“Madame,” said the cardinal, in a voice of utmost sincerity, “I’m going to show Your Majesty just how devoted I am, and how dedicated I am to resolving this heartbreaking affair. After that, I think Your Majesty will have no cause to doubt my eagerness to serve.”
The queen bit her lips and shifted impatiently in the armchair. At last she said, “Well, what are you going to do? Show me. Speak!”
“I shall go this instant to talk to the queen, and we shall take the matter up with parliament.”
“With whom you’re at odds, are you not? You’ll put Broussel in charge of it, perhaps. Enough, Monsieur le Cardinal, enough. I see how things stand. Go indeed to parliament—for it’s only from parliament, that enemy to kings, that the daughter of the great, the sublime Henri IV, whom you so admire, received enough charity to avoid dying of cold and hunger last winter.”
And with these words, the queen arose in majestic indignation.
The cardinal extended his clasped hands to her. “Ah, Madame, Madame, how you misunderstand me! Mon Dieu!”
But Queen Henriette, turning her back on those hypocritical tears, crossed the study, opened the door herself, and, marching through the guards and retainers of His Eminence, and past the courtiers waiting their turns, went and took the hand of Lord Winter, who stood waiting unattended. Poor queen, already fallen, before whom all still bowed from etiquette, but who had, in fact, only a single arm upon which she could lean.
“That’s done,” said Mazarin, when he was alone. “It was an ugly scene, and I had to play a difficult role, but still I managed to commit to nothing whatsoever. Hmm! That Cromwell is a cruel enemy to kings—I pity his ministers, if he has any. Bernouin!”
Bernouin came in. “Find out if that short-haired man in the black doublet, who was here before the queen, is still in the palace,” said Mazarin. Bernouin went out. The cardinal spent the time waiting for his return in turning the bezel of his ring back out, polishing the diamond, admiring its clarity—and as a lingering tear in one eye was interfering with this, he shook his head to make it drop.
Bernouin returned with Comminges, who was on guard duty. “Monseigneur,” said Comminges, “I was conducting that young man out as Your Eminence requested, but as we passed the door to the window gallery he stopped and stared as if astonished at something beyond—probably that big Raphael painting. He stood spellbound for a moment, and then hurried down the stairs. I think I saw him mount a gray horse and ride out of the courtyard. Is Monseigneur on his way to visit the queen?”
“To what end?”
“Monsieur de Guitaut, my uncle, just told me that Her Majesty has had news from the army.”
“Excellent. I’ll go.”
At that moment Monsieur de Villequier appeared, having been sent by the queen to find the cardinal.
Mordaunt had behaved just as Comminges had reported. While crossing the hall across from the window gallery, he had seen Lord Winter where he was awaiting the outcome of the queen’s negotiations. The young man had stopped short, not in admiration of the Raphael, but as if fascinated by the sight of some terrible object. His eyes had dilated, a shudder had run through his body, and he looked as if he wanted to burst through the glass wall that separated him from his prey. If Comminges had seen the young man’s face, hatred burning in his eyes as they fixated on Winter, he would have had no doubt but that the English lord was his mortal enemy.
But Mordaunt stopped himself—pausing, no doubt, to think. Then, instead of following his first impulse, which was to launch himself straight at Milord Winter, he went slowly down the stairs, head lowered. In the courtyard he got into the saddle, rode no farther than the corner of the Rue Richelieu, and there, eyes fixed on the gate, he waited for the English queen’s carriage to leave the palace.
He didn’t have long to wait, as the queen spent no more than a quarter of an hour with Mazarin—but that quarter hour seemed like a century to he who waited. Finally, the heavy coach they termed a carriage at that time appeared, the gates groaned open, and out it came, with Winter, still mounted, riding once more at Her Majesty’s window. The horses went into a trot and made their way to the Louvre and through its gates. Before leaving the Carmelite convent, Queen Henriette had told her daughter Henrietta to wait for her at that palace, where they had lived so long, and which they’d only left because their poverty seemed harder to support while inside its still-gilded halls.
Mordaunt followed the carriage, and when he saw it pass under the dark arches of the Louvre gates, he took a position in the shadow of the walls, sitting astride but immobile against the background of Jean Goujon’s moldings, like a bas-relief of an equestrian statue. And there he waited as he had outside the Palais Royal.
XLII
How Those in Need Sometimes Mistake Blind Luck for God’s Will
“Well, Madame?” Lord Winter asked, once the queen had sent away the servants.
“Well, it turned out just as I’d foreseen, Milord.”
“He refused?”
“Didn’t I say he would?”
“The cardinal refuses to receive the king? France refuses hospitality to a refugee prince? That’s never happened before, Madame!”
“I didn’t say France, Milord, I said the cardinal—and the cardinal is by no means French.”
“But the queen—have you seen her?”
“Useless,” said Madame Henriette, shaking her head sadly. “The queen will never say yes if the cardinal says no. Don’t you know the cardinal rules the Court, inside and out? Furthermore, as I told you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been forewarned by Cromwell—he was embarrassed while speaking to me, but firm in his refusal. Plus, did you see how busy the Palais Royal was, all those people hurrying through its halls? Do you think there’s been some news, Milord?”
“It’s not news from England, Madame; I worked hard to make sure we arrived before we could be forestalled. I set out three days ago and passed by a miracle through the Puritan army. I rode post horses with my servant Tony, and the horses we ride now were bought here in Paris. Besides, before risking anything, I’m sure the king will await a response from Your Majesty.”
“You’ll tell him, Milord, that I can do nothing,” said the queen in despair. “I’ve suffered as badly as he has, or worse, obliged to eat the bread of exile and to beg hospitality from false friends who laugh at my tears. Now he must sacrifice himself and die like a king. Would that I could die by his side.”
“Madame, Madame!” cried Winter. “Your Majesty gives in to despair, but we may still find some hope.”
“I’ve no more friends, Milord, no other friends in the world but you! Oh, mon Dieu!” cried Madame Henriette, raising her arms to heaven, “have you taken, then, all the generous hearts from the world?”
“I hope not, Madame,” Winter replied fervently. “I told you I still knew four men.”
“What do you think you can do with four men?”
“Four devoted men, four men willing to die for a cause, can do much, believe me, Madame—and the men I speak of have done a great deal in their time.”
“And these four men, where are they?”
“Ah, now that I don’t know. I’ve lost touch with them for almost twenty years, and yet every time the king was in danger, I’ve thought of them.”
“And these men were your friends?”
“One of them held my life in his hands and returned it to me; I don’t know if he’s still my friend, but since that time at least I’ve always been his.”
“And these men are in France, Milord?”
“I think so.”
“Tell me their names—maybe I’ve heard of them and could help in your search.”
“One of them was called the Chevalier d’Artagnan.”
“Really! Unless I’m mistaken, your Chevalier d’Artagnan is a lieutenant of the musketeers, or so I’ve heard. But be careful, because I’m afraid he’s a cardinal’s man.”
“If true, that would be the final blow,” said Wint
er, “and I’d begin to believe that we’re truly cursed.”
“But the others,” said the queen, clinging to this final hope like a shipwrecked sailor to floating debris, “what of the others, Milord?”
“The second—I heard his name by chance, because before fighting a duel with us these four gentlemen told us their names—the second was called the Comte de La Fère. As for the other two, the habit I had of calling them by their assumed names made me forget their real ones.”
“But it’s urgent that you find out,” said the queen, “if you think these worthy gentlemen might be able to aid the king.”
“They’re just the men for the task,” said Winter. “Think back, Madame—do you recall how Queen Anne of Austria was saved from the greatest threat any queen ever faced?”
“Yes, during her romance with Monsieur de Buckingham—some affair involving her diamond studs.”
“That’s right, Madame—and these are the men who saved her. The sad and shameful truth is that if these gentlemen’s names aren’t known to you, it’s because the queen has forgotten them, when she ought to have made them Peers of the Realm.”
“Well, then, Milord, they must be found. But what can a mere four men do? Or rather three, for I warn you we mustn’t count upon Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“At a minimum, it’s three valiant swords, four if you count mine. Four devoted men near the king to guard him from his enemies, to surround him in battle, to aid him with advice, and to escort him in his flight, that would be enough, if not to give him victory, then at least to save him if he’s defeated. Four men to bring him across the sea—and no matter what Mazarin says, once he’s ashore on the coast of France, your royal husband will find as many safe havens as a seabird on a storm-girt cliff.”
“Seek them, Milord, seek out these gentlemen, and if you find them, and if they agree to go with you to England, on the day we regain the throne I’ll give each one a duchy, and enough gold to pave the floors of Whitehall. This is the task I charge you with, Milord—find them!”
“I’ll seek them, Madame, and I’ll find them,” said Winter, “but time is running out. Has Your Majesty forgotten that the king is anxiously awaiting a reply?”
“Then we are lost!” cried the queen, in a despairing tone.
At that moment the door opened, and young Henrietta appeared. The queen, with that supreme effort that heroism provides to mothers, buried her grief in the depths of her heart, and made a sign to Baron Winter to change the subject.
But her efforts, though bravely taken, didn’t escape the notice of the young princess. She stopped on the threshold, sighed, and said to the queen, “Why do you hide your tears from me, Mother?”
The queen smiled, and instead of replying to her, turned to Winter and said, “Hear that, Baron? I’ve gained one thing at least by being but half a queen—my children call me mother instead of madame.” Then, turning to her daughter, she continued, “What do you want, Henrietta?”
“Ma Mère,” said the young princess, “a cavalier, who has just entered the Louvre, begs leave to pay his respects to Your Majesty. He comes from the army, he says, and has a letter to deliver to you from Marshal Grammont, I think he said.”
“Ah!” the queen said to Winter. “He’s one of my faithful. But do you notice, my dear Baron, that we’re so poorly served here that my daughter has to act as usher?”
“Madame, have mercy on me,” said Winter. “You’re breaking my heart.”
“And who is this cavalier, Henrietta?” asked the queen.
“I saw him from the window, Madame; he’s a young man who looks barely sixteen years old and is called the Vicomte de Bragelonne.”
The queen nodded and smiled, the young princess opened the door, and Raoul appeared on the threshold.
He took three steps toward the queen and knelt down. “Madame,” he said, “I bring to Your Majesty a letter from my friend, the Comte de Guiche, who’s given me the honor of doing you a service. This letter conveys his respect and contains important news.”
At the name of the Comte de Guiche, a flush rose to the cheeks of the young princess, which the queen saw with disapproval. “But you told me the letter was from Marshal Grammont, Henrietta!” said the queen.
“I thought so, Madame . . . ,” the young girl stammered.
“That’s my fault, Madame,” said Raoul. “I did announce myself as coming from Marshal Grammont, but as he was wounded in the arm, he couldn’t write, so his son the Comte de Guiche served as his secretary.”
“So, there’s been a battle?” said the queen, gesturing for Raoul to rise.
“Yes, Madame,” said the young man, handing a letter to Winter, who’d advanced to receive it, and who passed it to the queen.
At this news of a battle, the young princess opened her mouth as if impelled to ask a question, but then closed it without saying a word, as the roses gradually faded from her cheeks.
The queen noted all this, and no doubt her maternal heart understood it, for she asked Raoul, “Has anything happened to the young Comte de Guiche? For he’s not only one of our faithful servants, as he told you, Monsieur, he’s also a friend.”
“No, Madame,” Raoul replied. “On the contrary, he gained great glory that day, and had the honor of being embraced by Monsieur le Prince on the battlefield.”
The young princess clapped her hands together, but then, ashamed of having allowed herself to be carried away to such an expression of joy, she turned away and leaned over a vase of roses, as if to sample their scent.
“Let’s see what the count tells us,” said the queen.
“As I had the honor to say to Your Majesty, he was writing in his father’s name.”
“Yes, Monsieur.” The queen unsealed the letter and read aloud:
Madame and Majesty,
Not having the honor to write to you myself due to a wound suffered in my right hand, I write to you by way of my son, Monsieur le Comte de Guiche, who serves you as I do, to inform you that we have just won the Battle of Lens, and that this victory will bring power and prestige to Cardinal Mazarin and the queen, and influence in European affairs. I pray Your Majesty, if she will accept my advice, will take advantage of this occasion to seek favor for your august husband from the royal government. Monsieur le Vicomte de Bragelonne, who will have the honor of presenting this letter to you, is the friend of my son, whose life he almost certainly saved; he is a gentleman in whom Your Majesty may confide entirely, in case she has any verbal or written commands to send me.
With respect, signed in the name of . . .
Maréchal de GRAMMONT
When the marshal mentioned the service Raoul had done his son, the viscount couldn’t help turning to glance at the young princess, and saw in her eyes a look of infinite gratitude—so Raoul knew, beyond doubt, that the daughter of Charles I loved his friend.
“The Battle of Lens is won!” the queen said. “Here they’re happy, for here they win their battles. Yes, Marshal Grammont is right, this will improve their situation, but I fear it will do nothing for ours, if it doesn’t actually make it worse. Your news is timely, Monsieur,” continued the queen. “I’m grateful to you for having brought it to us so diligently; without you, and this letter, I wouldn’t have heard it before tomorrow, and might have been the last person in Paris to know.”
“Madame,” said Raoul, “the Louvre is only the second palace to receive this news; no one else knows it. I’d sworn to the Comte de Guiche to deliver this letter to Your Majesty before even going to see my guardian.”
“Is your guardian a Bragelonne as well?” asked Lord Winter. “I once knew a Bragelonne—is he still alive?”
“No, Monsieur, he’s dead, and it’s from him that my guardian, who was a close relative, I believe, has inherited the land whose name I now bear.”
“And your guardian, Monsieur, what’s his name?” asked the queen, who couldn’t help taking an interest in this handsome young man.
“Monsieur le Comte de La Fè
re, Madame,” replied the young man, bowing.
Winter started in surprise, and the queen looked at him, alight with joy. “The Comte de La Fère!” she cried. “Isn’t that the name you mentioned?”
As for Winter, he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “The Comte de La Fère! Oh, Monsieur! Answer me, I implore you: is the Comte de La Fère a noble I once knew, handsome and brave, who was a musketeer under Louis XIII, and must now be about forty-seven or forty-eight?”
“Yes, Monsieur, that’s quite right.”
“And who was serving under an assumed name?”
“Under the name of Athos. I recently heard his friend, Monsieur d’Artagnan, call him by that name.”
“That’s him, Madame, that’s him. God be praised! And is he in Paris?” continued the baron, addressing Raoul. Then, returning to the queen, “Hope still—hope! Providence protects us, since it moves to help me find that brave gentleman in such a miraculous fashion. Where is he to be found, Monsieur, please tell me?”
“The Comte de La Fère is staying in Rue Guénégaud, at the Grand Charlemagne Hôtel.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. Ask this worthy friend to remain at home, and I’ll come to see him shortly.”
“Monsieur, I obey with pleasure, if Her Majesty will give me leave to go.”
“Go, Monsieur le Vicomte de Bragelonne,” said the queen, “go, and be assured of our affection.”
Raoul bowed respectfully to the two princesses, saluted Winter, and departed.
Winter and the queen continued to converse for a while in voices so low the young princess couldn’t hear them—not that it mattered, as she was lost in her thoughts.
Then, as Winter was about to depart, “Listen, Milord,” said the queen, “I had preserved this diamond cross, which comes from my mother, and this plaque of Saint Michael, which came from my husband; together they’re worth about fifty thousand livres. I had vowed to die of starvation before selling them, but now that these two pieces might be useful to the king or his defenders, I must sacrifice everything to that hope. Take them, and if you need funds for your mission, sell them without hesitation. But if you can find a means of preserving them, know, Milord, that I’ll regard you as having rendered the greatest service a gentleman can do for a queen, and that on the day of my prosperity he who can bring me this plaque and this cross will be blessed by me and my children.”
Twenty Years After Page 39
