Between Two Kings

by Lawrence Ellsworth

  “My disease… is mortal?” asked Mazarin.

  “Yes, Monseigneur.”

  His Eminence went limp for a moment, like a man who’s been crushed by a falling column. But there was a well-tempered soul, or rather an iron-hard mind, in Monsieur de Mazarin. “Guénaud,” he said, reviving a little, “you will allow me to take other opinions. I shall gather all the most learned men of Europe and consult them; I’m willing to try virtually any remedy.”

  “Surely Monseigneur doesn’t suppose that I would presume to make a lone decision on an existence as precious as his. I have already assembled the finest doctors of France and all Europe—there were twelve of them.”

  “And they said…?”

  “They said that Your Eminence has a fatal illness; I have their signed consultations here in my portfolio. If Your Eminence wishes to see the report, he will see the names of all the incurable diseases we discovered. First of all, there is…”

  “No! No!” cried Mazarin, pushing away the portfolio. “No, Guénaud, I surrender! I surrender!”

  This outburst was followed by a profound silence, during which the cardinal regained his senses and recouped his strength. “There’s another option,” murmured Mazarin. “There are still the charlatans and the mountebanks. In my country, those whom the doctors give up for lost turn to a quack, who out of a hundred might kill ten outright, but still save ninety.”

  “Over the last month, did Your Eminence not notice that I changed his treatment ten times over?”

  “Yes… and so?”

  “And so, I spent fifty thousand livres to buy—and try—all the secrets of those quacks. The list is exhausted, and so is my purse. You are not healed, and without my care you would be dead.”

  “It’s the end,” murmured the cardinal, “the end.” He looked darkly around at his accumulated wealth. “I’m going to have to leave it all behind,” he sighed. “I’m dead, Guénaud! Dead!”

  “Oh, not quite yet, Monseigneur,” said the doctor.

  Mazarin seized his hand. “How long?” he asked, fixing wide, staring eyes on the doctor’s face.

  “Monseigneur, we never answer that question.”

  “To ordinary men, maybe, but to me… to me, for whom every minute is a treasure—tell me, Guénaud, tell me!”

  “No, no, Monseigneur.”

  “Answer me, I tell you! Oh, give me another month, and for each of those thirty days I’ll pay you a hundred thousand livres.”

  “Monseigneur,” replied Guénaud in a firm voice, “it’s God who gives you these days of grace and not I. And God gives to you two more weeks!”

  The cardinal sighed deeply and fell back on his pillow, murmuring, “Thank you, Guénaud. Thank you.”

  The doctor got up to leave, but the moribund man half rose and said, “Silence!” with eyes of flame. And he repeated, “Silence!”

  “Monseigneur, I’ve known this secret for two months, and as you see, I’ve kept it well.”

  “Go, then, Guénaud; I’ll see to the making of your fortune. Go, but tell Brienne to send me a certain clerk, whose name is Monsieur Colbert.”

  XLIV Colbert

  Colbert wasn’t far away. He’d spent the entire evening in a nearby corridor, chatting with Bernouin and Brienne, and commenting, with the insight of those who haunt the Court, on the news that rippled through the courtiers. And this seems the time to sketch, in a few words, a portrait of one of the most interesting men of his century, and to delineate it as truthfully as contemporary painters might have done. Colbert is a man to whom both the historian and the philosopher have an equal right.

  He was thirteen years older than Louis XIV,104 his future master. Of moderate size, more slender than stout, he had sunken eyes, a downward gaze, and hair black and thick except where it was thinning, which made him take the skullcap early. His expression was severe, even stony, a stiffness that toward his inferiors was pride, and toward his superiors an affectation of worthy virtue. In short, he wore a dour visage at all times, even when looking at himself in a mirror. So much for his exterior.

  Professionally, he was admired for his skill and talent with accounts and ledgers, and his ingenuity at harvesting revenue from otherwise barren budgets. It was Colbert who’d come up with the idea of requiring the governors of border posts to feed their garrisons by dunning local sources. That kind of talent had given Cardinal Mazarin the idea of replacing his intendant Joubert, who’d recently died, with Monsieur Colbert, who shaved percentages even more closely.

  Colbert had gradually worked his way into the Court despite the liability of low birth, for he was the son of a wine-seller, like his father before him, who had also sold cloth and silk remnants. Colbert, destined by his family for commerce, had first worked for a merchant of Lyons, whom he’d left to come to Paris to study bookkeeping with an auditor at the Châtelet105 named Biterne. There he’d learned the art of maintaining financial accounts, and the even more useful art of fudging them.

  His severity of manner became his greatest asset, for like Dame Fortune, or like those ladies of antiquity who cared only for their fancies, he seemed principled while actually allowing nothing to stand between him and his goal.

  In 1648 Colbert’s cousin, the Seigneur de Saint-Pouange, found him a position in the office of Michel Le Tellier, the Secretary of State,106 who favored him one day by assigning him to bear a message to Cardinal Mazarin. At that time His Eminence was in good health, the stressful years of the Fronde not yet having counted double or triple against his age. He was at Sedan, on internal exile due to a Court intrigue in which Anne of Austria seemed inclined to desert him.

  Le Tellier held the threads to this intrigue. He had gotten hold of a letter from Anne of Austria as valuable to him as it was compromising to Mazarin. Using it, he undertook to play that double role he played so often, taking advantage of a conflict by either stoking the adversaries’ differences, or by reconciling them. Le Tellier wanted to send Queen Anne’s letter to Mazarin, so he would see how far he was exposed and be grateful for the service rendered. But then he wanted it back. To send the letter was easy, but to recover it after lending it was far more difficult.

  Le Tellier looked around the office, and seeing the dark and scrawny clerk scribbling away, brows furrowed, he selected him over the most polished gendarme for the task. Colbert was assigned to go to Sedan with the order to share the letter with Mazarin and then bring it back to Le Tellier. He listened to his instructions with scrupulous attention, had them repeated twice, pointedly asked whether recovering the letter was as necessary as sharing it, and was told by Le Tellier, “Even more necessary.”

  Then he left, traveling like a courier without a care for his health or person. When he reached Mazarin, first he handed to him a note from Le Tellier announcing to the cardinal the sending of the precious letter, and then the letter itself. Mazarin blushed deeply while reading Anne of Austria’s letter, gave Colbert a gracious smile, and dismissed him.

  “When will I have your response, Monseigneur?” asked the courier humbly.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  The clerk made his most deferential bow and turned on his heel. The next morning, he was back again at seven o’clock. Mazarin made him wait until ten. Colbert bided his time patiently in the antechamber, and when his turn came, he went in.

  Mazarin handed him a sealed packet, on the envelope of which was written, “To Monsieur Michel Le Tellier, Etc.”

  Colbert examined this packet with the closest attention, while the cardinal gave him a charming smile and pushed him toward the door. “And the letter from the queen mother, Monseigneur?” asked Colbert.

  “It’s in the packet with the rest,” said Mazarin.

  “Ah! Very good,” replied Colbert. And, placing his hat between his knees, he began tearing open the packet.

  Mazarin uttered a cry. “What are you doing?” he growled.

  “Opening the packet, Mo
nseigneur.”

  “Do you distrust me, you pen pusher? I’ve never seen such impertinence!”

  “Oh, Monseigneur, please don’t be angry with me! It’s certainly not the word of Your Eminence I distrust, God forbid.”

  “What, then?”

  “It’s the thoroughness of your secretaries, Monseigneur. What is a letter? A mere scrap. And can’t a scrap be overlooked? And look, Monseigneur, see if I was wrong! Your clerks have overlooked the scrap, for the letter isn’t in the packet.”

  “You’re as insolent as you are blind!” cried Mazarin, irritated. “Withdraw and await my summons.” And saying these words, he made an Italian gesture of distraction with one hand and whisked the packet away from Colbert with the other, and then went back into his study.

  But his anger was soon replaced by thoughtfulness. Mazarin, upon opening the door of his study each morning, found Colbert waiting on a bench, and this dowdy figure humbly but persistently asked for the queen mother’s letter.

  Eventually, Mazarin ran out of excuses and had to return it. He accompanied this restitution with a severe reprimand, during which Colbert was content to examine, feel, and even smell the paper of the letter, scrutinizing the writing and signature as if he were dealing with the greatest forger in the realm. Mazarin added further rude remarks while Colbert, impassive, having proven to himself the authenticity of the letter, departed as if he were deaf.

  It was this conduct that won him the post of the late Joubert, for Mazarin, instead of holding a grudge, admired his tenacity and desired to have it in his own service.

  We see from this single story the entire character of Colbert. The events that followed gradually enabled his wit and talent to come to full flower. Colbert wasn’t slow to insinuate himself into the cardinal’s good graces, and before long he was indispensable. This clerk knew the details of all the cardinal’s accounts before His Eminence ever spoke of them. The secrets shared between them were a powerful bond, which is why, when he appeared on the verge of passing into the next world, Mazarin wanted solid advice on how to dispose of the wealth he would leave, so unwillingly, behind him. Thus, after Guénaud’s visit the cardinal summoned Colbert, had him sit beside him, and said to him, “Let’s have a talk, Monsieur Colbert, and a serious one, because I’m sick and may be about to die.”

  “Man is mortal,” replied Colbert.

  “I have never forgotten that, Monsieur Colbert, and have tried to prepare for it. You know that I’ve amassed a bit of a fortune…”

  “I know, Monseigneur.”

  “And how much do you estimate that little fortune comes to, Monsieur Colbert?”

  “To forty million five hundred sixty thousand two hundred livres, nine sous, and eight deniers,” replied Colbert.

  The cardinal sighed deeply and regarded Colbert with admiration, then allowed himself a smile.

  “Known money,” added Colbert in response to this smile.

  The cardinal sat bolt upright. “What do you mean by that?” he said.

  “I mean,” said Colbert, “that besides these forty million five hundred sixty thousand two hundred livres, nine sous, and eight deniers there are thirteen other millions no one knows of.”

  “Ouf!” sighed Mazarin. “What a man this is!”

  At that moment Bernouin’s head appeared in the doorway. “What is it,” asked Mazarin, “and why are you disturbing me?”

  “The Theatine father107 you sent for, Your Eminence’s confessor, has arrived, and can’t come back again to Monseigneur’s until after tomorrow.”

  Mazarin looked at Colbert, who at once picked up his hat and said, “I’ll return another time, Monseigneur.”

  Mazarin hesitated. “No, no,” he said, “I have as much business with you as with him. Besides, you are my temporal confessor, and what I say to one can be heard by the other. Stay, Colbert.”

  “But, Monseigneur, if there is no privacy of penance, will the confessor agree to it?”

  “Don’t worry yourself about that. Go back into the alcove.”

  “I can wait outside, Monseigneur.”

  “No, no—better that you hear the confession of a man of means.”

  Colbert bowed and went into the alcove.

  “Admit the Theatine father,” said Mazarin, closing the curtains.

  XLV Confession of a Man of Means

  The Theatine entered deliberately, showing no astonishment at the noise and disturbance in the household raised by concern for the cardinal’s health. “Come, Most Reverend,” said Mazarin after a final glance at the curtained alcove. “Come and comfort me.”

  “Such is my duty, Monseigneur,” replied the Theatine.

  “Start by sitting comfortably, for I’ll begin with a general confession; you’ll quickly grant me a good absolution, and I’ll feel calm again.”

  “Monseigneur,” said the reverend, “surely you aren’t so ill that a general confession is urgent. And it will be very tiring, so take care!”

  “Do you suppose it would take long, Reverend?”

  “How could it be otherwise when one has lived as complete a life as Your Eminence?”

  “Ah, that’s true! Yes, the story might be a long one.”

  “The mercy of God is great,” intoned the Theatine.

  “Here,” said Mazarin, “I’m beginning to alarm myself by thinking of everything I’ve allowed to pass of which the Lord would disapprove.”

  “Of course; who would not?” said the Theatine naïvely, turning his narrow face and mole-like features from the light. “Sinners are like that: forgetful before, then scrupulous when it’s too late.”

  “Sinners?” replied Mazarin. “Do you use the term ironically, or to reproach me with the background I’ve left behind? For as the son of a fisherman,108 I was certainly a… seiner.”

  “Hmph!” said the Theatine.

  “Family pride was my first sin, Reverend, because I allowed it to be said that I’d descended from ancient Consuls of Rome: Geganius Macerinus I, Macerinus II, and Proculus Macerinus III, all found in the Chronicle of Haolander.109 For Macerinus is temptingly close to Mazarin, though Macerinus, as a diminutive, means scrawny. Mazarini is also close to the augmentative, macer, which means as thin as Lazarus. Look!” And he showed his arms and legs, emaciated by fever.

  “That you are born of a family of fishermen is no shame to you,” replied the Theatine, “for indeed, Saint Peter was a fisherman, and you are a Prince of the Church, Monseigneur, as he was its supreme leader. Let’s move on, if you please.”

  “However, I did threaten to put in the Bastille a certain Bounet, a priest of Avignon who wanted to publish a genealogy of the House of Mazarin that was entirely too exaggerated.”

  “To be believed, you mean?” replied the Theatine.

  “Hmph! But if I’d acted on that threat, Reverend, it would have been the vice of pride—another sin.”

  “His was an abuse of wit, but no one reproaches a person for that sort of crime. Let’s move on.”

  “Mine was an abuse of pride, and I think, Reverend, I should categorize my errors by the mortal sins.”

  “I like proper categorization.”

  “I do it by habit. You should know, then, that in 1630—alas! Thirty-one years ago!”

  “You were twenty-nine years old, Monseigneur.”

  “A hot-headed age. I fancied myself a soldier, and at Casale110 I joined the charge against the arquebusiers, just to show I could ride as well as any cavalier. It’s true that I then negotiated the peace between the Spanish and French, which somewhat redeems my sin.”

  “I don’t see the slightest sin in displaying skill at riding,” said the Theatine. “It’s in perfect taste and does honor to our robes. In my capacity as a Christian, I approve of your halting bloodshed, and as a priest, I’m proud of the bravery of a colleague.”

  Mazarin bowed his head humbly. “Yes,” he said, “but the results!”

  “What results?”

  “This damned sin of pride gets into eve
rything! Since I’d thrown myself into battle between two armies, smelled the powder and charged lines of soldiers, I began to regard generals with disdain.”

  “Ah!”

  “That’s the result: since then, I haven’t been able to stand them.”

  “Well, the fact is,” said the Theatine, “that you haven’t had many good generals.”

  “Oh, I certainly had Monsieur le Prince!” cried Mazarin. “And haven’t I made him pay?”

  “No point in feeling sorry for him, he’s had plenty of glory and gain.”

  “True for Monsieur le Prince, but what of Monsieur de Beaufort, whom I treated so harshly in the dungeons of Vincennes?”111

  “Yes, but he was a rebel, and the security of the State required you to make that sacrifice. Let’s move on.”

  “I think that’s it for pride. There’s another category of sin that I hesitate to name…

  “Tell me of it, and I’ll figure out its category.”

  “It’s a truly great sin, Reverend.”

  “We’ll see, Monseigneur.”

  “You must have heard tell of… certain relations I’ve had with Her Majesty the queen mother… relations that the malicious…”

  “The malicious, Monseigneur, are fools. Wasn’t it necessary, for the good of the State and the best interests of the young king, that you should act as a close adviser to the queen? Move on, move on.”

  “Believe me, that lifts a terrible burden from me,” said Mazarin.

  “Trivia and trifles! Find us something serious.”

  “I’ve been full of ambition, Reverend…”

  “That’s the price of doing great things, Monseigneur.”

  “But to covet the tiara of the pope…”

  “The pope is first among Christians. Why shouldn’t you desire that?”

  “It’s been said in print that, in order to get it, I sold Cambrai to the Spanish.”

  “You’ve published pamphlets yourself, so one can’t say you’ve been too harsh on pamphleteers.”