MAZARIN PLAYED OUT.

THE marriage bells peal merrily for the august espousals of Louis XIV. with the Infanta Maria Theresa, daughter of the King of Spain. The troubles of the Fronde are over. Gondi, the Coadjutor, now Cardinal de Retz, is imprisoned. Cardinal Mazarin has cemented a peace between France and Spain. He has triumphed.

Mazarin left Paris with a great retinue of coaches, litters, and mules, attended by bishops, secretaries, lawyers, and priests, to meet the Spanish ambassador, Don Luis Da Haro, on the frontier, there to arrange the preliminaries of the treaty and the marriage. Don Luis had already arrived, attended with equal splendour. A whole month was lost in the all-important question of precedence. Should Mazarin call on Da Haro, or Da Haro "drop in" on Mazarin? This momentous point was never settled. Mazarin, the wily Italian—Il Signor Faquino, as the Prince de CondÉ calls him—took to his bed, hoping that the anxiety felt for his health by Da Haro would induce him to pocket his Castilian dignity and make the first advance. But Da Haro was not to be caught, and obstinately shut himself up, ate, drank, and made merry with the most dogged patience, and the most entire want of sympathy. So it ended in this wise—no visit was made at all. The great plenipotentiaries met, quite unofficially, on the Island of Pheasants, in the middle of the River Bidassoa, dividing France and Spain. There the real business was very soon despatched. In process of time, the King and the Infanta were married.

The Infanta was very small, fair, and plump. There was an utter absence of expression in her freshly complexioned face; her eyes were large and gentle, but said absolutely nothing of any soul within. Her mouth was large, her teeth were irregular. Her dress horrified the French ladies. It was unanimously voted tawdry, ill-made, and unbecoming. As for the ladies in attendance on her, it was not possible to find words to paint their grotesqueness. They were black-skinned, scraggy, and awkward. They had hideous lace, and wore enormous farthingales. One of them, the "governess of the Infanta," is gibbeted in the pages of history as "a monster." She unhappily wore what are designated as "barrels" under her dress. Such was the first effect of crinoline on the ladies of the French nation.

The Duchesse de Noailles was appointed lady of the bedchamber to the new Queen. She was recommended to this office by the Queen-dowager, Anne of Austria, her aunt.

Cardinal Mazarin has now reached the summit of power. He has imprisoned his rival, Cardinal de Retz, and has tranquillised a great nation. He has even received the solemn thanks of the once turbulent parliament. He has equalled, if not exceeded, the renown of Richelieu. After the sounding of those marriage bells he returns to Paris, to repose upon his laurels. See him! the artistic egotist, who all his life has fed on the choicest grapes from his neighbour's vine, and sipped the most fragrant honey from flowers not his own. See him within his magnificent palace, the outward and visible evidence of the enormous wealth which he no longer fears to display. Louis XIV. looks on him as a father. Anne of Austria trembles when he frowns. All France is subservient to his rule. The walls of his chamber are lined with artistic plunder:—pictures set in gorgeous frames of Florentine carving; statues, mirrors, and glittering chandeliers; tables and consoles bearing ornaments of inestimable value, in marble, bronze, porcelain, pottery, enamel, and gems. Richest hangings of tapestry, and brocaded satin and velvet, more costly than the gold which surrounds them, shade the intrusive sunshine, and tone all down to that delicious half light so dear to the artistic sense. Everything has been arranged by the hand of a master; and there he sits, this master, dying. The seeds of disease, sown on the frontier where he was detained by Da Haro, have developed into a mortal malady.

He has just risen from his bed. He reposes in a chair on wheels, in which he is rolled from frescoed gallery to marble vestibule; from corridors of pictures to precious libraries; from dainty retiring-rooms to painted pavilions, from guard-room saloon—those superb saloons where he received the Court.

He even penetrates to the stables, and surveys his priceless stud; he ventures into the magnificent gardens which surround his palace, to feast his eyes on all his vast possessions. Returning again, greatly fatigued, to the picture-gallery, he bids his attendants pause. He rests, absorbed in thought, under a Holy Family, by Raphael, a work beyond price, now in the Louvre. Here he desires his attendants to leave him. His secretary, who is never beyond call, he commands to wait his pleasure in the anteroom, behind the thick silken hangings that veil the door. Inadvertently this door is left ajar, and the secretary, curious to know what his master is doing, looks through a chink in the curtain, and watches him. The Cardinal, when he has glanced round carefully—to be sure he is alone—lays hold of a crutch placed ready to his hand, and with the utmost difficulty struggles to his feet, for they are swollen, and almost useless from gout. After many efforts he disengages himself from the chair, and reaches the ground, then, balancing himself upon the crutch and any object near at hand, he moves a few steps, stopping for lack of breath. (The secretary doubts if he should not rush in before he falls, so uncertain and tottering are Mazarin's movements, but he forbears, fearful of angering the Cardinal, whom suffering has made irritable.)

Mazarin sighs deeply as he limps on from picture to picture, and surveys his favourite works.

"I feel better," he says, speaking aloud. "If I could only get my breath, I should recover. Diamine! I shall—I will recover. I cannot leave my pictures—such a collection,"—and he turns round with difficulty, and surveys the galleries—"not yet complete—to pass into other hands. No, no—it cannot be; I feel stronger already. I—alone in my gallery—without those spies always about me to see my weakness—I can breathe." And he draws a long breath. The long breath ends in a groan. "That divine Raffaello!" and again he sighs, and turns to the gem of his collection, a Nativity. "Raffaello is my religion. Credo in Raffaello! What anima! That exquisite Virgin! and the Christ nestling in her arms! I wonder who sat for that virgin? She must have been a perfect creature! I salute her di cuore. That picture came to me from the King of Spain—a bribe. Who cares? I never refuse a present. The King knows my taste. He sent me word there were many more to come if I concluded a peace. I did conclude a peace; I took that picture and others; but Sangue di Dio, I was faithful to France. Ah, ha! I was too sharp for him—a dull king! That torso there, dug up at Portici—what stalwart limbs! what grand proportions! How finely the shadows fall upon the thigh from that passing cloud. Aha! my foot!" (and he shakes on his crutches so violently the secretary's head and shoulders are inside the room, only the Cardinal does not see him). "I am better now," falters Mazarin, "much better"; then, taking a few steps onwards, he pauses before a Titian. "Venus, my Goddess!—Laus Veneri. Oh, the warmth of the flesh tints, the turn of that head and neck—divine! I gave a great price for that picture; but, Cospetto! it was not my own money," and he laughs feebly. "It will sell for double! That Paolo Veronese and that Tintoretto yonder came from the sale of Charles I. of England, after his execution—those English ruffians! What supple forms, what classic features!—like my native Romans in the Imperial city, where the very beggars think themselves equal to kings; and so they are, per Dio. Glorious Italy! Ah, cielo!" and he creeps on to a favourite landscape by Caracci, lit, as it were, by the living sunshine of the south. "Ah, that sun—I feel it—wonderful! wonderful!—a gem of the eclectic school of Bologna, given to me by the Archbishop. Poor man, he was not, like me, satisfied with art—ha, ha!"—his laugh ends in a severe fit of coughing. "He liked nature. He could not stand inquiry.—I helped him. Oh, my foot!" (And he totters so helplessly, that the secretary, watching him with curious eyes, again nearly rushes in; for if Mazarin dies his salary ceases.) Recovering, however, he steadies himself against the pedestal of a marble group just arrived from Rome, "Leda and the Swan." He drags himself with difficulty into the recess where it was placed, shifting his position, in order to catch the precise light in which to view the rounded limbs of the figure. "What grace, what abandon, in that female form!—a trifle leste for the gallery of a prelate—presented, too, by a lady—a woman of taste, above prejudices. No one has seen it. I must invite the Court—the Queen-mother will be scandalised. Ha, ha! the Queen-mother!" and he feebly winks and laughs; his laugh brings on another fit of convulsive coughing. (The secretary is on the threshold.) "I must not die before I have disposed of my pictures," Mazarin mutters, breathing again; "I cannot bear to die!—now, too, that I have triumphed over all my enemies." The Cardinal sighs heavily, shakes his head, and casts a longing glance round the painted walls. He tries to move onwards; but his strength fails him, suddenly his hands are cramped, the crutch falls on the floor, he groans, sinks into a chair, and faintly calls for assistance.

The secretary is with him in an instant, and summons the attendants. Weary, and utterly exhausted, they lay him on his bed, where he weeps and groans, as much from anguish of mind as from bodily pain. He feels that nothing can amuse or delight him more, neither singing men nor singing women, the wonders of art, or the flattery of Courts. From henceforth to him the world must evermore be mute; the flowers in the gardens he has created shall no longer fling their scented blossoms at his feet; to him the birds are dumb in the groves he has planted, the fruits cease to be luscious, and the sun is already darkened by the shadow of death. His face turns of an ashy hue, and he feebly calls for his physician.

One of the many attendants that hover about his bed (each one hoping to be remembered in that will of his, of which all Paris has heard), flies to fetch him. He appears in the person of GuÉnaud, the Court doctor of that day.

Mazarin has revived a little. He is propped up on pillows, to relieve his breathing, which, by reason of the oppression on his chest, is laboured and difficult. At the sight of GuÉnaud he trembles; his teeth chatter. He has summoned the leech, and now he dares not hear what he has to say. Mazarin, with his sensuous Italian temperament, clings wildly to life. He shrinks from the dark horrors of the grave—he, who adores sunshine, warmth, open air, and beauty.

"Well, GuÉnaud, well. You are in haste to come to me."

"Your eminence sent for me," replied the physician gravely, bowing to the ground; then he contemplates the Cardinal with that all-seeing eye for obvious symptoms and for remote details, that makes the glance of a doctor so awful to the sick.

"I—I am better, GuÉnaud—much better, now; I had fatigued myself among my pictures. But I did much, GuÉnaud—I did too much. I even crawled to my stables—to my garden; I am gaining strength. To-morrow——"

Mazarin stops; a severe fit of coughing almost suffocates him. Again the ashy hue—grey as the shadows of departing day when the sun has set—overcasts his features. GuÉnaud does not reply, but still contemplates his patient attentively. The Cardinal looks up; a hectic colour flushes his cheeks.

"Come," says he, "speak; be honest with me. I am better?" GuÉnaud bows.

"I trust so," replies he.

"Sangue di Dio!"—and the Cardinal grows crimson, and clenches his thin fingers with nervous agony—"speak. Your silence agitates me. What have you to tell me? How long have I to live? Shall I recover?"

GuÉnaud shakes his head. Mazarin's face again becomes of a sudden deadly pale. He leans back on his pillows, and sniffs a strong essence in a filigree bottle lying by his side. "GuÉnaud," says he, "I dread death, but I am no coward. I am prepared for the worst."

"I rejoice to hear it," answers the physician solemnly, feeling his pulse. "You will have need of all your fortitude."

"Is it so? Well, then, let me hear my fate!"

"Your eminence cannot live long. Nothing can save you."

A strange look of determination comes into the Cardinal's eyes as GuÉnaud speaks. Mazarin was, as he said, no coward; but the flesh was weaker than the spirit, and shrank from suffering and disease. Now that he has heard the truth, he bears it better than would appear possible in one so slight, nervous, and attenuated.

"I cannot flatter your eminence," continues GuÉnaud, "your disease is incurable; but I admit that remedies may prolong your life, though they cannot preserve it. Remedies, ably administered, can do much, even in fatal cases."

"I respect your frankness, doctor," says the Cardinal calmly. "Speak out, how long can I last?"

"Your eminence may hope to live for two months, perhaps, by following the rules I shall prescribe."

"Well, well—two months! Ah, it is a short time,"—and a nervous spasm passes over his face, and his hands twitch with a convulsive spasm. "I do not die of old age; I have sacrificed my life to France and to the King. I never got over that negotiation at the Pyrenees. Well, well—so be it. At least, I know my fate. This interval must be consecrated to the care of my soul. Two months! I shall do my best. All my brother prelates will assist me——"

"To live, your eminence?"

"No, no, GuÉnaud,"—and the shadow of a smile passes over his thin white lips,—"no, no, not to live, but to die; to die for the sake of the abbeys, bishoprics, and canonries my death will leave vacant. In two months one may have a world of indulgences; that is something. The Holy Father will rejoice at having my patronage; he is sure to give me a helping hand; and plenty of indulgences. I stand well with the Pope, GuÉnaud. But—but my pictures, my statues—a collection I have been making all my life, at such a vast expense. Who knows, GuÉnaud? you may be mistaken," he added, brightening up, his mercurial nature rushing back into its accustomed channel at the recollection of what had been the passion of his life. "Who knows, I may get better!" and his eye turns sharply upon the physician, with a sparkle of its accustomed fire; "eh, GuÉnaud—who knows?" GuÉnaud bows, but is silent. "You may be mistaken. Non importa, I must think of my soul. It is indeed a great trial—a sore trial—a man of my age, too, with so many years to live! and such a collection! You know my collection, GuÉnaud?"

"Yes, your eminence," answers he, bowing.

"The finest in Europe," sighs Mazarin, "and not yet finished; fresh works coming in daily. A great trial—but I must think of my soul. Go now, GuÉnaud; come again to-morrow. Perhaps—who knows?—you may see some change, some improvement—who knows?"

GuÉnaud shakes his head silently, and withdraws.

Meanwhile the Queen-mother, Anne of Austria, informed of Mazarin's desperate condition, hastens to visit him. She is attended by her gossiping ladies, eager to catch every word, and with nods and winks, and sighs of affected sympathy—to comment on her sorrowful expression.

Her Majesty is pale and sad; tears gather in her eyes as she advances towards the bed on which Mazarin lies, and she asks with a timid yet tender voice after his health. He replies that he is very ill, and repeats to her what GuÉnaud had told him. If I were to add that he displayed to the Queen and her ladies one of his bare legs, to afford ocular demonstration of his reduced condition, I fear I should be accused of imitating the mauvaise langue of Madame de Noailles. But he really did so, to the great grief of Anne of Austria, and to the utter discomfiture and horror of her less sympathising ladies in waiting, who rapidly retreat into the recesses of the windows, or behind the draperies of the apartment, to escape so unpleasant a spectacle.

"Look!" exclaims Mazarin, thrusting forward his leg—"look, Madame, at the deplorable condition to which I am reduced by my incessant anxiety for the welfare of France! And to leave my pictures too,—my statues. Ah, Madame, it is a bitter trial!"

Soon after this extraordinary interview, and when all the world believed Mazarin to be dead or dying, the cunning Italian, determined once more to dupe the whole Court, and deceitful in his death as he had been in his life, gave orders that his convalescence should be announced. He caused himself to be painted white and red, dressed in his Cardinal's purple robes, and placed in a sedan chair with all the glasses down. Thus he was wheeled along the broad terraces of his garden, taking care to be well observed by the vast crowd collected by the news of his recovery. For a moment he presented the appearance of health and vigour. But the effort he had forced himself to make, in order to enact this ghastly comedy, was too much for his remaining strength. He swooned in his sedan chair, and was brought back and placed on his bed, never to rise again. Thus died as he had lived, Cardinal Mazarin, a dissembler and a hypocrite; but a great minister. Not cruel or bloodthirsty, like Richelieu, though equally unscrupulous, Mazarin gained the end he had in view by patience, cunning, and intrigue. At his death he left France, already exhausted by the wars of the Fronde, completely subdued; and in such a state of abject submission to the throne, as paved the way to the extravagance and oppression of Louis XIV's reign.