G. P. R. James

Which shows how a King made reparation, and what came of it.

WHILE, as we have seen, Chavigni galloped off towards Tarascon, forgetting in the agitation produced by the tidings of Mazarin, to take those measures which he had proposed in regard to Villa Grande, Cinq Mars returned directly towards the palace, or rather, the house which had been converted into a palace for the King’s use. It was one of those old buildings which at that time were common in France, and which even now are often to be met with in cities where the remains of ancient splendour, left alone to the less destructive power of time, have not been demolished by the violence of turbulent times, or the still more inveterate enmity of modern improvement. The whole front, with the two octagonal towers at the sides, and the long corridors on the right and left hand of the court, were ornamented with a multitude of beautiful arabesques and bas reliefs. These last, the bas reliefs, entirely covered the principal faÇade of the building, and offered a number of pictures in stone, representing in some parts battles and triumphs, and in others displaying the humbler and more peaceful subjects of pastoral life and religious ceremonies. Amongst the rest was one medallion which caught the attention of Cinq Mars; and as the failing light prevented him from seeing it where he stood, he approached to observe it. The chisel of the sculptor usurping the place of the pencil, had there pourtrayed a landscape with a flock of sheep pasturing quietly by the side of a brook, while a shepherd appeared sleeping under a hill, down which a wolf was seen stealing upon the flock. Underneath was written in old gothic characters, Eveillez vous, le loup s’approche.

Cinq Mars smiled as he read it, applying the warning to himself. “Let him come,” said he, thinking of Richelieu; “he will be caught himself.” So saying, he turned, and entering the Palace, retired to his own apartments. He had not remained there long, however, before he was once more joined by Fontrailles. “Follow me quick, Cinq Mars,” cried the conspirator; “the King asks for you. Now is the moment to speak to him. He thinks that his peevishness hurt you this morning, and he is willing to make atonement.”

It may be well supposed that Cinq Mars lost no time in following his companion up the great staircase to the King’s apartments. It was, indeed, as Fontrailles had said. Since his return, Louis had enjoyed an hour of repose, which cleared from his mind the irritability induced by fatigue, and made him reproach himself for the unkindness he had shown to one so devotedly attached to him as the Master of the Horse. The remembrance of it oppressed him, and he sent for his favourite, not indeed to apologize, but to wipe away the impression that his irritability had caused, by more than usual kindness and familiarity. The two conspirators found Louis seated in a cabinet, which, being placed in one of the towers, partook of its octangular form. The walls were wainscoted with dark carved oak, and even the plafond was all of the same gloomy-coloured material, except a massy gilt cornice and projecting rose in the centre, from which hung a single silver lamp, the rays of which, falling on the figure of the King beneath, gave an additional paleness to his worn but fine countenance, and slightly touching upon his plain black velvet suit, shone full on the richly illuminated book in which he had been reading.

Louis raised his eyes as Fontrailles entered, and then turning them full on the noble countenance of Cinq Mars who followed, a pleased smile beamed for a moment on his lip, and he exclaimed, “Well, Cinq Mars, art thou Nimrod enough to hunt again to-morrow after our misfortunes of to-day? Come in, Monsieur de Fontrailles,” he continued, seeing that Fontrailles remained near the door, hesitating whether he should retire or not, now that he had done the King’s bidding in summoning the Grand Ecuyer. “Come in, I pray—Sit you down, Gentlemen—it is the King’s request: you, Cinq Mars, here—Monsieur de Fontrailles, there is a seat. Now,” he continued, glancing his eye round as the light of the lamp gleamed faintly on their several countenances—“now we look like some secret triumvirate met to decide the fate of nations.”

“And that might be too,” replied Cinq Mars: “your Majesty to command, and we to execute.”

The King took no notice, but went on with what he had himself been saying: “There is Cinq Mars looks like a noble prince, and Fontrailles like a wily minister, and I—— I believe,” he continued laughing, “I have left myself no place but that of secretary.”

“Alas!” said Cinq Mars with a deep sigh, “alas! that there should be any man in your Majesty’s dominions more a king than yourself.”

Fontrailles and the King both started; and the Conspirator internally pronounced “All is lost,” while Cinq Mars himself, who had spoken without thought, only felt the imprudence of his speech when it was beyond recall.

“Cinq Mars! Cinq Mars!” cried Louis, “that is a daring speech;—but I know it proceeded from your love for me, and therefore I pardon it. But I will tell you that no man is more a King in France than I am.”

“I crave your Majesty’s gracious pardon,” replied the Master of the Horse. “If I have offended your Majesty, it was from love for you alone that I spoke. My words were bolder than my thoughts, and I only meant to say that I could wish to see my Monarch show himself that great King which he naturally is. I would fain see the staff of command withdrawn from one who abuses it.”

“Cinq Mars,” answered the King, “that staff is in my own hand. It was but lent, my friend; and it is now resumed.”

The Master of the Horse paused for a moment, not exactly certain how far he could rely upon the King’s good humour, which he had already tried so incautiously, and turned his eyes towards Fontrailles, as if for counsel.

“Speak, Cinq Mars,” said Louis, seeing his hesitation, “speak boldly, and fear not; for I fully believe that all your wishes are for my service, and I would fain hear the voice of those that regard me with affection, rather than for their own interest; and one of these do I hold you to be.”

“Your Majesty does me justice,” replied Cinq Mars. “Let me not offend you then, when I say that the power you lent is scarcely resumed while the title under which it was enjoyed remains. The Cardinal Duke of Richelieu, my liege, is still Prime Minister of France. He has still all the power (though not exercised), the revenues, the offices. Our soldiers are fighting at his command, our provinces are governed by his creatures, our high posts are filled by his friends. He has an army for his servants, and more than the riches of a prince. Why not—oh, why not, Sire, break the enchanter’s wand that gave him so much sway, and sweep away the hordes that prey upon the State, like swarms of flies upon a slain deer? Why not direct the operations of your troops yourself, and let the armies of France be the armies of the King, and not of Richelieu? Why not chase from your councils a man who has so often abused the generous confidence of his Sovereign, and make him disgorge the ill-gotten wealth which he has wrung from the hearts of your people?”

As he spoke, Cinq Mars grew warm with his subject; his eye sparkled, his arm was extended with that wild and graceful energy for which he was conspicuous; his words flowed uninterrupted, with all the eloquence of enthusiasm, and his fine and princely features acquired a new and striking expression, while, animated in the cause of his Country’s liberty, he pleaded against the tyrant who had oppressed both king and people. Louis gazed on him at first as on one inspired; but as a host of consequences crowded on his mind, threatening him with a thousand vague and unsubstantial dangers, he placed his hands before his eyes, and remained for some moments in deep thought.

“My friend,” said he at length, “what is it you would have me do? This man—this bad man if you will—but still this great man—is like an oak whose roots are deep in the earth; you may hew them asunder one by one, but it requires a giant’s strength to pluck the tree up at once. Richelieu’s power may be taken from him gradually; but to attempt what you propose, would instantly cause a rebellion amongst my subjects. He has so many who depend upon him; he has so many that are allied to him—”

“What!” exclaimed Cinq Mars, “shall it be said that King Louis was afraid to dismiss his own minister?”

“Not afraid for myself, Sir,” replied the King, somewhat sharply; “but afraid of bringing the miseries of civil war upon my people.”

Perceiving that Cinq Mars was urging the King too impetuously, Fontrailles, who had hitherto remained silent, now joined in the conversation in a soft insinuating tone, calculated to remove any newly raised irritation from Louis’s mind. “All danger, Sire,” said he, still labouring to quiet the King’s fears without opposing his opinion, “all danger, which might otherwise be imminent, could easily be obviated, by commanding the noble Duke of Bouillon—”

At the name of the Duke of Bouillon Louis made an impatient motion with his hand. “He is Spanish at his heart,” said he; “that Duke of Bouillon is Spanish, rank Spanish. But what of him, Monsieur de Fontrailles?”

“Believe me, my Liege,” replied Fontrailles, “the Duke of Bouillon, whom I know well, is not so much a friend to Spain as he is an enemy to Richelieu. Remember, Sire, how he is linked with the Prince of Orange, the sworn adversary of Spain.”

Louis shook his head doubtingly. “But what of him, Fontrailles? Come, to the point.”

“Only this, Sire,” said Fontrailles. “The Duke commands an army in Italy devoted to your Majesty’s service; but permit me or Cinq Mars to give him private orders in your name to march them into France, and who shall dare to murmur at your royal will?”

“Why, that might be done, it is true,” answered Louis; “but I am afraid, mon Grand,” he continued, applying to Cinq Mars the term by which he distinguished him in his kindest and most familiar moments—“I am afraid, mon Grand, that though thou art a keen huntsman and a good soldier, thou wouldst make but a sorry minister.”

“I minister!” exclaimed the Grand Ecuyer; “God forbid! No, no, my Lord! never did such a thought cross my imagination. Believe me, Sire, I had no view of personal aggrandizement in the proposal I submitted to your Majesty.”

“But if you take from Richelieu his office, whom do you wish to substitute in his place?” demanded Louis; “some one must be minister.”

“True, my Liege; but are there not thousands well fitted for the post?” said Cinq Mars—“Politicians as deep, but more humane than Richelieu—Men who can govern, and yet not tyrannize? I will undertake to find such a one for your Majesty, and yet remain myself fully satisfied with being the humble friend of my royal master, and the sincere well-wisher of my native Country. But let me order, in your name, the Duke of Bouillon to march into France; and then, provided with sufficient forces to disarm this usurping Minister, and overawe rebellion, your own royal will will be your only guide.”

“At present,” said Fontrailles, “the King’s love for his people operates in two opposing directions, making him anxious to relieve them from the burden under which they groan, yet fearful of throwing a portion of them into rebellion. But by the presence of the Duke’s army, the Minister might be removed, without endangering the tranquillity of the realm.”

“True,” said Louis; “true. Monsieur de Fontrailles, you say right;” and placing his hand before his eyes, the King thought for a moment, struggling inwardly to exert the powers of his mind, and call up sufficient resolution to deliver himself from the thraldom in which he had so long been held. But dangers, and doubts, and difficulties swam before his mental vision, like motes dancing in the sunbeam; and never destined in life to overcome his long-encouraged inactivity, he strove to cast the responsibility from himself. “Well, well,” exclaimed he, “Cinq Mars, you shall decide it; I will leave the conduct of it all to you. But beware that you do not bring the miseries of civil war upon my kingdom; for be assured that if you do, I will require it of you deeply—It is your own seeking, and the consequences be upon your own head.”

“Let it be so, then, my Liege,” cried Cinq Mars, kissing the emaciated hand of the feeble Monarch; “it shall not be my fault if France and my Sovereign are not soon freed from the cloud that has so long overshadowed them both.”

“Well, well,” said Louis, “we will trust in God for the event. But beware of Bouillon; Cinq Mars, he is rank Spanish at his heart. And now, gentlemen, to bed, for we must rise in time for our sport. But, in truth, I fear I shall not hunt much longer—the body fails me, Cinq Mars, though I was once a thing of strength, as thou art.”