Twenty years after
as he gives holy water; a practice he has carried on for six years on
the steps of St. Eustache.”
“And you say that he has a great influence over his compeers?”
“Are you aware, my lord, that mendacity is an organized body, a kind of
association of those who have nothing against those who have
everything; an association in which every one takes his share; one that
elects a leader?”
“Yes, I have heard it said,” replied the coadjutor.
“Well, the man whom I offer you is a general syndic.”
“And what do you know of him?”
“Nothing, my lord, except that he is tormented with remorse.”
“What makes you think so?”
“On the twenty-eighth of every month he makes me say a mass for the
repose of the soul of one who died a violent death; yesterday I said
this mass again.”
“And his name?”
“Maillard; but I do not think it is his right one.”
“And think you that we should find him at this hour at his post?”
“Certainly.”
“Let us go and see your beggar, sir, and if he is such as you describe
him, you are right—it will be you who have discovered the true
treasure.”
Gondy dressed himself as an officer, put on a felt cap with a red
feather, hung on a long sword, buckled spurs to his boots, wrapped
himself in an ample cloak and followed the curate.
The coadjutor and his companion passed through all the streets lying
between the archbishopric and the St. Eustache Church, watching
carefully to ascertain the popular feeling. The people were in an
excited mood, but, like a swarm of frightened bees, seemed not to know
at what point to concentrate; and it was very evident that if leaders
of the people were not provided all this agitation would pass off in
idle buzzing.
On arriving at the Rue des Prouvaires, the curate pointed toward the
square before the church.
“Stop!” he said, “there he is at his post.”
Gondy looked at the spot indicated and perceived a beggar seated in a
chair and leaning against one of the moldings; a little basin was near
him and he held a holy water brush in his hand.
“Is it by permission that he remains there?” asked Gondy.
“No, my lord; these places are bought. I believe this man paid his
predecessor a hundred pistoles for his.”
“The rascal is rich, then?”
“Some of those men sometimes die worth twenty thousand and twenty-five
and thirty thousand francs and sometimes more.”
“Hum!” said Gondy, laughing; “I was not aware my alms were so well
invested.”
In the meantime they were advancing toward the square, and the moment
the coadjutor and the curate put their feet on the first church step
the mendicant arose and proffered his brush.
He was a man between sixty-six and sixty-eight years of age, little,
rather stout, with gray hair and light eyes. His countenance denoted
the struggle between two opposite principles—a wicked nature, subdued
by determination, perhaps by repentance.
He started on seeing the cavalier with the curate. The latter and the
coadjutor touched the brush with the tips of their fingers and made the
sign of the cross; the coadjutor threw a piece of money into the hat,
which was on the ground.
“Maillard,” began the curate, “this gentleman and I have come to talk
with you a little.”
“With me!” said the mendicant; “it is a great honor for a poor
distributor of holy water.”
There was an ironical tone in his voice which he could not quite
disguise and which astonished the coadjutor.
“Yes,” continued the curate, apparently accustomed to this tone, “yes,
we wish to know your opinion of the events of to-day and what you have
heard said by people going in and out of the church.”
The mendicant shook his head.
“These are melancholy doings, your reverence, which always fall again
upon the poor. As to what is said, everybody is discontented, everybody
complains, but ‘everybody’ means ‘nobody.’”
“Explain yourself, my good friend,” said the coadjutor.
“I mean that all these cries, all these complaints, these curses,
produce nothing but storms and flashes and that is all; but the
lightning will not strike until there is a hand to guide it.”
“My friend,” said Gondy, “you seem to be a clever and a thoughtful man;
are you disposed to take a part in a little civil war, should we have
one, and put at the command of the leader, should we find one, your
personal influence and the influence you have acquired over your
comrades?”
“Yes, sir, provided this war were approved of by the church and would
advance the end I wish to attain—I mean, the remission of my sins.”
“The war will not only be approved of, but directed by the church. As
for the remission of your sins, we have the archbishop of Paris, who
has the very greatest power at the court of Rome, and even the
coadjutor, who possesses some plenary indulgences; we will recommend
you to him.”
“Consider, Maillard,” said the curate, “that I have recommended you to
this gentleman, who is a powerful lord, and that I have made myself
responsible for you.”
“I know, monsieur le curé,” said the beggar, “that you have always been
very kind to me, and therefore I, in my turn, will be serviceable to
you.”
“And do you think your power as great with the fraternity as monsieur
le curé told me it was just now?”
“I think they have some esteem for me,” said the mendicant with pride,
“and that not only will they obey me, but wherever I go they will
follow me.”
“And could you count on fifty resolute men, good, unemployed, but
active souls, brawlers, capable of bringing down the walls of the
Palais Royal by crying, ‘Down with Mazarin,’ as fell those at Jericho?”
“I think,” said the beggar, “I can undertake things more difficult and
more important than that.”
“Ah, ah,” said Gondy, “you will undertake, then, some night, to throw
up some ten barricades?”
“I will undertake to throw up fifty, and when the day comes, to defend
them.”
“I’faith!” exclaimed Gondy, “you speak with a certainty that gives me
pleasure; and since monsieur le curé can answer for you——”
“I answer for him,” said the curate.
“Here is a bag containing five hundred pistoles in gold; make all your
arrangements, and tell me where I shall be able to find you this
evening at ten o’clock.”
“It must be on some elevated place, whence a given signal may be seen
in every part of Paris.”
“Shall I give you a line for the vicar of St. Jacques de la Boucherie?
he will let you into the rooms in his tower,” said the curate.
“Capital,” answered the mendicant.
“Then,” said the coadjutor, “this evening, at ten o’clock, and if I am
pleased with you another bag of five hundred pistoles will be at your
disposal.”
The eyes of the mendicant dashed with cupidity, but he quickly
suppressed his emotion.
“This evening, sir,” he replied, “all will be ready.”
Chapter XLVI.
The Tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie.
At a quarter to six o’clock, Monsieur de Gondy, having finished his
business, returned to the archiepiscopal palace.
At six o’clock the curate of St. Merri was announced.
The coadjutor glanced rapidly behind and saw that he was followed by
another man. The curate then entered, followed by Planchet.
“Your holiness,” said the curate, “here is the person of whom I had the
honor to speak to you.”
Planchet saluted in the manner of one accustomed to fine houses.
“And you are disposed to serve the cause of the people?” asked Gondy.
“Most undoubtedly,” said Planchet. “I am a Frondist from my heart. You
see in me, such as I am, a person sentenced to be hung.”
“And on what account?”
“I rescued from the hands of Mazarin’s police a noble lord whom they
were conducting back to the Bastile, where he had been for five years.”
“Will you name him?”
“Oh, you know him well, my lord—it is Count de Rochefort.”
“Ah! really, yes,” said the coadjutor, “I have heard this affair
mentioned. You raised the whole district, so they told me!”
“Very nearly,” replied Planchet, with a self-satisfied air.
“And your business is——”
“That of a confectioner, in the Rue des Lombards.”
“Explain to me how it happens that, following so peaceful a business,
you had such warlike inclinations.”
“Why does my lord, belonging to the church, now receive me in the dress
of an officer, with a sword at his side and spurs to his boots?”
“Not badly answered, i’faith,” said Gondy, laughing; “but I have, you
must know, always had, in spite of my bands, warlike inclinations.”
“Well, my lord, before I became a confectioner I myself was three years
sergeant in the Piedmontese regiment, and before I became sergeant I
was for eighteen months the servant of Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“The lieutenant of musketeers?” asked Gondy.
“Himself, my lord.”
“But he is said to be a furious Mazarinist.”
“Phew!” whistled Planchet.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing, my lord; Monsieur d’Artagnan belongs to the service; Monsieur
d’Artagnan makes it his business to defend the cardinal, who pays him,
as much as we make it ours, we citizens, to attack him, whom he robs.”
“You are an intelligent fellow, my friend; can we count upon you?”
“You may count upon me, my lord, provided you want to make a complete
upheaval of the city.”
“’Tis that exactly. How many men, think you, you could collect together
to-night?”
“Two hundred muskets and five hundred halberds.”
“Let there be only one man in every district who can do as much and by
to-morrow we shall have quite a powerful army. Are you disposed to obey
Count de Rochefort?”
“I would follow him to hell, and that is saying not a little, as I
believe him entirely capable of the descent.”
“Bravo!”
“By what sign to-morrow shall we be able to distinguish friends from
foes?”
“Every Frondist must put a knot of straw in his hat.”
“Good! Give the watchword.”
“Do you want money?”
“Money never comes amiss at any time, my lord; if one has it not, one
must do without it; with it, matters go on much better and more
rapidly.”
Gondy went to a box and drew forth a bag.
“Here are five hundred pistoles,” he said; “and if the action goes off
well you may reckon upon a similar sum to-morrow.”
“I will give a faithful account of the sum to your lordship,” said
Planchet, putting the bag under his arm.
“That is right; I recommend the cardinal to your attention.”
“Make your mind easy, he is in good hands.”
Planchet went out, the curate remaining for a moment.
“Are you satisfied, my lord?” he asked.
“Yes; he appears to be a resolute fellow.”
“Well, he will do more than he has promised.”
“He will do wonders then.”
The curate rejoined Planchet, who was waiting for him on the stairs.
Ten minutes later the curate of St. Sulpice was announced. As soon as
the door of Gondy’s study was opened a man rushed in. It was the Count
de Rochefort.
“’Tis you, then, my dear count,” cried Gondy, offering his hand.
“You have made up your mind at last, my lord?” said Rochefort.
“It has been made up a long time,” said Gondy.
“Let us say no more on the subject; you tell me so, I believe you.
Well, we are going to give a ball to Mazarin.”
“I hope so.”
“And when will the dance begin?”
“The invitations are given for this evening,” said the coadjutor, “but
the violins will not begin to play until to-morrow morning.”
“You may reckon upon me and upon fifty soldiers which the Chevalier
d’Humières has promised me whenever I need them.”
“Upon fifty soldiers?”
“Yes, he is making recruits and he will lend them to me; if any are
missing when the _fête_ is over, I shall replace them.”
“Good, my dear Rochefort; but that is not all. What have you done with
Monsieur de Beaufort?”
“He is in Vendôme, where he will wait until I write to him to return to
Paris.”
“Write to him; now’s the time.”
“You are sure of your enterprise?”