, will give him some. I would certainly have given him some if I were the King of France.”
Louis XIV turned bright red.
Mazarin affected to watch his game more closely than ever.
“At this moment,” continued the Comte de Guiche, “the fate of that unhappy prince is being decided. If he’s been deceived by Monck, he’s lost. Prison, perhaps even death, will end what exile, war, and privations had begun.”
Mazarin frowned.
“Is it certain,” said Louis XIV, “that His Majesty Charles II has left The Hague?”
“Quite certain, Your Majesty,” replied the young man. “My father98 received a letter with all the details. It’s even known that the king disembarked at Dover; fishermen saw him enter the port. The rest is still a mystery.”
“I wish I knew the rest,” said Philippe impetuously. “Do you know, Brother?”
Louis XIV blushed again. It was the third time in an hour. “Ask Monsieur le Cardinal,” he replied, in a tone that made Mazarin, Queen Anne, and everyone else look at him.
“That means, my son,” laughed Anne of Austria to Philippe, “that the king doesn’t like us to discuss affairs of state outside the council.”
Philippe received this gentle reprimand with good grace and bowed, smiling, first to his brother and then to his mother. But Mazarin saw from the corner of his eye that a group of young nobles was gathering in the corner of the chamber, where the Duc d’Anjou and his favorites the Comte de Guiche and Chevalier de Lorraine, thwarted at discussing affairs aloud, could continue in low voices to say what they wanted. He began to glare at them with suspicion and anxiety in hopes that Anne of Austria would say something to disrupt their conclave, when suddenly Bernouin came in. Sidling up to the bed, he whispered in his master’s ear, “Monseigneur, an Envoy from His Majesty the King of England.”
Mazarin couldn’t conceal a slight reaction, which the king noticed, to the cardinal’s annoyance. To avoid appearing indiscreet, not to mention irrelevant, Louis XIV rose, approached His Eminence, and wished him a good night.
The whole assembly rose, with a great noise of chairs pushed back and tables scraping the floor. “Let everyone go, little by little,” said Mazarin quietly to Louis XIV, “and give me a few minutes’ privacy. I need to address an affair about which I’d like to inform Your Majesty this evening.”
“Including the queens?” asked Louis XIV.
“And the Duc d’Anjou,” said His Eminence.
And he retired into his alcove, letting the bed curtains fall—but in such a way that he could still see the conspirators in the corner. “Monsieur le Comte de Guiche!” he called in a quavering voice, while behind the curtain he donned the dressing gown that Bernouin had brought him.
“Here I am, Monseigneur,” said the young man, approaching.
“You’re a lucky fellow; take my cards and win me a little money from these gentlemen.”
“Yes, Monseigneur.” The young man sat at the table from which the king had withdrawn to speak with the queens. A serious game began between the count and several wealthy courtiers.
Meanwhile, Phillipe was chatting with the Chevalier de Lorraine, as the swish of the cardinal’s silk robe came no more from behind the curtain of the alcove. His Eminence had followed Bernouin into the study adjacent to the bedchamber.
XL An Affair of State
Upon entering his study, the cardinal found the Comte de La Fère waiting there, admiring a beautiful Raphael hung above a gilded dresser.
His Eminence came in slowly, light and silent as a shadow, hoping to surprise the count’s unprepared expression; that was his custom, since he believed that he instantly could read from an envoy’s face what direction a conversation would take. But this time, Mazarin’s expectations were thwarted, for he could read absolutely nothing from Athos’s expression, not even the respect he expected to see on all supplicants’ faces.
Athos was dressed in black accented with simple silver embroidery. He wore the Saint-Esprit, the Garter, and the Golden Fleece, three orders of such significance that only a king, or a stage-actor, could wear them all. Mazarin delved for a long moment in his capacious memory trying to remember the name of this man of ice without success. Finally, he said, “I knew that a message would be coming from England.”
And he sat down, dismissing Bernouin and Brienne, the latter of whom was preparing, in his capacity as secretary, to take notes.
“On the behalf of His Majesty the King of England, yes, Your Eminence,” said Athos.
“You speak French very well, Monsieur, for an Englishman,” said Mazarin graciously, still sneaking glances at the Saint-Esprit, the Garter, and the Fleece while trying to place the profile of the messenger.
“I am not English, I am French, Monsieur le Cardinal,” replied Athos.
“It’s peculiar for the King of England to choose Frenchmen as ambassadors, but I’ll take it as a good omen. Your name, Monsieur, if you please?”
“Comte de La Fère,” replied Athos, bowing a shade less deferentially than custom and the pride of the all-powerful minister required.
Mazarin twitched his shoulders as if to say, I do not know that name. Athos showed no reaction.
“And you come, Monsieur,” continued Mazarin, “to tell me…”
“I come on the behalf of His Majesty the King of England to announce to the King of France…”
Mazarin frowned.
“To announce to the King of France,” Athos continued impassively, “the happy restoration of His Majesty Charles II to the throne of his fathers.”
The frosty tone didn’t escape the notice of His Canny Eminence. Mazarin was too familiar with the ways of men not to see, in the cold and almost haughty politeness of Athos, a measure of hostility that didn’t accord with the ordinary hothouse warmth of discourse at Court.
“You have accreditation, no doubt?” asked Mazarin in a querulous tone.
“Yes… Monseigneur.”
This word Monseigneur came painfully from Athos’s lips, almost seeming to scorch them as it passed.
“In that case, present it.”
Athos drew a dispatch from an embroidered velour packet inside his doublet. The cardinal extended his hand. “Your pardon, Monseigneur,” said Athos, “but the dispatch is for the king.”
“Since you are French, Monsieur, you must know the powers of the prime minister at the Court of France.”
“There was a time,” replied Athos, “when I took care to respect the powers of prime ministers—but I since formed, some years ago, the resolution to deal with no one but the king.”
“Then, Monsieur,” said Mazarin, who was beginning to be annoyed, “you will deal with neither minister nor king.” And Mazarin rose. Athos returned the dispatch to its packet, bowed gravely, and took a few steps toward the door.
His sangfroid exasperated Mazarin. “What strange diplomacy is this!” he cried. “Are we still in the days when Monsieur Cromwell was sending us cutthroats as envoys?99 You lack only the round helmet on your head and the Bible at your belt!”
“Monsieur,” replied Athos drily, “unlike you I never had the experience of treating with Monsieur Cromwell, and I only met the envoy you mention sword in hand; I don’t know how he dealt with prime ministers. As to the King of England, Charles II, I know that when he writes to His Majesty King Louis XIV, it isn’t addressed to His Eminence Cardinal Mazarin; in th
at distinction, I don’t see any diplomacy.”
“Ah ha!” cried Mazarin, lifting his emaciated head and striking his hand to his brow. “I remember now!”
Athos looked at him, astonished.
“Yes, that’s it!” said the cardinal, continuing to stare at his visitor. “Yes, of course—I recognize you, Monsieur! Ah, diavolo, now I needn’t wonder…”
“Indeed, I was surprised, given Your Eminence’s excellent memory, that Your Eminence didn’t recognize me sooner,” replied Athos with a smile.
“Always so stiff and recalcitrant, Monsieur… Monsieur… what did they call you? Wait a moment… the name of a river—Potamos! No, no… the name of an island. Naxos? No, per Giove, the name of a mountain—Athos! That’s it! How delightful to see you again, so long as we’re not at Rueil, where you and your damned accomplices made me pay a ransom. Ah, the Fronde! The cursed Fronde! That stupid chaos! Ah çà, Monsieur, why has your enmity outlasted mine? If anyone had anything to complain about how that turned out, I don’t think it was you, who got away with a whole skin and the sash of the Saint-Esprit around your neck.”
“Monsieur le Cardinal,” replied Athos, “please be so kind as to leave me out of such tale-spinning, I merely have a mission to fulfill. Will you provide the means of facilitating this mission?”
“I am astonished,” said Mazarin, delighted to have recovered his memory and bristling with malice, “I say, I am astonished, Monsieur… Athos… that a Frondeur like you accepted a mission to the great scoundrel Mazarin, as they used to call me in those times.” And Mazarin began to laugh in spite of a painful cough, which turned the laughter into sobs.
“Monsieur le Cardinal, I have only accepted a mission to the King of France,” retorted the count with some asperity, though given the situation he felt he could moderate his hauteur.
“And yet, Monsieur le Frondeur,” said Mazarin gleefully, “as to the king, this affair of which you’ve taken charge…”
“With which I was charged, Monseigneur—I don’t go running after affairs.”
“As you like! I tell you this negotiation must pass through my hands, so let’s not waste precious time. Tell me your conditions.”
“I have had the honor to assure Your Eminence that only the letter from His Majesty King Charles II contains the essence of his wishes.”
“Come! It’s ridiculous to be so rigid, Monsieur Athos. One can see you picked up some of the Puritans’ habits over there… I know your secret message better than you do, and it might be a mistake to have so little regard for a suffering old man who has worked as hard in his life, and campaigned as bravely for his ideas, as you have for yours. So, you don’t want to say anything to me? Fine. You don’t want my hands to touch your letter? Come with me to my little alcove, where you may speak to the king, and in front of the king. Now, one last question: who gave you the Fleece? I remember how you got the Garter, but as to the Fleece, I have no idea…”
“Recently, Monseigneur, Spain, upon the occasion of the marriage of His Majesty Louis XIV, sent to Charles II a blank brevet for the Golden Fleece; Charles II immediately presented it to me, filling in the blank with my name.”
Mazarin rose, and, leaning on Bernouin’s arm, returned to his alcove, just at the moment when the audiencer in the grand chamber announced, “Monsieur le Prince!”
The Prince de Condé, First Prince of the Blood, the victor of Rocroi, Lens, and Nördlingen, was in fact entering Monseigneur de Mazarin’s chambers, followed by his gentlemen, and he’d already saluted the king when the prime minister lifted his curtain.
Athos had time to catch a glimpse of Raoul shaking hands with the Comte de Guiche and exchanged a smile for his respectful bow. He also had time to see the cardinal’s radiant face when Mazarin saw before him on the table the enormous pile of gold coins the Comte de Guiche had won by a lucky run with the cards His Eminence had confided to him. Forgetting the ambassador, his embassy, and the prince, for a moment the cardinal’s only thoughts were for the gold. “What!” cried the old man. “All this… my winnings?”
“Something around fifty thousand crowns, yes, Monseigneur,” replied the Comte de Guiche, rising. “Should I allow Your Eminence to resume or shall I continue?”
“Resume? Resume? You’re mad! We’d lose all you gained, peste!”
“Monseigneur,” said the Prince de Condé, bowing.
“Good evening, Monsieur le Prince,” said the minister lightly. “It’s very good of you to visit a sick friend.”
“A friend…!” murmured the Comte de La Fère as he considered, stupefied, that word as somehow applied to Mazarin and Condé.
Mazarin guessed the thoughts of the old Frondeur, for he smiled at him in triumph, and immediately said to the king, “Sire, I have the honor to present to Your Majesty Monsieur le Comte de La Fère, ambassador of His Britannic Majesty. An affair of State, Messieurs!” he added, dismissing with a wave of his hand all those who thronged the chamber, and who, with the Prince de Condé at their head, disappeared at a mere gesture from Mazarin.
Raoul, after a final glance at the Comte de La Fère, followed Monsieur de Condé.
Philippe d’Anjou and the queen appeared to be asking each other if they should leave. “It’s a family affair,” Mazarin said quickly, keeping them in their seats. “Monsieur, here, brings the king a letter from Charles II, now completely restored to the throne, demanding an alliance between Monsieur, the king’s brother, and Mademoiselle Henrietta, grand-daughter of Henri IV… You might want to give the king your letter of accreditation, Monsieur le Comte.”
Athos paused for a moment, stunned. How could the minister know the contents of a letter that had never left his side for a moment? However, always master of himself, he presented his dispatch to the young King Louis XIV, who took it and blushed. A solemn silence reigned throughout the cardinal’s chamber while the king read the letter, disturbed only by the clink of gold as Mazarin, with his dry, yellow hands, piled his coins in a coffer.
XLI The Report
The cardinal’s malice hadn’t left much for the king to say to the ambassador, but that word restoration had struck him. Addressing the count, upon whom he’d had his eyes fixed since he’d entered, he said, “Monsieur, please give us some details of the state of affairs in England. You’ve just come from that country, you are French, and the orders that decorate your person announce a man of merit who is also a man of quality.”
“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, turning toward the queen mother, “is the Comte de La Fère, an old servant of Your Majesty.”
Anne of Austria was as forgetful as any queen whose life had been a mixture of days both stormy and serene. She glanced at Mazarin, whose wicked smile promised some nasty trick, then she sought, by a look, her own explanation from Athos.
“Monsieur,” continued the cardinal, “was one of Tréville’s musketeers in the service of the old king. Monsieur is quite familiar with England, where he’s traveled for various reasons at various times. He rightly considers himself a subject of the highest merit.”
These words evoked all the memories that Anne of Austria most hesitated to reawaken. England meant her hatred for Richelieu and her love for Buckingham; Tréville’s musketeers brought back the odyssey whose terrors and triumphs had agitated a young woman’s heart and nearly cast her from a young queen’s throne. These words had power, for they rendered mute and attentive all the royal persons who, with various reactions, began to think about the events of those mysterious years that the young hadn’t seen and that the old had thought forever buried.
“Speak, Monsieur,” said Louis XIV, the first to emerge from wonder, suspicion, and memories.
“Yes, speak,” added Mazarin, to whom the malicious prod he’d just given Anne of Austria had restored all his energy and glee.
“Sire,” said the count, “a sort of miracle has utterly changed the destiny of King Charles II. Where men could not succeed, God resolved and accomplished.”
Mazarin coughed a
nd fidgeted in his bed.
“King Charles II,” continued Athos, “left The Hague not as a fugitive nor a victim, but as an absolute king, who, after a voyage away from his kingdom, returns amid universal benedictions.”
“A great miracle indeed,” said Mazarin, “for if what we heard was true, King Charles II, who returned amid benedictions, went away chased by musket balls.”
The king remained impassive. Philippe, younger and more frivolous, couldn’t repress a smile that applauded Mazarin for his joke. The king said, “In fact, it seems there was a miracle; but God, though He does much for kings, Monsieur le Comte, nonetheless uses the hands of men to accomplish His plans. To what men does Charles II principally owe his restoration?”
“But,” interrupted the cardinal, without concern for the king’s pride or feelings, “doesn’t Your Majesty know that credit belongs to Monsieur Monck?”
“I know that, of course,” replied Louis XIV resolutely, “however, I’m asking Monsieur l’Ambassadeur the causes of this change in Monsieur Monck.”
“And Your Majesty’s question is to the point,” replied Athos, “for, without the miracle that I had the honor to mention, Monsieur Monck would probably have remained an inveterate enemy of King Charles II. God arranged for a strange, bold, and ingenious idea to fall into the mind of a certain man, while a devoted and determined idea entered the mind of another. The combination of these two ideas brought about the change in Monsieur Monck’s position, so that from a bitter enemy he became a friend of the fallen king.”
“That’s just the kind of detail I was asking for,” said the king. “What kind of people are these two men you mentioned?”
“Two Frenchmen, Sire.”
“In truth, that makes me happy.”
“And the two ideas?” interrupted Mazarin. “I’m more curious about ideas than about men.”
“Yes,” murmured the king.
“The second idea, the devoted, determined, and least important, Sire, was to go dig up a million in gold buried by King Charles I at Newcastle and to use this gold to buy Monck’s support.”
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