Between Two Kings

by Lawrence Ellsworth

  “Oh ho!” said Mazarin, energized by the word million. “But wasn’t Newcastle occupied by this selfsame Monck?”

  “Yes, Monsieur le Cardinal, which is why the idea had to be determined as well as devoted. It was necessary, if Monsieur Monck refused the negotiator’s offers, to restore ownership of this million to King Charles II despite the disloyalty, or rather misplaced loyalty of General Monck. Despite some difficulties, the negotiator was able to work around the general’s loyalties and remove the gold.”

  “It seems to me,” said the timid and hopeful king, “that Charles II must not have been aware of this million during his visit to Blois and Paris.”

  “It seems to me,” added the cardinal maliciously, “that His Majesty the King of England was quite aware of the existence of this million but preferred two million to one.”

  “Sire,” Athos replied firmly, “when His Majesty King Charles II was in France, he was so poor he was unable to ride by post, and so hopeless that he several times contemplated death. He was entirely ignorant of the Newcastle million, and if a gentleman, one of Your Majesty’s subjects and the appointed ward of the legacy, hadn’t revealed the secret to Charles II, that prince would still languish in cruel oblivion.”

  “Let’s return to the strange, bold, and ingenious idea,” interrupted Mazarin, who intuitively saw where this was going. “What was that idea about?”

  “This: that since Monsieur Monck formed the sole obstacle to the restoration of His Majesty the fallen king, a Frenchman resolved to remove this obstacle.”

  “Oh ho! Then this Frenchman was a scoundrel,” said Mazarin, “and the idea is not so ingenious as to prevent its author from being sent to the Place de Grève100 by an act of our parliament.”

  “Your Eminence is mistaken,” said Athos drily, “for I didn’t say that the Frenchman in question had resolved to assassinate Monck, but to remove him. For French gentlemen, the words of the French language have a precise meaning. Besides, it was an action of warfare, and when kings are served against their enemies, we are not judged by parliament, only by God. So, this French gentleman had the idea to seize the person of Monsieur Monck, and he executed his plan.”

  The king was thrilled by this exciting story. His Majesty’s younger brother pounded the table with this fist, crying, “Ah! How lovely!”

  “He carried Monck off?” said the king. “But Monck was in his camp…”

  “And the gentleman was alone, Sire.”

  “It’s wonderful!” said Philippe.

  “Wonderful, indeed!” cried the king.

  “Fine! Let the two young lions roar,” murmured the cardinal. Then, with an air of contempt he didn’t bother to hide, he said, “I was unaware of these details. Can you guarantee their authenticity, Monsieur?”

  “All the more easily, Monsieur le Cardinal, since I witnessed them myself.”

  “You?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  The king had almost involuntarily drawn nearer to the count, while the Duc d’Anjou pressed Athos on the other side. “After that, Monsieur?” they shouted at the same time.

  “Sire, Monsieur Monck, being taken by the Frenchman, was brought to King Charles II in Holland. The king restored Monck’s liberty, and the general, in gratitude, gave Charles II in return the throne of England, for which so many valiant people had fought without success.”

  Philippe clapped enthusiastically. Louis XIV, more thoughtful, turned to the Comte de La Fère and said, “Is it true, all these details?”

  “Absolutely true, Sire.”

  “One of my gentlemen knew the secret of the million and safeguarded it?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “The name of this gentleman?”

  “It was your humble servant,” said Athos simply.

  The murmur of admiration that followed swelled Athos’s heart. He had reason to be proud, at least. Even Mazarin had raised his arms—and rolled his eyes—toward heaven.

  “Monsieur,” said the king, “somehow, I will find a way to reward you.” Athos began to shake his head. “Oh, not for your honesty! To be paid for that would humiliate you. But I owe you a reward for assisting in the restoration of my brother Charles II.”

  “Certainly,” said Mazarin.

  “This triumph in a good cause fills the whole House of France with joy,” said Anne of Austria.

  “To continue,” said Louis XIV, “is it also true that a lone man penetrated the defenses of Monck’s camp to carry him off?”

  “The man was aided by ten auxiliaries of inferior rank.”

  “And nothing more?”

  “Nothing more.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Monsieur d’Artagnan, the former Lieutenant of Your Majesty’s Musketeers.”

  Anne of Austria flushed, Mazarin went yellow with shame, while Louis XIV gasped and broke into a sudden cold sweat. “What men!” he murmured. And, involuntarily, he shot at Mazarin such a glare that it would have terrified him if the minister hadn’t had his face turned into his pillow.

  “Monsieur,” cried the young Duc d’Anjou, laying his fine, white ladylike hand on Athos’s arm, “tell that brave man, I beg, that Monsieur, the king’s brother, will drink his health tomorrow before a hundred of the finest gentlemen of France!” And having delivered this speech, the young man, noticing that in his enthusiasm he’d disarranged one of his lace cuffs, began to restore it with great care.

  “Let us talk business, Sire,” interrupted Mazarin, who had neither enthusiasm nor lace cuffs.

  “Indeed, Monsieur,” replied Louis XIV, and turning to the count, he added, “Proceed with your presentation, Monsieur le Comte.”

  Athos then commenced to solemnly offer the hand of Princess Henrietta Stuart to that of the young prince, the king’s brother. The conference lasted an hour, after which the doors of the chamber were opened to the courtiers, who resumed their places as if nothing had disrupted their evening schedules.

  Athos then made his way to Raoul, and father and son shook hands and embraced.

  XLII In Which Monsieur de Mazarin Becomes Extravagant

  While Mazarin was trying to recover from the shock of Athos’s revelations, Athos and Raoul exchanged a few words in a corner of the chamber. “Are you back in Paris, then, Raoul?” said the count.

  “Yes, Monsieur, since Monsieur le Prince has returned.”

  “I can’t talk with you here, where we’re being observed,” said Athos, “but I’m going back to my house shortly and will wait to see you there as soon as your service allows.” Raoul bowed.

  The prince came straight to them. Condé had that penetrating and profound look that distinguishes the more noble species of birds of prey, with several traits that emphasized the resemblance. It’s well known that the heir of the illustrious princes of the House of Condé had a low and retreating forehead, beneath which jutted out a long, sharp, aquiline nose, which to the Court’s mockers, people pitiless even toward the brilliant, looked more like an eagle’s beak than a human nose. In the victor of Rocroi, this penetrating raptor’s gaze and imperious expression intimidated those with whom he spoke more than majesty or ordinary good looks would have done. Besides, the flame of ire rose so rapidly to those prominent eyes that in Monsieur le Prince all animation resembled anger. Thanks to this quality, everyone at Court respected the prince, and some, knowing him only by appearance, even feared him.

  Now, Louis de Condé advanced on the Comte de La Fère and Raoul with the decided intention of being greeted by one and introduced to the other. No one bowed with more reserved grace than the Comte de La Fère, though he disdained to add to paying his respects all the nuances and flourishes a courtier employs to flatter and to please. Athos knew his personal worth and saluted the prince like a man, with a care and precision that somehow corrected any lack that might offend another’s pride.

  The prince prepared to speak to Raoul, but Athos forestalled him. “If the Vicomte de Bragelonne wasn’t one of the humblest
servants of Your Highness, I’d beg to have him pronounce my name before you… my Prince.”

  “I believe I have the honor to speak to Monsieur le Comte de La Fère,” Condé immediately said.

  “My guardian,” added Raoul, blushing.

  “One of the most honorable men of the realm,” continued the prince, “one of the first gentlemen of France, and one of whom I’ve heard so much, I’ve often desired to count him among my friends.”

  “An honor of which I would be worthy, Monseigneur,” replied Athos, “only by my respect and admiration for Your Highness.”

  “Monsieur de Bragelonne is a fine officer,” said the prince, “and it’s because, as we see, he’s been to a good school. Ah, Monsieur le Comte! In your day, the generals had soldiers…”

  “That’s true, Monseigneur; but today, the soldiers have generals.”

  This compliment, stated without the accent of flattery, gave a thrill of pleasure to a man whom all Europe regarded as a war hero and who ought to have been sated with praise.

  “It’s unfortunate for me that you’re retired from the service, Monsieur le Comte,” replied the prince, “for soon enough the king must pursue a war with Holland or with England, and there will be plenty of opportunities for a man like you who knows England as well as France.”

  “I think I can tell you, Monseigneur, that I was wise to retire from the service,” said Athos with a smile. “France and England will henceforth live as sisters, if I’m to believe my premonitions.”

  “Your premonitions?”

  “Come, Monseigneur, and listen to what’s being said at Monsieur le Cardinal’s table.”

  “Among the players?”

  “Among the players, quite so, Monseigneur.”

  In fact, the cardinal had raised himself on one elbow and beckoned to the young brother of the king, who approached him. “Monseigneur,” said the cardinal, “I beg you, gather up all these gold crowns.”

  And he designated the enormous pile of shining yellow coins that the Comte de Guiche had gradually built before him, thanks to a run of luck.

  “For me?” cried the Duc d’Anjou.

  “These fifty thousand crowns, yes, Monseigneur—they’re for you.”

  “You’re giving them to me?”

  “That’s my intention, Monseigneur,” replied the cardinal, voice fading, as if the effort of giving money away had drained all his physical and emotional resources.

  “Oh, mon Dieu!” murmured Philippe, overwhelmed with joy. “What a happy day!” He began raking coins into his pockets, but when they were filled, more than a third of the gold remained on the table.

  “Come here, Chevalier,” said Philippe to his favorite, the Chevalier de Lorraine. The favorite came running. “Pocket the rest of this,” said the young prince.

  This singular scene was regarded by no one nearby as anything more than a touching family moment. The cardinal often assumed the air of a father with the two Sons of France, and the young princes had grown up under his wing, so no one ascribed to pride or presumption, as we would today, this liberality of the prime minister. The courtiers contented themselves with envying the prince, and the king turned his head away.

  “I’ve never had so much money,” said the young prince happily, crossing the chamber with his favorite to head for his carriage. “No, never! How heavy it is. It must be a hundred and fifty thousand livres!”

  “But why would the cardinal give him so much money?” Monsieur le Prince asked the Comte de La Fère in a whisper. “Is he so very sick, our dear cardinal?”

  “Yes, Monseigneur, no doubt he’s very ill, as Your Highness can see.”

  “Ill, yes, but… surely not dying? A hundred fifty thousand livres! Oh, that’s beyond belief. Come, Count, why is this? Give me a reason.”

  “Patience a moment, if you will, Monseigneur—here comes the Duc d’Anjou chatting with the Chevalier de Lorraine. I wouldn’t be surprised if they spared me the trouble of being indiscreet. Listen to them.”

  In fact, the chevalier was saying to the prince in a low voice, “Monseigneur, it isn’t natural for Monsieur de Mazarin to give money away—careful, you’re dropping some coins. Why is the cardinal so generous with you?”

  “As I said,” Athos murmured in the ear of Monsieur le Prince, “here may be the answer to your question.”

  “Why is it, Monseigneur?” repeated the chevalier impatiently, while weighing his pockets to calculate the amount that had fallen indirectly to him.

  “My dear Chevalier, it’s a wedding gift.”

  “What do you mean, a wedding gift?”

  “Why, yes—I’m going to be married!” replied the Duc d’Anjou, without noticing that he was at that moment passing before Monsieur le Prince and Athos, who both bowed deeply.

  The chevalier gave Anjou a glare so strange and spiteful that the Comte de La Fère shivered. “You! You, married!” the chevalier repeated. “Oh, that’s impossible. How could you be so foolish?”

  “Fah, it’s not my idea; they’re making me do it,” replied the Duc d’Anjou. “But come on—we’ve got money to spend.”

  Whereupon he disappeared with his companion, laughing and chatting, while all heads bowed at their passage.

  Then Monsieur le Prince whispered to Athos, “So, that’s the secret?”

  “It didn’t come from me, Monseigneur.”

  “He’ll marry the sister of Charles II?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  The prince thought for a moment, and then his eye flashed. “In that case,” he said slowly, as if talking to himself, “our swords will go back on the wall… for a long time!” And he sighed.

  All that this sigh contained of ambitions thwarted, of illusions crushed and hopes disappointed, only Athos guessed, for only he had heard the sigh.

  The prince immediately took his leave, after which the king departed. Athos, by a sign to Bragelonne, renewed the invitation he’d made at the beginning of the episode.

  Little by little the chamber emptied out until only Mazarin remained, alone with the suffering he no longer felt he had to conceal. “Bernouin! Bernouin!” he called in a broken voice.

  “What does Monseigneur desire?”

  “Guénaud*… call for Guénaud,” said His Eminence. “It seems to me I’m dying.”

  Bernouin, alarmed, ran to the study to give an order, and the messenger sent to find the doctor rode so swiftly, he passed the king’s carriage in Rue Saint-Honoré.

  XLIII Guénaud

  The cardinal’s summons was urgent, and Guénaud was quick to obey it. He found his patient sprawled on the bed, his legs swollen and livid and his stomach collapsed. Mazarin had undergone a severe attack of gout. He suffered cruelly and with the impatience of a man who wasn’t used to not getting what he wished. At the arrival of Guénaud, he said, “Ah! Now I’m saved!”

  Guénaud was a very learned and cautious man who had earned a reputation even before Boileau’s satires101 about him. When he was faced by sickness, even in the person of a king, he treated the patient as a Turk treats a Moor.102 He didn’t reply to Mazarin as the minister expected, with, “The doctor is here now, sickness begone!” On the contrary, after examining the patient he said gravely, “Uh-oh.”

  “Eh, Guénaud! What kind of tone is that?”

  “The tone I take when I see a condition like yours, Monseigneur, which is dangerous.”

  “The gout? Yes, the gout is awful.”

  “There are… complications, Monseigneur.”

  Mazarin raised himself on one elbow and questioned him with a look and a gesture. “What are you telling me? Am I more ill than I thought I was?”

  “Monseigneur,” said Guénaud, sitting down by the bed, “Your Eminence has worked hard in this life, and suffered a great deal.”

  “But it seems to me I’m not that old. The late Monsieur de Richelieu was only seventeen months younger than I am when he died, and he had a fatal illness. Compared to him, I’m youthful, Guénaud; I’m barely fift
y-two.”103

  “Oh, Monseigneur, you’re older than that. How long did the Fronde last?”

  “Why do you ask that, Guénaud?”

  “To make a medical calculation, Monseigneur.”

  “Well, around ten years, more or less.”

  “Very well. We must count each year of the Fronde as two years, which makes twenty, and fifty-two plus twenty extra years makes seventy-two. You’re really seventy-two years old, Monseigneur, an advanced age.” As he said this, he felt the patient’s pulse, which conveyed such a negative prognosis that the doctor immediately continued, over the objections of his patient, “Actually, let’s call each year of the Fronde three, which puts you at age eighty-two.”

  Mazarin became deadly pale, and in a thin voice he said, “Are you speaking seriously, Guénaud?”

  “Alas! Yes, Monseigneur.”

  “You took this roundabout way, then, to inform me that I’m extremely ill?”

  “Ma foi, yes, Monseigneur, and with a man of wits and courage like Your Eminence, a roundabout way still leads to the truth.”

  The cardinal gasped, and had such trouble catching his breath that it inspired pity even in this pitiless doctor.

  “There is illness, and illness,” Mazarin replied. “Some may be recovered from.”

  “That’s true, Monseigneur.”

  “Isn’t it?” cried Mazarin, almost with joy. “For in the end, don’t we have power and force of will? And genius, your genius, Guénaud! What good are science and art if a patient who has access to all of it can’t be saved from danger?”

  Guénaud started to open his mouth, but Mazarin continued, “Remember that I’m the most faithful of your patients, that I obey you blindly, and consequently…”

  “I know all that,” said Guénaud.

  “Then, will I get better?”

  “Monseigneur, there is no force of will, no power, no genius, no science that can resist a disease that doubtless comes from God, which he released into the world at Creation with the final power to bring death to men. When a disease is mortal, it kills, and then nothing…”