Twenty years after
“To promote your majesty’s welfare, madame,” replied Mazarin, fixing
his penetrating eyes on the queen, “there is no sacrifice that I would
not make.”
Anne dropped her head and fell into one of those reveries so habitual
with her. A recollection of Athos came into her mind. His fearless
deportment, his words, so firm, yet dignified, the shades which by one
word he had evoked, recalled to her the past in all its intoxication of
poetry and romance, youth, beauty, the _éclat_ of love at twenty years
of age, the bloody death of Buckingham, the only man whom she had ever
really loved, and the heroism of those obscure champions who had saved
her from the double hatred of Richelieu and the king.
Mazarin looked at her, and whilst she deemed herself alone and freed
from the world of enemies who sought to spy into her secret thoughts,
he read her thoughts in her countenance, as one sees in a transparent
lake clouds pass—reflections, like thoughts, of the heavens.
“Must we, then,” asked Anne of Austria, “yield to the storm, buy peace,
and patiently and piously await better times?”
Mazarin smiled sarcastically at this speech, which showed that she had
taken the minister’s proposal seriously.
Anne’s head was bent down—she had not seen the Italian’s smile; but
finding that her question elicited no reply she looked up.
“Well, you do not answer, cardinal, what do you think about it?”
“I am thinking, madame, of the allusion made by that insolent
gentleman, whom you have caused to be arrested, to the Duke of
Buckingham—to him whom you allowed to be assassinated—to the Duchess de
Chevreuse, whom you suffered to be exiled—to the Duc de Beaufort, whom
you imprisoned; but if he made allusion to me it was because he is
ignorant of the relation in which I stand to you.”
Anne drew up, as she always did, when anything touched her pride. She
blushed, and that she might not answer, clasped her beautiful hands
till her sharp nails almost pierced them.
“That man has sagacity, honor and wit, not to mention likewise that he
is a man of undoubted resolution. You know something about him, do you
not, madame? I shall tell him, therefore, and in doing so I shall
confer a personal favor on him, how he is mistaken in regard to me.
What is proposed to me would be, in fact, almost an abdication, and an
abdication requires reflection.”
“An abdication?” repeated Anne; “I thought, sir, that it was kings
alone who _abdicated!_”
“Well,” replied Mazarin, “and am I not almost a king—king, indeed, of
France? Thrown over the foot of the royal bed, my simar, madame, looks
not unlike the mantle worn by kings.”
This was one of the humiliations which Mazarin made Anne undergo more
frequently than any other, and one that bowed her head with shame.
Queen Elizabeth and Catherine II. of Russia are the only two monarchs
of their set on record who were at once sovereigns and lovers. Anne of
Austria looked with a sort of terror at the threatening aspect of the
cardinal—his physiognomy in such moments was not destitute of a certain
grandeur.
“Sir,” she replied, “did I not say, and did you not hear me say to
those people, that you should do as you pleased?”
“In that case,” said Mazarin, “I think it must please me best to
remain; not only on account of my own interest, but for your safety.”
“Remain, then, sir; nothing can be more agreeable to me; only do not
allow me to be insulted.”
“You are referring to the demands of the rebels and to the tone in
which they stated them? Patience! They have selected a field of battle
on which I am an abler general than they—that of a conference. No, we
shall beat them by merely temporizing. They want food already. They
will be ten times worse off in a week.”
“Ah, yes! Good heavens! I know it will end in that way; but it is not
they who taunt me with the most wounding reproaches, but——”
“I understand; you mean to allude to the recollections perpetually
revived by these three gentlemen. However, we have them safe in prison,
and they are just sufficiently culpable for us to keep them in prison
as long as we find it convenient. One only is still not in our power
and braves us. But, devil take him! we shall soon succeed in sending
him to join his boon companions. We have accomplished more difficult
things than that. In the first place I have as a precaution shut up at
Rueil, near me, under my own eyes, within reach of my hand, the two
most intractable ones. To-day the third will be there also.”
“As long as they are in prison all will be well,” said Anne, “but one
of these days they will get out.”
“Yes, if your majesty releases them.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Anne, following the train of her own thoughts on such
occasions, “one regrets Paris!”
“Why so?”
“On account of the Bastile, sir, which is so strong and so secure.”
“Madame, these conferences will bring us peace; when we have peace we
shall regain Paris; with Paris, the Bastile, and our four bullies shall
rot therein.”
Anne frowned slightly when Mazarin, in taking leave, kissed her hand.
Mazarin, after this half humble, half gallant attention, went away.
Anne followed him with her eyes, and as he withdrew, at every step he
took, a disdainful smile was seen playing, then gradually burst upon
her lips.
“I once,” she said, “despised the love of a cardinal who never said ‘I
_shall_ do,’ but, ‘I _have_ done so and so.’ That man knew of retreats
more secure than Rueil, darker and more silent even than the Bastile.
Degenerate world!”
Chapter LXXXII.
Precautions.
After quitting Anne, Mazarin took the road to Rueil, where he usually
resided; in those times of disturbance he went about with numerous
followers and often disguised himself. In military dress he was,
indeed, as we have stated, a very handsome man.
In the court of the old Château of Saint Germain he entered his coach,
and reached the Seine at Chatou. The prince had supplied him with fifty
light horse, not so much by way of guard as to show the deputies how
readily the queen’s generals dispersed their troops and to prove that
they might be safely scattered at pleasure. Athos, on horseback,
without his sword and kept in sight by Comminges, followed the cardinal
in silence. Grimaud, finding that his master had been arrested, fell
back into the ranks near Aramis, without saying a word and as if
nothing had happened.
Grimaud had, indeed, during twenty-two years of service, seen his
master extricate himself from so many difficulties that nothing less
than Athos’s imminent death was likely to make him uneasy.
At the branching off of the road toward Paris, Aramis, who had followed
in the cardinal’s suite, turned back. Mazarin went to the right hand
and Aramis could see the prisoner disappear at the turning of the
avenue. Athos, at the same moment, moved by a similar impulse, looked
back also. The two friends exchanged a simple inclination of the head
and Aramis put his finger to his hat, as if to bow, Athos alone
comprehending by that signal that he had some project in his head.
Ten minutes afterward Mazarin entered the court of that château which
his predecessor had built for him at Rueil; as he alighted, Comminges
approached him.
“My lord,” he asked, “where does your eminence wish Monsieur Comte de
la Fère to be lodged?”
“In the pavilion of the orangery, of course, in front of the pavilion
where the guard is. I wish every respect to be shown the count,
although he is the prisoner of her majesty the queen.”
“My lord,” answered Comminges, “he begs to be taken to the place where
Monsieur d’Artagnan is confined—that is, in the hunting lodge, opposite
the orangery.”
Mazarin thought for an instant.
Comminges saw that he was undecided.
“’Tis a very strong post,” he resumed, “and we have forty good men,
tried soldiers, having no connection with Frondeurs nor any interest in
the Fronde.”
“If we put these three men together, Monsieur Comminges,” said Mazarin,
“we must double the guard, and we are not rich enough in fighting men
to commit such acts of prodigality.”
Comminges smiled; Mazarin read and construed that smile.
“You do not know these men, Monsieur Comminges, but I know them, first
personally, also by hearsay. I sent them to carry aid to King Charles
and they performed prodigies to save him; had it not been for an
adverse destiny, that beloved monarch would this day have been among
us.”
“But since they served your eminence so well, why are they, my lord
cardinal, in prison?”
“In prison?” said Mazarin, “and when has Rueil been a prison?”
“Ever since there were prisoners in it,” answered Comminges.
“These gentlemen, Comminges, are not prisoners,” returned Mazarin, with
his ironical smile, “only guests; but guests so precious that I have
put a grating before each of their windows and bolts to their doors,
that they may not refuse to continue my visitors. So much do I esteem
them that I am going to make the Comte de la Fère a visit, that I may
converse with him _tête-à-tête_, and that we may not be disturbed at
our interview you must conduct him, as I said before, to the pavilion
of the orangery; that, you know, is my daily promenade. Well, while
taking my walk I will call on him and we will talk. Although he
professes to be my enemy I have sympathy for him, and if he is
reasonable perhaps we shall arrange matters.”
Comminges bowed, and returned to Athos, who was awaiting with apparent
calmness, but with real anxiety, the result of the interview.
“Well?” he said to the lieutenant.
“Sir,” replied Comminges, “it seems that it is impossible.”
“Monsieur de Comminges,” said Athos, “I have been a soldier all my life
and I know the force of orders; but outside your orders there is a
service you can render me.”
“I will do it with all my heart,” said Comminges; “for I know who you
are and what service you once performed for her majesty; I know, too,
how dear to you is the young man who came so valiantly to my aid when
that old rogue of a Broussel was arrested. I am entirely at your
service, except only for my orders.”
“Thank you, sir; what I am about to ask will not compromise you in any
degree.”
“If it should even compromise me a little,” said Monsieur de Comminges,
with a smile, “still make your demand. I don’t like Mazarin any better
than you do. I serve the queen and that draws me naturally into the
service of the cardinal; but I serve the one with joy and the other
against my will. Speak, then, I beg of you; I wait and listen.”
“Since there is no harm,” said Athos, “in my knowing that D’Artagnan is
here, I presume there will be none in his knowing that I am here.”
“I have received no orders on that point.”
“Well, then, do me the kindness to give him my regards and tell him
that I am his neighbor. Tell him also what you have just told me—that
Mazarin has placed me in the pavilion of the orangery in order to make
me a visit, and assure him that I shall take advantage of this honor he
proposes to accord to me to obtain from him some amelioration of our
captivity.”
“Which cannot last,” interrupted Comminges; “the cardinal said so;
there is no prison here.”
“But there are oubliettes!” replied Athos, smiling.
“Oh! that’s a different thing; yes, I know there are traditions of that
sort,” said Comminges. “It was in the time of the other cardinal, who
was a great nobleman; but our Mazarin—impossible! an Italian adventurer
would not dare to go such lengths with such men as ourselves.
Oubliettes are employed as a means of kingly vengeance, and a low-born
fellow such as he is would not have recourse to them. Your arrest is
known, that of your friends will soon be known; and all the nobility of
France would demand an explanation of your disappearance. No, no, be