WHILE these schemes for the downfall of his Patron were going forward at Narbonne, Chavigni spurred on rapidly towards Tarascon, where the falling Minister lay sick, both in body and in mind. Besides the personal attachment of the Statesman to Richelieu, who had formed his fortunes, and led him in the way to greatness, every consideration of his own interest bade him oppose the resignation of the Cardinal, which he clearly saw would bring inevitable destruction upon all persons connected with the existing ministry.

He had long perceived that a powerful party was forming against Richelieu, especially since his absence and illness gave facility to their operations. All Chavigni’s talents and influence had been exerted to oppose them; but that the Cardinal would resign his high office, he had never suspected for a moment, and therefore the tidings brought by Mazarin came upon him like a thunder-stroke, taking from him all faculty of thought, but on that one thing. He was well aware too, that it was no easy task to turn Richelieu from his purpose; and as he rode on, his mind was solely occupied by a thousand tumultuous and ill-digested plans, for preventing the execution of what the Cardinal designed.

Daylight set in the west, and night fell heavily over the earth without exciting a thought in the bosom of Chavigni; for the irritation of his feelings took away all sensation of bodily fatigue, and almost all attention to external objects, till at length the failing pace of his horse showed him that he at least must have rest; and accordingly he paused for a short space at a little village, a few leagues from Tarascon, in order to refresh his beast. But even here the agitation of his mind prevented him from seeking any repose himself, and he continued walking up and down before the little auberge, for the time that he was thus compelled to remain.

It was considerably past midnight, when Chavigni arrived at the residence of the Minister. On entering the court-yard, all was in darkness, except where, in one spot, a light was seen burning in the chamber of the invalid, and throwing dark across the window the bent shadow of a sleeping attendant. The Statesman fastened his horse to one of the iron hooks in the court-yard, and advanced, intending to make himself heard by some one within, but he found that the grooms, grown negligent during their Lord’s sickness, had left the door unfastened, and pushing it with his hand, it readily gave way. “It is like his fate,” thought Chavigni: “while he is ill and sleeping, the gate is left open, and any one may enter.”

Passing onward through the hall, he now mounted the grand staircase, lighted by a lamp that had been left to die out as it might, and approached the room where the Cardinal lay.

The door of the antechamber opened stiffly, but still the drowsy attendant did not awake; and Chavigni passed on into the bed-chamber of the Cardinal, without any one being aware of his presence. “Were this but known,” thought the Statesman, “how many assassins’ hands would now be armed for this one man’s destruction!”

It was Richelieu alone, who, lying in feverish restlessness, caught the sound of approaching steps; and there was a sort of intensity in the glance which he fixed on the door communicating with the anteroom, which seemed to say that his judgment of the visitor’s purpose was not very favourable. However that might be, whether from the recklessness of illness, or from the torpor of one who regards the future as a blank, he took no farther notice of the sound he heard, than by fixing his eyes sternly on the door. But the next moment, as the light fell strongly on the face of his friend, the countenance of Richelieu brightened with a smile; and perceiving that Chavigni, who did not see he was awake, approached silently towards the attendant to rouse him, the Cardinal pronounced his name in an under-tone, and beckoned him towards his bedside.

“It is grateful,” said Richelieu, as the Statesman drew near, “to find that even declining fortunes cannot alienate some hearts. You have seen Mazarin, I suppose.”

Chavigni was about to answer, but the sound of the Cardinal’s voice had awakened the attendant, who was now gazing about in no small alarm, on perceiving a stranger standing by the Minister’s bedside. Richelieu, however, without showing any anger at his negligence, calmly commanded him to leave them; and as soon as they were alone, Chavigni proceeded. “I have seen Cardinal Mazarin, my Lord, and from him I have learned a piece of news which grieves me most deeply. I cannot believe that illness can have so far depressed the spirits of your Eminence, as to make you entertain the thought of casting from you all those high honours, which you have so long enjoyed, and of leaving France, in a moment of her greatest peril, to be governed by the hands of the weak and the designing.”

“It is not illness, Chavigni,” replied the Cardinal, with a melancholy shake of the head. “No! but my day is over. The power has passed from my hands, and it only remains for me to yield the name of it, before that too is taken from me by my enemies.”

“Pardon me, your Eminence,” said Chavigni; “but indeed the power is not gone from you. Under whose orders are our armies fighting? Under whose command is every city and fortress in France? Is it the character of a great man—is it the character of a brave man, to yield all without a struggle?—to cast away the sword he has so long wielded, and to give himself bound into the hands of his adversaries?”

“Mark me, Chavigni,” said Richelieu, raising himself upon his elbow, “Louis is now within the distance of a few leagues. He knows that I am ill—perhaps that I am dying; and yet, by no sign of common courtesy does he show that he remembers me. But that was not the beginning. I saw that my power was gone, when he dared, in the face of all the Council, to annul the sentence I had passed on that arrogant, stiff-necked Count de Blenau, who had the hardihood to defy the utmost extent of my power.” And the Minister’s eyes flashed with the memory of his anger.

“Had your Eminence followed my advice,” replied Chavigni, “that business would never have occurred. There is that sort of gallant magnanimity about Claude de Blenau which carries all before it; and I felt assured that neither fear nor interest would ever induce him to disclose any thing intrusted to his honour. Depend upon it, Monseigneur, that it is better not to meddle with such men, when we can avoid it.”

“Well, well, Sir,” exclaimed the Cardinal, impatiently, “without doubt you were quite right and I was quite wrong. But do not teach me to believe that you too, Chavigni, lose your respect for my person when my power is failing.”

“Pardon me, your Eminence,” replied Chavigni, in a tone of deep feeling, “you wrong me much. Your Eminence has been more than a father to me. During the continuance of your power you have always exerted it in my favour; and whether it remains with you or not, my respect and my affection will never fail to follow you in every situation. Believe me, Monseigneur, that it is that respect and affection, which brings me here even now, to petition that you will wave your intention of——”

“Chavigni, it is useless,” interposed the Cardinal. “I have only the choice left, to yield it of my own free will, or to have it wrenched from my unwilling hand. Judge which is the wisest—judge which is the best.”

“Were that certainly the case,” said Chavigni, thoughtfully.

“It is certainly the case,” replied the Minister. “There are many, many combined against me:—singly, they are but reeds, and one by one I would break them like reeds; but united together, and with the King at their head,”—and he shook his head despairingly,—“they are far too strong either for you or me!”

“But could no means be found to separate them? Bethink you, Monseigneur,—avarice, revenge, ambition, might sow the seeds of discord amongst them, and give them like sheep into our hands.”

“It is too late, my friend!” replied the Cardinal: “it is too late! Had I foreseen it, I might have prevented their combining. I might have crushed some, and bribed others; destroyed the powerful, and overawed the timid. But it is now too late!”

“But whom does your Eminence think particularly implicated?” demanded Chavigni.

“Oh, there are many—many—many!” replied Richelieu, withdrawing the thin pale hand he had stretched over his face as he finished the last desponding words “too late,” probably desirous of hiding the emotion produced by the conviction that his power was irretrievably gone. However, when that hand was removed, his countenance showed no traces of any remaining agitation. “There are many, Chavigni,” he said: “there are Vendome, and Bouillon, and noisy Beaufort, and turbulent Gaston of Orleans, and witty Marsillac, and cool, moralizing De Thou, who has so often dared to pry into my actions and condemn them;—then there is, above all, sly Fontrailles, and Cinq Mars, whom I——”

“Ha!” exclaimed Chavigni, as the Cardinal’s words recalled to his mind the conversation between Cinq Mars and Fontrailles—“I had forgot—like an idiot, I had forgot!” and he struck his clenched hand violently against his brow, as if he sought to punish his own folly. “But it is not yet too late,” he cried, “it is not yet too late.”

“Forgot what, Chavigni?” demanded the Cardinal, seeing with astonishment the emotion which was called up in his friend by the remembrance of so great an oversight. “Forgot what? Too late for what? What is it moves you so deeply?”

“Pardon me, your Eminence,” replied Chavigni, “I have not time to explain; only I have to ask two favours. The first is, that you will let me take a stout horse from your stables; mine will go no farther. The next,” he added, in a tone of greater composure, but still one of earnest entreaty—“the next is, if you had ever a regard for me—if ever I served you well and faithfully, that you will promise me to take no step in the business we have spoken of, till my return; which shall be before to-morrow evening.”

“It can make but little difference waiting till that time,” answered the Cardinal. “But what is the matter, Chavigni? What is it agitates you thus?”

“Have I your promise, Monseigneur?” asked Chavigni quickly.

“You have,” said Richelieu. “Out of regard for you, and solely because you ask it, I will suspend my resolution till your return.”

“Well then, God protect your Eminence till we meet again!” exclaimed the Statesman. “I go upon your service; and if I do not succeed, I care not how soon my head may be brought to the block, as a just punishment for my mad forgetfulness.” Thus saying, he quitted the room, and descending to the stables, called up the grooms whose sleepy movements ill accorded with the rapid emotions of his bosom. Now the stirrups were not long enough, then the girths had to be buckled tighter, then the bit was mislaid, and then the crupper could not be found. At length, however, the horse was fully prepared, and calling for a cup of wine, Chavigni drained it to the bottom, and galloping out of the court, was soon once more on the road to Narbonne. But it was in vain that he used whip and spur to arrive at that town before the hour appointed for the Italian’s departure. Ere he had measured half the way, the day rose bright over the hills before him, and clenching his hands, he exclaimed in the bitterness of disappointment, “Too late! I am too late!” Still, however, he went on at full speed, hoping that by sending out couriers in every different direction he might yet overtake the messenger.

Every one who has ridden from Tarascon to Narbonne must remember the picturesque beauties of that part of the country. At the spot where Chavigni had now arrived, high rocks breaking forth from a thick covering of wood skirted his way on each side, and having ascended to the top of the hill, an immense valley lay before him, scattered with forests and broken into a thousand inferior ridges, some of which bore upon their summits the steeple of a village church, some the ruins of those ancient towers which had been erected in days gone by to defend the passes from the neighbouring Moors of Spain. At his feet thin waves of white mist floating in the morning light, partially obscured the road he was going, till, rising out of the trees, it was seen winding along the mountains on the other side. Chavigni paused for a moment to trace its direction; and as he did so, his eye fell upon the figure of a single horseman, descending into the valley from the opposite hill.

“Whom have we here?” thought the Statesman, not without a faint hope that it might be the person he sought. Spurring on his horse, however, he rode forward to meet him; but on reaching the bottom of the descent, the figure he had seen from above became hidden by the windings of the road amongst the trees, and Chavigni’s heart fluttered lest the horseman, whoever he was, might have taken the other road which turned through the valley to the left.

At length, however, the sound of a horse’s feet was heard approaching quickly towards him, and, certain that he must now pass that way, the Statesman drew in his rein, and stood with his eyes intently fixed upon the spot where the road verged into the forest. As there was still a considerable descent from the spot where Chavigni paused to the bottom of the valley, the sound was heard for a long time coming nearer and nearer before any one appeared. At length, however, the horseman came in sight, presenting to the glad eyes of the Statesman the identical figure of the Italian, Villa Grande, with his long sword, extensive mustaches, and a pair of heavy pistols at his saddle-bow.

Chavigni doubted not that to possess himself of the papers which the Italian carried, would require a desperate struggle, but without a moment’s hesitation he drew his sword, and galloped on to attack him. No sooner had Villa Grande perceived a stranger on the road before him, than he reined in his horse; but now, as Chavigni rode on full speed towards him with a menacing attitude and drawn sword, the Italian, in his terror, conceived at once that it was a robber, and throwing himself to the ground in mortal fear, he fell on his knees, exclaiming—“I will give it you all—every ducat, only spare my life!”

“Rise, rise! cowardly villain!” cried Chavigni, catching the bridle of the Italian’s horse, which was starting away with a wild toss of the head, as the Statesman rode up;—“rise, Sir Poltroon! do you not know me?”

“Know you! know you!” exclaimed Villa Grande, gazing wildly at Chavigni. “Oh, Monseigneur, is it you? How you frightened me!” But Villa Grande, who had trembled sufficiently when he thought it was a robber, trembled ten times more than ever as he recognised the Statesman; and he could scarcely find strength in his knees to raise himself from the ground.

“Rise, Sir!” exclaimed Chavigni impatiently; “and instantly give me the treaty.”

“Treaty!” cried Villa Grande, still trembling, but endeavouring to put on a look of astonishment. “What treaty does Monseigneur mean? I know of no treaty.”

“Lying slave!” exclaimed Chavigni, striking him with the flat side of his sword; “if you do not produce it within ten seconds of time, by Heaven I will cut it out of your base cowardly heart!”

“But if I do——” said the Italian, seeing there was no escape left.

“Come, Sir,” cried the Statesman; “no buts for me. If you stand shuffling one minute more, I will run my sword through you, and search for it on your carcase myself.”

“Well, well! Monseigneur, I see you know it all, and therefore it will be no stain on my honour if I give it to you.”

“Honour!” cried Chavigni, with a scoff.—“Come, Sir, the treaty.”

Villa Grande approached his horse, and raising the flap of the saddle, with shaking hands, drew forth, from a pocket concealed in the padding, a large paper sealed in an envelope. Chavigni caught it eagerly from his grasp, and running his eye over the address, he read—“To Monseigneur the Duke de Bouillon, Commander-in-Chief of all the armies of France, warring in Italy.”—“Ha!” continued the Statesman, “this is not the road to Italy. What brings you here?” and he turned towards Villa Grande. But while the Statesman’s eyes were fixed upon the paper, the wily Italian had begun to creep towards the wood; Chavigni, however, perceiving his design, caught one of the pistols from the horse’s saddle-bow, and pointing it towards the fugitive, soon brought him back again. “Stand you there, Sir,” said he. “Now tell me what makes you here, when this packet was intended for Italy?”

“Why, Monseigneur—why—why—to tell the truth, there was another little despatch to be delivered on the frontiers of Spain; here it is;” and diving into a deep pocket in his doublet, he produced a packet smaller than the other, and gave it into Chavigni’s hand. “And now, Monseigneur, I have freely discovered all I know,” continued Villa Grande, “I hope that you, Monseigneur, will promise me your protection; for if the other party get hold of me, they will murder me to a certainty.”

Chavigni made no answer, but without any ceremony broke the seals of the two packets, and passing his horse’s bridle over his arm while he read them, he opened the treaty, and turned to the list of names by which it was signed. In the mean while, Villa Grande kept his eyes fixed upon him, watching for a favourable moment to escape, if the Statesman’s attention should be sufficiently engaged to allow him so to do.

“Ah! here I have them fairly written,” proceeded Chavigni, speaking to himself. “Philip, the most Catholic!—Olivarez!—then follow Gaston of Orleans; Cinq Mars, Grand Ecuyer—Fontrailles;—and a space—for Bouillon of course. Now let us see the letter to the noble Duke;” and he opened the one which he found in the same packet with the treaty. But as he read, his eye fixed with painful earnestness upon the paper, and the colour fled from his cheek. “God of Heaven! what is this?” said he, reading. “‘Though I doubt not, my noble friend, that after all which has lately passed, you would put your forces in motion at my simple desire, the King’s command is yet higher authority; and that I now send you, to march with all speed to the frontier, embarking five thousand foot at Porto Longone, to land at Marseilles. All this in case the friends and adherents of Richelieu should attempt to make head against the royal authority.’——”

“All is lost!” muttered Chavigni. “But let us see the whole, at least, to provide for our own safety;” and he again turned to the paper, which proceeded—“‘I send you the treaty with Spain for your signature, which is especially necessary to the article relative to your principality of Sedan. The troops of his Catholic Majesty are on the frontier, ready to march at our command; but I have been obliged to conceal from the King our Spanish connexion, as his hatred to that country is as great as ever.’”

“I have you! I have you! Monsieur Cinq Mars,” exclaimed Chavigni, clasping his hands with joy. “This treaty is your death warrant, or I know not King Louis.—Italian scoundrel!” he continued, turning to look for Villa Grande—“Ha! the slave has escaped—that must not be; he were the best witness in the world against them;” and springing from his horse, he tied him to a tree together with that of the Italian.

While Chavigni had been reading, with all his attention fixed upon the paper, and all his passions excited by its contents, Villa Grande, watching his moment, had crept gradually to the edge of the wood, and darted into a narrow path, half covered with branches. But though the way he had taken was thus, in a degree, concealed, it did not escape the quick eye of the Statesman; and as the motions of the Italian, till he had got into the wood, had been necessarily cautious, in order not to call his attention; Chavigni, following as fast as lightning, soon caught the sound of his retreating footsteps, reverberated from the rocks around. As he advanced, he called loudly to the Italian to stop, and that he should have a free pardon; but Villa Grande, trusting to the distance that was still between them, and hoping, if he could elude immediate pursuit, to be able to escape into Spain, continued running on, while Chavigni as perseveringly followed, threatening and promising by turns, but alike without effect.

At length the strength of the Italian, already diminished by fear, began to fail entirely; and Chavigni found that the distance between them was rapidly lessening, when in a moment the sound of footsteps, which had hitherto guided him, ceased entirely—a cry of agony reached his ear; and running still more quickly forward, he, too, had nearly been precipitated over the edge of a steep crag, which, in the hurry of his flight, the unhappy Italian had not noticed. The Statesman’s first impulse was to start back, for he was on the very brink of the precipice before he was aware; but soon recovering himself, he approached the edge, and looking over, beheld the mangled form of Villa Grande lying on some rough stony ground at the bottom of the rock.

“God of Heaven!” cried Chavigni, “what a fall! The poor wretch must surely be dead. However, he must not lie there, for the wolves will soon be at him;” and looking around, he sought for some way to descend the rock. It was a considerable time before he could accomplish his object, but at length he succeeded, and on arriving at the spot where Villa Grande lay, he found that the Italian, in his flight, had taken a diagonal path through the forest, which cut off a large bend in the main road, and joined it again by a zig-zag path down the rock at some distance. Thus the spot where Villa Grande was then lying, was about half a mile from the place at which he had first been encountered by Chavigni, if the high road was followed; but by the path through the wood the distance could not be more than a few hundred yards. Chavigni’s first care was to examine the body of the Italian, who was so entirely deprived of sense, that at first the Statesman believed him to be dead; but in a moment or two some signs appeared which led him to conclude that life was not completely extinct; and taking him in his arms he carried him to the spot where the horses stood. Here he placed him on the stout black hunter which Cinq Mars had lent, and led him slowly to a small town about a mile farther on the road.

It has been already stated, that hardly was there a village so small in the whole extent of France as not to be furnished with one or more of those agents of Richelieu’s minute policy, whose principal duty consisted in communicating every thing that passed around them to another class of superior agents, and also to facilitate all the secret operations of Government in the sphere ascribed to them. The actual pay received by these men was but small; but the favour shown to them on all occasions, and the facilities afforded to them in their more ordinary employments, put them above competition with others in the same class, and amply rewarded their private services: for it must always be remembered that their connexion with the Government was held as a profound secret, and consequently they always were seen to exercise some open trade, which, in most cases, prevented their less ostensible employment from being even suspected by their neighbours.

It was to the house of one of these inferior agents that Chavigni led the horse charged with the senseless body of Villa Grande; and having commanded that he should be taken in and placed in bed, he himself aided in endeavouring to recall him to life, partly from the natural humanity of his disposition, partly from those political considerations which were ever paramount in his mind. Villa Grande, if he could be restored, would prove, Chavigni knew, too excellent a witness against the conspirators whom he had served, to permit of his life being lightly cast away; especially as it was evident, that either fear or bribery would induce him to confess any thing: but even had it not been for this reflection, the Statesman’s natural disposition would probably have led him to succour the unhappy man, in whose misfortune he had been so greatly instrumental.

After many efforts, Villa Grande once more began to evince that the vital spark was not yet extinguished; and having so far succeeded, Chavigni, upon whose mind a thousand subjects of deep import were pressing every moment for attention, gave directions to the agent we have already mentioned, to show every attention to the wounded man, and to keep him, for that day, at his own house, which was situated a quarter of a league out of Limoux; but as soon as night came, to have him privately removed to Corneille, at which place a surgeon could be more easily procured from Carcasonne; and having reiterated the most strict injunctions to keep the whole business profoundly secret, lest the conspirators should learn the fate of their envoy, and take their measures accordingly, Chavigni once more turned his steps towards Tarascon, to recount to Richelieu the events of the day.