Twenty years after
The cavalier entered the second hall, which was guarded by the
musketeers and doorkeepers.
“Have you a letter of audience?” asked a porter, advancing to the new
arrival.
“I have one, but not one from Cardinal Mazarin.”
“Enter, and ask for Monsieur Bernouin,” said the porter, opening the
door of the third room. Whether he only held his usual post or whether
it was by accident, Monsieur Bernouin was found standing behind the
door and must have heard all that had passed.
“You seek me, sir,” said he. “From whom may the letter be you bear to
his eminence?”
“From General Oliver Cromwell,” said the new comer. “Be so good as to
mention this name to his eminence and to bring me word whether he will
receive me—yes or no.”
Saying which, he resumed the proud and sombre bearing peculiar at that
time to Puritans. Bernouin cast an inquisitorial glance at the person
of the young man and entered the cabinet of the cardinal, to whom he
transmitted the messenger’s words.
“A man bringing a letter from Oliver Cromwell?” said Mazarin. “And what
kind of a man?”
“A genuine Englishman, your eminence. Hair sandy-red—more red than
sandy; gray-blue eyes—more gray than blue; and for the rest, stiff and
proud.”
“Let him give in his letter.”
“His eminence asks for the letter,” said Bernouin, passing back into
the ante-chamber.
“His eminence cannot see the letter without the bearer of it,” replied
the young man; “but to convince you that I am really the bearer of a
letter, see, here it is; and kindly add,” continued he, “that I am not
a simple messenger, but an envoy extraordinary.”
Bernouin re-entered the cabinet, returning in a few seconds. “Enter,
sir,” said he.
The young man appeared on the threshold of the minister’s closet, in
one hand holding his hat, in the other the letter. Mazarin rose. “Have
you, sir,” asked he, “a letter accrediting you to me?”
“There it is, my lord,” said the young man.
Mazarin took the letter and read it thus:
“Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, will remit this letter of
introduction to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, in Paris. He is
also the bearer of a second confidential epistle for his eminence.
“Oliver Cromwell.”
“Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, “give me this second
letter and sit down.”
The young man drew from his pocket a second letter, presented it to the
cardinal, and took his seat. The cardinal, however, did not unseal the
letter at once, but continued to turn it again and again in his hand;
then, in accordance with his usual custom and judging from experience
that few people could hide anything from him when he began to question
them, fixing his eyes upon them at the same time, he thus addressed the
messenger:
“You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for this difficult task of
ambassador, in which the oldest diplomatists often fail.”
“My lord, I am twenty-three years of age; but your eminence is mistaken
in saying that I am young. I am older than your eminence, although I
possess not your wisdom. Years of suffering, in my opinion, count
double, and I have suffered for twenty years.”
“Ah, yes, I understand,” said Mazarin; “want of fortune, perhaps. You
are poor, are you not?” Then he added to himself: “These English
Revolutionists are all beggars and ill-bred.”
“My lord, I ought to have a fortune of six millions, but it has been
taken from me.”
“You are not, then, a man of the people?” said Mazarin, astonished.
“If I bore my proper title I should be a lord. If I bore my name you
would have heard one of the most illustrious names of England.”
“What is your name, then?” asked Mazarin.
“My name is Mordaunt,” replied the young man, bowing.
Mazarin now understood that Cromwell’s envoy desired to retain his
incognito. He was silent for an instant, and during that time he
scanned the young man even more attentively than he had done at first.
The messenger was unmoved.
“Devil take these Puritans,” said Mazarin aside; “they are carved from
granite.” Then he added aloud, “But you have relations left you?”
“I have one remaining. Three times I presented myself to ask his
support and three times he ordered his servants to turn me away.”
“Oh, _mon Dieu!_ my dear Mr. Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, hoping by a
display of affected pity to catch the young man in a snare, “how
extremely your history interests me! You know not, then, anything of
your birth—you have never seen your mother?”
“Yes, my lord; she came three times, whilst I was a child, to my
nurse’s house; I remember the last time she came as well as if it were
to-day.”
“You have a good memory,” said Mazarin.
“Oh! yes, my lord,” said the young man, with such peculiar emphasis
that the cardinal felt a shudder run through every vein.
“And who brought you up?” he asked again.
“A French nurse, who sent me away when I was five years old because no
one paid her for me, telling me the name of a relation of whom she had
heard my mother often speak.”
“What became of you?”
“As I was weeping and begging on the high road, a minister from
Kingston took me in, instructed me in the Calvinistic faith, taught me
all he knew himself and aided me in my researches after my family.”
“And these researches?”
“Were fruitless; chance did everything.”
“You discovered what had become of your mother?”
“I learned that she had been assassinated by my relation, aided by four
friends, but I was already aware that I had been robbed of my wealth
and degraded from my nobility by King Charles I.”
“Oh! I now understand why you are in the service of Cromwell; you hate
the king.”
“Yes, my lord, I hate him!” said the young man.
Mazarin marked with surprise the diabolical expression with which the
young man uttered these words. Just as, ordinarily, faces are colored
by blood, his face seemed dyed by hatred and became livid.
“Your history is a terrible one, Mr. Mordaunt, and touches me keenly;
but happily for you, you serve an all-powerful master; he ought to aid
you in your search; we have so many means of gaining information.”
“My lord, to a well-bred dog it is only necessary to show one end of a
track; he is certain to reach the other.”
“But this relation you mentioned—do you wish me to speak to him?” said
Mazarin, who was anxious to make a friend about Cromwell’s person.
“Thanks, my lord, I will speak to him myself. He will treat me better
the next time I see him.”
“You have the means, then, of touching him?”
“I have the means of making myself feared.”
Mazarin looked at the young man, but at the fire which shot from his
glance he bent his head; then, embarrassed how to continue such a
conversation, he opened Cromwell’s letter.
The young man’s eyes gradually resumed their dull and glassy appearance
and he fell into a profound reverie. After reading the first lines of
the letter Mazarin gave a side glance at him to see if he was watching
the expression of his face as he read. Observing his indifference, he
shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“Send on your business those who do theirs at the same time! Let us see
what this letter contains.”
We here present the letter _verbatim:_
“_To his Eminence, Monseigneur le Cardinal Mazarini:_
“I have wished, monseigneur, to learn your intentions relating to the
existing state of affairs in England. The two kingdoms are so near that
France must be interested in our situation, as we are interested in
that of France. The English are almost of one mind in contending
against the tyranny of Charles and his adherents. Placed by popular
confidence at the head of that movement, I can appreciate better than
any other its significance and its probable results. I am at present in
the midst of war, and am about to deliver a decisive battle against
King Charles. I shall gain it, for the hope of the nation and the
Spirit of the Lord are with me. This battle won by me, the king will
have no further resources in England or in Scotland; and if he is not
captured or killed, he will endeavor to pass over into France to
recruit soldiers and to refurnish himself with arms and money. France
has already received Queen Henrietta, and, unintentionally, doubtless,
has maintained a centre of inextinguishable civil war in my country.
But Madame Henrietta is a daughter of France and was entitled to the
hospitality of France. As to King Charles, the question must be viewed
differently; in receiving and aiding him, France will censure the acts
of the English nation, and thus so essentially harm England, and
especially the well-being of the government, that such a proceeding
will be equivalent to pronounced hostilities.”
At this moment Mazarin became very uneasy at the turn which the letter
was taking and paused to glance under his eyes at the young man. The
latter continued in thought. Mazarin resumed his reading:
“It is important, therefore, monseigneur, that I should be informed as
to the intentions of France. The interests of that kingdom and those of
England, though taking now diverse directions, are very nearly the
same. England needs tranquillity at home, in order to consummate the
expulsion of her king; France needs tranquillity to establish on solid
foundations the throne of her young monarch. You need, as much as we
do, that interior condition of repose which, thanks to the energy of
our government, we are about to attain.
“Your quarrels with the parliament, your noisy dissensions with the
princes, who fight for you to-day and to-morrow will fight against you,
the popular following directed by the coadjutor, President Blancmesnil,
and Councillor Broussel—all that disorder, in short, which pervades the
several departments of the state, must lead you to view with uneasiness
the possibility of a foreign war; for in that event England, exalted by
the enthusiasm of new ideas, will ally herself with Spain, already
seeking that alliance. I have therefore believed, monseigneur, knowing
your prudence and your personal relation to the events of the present
time, that you will choose to hold your forces concentrated in the
interior of the French kingdom and leave to her own the new government
of England. That neutrality consists simply in excluding King Charles
from the territory of France and in refraining from helping him—a
stranger to your country—with arms, with money or with troops.
“My letter is private and confidential, and for that reason I send it
to you by a man who shares my most intimate counsels. It anticipates,
through a sentiment which your eminence will appreciate, measures to be
taken after the events. Oliver Cromwell considered it more expedient to
declare himself to a mind as intelligent as Mazarin’s than to a queen
admirable for firmness, without doubt, but too much guided by vain
prejudices of birth and of divine right.
“Farewell, monseigneur; should I not receive a reply in the space of
fifteen days, I shall presume my letter will have miscarried.
“Oliver Cromwell.”
“Mr. Mordaunt,” said the cardinal, raising his voice, as if to arouse
the dreamer, “my reply to this letter will be more satisfactory to
General Cromwell if I am convinced that all are ignorant of my having
given one; go, therefore, and await it at Boulogne-sur-Mer, and promise
me to set out to-morrow morning.”
“I promise, my lord,” replied Mordaunt; “but how many days does your
eminence expect me to await your reply?”
“If you do not receive it in ten days you can leave.”
Mordaunt bowed.
“That is not all, sir,” continued Mazarin; “your private adventures
have touched me to the quick; besides, the letter from Mr. Cromwell
makes you an important person as ambassador; come, tell me, what can I
do for you?”
Mordaunt reflected a moment and, after some hesitation, was about to