Between Two Kings

by Lawrence Ellsworth

  “It’s true, isn’t it,” added the queen, “that you’d consider the king’s refusal a kind of insult?”

  Mazarin rolled his head on his pillow without uttering a single syllable. The queen was deceived, or pretended to be deceived, by this behavior. “Therefore, I’ve given him sound advice,” said she, “and though certain others, jealous no doubt of the glory you’ll gain by your generosity, tried to persuade the king to refuse the bequest, I took your side and argued so well that I hope you won’t have to suffer such a denial.”

  “Oh!” murmured Mazarin from behind half-closed eyes. “That’s a service I won’t forget for a single minute during the few hours I have left to live.”

  “And I must say that it wasn’t without difficulty that I rendered it to Your Eminence,” added Anne of Austria.

  “Ah, peste, I believe it. Ohh!”

  “Mon Dieu, what is it?”

  “I’m burning up.”

  “Are you suffering so badly?”

  “Like the damned!”

  Colbert wished he could disappear through the floor.

  “Then,” continued Mazarin, “Your Majesty thinks that the king”—he paused for several seconds—“that the king is coming here to pay me the compliment of accepting?”

  “So I think,” said the queen.

  Mazarin assassinated Colbert with a look like daggers. Just then, the ushers announced the king was approaching through the crowded antechambers. This announcement caused a stir, and Colbert took advantage of it to slip out through a side door.

  Anne of Austria arose and awaited her son. Louis XIV appeared in the chamber’s doorway, his eyes going straight to the dying man, who no longer took the trouble to even half rise for the monarch from whom he thought he had nothing more to expect.

  An usher rolled an armchair next to the bed. Louis saluted his mother, then the cardinal, and sat down. The queen sat down in her turn. The king glanced behind him, and the usher, understanding the look, waved those courtiers who remained in the room out ahead of him.

  As the velvet curtains fell across the door, silence fell over the chamber. The king, still childish and timid before he who had been his master since his birth, respected him all the more in the supreme majesty of impending death. He dared not start the conversation, feeling that every word must weigh with significance, not just in this world, but the next.

  As for the cardinal, he had only one thing on his mind: his bequest. It was not the pain of his illness that gave him that dejected expression and dull look, it was the expectation of the gratitude that was about to come tumbling from the king’s mouth, destroying all hope of restitution.

  It was Mazarin who first broke the silence. “Your Majesty,” he said, “are you also lodged here at Vincennes?”

  Louis nodded.

  “It’s a gracious favor that you grant to a dying man,” continued Mazarin, “and which will make his death that much easier.”

  “I hope,” replied the king, “that I’ve come to visit, not a dying man, but a patient still able to be cured.”

  Mazarin made a movement of his head that signified, Your Majesty is very good, but I know the truth of the matter. “The final visit, Sire,” he said, “the final visit.”

  “If that were so, Monsieur le Cardinal,” said Louis XIV, “then I’ve come one final time to hear the advice of a guide to whom I owe everything.”

  Anne of Austria was a woman; she could no longer restrain her tears. Louis showed himself much moved as well, but Mazarin was even more moved than his guests, though for different motives.

  Here the silence fell again. The queen dabbed at her cheeks, and Louis regained his resolve. “I said,” continued the king, “that I owe a great deal to Your Eminence.”

  The cardinal’s eyes devoured Louis XIV, for he felt the approach of the supreme moment.

  “And,” continued the king, “the principal object of my visit is to deliver sincere thanks for that final testimony of friendship that you sent me.”

  The cardinal’s cheeks inflated, his lips parted, and the most lamentable sigh he’d ever uttered prepared to issue from this chest. “Sire,” he said, “I’ve impoverished my poor family, and ruined all who depend upon me, which some might call a mistake, but at least no one can say that I refused to sacrifice everything to my king.”

  Anne of Austria resumed her weeping.

  “Dear Monsieur Mazarin,” said the king, in a tone more serious than one would have expected given his youth, “I think you misunderstand me.”

  Mazarin raised himself on one elbow.

  “There’s no question of ruining your dear family, nor of robbing your dependents. No, that must not be!”

  Come, he’s going to leave me a bit after all, thought Mazarin. Let’s get as much as we can.

  The king softens enough to be generous, thought the queen. Just let him not be too generous—this chance at a fortune will never come again.

  “Sire,” the cardinal said aloud, “my family is large, and my nieces will be destitute when I’m gone.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about your family,” the queen interrupted hastily. “Dear Monsieur Mazarin, we will hold no friends more precious than yours; your nieces will be my children, the sisters of His Majesty, and whenever favors are distributed in France, it will be to those you love.”

  Rubbish! thought Mazarin, who knew better than anyone what faith to put in the promises of monarchs.

  Louis read the dying man’s thoughts on his face. “Fear not, dear Monsieur de Mazarin,” he said, with a sad and half-ironic smile. “Mesdemoiselles de Mancini will lose their most precious blessing in losing you, but they will nonetheless remain the richest heiresses in France, since you’ve given me their dowry…”

  The cardinal held his breath.

  “… and I restore it to them,” continued Louis, drawing from his doublet and placing on the cardinal’s bed the letter of bequest that, for two days, had been the burning obsession of Mazarin’s mind.

  “What did I tell you, Monseigneur?” came a whisper from the side door behind the bed.

  “Your Majesty returns my bequest!” cried Mazarin, so overcome by joy that he forgot his role of benefactor.

  “Your Majesty refuses the forty million!” cried Anne of Austria, so stupefied that she forgot her role of mourner.

  “Yes, Monsieur le Cardinal; yes, Madame,” replied Louis XIV, tearing up the letter that Mazarin hadn’t dared take back. “Yes, I annihilate this act that despoiled an entire family; the wealth acquired by His Eminence in my service is his and not mine.”

  “But, Sire, consider!” cried Anne of Austria. “Your Majesty doesn’t have even ten thousand crowns in his coffers!”

  “Madame, I have just committed my first act of royalty, which I hope will worthily inaugurate my reign.”

  “Ah, Sire, you’re right!” said Mazarin. “It’s truly grand, truly generous what you’ve done here!” And he picked up, one after another, the pieces of the bequest scattered on his bedclothes to make sure it was the original and not a copy. Finally, he found the piece bearing his signature and, recognizing it, fell back on his pillows. Anne of Austria, unable to hide her disappointment, raised her eyes and hands to the heavens.

  “Ah, Sire!” cried Mazarin. “My God! Sire, you will be blessed by my whole family! Perbacco! If any member of my family ever causes you trouble, just frown and I will rise from my grave.”

  These theatrics didn’t produce quite the effect Mazarin had counted upon. Louis had already passed on to considerations of a higher order, while as for Anne of Austria, unable to continue without giving in to the anger she felt at the magnanimity of her son and the hypocrisy of the cardinal, she rose and left the room to find another venue for her spite.

  Mazarin understood completely, and, afraid that Louis XIV might rescind his decision, to distract him he began to groan and cry out, like Scapin in a later role, making that sublime jest for which the sad grumbler Boileau dared to criticize Molière.119 But grad
ually his cries subsided, and when Anne of Austria left the room they ceased entirely.

  “Monsieur le Cardinal,” said the king, “do you have any advice to give me?”

  “Sire,” replied Mazarin, “you are already wisdom itself, prudence incarnate. As for benevolence, let’s not speak of it; what you have done exceeds the generosity of all men from antiquity to modern times.”

  The king remained cool, unmoved by this praise. “So, Monsieur,” he said, “you speak only of gratitude. Doesn’t your experience, which is far greater than my wisdom, prudence, and generosity, inspire you to give me any counsel that will help me in the future?”

  Mazarin thought for a moment. “You came here,” he said, “to do a great thing for me and for mine, Sire.”

  “No need to talk about that,” said the king.

  “Well!” continued Mazarin. “I do want to give you something in exchange for the forty million that you so royally gave up.”

  Louis XIV made a gesture that indicated he’d heard enough flattery.

  “I wish to give you an opinion,” said Mazarin, “a single idea more valuable than all those millions.”

  “Monsieur le Cardinal!” interrupted Louis XIV.

  “Sire, hear my advice.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Come near, Sire, for I’m getting weaker… closer, Sire, closer.”

  The king leaned down over the bed of the dying man.

  “Sire,” said Mazarin, so quietly that the breath of his words came like a whisper from the tomb into the ears of the young king, “Sire… never have a prime minister.”

  Louis sat up, astonished.

  This advice amounted to a confession.

  And it was a treasure indeed, this sincere confession from Mazarin. The cardinal’s legacy to the young king consisted of no more than these six words—but these six words, as Mazarin had said, were worth millions in gold.

  Louis sat stunned for a moment. As for Mazarin, he acted as if he’d said nothing unusual.

  The young king finally spoke. “Apart from your family, Monsieur de Mazarin, do you have anyone else to recommend to me?”

  A slight drumming sounded from the side door behind the bed. Mazarin understood. “Yes, yes,” he said quickly. “Yes, Sire, I recommend to you a wise man, honest and capable.”

  “His name, Monsieur le Cardinal?”

  “His name will be entirely unknown to you, Sire—it’s Monsieur Colbert, my financial secretary. Oh, you can trust him,” added Mazarin with emphasis. “Everything he’s predicted has come to pass, and he has a sharp eye for business and for judging men, one that’s never mistaken. He’s surprised even me. Sire, I owe you a great deal, but I think I settle the score by giving you Monsieur Colbert.”

  “All right,” said Louis faintly, for as Mazarin had said, the name of Colbert was unknown to him, and he thought the cardinal’s enthusiasm might be no more than the delirium of a dying man.

  The cardinal had fallen back again on his pillow. “For now, Sire, adieu,” murmured Mazarin. “I still have a hard road to travel before I present myself before my new master. Adieu, Sire.”

  The young king felt tears in his eyes. He leaned over the dying man, already more than half dead… and then he hurried away.

  XLIX Enter Colbert

  That night was one of anguish for both the dying man and the king.

  The dying man awaited his deliverance.

  The king awaited his freedom.

  Louis never went to bed. An hour after he’d left the cardinal’s chamber, he heard that the dying man, recovering a little strength, had had himself dressed, rouged, and combed, and had asked to receive the latest ambassadors. Like Caesar Augustus, he seemed to regard the world as a theater and wanted to play out properly the last act of his comedy.

  Anne of Austria didn’t visit the cardinal again; she had nothing more to do there. The appearance of propriety was the pretext for her absence. Besides, the cardinal didn’t ask for her, as the advice the queen had given her son still irked him.

  Toward midnight, while still fully dressed, Mazarin entered his final agony. He had reviewed his will, and as that document was the exact expression of his desires, and he feared someone with another agenda would take advantage of his weakness to get him to change it, he’d given it to Colbert, a most vigilant sentry who posted himself in the corridor outside the cardinal’s bedroom.

  The king, confining himself to his room, sent his old governess every hour to Mazarin’s suite for the latest report on the cardinal’s health. After having heard that Mazarin had had himself dressed to receive the ambassadors, Louis next heard that they were beginning the prayers for the dying.

  At one o’clock in the morning Guénaud prepared a final potion, his Remedy Heroic. This was a prime example of a period that saw everything as swordplay, an old attitude that, though on its way out, still clung to belief in a “secret thrust” effective even against death. Mazarin, after taking this remedy, was able to breathe easily for almost ten minutes. Immediately he gave orders that the word should be spread of a sudden improvement.

  The king, at this news, felt cold sweat break out on his forehead; having glimpsed his liberty, slavery seemed darker and less acceptable than ever. But the next report completely changed the face of things: suddenly Mazarin scarcely breathed at all, and had trouble following the prayers that the Curate of Saint-Nicolas-des-Champs recited before him.

  The king began to march back and forth in his chamber, consulting, as he walked, several papers taken from a bureau to which he alone had the key.

  A third time the governess returned: Monsieur de Mazarin was making jokes and had ordered the cleaning of his Flora by Titian.120

  Finally, at about half past two in the morning, the king could no longer stand the strain—he hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours. Sleep, so powerful at that age, took hold of him for about an hour. But he didn’t go to bed, he slept in an armchair.

  Around four o’clock the governess entered the room and woke him up. “Well?” the king asked.

  “Well, my dear Sire!” said the governess, wringing her hands sadly. “Well! He is dead.”

  The king rose suddenly, as if a steel spring had brought him to his feet. “Dead!” he cried.

  “Alas! Yes.”

  “For sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Officially?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has the news been announced?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then, who told you the cardinal was dead?”

  “Monsieur Colbert.”

  “Monsieur Colbert?”

  “Yes.”

  “And he was sure of what he told you?”

  “He’d just come from the bedchamber where he’d spent several minutes holding a mirror up to the cardinal’s lips.”

  “Ah!” said the king. “And what has become of this Monsieur Colbert?”

  “He’s just left His Eminence’s chamber.”

  “To go where?”

  “To follow me.”

  “So, then he’s…?”

  “Here, Sire, waiting outside your door for when it pleases you to receive him.”

  Louis sprang to the door, opened it himself, and saw Colbert standing there and waiting. The king started at the sight of this statue all dressed in black.

  Colbert bowed with profound respect and took two steps toward His Majesty.

  Louis withdrew into his room, gesturing for Colbert to follow him. Colbert came in. Louis dismissed the governess, who closed the door behind her as she left.

  Colbert stood humbly near the door. “What have you come to tell me, Monsieur?” said Louis, troubled by this surprise intruder who seemed to divine his secret thoughts.

  “That the cardinal has just passed away, Sire, and that I bring you his final farewell.”

  The king paused thoughtfully for a moment, looking attentively at Colbert. It was apparent that the cardinal’s last words were on his mind. “So, you’re Mon
sieur Colbert?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “His Eminence’s loyal servant, as he described you to me?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Guardian of some of his secrets?”

  “Of all of them.”

  “The friends and servants of His Late Eminence will be dear to me, Monsieur, and I’ll make sure that you find a place in my own service.”

  Colbert bowed.

  “You’re a financial secretary, Monsieur, are you not?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “And Monsieur le Cardinal employed you in his accounting?”

  “I had that honor, Sire.”

  “But you didn’t do anything for the royal budget, I believe.”

  “On the contrary, Sire, it was I who gave Monsieur le Cardinal an idea that saved Your Majesty’s treasury three hundred thousand livres a year.”

  “What idea was that, Monsieur?” asked Louis XIV.

  “Your Majesty is aware that the Hundred Swiss121 display silver lace on all their uniform ribbons?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, Sire! I proposed that their ribbons be made with imitation silver. No one can tell the difference, and three hundred thousand livres can feed a regiment for half a year, or buy ten thousand good muskets, or build a ten-gun flute122 ready to sail.”

  “That’s true,” said Louis XIV, looking more attentively at the character before him. “And, my faith, that’s a sensible savings, for it’s ridiculous to have soldiers wearing lace like they’re lords.”

  “I’m happy that His Majesty approves,” said Colbert.

  “And is that the only job you had with the cardinal?” asked the king.

  “It was I whom His Eminence charged with examining the accounts of the Superintendent of Finances, Sire.”

  “Ah!” said Louis XIV, who had been about to dismiss Colbert when he was stopped by these final words. “So, it was you His Eminence charged with auditing Monsieur Fouquet. And what was the result of this audit?”

  “It found a deficit, Sire. If Your Majesty will permit me…?”

  “Speak, Monsieur Colbert.”

  “I ought to give Your Majesty some explanations.”