The state of France at that time was curious, and worthy of a short description. It shall be very short, reader, for I am aware how tiresome such details are to three classes of people,—to those who know every thing, to those who know nothing, and to those who want to "get on with the story." But it will save us a world of trouble hereafter, and spare us the use of that bad beast, Explanation, which is always trotting with the wrong leg foremost.

In England, the Wars of the Roses, the salutary severity of that great king, Richard the Third, the avarice of his successor, the tyranny of the eighth Henry and his two daughters, had swept away the exorbitant power and privileges which the feudal system had conferred upon the high nobility. But in France not even the wise rigor of some of her kings—not even the sanguinary struggles of the League—had effected nearly so much. Indeed, the termination of the wars of the League had wellnigh undone what had previously been accomplished toward restricting the inordinate independence of the nobles; for Henry IV., after having conquered his enemies, was obliged to buy them, and to make concessions which would have rendered the sceptre powerless in any hand less mighty than his own.

When the knife of Ravaillac placed Louis XIII. on the throne of France, troubles of various kinds succeeded, which not only weakened the royal authority but impoverished the kingdom; and at the moment when the Cardinal de Richelieu laid his strong hand upon the reins of government, the weak monarch, feeling his own incompetence, had fallen almost into a state of despair from the troubles and dangers around him. But the words of an author who wrote while despotism still existed theoretically in France will give us a good picture of the ideas of the day, though we may not coincide with him in his conclusions.

"Louis," says the writer of whom I speak, "to excuse the timidity of his council, did not fail to repeat the statements made to him every day about the weakness of his kingdom, and to assert that by a firmer course he would run the risk of bringing wars upon his hands which he could not support. The prelate [Richelieu] overthrew all these objections, by showing the young monarch the resources of France,—her immense population, the bravery of her inhabitants, the fertility of her soil, the abundance and variety of her productions, her beautiful forests, her quarries, the riches of her mines,—above all, her wine and her salt, gifts of Nature which other nations are obliged to come to her and ask for; her rivers almost all navigable, so favorable to internal commerce; her happy position between two seas, favorable to external; the strength of her frontiers, defended by rivers and mountains, natural ramparts, or by cities which a little art would render impregnable; in fine, the very constitution of her government, which gave to a single man the power to put all these resources in action by one word and in one instant.

"Richelieu then proceeded to assert that the principal cause of the depression of France amongst the nations was that she tolerated various religions in her bosom, and doubtless he had determined to root out that evil; but there was another which he clearly saw, but concealed from the king, and against which he afterward waged a continual war, by art, by arms, and by the axe: this was the independent power of the nobles, which, in fact, gave all its strength to religious faction."

In that day, every high noble had his city or his castle, which he did not scruple, on slight pretexts, to garrison against his sovereign, and very often resisted the royal troops with so much success as to force the monarch to purchase his submission. Such was the case, but two or three years before the time of which I write, with the Marquis de la Force at Montauban; such the case with the Count de Coligni at AÏgues Mortes. A marshal's baton, a large sum of money, the government of a province, the revenues of an abbey, were the reward of acts which Richelieu resolved should in future be rewarded by exile or the axe.

A report of the surprise of one of these feudal fortresses at this very period gives a vivid picture not only of the state of France in a time of profound peace, but of the strength of the castle itself. "They [the citizens of ChÂteau Renard]," says Monsieur de Fougeret, in his Relation, "obtained possession with the armed hand on the 27th May, 1621, at four o'clock in the afternoon, of the fortress called the Castellet, which commanded their town, and in which the lords of Chatillon had kept a garrison for the last twenty-five years. The walls were four toises and a half in thickness; and there were within many chambers, casemates, prisons, dungeons, cellars, a well, ovens, hand-mills, battering-pieces, falconets, powder, ammunition of every kind, and a private subterranean passage to come and go under cover all about the said fortress, all terraced within."

Instead of attempting to remedy this state of things, Louis had recognised and acted upon the system which he had found in existence, and about this time, in the case of Richelieu himself, not only permitted him to maintain a guard of musketeers, but gave him the town of Brouage "as a place of surety."

To strike at the root of such a system of legalized rebellion at once was impossible; but the cardinal had resolved to make his master, or his master's minister, King of France in reality as well as in name, to curb and humiliate the high nobility, and in the end to make them servants instead of rulers of the state. To effect this, the first step was to strike them with terror, and, although the name of Richelieu had already become redoubtable to many, to make it a word of omen to all. The first acts of a terrible tragedy arranged for that purpose were actually passing before the eyes of the court at the time when Edward Langdale arrived in Nantes. The Duke of VendÔme, the governor of the province of BrÉtagne, and his brother the Grand Prior of France, were both already prisoners in the castle of Amboise,—a place full of the memories of cruelty, treachery, and crime; and Marshal Ornano was in the prison of Vincennes. Chalais—once a great favorite, and still Master of the Robes to the King—was in the dungeons of Nantes, waiting trial and judgment by an iniquitous and illegal tribunal. No victims could have been better chosen for the gods whom Richelieu sought to propitiate: VendÔme and the Grand Prior were natural sons of Henry IV. and half-brothers of the actual monarch. The one humbled himself completely before the minister, and issued out of prison stripped of all his offices and property, and reduced to the revenue of a simple and even needy gentleman. The Grand Prior conceded nothing, confessed nothing, and died in prison. Ornano also died a captive, exclaiming, almost with his last breath, "Ah, cardinal, what power thou hast!" But the Count de Chalais was the choice victim, reserved for the most conspicuous sacrifice. Of the high house of Talleyrand-Perigord, grandson of the great and terrible Montluc, held up to envy by the favor of the king and the high dignities to which he seemed treading a rapid course, the news that he was arrested, thrown into a solitary dungeon, forbidden communication with any one, to be tried by a high commission, spread that air of fear and gloom over the court and city which Edward Langdale had remarked on entering Nantes. No one knew how far the conspiracy extended; no one knew who was next to fall. All were aware, however, that the number of noble gentlemen and ladies under suspicion was immense, and that the king's own brother himself trembled at the consequences of his rash acts and purposes. A pause of hope came in the midst of all these disquietudes. The commission had sat once, presided over by Marillac, the lord-keeper; and it began to be whispered that the prisoner had defended himself so well, had cast so much suspicion upon the documents produced against him, and had shown so clearly that the graver parts of the accusation were utterly improbable and probably false, that even the fickle king, whose affection he had long lost, expressed convictions in his favor. But that same day, in the darkness of the night, Richelieu's chamber was left vacant; that same night a muffled cavalier passed Edward Langdale and descended to the dungeons; that same night the jailer gave the stranger admission to the cell of the unhappy Count de Chalais; and that same night the king was roused to receive the cardinal, bearing him important intelligence.

Previous to that hour, Richelieu had been restless, imperious, anxious, irritable: the first proceedings of the commissioners had brought him, evidently, any thing but satisfaction; but a strange change came over him in a few hours. When De Tronson visited him on the morning of the day succeeding his mysterious interview with the prisoner Chalais, he found him calm, placable, even sportive. The mind was evidently at ease: he had slept, he said, like a child: some great object was accomplished,—some mighty triumph gained,—some move on the wide chess-board made which insured the game. There had been a moment of apprehension, a moment of danger: if he failed against Chalais, the fabric of his power, the cement of which was hardly dry, would tumble about his ears. But Richelieu was not destined to fail. He had taken the necessary course, however terrible, however unusual, however strange; and now he could not only repose in peace, but he could be as playful as his cat.

The cardinal's equipage had been ordered for his beautiful house of Beauregard, not far from the walls of Nantes, at one o'clock; and he set out for that place at the exact hour. Shortly after he was gone, the Duke of Anjou applied to see him at his usual apartments in the castle. The air of the king's brother was somewhat troubled,—not greatly, for he thought he had assured himself that the rumor of Chalais having made some unexpected confession was false. The duke was, as all the world knew, timid and feeble, and less personally brave than his brother; and the very first reports of a confession made by Chalais, which he feared might compromise himself, had induced him to see the king and ask his permission to go for a few days to the sea-side to recover his health. Louis, with his habitual hypocrisy, caressed his brother, whom he hated, but told him he must apply to the cardinal for the permission he required. The manner of the king was so gentle and so smooth that Gaston of Anjou was quite deceived. He mounted his horse within the hour, and, followed by a gay and brilliant company, rode out for Beauregard. Richelieu had watched his coming from the window, and met him at the top of the great stairs. He conducted the prince into his private cabinet, and then begged him to be seated, himself standing in the presence of his sovereign's brother.

"Monsieur le Cardinal, I am anxious to go to the sea-side for a short time," said Gaston, "and my brother has no objection; but he requires first that I shall obtain your consent."

"How does your royal Highness propose to travel?" asked the minister.

"Oh, quite simply," replied the prince; "in fact, incognito."

"Would it not be better for your Highness to wait," said Richelieu, "at least, till your marriage with Mademoiselle de Montpensier has taken place? Then you can travel as a prince."

That marriage had been the central point of all the plots and intrigues of the court for months. Richelieu, knowing the volatile and intriguing spirit of the prince, as well as his wild ambition, had determined that Gaston should wed a French gentlewoman, whatever wealth she might bring him, rather than a princess who would insure to him the dangerous support of foreign aid. Chalais and his party had opposed such a union; Gaston had joined them; and round this simple opposition, Richelieu had woven a web of mingled facts and falsehoods which was of a far stronger texture than the young duke fancied at that moment.

"If I wait till I am married to Mademoiselle de Montpensier," said the Duc d'Anjou, "I shall not get to the sea-side this summer, at least."

"Why so?" asked the cardinal. "Why cannot the marriage take place in a few days?"

"I do not feel well," said the prince, who did not venture to say he would not conclude the marriage at all: "I am ill, and would rather regain my health before I marry. The sea-air will do me good."

The serpent-smile came upon Richelieu's lips again. "Oh, I have a prescription," he said, "which will cure the malady of your Highness very rapidly."

"How soon?" asked the prince, in a hesitating tone, not liking that smile, which he had seen before.

"In ten minutes," answered Richelieu, "for it cannot take long to act." And, opening his portfolio, he took forth a paper all written in a hand which Gaston knew too well. There, before his eyes, all apparently in the writing of the unhappy Chalais, was a confession of a treasonable conspiracy against the king and the state, in which he himself, Gaston of Anjou, and the young Queen Anne of Austria, were implicated by name. How much was really written by Chalais, how much had been added by the cardinal's skilful secretaries, has never been known; but Gaston was conscious that he was lost if he did not make his peace. After a moment of stupefied astonishment, he agreed to the proposed marriage,—agreed that it should take place immediately; but then, remembering his high position as brother of the reigning monarch and heir-presumptive to the throne, he began to make conditions,—demanded some security for the life, at least, of his friend and partisan Chalais.

But the terrible words which had long been hanging on the cardinal's lips were spoken at last, when the prince proposed some stipulations. "Perhaps," he said, "in the position in which your Highness now stands, it would be better to content yourself with the promise of your own life and liberty."

The young duke stood like one stupefied. The audacious idea that he—he, Gaston of Anjou—might possibly be brought to trial, condemned, executed, or sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, was spoken with calm civility, with courtly reverence for his high rank, but in a tone so cold, so grave, so determined, as to show that it was not unfamiliar to him who uttered it. A vague impression of the character of the man with whom he had to do—no definite perception, no clear insight into his character, but a sort of instinct, which seemed given to him on a sudden for his preservation—took possession of Gaston of Anjou. He yielded at once and entirely. A faint, hypocritical effort in favor of the unhappy Chalais, which Richelieu well knew how to parry with soft words and half-promises, was all that the selfish prince ventured to attempt. Toward himself, however, the minister showed himself unbounded in liberality. Dukedoms, Government posts to the amount of a million of revenue, were promised and given on the marriage of Monsieur with Mademoiselle de Montpensier; and the contract was sealed with the blood of Chalais. It was a part of Richelieu's system.

Vialart, Bishop of Avranches, a contemporary, remarks that the great minister was accustomed, in dealing with those nobles who had any real pretensions, to grant them even more than they could rightly claim; but, if they showed themselves insensible to such conduct, from that moment he had no mercy on them. It was a part of his system, also, to teach one to betray another. The weaknesses of the men with whom he had to do served him as much as their strength.

The art of fathoming the characters of those who surround us, and the science of applying their strong qualities against our enemies and using their weaknesses against themselves, is the great secret of ambition. By it, every usurper has risen to power; by it, most have maintained themselves in authority; and when they have fallen, it has been more frequently by a mistake in the character of others than by want of force in their own. It may seem a Machiavelian axiom; but, had I the wisdom of the great Florentine, I should not be at all ashamed of being compared, even in one short passage, to that wise, virtuous, much-misunderstood man. The axiom, however, applies as closely to nations as to individuals. It resolves itself simply into this:—Who knows a nation best will rule that nation best. We have a thousand illustrations of the fact; and Richelieu certainly knew the French nation—that is to say when speaking of those times—knew the nobility, as well as man could know them,—in the mass, and individually; and, whenever it suited his purpose to be stern, he knew no pity, showed no compassion; whenever there was no object in severity, he was kind, or gentle, or sportive.

The well-known anecdote of Boisrobert and Mademoiselle de Gournay, when the former induced Richelieu to bestow upon the good old poetess, first a pension of a hundred crowns for herself, then a pension of fifty crowns for her chambermaid, then a pension of twenty crowns for her cat, and, lastly, a pistole for each of the cat's kittens, shows to what extent his good-humor could be carried. On the other hand, the fate of Chalais, Montmorency, Cinq Mars, De Thou, Marillac, and a host of others, gives fearful evidence of his relentless vengeance. At the period of which I write, however, the harsher points of his character had not fully developed themselves: perhaps they were not fully formed; for the minister whom we see represented on the stage, at this very period of his history, as an old and almost decrepit man struggling with an imaginary conspiracy, was really only forty-two years of age, and vigorous in body as in intellect.[2]