Twenty years after
Chevreuse, Raoul started to rejoin the army.
Rochefort alone was dissatisfied with the termination of affairs. He
had written to the Duc de Beaufort to come and the duke was about to
arrive, and he would find Paris tranquil. He went to the coadjutor to
consult with him whether it would not be better to send word to the
duke to stop on the road, but Gondy reflected for a moment, and then
said:
“Let him continue his journey.”
“All is not then over?” asked Rochefort.
“My dear count, we have only just begun.”
“What induces you to think so?”
“The knowledge that I have of the queen’s heart; she will not rest
contented beaten.”
“Is she, then, preparing for a stroke?”
“I hope so.”
“Come, let us see what you know.”
“I know that she has written to the prince to return in haste from the
army.”
“Ah! ha!” said Rochefort, “you are right. We must let Monsieur de
Beaufort come.”
In fact, the evening after this conversation the report was circulated
that the Prince de Condé had arrived. It was a very simple, natural
circumstance and yet it created a profound sensation. It was said that
Madame de Longueville, for whom the prince had more than a brother’s
affection and in whom he had confided, had been indiscreet. His
confidence had unveiled the sinister project of the queen.
Even on the night of the prince’s return, some citizens, bolder than
the rest, such as the sheriffs, captains and the quartermaster, went
from house to house among their friends, saying:
“Why do we not take the king and place him in the Hotel de Ville? It is
a shame to leave him to be educated by our enemies, who will give him
evil counsel; whereas, brought up by the coadjutor, for instance, he
would imbibe national principles and love his people.”
That night the question was secretly agitated and on the morrow the
gray and black cloaks, the patrols of armed shop-people, and the bands
of mendicants reappeared.
The queen had passed the night in lonely conference with the prince,
who had entered the oratory at midnight and did not leave till five
o’clock in the morning.
At five o’clock Anne went to the cardinal’s room. If she had not yet
taken any repose, he at least was already up. Six days had already
passed out of the ten he had asked from Mordaunt; he was therefore
occupied in revising his reply to Cromwell, when some one knocked
gently at the door of communication with the queen’s apartments. Anne
of Austria alone was permitted to enter by that door. The cardinal
therefore rose to open it.
The queen was in a morning gown, but it became her still; for, like
Diana of Poictiers and Ninon, Anne of Austria enjoyed the privilege of
remaining ever beautiful; nevertheless, this morning she looked
handsomer than usual, for her eyes had all the sparkle inward
satisfaction adds to expression.
“What is the matter, madame?” said Mazarin, uneasily. “You seem
secretly elated.”
“Yes, Giulio,” she said, “proud and happy; for I have found the means
of strangling this hydra.”
“You are a great politician, my queen,” said Mazarin; “let us hear the
means.” And he hid what he had written by sliding the letter under a
folio of blank paper.
“You know,” said the queen, “that they want to take the king away from
me?”
“Alas! yes, and to hang me.”
“They shall not have the king.”
“Nor hang me.”
“Listen. I want to carry off my son from them, with yourself. I wish
that this event, which on the day it is known will completely change
the aspect of affairs, should be accomplished without the knowledge of
any others but yourself, myself, and a third person.”
“And who is this third person?”
“Monsieur le Prince.”
“He has come, then, as they told me?”
“Last evening.”
“And you have seen him?”
“He has just left me.”
“And will he aid this project?”
“The plan is his own.”
“And Paris?”
“He will starve it out and force it to surrender at discretion.”
“The plan is not wanting in grandeur; I see but one impediment.”
“What is it?”
“Impossibility.”
“A senseless word. Nothing is impossible.”
“On paper.”
“In execution. We have money?”
“A little,” said Mazarin, trembling, lest Anne should ask to draw upon
his purse.
“Troops?”
“Five or six thousand men.”
“Courage?”
“Plenty.”
“Then the thing is easy. Oh! do think of it, Giulio! Paris, this odious
Paris, waking up one morning without queen or king, surrounded,
besieged, famished—having for its sole resource its stupid parliament
and their coadjutor with crooked limbs!”
“Charming! charming!” said Mazarin. “I can imagine the effect, I do not
see the means.”
“I will find the means myself.”
“You are aware it will be war, civil war, furious, devouring,
implacable?”
“Oh! yes, yes, war,” said Anne of Austria. “Yes, I will reduce this
rebellious city to ashes. I will extinguish the fire with blood! I will
perpetuate the crime and punishment by making a frightful example.
Paris!; I—I detest, I loathe it!”
“Very fine, Anne. You are now sanguinary; but take care. We are not in
the time of Malatesta and Castruccio Castracani. You will get yourself
decapitated, my beautiful queen, and that would be a pity.”
“You laugh.”
“Faintly. It is dangerous to go to war with a nation. Look at your
brother monarch, Charles I. He is badly off, very badly.”
“We are in France, and I am Spanish.”
“So much the worse; I had much rather you were French and myself also;
they would hate us both less.”
“Nevertheless, you consent?”
“Yes, if the thing be possible.”
“It is; it is I who tell you so; make preparations for departure.”
“I! I am always prepared to go, only, as you know, I never do go, and
perhaps shall go this time as little as before.”
“In short, if I go, will you go too?”
“I will try.”
“You torment me, Giulio, with your fears; and what are you afraid of,
then?”
“Of many things.”
“What are they?”
Mazarin’s face, smiling as it was, became clouded.
“Anne,” said he, “you are but a woman and as a woman you may insult men
at your ease, knowing that you can do it with impunity. You accuse me
of fear; I have not so much as you have, since I do not fly as you do.
Against whom do they cry out? is it against you or against myself? Whom
would they hang, yourself or me? Well, I can weather the storm—I, whom,
notwithstanding, you tax with fear—not with bravado, that is not my
way; but I am firm. Imitate me. Make less hubbub and think more deeply.
You cry very loud, you end by doing nothing; you talk of flying——”
Mazarin shrugged his shoulders and taking the queen’s hand led her to
the window.
“Look!” he said.
“Well?” said the queen, blinded by her obstinacy.
“Well, what do you see from this window? If I am not mistaken those are
citizens, helmeted and mailed, armed with good muskets, as in the time
of the League, and whose eyes are so intently fixed on this window that
they will see you if you raise that curtain much; and now come to the
other side—what do you see? Creatures of the people, armed with
halberds, guarding your doors. You will see the same at every opening
from this palace to which I should lead you. Your doors are guarded,
the airholes of your cellars are guarded, and I could say to you, as
that good La Ramee said to me of the Duc de Beaufort, you must be
either bird or mouse to get out.”
“He did get out, nevertheless.”
“Do you think of escaping in the same way?”
“I am a prisoner, then?”
“_Parbleu!_” said Mazarin, “I have been proving it to you this last
hour.”
And he quietly resumed his dispatch at the place where he had been
interrupted.
Anne, trembling with anger and scarlet with humiliation, left the room,
shutting the door violently after her. Mazarin did not even turn
around. When once more in her own apartment Anne fell into a chair and
wept; then suddenly struck with an idea:
“I am saved!” she exclaimed, rising; “oh, yes! yes! I know a man who
will find the means of taking me from Paris, a man I have too long
forgotten.” Then falling into a reverie, she added, however, with an
expression of joy, “Ungrateful woman that I am, for twenty years I have
forgotten this man, whom I ought to have made a maréchal of France. My
mother-in-law expended gold, caresses, dignities on Concini, who ruined
her; the king made Vitry maréchal of France for an assassination: while
I have left in obscurity, in poverty, the noble D’Artagnan, who saved
me!”
And running to a table, on which were paper, pens and ink, she hastily
began to write.
Chapter L.
The Interview.
It had been D’Artagnan’s practice, ever since the riots, to sleep in
the same room as Porthos, and on this eventful morning he was still
there, sleeping, and dreaming that a yellow cloud had overspread the
sky and was raining gold pieces into his hat, which he held out till it
was overflowing with pistoles. As for Porthos, he dreamed that the
panels of his carriage were not capacious enough to contain the
armorial bearings he had ordered to be painted on them. They were both
aroused at seven o’clock by the entrance of an unliveried servant, who
brought a letter for D’Artagnan.
“From whom?” asked the Gascon.
“From the queen,” replied the servant.
“Ho!” said Porthos, raising himself in his bed; “what does she say?”
D’Artagnan requested the servant to wait in the next room and when the
door was closed he sprang up from his bed and read rapidly, whilst
Porthos looked at him with starting eyes, not daring to ask a single
question.
“Friend Porthos,” said D’Artagnan, handing the letter to him, “this
time, at least, you are sure of your title of baron, and I of my
captaincy. Read for yourself and judge.”
Porthos took the letter and with a trembling voice read the following
words:
“The queen wishes to speak to Monsieur d’Artagnan, who must follow the
bearer.”
“Well!” exclaimed Porthos; “I see nothing in that very extraordinary.”
“But I see much that is very extraordinary in it,” replied D’Artagnan.
“It is evident, by their sending for me, that matters are becoming
complicated. Just reflect a little what an agitation the queen’s mind
must be in for her to have remembered me after twenty years.”
“It is true,” said Porthos.
“Sharpen your sword, baron, load your pistols, and give some corn to
the horses, for I will answer for it, something lightning-like will
happen ere to-morrow.”
“But, stop; do you think it can be a trap that they are laying for us?”
suggested Porthos, incessantly thinking how his greatness must be
irksome to inferior people.
“If it is a snare,” replied D’Artagnan, “I shall scent it out, be
assured. If Mazarin is an Italian, I am a Gascon.”
And D’Artagnan dressed himself in an instant.
Whilst Porthos, still in bed, was hooking on his cloak for him, a
second knock at the door was heard.
“Come in,” exclaimed D’Artagnan; and another servant entered.
“From His Eminence, Cardinal Mazarin,” presenting a letter.
D’Artagnan looked at Porthos.
“A complicated affair,” said Porthos; “where will you begin?”
“It is arranged capitally; his eminence expects me in half an hour.”
“Good.”
“My friend,” said D’Artagnan, turning to the servant, “tell his
eminence that in half an hour I shall be at his command.”
“It is very fortunate,” resumed the Gascon, when the valet had retired,
“that he did not meet the other one.”
“Do you not think that they have sent for you, both for the same
thing?”
“I do not think it, I am certain of it.”
“Quick, quick, D’Artagnan. Remember that the queen awaits you, and
after the queen, the cardinal, and after the cardinal, myself.”
D’Artagnan summoned Anne of Austria’s servant and signified that he was
ready to follow him into the queen’s presence.
The servant conducted him by the Rue des Petits Champs and turning to