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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Cinq-Mars, Complete, by Alfred de Vigny

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Cinq-Mars, Complete

Author: Alfred de Vigny


Release Date: October 5, 2006 [EBook #3953]
Last Updated: March 16, 2023

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CINQ-MARS, COMPLETE ***



Produced by David Widger






</pre>
    <h1>
      CINQ-MARS
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By Alfred De Vigny
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      With a Prefaces by CHARLES DE MAZADE, <br />and GASTON BOISSIER of the
      French Academy.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>

      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> ALFRED DE VIGNY </a><br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">
        TRUTH IN ART </a><br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> <b>CINQ-MARS</b>
        </a><br /><br /><br /> <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> <b>BOOK 1.</b> </a> <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>THE ADIEU <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>THE STREET <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a>THE GOOD PRIEST <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. </a>THE TRIAL <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0010"> <b>BOOK 2.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a>THE MARTYRDOM <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a>THE DREAM <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a>THE CABINET <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a>THE INTERVIEW <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0015"> <b>BOOK 3.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a>THE SIEGE <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a>THE RECOMPENSE <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. </a>THE BLUNDERS <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. </a>THE NIGHT-WATCH <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. </a>THE SPANIARD <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0021"> <b>BOOK 4.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. </a>THE RIOT <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. </a>THE ALCOVE <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. </a>THE CONFUSION <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. </a>TOILETTE <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0026"> <b>BOOK 5.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. </a>THE SECRET <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. </a>THE HUNTING PARTY <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. </a>THE READING <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. </a>THE CONFESSIONAL <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2H_4_0031"> <b>BOOK 6.</b> </a> <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. </a>THE STORM <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII. </a>ABSENCE <br /><br />
        <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. </a>THE WORK <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. </a>THE PRISONERS <br /><br /> <a
        href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. </a>THE FETE <br /><br />
      </p>

    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      ALFRED DE VIGNY
    </h2>
    <p>
      The reputation of Alfred de Vigny has endured extraordinary vicissitudes
      in France. First he was lauded as the precursor of French romantic poetry
      and stately prose; then he sank in semi-oblivion, became the curiosity of
      criticism, died in retirement, and was neglected for a long time, until
      the last ten years or so produced a marked revolution of taste in France.
      The supremacy of Victor Hugo has been, if not questioned, at least
      mitigated; other poets have recovered from their obscurity. Lamartine
      shines now like a lamp relighted; and the pure, brilliant, and profoundly
      original genius of Alfred de Vigny now takes, for the first time, its
      proper place as one of the main illuminating forces of the nineteenth
      century.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not until one hundred years after this poet&rsquo;s birth that it
      became clearly recognized that he is one of the most important of all the
      great writers of France, and he is distinguished not only in fiction, but
      also in poetry and the drama. He is a follower of Andre Chenier,
      Lamartine, and Victor Hugo, a lyric sun, a philosophic poet, later,
      perhaps in consequence of the Revolution of 1830, becoming a &ldquo;Symbolist.&rdquo;
      He has been held to occupy a middle ground between De Musset and Chenier,
      but he has also something suggestive of Madame de Stael, and,
      artistically, he has much in common with Chateaubriand, though he is more
      coldly impersonal and probably much more sincere in his philosophy. If
      Sainte-Beuve, however, calls the poet in his Nouveaux Lundis a &ldquo;beautiful
      angel, who has been drinking vinegar,&rdquo; then the modern reader needs
      a strong caution against malice and raillery, if not jealousy and perfidy,
      although the article on De Vigny abounds otherwise with excessive critical
      cleverness.
    </p>
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At times, indeed, under the cruel deceptions of love, he seemed to lose
faith in his idealism; his pessimism, nevertheless, always remained
noble, restrained, sympathetic, manifesting itself not in appeals for
condolence, but in pitying care for all who were near and dear to him.
Yet his lofty prose and poetry, interpenetrated with the stern despair
of pessimistic idealism, will always be unintelligible to the many. As a
poet, De Vigny appeals to the chosen few alone. In his dramas his genius
is more emancipated from himself, in his novels most of all. It is by
these that he is most widely known, and by these that he exercised the
greatest influence on the literary life of his generation.

 Alfred-Victor, Count de Vigny, was born in Loches, Touraine, March 27,
1797. His father was an army officer, wounded in the Seven Years&rsquo; War.
Alfred, after having been well educated, also selected a military career
and received a commission in the &ldquo;Mousquetaires Rouges,&rdquo; in 1814, when
barely seventeen. He served until 1827, &ldquo;twelve long years of peace,&rdquo;
 then resigned. Already in 1822 appeared a volume of &lsquo;Poemes&rsquo; which was
hardly noticed, although containing poetry since become important to
the evolution of French verse: &lsquo;La Neige, le Coy, le Deluge, Elva, la
Frigate&rsquo;, etc., again collected in &lsquo;Poemes antiques et modernes&rsquo; (1826).
Other poems were published after his death in &lsquo;Les Destinies&rsquo; (1864).
</pre>
    <p>
      Under the influence of Walter Scott, he wrote a historical romance in
      1826, &lsquo;Cinq-Mars, ou une Conjuration sans Louis XIII&rsquo;. It met
      with the most brilliant and decided success and was crowned by the
      Academy. Cinq-Mars will always be remembered as the earliest romantic
      novel in France and the greatest and most dramatic picture of Richelieu
      now extant. De Vigny was a convinced Anglophile, well acquainted with the
      writings of Shakespeare and Milton, Byron, Wordsworth, Shelley, Matthew
      Arnold, and Leopardi. He also married an English lady in 1825&mdash;Lydia
      Bunbury.
    </p>
    <p>
      Other prose works are &lsquo;Stello&rsquo; (1832), in the manner of Sterne
      and Diderot, and &lsquo;Servitude et Grandeur militaire&rsquo; (1835), the
      language of which is as caustic as that of Merimee. As a dramatist, De
      Vigny produced a translation of &lsquo;Othello&mdash;Le More de Venice&rsquo;
      (1829); also &lsquo;La Marechale d&rsquo;Ancre&rsquo; (1832); both met
      with moderate success only. But a decided &ldquo;hit&rdquo; was &lsquo;Chatterton&rsquo;
      (1835), an adaption from his prose-work &lsquo;Stello, ou les Diables
      bleus&rsquo;; it at once established his reputation on the stage; the
      applause was most prodigious, and in the annals of the French theatre can
      only be compared with that of &lsquo;Le Cid&rsquo;. It was a great victory
      for the Romantic School, and the type of Chatterton, the slighted poet,
      &ldquo;the marvellous boy, the sleepless soul that perished in his pride,&rdquo;
      became contagious as erstwhile did the type of Werther.
    </p>
    <p>
      For twenty years before his death Alfred de Vigny wrote nothing. He lived
      in retirement, almost a recluse, in La Charente, rarely visiting Paris.
      Admitted into L&rsquo;Academie Francaise in 1845, he describes in his
      &lsquo;Journal d&rsquo;un Poete&rsquo; his academic visits and the
      reception held out to him by the members of L&rsquo;Institut. This work
      appeared posthumously in 1867.
    </p>
    <p>
      He died in Paris, September 17, 1863.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                  CHARLES DE MAZADE
                de l&rsquo;Academie Francaise.
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
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    <h2>
      PREFACE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Considering Alfred de Vigny first as a writer, it is evident that he
      wished the public to regard him as different from the other romanticists
      of his day; in fact, in many respects, his method presents a striking
      contrast to theirs. To their brilliant facility, their prodigious
      abundance, and the dazzling luxury of color in their pictures of life he
      opposes a style always simple, pure, clear, with delicacy of touch,
      careful drawing of character, correct locution, and absolute chastity.
      Yet, even though he had this marked regard for purity in literary style,
      no writer had more dislike of mere pedantry. His high ideal in literary
      art and his self-respect inspired him with an invincible repugnance toward
      the artificialities of style of that period, which the romanticists&mdash;above
      all, Chateaubriand, their master&mdash;had so much abused.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one knows of the singular declaration made by Chateaubriand to
      Joubert, while relating the details of a nocturnal voyage: &ldquo;The moon
      shone upon me in a slender crescent, and that prevented me from writing an
      untruth, for I feel sure that had not the moon been there I should have
      said in my letter that it was shining, and then you would have convicted
      me of an error in my almanac!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This habit of sacrificing truth and exactitude of impression, for the sake
      of producing a harmonious phrase or a picturesque suggestion, disgusted
      Alfred de Vigny. &ldquo;The worst thing about writers is that they care
      very little whether what they write is true, so long as they only write,&rdquo;
      we read on one page of his Journal. He adds, &ldquo;They should seek words
      only in their own consciences.&rdquo; On another page he says: &ldquo;The
      most serious lack in literary work is sincerity. Perceiving clearly that
      the combination of technical labor and research for effective expression,
      in producing literary work, often leads us to a paradox, I have resolved
      to sacrifice all to conviction and truth, so that this precious element of
      sincerity, complete and profound, shall dominate my books and give to them
      the sacred character which the divine presence of truth always gives.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides sincerity, De Vigny possessed, in a high degree, a gift which was
      not less rare in that age&mdash;good taste. He had taste in the art of
      writing, a fine literary tact, a sense of proportion, a perception of
      delicate shades of expression, an instinct that told him what to say and
      what to suppress, to insinuate, or to be left to the understanding. Even
      in his innovations in form, in his boldness of style, he showed a rare
      discretion; never did he do violence to the genius of the French language,
      and one may apply to him without reserve the eulogy that Quintilian
      pronounced upon Horace: &lsquo;Verbis felicissime audax&rsquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      He cherished also a fixed principle that art implied selection. He was
      neither idealist nor realist, in the exclusive and opposing sense in which
      we understand these terms; he recommended a scrupulous observance of
      nature, and that every writer should draw as close to it as possible, but
      only in order to interpret it, to reveal it with a true feeling, yet
      without a too intimate analysis, and that no one should attempt to portray
      it exactly or servilely copy it. &ldquo;Of what use is art,&rdquo; he
      says, &ldquo;if it is only a reduplication of existence? We see around us
      only too much of the sadness and disenchantment of reality.&rdquo; The
      three novels that compose the volume &lsquo;Servitude et Grandeur
      militaire&rsquo; are, in this respect, models of romantic composition that
      never will be surpassed, bearing witness to the truth of the formula
      followed by De Vigny in all his literary work: &ldquo;Art is the chosen
      truth.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      If, as a versifier, Alfred de Vigny does not equal the great poets of his
      time, if they are his superiors in distinction and brilliancy, in richness
      of vocabulary, freedom of movement, and variety of rhythm, the cause is to
      be ascribed less to any lack of poetic genius than to the nature of his
      inspiration, even to the laws of poesy, and to the secret and irreducible
      antinomy that exists between art and thought. When, for example, Theophile
      Gautier reproached him with being too little impressed with the exigencies
      of rhyme, his criticism was not well grounded, for richness of rhyme,
      though indispensable in works of descriptive imagination, has no &lsquo;raison
      d&rsquo;etre&rsquo; in poems dominated by sentiment and thought. But,
      having said that, we must recognize in his poetry an element, serious,
      strong, and impressive, characteristic of itself alone, and admire, in the
      strophes of &lsquo;Mozse&rsquo;, in the imprecations of &lsquo;Samson&rsquo;,
      and in the &lsquo;Destinees&rsquo;, the majestic simplicity of the most
      beautiful Hebraic verse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Moreover, the true originality of De Vigny does not lie in the manner of
      composition; it was primarily in the role of precursor that he played his
      part on the stage of literature. Let us imagine ourselves at the period
      about the beginning of the year 1822. Of the three poets who, in making
      their literary debuts, had just published the &lsquo;Meditations, Poemes
      antiques et modernes, and Odes&rsquo;, only one had, at that time, the
      instinct of renewal in the spirit of French poesy, and a sense of the
      manner in which this must be accomplished; and that one was not Lamartine,
      and certainly it was not Victor Hugo.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sainte-Beuve has said, with authority, that in Lamartine there is
      something suggestive of Millevoye, of Voltaire (he of the charming
      epistles), and of Fontanes; and Victor Hugo wrote with very little
      variation from the technical form of his predecessors. &ldquo;But with
      Alfred de Vigny,&rdquo; he says, &ldquo;we seek in vain for a resemblance
      to any French poetry preceding his work. For example, where can we find
      anything resembling &lsquo;Moise, Eloa, Doloeida&rsquo;? Where did he find
      his inspiration for style and composition in these poems? If the poets of
      the Pleiades of the Restoration seem to have found their inspiration
      within themselves, showing no trace of connection with the literature of
      the past, thus throwing into confusion old habits of taste and of routine,
      certain it is that among them Alfred de Vigny should be ranked first.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Even in the collection that bears the date of 1822, some years before the
      future author of Legende des Siecles had taken up romanticism, Alfred de
      Vigny had already conceived the idea of setting forth, in a series of
      little epics, the migrations of the human soul throughout the ages.
      &ldquo;One feels,&rdquo; said he in his Preface, &ldquo;a keen
      intellectual delight in transporting one&rsquo;s self, by mere force of
      thought, to a period of antiquity; it resembles the pleasure an old man
      feels in recalling first his early youth, and then the whole course of his
      life. In the age of simplicity, poetry was devoted entirely to the
      beauties of the physical forms of nature and of man; each step in advance
      that it has made since then toward our own day of civilization and of
      sadness, seems to have blended it more and more with our arts, and even
      with the sufferings of our souls. At present, with all the serious
      solemnity of Religion and of Destiny, it lends to them their chief beauty.
      Never discouraged, Poetry has followed Man in his long journey through the
      ages, like a sweet and beautiful companion. I have attempted, in our
      language, to show some of her beauties, in following her progress toward
      the present day.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The arrangement of the poems announced in this Preface is tripartite, like
      that of the &lsquo;Legende des Siecles: Poemes antiques, poemes judaiques,
      poemes modernes.&mdash;Livre mystique, livre antique, livre moderne&rsquo;.
      But the name of precursor would be a vain title if all that were necessary
      to merit it was the fact that one had been the first to perceive a new
      path to literary glory, to salute it from a distance, yet never attempt to
      make a nearer approach.
    </p>
    <p>
      In one direction at least, Alfred de Vigny was a true innovator, in the
      broadest and most meritorious sense of the word: he was the creator of
      philosophic poetry in France. Until Jocelyn appeared, in 1836, the form of
      poetic expression was confined chiefly to the ode, the ballad, and the
      elegy; and no poet, with the exception of the author of &lsquo;Moise&rsquo;
      and &lsquo;Eloa&rsquo;, ever dreamed that abstract ideas and themes
      dealing with the moralities could be expressed in the melody of verse.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this priority, of which he knew the full value, Alfred de Vigny laid
      insistent claim. &ldquo;The only merit,&rdquo; he says in one of his
      prefaces, &ldquo;that any one ever has disputed with me in this sort of
      composition is the honor of having promulgated in France all works of the
      kind in which philosophic thought is presented in either epic or dramatic
      form.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was not alone priority in the sense of time that gave him right of
      way over his contemporaries; he was the most distinguished representative
      of poetic philosophy of his generation. If the phrases of Lamartine seem
      richer, if his flight is more majestic, De Vigny&rsquo;s range is surer
      and more powerful. While the philosophy of the creator of &lsquo;Les
      Harmonies&rsquo; is uncertain and inconsistent, that of the poet of
      &lsquo;Les Destinees&rsquo; is strong and substantial, for the reason that
      the former inspires more sentiment than ideas, while the latter, soaring
      far above the narrow sphere of personal emotion, writes of everything that
      occupies the intellect of man.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, by his vigor and breadth of thought, by his profound understanding
      of life, by the intensity of his dreams, Alfred de Vigny is superior to
      Victor Hugo, whose genius was quite different, in his power to portray
      picturesque scenes, in his remarkable fecundity of imagination, and in his
      sovereign mastery of technique.
    </p>
    <p>
      But nowhere in De Vigny&rsquo;s work is that superiority of poetic thought
      so clearly shown as in those productions wherein the point of departure
      was farthest from the domain of intellect, and better than any other has
      he understood that truth proclaimed by Hegel: &ldquo;The passions of the
      soul and the affections of the heart are matter for poetic expression only
      in so far as they are general, solid, and eternal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Vigny was also the only one among our poets that had a lofty ideal of
      woman and of love. And in order to convince one&rsquo;s self of this it is
      sufficient to reread successively the four great love-poems of that
      period: &lsquo;Le Lac, La Tristesse d&rsquo;Olympio, Le Souvenir, and La
      Colere de Samson&rsquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lamartine&rsquo;s conception of love was a sort of mild ecstasy, the
      sacred rapture in which the senses play no part, and noble emotions that
      cause neither trouble nor remorse. He ever regarded love as a kind of
      sublime and passionate religion, of which &lsquo;Le Lac&rsquo; was the
      most beautiful hymn, but in which the image of woman is so vague that she
      almost seems to be absent.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the other hand, what is &lsquo;La Tristesse d&rsquo;Olympio&rsquo; if
      not an admirable but common poetic rapture, a magnificent summary of the
      sufferings of the heart&mdash;a bit of lyric writing equal to the most
      beautiful canzoni of the Italian masters, but wherein we find no idea of
      love, because all is artificial and studied; no cry from the soul is
      heard,&mdash;no trace of passion appears.
    </p>
    <p>
      After another fashion the same criticism applies to Le Souvenir; it was
      written under a stress of emotion resulting from too recent events; and
      the imagination of the author, subservient to a memory relentlessly
      faithful, as is often the case with those to whom passion is the chief
      principle of inspiration, was far from fulfilling the duties of his high
      vocation, which is to purify the passions of the poet from individual and
      accidental characteristics in order to leave unhampered whatever his work
      may contain that is powerful and imperishable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alfred de Vigny alone, of the poets of his day, in his &lsquo;Colere de
      Samson&rsquo;, has risen to a just appreciation of woman and of love; his
      ideal is grand and tragic, it is true, and reminds one of that gloomy
      passage in Ecclesiastes which says: &ldquo;Woman is more bitter than
      death, and her arms are like chains.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It is by this character of universality, of which all his writings show
      striking evidence, that Alfred de Vigny is assured of immortality. A
      heedless generation neglected him because it preferred to seek subjects in
      strong contrast to life of its own time. But that which was not
      appreciated by his contemporaries will be welcomed by posterity. And when,
      in French literature, there shall remain of true romanticism only a slight
      trace and the memory of a few great names, the author of the &lsquo;Destinees&rsquo;
      will still find an echo in all hearts.
    </p>
    <p>
      No writer, no matter how gifted, immortalizes himself unless he has
      crystallized into expressive and original phrase the eternal sentiments
      and yearnings of the human heart. &ldquo;A man does not deserve the name
      of poet unless he can express personal feeling and emotion, and only that
      man is worthy to be called a poet who knows how to assimilate the varied
      emotions of mankind.&rdquo; If this fine phrase of Goethe&rsquo;s is true,
      if true poetry is only that which implies a mastery of spiritual things as
      well as of human emotion, Alfred de Vigny is assuredly one of our greatest
      poets, for none so well as he has realized a complete vision of the
      universe, no one has brought before the world with more boldness the
      problem of the soul and that of humanity. Under the title of poet he
      belongs not only to our national literature, but occupies a distinctive
      place in the world of intellect, with Lucretius, Dante, and Goethe, among
      those inspired beings who transmit throughout succeeding centuries the
      light of reason and the traditions of the loftiest poetic thought.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alfred de Vigny was elected to a chair in the French Academy in 1846 and
      died at Paris, September 17, 1863.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                  GASTON BOISSIER
          Secretaire Perpetuel de l&rsquo;Academie Francaise.
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
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    <hr />
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </div>
    <h2>
      TRUTH IN ART
    </h2>
    <p>
      The study of social progress is to-day not less needed in literature than
      is the analysis of the human heart. We live in an age of universal
      investigation, and of exploration of the sources of all movements. France,
      for example, loves at the same time history and the drama, because the one
      explores the vast destinies of humanity, and the other the individual lot
      of man. These embrace the whole of life. But it is the province of
      religion, of philosophy, of pure poetry only, to go beyond life, beyond
      time, into eternity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of late years (perhaps as a result of our political changes) art has
      borrowed from history more than ever. All of us have our eyes fixed on our
      chronicles, as though, having reached manhood while going on toward
      greater things, we had stopped a moment to cast up the account of our
      youth and its errors. We have had to double the interest by adding to it
      recollection.
    </p>
    <p>
      As France has carried farther than other nations this love of facts, and
      as I had chosen a recent and well-remembered epoch, it seemed to me that I
      ought not to imitate those foreigners who in their pictures barely show in
      the horizon the men who dominate their history. I placed ours in the
      foreground of the scene; I made them leading actors in this tragedy,
      wherever I endeavored to represent the three kinds of ambition by which we
      are influenced, and with them the beauty of self-sacrifice to a noble
      ideal. A treatise on the fall of the feudal system; on the position, at
      home and abroad, of France in the seventeenth century; on foreign
      alliances; on the justice of parliaments or of secret commissions, or on
      accusations of sorcery, would not perhaps have been read. But the romance
      was read.
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not mean to defend this last form of historical composition, being
      convinced that the real greatness of a work lies in the substance of the
      author&rsquo;s ideas and sentiments, and not in the literary form in which
      they are dressed. The choice of a certain epoch necessitates a certain
      treatment&mdash;to another epoch it would be unsuitable; these are mere
      secrets of the workshop of thought which there is no need of disclosing.
      What is the use of theorizing as to wherein lies the charm that moves us?
      We hear the tones of the harp, but its graceful form conceals from us its
      frame of iron. Nevertheless, since I have been convinced that this book
      possesses vitality, I can not help throwing out some reflections on the
      liberty which the imagination should employ in weaving into its tapestry
      all the leading figures of an age, and, to give more consistency to their
      acts, in making the reality of fact give way to the idea which each of
      them should represent in the eyes of posterity; in short, on the
      difference which I find between Truth in art and the True in fact.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just as we descend into our consciences to judge of actions which our
      minds can not weigh, can we not also search in ourselves for the feeling
      which gives birth to forms of thought, always vague and cloudy? We shall
      find in our troubled hearts, where discord reigns, two needs which seem at
      variance, but which merge, as I think, in a common source&mdash;the love
      of the true, and the love of the fabulous.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the day when man told the story of his life to man, history was born.
      Of what use is the memory of facts, if not to serve as an example of good
      or of evil? But the examples which the slow train of events presents to us
      are scattered and incomplete. They lack always a tangible and visible
      coherence leading straight on to a moral conclusion. The acts of the human
      race on the world&rsquo;s stage have doubtless a coherent unity, but the
      meaning of the vast tragedy enacted will be visible only to the eye of
      God, until the end, which will reveal it perhaps to the last man. All
      systems of philosophy have sought in vain to explain it, ceaselessly
      rolling up their rock, which, never reaching the top, falls back upon them&mdash;each
      raising its frail structure on the ruins of the others, only to see it
      fall in its turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      I think, then, that man, after having satisfied his first longing for
      facts, wanted something fuller&mdash;some grouping, some adaptation to his
      capacity and experience, of the links of this vast chain of events which
      his sight could not take in. Thus he hoped to find in the historic recital
      examples which might support the moral truths of which he was conscious.
      Few single careers could satisfy this longing, being only incomplete parts
      of the elusive whole of the history of the world; one was a quarter, as it
      were, the other a half of the proof; imagination did the rest and
      completed them. From this, without doubt, sprang the fable. Man created it
      thus, because it was not given him to see more than himself and nature,
      which surrounds him; but he created it true with a truth all its own.
    </p>
    <p>
      This Truth, so beautiful, so intellectual, which I feel, I see, and long
      to define, the name of which I here venture to distinguish from that of
      the True, that I may the better make myself understood, is the soul of all
      the arts. It is the selection of the characteristic token in all the
      beauties and the grandeurs of the visible True; but it is not the thing
      itself, it is something better: it is an ideal combination of its
      principal forms, a luminous tint made up of its brightest colors, an
      intoxicating balm of its purest perfumes, a delicious elixir of its best
      juices, a perfect harmony of its sweetest sounds&mdash;in short, it is a
      concentration of all its good qualities. For this Truth, and nothing else,
      should strive those works of art which are a moral representation of
      life-dramatic works. To attain it, the first step is undoubtedly to learn
      all that is true in fact of every period, to become deeply imbued with its
      general character and with its details; this involves only a cheap tribute
      of attention, of patience, and of memory: But then one must fix upon some
      chosen centre, and group everything around it; this is the work of
      imagination, and of that sublime common-sense which is genius itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of what use were the arts if they were only the reproduction and the
      imitation of life? Good heavens! we see only too clearly about us the sad
      and disenchanting reality&mdash;the insupportable lukewarmness of feeble
      characters, of shallow virtues and vices, of irresolute loves, of tempered
      hates, of wavering friendships, of unsettled beliefs, of constancy which
      has its height and its depth, of opinions which evaporate. Let us dream
      that once upon a time have lived men stronger and greater, who were more
      determined for good or for evil; that does us good. If the paleness of
      your True is to follow us into art, we shall close at once the theatre and
      the book, to avoid meeting it a second time. What is wanted of works which
      revive the ghosts of human beings is, I repeat, the philosophical
      spectacle of man deeply wrought upon by the passions of his character and
      of his epoch; it is, in short, the artistic Truth of that man and that
      epoch, but both raised to a higher and ideal power, which concentrates all
      their forces. You recognize this Truth in works of the imagination just as
      you cry out at the resemblance of a portrait of which you have never seen
      the original; for true talent paints life rather than the living.
    </p>
    <p>
      To banish finally the scruples on this point of the consciences of some
      persons, timorous in literary matters, whom I have seen affected with a
      personal sorrow on viewing the rashness with which the imagination sports
      with the most weighty characters of history, I will hazard the assertion
      that, not throughout this work, I dare not say that, but in many of these
      pages, and those perhaps not of the least merit, history is a romance of
      which the people are the authors. The human mind, I believe, cares for the
      True only in the general character of an epoch. What it values most of all
      is the sum total of events and the advance of civilization, which carries
      individuals along with it; but, indifferent to details, it cares less to
      have them real than noble or, rather, grand and complete.
    </p>
    <p>
      Examine closely the origin of certain deeds, of certain heroic
      expressions, which are born one knows not how; you will see them leap out
      ready-made from hearsay and the murmurs of the crowd, without having in
      themselves more than a shadow of truth, and, nevertheless, they will
      remain historical forever. As if by way of pleasantry, and to put a joke
      upon posterity, the public voice invents sublime utterances to mark,
      during their lives and under their very eyes, men who, confused, avow
      themselves as best they may, as not deserving of so much glory and as not
      being able to support so high renown.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   [In our time has not a Russian General denied the fire of Moscow,
   which we have made heroic, and which will remain so? Has not a
   French General denied that utterance on the field of Waterloo which
   will immortalize it? And if I were not withheld by my respect for a
   sacred event, I might recall that a priest has felt it to be his
   duty to disavow in public a sublime speech which will remain the
   noblest that has ever been pronounced on a scaffold: &ldquo;Son of Saint
   Louis, rise to heaven!&rdquo; When I learned not long ago its real
   author, I was overcome by the destruction of my illusion, but before
   long I was consoled by a thought that does honor to humanity in my
   eyes. I feel that France has consecrated this speech, because she
   felt the need of reestablishing herself in her own eyes, of blinding
   herself to her awful error, and of believing that then and there an
   honest man was found who dared to speak aloud.]
</pre>
    <p>
      In vain; their disclaimers are not received. Let them cry out, let them
      write, let them print, let them sign&mdash;they are not listened to. These
      utterances are inscribed in bronze; the poor fellows remain historical and
      sublime in spite of themselves. And I do not find that all this is done in
      the ages of barbarism alone; it is still going on, and it molds the
      history of yesterday to the taste of public opinion&mdash;a Muse
      tyrannical and capricious, which preserves the general purport and scorns
      detail.
    </p>
    <p>
      Which of you knows not of such transformation? Do you not see with your
      own eyes the chrysalis fact assume by degrees the wings of fiction? Half
      formed by the necessities of the time, a fact is hidden in the ground
      obscure and incomplete, rough, misshapen, like a block of marble not yet
      rough-hewn. The first who unearth it, and take it in hand, would wish it
      differently shaped, and pass it, already a little rounded, into other
      hands; others polish it as they pass it along; in a short time it is
      exhibited transformed into an immortal statue. We disclaim it; witnesses
      who have seen and heard pile refutations upon explanations; the learned
      investigate, pore over books, and write. No one listens to them any more
      than to the humble heroes who disown it; the torrent rolls on and bears
      with it the whole thing under the form which it has pleased it to give to
      these individual actions. What was needed for all this work? A nothing, a
      word; sometimes the caprice of a journalist out of work. And are we the
      losers by it? No. The adopted fact is always better composed than the real
      one, and it is even adopted only because it is better. The human race
      feels a need that its destinies should afford it a series of lessons; more
      careless than we think of the reality of facts, it strives to perfect the
      event in order to give it a great moral significance, feeling sure that
      the succession of scenes which it plays upon earth is not a comedy, and
      that since it advances, it marches toward an end, of which the explanation
      must be sought beyond what is visible.
    </p>
    <p>
      For my part, I acknowledge my gratitude to the voice of the people for
      this achievement; for often in the finest life are found strange blemishes
      and inconsistencies which pain me when I see them. If a man seems to me a
      perfect model of a grand and noble character, and if some one comes and
      tells me of a mean trait which disfigures him, I am saddened by it, even
      though I do not know him, as by a misfortune which affects me in person;
      and I could almost wish that he had died before the change in his
      character.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, when the Muse (and I give that name to art as a whole, to everything
      which belongs to the domain of imagination, almost in the same way as the
      ancients gave the name of Music to all education), when the Muse has
      related, in her impassioned manner, the adventures of a character whom I
      know to have lived; and when she reshapes his experiences into conformity
      with the strongest idea of vice or virtue which can be conceived of him&mdash;filling
      the gaps, veiling the incongruities of his life, and giving him that
      perfect unity of conduct which we like to see represented even in evil&mdash;if,
      in addition to this, she preserves the only thing essential to the
      instruction of the world, the spirit of the epoch, I know no reason why we
      should be more exacting with her than with this voice of the people which
      every day makes every fact undergo so great changes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ancients carried this liberty even into history; they wanted to see in
      it only the general march, and broad movements of peoples and nations; and
      on these great movements, brought to view in courses very distinct and
      very clear, they placed a few colossal figures&mdash;symbols of noble
      character and of lofty purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      One might almost reckon mathematically that, having undergone the double
      composition of public opinion and of the author, their history reaches us
      at third hand and is thus separated by two stages from the original fact.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is because in their eyes history too was a work of art; and in
      consequence of not having realized that such is its real nature, the whole
      Christian world still lacks an historical monument like those which
      dominate antiquity and consecrate the memory of its destinies&mdash;as its
      pyramids, its obelisks, its pylons, and its porticos still dominate the
      earth which was known to them, and thereby commemorate the grandeur of
      antiquity.
    </p>
    <p>
      If, then, we find everywhere evidence of this inclination to desert the
      positive, to bring the ideal even into historic annals, I believe that
      with greater reason we should be completely indifferent to historical
      reality in judging the dramatic works, whether poems, romances, or
      tragedies, which borrow from history celebrated characters. Art ought
      never to be considered except in its relations with its ideal beauty. Let
      it be said that what is true in fact is secondary merely; it is only an
      illusion the more with which it adorns itself&mdash;one of our prejudices
      which it respects. It can do without it, for the Truth by which it must
      live is the truth of observation of human nature, and not authenticity of
      fact. The names of the characters have nothing to do with the matter. The
      idea is everything; the proper name is only the example and the proof of
      the idea.
    </p>
    <p>
      So much the better for the memory of those who are chosen to represent
      philosophical or moral ideas; but, once again, that is not the question.
      The imagination can produce just as fine things without them; it is a
      power wholly creative; the imaginary beings which it animates are endowed
      with life as truly as the real beings which it brings to life again. We
      believe in Othello as we do in Richard III., whose tomb is in Westminster;
      in Lovelace and Clarissa as in Paul and Virginia, whose tombs are in the
      Isle of France. It is with the same eye that we must watch the performance
      of its characters, and demand of the Muse only her artistic Truth, more
      lofty than the True&mdash;whether collecting the traits of a character
      dispersed among a thousand entire individuals, she composes from them a
      type whose name alone is imaginary; or whether she goes to their tomb to
      seek and to touch with her galvanic current the dead whose great deeds are
      known, forces them to arise again, and drags them dazzled to the light of
      day, where, in the circle which this fairy has traced, they re-assume
      unwillingly their passions of other days, and begin again in the sight of
      their descendants the sad drama of life.
    </p>
    <p>
      ALFRED DE VIGNY. 1827. <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
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    </p>
    <h2>
      CINQ-MARS
    </h2>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK 1.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I. THE ADIEU
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Fare thee well! and if forever,
     Still forever fare thee well!

                       LORD BYRON.
</pre>
    <p>
      Do you know that charming part of our country which has been called the
      garden of France&mdash;that spot where, amid verdant plains watered by
      wide streams, one inhales the purest air of heaven?
    </p>
    <p>
      If you have travelled through fair Touraine in summer, you have no doubt
      followed with enchantment the peaceful Loire; you have regretted the
      impossibility of determining upon which of its banks you would choose to
      dwell with your beloved. On its right bank one sees valleys dotted with
      white houses surrounded by woods, hills yellow with vines or white with
      the blossoms of the cherry-tree, walls covered with honeysuckles,
      rose-gardens, from which pointed roofs rise suddenly. Everything reminds
      the traveller either of the fertility of the land or of the antiquity of
      its monuments; and everything interests him in the work of its busy
      inhabitants.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing has proved useless to them; it seems as if in their love for so
      beautiful a country&mdash;the only province of France never occupied by
      foreigners&mdash;they have determined not to lose the least part of its
      soil, the smallest grain of its sand. Do you fancy that this ruined tower
      is inhabited only by hideous night-birds? No; at the sound of your horse&rsquo;s
      hoofs, the smiling face of a young girl peeps out from the ivy, whitened
      with the dust from the road. If you climb a hillside covered with vines, a
      light column of smoke shows you that there is a chimney at your feet; for
      the very rock is inhabited, and families of vine-dressers breathe in its
      caverns, sheltered at night by the kindly earth which they laboriously
      cultivate during the day. The good people of Touraine are as simple as
      their life, gentle as the air they breathe, and strong as the powerful
      earth they dig. Their countenances, like their characters, have something
      of the frankness of the true people of St. Louis; their chestnut locks are
      still long and curve around their ears, as in the stone statues of our old
      kings; their language is the purest French, with neither slowness, haste,
      nor accent&mdash;the cradle of the language is there, close to the cradle
      of the monarchy.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the left bank of the stream has a more serious aspect; in the distance
      you see Chambord, which, with its blue domes and little cupolas, appears
      like some great city of the Orient; there is Chanteloup, raising its
      graceful pagoda in the air. Near these a simpler building attracts the
      eyes of the traveller by its magnificent situation and imposing size; it
      is the chateau of Chaumont. Built upon the highest hill of the shore, it
      frames the broad summit with its lofty walls and its enormous towers; high
      slate steeples increase their loftiness, and give to the building that
      conventual air, that religious form of all our old chateaux, which casts
      an aspect of gravity over the landscape of most of our provinces. Black
      and tufted trees surround this ancient mansion, resembling from afar the
      plumes that encircled the hat of King Henry. At the foot of the hill,
      connected with the chateau by a narrow path, lies a pretty village, whose
      white houses seem to have sprung from the golden sand; a chapel stands
      halfway up the hill; the lords descended and the villagers ascended to its
      altar-the region of equality, situated like a neutral spot between poverty
      and riches, which have been too often opposed to each other in bitter
      conflict.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, one morning in the month of June, 1639, the bell of the chateau
      having, as usual, rung at midday, the dinner-hour of the family,
      occurrences of an unusual kind were passing in this ancient dwelling. The
      numerous domestics observed that in repeating the morning prayers before
      the assembled household, the Marechale d&rsquo;Effiat had spoken with a
      broken voice and with tears in her eyes, and that she had appeared in a
      deeper mourning than was customary. The people of the household and the
      Italians of the Duchesse de Mantua, who had at that time retired for a
      while to Chaumont, saw with surprise that sudden preparations were being
      made for departure. The old domestic of the Marechal d&rsquo;Effiat (who
      had been dead six months) had taken again to his travelling-boots, which
      he had sworn to abandon forever. This brave fellow, named Grandchamp, had
      followed the chief of the family everywhere in the wars, and in his
      financial work; he had been his equerry in the former, and his secretary
      in the latter. He had recently returned from Germany, to inform the mother
      and the children of the death of the Marechal, whose last sighs he had
      heard at Luzzelstein. He was one of those faithful servants who are become
      too rare in France; who suffer with the misfortunes of the family, and
      rejoice with their joys; who approve of early marriages, that they may
      have young masters to educate; who scold the children and often the
      fathers; who risk death for them; who serve without wages in revolutions;
      who toil for their support; and who in prosperous times follow them
      everywhere, or exclaim at their return, &ldquo;Behold our vines!&rdquo; He
      had a severe and remarkable face, a coppery complexion, and silver-gray
      hair, in which, however, some few locks, black as his heavy eyebrows, made
      him appear harsh at first; but a gentle countenance softened this first
      impression. At present his voice was loud. He busied himself much that day
      in hastening the dinner, and ordered about all the servants, who were in
      mourning like himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;make haste to serve the dinner, while
      Germain, Louis, and Etienne saddle their horses; Monsieur Henri and I must
      be far away by eight o&rsquo;clock this evening. And you, gentlemen,
      Italians, have you warned your young Princess? I wager that she is gone to
      read with her ladies at the end of the park, or on the banks of the lake.
      She always comes in after the first course, and makes every one rise from
      the table.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my good Grandchamp,&rdquo; said in a low voice a young maid
      servant who was passing, &ldquo;do not speak of the Duchess; she is very
      sorrowful, and I believe that she will remain in her apartment. Santa
      Maria! what a shame to travel to-day! to depart on a Friday, the
      thirteenth of the month, and the day of Saint Gervais and of Saint-Protais&mdash;the
      day of two martyrs! I have been telling my beads all the morning for
      Monsieur de Cinq-Mars; and I could not help thinking of these things. And
      my mistress thinks of them too, although she is a great lady; so you need
      not laugh!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words the young Italian glided like a bird across the large
      dining-room, and disappeared down a corridor, startled at seeing the great
      doors of the salon opened.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grandchamp had hardly heard what she had said, and seemed to have been
      occupied only with the preparations for dinner; he fulfilled the important
      duties of major-domo, and cast severe looks at the domestics to see
      whether they were all at their posts, placing himself behind the chair of
      the eldest son of the house. Then all the inhabitants of the mansion
      entered the salon. Eleven persons seated themselves at table. The
      Marechale came in last, giving her arm to a handsome old man,
      magnificently dressed, whom she placed upon her left hand. She seated
      herself in a large gilded arm-chair at the middle of one side of the
      table, which was oblong in form. Another seat, rather more ornamented, was
      at her right, but it remained empty. The young Marquis d&rsquo;Effiat,
      seated in front of his mother, was to assist her in doing the honors of
      the table. He was not more than twenty years old, and his countenance was
      insignificant; much gravity and distinguished manners proclaimed, however,
      a social nature, but nothing more. His young sister of fourteen, two
      gentlemen of the province, three young Italian noblemen of the suite of
      Marie de Gonzaga (Duchesse de Mantua), a lady-in-waiting, the governess of
      the young daughter of the Marechale, and an abbe of the neighborhood, old
      and very deaf, composed the assembly. A seat at the right of the elder son
      still remained vacant.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marechale, before seating herself, made the sign of the cross, and
      repeated the Benedicite aloud; every one responded by making the complete
      sign, or upon the breast alone. This custom was preserved in many families
      in France up to the Revolution of 1789; some still practise it, but more
      in the provinces than in Paris, and not without some hesitation and some
      preliminary words upon the weather, accompanied by a deprecatory smile
      when a stranger is present&mdash;for it is too true that virtue also has
      its blush.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marechale possessed an imposing figure, and her large blue eyes were
      remarkably beautiful. She did not appear to have yet attained her
      forty-fifth year; but, oppressed with sorrow, she walked slowly and spoke
      with difficulty, closing her eyes, and allowing her head to droop for a
      moment upon her breast, after she had been obliged to raise her voice. At
      such efforts her hand pressed to her bosom showed that she experienced
      sharp pain. She saw therefore with satisfaction that the person who was
      seated at her left, having at the beginning engrossed the conversation,
      without having been requested by any one to talk, persisted with an
      imperturbable coolness in engrossing it to the end of the dinner. This was
      the old Marechal de Bassompierre; he had preserved with his white locks an
      air of youth and vivacity curious to see. His noble and polished manners
      showed a certain gallantry, antiquated like his costume&mdash;for he wore
      a ruff in the fashion of Henri IV, and the slashed sleeves fashionable in
      the former reign, an absurdity which was unpardonable in the eyes of the
      beaux of the court. This would not have appeared more singular than
      anything else at present; but it is admitted that in every age we laugh at
      the costume of our fathers, and, except the Orientals, I know of no people
      who have not this fault.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the Italian gentlemen had hardly finished asking the Marechal what
      he thought of the way in which the Cardinal treated the daughter of the
      Duc de Mantua, when he exclaimed, in his familiar language:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens, man! what are you talking about? what do I comprehend of
      this new system under which France is living? We old companions-in-arms of
      his late Majesty can ill understand the language spoken by the new court,
      and that in its turn does not comprehend ours. But what do I say? We speak
      no language in this sad country, for all the world is silent before the
      Cardinal; this haughty little, vassal looks upon us as merely old family
      portraits, which occasionally he shortens by the head; but happily the
      motto always remains. Is it not true, my dear Puy-Laurens?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This guest was about the same age as the Marechal, but, being more grave
      and cautious, he answered in vague and few words, and made a sign to his
      contemporary in order to induce him to observe the unpleasant emotions
      which he had caused the mistress of the house by reminding her of the
      recent death of her husband and in speaking thus of the minister, his
      friend. But it was in vain, for Bassompierre, pleased with the sign of
      half-approval, emptied at one draught a great goblet of wine&mdash;a
      remedy which he lauds in his Memoirs as infallible against the plague and
      against reserve; and leaning back to receive another glass from his
      esquire, he settled himself more firmly than ever upon his chair, and in
      his favorite ideas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, we are in the way here; I said so the other day to my dear Duc
      de Guise, whom they have ruined. They count the minutes that we have to
      live, and shake the hour-glass to hasten the descent of its sands. When
      Monsieur le Cardinal-Duc observes in a corner three or four of our tall
      figures, who never quitted the side of the late King, he feels that he is
      unable to move those statues of iron, and that to do it would require the
      hand of a great man; he passes quickly by, and dares not meddle with us,
      who fear him not. He believes that we are always conspiring; and they say
      at this very moment that there is talk of putting me in the Bastille.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! Monsieur le Marechal, why do you delay your departure?&rdquo;
      said the Italian. &ldquo;I know of no place, except Flanders, where you
      can find shelter.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Monsieur! you do not know me. So far from flying, I sought out
      the King before his departure, and told him that I did so in order to save
      people the trouble of looking for me; and that if I knew when he wished to
      send me, I would go myself without being taken. He was as kind as I
      expected him to be, and said to me, &lsquo;What, my old friend, could you
      have thought that I desired to send you there? You know well that I love
      you.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my dear Marechal, let me compliment you,&rdquo; said Madame d&rsquo;Effiat,
      in a soft voice. &ldquo;I recognize the benevolence of the King in these
      words; he remembers the affection which the King, his father, had toward
      you. It appears to me that he always accorded to you all that you desired
      for your friends,&rdquo; she added, with animation, in order to put him
      into the track of praise, and to beguile him from the discontent which he
      had so loudly declared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Assuredly, Madame,&rdquo; answered he; &ldquo;no one is more
      willing to recognize his virtues than Francois de Bassompierre. I shall be
      faithful to him to the end, because I gave myself, body and fortune, to
      his father at a ball; and I swear that, with my consent at least, none of
      my family shall ever fail in their duties toward the King of France.
      Although the Besteins are foreigners and Lorrains, a shake of the hand
      from Henri IV gained us forever. My greatest grief has been to see my
      brother die in the service of Spain; and I have just written to my nephew
      to say that I shall disinherit him if he has passed over to the Emperor,
      as report says he has.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the gentlemen guests who had as yet been silent, and who was
      remarkable for the profusion of knots, ribbons, and tags which covered his
      dress, and for the black cordon of the Order of St. Michael which
      decorated his neck, bowed, observing that it was thus all faithful
      subjects ought to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo; faith, Monsieur de Launay, you deceive yourself very much,&rdquo;
      said the Marechal, to whom the recollection of his ancestors now occurred;
      &ldquo;persons of our blood are subjects only at our own pleasure, for God
      has caused us to be born as much lords of our lands as the King is of his.
      When I came to France, I came at my ease, accompanied by my gentlemen and
      pages. I perceive, however, that the farther we go, the more we lose sight
      of this idea, especially at the court. But here is a young man who arrives
      very opportunely to hear me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The door indeed opened, and a young man of fine form entered. He was pale;
      his hair was brown, his eyes were black, his expression was sad and
      reckless. This was Henri d&rsquo;Effiat, Marquis de Cinq-Mars (a name
      taken from an estate of his family). His dress and his short cloak were
      black; a collar of lace fell from his neck halfway down his breast; his
      stout, small, and very wide-spurred boots made so much noise upon the
      flags of the salon that his approach was heard at a distance. He walked
      directly toward the Marechale, bowed low, and kissed her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Henri,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;are your horses ready? At what
      hour do you depart?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Immediately after dinner, Madame, if you will allow me,&rdquo; said
      he to his mother, with the ceremonious respect of the times; and passing
      behind her, he saluted M. de Bassompierre before seating himself at the
      left of his eldest brother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the Marechal, continuing to eat with an excellent
      appetite, &ldquo;you are about to depart, my son; you are going to the
      court&mdash;a slippery place nowadays. I am sorry for your sake that it is
      not now what it used to be. In former times, the court was simply the
      drawing-room of the King, in which he received his natural friends: nobles
      of great family, his peers, who visited him to show their devotion and
      their friendship, lost their money with him, and accompanied him in his
      pleasure parties, but never received anything from him, except permission
      to bring their vassals with them, to break their heads in his service. The
      honors a man of quality received did not enrich him, for he paid for them
      out of his purse. I sold an estate for every grade I received; the title
      of colonel-general of the Swiss cost me four hundred thousand crowns, and
      at the baptism of the present King I had to buy a costume that cost me a
      hundred thousand francs.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said the mistress of the house, smiling, &ldquo;you must
      acknowledge for once that you were not obliged to do that. We have all
      heard of your splendid dress of pearls; but I should be much vexed were it
      still the custom to wear such.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Madame la Marquise, do not fear, those times of magnificence
      never will return. We committed follies, no doubt, but they proved our
      independence; it is clear that it would then have been hard to convert
      from their allegiance to the King adherents who were attached to him by
      love alone, and whose coronets contained as many diamonds as his own
      locked-up crown. It is also certain that ambition could not then attack
      all classes, since such expenses could come only from rich hands, and
      since gold comes only from mines. Those great houses, which are being so
      furiously assailed, were not ambitious, and frequently, desiring no
      employment from the Government, maintained their places at court by their
      own weight, existed upon their own foundation, and might say, as one of
      them did say, &lsquo;The Prince condescends not; I am Rohan.&rsquo; It was
      the same with every noble family, to which its own nobility sufficed; the
      King himself expressed it in writing to one of my friends: &lsquo;Money is
      not a common thing between gentlemen like you and me.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Monsieur le Marechal,&rdquo; coldly, and with extreme
      politeness, interrupted M. de Launay, who perhaps intended to anger him,
      &ldquo;this independence has produced as many civil wars and revolts as
      those of Monsieur de Montmorency.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur! I can not consent to hear these things spoken,&rdquo;
      said the fiery Marechal, leaping up in his armchair. &ldquo;Those revolts
      and wars had nothing to do with the fundamental laws of the State, and
      could no more have overturned the throne than a duel could have done so.
      Of all the great party-chiefs, there was not one who would not have laid
      his victory at the feet of the King, had he succeeded, knowing well that
      all the other lords who were as great as himself would have abandoned the
      enemy of the legitimate sovereign. Arms were taken against a faction, and
      not against the sovereign authority; and, this destroyed, everything went
      on again in the old way. But what have you done in crushing us? You have
      crushed the arm of the throne, and have not put anything in its place.
      Yes, I no longer doubt that the Cardinal-Duke will wholly accomplish his
      design; the great nobility will leave and lose their lands, and, ceasing
      to be great proprietors, they will cease to be a great power. The court is
      already no more than a palace where people beg; by and by it will become
      an antechamber, when it will be composed only of those who constitute the
      suite of the King. Great names will begin by ennobling vile offices; but,
      by a terrible reaction, those offices will end by rendering great names
      vile. Estranged from their homes, the nobility will be dependent upon the
      employments which they shall have received; and if the people, over whom
      they will no longer have any influence, choose to revolt&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How gloomy you are to-day, Marechal!&rdquo; interrupted the
      Marquise; &ldquo;I hope that neither I nor my children will ever see that
      time. I no longer perceive your cheerful disposition, now that you talk
      like a politician. I expected to hear you give advice to my son. Henri,
      what troubles you? You seem very absent.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars, with eyes fixed upon the great bay window of the dining-room,
      looked sorrowfully upon the magnificent landscape. The sun shone in full
      splendor, and colored the sands of the Loire, the trees, and the lawns
      with gold and emerald. The sky was azure, the waves were of a transparent
      yellow, the islets of a vivid green; behind their rounded outlines rose
      the great sails of the merchant-vessels, like a fleet in ambuscade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Nature, Nature!&rdquo; he mused; &ldquo;beautiful Nature,
      farewell! Soon will my heart cease to be of simplicity enough to feel your
      charm, soon you wall no longer please my eyes. This heart is already
      burned by a deep passion; and the mention of the interests of men stirs it
      with hitherto unknown agitation. I must, however, enter this labyrinth; I
      may, perchance, lose myself there, but for Marie&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment, aroused by the words of his mother, and fearing to exhibit
      a childish regret at leaving his beautiful country and his family, he
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am thinking, Madame, of the road which I shall take to Perpignan,
      and also of that which shall bring me back to you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not forget to take that of Poitiers, and to go to Loudun to see
      your old tutor, our good Abbe Quillet; he will give you useful advice
      about the court. He is on very good terms with the Duc de Bouillon; and
      besides, though he may not be very necessary to you, it is a mark of
      deference which you owe him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it, then, to the siege of Perpignan that you are going, my boy?&rdquo;
      asked the old Marechal, who began to think that he had been silent a long
      time. &ldquo;Ah! it is well for you. Plague upon it! a siege! &lsquo;tis
      an excellent opening. I would have given much had I been able to assist
      the late King at a siege, upon my arrival in his court; it would have been
      better to be disembowelled then than at a tourney, as I was. But we were
      at peace; and I was compelled to go and shoot the Turks with the Rosworm
      of the Hungarians, in order that I might not afflict my family by my
      idleness. For the rest, may his Majesty receive you as kindly as his
      father received me! It is true that the King is good and brave; but they
      have unfortunately taught him that cold Spanish etiquette which arrests
      all the impulses of the heart. He restrains himself and others by an
      immovable presence and an icy look; as for me, I confess that I am always
      waiting for the moment of thaw, but in vain. We were accustomed to other
      manners from the witty and simple-hearted Henri; and we were at least free
      to tell him that we loved him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars, with eyes fixed upon those of Bassompierre, as if to force
      himself to attend to his discourse, asked him what was the manner of the
      late king in conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lively and frank,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Some time after my arrival
      in France, I played with him and with the Duchesse de Beaufort at
      Fontainebleau; for he wished, he said, to win my gold-pieces, my fine
      Portugal money. He asked me the reason why I came into this country.
      &lsquo;Truly, Sire,&rsquo; said I, frankly, &lsquo;I came with no
      intention of enlisting myself in your service, but only to pass some time
      at your court, and afterward at that of Spain; but you have charmed me so
      much that, instead of going farther, if you desire my service, I will
      devote myself to you till death.&rsquo; Then he embraced me, and assured
      me that I could not find a better master, or one who would love me more.
      Alas! I have found it so. And for my part, I sacrificed everything to him,
      even my love; and I would have done more, had it been possible to do more
      than renounce Mademoiselle de Montmorency.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The good Marechal had tears in his eyes; but the young Marquis d&rsquo;Effiat
      and the Italians, looking at one another, could not help smiling to think
      that at present the Princesse de Conde was far from young and pretty.
      Cinq-Mars noticed this interchange of glances, and smiled also, but
      bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it true then,&rdquo; he thought, &ldquo;that the affections meet
      the same fate as the fashions, and that the lapse of a few years can throw
      the same ridicule upon a costume and upon love? Happy is he who does not
      outlive his youth and his illusions, and who carries his treasures with
      him to the grave!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But&mdash;again, with effort breaking the melancholy course of his
      thoughts, and wishing that the good Marechal should read nothing
      unpleasant upon the countenances of his hosts, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;People spoke, then, with much freedom to King Henri? Possibly,
      however, he found it necessary to assume that tone at the beginning of his
      reign; but when he was master did he change it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never! no, never, to his last day, did our great King cease to be
      the same. He did not blush to be a man, and he spoke to men with force and
      sensibility. Ah! I fancy I see him now, embracing the Duc de Guise in his
      carriage, on the very day of his death; he had just made one of his lively
      pleasantries to me, and the Duke said to him, &lsquo;You are, in my
      opinion, one of the most agreeable men in the world, and destiny ordained
      us for each other. For, had you been but an ordinary man, I should have
      taken you into my service at whatever price; but since heaven ordained
      that you should be born a great King, it is inevitable that I belong to
      you.&rsquo; Oh, great man!&rdquo; cried Bassompierre, with tears in his
      eyes, and perhaps a little excited by the frequent bumpers he had drunk,
      &ldquo;you said well, &lsquo;When you have lost me you will learn my
      value.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      During this interlude, the guests at the table had assumed various
      attitudes, according to their position in public affairs. One of the
      Italians pretended to chat and laugh in a subdued manner with the young
      daughter of the Marechale; the other talked to the deaf old Abbe, who,
      with one hand behind his ear that he might hear, was the only one who
      appeared attentive. Cinq-Mars had sunk back into his melancholy
      abstraction, after throwing a glance at the Marechal, as one looks aside
      after throwing a tennis-ball until its return; his elder brother did the
      honors of the table with the same calm. Puy-Laurens observed the mistress
      of the house with attention; he was devoted to the Duc d&rsquo;Orleans,
      and feared the Cardinal. As for the Marechale, she had an anxious and
      afflicted air. Careless words had often recalled the death of her husband
      or the departure of her son; and, oftener still, she had feared lest
      Bassompierre should compromise himself. She had touched him many times,
      glancing at the same time toward M. de Launay, of whom she knew little,
      and whom she had reason to believe devoted to the prime minister; but to a
      man of his character, such warnings were useless. He appeared not to
      notice them; but, on the contrary, crushing that gentleman with his bold
      glance and the sound of his voice, he affected to turn himself toward him,
      and to direct all his conversation to him. M. de Launay assumed an air of
      indifference and of assenting politeness, which he preserved until the
      moment when the folding-doors opened, and &ldquo;Mademoiselle la Duchesse
      de Mantua&rdquo; was announced.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation which we have transcribed so lengthily passed, in
      reality, with rapidity; and the repast was only half over when the arrival
      of Marie de Gonzaga caused the company to rise. She was small, but very
      well made, and although her eyes and hair were black, her complexion was
      as dazzling as the beauty of her skin. The Marechale arose to acknowledge
      her rank, and kissed her on the forehead, in recognition of her goodness
      and her charming age.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have waited a long time for you to-day, dear Marie,&rdquo; she
      said, placing the Duchess beside her; &ldquo;fortunately, you remain with
      me to replace one of my children, who is about to depart.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The young Duchess blushed, lowered her head and her eyes, in order that no
      one might see their redness, and said, timidly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, that may well be, since you have taken toward me the place
      of a mother;&rdquo; and a glance thrown at Cinq-Mars, at the other end of
      the table, made him turn pale.
    </p>
    <p>
      This arrival changed the conversation; it ceased to be general, and each
      guest conversed in a low voice with his neighbor. The Marechal alone
      continued to utter a few sentences concerning the magnificence of the old
      court, his wars in Turkey, the tournaments, and the avarice of the new
      court; but, to his great regret, no one made any reply, and the company
      were about to leave the table, when, as the clock struck two, five horses
      appeared in the courtyard. Four were mounted by servants, cloaked and
      armed; the other horse, black and spirited, was held by old Grandchamp&mdash;it
      was his master&rsquo;s steed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; exclaimed Bassompierre; &ldquo;see, our battlehorses are
      saddled and bridled. Come, young man, we must say, with our old Marot:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &lsquo;Adieu la cour, adieu les dames!
          Adieu les filles et les femmes!
          Adieu vous dy pour quelque temps;
          Adieu vos plaisans parse-temps!
          Adieu le bal, adieu la dance;
          Adieu mesure, adieu cadance,
          Tabourins, Hautbois, Violons,
          Puisqu&rsquo;à la guerre nous allons!&rsquo;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      These old verses and the air of the Marechal made all the guests laugh,
      except three persons.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens!&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;it seems to me as if, like
      him, I were only seventeen years old; he will return to us covered with
      embroidery. Madame, we must keep his chair vacant for him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marechale suddenly grew pale, and left the table in tears; every one
      rose with her; she took only two steps, and sank into another chair. Her
      sons and her daughter and the young Duchess gathered anxiously around her,
      and heard her say, amid the sighs and tears which she strove to restrain:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon, my friends! it is foolish of me&mdash;childish; but I am
      weak at present, and am not mistress of myself. We were thirteen at table;
      and you, my dear Duchess, were the cause of it. But it is very wrong of me
      to show so much weakness before him. Farewell, my child; give me your
      forehead to kiss, and may God conduct you! Be worthy of your name and of
      your father.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, as Homer says, &ldquo;smiling under tears,&rdquo; she raised
      herself, pushed her son from her, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, let me see you on horseback, fair sir!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The silent traveller kissed the hands of his mother, and made a low bow to
      her; he bowed also to the Duchess, without raising his eyes. Then,
      embracing his elder brother, pressing the hand of the Marechal, and
      kissing the forehead of his young sister almost simultaneously, he went
      forth, and was on horseback in an instant. Every one went to the windows
      which overlooked the court, except Madame d&rsquo;Effiat, who was still
      seated and suffering.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He sets off at full gallop. That is a good sign,&rdquo; said the
      Marechal, laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, heavens!&rdquo; cried the young Princess, retiring from the
      bay-window.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter?&rdquo; said the mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing, nothing!&rdquo; said M. de Launay. &ldquo;Your son&rsquo;s
      horse stumbled under the gateway; but he soon pulled him up. See, he
      salutes us from the road.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Another ominous presage!&rdquo; said the Marquise, upon retiring to
      her apartments.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one imitated her by being silent or speaking low.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day was sad, and in the evening the supper was silent at the chateau
      of Chaumont.
    </p>
    <p>
      At ten o&rsquo;clock that evening, the old Marechal, conducted by his
      valet, retired to the northern tower near the gateway, and opposite the
      river. The heat was extreme; he opened the window, and, enveloping himself
      in his great silk robe, placed a heavy candlestick upon the table and
      desired to be left alone. His window looked out upon the plain, which the
      moon, in her first quarter, indistinctly lighted; the sky was charged with
      thick clouds, and all things disposed the mind to melancholy. Although
      Bassompierre had nothing of the dreamer in his character, the tone which
      the conversation had taken at dinner returned to his memory, and he
      reconsidered his life, the sad changes which the new reign had wrought in
      it, a reign which seemed to have breathed upon him a wind of misfortune&mdash;the
      death of a cherished sister; the irregularities of the heir of his name;
      the loss of his lands and of his favor; the recent fate of his friend, the
      Marechal d&rsquo;Effiat, whose chambers he now occupied. All these
      thoughts drew from him an involuntary sigh, and he went to the window to
      breathe.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment he fancied he heard the tramp of a troop of horse at the
      side of the wood; but the wind rising made him think that he had been
      mistaken, and, as the noise suddenly ceased, he forgot it. He still
      watched for some time all the lights of the chateau, which were
      successively extinguished, after winding among the windows of the
      staircases and rambling about the courtyards and the stables. Then,
      leaning back in his great tapestried armchair, his elbow resting on the
      table, he abandoned himself to his reflections. After a while, drawing
      from his breast a medallion which hung concealed, suspended by a black
      ribbon, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, my good old master, talk with me as you have so often talked;
      come, great King, forget your court for the smile of a true friend; come,
      great man, consult me concerning ambitious Austria; come, inconstant
      chevalier, speak to me of the lightness of thy love, and of the fidelity
      of thine inconstancy; come, heroic soldier, complain to me again that I
      obscure you in combat. Ah, had I only done it in Paris! Had I only
      received thy wound? With thy blood the world has lost the benefits of
      thine interrupted reign&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The tears of the Marechal obscured the glass that covered the large
      medallion, and he was effacing them with respectful kisses, when, his door
      being roughly opened, he quickly drew his sword.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who goes there?&rdquo; he cried, in his surprise, which was much
      increased when he saw M. de Launay, who, hat in hand, advanced toward him,
      and said to him, with embarrassment:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, it is with a heart pierced with grief that I am forced to
      tell you that the King has commanded me to arrest you. A carriage awaits
      you at the gate, attended by thirty of the Cardinal-Duke&rsquo;s
      musketeers.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Bassompierre had not risen: and he still held the medallion in his right
      hand, and the sword in the other. He tendered it disdainfully to this man,
      saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, I know that I have lived too long, and it is that of
      which I was thinking; in the name of the great Henri, I restore this sword
      peacefully to his son. Follow me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He accompanied these words with a look so firm that De Launay was
      depressed, and followed him with drooping head, as if he had himself been
      arrested by the noble old man, who, seizing a flambeau, issued from the
      court and found all the doors opened by horse-guards, who had terrified
      the people of the chateau in the name of the King, and commanded silence.
      The carriage was ready, and departed rapidly, followed by many horses. The
      Marechal, seated beside M. de Launay, was about to fall asleep, rocked by
      the movement of the vehicle, when a voice cried to the driver, &ldquo;Stop!&rdquo;
      and, as he continued, a pistol-shot followed. The horses stopped.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I declare, Monsieur, that this is done without my participation,&rdquo;
      said Bassompierre. Then, putting his head out at the door, he saw that
      they were in a little wood, and that the road was too narrow to allow the
      horses to pass to either the right or the left of the carriage&mdash;a
      great advantage for the aggressors, since the musketeers could not
      advance. He tried to see what was going on when a cavalier, having in his
      hand a long sword, with which he parried the strokes of the guard,
      approached the door, crying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, Monsieur le Marechal!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! is that you, you madcap, Henri, who are playing these pranks?
      Gentlemen, let him alone; he is a mere boy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, as De Launay called to the musketeers to cease, Bassompierre
      recognized the cavalier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how the devil came you here?&rdquo; cried Bassompierre. &ldquo;I
      thought you were at Tours, or even farther, if you had done your duty; but
      here you are returned to make a fool of yourself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, it was not for you I returned, but for a secret affair,&rdquo;
      said Cinq-Mars, in a lower tone; &ldquo;but, as I take it, they are about
      to introduce you to the Bastille, and I am sure you will not betray me,
      for that delightful edifice is the very Temple of Discretion. Yet had you
      thought fit,&rdquo; he continued, aloud, &ldquo;I should have released you
      from these gentlemen in the wood here, which is so dense that their horses
      would not have been able to stir. A peasant informed me of the insult
      passed upon us, more than upon you, by this violation of my father&rsquo;s
      house.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the King&rsquo;s order, my boy, and we must respect his will;
      reserve your ardor for his service, though I thank you with all my heart.
      Now farewell, and let me proceed on my agreeable journey.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Launay interposed, &ldquo;I may inform you, Monsieur de Cinq-Mars, that
      I have been desired by the King himself to assure Monsieur le Marechal,
      that he is deeply afflicted at the step he has found it necessary to take,
      and that it is solely from an apprehension that Monsieur le Marechal may
      be led into evil that his Majesty requests him to remain for a few days in
      the Bastille.&rdquo;&mdash;[He remained there twelve years.]
    </p>
    <p>
      Bassompierre turned his head toward Cinq-Mars with a hearty laugh. &ldquo;You
      see, my friend, how we young men are placed under guardianship; so take
      care of yourself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will go, then,&rdquo; said Henri; &ldquo;this is the last time I
      shall play the knight-errant for any one against his will;&rdquo; and,
      reentering the wood as the carriage dashed off at full speed, he proceeded
      by narrow paths toward the castle, followed at a short distance by
      Grandchamp and his small escort.
    </p>
    <p>
      On arriving at the foot of the western tower, he reined in his horse. He
      did not alight, but, approaching so near the wall that he could rest his
      foot upon an abutment, he stood up, and raised the blind of a window on
      the ground-floor, made in the form of a portcullis, such as is still seen
      on some ancient buildings.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now past midnight, and the moon was hidden behind the clouds. No
      one but a member of the family could have found his way through darkness
      so profound. The towers and the roof formed one dark mass, which stood out
      in indistinct relief against the sky, hardly less dark; no light shone
      throughout the chateau, wherein all inmates seemed buried in slumber.
      Cinq-Mars, enveloped in a large cloak, his face hidden under the broad
      brim of his hat, awaited in suspense a reply to his signal.
    </p>
    <p>
      It came; a soft voice was heard from within:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that you, Monsieur Cinq-Mars?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, who else should it be? Who else would return like a criminal
      to his paternal house, without entering it, without bidding one more adieu
      to his mother? Who else would return to complain of the present, without a
      hope for the future, but I?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The gentle voice replied, but its tones were agitated, and evidently
      accompanied with tears: &ldquo;Alas! Henri, of what do you complain? Have
      I not already done more, far more than I ought? It is not my fault, but my
      misfortune, that my father was a sovereign prince. Can one choose one&rsquo;s
      birthplace or one&rsquo;s rank, and say for example, &lsquo;I will be a
      shepherdess?&rsquo; How unhappy is the lot of princesses! From the cradle,
      the sentiments of the heart are prohibited to them; and when they have
      advanced beyond childhood, they are ceded like a town, and must not even
      weep. Since I have known you, what have I not done to bring my future life
      within the reach of happiness, in removing it far from a throne? For two
      years I have struggled in vain, at once against my evil fortune, that
      separates me from you, and against you, who estrange me from the duty I
      owe to my family. I have sought to spread a belief that I was dead; I have
      almost longed for revolutions. I should have blessed a change which
      deprived me of my rank, as I thanked Heaven when my father was dethroned;
      but the court wonders at my absence; the Queen requires me to attend her.
      Our dreams are at an end, Henri; we have already slumbered too long. Let
      us awake, be courageous, and think no more of those dear two years&mdash;forget
      all in the one recollection of our great resolve. Have but one thought; be
      ambitious for&mdash;be ambitious&mdash;for my sake.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must we, then, indeed, forget all, Marie?&rdquo; murmured
      Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      She hesitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, forget all&mdash;that I myself have forgotten.&rdquo; Then,
      after a moment&rsquo;s pause, she continued with earnestness: &ldquo;Yes,
      forget our happy days together, our long evenings, even our walks by the
      lake and through the wood; but keep the future ever in mind. Go, Henri;
      your father was Marechal. Be you more; be you Constable, Prince. Go; you
      are young, noble, rich, brave, beloved&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beloved forever?&rdquo; said Henri.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forever; for life and for eternity.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars, tremulously extending his hand to the window, exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I swear, Marie, by the Virgin, whose name you bear, that you shall
      be mine, or my head shall fall on the scaffold!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Heaven! what is it you say?&rdquo; she cried, seizing his hand
      in her own. &ldquo;Swear to me that you will share in no guilty deeds;
      that you will never forget that the King of France is your master. Love
      him above all, next to her who will sacrifice all for you, who will await
      you amid suffering and sorrow. Take this little gold cross and wear it
      upon your heart; it has often been wet with my tears, and those tears will
      flow still more bitterly if ever you are faithless to the King. Give me
      the ring I see on your finger. Oh, heavens, my hand and yours are red with
      blood!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, only a scratch. Did you hear nothing, an hour ago?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; but listen. Do you hear anything now?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Marie, nothing but some bird of night on the tower.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard whispering near us, I am sure. But whence comes this blood?
      Tell me, and then depart.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I will go, while the clouds are still dark above us. Farewell,
      sweet soul; in my hour of danger I will invoke thee as a guardian angel.
      Love has infused the burning poison of ambition into my soul, and for the
      first time I feel that ambition may be ennobled by its aim. Farewell! I go
      to accomplish my destiny.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And forget not mine.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can they ever be separated?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never!&rdquo; exclaimed Marie, &ldquo;but by death.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear absence still more,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Farewell! I tremble; farewell!&rdquo; repeated the beloved voice,
      and the window was slowly drawn down, the clasped hands not parting till
      the last moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      The black horse had all the while been pawing the earth, tossing his head
      with impatience, and whinnying. Cinq-Mars, as agitated and restless as his
      steed, gave it the rein; and the whole party was soon near the city of
      Tours, which the bells of St. Gatien had announced from afar. To the
      disappointment of old Grandchamp, Cinq-Mars would not enter the town, but
      proceeded on his way, and five days later he entered, with his escort, the
      old city of Loudun in Poitou, after an uneventful journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II. THE STREET
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Je m&rsquo;avancais d&rsquo;un pas pénible et mal assuré vers le but
     de ce convoi tragique.&mdash;NODIER, <i>Smarra</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      The reign of which we are about to paint a few years&mdash;a reign of
      feebleness, which was like an eclipse of the crown between the splendors
      of Henri IV and those of Louis le Grand&mdash;afflicts the eyes which
      contemplate it with dark stains of blood, and these were not all the work
      of one man, but were caused by great and grave bodies. It is melancholy to
      observe that in this age, still full of disorder, the clergy, like a
      nation, had its populace, as it had its nobility, its ignorant and its
      criminal prelates, as well as those who were learned and virtuous. Since
      that time, its remnant of barbarism has been refined away by the long
      reign of Louis XIV, and its corruptions have been washed out in the blood
      of the martyrs whom it offered up to the revolution of 1793.
    </p>
    <p>
      We felt it necessary to pause for a moment to express this reflection
      before entering upon the recital of the facts presented by the history of
      this period, and to intimate that, notwithstanding this consolatory
      reflection, we have found it incumbent upon us to pass over many details
      too odious to occupy a place in our pages, sighing in spirit at those
      guilty acts which it was necessary to record, as in relating the life of a
      virtuous old man, we should lament over the impetuosities of his
      passionate youth, or over the corrupt tendencies of his riper age.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the cavalcade entered the narrow streets of Loudun, they heard
      strange noises all around them. The streets were filled with agitated
      masses; the bells of the church and of the convent were ringing furiously,
      as if the town was in flames; and the whole population, without paying any
      attention to the travellers, was pressing tumultuously toward a large
      edifice that adjoined the church. Here and there dense crowds were
      collected, listening in silence to some voice that seemed raised in
      exhortation, or engaged in emphatic reading; then, furious cries, mingled
      with pious exclamations, arose from the crowd, which, dispersing, showed
      the travellers that the orator was some Capuchin or Franciscan friar, who,
      holding a wooden crucifix in one hand, pointed with the other to the large
      building which was attracting such universal interest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Jesu Maria!&rdquo; exclaimed an old woman, &ldquo;who would ever
      have thought that the Evil Spirit would choose our old town for his abode?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, or that the pious Ursulines should be possessed?&rdquo; said
      another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They say that the demon who torments the Superior is called Legion,&rdquo;
      cried a third:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One demon, say you?&rdquo; interrupted a nun; &ldquo;there were
      seven in her poor body, whereunto, doubtless, she had attached too much
      importance, by reason of its great beauty, though now &lsquo;tis but the
      receptacle of evil spirits. The prior of the Carmelites yesterday expelled
      the demon Eazas through her mouth; and the reverend Father Lactantius has
      driven out in like manner the demon Beherit. But the other five will not
      depart, and when the holy exorcists (whom Heaven support!) summoned them
      in Latin to withdraw, they replied insolently that they would not go till
      they had proved their power, to the conviction even of the Huguenots and
      heretics, who, misbelieving wretches! seem to doubt it. The demon Elimi,
      the worst of them all, as you know, has threatened to take off Monsieur de
      Laubardemont&rsquo;s skull-cap to-day, and to dangle it in the air at
      Miserere.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Virgin!&rdquo; rejoined the first speaker, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
      all of a tremble! And to think that many times I have got this magician
      Urbain to say masses for me!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For myself,&rdquo; exclaimed a girl, crossing herself; &ldquo;I too
      confessed to him ten months ago! No doubt I should have been possessed
      myself, but for the relic of Saint-Genevieve I luckily had about me, and&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Luckily, indeed, Martine,&rdquo; interposed a fat gossip; &ldquo;for&mdash;no
      offence!&mdash;you, as I remember, were long enough with the handsome
      sorcerer.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw!&rdquo; said a young soldier, who had joined the group,
      smoking his pipe, &ldquo;don&rsquo;t you know that pretty Martine was
      dispossessed a month ago.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl blushed, and drew the hood of her black cloak over her face. The
      elder gossips cast a glance of indignation at the reckless trooper, and
      finding themselves now close to the door of the building, and thus sure of
      making their way in among the first when it should be thrown open, sat
      down upon the stone bench at the side, and, talking of the latest wonders,
      raised the expectations of all as to the delight they were about to have
      in being spectators of something marvellous&mdash;an apparition, perhaps,
      but at the very least, an administration of the torture.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it true, aunt,&rdquo; asked Martine of the eldest gossip,
      &ldquo;that you have heard the demons speak?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, child, true as I see you; many and many can say the same; and
      it was to convince you of it I brought you with me here, that you may see
      the power of the Evil One.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What kind of voice has he?&rdquo; continued the girl, glad to
      encourage a conversation which diverted from herself the invidious
      attention procured her by the soldier&rsquo;s raillery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, he speaks with a voice like that of the Superior herself, to
      whom Our Lady be gracious! Poor young woman! I was with her yesterday a
      long time; it was sad to see her tearing her breast, turning her arms and
      her legs first one way and then another, and then, all of a sudden,
      twisting them together behind her back. When the holy Father Lactantius
      pronounced the name of Urbain Grandier, foam came out of her mouth, and
      she talked Latin for all the world as if she were reading the Bible. Of
      course, I did not understand what she said, and all I can remember of it
      now is, &lsquo;Urbanus Magicus rosas diabolica,&rsquo; which they tell me
      means that the magician Urbain had bewitched her with some roses the Devil
      had given him; and so it must have been, for while Father Lactantius
      spoke, out of her ears and neck came a quantity of flame-colored roses,
      all smelling of sulphur so strongly that the judge-Advocate called out for
      every one present to stop their noses and eyes, for that the demons were
      about to come out.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, look there now!&rdquo; exclaimed with shrill voices and a
      triumphant air the whole bevy of assembled women, turning toward the
      crowd, and more particularly toward a group of men attired in black, among
      whom was standing the young soldier who had cut his joke just before so
      unceremoniously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to the noisy old idiots!&rdquo; exclaimed the soldier.
      &ldquo;They think they&rsquo;re at the witches&rsquo; Sabbath, but I don&rsquo;t
      see their broomsticks.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Young man, young man!&rdquo; said a citizen, with a sad air,
      &ldquo;jest not upon such subjects in the open air, or, in such a time as
      this, the wind may become gushing flames and destroy you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pooh! I laugh at your exorcists!&rdquo; returned the soldier;
      &ldquo;my name is Grand-Ferre, and I&rsquo;ve got here a better exorciser
      than any of you can show.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And significantly grasping the handle of his rapier in one hand, with the
      other he twisted up his blond moustache, as he looked fiercely around; but
      meeting no glance which returned the defiance of his own, he slowly
      withdrew, left foot foremost, and strolled along the dark, narrow streets
      with all the reckless nonchalance of a young soldier who has just donned
      his uniform, and a profound contempt for all who wear not a military coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime eight or ten of the more substantial and rational
      inhabitants traversed in a body, slowly and silently, the agitated throng;
      they seemed overwhelmed with amazement and distress at the agitation and
      excitement they witnessed everywhere, and as each new instance of the
      popular frenzy appeared, they exchanged glances of wonder and
      apprehension. Their mute depression communicated itself to the
      working-people, and to the peasants who had flocked in from the adjacent
      country, and who, all sought a guide for their opinions in the faces of
      the principal townsmen, also for the most part proprietors of the
      surrounding districts. They saw that something calamitous was on foot, and
      resorted accordingly to the only remedy open to the ignorant and the
      beguiled&mdash;apathetic resignation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, in the character of the French peasant is a certain scoffing finesse
      of which he makes effective use, sometimes with his equals, and almost
      invariably with his superiors. He puts questions to power as embarrassing
      as are those which infancy puts to mature age. He affects excessive
      humility, in order to confuse him whom he addresses with the very height
      of his isolated elevation. He exaggerates the awkwardness of his manner
      and the rudeness of his speech, as a means of covering his real thoughts
      under the appearance of mere uncouthness; yet, despite all his
      self-command, there is something in his air, certain fierce expressions
      which betray him to the close observer, who discerns in his sardonic
      smile, and in the marked emphasis with which he leans on his long staff,
      the hopes that secretly nourish his soul, and the aid upon which he
      ultimately relies.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the oldest of the peasants whom we have indicated came on
      vigorously, followed by ten or twelve young men, his sons and nephews, all
      wearing the broad-brimmed hat and the blue frock or blouse of the ancient
      Gauls, which the peasants of France still wear over their other garments,
      as peculiarly adapted to their humid climate and their laborious habits.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the old man had reached the group of personages of whom we have just
      spoken, he took off his hat&mdash;an example immediately followed by his
      whole family&mdash;and showed a face tanned with exposure to the weather,
      a forehead bald and wrinkled with age, and long, white hair. His shoulders
      were bent with years and labor, but he was still a hale and sturdy man. He
      was received with an air of welcome, and even of respect, by one of the
      gravest of the grave group he had approached, who, without uncovering,
      however, extended to him his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! good Father Guillaume Leroux!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and have
      you, too, left our farm of La Chenaie to visit the town, when it&rsquo;s
      not market-day? Why, &lsquo;tis as if your oxen were to unharness
      themselves and go hunting, leaving their work to see a poor rabbit run
      down!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, Monsieur le Comte du Lude,&rdquo; replied the farmer,
      &ldquo;for that matter, sometimes the rabbit runs across our path of
      itself; but, in truth, I&rsquo;ve a notion that some of the people here
      want to make fools of us, and so I&rsquo;ve come to see about it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough of that, my friend,&rdquo; returned the Count; &ldquo;here
      is Monsieur Fournier, the Advocate, who assuredly will not deceive you,
      for he resigned his office of Attorney-General last night, that he might
      henceforth devote his eloquence to the service of his own noble thoughts.
      You will hear him, perhaps, to-day, though truly, I dread his appearing
      for his own sake as much as I desire it for that of the accused.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I care not for myself,&rdquo; said Fournier; &ldquo;truth is with
      me a passion, and I would have it taught in all times and all places.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He that spoke was a young man, whose face, pallid in the extreme, was full
      of the noblest expression. His blond hair, his light-blue eyes, his
      thinness, the delicacy of his frame, made him at first sight seem younger
      than he was; but his thoughtful and earnest countenance indicated that
      mental superiority and that precocious maturity of soul which are
      developed by deep study in youth, combined with natural energy of
      character. He was attired wholly in black, with a short cloak in the
      fashion of the day, and carried under his left arm a roll of documents,
      which, when speaking, he would take in the right hand and grasp
      convulsively, as a warrior in his anger grasps the pommel of his sword. At
      one moment it seemed as if he were about to unfurl the scroll, and from it
      hurl lightning upon those whom he pursued with looks of fiery indignation&mdash;three
      Capuchins and a Franciscan, who had just passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pere Guillaume,&rdquo; pursued M. du Lude, &ldquo;how is it you
      have brought with you only your sons, and they armed with their staves?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, Monsieur, I have no desire that our girls should learn to
      dance of the nuns; and, moreover, just now the lads with their staves may
      bestir themselves to better purpose than their sisters would.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take my advice, my old friend,&rdquo; said the Count, &ldquo;and
      don&rsquo;t bestir yourselves at all; rather stand quietly aside to view
      the procession which you see approaching, and remember that you are
      seventy years old.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; murmured the old man, drawing up his twelve sons in
      double military rank, &ldquo;I fought under good King Henriot, and can
      play at sword and pistol as well as the worthy &lsquo;ligueurs&rsquo;;&rdquo;
      and shaking his head he leaned against a post, his knotty staff between
      his crossed legs, his hands clasped on its thick butt-end, and his white,
      bearded chin resting on his hands. Then, half closing his eyes, he
      appeared lost in recollections of his youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The bystanders observed with interest his dress, slashed in the fashion of
      Henri IV, and his resemblance to the Bearnese monarch in the latter years
      of his life, though the King&rsquo;s hair had been prevented by the
      assassin&rsquo;s blade from acquiring the whiteness which that of the old
      peasant had peacefully attained. A furious pealing of the bells, however,
      attracted the general attention to the end of the great street, down which
      was seen filing a long procession, whose banners and glittering pikes rose
      above the heads of the crowd, which successively and in silence opened a
      way for the at once absurd and terrible train.
    </p>
    <p>
      First, two and two, came a body of archers, with pointed beards and large
      plumed hats, armed with long halberds, who, ranging in a single file on
      each side of the middle of the street, formed an avenue along which
      marched in solemn order a procession of Gray Penitents&mdash;men attired
      in long, gray robes, the hoods of which entirely covered their heads;
      masks of the same stuff terminated below their chins in points, like
      beards, each having three holes for the eyes and nose. Even at the present
      day we see these costumes at funerals, more especially in the Pyrenees.
      The Penitents of Loudun carried enormous wax candles, and their slow,
      uniform movement, and their eyes, which seemed to glitter under their
      masks, gave them the appearance of phantoms.
    </p>
    <p>
      The people expressed their various feelings in an undertone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s many a rascal hidden under those masks,&rdquo; said a
      citizen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, and with a face uglier than the mask itself,&rdquo; added a
      young man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They make me afraid,&rdquo; tremulously exclaimed a girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m only afraid for my purse,&rdquo; said the first speaker.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, heaven! there are our holy brethren, the Penitents,&rdquo;
      cried an old woman, throwing back her hood, the better to look at them.
      &ldquo;See the banner they bear! Ah, neighbors, &lsquo;tis a joyful thing
      to have it among us! Beyond a doubt it will save us; see, it shows the
      devil in flames, and a monk fastening a chain round his neck, to keep him
      in hell. Ah, here come the judges&mdash;noble gentlemen! dear gentlemen!
      Look at their red robes; how beautiful! Blessed be the Virgin, they&rsquo;ve
      been well chosen!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Every man of them is a personal enemy of the Cure,&rdquo; whispered
      the Count du Lude to the advocate Fournier, who took a note of the
      information.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you know them, neighbors?&rdquo; pursued the shrill,
      sharp voice of the old woman, as she elbowed one and pinched another of
      those near her to attract their attention to the objects of her
      admiration; &ldquo;see, there&rsquo;s excellent Monsieur Mignon,
      whispering to Messieurs the Counsellors of the Court of Poitiers; Heaven
      bless them all, say I!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, there are Roatin, Richard, and Chevalier&mdash;the very men
      who tried to have him dismissed a year ago,&rdquo; continued M. du Lude,
      in undertones, to the young advocate, who, surrounded and hidden from
      public observation by the group of dark-clad citizens, was writing down
      his observations in a note-book under his cloak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here; look, look!&rdquo; screamed the woman. &ldquo;Make way! here&rsquo;s
      Monsieur Barre, the Cure of Saint-Jacques at Chinon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A saint!&rdquo; murmured one bystander.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A hypocrite!&rdquo; exclaimed a manly voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See how thin he is with fasting!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See how pale he is with remorse!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s the man to drive away devils!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, but not till he&rsquo;s done with them for his own purposes.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The dialogue was interrupted by the general exclamation, &ldquo;How
      beautiful she is!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Superior of the Ursulines advanced, followed by all her nuns. Her
      white veil was raised; in order that the people might see the features of
      the possessed ones, it had been ordered that it should be thus with her
      and six of the sisterhood. Her attire had no distinguishing feature,
      except a large rosary extending from her neck nearly to her feet, from
      which hung a gold cross; but the dazzling pallor of her face, rendered
      still more conspicuous by the dark hue of her capuchon, at once fixed the
      general gaze upon her. Her brilliant, dark eyes, which bore the impress of
      some deep and burning passion, were crowned with eyebrows so perfectly
      arched that Nature herself seemed to have taken as much pains to form them
      as the Circassian women to pencil theirs artistically; but between them a
      slight fold revealed the powerful agitation within. In her movements,
      however, and throughout her whole bearing, she affected perfect calm; her
      steps were slow and measured, and her beautiful hands were crossed on her
      bosom, as white and motionless as those of the marble statues joined in
      eternal prayer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See, aunt,&rdquo; ejaculated Martine, &ldquo;see how Sister Agnes
      and Sister Claire are weeping, next to the Superior!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, niece, they weep because they are the prey of the demon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or rather,&rdquo; interposed the same manly voice that spoke
      before, &ldquo;because they repent of having mocked Heaven.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A deep silence now pervaded the multitude; not a word was heard, not a
      movement, hardly a breath. Every one seemed paralyzed by some sudden
      enchantment, when, following the nuns, among four Penitents who held him
      in chains, appeared the Cure of the Church of Ste. Croix, attired in his
      pastor&rsquo;s robe. His was a noble, fine face, with grandeur in its
      whole expression, and gentleness in every feature. Affecting no scornful
      indifference to his position, he looked calmly and kindly around, as if he
      sought on his dark path the affectionate glances of those who loved him.
      Nor did he seek in vain; here and there he encountered those glances, and
      joyfully returned them. He even heard sobs, and he saw hands extended
      toward him, many of which grasped weapons. But no gesture of his
      encouraged these mute offers of aid; he lowered his eyes and went on,
      careful not to compromise those who so trusted in him, or to involve them
      in his own misfortunes. This was Urbain Grandier.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the procession stopped, at a sign from the man who walked apart,
      and who seemed to command its progress. He was tall, thin, sallow; he wore
      a long black robe, with a cap of the same material and color; he had the
      face of a Don Basilio, with the eye of Nero. He motioned the guards to
      surround him more closely, when he saw with affright the dark group we
      have mentioned, and the strong-limbed and resolute peasants who seemed in
      attendance upon them. Then, advancing somewhat before the Canons and
      Capuchins who were with him, he pronounced, in a shrill voice, this
      singular decree:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;We, Sieur de Laubardemont, referendary, being delegated and
   invested with discretionary power in the matter of the trial of the
   magician Urbain Grandier, upon the various articles of accusation
   brought against him, assisted by the reverend Fathers Mignon, canon,
   Barre, cure of St. Jacques at Chinon, Father Lactantius, and all the
   other judges appointed to try the said magician, have decreed as
   follows:

   &ldquo;Primo: the factitious assembly of proprietors, noble citizens of
   this town and its environs, is dissolved, as tending to popular
   sedition; its proceedings are declared null, and its letter to the
   King, against us, the judges, which has been intercepted, shall be
   publicly burned in the marketplace as calumniating the good
   Ursulines and the reverend fathers and judges.

   &ldquo;Secundo: it is forbidden to say, publicly or in private, that the
   said nuns are not possessed by the Evil Spirit, or to doubt of the
   power of the exorcists, under pain of a fine of twenty thousand
   livres, and corporal punishment.

   &ldquo;Let the bailiffs and sheriffs obey this. Given the eighteenth of
   June, in the year of grace 1639.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Before he had well finished reading the decree, the discordant blare of
      trumpets, bursting forth at a prearranged signal, drowned, to a certain
      extent, the murmurs that followed its proclamation, amid which
      Laubardemont urged forward the procession, which entered the great
      building already referred to&mdash;an ancient convent, whose interior had
      crumbled away, its walls now forming one vast hall, well adapted for the
      purpose to which it was about to be applied. Laubardemont did not deem
      himself safe until he was within the building and had heard the heavy,
      double doors creak on their hinges as, closing, they excluded the furious
      crowd without.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III. THE GOOD PRIEST
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     L&rsquo;homme de paix me parla ainsi.&mdash;VICAIRE SAVOYARD.
</pre>
    <p>
      Now that the diabolical procession is in the arena destined for its
      spectacle, and is arranging its sanguinary representation, let us see what
      Cinq-Mars had been doing amid the agitated throng. He was naturally
      endowed with great tact, and he felt that it would be no easy matter for
      him to attain his object of seeing the Abbe Quillet, at a time when public
      excitement was at its height. He therefore remained on horseback with his
      four servants in a small, dark street that led into the main thoroughfare,
      whence he could see all that passed. No one at first paid any attention to
      him; but when public curiosity had no other aliment, he became an object
      of general interest. Weary of so many strange scenes, the inhabitants
      looked upon him with some exasperation, and whispered to one another,
      asking whether this was another exorcist come among them. Feeling that it
      was time to take a decided course, he advanced with his attendants, hat in
      hand, toward the group in black of whom we have spoken, and addressing him
      who appeared its chief member, said, &ldquo;Monsieur, where can I find
      Monsieur l&rsquo;Abbe Quillet?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this name, all regarded him with an air of terror, as if he had
      pronounced that of Lucifer. Yet no anger was shown; on the contrary, it
      seemed that the question had favorably changed for him the minds of all
      who heard him. Moreover, chance had served him well in his choice; the
      Comte du Lude came up to his horse, and saluting him, said, &ldquo;Dismount,
      Monsieur, and I will give you some useful information concerning him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      After speaking a while in whispers, the two gentlemen separated with all
      the ceremonious courtesy of the time. Cinq-Mars remounted his black horse,
      and passing through numerous narrow streets, was soon out of the crowd
      with his retinue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How happy I am!&rdquo; he soliloquized, as he went his way; &ldquo;I
      shall, at all events, for a moment see the good and kind clergyman who
      brought me up; even now I recall his features, his calm air, his voice so
      full of gentleness.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      As these tender thoughts filled his mind, he found himself in the small,
      dark street which had been indicated to him; it was so narrow that the
      knee-pieces of his boots touched the wall on each side. At the end of the
      street he came to a one-storied wooden house, and in his eagerness knocked
      at the door with repeated strokes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is there?&rdquo; cried a furious voice within; and at the same
      moment, the door opening revealed a little short, fat man, with a very red
      face, dressed in black, with a large white ruff, and riding-boots which
      engulfed his short legs in their vast depths. In his hands were a pair of
      horse-pistols.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will sell my life dearly!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;and&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Softly, Abbe, softly,&rdquo; said his pupil, taking his arm;
      &ldquo;we are friends.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my son, is it you?&rdquo; said the good man, letting fall his
      pistols, which were picked up by a domestic, also armed to the teeth.
      &ldquo;What do you here? The abomination has entered the town, and I only
      await the night to depart. Make haste within, my dear boy, with your
      people. I took you for the archers of Laubardemont, and, faith, I intended
      to take a part somewhat out of my line. You see the horses in the
      courtyard there; they will convey me to Italy, where I shall rejoin our
      friend, the Duc de Bouillon. Jean! Jean! hasten and close the great gate
      after Monsieur&rsquo;s domestics, and recommend them not to make too much
      noise, although for that matter we have no habitation near us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Grandchamp obeyed the intrepid little Abbe, who then embraced Cinq-Mars
      four consecutive times, raising himself on the points of his boots, so as
      to attain the middle of his pupil&rsquo;s breast. He then hurried him into
      a small room, which looked like a deserted granary; and seating him beside
      himself upon a black leather trunk, he said, warmly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my son, whither go you? How came Madame la Marechale to allow
      you to come here? Do you not see what they are doing against an unhappy
      man, whose death alone will content them? Alas, merciful Heaven! is this
      the first spectacle my dear pupil is to see? And you at that delightful
      period of life when friendship, love, confidence, should alone encompass
      you; when all around you should give you a favorable opinion of your
      species, at your very entry into the great world! How unfortunate! alas,
      why did you come?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      When the good Abbe had followed up this lamentation by pressing
      affectionately both hands of the young traveller in his own, so red and
      wrinkled, the latter answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you not guess, my dear Abbe, that I came to Loudun because you
      are here? As to the spectacle you speak of, it appears to me simply
      ridiculous; and I swear that I do not a whit the less on its account love
      that human race of which your virtues and your good lessons have given me
      an excellent idea. As to the five or six mad women who&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us not lose time; I will explain to you all that matter; but
      answer me, whither go you, and for what?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to Perpignan, where the Cardinal-Duke is to present me
      to the King.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this the worthy but hasty Abbe rose from his box, and walked, or rather
      ran, to and fro, stamping. &ldquo;The Cardinal! the Cardinal!&rdquo; he
      repeated, almost choking, his face becoming scarlet, and the tears rising
      to his eyes; &ldquo;My poor child! they will destroy him! Ah, mon Dieu!
      what part would they have him play there? What would they do with him? Ah,
      who will protect thee, my son, in that dangerous place?&rdquo; he
      continued, reseating himself, and again taking his pupil&rsquo;s hands in
      his own with a paternal solicitude, as he endeavored to read his thoughts
      in his countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, I do not exactly know,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, looking up at
      the ceiling; &ldquo;but I suppose it will be the Cardinal de Richelieu,
      who was the friend of my father.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my dear Henri, you make me tremble; he will ruin you unless you
      become his docile instrument. Alas, why can not I go with you? Why must I
      act the young man of twenty in this unfortunate affair? Alas, I should be
      perilous to you; I must, on the contrary, conceal myself. But you will
      have Monsieur de Thou near you, my son, will you not?&rdquo; said he,
      trying to reassure himself; &ldquo;he was your friend in childhood, though
      somewhat older than yourself. Heed his counsels, my child, he is a wise
      young man of mature reflection and solid ideas.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, my dear Abbe, you may depend upon my tender attachment for
      him; I never have ceased to love him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But you have ceased to write to him, have you not?&rdquo; asked the
      good Abbe, half smilingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, my dear Abbe, I wrote to him once, and again
      yesterday, to inform him that the Cardinal has invited me to court.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! has he himself desired your presence?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars hereupon showed the letter of the Cardinal-Duke to his mother,
      and his old preceptor grew gradually calmer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well!&rdquo; said he to himself, &ldquo;this is not so bad,
      perhaps, after all. It looks promising; a captain of the guards at twenty&mdash;that
      sounds well!&rdquo; and the worthy Abbe&rsquo;s face became all smiles.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man, delighted to see these smiles, which so harmonized with his
      own thoughts, fell upon the neck of the Abbe and embraced him, as if the
      good man had thus assured to him a futurity of pleasure, glory, and love.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the good Abbe, with difficulty disengaging himself from this warm
      embrace, resumed his walk, his reflections, and his gravity. He coughed
      often and shook his head; and Cinq-Mars, not venturing to pursue the
      conversation, watched him, and became sad as he saw him become serious.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old man at last sat down, and in a mournful tone addressed his pupil:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend, my son, I have for a moment yielded like a father to
      your hopes; but I must tell you, and it is not to afflict you, that they
      appear to me excessive and unnatural. If the Cardinal&rsquo;s sole aim
      were to show attachment and gratitude toward your family, he would not
      have carried his favors so far; no, the extreme probability is that he has
      designs upon you. From what has been told him, he thinks you adapted to
      play some part, as yet impossible for us to divine, but which he himself
      has traced out in the deepest recesses of his mind. He wishes to educate
      you for this; he wishes to drill you into it. Allow me the expression in
      consideration of its accuracy, and think seriously of it when the time
      shall come. But I am inclined to believe that, as matters are, you would
      do well to follow up this vein in the great mine of State; in this way
      high fortunes have begun. You must only take heed not to be blinded and
      led at will. Let not favors dazzle you, my poor child, and let not
      elevation turn your head. Be not so indignant at the suggestion; the thing
      has happened to older men than yourself. Write to me often, as well as to
      your mother; see Monsieur de Thou, and together we will try to keep you in
      good counsel. Now, my son, be kind enough to close that window through
      which the wind comes upon my head, and I will tell you what has been going
      on here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Henri, trusting that the moral part of the discourse was over, and
      anticipating nothing in the second part but a narrative more or less
      interesting, closed the old casement, festooned with cobwebs, and resumed
      his seat without speaking.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now that I reflect further,&rdquo; continued the Abbe, &ldquo;I
      think it will not perhaps be unprofitable for you to have passed through
      this place, although it be a sad experience you shall have acquired; but
      it will supply what I may not have formerly told you of the wickedness of
      men. I hope, moreover, that the result will not be fatal, and that the
      letter we have written to the King will arrive in time.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard that it had been intercepted,&rdquo; interposed Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then all is over,&rdquo; said the Abbe Quillet; &ldquo;the Cure is
      lost. But listen. God forbid, my son, that I, your old tutor, should seek
      to assail my own work, and attempt to weaken your faith! Preserve ever and
      everywhere that simple creed of which your noble family has given you the
      example, which our fathers possessed in a still higher degree than we, and
      of which the greatest captains of our time are not ashamed. Always, while
      you wear a sword, remember that you hold it for the service of God. But at
      the same time, when you are among men, avoid being deceived by the
      hypocrite. He will encompass you, my son; he will assail you on the
      vulnerable side of your ingenuous heart, in addressing your religion; and
      seeing the extravagance of his affected zeal, you will fancy yourself
      lukewarm as compared with him. You will think that your conscience cries
      out against you; but it will not be the voice of conscience that you hear.
      And what cries would not that conscience send forth, how fiercely would it
      not rise upon you, did you contribute to the destruction of innocence by
      invoking Heaven itself as a false witness against it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, my father! can such things be possible?&rdquo; exclaimed Henri
      d&rsquo;Effiat, clasping his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is but too true,&rdquo; continued the Abbe; &ldquo;you saw a
      partial execution of it this morning. God grant you may not witness still
      greater horrors! But listen! whatever you may see, whatever crime they
      dare to commit, I conjure you, in the name of your mother and of all that
      you hold dear, say not a word; make not a gesture that may indicate any
      opinion whatever. I know the impetuous character that you derive from the
      Marechal, your father; curb it, or you are lost. These little ebullitions
      of passion give but slight satisfaction, and bring about great
      misfortunes. I have observed you give way to them too much. Oh, did you
      but know the advantage that a calm temper gives one over men! The ancients
      stamped it on the forehead of the divinity as his finest attribute, since
      it shows that he is superior to our fears and to our hopes, to our
      pleasures and to our pains. Therefore, my dear child, remain passive in
      the scenes you are about to witness; but see them you must. Be present at
      this sad trial; for me, I must suffer the consequences of my schoolboy
      folly. I will relate it to you; it will prove to you that with a bald head
      one may be as much a child as with your fine chestnut curls.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And the excellent old Abbe, taking his pupil&rsquo;s head affectionately
      between his hands, continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Like other people, my dear son, I was curious to see the devils of
      the Ursulines; and knowing that they professed to speak all languages, I
      was so imprudent as to cease speaking Latin and to question them in Greek.
      The Superior is very pretty, but she does not know Greek! Duncan, the
      physician, observed aloud that it was surprising that the demon, who knew
      everything, should commit barbarisms and solecisms in Latin, and not be
      able to answer in Greek. The young Superior, who was then upon her bed,
      turned toward the wall to weep, and said in an undertone to Father Barre,
      &lsquo;I can not go on with this, father.&rsquo; I repeated her words
      aloud, and infuriated all the exorcists; they cried out that I ought to
      know that there are demons more ignorant than peasants, and said that as
      to their power and physical strength, it could not be doubted, since the
      spirits named Gresil des Trones, Aman des Puissance, and Asmodeus, had
      promised to carry off the calotte of Monsieur de Laubardemont. They were
      preparing for this, when the physician Duncan, a learned and upright man,
      but somewhat of a scoffer, took it into his head to pull a cord he
      discovered fastened to a column like a bell-rope, and which hung down just
      close to the referendary&rsquo;s head; whereupon they called him a
      Huguenot, and I am satisfied that if Marechal de Breze were not his
      protector, it would have gone ill with him. The Comte du Lude then came
      forward with his customary &lsquo;sang-froid&rsquo;, and begged the
      exorcists to perform before him. Father Lactantius, the Capuchin with the
      dark visage and hard look, proceeded with Sister Agnes and Sister Claire;
      he raised both his hands, looking at them as a serpent would look at two
      dogs, and cried in a terrible voice, &lsquo;Quis to misit, Diabole?&rsquo;
      and the two sisters answered, as with one voice, &lsquo;Urbanus.&rsquo; He
      was about to continue, when Monsieur du Lude, taking out of his pocket,
      with an air of veneration, a small gold box, said that he had in it a
      relic left by his ancestors, and that though not doubting the fact of the
      possession, he wished to test it. Father Lactantius seized the box with
      delight, and hardly had he touched the foreheads of the two sisters with
      it when they made great leaps and twisted about their hands and feet.
      Lactantius shouted forth his exorcisms; Barre threw himself upon his knees
      with all the old women; and Mignon and the judges applauded. The
      impassible Laubardemont made the sign of the cross, without being struck
      dead for it! When Monsieur du Lude took back his box the nuns became
      still. &lsquo;I think,&rsquo; said Lactantius, insolently, &lsquo;that&mdash;you
      will not question your relics now.&rsquo; &lsquo;No more than I do the
      possession,&rsquo; answered Monsieur du Lude, opening his box and showing
      that it was empty. &lsquo;Monsieur, you mock us,&rsquo; said Lactantius. I
      was indignant at these mummeries, and said to him, &lsquo;Yes, Monsieur,
      as you mock God and men.&rsquo; And this, my dear friend, is the reason
      why you see me in my seven-league boots, so heavy that they hurt my legs,
      and with pistols; for our friend Laubardemont has ordered my person to be
      seized, and I don&rsquo;t choose it to be seized, old as it is.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, is he so powerful, then?&rdquo; cried Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More so than is supposed&mdash;more so than could be believed. I
      know that the possessed Abbess is his niece, and that he is provided with
      an order in council directing him to judge, without being deterred by any
      appeals lodged in Parliament, the Cardinal having prohibited the latter
      from taking cognizance of the matter of Urbain Grandier.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what are his offences?&rdquo; asked the young man, already
      deeply interested.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those of a strong mind and of a great genius, an inflexible will
      which has irritated power against him, and a profound passion which has
      driven his heart and him to commit the only mortal sin with which I
      believe he can be reproached; and it was only by violating the sanctity of
      his private papers, which they tore from Jeanne d&rsquo;Estievre, his
      mother, an old woman of eighty, that they discovered his love for the
      beautiful Madeleine de Brou. This girl had refused to marry, and wished to
      take the veil. May that veil have concealed from her the spectacle of this
      day! The eloquence of Grandier and his angelic beauty drove the women half
      mad; they came miles and miles to hear him. I have seen them swoon during
      his sermons; they declared him an angel, and touched his garment and
      kissed his hands when he descended from the pulpit. It is certain that,
      unless it be his beauty, nothing could equal the sublimity of his
      discourses, ever full of inspiration. The pure honey of the gospel
      combined on his lips with the flashing flame of the prophecies; and one
      recognized in the sound of his voice a heart overflowing with holy pity
      for the evils to which mankind are subject, and filled with tears, ready
      to flow for us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The good priest paused, for his own voice and eyes were filled with tears;
      his round and naturally Joyous face was more touching than a graver one
      under the same circumstances, for it seemed as if it bade defiance to
      sadness. Cinq-Mars, even more moved, pressed his hand without speaking,
      fearful of interrupting him. The Abbe took out a red handkerchief, wiped
      his eyes, and continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is the second attack upon Urbain by his combined enemies. He
      had already been accused of bewitching the nuns; but, examined by holy
      prelates, by enlightened magistrates, and learned physicians, he was
      immediately acquitted, and the judges indignantly imposed silence upon
      these devils in human form. The good and pious Archbishop of Bordeaux, who
      had himself chosen the examiners of these pretended exorcists, drove the
      prophets away and shut up their hell. But, humiliated by the publicity of
      the result, annoyed at seeing Grandier kindly received by our good King
      when he threw himself at his feet at Paris, they saw that if he triumphed
      they were lost, and would be universally regarded as impostors. Already
      the convent of the Ursulines was looked upon only as a theatre for
      disgraceful comedies, and the nuns themselves as shameless actresses. More
      than a hundred persons, furious against the Cure, had compromised
      themselves in the hope of destroying him. Their plot, instead of being
      abandoned, has gained strength by its first check; and here are the means
      that have been set to work by his implacable enemies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know a man called &lsquo;L&rsquo;Eminence Grise&rsquo;, that
      formidable Capuchin whom the Cardinal employs in all things, consults upon
      some, and always despises? It was to him that the Capuchins of Loudun
      addressed themselves. A woman of this place, of low birth, named Hamon,
      having been so fortunate as to please the Queen when she passed through
      Loudun, was taken into her service. You know the hatred that separates her
      court from that of the Cardinal; you know that Anne of Austria and
      Monsieur de Richelieu have for some time disputed for the King&rsquo;s
      favor, and that, of her two suns, France never knew in the evening which
      would rise next morning. During a temporary eclipse of the Cardinal, a
      satire appeared, issuing from the planetary system of the Queen; it was
      called, &lsquo;La cordonniere de la seine-mere&rsquo;. Its tone and
      language were vulgar; but it contained things so insulting about the birth
      and person of the Cardinal that the enemies of the minister took it up and
      gave it a publicity which irritated him. It revealed, it is said, many
      intrigues and mysteries which he had deemed impenetrable. He read this
      anonymous work, and desired to know its author. It was just at this time
      that the Capuchins of this town wrote to Father Joseph that a constant
      correspondence between Grandier and La Hamon left no doubt in their minds
      as to his being the author of this diatribe. It was in vain that he had
      previously published religious books, prayers, and meditations, the style
      of which alone ought to have absolved him from having put his hand to a
      libel written in the language of the marketplace; the Cardinal, long since
      prejudiced against Urbain, was determined to fix upon him as the culprit.
      He remembered that when he was only prior of Coussay, Grandier disputed
      precedence with him and gained it; I fear this achievement of precedence
      in life will make poor Grandier precede the Cardinal in death also.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A melancholy smile played upon the lips of the good Abbe as he uttered
      this involuntary pun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! do you think this matter will go so far as death?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, my son, even to death; they have already taken away all the
      documents connected with his former absolution that might have served for
      his defence, despite the opposition of his poor mother, who preserved them
      as her son&rsquo;s license to live. Even now they affect to regard a work
      against the celibacy of priests, found among his papers, as destined to
      propagate schism. It is a culpable production, doubtless, and the love
      which dictated it, however pure it may be, is an enormous sin in a man
      consecrated to God alone; but this poor priest was far from wishing to
      encourage heresy, and it was simply, they say, to appease the remorse of
      Mademoiselle de Brou that he composed the work. It was so evident that his
      real faults would not suffice to condemn him to death that they have
      revived the accusation of sorcery, long since disposed of; but, feigning
      to believe this, the Cardinal has established a new tribunal in this town,
      and has placed Laubardemont at its head, a sure sign of death. Heaven
      grant that you never become acquainted with what the corruption of
      governments call coups-d&rsquo;etat!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment a terrible shriek sounded from beyond the wall of the
      courtyard; the Abbe arose in terror, as did Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the cry of a woman,&rdquo; said the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis heartrending!&rdquo; exclaimed Cinq-Mars. &ldquo;What is
      it?&rdquo; he asked his people, who had all rushed out into the courtyard.
    </p>
    <p>
      They answered that they heard nothing further.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well,&rdquo; said the Abbe, &ldquo;make no noise.&rdquo; He
      then shut the window, and put his hands before his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, what a cry was that, my son!&rdquo; he said, with his face of
      an ashy paleness&mdash;&ldquo;what a cry! It pierced my very soul; some
      calamity has happened. Ah, holy Virgin! it has so agitated me that I can
      talk with you no more. Why did I hear it, just as I was speaking to you of
      your future career? My dear child, may God bless you! Kneel!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars did as he was desired, and knew by a kiss upon his head that he
      had been blessed by the old man, who then raised him, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, my son, the time is advancing; they might find you with me. Go,
      leave your people and horses here; wrap yourself in a cloak, and go; I
      have much to write ere the hour when darkness shall allow me to depart for
      Italy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They embraced once more, promising to write to each other, and Henri
      quitted the house. The Abby, still following him with his eyes from the
      window, cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be prudent, whatever may happen,&rdquo; and sent him with his hands
      one more paternal blessing, saying, &ldquo;Poor child! poor child!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV. THE TRIAL
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        Oh, vendetta di Dio, quanto to dei
        Esser temuta da ciascun che legge
        Cio, che fu manifesto agli occhi miei.&mdash;DANTE.
</pre>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding the custom of having secret trials, freely countenanced by
      Richelieu, the judges of the Cure of Loudun had resolved that the court
      should be open to the public; but they soon repented this measure. They
      were all interested in the destruction of Urbain Grandier; but they
      desired that the indignation of the country should in some degree sanction
      the sentence of death they had received orders to pass and to carry into
      effect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laubardemont was a kind of bird of prey, whom the Cardinal always let
      loose when he required a prompt and sure agent for his vengeance; and on
      this occasion he fully justified the choice that had been made of him. He
      committed but one error&mdash;that of allowing a public trial, contrary to
      the usual custom; his object had been to intimidate and to dismay. He
      dismayed, indeed, but he created also a feeling of indignant horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      The throng without the gates had waited there two hours, during which time
      the sound of hammers indicated that within the great hall they were
      hastily completing their mysterious preparations. At length the archers
      laboriously turned upon their hinges the heavy gates opening into the
      street, and the crowd eagerly rushed in. The young Cinq-Mars was carried
      along with the second enormous wave, and, placed behind a thick column,
      stood there, so as to be able to see without being seen. He observed with
      vexation that the group of dark-clad citizens was near him; but the great
      gates, closing, left the part of the court where the people stood in such
      darkness that there was no likelihood of his being recognized. Although it
      was only midday, the hall was lighted with torches; but they were nearly
      all placed at the farther end, where rose the judges&rsquo; bench behind a
      long table. The chairs, tables, and steps were all covered with black
      cloth, and cast a livid hue over the faces of those near them. A seat
      reserved for the prisoner was placed upon the left, and on the crape robe
      which covered him flames were represented in gold embroidery to indicate
      the nature of the offence. Here sat the accused, surrounded by archers,
      with his hands still bound in chains, held by two monks, who, with
      simulated terror, affected to start from him at his slightest motion, as
      if they held a tiger or enraged wolf, or as if the flames depicted on his
      robe could communicate themselves to their clothing. They also carefully
      kept his face from being seen in the least degree by the people.
    </p>
    <p>
      The impassible countenance of M. de Laubardemont was there to dominate the
      judges of his choice; almost a head taller than any of them, he sat upon a
      seat higher than theirs, and each of his glassy and uneasy glances seemed
      to convey a command. He wore a long, full scarlet robe, and a black cap
      covered his head; he seemed occupied in arranging papers, which he then
      passed to the judges. The accusers, all ecclesiastics, sat upon the right
      hand of the judges; they wore their albs and stoles. Father Lactantius was
      distinguishable among them by his simple Capuchin habit, his tonsure, and
      the extreme hardness of his features. In a side gallery sat the Bishop of
      Poitiers, hidden from view; other galleries were filled with veiled women.
      Below the bench of judges a group of men and women, the dregs of the
      populace, stood behind six young Ursuline nuns, who seemed full of disgust
      at their proximity; these were the witnesses.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rest of the hall was filled with an enormous crowd, gloomy and silent,
      clinging to the arches, the gates, and the beams, and full of a terror
      which communicated itself to the judges, for it arose from an interest in
      the accused. Numerous archers, armed with long pikes, formed an
      appropriate frame for this lugubrious picture.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a sign from the President, the witnesses withdrew through a narrow door
      opened for them by an usher. As the Superior of the Ursulines passed M. de
      Laubardemont she was heard to say to him, &ldquo;You have deceived me,
      Monsieur.&rdquo; He remained immovable, and she went on. A profound
      silence reigned throughout the whole assembly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rising with all the gravity he could assume, but still with visible
      agitation, one of the judges, named Houmain, judge-Advocate of Orleans,
      read a sort of indictment in a voice so low and hoarse that it was
      impossible to follow it. He made himself heard only when what he had to
      say was intended to impose upon the minds of the people. He divided the
      evidence into two classes: one, the depositions of seventy-two witnesses;
      the other, more convincing, that resulting from &ldquo;the exorcisms of
      the reverend fathers here present,&rdquo; said he, crossing himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fathers Lactantius, Barre, and Mignon bowed low, repeating the sacred
      sign.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my lords,&rdquo; said Houmain, addressing the judges, &ldquo;this
      bouquet of white roses and this manuscript, signed with the blood of the
      magician, a counterpart of the contract he has made with Lucifer, and
      which he was obliged to carry about him in order to preserve his power,
      have been recognized and brought before you. We read with horror these
      words written at the bottom of the parchment: &lsquo;The original is in
      hell, in Lucifer&rsquo;s private cabinet.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A roar of laughter, which seemed to come from stentorian lungs, was heard
      in the throng. The president reddened, and made a sign to the archers, who
      in vain endeavored to discover the disturber. The judge-Advocate
      continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The demons have been forced to declare their names by the mouths of
      their victims. Their names and deeds are deposited upon this table. They
      are called Astaroth, of the order of Seraphim; Eazas, Celsus, Acaos,
      Cedron, Asmodeus, of the order of Thrones; Alex, Zebulon, Cham, Uriel, and
      Achas, of the order of Principalities, and so on, for their number is
      infinite. For their actions, who among us has not been a witness of them?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A prolonged murmur arose from the gathering, but, upon some halberdiers
      advancing, all became silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have seen, with grief, the young and respectable Superior of the
      Ursulines tear her bosom with her own hands and grovel in the dust; we
      have seen the sisters, Agnes, Claire, and others, deviate from the modesty
      of their sex by impassioned gestures and unseemly laughter. When impious
      men have inclined to doubt the presence of the demons, and we ourselves
      felt our convictions shaken, because they refused to answer to unknown
      questions in Greek or Arabic, the reverend fathers have, to establish our
      belief, deigned to explain to us that the malignity of evil spirits being
      extreme, it was not surprising that they should feign this ignorance in
      order that they might be less pressed with questions; and that in their
      answers they had committed various solecisms and other grammatical faults
      in order to bring contempt upon themselves, so that out of this disdain
      the holy doctors might leave them in quiet. Their hatred is so inveterate
      that just before performing one of their miraculous feats, they suspended
      a rope from a beam in order to involve the reverend personages in a
      suspicion of fraud, whereas it has been deposed on oath by credible people
      that there never had been a cord in that place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, my lords, while Heaven was thus miraculously explaining itself
      by the mouths of its holy interpreters, another light has just been thrown
      upon us. At the very time the judges were absorbed in profound meditation,
      a loud cry was heard near the hall of council; and upon going to the spot,
      we found the body of a young lady of high birth. She had just exhaled her
      last breath in the public street, in the arms of the reverend Father
      Mignon, Canon; and we learned from the said father here present, and from
      several other grave personages, that, suspecting the young lady to be
      possessed, by reason of the current rumor for some time past of the
      admiration Urbain Grandier had for her, an idea of testing it happily
      occurred to the Canon, who suddenly said, approaching her, &lsquo;Grandier
      has just been put to death,&rsquo; whereat she uttered one loud scream and
      fell dead, deprived by the demon of the time necessary for giving her the
      assistance of our holy Mother, the Catholic Church.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A murmur of indignation arose from the crowd, among whom the word &ldquo;Assassin&rdquo;
      was loudly reechoed; the halberdiers commanded silence with a loud voice,
      but it was obtained rather by the judge resuming his address, the general
      curiosity triumphing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, infamy!&rdquo; he continued, seeking to fortify himself by
      exclamations; &ldquo;upon her person was found this work, written by the
      hand of Urbain Grandier,&rdquo; and he took from among his papers a book
      bound in parchment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens!&rdquo; cried Urbain from his seat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look to your prisoner!&rdquo; cried the judge to the archers who
      surrounded him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt the demon is about to manifest himself,&rdquo; said Father
      Lactantius, in a sombre voice; &ldquo;tighten his bonds.&rdquo; He was
      obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The judge-Advocate continued, &ldquo;Her name was Madeleine de Brou, aged
      nineteen.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O God! this is too much!&rdquo; cried the accused, as he fell
      fainting on the ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      The assembly was deeply agitated; for a moment there was an absolute
      tumult.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor fellow! he loved her,&rdquo; said some.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So good a lady!&rdquo; cried the women.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pity began to predominate. Cold water was thrown upon Grandier, without
      his being taken from the court, and he was tied to his seat. The
      Judge-Advocate went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are directed to read the beginning of this book to the court,&rdquo;
      and he read as follows:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;&lsquo;It is for thee, dear and gentle Madeleine, in order to set at rest
   thy troubled conscience, that I have described in this book one
   thought of my soul. All those thoughts tend to thee, celestial
   creature, because in thee they return to the aim and object of my
   whole existence; but the thought I send thee, as &lsquo;twere a flower,
   comes from thee, exists only in thee, and returns to thee alone.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Be not sad because thou lovest me; be not afflicted because I
   adore thee. The angels of heaven, what is it that they do? The
   souls of the blessed, what is it that is promised them? Are we less
   pure than the angels? Are our souls less separated from the earth
   than they will be after death? Oh, Madeleine, what is there in us
   wherewith the Lord can be displeased? Can it be that we pray
   together, that with faces prostrate in the dust before His altars,
   we ask for early death to take us while yet youth and love are ours?
   Or that, musing together beneath the funereal trees of the
   churchyard, we yearned for one grave, smiling at the idea of death,
   and weeping at life? Or that, when thou kneelest before me at the
   tribunal of penitence, and, speaking in the presence of God, canst
   find naught of evil to reveal to me, so wholly have I kept thy soul
   in the pure regions of heaven? What, then, could offend our
   Creator? Perhaps&mdash;yes! perhaps some spirit of heaven may have
   envied me my happiness when on Easter morn I saw thee kneeling
   before me, purified by long austerities from the slight stain which
   original sin had left in thee! Beautiful, indeed, wert thou! Thy
   glance sought thy God in heaven, and my trembling hand held His
   image to thy pure lips, which human lip had never dared to breathe
   upon. Angelic being! I alone participated in the secret of the
   Lord, in the one secret of the entire purity of thy soul; I it was
   that united thee to thy Creator, who at that moment descended also
   into my bosom. Ineffable espousals, of which the Eternal himself
   was the priest, you alone were permitted between the virgin and her
   pastor! the sole joy of each was to see eternal happiness beginning
   for the other, to inhale together the perfumes of heaven, to drink
   in already the harmony of the spheres, and to feel assured that our
   souls, unveiled to God and to ourselves alone, were worthy together
   to adore Him.

   &ldquo;&lsquo;What scruple still weighs upon thy soul, O my sister? Dost thou
   think I have offered too high a worship to thy virtue? Fearest thou
   so pure an admiration should deter me from that of the Lord?&rsquo;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Houmain had reached this point when the door through which the witnesses
      had withdrawn suddenly opened. The judges anxiously whispered together.
      Laubardemont, uncertain as to the meaning of this, signed to the fathers
      to let him know whether this was some scene executed by their orders; but,
      seated at some distance from him, and themselves taken by surprise, they
      could not make him understand that they had not prepared this
      interruption. Besides, ere they could exchange looks, to the amazement of
      the assembly, three women, &lsquo;en chemise&rsquo;, with naked feet, each
      with a cord round her neck and a wax taper in her hand, came through the
      door and advanced to the middle of the platform. It was the Superior of
      the Ursulines, followed by Sisters Agnes and Claire. Both the latter were
      weeping; the Superior was very pale, but her bearing was firm, and her
      eyes were fixed and tearless. She knelt; her companions followed her
      example. Everything was in such confusion that no one thought of checking
      them; and in a clear, firm voice she pronounced these words, which
      resounded in every corner of the hall:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of the Holy Trinity, I, Jeanne de Belfiel, daughter of
      the Baron de Cose, I, the unworthy Superior of the Convent of the
      Ursulines of Loudun, ask pardon of God and man for the crime I have
      committed in accusing the innocent Urbain Grandier. My possession was
      feigned, my words were dictated; remorse overwhelms me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo!&rdquo; cried the spectators, clapping their hands. The
      judges arose; the archers, in doubt, looked at the president; he shook in
      every limb, but did not change countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let all be silent,&rdquo; he said, in a sharp voice; &ldquo;archers,
      do your duty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This man felt himself supported by so strong a hand that nothing could
      affright him&mdash;for no thought of Heaven ever visited him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What think you, my fathers?&rdquo; said he, making a sign to the
      monks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That the demon seeks to save his friend. Obmutesce, Satanas!&rdquo;
      cried Father Lactantius, in a terrible voice, affecting to exorcise the
      Superior.
    </p>
    <p>
      Never did fire applied to gunpowder produce an effect more instantaneous
      than did these two words. Jeanne de Belfiel started up in all the beauty
      of twenty, which her awful nudity served to augment; she seemed a soul
      escaped from hell appearing to, her seducer. With her dark eyes she cast
      fierce glances upon the monks; Lactantius lowered his beneath that look.
      She took two steps toward him with her bare feet, beneath which the
      scaffolding rung, so energetic was her movement; the taper seemed, in her
      hand, the sword of the avenging angel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence, impostor!&rdquo; she cried, with warmth; &ldquo;the demon
      who possessed me was yourself. You deceived me; you said he was not to be
      tried. To-day, for the first time, I know that he is to be tried; to-day,
      for the first time, I know that he is to be murdered. And I will speak!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman, the demon bewilders thee.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, rather, that repentance enlightens me. Daughters, miserable as
      myself, arise; is he not innocent?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We swear he is,&rdquo; said the two young lay sisters, still
      kneeling and weeping, for they were not animated with so strong a
      resolution as that of the Superior.
    </p>
    <p>
      Agnes, indeed, had hardly uttered these words when turning toward the
      people, she cried, &ldquo;Help me! they will punish me; they will kill me!&rdquo;
      And hurrying away her companion, she drew her into the crowd, who
      affectionately received them. A thousand voices swore to protect them.
      Imprecations arose; the men struck their staves against the floor; the
      officials dared not prevent the people from passing the sisters on from
      one to another into the street.
    </p>
    <p>
      During this strange scene the amazed and panic-struck judges whispered; M.
      Laubardemont looked at the archers, indicating to them the points they
      were especially to watch, among which, more particularly, was that
      occupied by the group in black. The accusers looked toward the gallery of
      the Bishop of Poitiers, but discovered no expression in his dull
      countenance. He was one of those old men of whom death appears to take
      possession ten years before all motion entirely ceases in them. His eyes
      seemed veiled by a half sleep; his gaping mouth mumbled a few vague and
      habitual words of prayer without meaning or application; the entire amount
      of intelligence he retained was the ability to distinguish the man who had
      most power, and him he obeyed, regardless at what price. He had
      accordingly signed the sentence of the doctors of the Sorbonne which
      declared the nuns possessed, without even deducing thence the consequence
      of the death of Urbain; the rest seemed to him one of those more or less
      lengthy ceremonies, to which he paid not the slightest attention&mdash;accustomed
      as he was to see and live among them, himself an indispensable part and
      parcel of them. He therefore gave no sign of life on this occasion, merely
      preserving an air at once perfectly noble and expressionless.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, Father Lactantius, having had a moment to recover from the
      sudden attack made upon him, turned toward the president and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is a clear proof, sent us by Heaven, of the possession, for
      the Superior never before has forgotten the modesty and severity of her
      order.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would that all the world were here to see me!&rdquo; said Jeanne de
      Belfiel, firm as ever. &ldquo;I can not be sufficiently humiliated upon
      earth, and Heaven will reject me, for I have been your accomplice.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Perspiration appeared upon the forehead of Laubardemont, but he tried to
      recover his composure. &ldquo;What absurd tale is this, Sister; what has
      influenced you herein?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice of the girl became sepulchral; she collected all her strength,
      pressed her hand upon her heart as if she desired to stay its throbbing,
      and, looking at Urbain Grandier, answered, &ldquo;Love.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A shudder ran through the assembly. Urbain, who since he had fainted had
      remained with his head hanging down as if dead, slowly raised his eyes
      toward her, and returned entirely to life only to undergo a fresh sorrow.
      The young penitent continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, the love which he rejected, which he never fully knew, which I
      have breathed in his discourses, which my eyes drew in from his celestial
      countenance, which his very counsels against it have increased.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Urbain is pure as an angel, but good as a man who has loved. I
      knew not that he had loved! It is you,&rdquo; she said more energetically,
      pointing to Lactantius, Barre, and Mignon, and changing her passionate
      accents for those of indignation&mdash;&ldquo;it is you who told me that
      he loved; you, who this morning have too cruelly avenged me by killing my
      rival with a word. Alas, I only sought to separate them! It was a crime;
      but, by my mother, I am an Italian! I burned with love, with jealousy; you
      allowed me to see Urbain, to have him as a friend, to see him daily.&rdquo;
      She was silent for a moment, then exclaimed, &ldquo;People, he is
      innocent! Martyr, pardon me, I embrace thy feet!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She prostrated herself before Urbain and burst into a torrent of tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Urbain raised his closely bound hands, and giving her his benediction,
      said, gently:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, Sister; I pardon thee in the name of Him whom I shall soon see.
      I have before said to you, and you now see, that the passions work much
      evil, unless we seek to turn them toward heaven.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The blood rose a second time to Laubardemont&rsquo;s forehead. &ldquo;Miscreant!&rdquo;
      he exclaimed, &ldquo;darest thou pronounce the words of the Church?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not quitted her bosom,&rdquo; said Urbain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remove the girl,&rdquo; said the President.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the archers went to obey, they found that she had tightened the cord
      round her neck with such force that she was of a livid hue and almost
      lifeless. Fear had driven all the women from the assembly; many had been
      carried out fainting, but the hall was no less crowded. The ranks
      thickened, for the men out of the streets poured in.
    </p>
    <p>
      The judges arose in terror, and the president attempted to have the hall
      cleared; but the people, putting on their hats, stood in alarming
      immobility. The archers were not numerous enough to repel them. It became
      necessary to yield; and accordingly Laubardemont in an agitated voice
      announced that the council would retire for half an hour. He broke up the
      sitting; the people remained gloomily, each man fixed firmly to his place.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      BOOK 2.
    </h2>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER V. THE MARTYRDOM
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &lsquo;La torture interroge, et la douleur repond.&rsquo;
               RAYNOURARD, Les Templiers.
</pre>
    <p>
      The continuous interest of this half-trial, its preparations, its
      interruptions, all had held the minds of the people in such attention that
      no private conversations had taken place. Some irrepressible cries had
      been uttered, but simultaneously, so that no man could accuse his
      neighbor. But when the people were left to themselves, there was an
      explosion of clamorous sentences.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was at this period enough of primitive simplicity among the lower
      classes for them to be persuaded by the mysterious tales of the political
      agents who were deluding them; so that a large portion of the throng in
      the hall of trial, not venturing to change their judgment, though upon the
      manifest evidence just given them, awaited in painful suspense the return
      of the judges, interchanging with an air of mystery and inane importance
      the usual remarks prompted by imbecility on such occasions.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One does not know what to think, Monsieur?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, Madame, most extraordinary things have happened.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We live in strange times!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suspected this; but, i&rsquo; faith, it is not wise to say what
      one thinks.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall see what we shall see,&rdquo; and so on&mdash;the
      unmeaning chatter of the crowd, which merely serves to show that it is at
      the command of the first who chooses to sway it. Stronger words were heard
      from the group in black.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! shall we let them do as they please, in this manner? What!
      dare to burn our letter to the King!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If the King knew it!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The barbarian impostors! how skilfully is their plot contrived!
      What! shall murder be committed under our very eyes? Shall we be afraid of
      these archers?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, no!&rdquo; rang out in trumpet-like tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      Attention was turned toward the young advocate, who, standing on a branch,
      began tearing to pieces a roll of paper; then he cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I tear and scatter to the winds the defence I had prepared for
      the accused. They have suppressed discussion; I am not allowed to speak
      for him. I can only speak to you, people; I rejoice that I can do so. You
      heard these infamous judges. Which of them can hear the truth? Which of
      them is worthy to listen to an honest man? Which of them will dare to meet
      his gaze? But what do I say? They all know the truth. They carry it in
      their guilty breasts; it stings their hearts like a serpent. They tremble
      in their lair, where doubtless they are devouring their victim; they
      tremble because they have heard the cries of three deluded women. What was
      I about to do? I was about to speak in behalf of Urbain Grandier! But what
      eloquence could equal that of those unfortunates? What words could better
      have shown you his innocence? Heaven has taken up arms for him in bringing
      them to repentance and to devotion; Heaven will finish its work&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vade retro, Satanas,&rdquo; was heard through a high window in the
      hall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fournier stopped for a moment, then said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hear these voices parodying the divine language? If I mistake
      not, these instruments of an infernal power are, by this song, preparing
      some new spell.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; cried those who surrounded him, &ldquo;what shall we
      do? What have they done with him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remain here; be immovable, be silent,&rdquo; replied the young
      advocate. &ldquo;The inertia of a people is all-powerful; that is its true
      wisdom, that its strength. Observe them closely, and in silence; and you
      will make them tremble.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They surely will not dare to appear here again,&rdquo; said the
      Comte du Lude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like to look once more at the tall scoundrel in red,&rdquo;
      said Grand-Ferre, who had lost nothing of what had occurred.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that good gentleman, the Cure,&rdquo; murmured old Father
      Guillaume Leroux, looking at all his indignant parishioners, who were
      talking together in a low tone, measuring and counting the archers,
      ridiculing their dress, and beginning to point them out to the observation
      of the other spectators.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars, still leaning against the pillar behind which he had first
      placed himself, still wrapped in his black cloak, eagerly watched all that
      passed, lost not a word of what was said, and filled his heart with hate
      and bitterness. Violent desires for slaughter and revenge, a vague desire
      to strike, took possession of him, despite himself; this is the first
      impression which evil produces on the soul of a young man. Later, sadness
      takes the place of fury, then indifference and scorn, later still, a
      calculating admiration for great villains who have been successful; but
      this is only when, of the two elements which constitute man, earth
      triumphs over spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, on the right of the hall near the judges&rsquo; platform, a
      group of women were watching attentively a child about eight years old,
      who had taken it into his head to climb up to a cornice by the aid of his
      sister Martine, whom we have seen the subject of jest with the young
      soldier, Grand-Ferre. The child, having nothing to look at after the court
      had left the hall, had climbed to a small window which admitted a faint
      light, and which he imagined to contain a swallow&rsquo;s nest or some
      other treasure for a boy; but after he was well established on the
      cornice, his hands grasping the bars of an old shrine of Jerome, he wished
      himself anywhere else, and cried out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, sister, sister, lend me your hand to get down!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you see there?&rdquo; asked Martine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I dare not tell; but I want to get down,&rdquo; and he began to
      cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stay there, my child; stay there!&rdquo; said all the women.
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be afraid; tell us all that you see.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, they&rsquo;ve put the Cure between two great boards
      that squeeze his legs, and there are cords round the boards.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that is the rack,&rdquo; said one of the townsmen. &ldquo;Look
      again, my little friend, what do you see now?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The child, more confident, looked again through the window, and then,
      withdrawing his head, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can not see the Cure now, because all the judges stand round him,
      and are looking at him, and their great robes prevent me from seeing.
      There are also some Capuchins, stooping down to whisper to him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Curiosity attracted more people to the boy&rsquo;s perch; every one was
      silent, waiting anxiously to catch his words, as if their lives depended
      on them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see,&rdquo; he went on, &ldquo;the executioner driving four
      little pieces of wood between the cords, after the Capuchins have blessed
      the hammer and nails. Ah, heavens! Sister, how enraged they seem with him,
      because he will not speak. Mother! mother! give me your hand, I want to
      come down!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Instead of his mother, the child, upon turning round, saw only men&rsquo;s
      faces, looking up at him with a mournful eagerness, and signing him to go
      on. He dared not descend, and looked again through the window, trembling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! I see Father Lactantius and Father Barre themselves forcing in
      more pieces of wood, which squeeze his legs. Oh, how pale he is! he seems
      praying. There, his head falls back, as if he were dying! Oh, take me
      away!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he fell into the arms of the young Advocate, of M. du Lude, and of
      Cinq-Mars, who had come to support him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Deus stetit in synagoga deorum: in medio autem Deus dijudicat&mdash;&rdquo;
      chanted strong, nasal voices, issuing from the small window, which
      continued in full chorus one of the psalms, interrupted by blows of the
      hammer&mdash;an infernal deed beating time to celestial songs. One might
      have supposed himself near a smithy, except that the blows were dull, and
      manifested to the ear that the anvil was a man&rsquo;s body.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence!&rdquo; said Fournier, &ldquo;He speaks. The chanting and
      the blows stop.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A weak voice within said, with difficulty, &ldquo;Oh, my fathers, mitigate
      the rigor of your torments, for you will reduce my soul to despair, and I
      might seek to destroy myself!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this the fury of the people burst forth like an explosion, echoing
      along the vaulted roofs; the men sprang fiercely upon the platform, thrust
      aside the surprised and hesitating archers; the unarmed crowd drove them
      back, pressed them, almost suffocated them against the walls, and held
      them fast, then dashed against the doors which led to the torture chamber,
      and, making them shake beneath their blows, threatened to drive them in;
      imprecations resounded from a thousand menacing voices and terrified the
      judges within.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are gone; they have taken him away!&rdquo; cried a man who had
      climbed to the little window.
    </p>
    <p>
      The multitude at once stopped short, and changing the direction of their
      steps, fled from this detestable place and spread rapidly through the
      streets, where an extraordinary confusion prevailed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Night had come on during the long sitting, and the rain was pouring in
      torrents. The darkness was terrifying. The cries of women slipping on the
      pavement or driven back by the horses of the guards; the shouts of the
      furious men; the ceaseless tolling of the bells which had been keeping
      time with the strokes of the question; the roll of distant thunder&mdash;all
      combined to increase the disorder.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   [Torture (&lsquo;Question&rsquo;) was regulated in scrupulous detail by Holy
   Mother The Church: The ordinary question was regulated for minor
   infractions and used for interrogating women and children. For more
   serious crimes the suspect (and sometimes the witnesses) were put to
   the extraordinary question by the officiating priests. D.W.]
</pre>
    <p>
      If the ear was astonished, the eyes were no less so. A few dismal torches
      lighted up the corners of the streets; their flickering gleams showed
      soldiers, armed and mounted, dashing along, regardless of the crowd, to
      assemble in the Place de St. Pierre; tiles were sometimes thrown at them
      on their way, but, missing the distant culprit, fell upon some unoffending
      neighbor. The confusion was bewildering, and became still more so, when,
      hurrying through all the streets toward the Place de St. Pierre, the
      people found it barricaded on all sides, and filled with mounted guards
      and archers. Carts, fastened to the posts at each corner, closed each
      entrance, and sentinels, armed with arquebuses, were stationed close to
      the carts. In the centre of the Place rose a pile composed of enormous
      beams placed crosswise upon one another, so as to form a perfect square;
      these were covered with a whiter and lighter wood; an enormous stake arose
      from the centre of the scaffold. A man clothed in red and holding a
      lowered torch stood near this sort of mast, which was visible from a long
      distance. A huge chafing-dish, covered on account of the rain, was at his
      feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this spectacle, terror inspired everywhere a profound silence; for an
      instant nothing was heard but the sound of the rain, which fell in floods,
      and of the thunder, which came nearer and nearer.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, Cinq-Mars, accompanied by MM. du Lude and Fournier and all the
      more important personages of the town, had sought refuge from the storm
      under the peristyle of the church of Ste.-Croix, raised upon twenty stone
      steps. The pile was in front, and from this height they could see the
      whole of the square. The centre was entirely clear, large streams of water
      alone traversed it; but all the windows of the houses were gradually
      lighted up, and showed the heads of the men and women who thronged them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young D&rsquo;Effiat sorrowfully contemplated this menacing
      preparation. Brought up in sentiments of honor, and far removed from the
      black thoughts which hatred and ambition arouse in the heart of man, he
      could not conceive that such wrong could be done without some powerful and
      secret motive. The audacity of such a condemnation seemed to him so
      enormous that its very cruelty began to justify it in his eyes; a secret
      horror crept into his soul, the same that silenced the people. He almost
      forgot the interest with which the unhappy Urbain had inspired him, in
      thinking whether it were not possible that some secret correspondence with
      the infernal powers had justly provoked such excessive severity; and the
      public revelations of the nuns, and the statement of his respected tutor,
      faded from his memory, so powerful is success, even in the eyes of
      superior men! so strongly does force impose upon men, despite the voice of
      conscience!
    </p>
    <p>
      The young traveller was asking himself whether it were not probable that
      the torture had forced some monstrous confession from the accused, when
      the obscurity which surrounded the church suddenly ceased. Its two great
      doors were thrown open; and by the light of an infinite number of
      flambeaux, appeared all the judges and ecclesiastics, surrounded by
      guards. Among them was Urbain, supported, or rather carried, by six men
      clothed as Black Penitents&mdash;for his limbs, bound with bandages
      saturated with blood, seemed broken and incapable of supporting him. It
      was at most two hours since Cinq-Mars had seen him, and yet he could
      hardly recognize the face he had so closely observed at the trial. All
      color, all roundness of form had disappeared from it; a livid pallor
      covered a skin yellow and shining like ivory; the blood seemed to have
      left his veins; all the life that remained within him shone from his dark
      eyes, which appeared to have grown twice as large as before, as he looked
      languidly around him; his long, chestnut hair hung loosely down his neck
      and over a white shirt, which entirely covered him&mdash;or rather a sort
      of robe with large sleeves, and of a yellowish tint, with an odor of
      sulphur about it; a long, thick cord encircled his neck and fell upon his
      breast. He looked like an apparition; but it was the apparition of a
      martyr.
    </p>
    <p>
      Urbain stopped, or, rather, was set down upon the peristyle of the church;
      the Capuchin Lactantius placed a lighted torch in his right hand, and held
      it there, as he said to him, with his hard inflexibility:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do penance, and ask pardon of God for thy crime of magic.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The unhappy man raised his voice with great difficulty, and with his eyes
      to heaven said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of the living God, I cite thee, Laubardemont, false
      judge, to appear before Him in three years. They have taken away my
      confessor, and I have been fain to pour out my sins into the bosom of God
      Himself, for my enemies surround me. I call that God of mercy to witness I
      never have dealt in magic. I have known no mysteries but those of the
      Catholic religion, apostolic and Roman, in which I die; I have sinned much
      against myself, but never against God and our Lord&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cease!&rdquo; cried the Capuchin, affecting to close his mouth ere
      he could pronounce the name of the Saviour. &ldquo;Obdurate wretch, return
      to the demon who sent thee!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He signed to four priests, who, approaching with sprinklers in their
      hands, exorcised with holy water the air the magician breathed, the earth
      he touched, the wood that was to burn him. During this ceremony, the
      judge-Advocate hastily read the decree, dated the 18th of August, 1639,
      declaring Urbain Grandier duly attainted and convicted of the crime of
      sorcery, witchcraft, and possession, in the persons of sundry Ursuline
      nuns of Loudun, and others, laymen, etc.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reader, dazzled by a flash of lightning, stopped for an instant, and,
      turning to M. de Laubardemont, asked whether, considering the awful
      weather, the execution could not be deferred till the next day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The decree,&rdquo; coldly answered Laubardemont, &ldquo;commands
      execution within twenty-four hours. Fear not the incredulous people; they
      will soon be convinced.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      All the most important persons of the town and many strangers were under
      the peristyle, and now advanced, Cinq-Mars among them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The magician never has been able to pronounce the name of the
      Saviour, and repels his image.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Lactantius at this moment issued from the midst of the Penitents, with an
      enormous iron crucifix in his hand, which he seemed to hold with
      precaution and respect; he extended it to the lips of the sufferer, who
      indeed threw back his head, and collecting all his strength, made a
      gesture with his arm, which threw the cross from the hands of the
      Capuchin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; cried the latter, &ldquo;he has thrown down the
      cross!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A murmur arose, the meaning of which was doubtful.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Profanation!&rdquo; cried the priests.
    </p>
    <p>
      The procession moved toward the pile.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, Cinq-Mars, gliding behind a pillar, had eagerly watched all
      that passed; he saw with astonishment that the cross, in falling upon the
      steps, which were more exposed to the rain than the platform, smoked and
      made a noise like molten lead when thrown into water. While the public
      attention was elsewhere engaged, he advanced and touched it lightly with
      his bare hand, which was immediately scorched. Seized with indignation,
      with all the fury of a true heart, he took up the cross with the folds of
      his cloak, stepped up to Laubardemont, and, striking him with it on the
      forehead, cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Villain, I brand thee with the mark of this red-hot iron!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The crowd heard these words and rushed forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Arrest this madman!&rdquo; cried the unworthy magistrate.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was himself seized by the hands of men who cried, &ldquo;Justice!
      justice, in the name of the King!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are lost!&rdquo; said Lactantius; &ldquo;to the pile, to the
      pile!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Penitents dragged Urbain toward the Place, while the judges and
      archers reentered the church, struggling with the furious citizens; the
      executioner, having no time to tie up the victim, hastened to lay him on
      the wood, and to set fire to it. But the rain still fell in torrents, and
      each piece of wood had no sooner caught the flame than it became
      extinguished. In vain did Lactantius and the other canons themselves seek
      to stir up the fire; nothing could overcome the water which fell from
      heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, the tumult which had begun in the peristyle of the church
      extended throughout the square. The cry of &ldquo;Justice!&rdquo; was
      repeated and circulated, with the information of what had been discovered;
      two barricades were forced, and despite three volleys of musketry, the
      archers were gradually driven back toward the centre of the square. In
      vain they spurred their horses against the crowd; it overwhelmed them with
      its swelling waves. Half an hour passed in this struggle, the guards still
      receding toward the pile, which they concealed as they pressed closer upon
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On! on!&rdquo; cried a man; &ldquo;we will deliver him; do not
      strike the soldiers, but let them fall back. See, Heaven will not permit
      him to die! The fire is out; now, friend, one effort more! That is well!
      Throw down that horse! Forward! On!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The guard was broken and dispersed on all sides. The crowd rushed to the
      pile, but no more light was there: all had disappeared, even the
      executioner. They tore up and threw aside the beams; one of them was still
      burning, and its light showed under a mass of ashes and ensanguined mire a
      blackened hand, preserved from the fire by a large iron bracelet and
      chain. A woman had the courage to open it; the fingers clasped a small
      ivory cross and an image of St. Magdalen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are his remains,&rdquo; she said, weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say, the relics of a martyr!&rdquo; exclaimed a citizen, baring his
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI. THE DREAM
    </h2>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, Cinq-Mars, amid the excitement which his outbreak had provoked,
      felt his left arm seized by a hand as hard as iron, which, drawing him
      from the crowd to the foot of the steps, pushed him behind the wall of the
      church, and he then saw the dark face of old Grandchamp, who said to him
      in a sharp voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, your attack upon thirty musketeers in a wood at Chaumont was
      nothing, because we were near you, though you knew it not, and, moreover,
      you had to do with men of honor; but here &lsquo;tis different. Your
      horses and people are at the end of the street; I request you to mount and
      leave the town, or to send me back to Madame la Marechale, for I am
      responsible for your limbs, which you expose so freely.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars was somewhat astonished at this rough mode of having a service
      done him, was not sorry to extricate himself thus from the affair, having
      had time to reflect how very awkward it might be for him to be recognized,
      after striking the head of the judicial authority, the agent of the very
      Cardinal who was to present him to the King. He observed also that around
      him was assembled a crowd of the lowest class of people, among whom he
      blushed to find himself. He therefore followed his old domestic without
      argument, and found the other three servants waiting for him. Despite the
      rain and wind he mounted, and was soon upon the highroad with his escort,
      having put his horse to a gallop to avoid pursuit.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had, however, hardly left Loudun when the sandy road, furrowed by deep
      ruts completely filled with water, obliged him to slacken his pace. The
      rain continued to fall heavily, and his cloak was almost saturated. He
      felt a thicker one thrown over his shoulders; it was his old valet, who
      had approached him, and thus exhibited toward him a maternal solicitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Grandchamp,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;now that we are
      clear of the riot, tell me how you came to be there when I had ordered you
      to remain at the Abbe&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parbleu, Monsieur!&rdquo; answered the old servant, in a grumbling
      tone, &ldquo;do you suppose that I should obey you any more than I did
      Monsieur le Marechal? When my late master, after telling me to remain in
      his tent, found me behind him in the cannon&rsquo;s smoke, he made no
      complaint, because he had a fresh horse ready when his own was killed, and
      he only scolded me for a moment in his thoughts; but, truly, during the
      forty years I served him, I never saw him act as you have in the fortnight
      I have been with you. Ah!&rdquo; he added with a sigh, &ldquo;things are
      going strangely; and if we continue thus, there&rsquo;s no knowing what
      will be the end of it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But knowest thou, Grandchamp, that these scoundrels had made the
      crucifix red hot?&mdash;a thing at which no honest man would have been
      less enraged than I.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Except Monsieur le Marechal, your father, who would not have done
      at all what you have done, Monsieur.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, then, would he have done?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He would very quietly have let this cure be burned by the other
      cures, and would have said to me, &lsquo;Grandchamp, see that my horses
      have oats, and let no one steal them&rsquo;; or, &lsquo;Grandchamp, take
      care that the rain does not rust my sword or wet the priming of my pistols&rsquo;;
      for Monsieur le Marechal thought of everything, and never interfered in
      what did not concern him. That was his great principle; and as he was,
      thank Heaven, alike good soldier and good general, he was always as
      careful of his arms as a recruit, and would not have stood up against
      thirty young gallants with a dress rapier.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars felt the force of the worthy servitor&rsquo;s epigrammatic
      scolding, and feared that he had followed him beyond the wood of Chaumont;
      but he would not ask, lest he should have to give explanations or to tell
      a falsehood or to command silence, which would at once have been taking
      him into confidence on the subject. As the only alternative, he spurred
      his horse and rode ahead of his old domestic; but the latter had not yet
      had his say, and instead of keeping behind his master, he rode up to his
      left and continued the conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you suppose, Monsieur, that I should allow you to go where you
      please? No, Monsieur, I am too deeply impressed with the respect I owe to
      Madame la Marquise, to give her an opportunity of saying to me: &lsquo;Grandchamp,
      my son has been killed with a shot or with a sword; why were you not
      before him?&rsquo; Or, &lsquo;He has received a stab from the stiletto of
      an Italian, because he went at night beneath the window of a great
      princess; why did you not seize the assassin?&rsquo; This would be very
      disagreeable to me, Monsieur, for I never have been reproached with
      anything of the kind. Once Monsieur le Marechal lent me to his nephew,
      Monsieur le Comte, to make a campaign in the Netherlands, because I know
      Spanish. I fulfilled the duty with honor, as I always do. When Monsieur le
      Comte received a bullet in his heart, I myself brought back his horses,
      his mules, his tent, and all his equipment, without so much as a
      pocket-handkerchief being missed; and I can assure you that the horses
      were as well dressed and harnessed when we reentered Chaumont as if
      Monsieur le Comte had been about to go a-hunting. And, accordingly, I
      received nothing but compliments and agreeable things from the whole
      family, just in the way I like.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, my friend,&rdquo; said Henri d&rsquo;Effiat, &ldquo;I
      may some day, perhaps, have these horses to take back; but in the mean
      time take this great purse of gold, which I have well-nigh lost two or
      three times, and thou shalt pay for me everywhere. The money wearies me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Marechal did not so, Monsieur. He had been
      superintendent of finances, and he counted every farthing he paid out of
      his own hand. I do not think your estates would have been in such good
      condition, or that you would have had so much money to count yourself, had
      he done otherwise; have the goodness, therefore, to keep your purse, whose
      contents, I dare swear, you do not know.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, not I.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Grandchamp sent forth a profound sigh at his master&rsquo;s disdainful
      exclamation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Monsieur le Marquis! Monsieur le Marquis! When I think that the
      great King Henri, before my eyes, put his chamois gloves into his pocket
      to keep the rain from spoiling them; when I think that Monsieur de Rosni
      refused him money when he had spent too much; when I think&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When thou dost think, thou art egregiously tedious, my old friend,&rdquo;
      interrupted his master; &ldquo;and thou wilt do better in telling me what
      that black figure is that I think I see walking in the mire behind us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It looks like some poor peasant woman who, perhaps, wants alms of
      us. She can easily follow us, for we do not go at much of a pace in this
      sand, wherein our horses sink up to the hams. We shall go to the Landes
      perhaps some day, Monsieur, and you will see a country all the same as
      this sandy road, and great, black firs all the way along. It looks like a
      churchyard; this is an exact specimen of it. Look, the rain has ceased,
      and we can see a little ahead; there is nothing but furze-bushes on this
      great plain, without a village or a house. I don&rsquo;t know where we can
      pass the night; but if you will take my advice, you will let us cut some
      boughs and bivouac where we are. You shall see how, with a little earth, I
      can make a hut as warm as a bed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would rather go on to the light I see in the horizon,&rdquo; said
      Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;for I fancy I feel rather feverish, and I am thirsty.
      But fall back, I would ride alone; rejoin the others and follow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Grandchamp obeyed; he consoled himself by giving Germain, Louis, and
      Etienne lessons in the art of reconnoitring a country by night.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, his young master was overcome with fatigue. The violent
      emotions of the day had profoundly affected his mind; and the long journey
      on horseback, the last two days passed almost without nourishment, owing
      to the hurried pressure of events, the heat of the sun by day, the icy
      coldness of the night, all contributed to increase his indisposition and
      to weary his delicate frame. For three hours he rode in silence before his
      people, yet the light he had seen in the horizon seemed no nearer; at last
      he ceased to follow it with his eyes, and his head, feeling heavier and
      heavier, sank upon his breast. He gave the reins to his tired horse, which
      of its own accord followed the high-road, and, crossing his arms, allowed
      himself to be rocked by the monotonous motion of his fellow-traveller,
      which frequently stumbled against the large stones that strewed the road.
      The rain had ceased, as had the voices of his domestics, whose horses
      followed in the track of their master&rsquo;s. The young man abandoned
      himself to the bitterness of his thoughts; he asked himself whether the
      bright object of his hopes would not flee from him day by day, as that
      phosphoric light fled from him in the horizon, step by step. Was it
      probable that the young Princess, almost forcibly recalled to the gallant
      court of Anne of Austria, would always refuse the hands, perhaps royal
      ones, that would be offered to her? What chance that she would resign
      herself to renounce a present throne, in order to wait till some caprice
      of fortune should realize romantic hopes, or take a youth almost in the
      lowest rank of the army and lift him to the elevation she spoke of, till
      the age of love should be passed? How could he be certain that even the
      vows of Marie de Gonzaga were sincere?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas!&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;perhaps she has blinded herself as to
      her own sentiments; the solitude of the country had prepared her soul to
      receive deep impressions. I came; she thought I was he of whom she had
      dreamed. Our age and my love did the rest. But when at court, she, the
      companion of the Queen, has learned to contemplate from an exalted
      position the greatness to which I aspire, and which I as yet see only from
      a very humble distance; when she shall suddenly find herself in actual
      possession of the future she aims at, and measures with a more correct eye
      the long road I have to travel; when she shall hear around her vows like
      mine, pronounced by lips which could undo me with a word, with a word
      destroy him whom she awaits as her husband, her lord&mdash;oh, madman that
      I have been!&mdash;she will see all her folly, and will be incensed at
      mine.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus did doubt, the greatest misery of love, begin to torture his unhappy
      heart; he felt his hot blood rush to his head and oppress it. Ever and
      anon he fell forward upon the neck of his horse, and a half sleep weighed
      down his eyes; the dark firs that bordered the road seemed to him gigantic
      corpses travelling beside him. He saw, or thought he saw, the same woman
      clothed in black, whom he had pointed out to Grandchamp, approach so near
      as to touch his horse&rsquo;s mane, pull his cloak, and then run off with
      a jeering laugh; the sand of the road seemed to him a river running
      beneath him, with opposing current, back toward its source. This strange
      sight dazzled his worn eyes; he closed them and fell asleep on his horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      Presently, he felt himself stopped, but he was numbed with cold and could
      not move. He saw peasants, lights, a house, a great room into which they
      carried him, a wide bed, whose heavy curtains were closed by Grandchamp;
      and he fell asleep again, stunned by the fever that whirred in his ears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dreams that followed one another more rapidly than grains of sand before
      the wind rushed through his brain; he could not catch them, and moved
      restlessly on his bed. Urbain Grandier on the rack, his mother in tears,
      his tutor armed, Bassompierre loaded with chains, passed before him,
      making signs of farewell; at last, as he slept, he instinctively put his
      hand to his head to stay the passing dream, which then seemed to unfold
      itself before his eyes like pictures in shifting sands.
    </p>
    <p>
      He saw a public square crowded with a foreign people, a northern people,
      who uttered cries of joy, but they were savage cries; there was a line of
      guards, ferocious soldiers&mdash;these were Frenchmen. &ldquo;Come with
      me,&rdquo; said the soft voice of Marie de Gonzaga, who took his hand.
      &ldquo;See, I wear a diadem; here is thy throne, come with me.&rdquo; And
      she hurried him on, the people still shouting. He went on, a long way.
      &ldquo;Why are you sad, if you are a queen?&rdquo; he said, trembling. But
      she was pale, and smiled and spoke not. She ascended, step after step, up
      to a throne, and seated herself. &ldquo;Mount!&rdquo; said she, forcibly
      pulling his hand. But, at every movement, the massive stairs crumbled
      beneath his feet, so that he could not ascend. &ldquo;Give thanks to love,&rdquo;
      she continued; and her hand, now more powerful, raised him to the throne.
      The people still shouted. He bowed low to kiss that helping hand, that
      adored hand; it was the hand of the executioner!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, heavens!&rdquo; exclaimed Cinq-Mars, as, heaving a deep sigh,
      he opened his eyes. A flickering lamp lighted the ruinous chamber of the
      inn; he again closed his eyes, for he had seen, seated on his bed, a
      woman, a nun, young and beautiful! He thought he was still dreaming, but
      she grasped his hand firmly. He opened his burning eyes, and fixed them
      upon her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it you, Jeannede Belfiel? The rain has drenched your veil and
      your black hair! Why are you here, unhappy woman?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark! awake not my Urbain; he sleeps there in the next room. Ay, my
      hair is indeed wet, and my feet&mdash;see, my feet that were once so
      white, see how the mud has soiled them. But I have made a vow&mdash;I will
      not wash them till I have seen the King, and until he has granted me
      Urbain&rsquo;s pardon. I am going to the army to find him; I will speak to
      him as Grandier taught me to speak, and he will pardon him. And listen, I
      will also ask thy pardon, for I read it in thy face that thou, too, art
      condemned to death. Poor youth! thou art too young to die, thy curling
      hair is beautiful; but yet thou art condemned, for thou hast on thy brow a
      line that never deceives. The man thou hast struck will kill thee. Thou
      hast made too much use of the cross; it is that which will bring evil upon
      thee. Thou hast struck with it, and thou wearest it round thy neck by a
      hair chain. Nay, hide not thy face; have I said aught to afflict thee, or
      is it that thou lovest, young man? Ah, reassure thyself, I will not tell
      all this to thy love. I am mad, but I am gentle, very gentle; and three
      days ago I was beautiful. Is she also beautiful? Ah! she will weep some
      day! Yet, if she can weep, she will be happy!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And then suddenly Jeanne began to recite the service for the dead in a
      monotonous voice, but with incredible rapidity, still seated on the bed,
      and turning the beads of a long rosary.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the door opened; she looked up, and fled through another door in
      the partition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil&rsquo;s that-an imp or an angel, saying the funeral
      service over you, and you under the clothes, as if you were in a shroud?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This abrupt exclamation came from the rough voice of Grandchamp, who was
      so astonished at what he had seen that he dropped the glass of lemonade he
      was bringing in. Finding that his master did not answer, he became still
      more alarmed, and raised the bedclothes. Cinq-Mars&rsquo;s face was
      crimson, and he seemed asleep, but his old domestic saw that the blood
      rushing to his head had almost suffocated him; and, seizing a jug full of
      cold water, he dashed the whole of it in his face. This military remedy
      rarely fails to effect its purpose, and Cinq-Mars returned to himself with
      a start.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! it is thou, Grandchamp; what frightful dreams I have had!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peste! Monsieur le Marquis, your dreams, on the contrary, are very
      pretty ones. I saw the tail of the last as I came in; your choice is not
      bad.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What dost mean, blockhead?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay, not a blockhead, Monsieur; I have good eyes, and I have seen
      what I have seen. But, really ill as you are, Monsieur le Marechal would
      never&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art utterly doting, my friend; give me some drink, I am
      parched with thirst. Oh, heavens! what a night! I still see all those
      women.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All those women, Monsieur? Why, how many are here?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am speaking to thee of a dream, blockhead. Why standest there
      like a post, instead of giving me some drink?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough, Monsieur; I will get more lemonade.&rdquo; And going to the
      door, he called over the staircase, &ldquo;Germain! Etienne! Louis!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The innkeeper answered from below: &ldquo;Coming, Monsieur, coming; they
      have been helping me to catch the madwoman.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What mad-woman?&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, rising in bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The host entered, and, taking off his cotton cap, said, respectfully:
      &ldquo;Oh, nothing, Monsieur le Marquis, only a madwoman that came here
      last night on foot, and whom we put in the next room; but she has escaped,
      and we have not been able to catch her.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; exclaimed Cinq-Mars, returning to himself and putting
      his hand to his eyes, &ldquo;it was not a dream, then. And my mother,
      where is she? and the Marechal, and&mdash;Ah! and yet it is but a fearful
      dream! Leave me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      As he said this, he turned toward the wall, and again pulled the clothes
      over his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      The innkeeper, in amazement, touched his forehead three times with his
      finger, looking at Grandchamp as if to ask him whether his master were
      also mad.
    </p>
    <p>
      Grandchamp motioned him away in silence, and in order to watch the rest of
      the night by the side of Cinq-Mars, who was in a deep sleep, he seated
      himself in a large armchair, covered with tapestry, and began to squeeze
      lemons into a glass of water with an air as grave and severe as Archimedes
      calculating the condensing power of his mirrors.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII. THE CABINET
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   Men have rarely the courage to be wholly good or wholly bad.
                         MACHIAVELLI.
</pre>
    <p>
      Let us leave our young traveller sleeping; he will soon pursue a long and
      beautiful route. Since we are at liberty to turn to all points of the map,
      we will fix our eyes upon the city of Narbonne.
    </p>
    <p>
      Behold the Mediterranean, not far distant, washing with its blue waters
      the sandy shores. Penetrate into that city resembling Athens; and to find
      him who reigns there, follow that dark and irregular street, mount the
      steps of the old archiepiscopal palace, and enter the first and largest of
      its apartments.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a very long salon, lighted by a series of high lancet windows, of
      which the upper part only retained the blue, yellow, and red panes that
      shed a mysterious light through the apartment. A large round table
      occupied its entire breadth, near the great fireplace; around this table,
      covered with a colored cloth and scattered with papers and portfolios,
      were seated, bending over their pens, eight secretaries copying letters
      which were handed to them from a smaller table. Other men quietly arranged
      the completed papers in the shelves of a bookcase, partly filled with
      books bound in black.
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding the number of persons assembled in the room, one might
      have heard the movements of the wings of a fly. The only interruption to
      the silence was the sound of pens rapidly gliding over paper, and a shrill
      voice dictating, stopping every now and then to cough. This voice
      proceeded from a great armchair placed beside the fire, which was blazing,
      notwithstanding the heat of the season and of the country. It was one of
      those armchairs that you still see in old castles, and which seem made to
      read one&rsquo;s self to sleep in, so easy is every part of it. The sitter
      sinks into a circular cushion of down; if the head leans back, the cheeks
      rest upon pillows covered with silk, and the seat juts out so far beyond
      the elbows that one may believe the provident upholsterers of our
      forefathers sought to provide that the book should make no noise in
      falling so as to awaken the sleeper.
    </p>
    <p>
      But we will quit this digression, and speak of the man who occupied the
      chair, and who was very far from sleeping. He had a broad forehead,
      bordered with thin white hair, large, mild eyes, a wan face, to which a
      small, pointed, white beard gave that air of subtlety and finesse
      noticeable in all the portraits of the period of Louis XIII. His mouth was
      almost without lips, which Lavater deems an indubitable sign of an evil
      mind, and it was framed in a pair of slight gray moustaches and a &lsquo;royale&rsquo;&mdash;an
      ornament then in fashion, which somewhat resembled a comma in form. The
      old man wore a close red cap, a large &lsquo;robe-dechambre&rsquo;, and
      purple silk stockings; he was no less a personage than Armand Duplessis,
      Cardinal de Richelieu.
    </p>
    <p>
      Near him, around the small table, sat four youths from fifteen to twenty
      years of age; these were pages, or domestics, according to the term then
      in use, which signified familiars, friends of the house. This custom was a
      relic of feudal patronage, which still existed in our manners. The younger
      members of high families received wages from the great lords, and were
      devoted to their service in all things, challenging the first comer at the
      wish of their patron. The pages wrote letters from the outline previously
      given them by the Cardinal, and after their master had glanced at them,
      passed them to the secretaries, who made fair copies. The Duke, for his
      part, wrote on his knee private notes upon small slips of paper, inserting
      them in almost all the packets before sealing them, which he did with his
      own hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had been writing a short time, when, in a mirror before him, he saw the
      youngest of his pages writing something on a sheet of paper much smaller
      than the official sheet. He hastily wrote a few words, and then slipped
      the paper under the large sheet which, much against his inclination, he
      had to fill; but, seated behind the Cardinal, he hoped that the difficulty
      with which the latter turned would prevent him from seeing the little
      manoeuvre he had tried to exercise with much dexterity. Suddenly Richelieu
      said to him, dryly, &ldquo;Come here, Monsieur Olivier.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      These words came like a thunder-clap on the poor boy, who seemed about
      sixteen. He rose at once, however, and stood before the minister, his arms
      hanging at his side and his head lowered.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other pages and the secretaries stirred no more than soldiers when a
      comrade is struck down by a ball, so accustomed were they to this kind of
      summons. The present one, however, was more energetic than usual.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What were you writing?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord, what your Eminence dictated.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord, the letter to Don Juan de Braganza.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No evasions, Monsieur; you were writing something else.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My lord,&rdquo; said the page, with tears in his eyes, &ldquo;it
      was a letter to one of my cousins.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me see it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The page trembled in every limb and was obliged to lean against the
      chimney-piece, as he said, in a hardly audible tone, &ldquo;It is
      impossible.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Vicomte Olivier d&rsquo;Entraigues,&rdquo; said the
      minister, without showing the least emotion, &ldquo;you are no longer in
      my service.&rdquo; The page withdrew. He knew that there was no reply; so,
      slipping his letter into his pocket, and opening the folding-doors just
      wide enough to allow his exit, he glided out like a bird escaped from the
      cage.
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister went on writing the note upon his knee.
    </p>
    <p>
      The secretaries redoubled their silent zeal, when suddenly the two wings
      of the door were thrown back and showed, standing in the opening, a
      Capuchin, who, bowing, with his arms crossed over his breast, seemed
      waiting for alms or for an order to retire. He had a dark complexion, and
      was deeply pitted with smallpox; his eyes, mild, but somewhat squinting,
      were almost hidden by his thick eyebrows, which met in the middle of his
      forehead; on his mouth played a crafty, mischievous, and sinister smile;
      his beard was straight and red, and his costume was that of the order of
      St. Francis in all its repulsiveness, with sandals on his bare feet, that
      looked altogether unfit to tread upon carpet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such as he was, however, this personage appeared to create a great
      sensation throughout the room; for, without finishing the phrase, the
      line, or even the word begun, every person rose and went out by the door
      where he was still standing&mdash;some saluting him as they passed, others
      turning away their heads, and the young pages holding their fingers to
      their noses, but not till they were behind him, for they seemed to have a
      secret fear of him. When they had all passed out, he entered, making a
      profound reverence, because the door was still open; but, as soon as it
      was shut, unceremoniously advancing, he seated himself near the Cardinal,
      who, having recognized him by the general movement he created, saluted him
      with a dry and silent inclination of the head, regarding him fixedly, as
      if awaiting some news and unable to avoid knitting his brows, as at the
      aspect of a spider or some other disagreeable creature.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal could not resist this movement of displeasure, because he
      felt himself obliged, by the presence of his agent, to resume those
      profound and painful conversations from which he had for some days been
      free, in a country whose pure air, favorable to him, had somewhat soothed
      the pain of his malady; that malady had changed to a slow fever, but its
      intervals were long enough to enable him to forget during its absence that
      it must return. Giving, therefore, a little rest to his hitherto
      indefatigable mind, he had been awaiting, for the first time in his life
      perhaps, without impatience, the return of the couriers he had sent in all
      directions, like the rays of a sun which alone gave life and movement to
      France. He had not expected the visit he now received, and the sight of
      one of those men, whom, to use his own expression, he &ldquo;steeped in
      crime,&rdquo; rendered all the habitual disquietudes of his life more
      present to him, without entirely dissipating the cloud of melancholy which
      at that time obscured his thoughts.
    </p>
    <p>
      The beginning of his conversation was tinged with the gloomy hue of his
      late reveries; but he soon became more animated and vigorous than ever,
      when his powerful mind had reentered the real world.
    </p>
    <p>
      His confidant, seeing that he was expected to break the silence, did so in
      this abrupt fashion:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my lord, of what are you thinking?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, Joseph, of what should we all think, but of our future
      happiness in a better life? For many days I have been reflecting that
      human interests have too much diverted me from this great thought; and I
      repent me of having spent some moments of my leisure in profane works,
      such as my tragedies, &lsquo;Europe&rsquo; and &lsquo;Mirame,&rsquo;
      despite the glory they have already gained me among our brightest minds&mdash;a
      glory which will extend unto futurity.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Joseph, full of what he had to say, was at first surprised at this
      opening; but he knew his master too well to betray his feelings, and, well
      skilled in changing the course of his ideas, replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, their merit is very great, and France will regret that these
      immortal works are not followed by similar productions.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my dear Joseph; but it is in vain that such men as Boisrobert,
      Claveret, Colletet, Corneille, and, above all, the celebrated Mairet, have
      proclaimed these tragedies the finest that the present or any past age has
      produced. I reproach myself for them, I swear to you, as for a mortal sin,
      and I now, in my hours of repose, occupy myself only with my &lsquo;Methode
      des Controverses&rsquo;, and my book on the &lsquo;Perfection du Chretien.&rsquo;
      I remember that I am fifty-six years old, and that I have an incurable
      malady.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are calculations which your enemies make as precisely as your
      Eminence,&rdquo; said the priest, who began to be annoyed with this
      conversation, and was eager to talk of other matters.
    </p>
    <p>
      The blood mounted to the Cardinal&rsquo;s face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it! I know it well!&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;I know all their
      black villainy, and I am prepared for it. But what news is there?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;According to our arrangement, my lord, we have removed Mademoiselle
      d&rsquo;Hautefort, as we removed Mademoiselle de la Fayette before her. So
      far it is well; but her place is not filled, and the King&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The King has ideas which he never had before.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! and which come not from me? &lsquo;Tis well, truly,&rdquo; said
      the minister, with an ironic sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, my lord, leave the place of the favorite vacant for six whole
      days? It is not prudent; pardon me for saying so.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has ideas&mdash;ideas!&rdquo; repeated Richelieu, with a kind of
      terror; &ldquo;and what are they?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He talks of recalling the Queen-mother,&rdquo; said the Capuchin,
      in a low voice; &ldquo;of recalling her from Cologne.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marie de Medicis!&rdquo; cried the Cardinal, striking the arms of
      his chair with his hands. &ldquo;No, by Heaven, she shall not again set
      her foot upon the soil of France, whence I drove her, step by step!
      England has not dared to receive her, exiled by me; Holland fears to be
      crushed by her; and my kingdom to receive her! No, no, such an idea could
      not have originated with himself! To recall my enemy! to recall his
      mother! What perfidy! He would not have dared to think of it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, having mused for a moment, he added, fixing a penetrating look still
      full of burning anger upon Father Joseph:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But in what terms did he express this desire? Tell me his precise
      words.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He said publicly; and in the presence of Monsieur: &lsquo;I feel
      that one of the first duties of a Christian is to be a good son, and I
      will resist no longer the murmurs of my conscience.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Christian! conscience! these are not his expressions. It is Father
      Caussin&mdash;it is his confessor who is betraying me,&rdquo; cried the
      Cardinal. &ldquo;Perfidious Jesuit! I pardoned thee thy intrigue with La
      Fayette; but I will not pass over thy secret counsels. I will have this
      confessor dismissed, Joseph; he is an enemy to the State, I see it
      clearly. But I myself have acted with negligence for some days past; I
      have not sufficiently hastened the arrival of the young d&rsquo;Effiat,
      who will doubtless succeed. He is handsome and intellectual, they say.
      What a blunder! I myself merit disgrace. To leave that fox of a Jesuit
      with the King, without having given him my secret instructions, without a
      hostage, a pledge, or his fidelity to my orders! What neglect! Joseph,
      take a pen, and write what I shall dictate for the other confessor, whom
      we will choose better. I think of Father Sirmond.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Joseph sat down at the large table, ready to write, and the
      Cardinal dictated to him those duties, of a new kind, which shortly
      afterward he dared to have given to the King, who received them, respected
      them, and learned them by heart as the commandments of the Church. They
      have come down to us, a terrible monument of the empire that a man may
      seize upon by means of circumstances, intrigues, and audacity:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;I. A prince should have a prime minister, and that minister three
   qualities: (1) He should have no passion but for his prince; (2) He
   should be able and faithful; (3) He should be an ecclesiastic.

   &ldquo;II. A prince ought perfectly to love his prime minister.

   &ldquo;III. Ought never to change his prime minister.

   &ldquo;IV. Ought to tell him all things.

   &ldquo;V. To give him free access to his person.

   &ldquo;VI. To give him sovereign authority over his people.

   &ldquo;VII. Great honors and large possessions.

   &ldquo;VIII. A prince has no treasure more precious than his prime
   minister.

   &ldquo;IX. A prince should not put faith in what people say against his
   prime minister, nor listen to any such slanders.

   &ldquo;X. A prince should reveal to his prime minister all that is said
   against him, even though he has been bound to keep it secret.

   &ldquo;XI. A prince should prefer not only the well-being of the State,
   but also his prime minister, to all his relations.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Such were the commandments of the god of France, less astonishing in
      themselves than the terrible naivete which made him bequeath them to
      posterity, as if posterity also must believe in him.
    </p>
    <p>
      While he dictated his instructions, reading them from a small piece of
      paper, written with his own hand, a deep melancholy seemed to possess him
      more and more at each word; and when he had ended, he fell back in his
      chair, his arms crossed, and his head sunk on his breast.
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Joseph, dropping his pen, arose and was inquiring whether he were
      ill, when he heard issue from the depths of his chest these mournful and
      memorable words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What utter weariness! what endless trouble! If the ambitious man
      could see me, he would flee to a desert. What is my power? A miserable
      reflection of the royal power; and what labors to fix upon my star that
      incessantly wavering ray! For twenty years I have been in vain attempting
      it. I can not comprehend that man. He dare not flee me; but they take him
      from me&mdash;he glides through my fingers. What things could I not have
      done with his hereditary rights, had I possessed them? But, employing such
      infinite calculation in merely keeping one&rsquo;s balance, what of genius
      remains for high enterprises? I hold Europe in my hand, yet I myself am
      suspended by a trembling hair. What is it to me that I can cast my eyes
      confidently over the map of Europe, when all my interests are concentrated
      in his narrow cabinet, and its few feet of space give me more trouble to
      govern than the whole country besides? See, then, what it is to be a prime
      minister! Envy me, my guards, if you can.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      His features were so distorted as to give reason to fear some accident;
      and at the same moment he was seized with a long and violent fit of
      coughing, which ended in a slight hemorrhage. He saw that Father Joseph,
      alarmed, was about to seize a gold bell that stood on the table, and,
      suddenly rising with all the vivacity of a young man, he stopped him,
      saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis nothing, Joseph; I sometimes yield to these fits of
      depression; but they do not last long, and I leave them stronger than
      before. As for my health, I know my condition perfectly; but that is not
      the business in hand. What have you done at Paris? I am glad to know the
      King has arrived in Bearn, as I wished; we shall be able to keep a closer
      watch upon him. How did you induce him to come away?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A battle at Perpignan.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not bad. Well, we can arrange it for him; that occupation
      will do as well as another just now. But the young Queen, what says she?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is still furious against you; her correspondence discovered,
      the questioning to which you had subjected her&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! a madrigal and a momentary submission on my part will make her
      forget that I have separated her from her house of Austria and from the
      country of her Buckingham. But how does she occupy herself?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In machinations with Monsieur. But as we have his entire
      confidence, here are the daily accounts of their interviews.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not trouble myself to read them; while the Duc de Bouillon
      remains in Italy I have nothing to fear in that quarter. She may have as
      many petty plots with Gaston in the chimney-corner as she pleases; he
      never got beyond his excellent intentions, forsooth! He carries nothing
      into effect but his withdrawal from the kingdom. He has had his third
      dismissal; I will manage a fourth for him whenever he pleases; he is not
      worth the pistol-shot you had the Comte de Soissons settled with, and yet
      the poor Comte had scarce more energy than he.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And the Cardinal, reseating himself in his chair, began to laugh gayly
      enough for a statesman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I always laugh when I think of their expedition to Amiens. They had
      me between them, Each had fully five hundred gentlemen with him, armed to
      the teeth, and all going to despatch me, like Concini; but the great Vitry
      was not there. They very quietly let me talk for an hour with them about
      the hunt and the Fete Dieu, and neither of them dared make a sign to their
      cut-throats. I have since learned from Chavigny that for two long months
      they had been waiting that happy moment. For myself, indeed, I observed
      nothing, except that little villain, the Abbe de Gondi,&mdash;[Afterward
      Cardinal de Retz.]&mdash;who prowled near me, and seemed to have something
      hidden under his sleeve; it was he that made me get into the coach.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Apropos of the Abbe, my lord, the Queen insists upon making him
      coadjutor.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is mad! he will ruin her if she connects herself with him; he&rsquo;s
      a musketeer in canonicals, the devil in a cassock. Read his &lsquo;Histoire
      de Fiesque&rsquo;; you may see himself in it. He will be nothing while I
      live.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How is it that with a judgment like yours you bring another
      ambitious man of his age to court?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is an entirely different matter. This young Cinq-Mars, my
      friend, will be a mere puppet. He will think of nothing but his ruff and
      his shoulder-knots; his handsome figure assures me of this. I know that he
      is gentle and weak; it was for this reason I preferred him to his elder
      brother. He will do whatever we wish.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my lord,&rdquo; said the monk, with an expression of doubt,
      &ldquo;I never place much reliance on people whose exterior is so calm;
      the hidden flame is often all the more dangerous. Recollect the Marechal d&rsquo;Effiat,
      his father.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I tell you he is a boy, and I shall bring him up; while Gondi
      is already an accomplished conspirator, an ambitious knave who sticks at
      nothing. He has dared to dispute Madame de la Meilleraie with me. Can you
      conceive it? He dispute with me! A petty priestling, who has no other
      merit than a little lively small-talk and a cavalier air. Fortunately, the
      husband himself took care to get rid of him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Joseph, who listened with equal impatience to his master when he
      spoke of his &lsquo;bonnes fortunes&rsquo; or of his verses, made,
      however, a grimace which he meant to be very sly and insinuating, but
      which was simply ugly and awkward; he fancied that the expression of his
      mouth, twisted about like a monkey&rsquo;s, conveyed, &ldquo;Ah! who can
      resist your Eminence?&rdquo; But his Eminence only read there, &ldquo;I am
      a clown who knows nothing of the great world&rdquo;; and, without changing
      his voice, he suddenly said, taking up a despatch from the table:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Duc de Rohan is dead, that is good news; the Huguenots are
      ruined. He is a lucky man. I had him condemned by the Parliament of
      Toulouse to be torn in pieces by four horses, and here he dies quietly on
      the battlefield of Rheinfeld. But what matters? The result is the same.
      Another great head is laid low! How they have fallen since that of
      Montmorency! I now see hardly any that do not bow before me. We have
      already punished almost all our dupes of Versailles; assuredly they have
      nothing with which to reproach me. I simply exercise against them the law
      of retaliation, treating them as they would have treated me in the council
      of the Queen-mother. The old dotard Bassompierre shall be doomed for
      perpetual imprisonment, and so shall the assassin Marechal de Vitry, for
      that was the punishment they voted me. As for Marillac, who counselled
      death, I reserve death for him at the first false step he makes, and I beg
      thee, Joseph, to remind me of him; we must be just to all. The Duc de
      Bouillon still keeps up his head proudly on account of his Sedan, but I
      shall make him yield. Their blindness is truly marvellous! They think
      themselves all free to conspire, not perceiving that they are merely
      fluttering at the ends of the threads that I hold in my hand, and which I
      lengthen now and then to give them air and space. Did the Huguenots cry
      out as one man at the death of their dear duke?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Less so than at the affair of Loudun, which is happily concluded.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Happily? I hope that Grandier is dead?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; that is what I meant. Your Eminence may be fully satisfied.
      All was settled in twenty-four hours. He is no longer thought of. Only
      Laubardemont committed a slight blunder in making the trial public. This
      caused a little tumult; but we have a description of the rioters, and
      measures have been taken to seek them out.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is well, very well. Urbain was too superior a man to be left
      there; he was turning Protestant. I would wager that he would have ended
      by abjuring. His work against the celibacy of priests made me conjecture
      this; and in cases of doubt, remember, Joseph, it is always best to cut
      the tree before the fruit is gathered. These Huguenots, you see, form a
      regular republic in the State. If once they had a majority in France, the
      monarchy would be lost, and they would establish some popular government
      which might be durable.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what deep pain do they daily cause our holy Father the Pope!&rdquo;
      said Joseph.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; interrupted the Cardinal, &ldquo;I see; thou wouldst
      remind me of his obstinacy in not giving thee the hat. Be tranquil; I will
      speak to-day on the subject to the new ambassador we are sending, the
      Marechal d&rsquo;Estrees, and he will, on his arrival, doubtless obtain
      that which has been in train these two years&mdash;thy nomination to the
      cardinalate. I myself begin to think that the purple would become thee
      well, for it does not show blood-stains.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And both burst into laughter&mdash;the one as a master, overwhelming the
      assassin whom he pays with his utter scorn; the other as a slave, resigned
      to all the humiliation by which he rises.
    </p>
    <p>
      The laughter which the ferocious pleasantry of the old minister had
      excited had hardly subsided, when the door opened, and a page announced
      several couriers who had arrived simultaneously from different points.
      Father Joseph arose, and, leaning against the wall like an Egyptian mummy,
      allowed nothing to appear upon his face but an expression of stolid
      contemplation. Twelve messengers entered successively, attired in various
      disguises; one appeared to be a Swiss soldier, another a sutler, a third a
      master-mason. They had been introduced into the palace by a secret
      stairway and corridor, and left the cabinet by a door opposite that at
      which they had entered, without any opportunity of meeting one another or
      communicating the contents of their despatches. Each laid a rolled or
      folded packet of papers on the large table, spoke for a moment with the
      Cardinal in the embrasure of a window and withdrew. Richelieu had risen on
      the entrance of the first messenger, and, careful to do all himself, had
      received them all, listened to all, and with his own hand had closed the
      door upon all. When the last was gone, he signed to Father Joseph, and,
      without speaking, both proceeded to unfold, or, rather, to tear open, the
      packets of despatches, and in a few words communicated to each other the
      substance of the letters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Due de Weimar pursues his advantage; the Duc Charles is
      defeated. Our General is in good spirits; here are some of his lively
      remarks at table. Good!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur le Vicomte de Turenne has retaken the towns of
      Lorraine; and here are his private conversations&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! pass over them; they can not be dangerous. He is ever a good
      and honest man, in no way mixing himself up with politics; so that some
      one gives him a little army to play at chess with, no matter against whom,
      he is content. We shall always be good friends.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Long Parliament still endures in England. The Commons pursue
      their project; there are massacres in Ireland. The Earl of Strafford is
      condemned to death.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To death! Horrible!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will read: &lsquo;His Majesty Charles I has not had the courage
      to sign the sentence, but he has appointed four commissioners.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weak king, I abandon thee! Thou shalt have no more of our money.
      Fall, since thou art ungrateful! Unhappy Wentworth!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A tear rose in the eyes of Richelieu as he said this; the man who had but
      now played with the lives of so many others wept for a minister abandoned
      by his prince. The similarity between that position and his own affected
      him, and it was his own case he deplored in the person of the foreign
      minister. He ceased to read aloud the despatches that he opened, and his
      confidant followed his example. He examined with scrupulous attention the
      detailed accounts of the most minute and secret actions of each person of
      any importance-accounts which he always required to be added to the
      official despatches made by his able spies. All the despatches to the King
      passed through his hands, and were carefully revised so as to reach the
      King amended to the state in which he wished him to read them. The private
      notes were all carefully burned by the monk after the Cardinal had
      ascertained their contents. The latter, however, seemed by no means
      satisfied, and he was walking quickly to and fro with gestures expressive
      of anxiety, when the door opened, and a thirteenth courier entered. This
      one seemed a boy hardly fourteen years old; he held under his arm a packet
      sealed with black for the King, and gave to the Cardinal only a small
      letter, of which a stolen glance from Joseph could collect but four words.
      The Cardinal started, tore the billet into a thousand pieces, and, bending
      down to the ear of the boy, spoke to him for a long time; all that Joseph
      heard was, as the messenger went out:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take good heed to this; not until twelve hours from this time.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      During this aside of the Cardinal, Joseph was occupied in concealing an
      infinite number of libels from Flanders and Germany, which the minister
      always insisted upon seeing, however bitter they might be to him. In this
      respect, he affected a philosophy which he was far from possessing, and to
      deceive those around him he would sometimes pretend that his enemies were
      not wholly wrong, and would outwardly laugh at their pleasantries; but
      those who knew his character better detected bitter rage lurking under
      this apparent moderation, and knew that he was never satisfied until he
      had got the hostile book condemned by the parliament to be burned in the
      Place de Greve, as &ldquo;injurious to the King, in the person of his
      minister, the most illustrious Cardinal,&rdquo; as we read in the decrees
      of the time, and that his only regret was that the author was not in the
      place of his book&mdash;a satisfaction he gave himself whenever he could,
      as in the case of Urbain Grandier.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was his colossal pride which he thus avenged, without avowing it even
      to himself&mdash;nay, laboring for a length of time, sometimes for a whole
      twelvemonth together, to persuade himself that the interest of the State
      was concerned in the matter. Ingenious in connecting his private affairs
      with the affairs of France, he had convinced himself that she bled from
      the wounds which he received. Joseph, careful not to irritate his
      ill-temper at this moment, put aside and concealed a book entitled &lsquo;Mystres
      Politiques du Cardinal de la Rochelle&rsquo;; also another, attributed to
      a monk of Munich, entitled &lsquo;Questions quolibetiques, ajustees au
      temps present, et Impiete Sanglante du dieu Mars&rsquo;. The worthy
      advocate Aubery, who has given us one of the most faithful histories of
      the most eminent Cardinal, is transported with rage at the mere title of
      the first of these books, and exclaims that &ldquo;the great minister had
      good reason to glorify himself that his enemies, inspired against their
      will with the same enthusiasm which conferred the gift of rendering
      oracles upon the ass of Balaam, upon Caiaphas and others, who seemed most
      unworthy of the gift of prophecy, called him with good reason Cardinal de
      la Rochelle, since three years after their writing he reduced that town;
      thus Scipio was called Africanus for having subjugated that PROVINCE!&rdquo;
      Very little was wanting to make Father Joseph, who had necessarily the
      same feelings, express his indignation in the same terms; for he
      remembered with bitterness the ridiculous part he had played in the siege
      of Rochelle, which, though not a province like Africa, had ventured to
      resist the most eminent Cardinal, and into which Father Joseph, piquing
      himself on his military skill, had proposed to introduce the troops
      through a sewer. However, he restrained himself, and had time to conceal
      the libel in the pocket of his brown robe ere the minister had dismissed
      his young courier and returned to the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And now to depart, Joseph,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Open the doors to
      all that court which besieges me, and let us go to the King, who awaits me
      at Perpignan; this time I have him for good.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capuchin drew back, and immediately the pages, throwing open the
      gilded doors, announced in succession the greatest lords of the period,
      who had obtained permission from the King to come and salute the minister.
      Some, even, under the pretext of illness or business, had departed
      secretly, in order not to be among the last at Richelieu&rsquo;s
      reception; and the unhappy monarch found himself almost as alone as other
      kings find themselves on their deathbeds. But with him, the throne seemed,
      in the eyes of the court, his dying couch, his reign a continual last
      agony, and his minister a threatening successor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two pages, of the first families of France, stood at the door, where the
      ushers announced each of the persons whom Father Joseph had found in the
      ante room. The Cardinal, still seated in his great arm chair, remained
      motionless as the common couriers entered, inclined his head to the more
      distinguished, and to princes alone put his hands on the elbows of his
      chair and slightly rose; each person, having profoundly saluted him, stood
      before him near the fireplace, waited till he had spoken to him, and then,
      at a wave of his hand, completed the circuit of the room, and went out by
      the same door at which he had entered, paused for a moment to salute
      Father Joseph, who aped his master, and who for that reason had been named
      &ldquo;his Gray Eminence,&rdquo; and at last quitted the palace, unless,
      indeed, he remained standing behind the chair, if the minister had
      signified that he should, which was considered a token of very great
      favor.
    </p>
    <p>
      He allowed to pass several insignificant persons, and many whose merits
      were useless to him; the first whom he stopped in the procession was the
      Marechal d&rsquo;Estrees, who, about to set out on an embassy to Rome,
      came to make his adieux; those behind him stopped short. This circumstance
      warned the courtiers in the anteroom that a longer conversation than usual
      was on foot, and Father Joseph, advancing to the threshold, exchanged with
      the Cardinal a glance which seemed to say, on the one side, &ldquo;Remember
      the promise you have just made me,&rdquo; on the other, &ldquo;Set your
      mind at rest.&rdquo; At the same time, the expert Capuchin let his master
      see that he held upon his arm one of his victims, whom he was forming into
      a docile instrument; this was a young gentleman who wore a very short
      green cloak, a pourpoint of the same color, close-fitting red breeches,
      with glittering gold garters below the knee-the costume of the pages of
      Monsieur. Father Joseph, indeed, spoke to him secretly, but not in the way
      the Cardinal imagined; for he contemplated being his equal, and was
      preparing other connections, in case of defection on the part of the prime
      minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell Monsieur not to trust in appearances, and that he has no
      servant more faithful than I. The Cardinal is on the decline, and my
      conscience tells me to warn against his faults him who may inherit the
      royal power during the minority. To give your great Prince a proof of my
      faith, tell him that it is intended to arrest his friend, Puy-Laurens, and
      that he had better be kept out of the way, or the Cardinal will put him in
      the Bastille.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While the servant was thus betraying his master, the master, not to be
      behindhand with him, betrayed his servant. His self-love, and some remnant
      of respect to the Church, made him shudder at the idea of seeing a
      contemptible agent invested with the same hat which he himself wore as a
      crown, and seated as high as himself, except as to the precarious position
      of minister. Speaking, therefore, in an undertone to the Marechal d&rsquo;Estrees,
      he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not necessary to importune Urbain VIII any further in favor
      of the Capuchin you see yonder; it is enough that his Majesty has deigned
      to name him for the cardinalate. One can readily conceive the repugnance
      of his Holiness to clothe this mendicant in the Roman purple.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, passing on to general matters, he continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, I know not what can have cooled the Holy Father toward us;
      what have we done that was not for the glory of our Holy Mother, the
      Catholic Church?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I myself said the first mass at Rochelle, and you see for yourself,
      Monsieur le Marechal, that our habit is everywhere; and even in your
      armies, the Cardinal de la Vallette has commanded gloriously in the
      palatinate.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And has just made a very fine retreat,&rdquo; said the Marechal,
      laying a slight emphasis upon the word.
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister continued, without noticing this little outburst of
      professional jealousy, and raising his voice, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God has shown that He did not scorn to send the spirit of victory
      upon his Levites, for the Duc de Weimar did not more powerfully aid in the
      conquest of Lorraine than did this pious Cardinal, and never was a naval
      army better commanded than by our Archbishop of Bordeaux at Rochelle.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was well known that at this very time the minister was incensed against
      this prelate, whose haughtiness was so overbearing, and whose impertinent
      ebullitions were so frequent as to have involved him in two very
      disagreeable affairs at Bordeaux. Four years before, the Duc d&rsquo;Epernon,
      then governor of Guyenne, followed by all his train and by his troops,
      meeting him among his clergy in a procession, had called him an insolent
      fellow, and given him two smart blows with his cane; whereupon the
      Archbishop had excommunicated him. And again, recently, despite this
      lesson, he had quarrelled with the Marechal de Vitry, from whom he had
      received &ldquo;twenty blows with a cane or stick, which you please,&rdquo;
      wrote the Cardinal Duke to the Cardinal de la Vallette, &ldquo;and I think
      he would like to excommunicate all France.&rdquo; In fact, he did
      excommunicate the Marechal&rsquo;s baton, remembering that in the former
      case the Pope had obliged the Duc d&rsquo;Epernon to ask his pardon; but
      M. Vitry, who had caused the Marechal d&rsquo;Ancre to be assassinated,
      stood too high at court for that, and the Archbishop, in addition to his
      beating, got well scolded by the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. d&rsquo;Estrees thought, therefore, sagely that there might be some
      irony in the Cardinal&rsquo;s manner of referring to the warlike talents
      of the Archbishop, and he answered, with perfect sang-froid:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is true, my lord, no one can say that it was upon the sea he was
      beaten.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      His Eminence could not restrain a smile at this; but seeing that the
      electrical effect of that smile had created others in the hall, as well as
      whisperings and conjectures, he immediately resumed his gravity, and
      familiarly taking the Marechal&rsquo;s arm, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Monsieur l&rsquo;Ambassadeur, you are ready at repartee. With
      you I should not fear Cardinal Albornos, or all the Borgias in the world&mdash;no,
      nor all the efforts of their Spain with the Holy Father.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, raising his voice, and looking around, as if addressing himself to
      the silent, and, so to speak, captive assembly, he continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope that we shall no more be reproached, as formerly, for having
      formed an alliance with one of the greatest men of our day; but as
      Gustavus Adolphus is dead, the Catholic King will no longer have any
      pretext for soliciting the excommunication of the most Christian King. How
      say you, my dear lord?&rdquo; addressing himself to the Cardinal de la
      Vallette, who now approached, fortunately without having heard the late
      allusion to himself. &ldquo;Monsieur d&rsquo;Estrees, remain near our
      chair; we have still many things to say to you, and you are not one too
      many in our conversations, for we have no secrets. Our policy is frank and
      open to all men; the interest of his Majesty and of the State&mdash;nothing
      more.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marechal made a profound bow, fell back behind the chair of the
      minister, and gave place to the Cardinal de la Vallette, who, incessantly
      bowing and flattering and swearing devotion and entire obedience to the
      Cardinal, as if to expiate the obduracy of his father, the Duc d&rsquo;Epernon,
      received in return a few vague words, to no meaning or purpose, the
      Cardinal all the while looking toward the door, to see who should follow.
      He had even the mortification to find himself abruptly interrupted by the
      minister, who cried at the most flattering period of his honeyed
      discourse:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! is that you at last, my dear Fabert? How I have longed to see
      you, to talk of the siege!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The General, with a brusque and awkward manner, saluted the
      Cardinal-Generalissimo, and presented to him the officers who had come
      from the camp with him. He talked some time of the operations of the
      siege, and the Cardinal seemed to be paying him court now, in order to
      prepare him afterward for receiving his orders even on the field of
      battle; he spoke to the officers who accompanied him, calling them by
      their names, and questioning them about the camp.
    </p>
    <p>
      They all stood aside to make way for the Duc d&rsquo;Angouleme&mdash;that
      Valois, who, having struggled against Henri IV, now prostrated himself
      before Richelieu. He solicited a command, having been only third in rank
      at the siege of Rochelle. After him came young Mazarin, ever supple and
      insinuating, but already confident in his fortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duc d&rsquo;Halluin came after them; the Cardinal broke off the
      compliments he was addressing to the others, to utter, in a loud voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Duc, I inform you with pleasure that the King has made
      you a marshal of France; you will sign yourself Schomberg, will you not,
      at Leucate, delivered, as we hope, by you? But pardon me, here is Monsieur
      de Montauron, who has doubtless something important to communicate.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, my lord, I would only say that the poor young man whom you
      deigned to consider in your service is dying of hunger.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw! at such a moment to speak of things like this! Your little
      Corneille will not write anything good; we have only seen &lsquo;Le Cid&rsquo;
      and &lsquo;Les Horaces&rsquo; as yet. Let him work, let him work! it is
      known that he is in my service, and that is disagreeable. However, since
      you interest yourself in the matter, I give him a pension of five hundred
      crowns on my privy purse.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Chancellor of the Exchequer retired, charmed with the liberality of
      the minister, and went home to receive with great affability the
      dedication of Cinna, wherein the great Corneille compares his soul to that
      of Augustus, and thanks him for having given alms &lsquo;a quelques Muses&rsquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal, annoyed by this importunity, rose, observing that the day
      was advancing, and that it was time to set out to visit the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment, and as the greatest noblemen present were offering their
      arms to aid him in walking, a man in the robe of a referendary advanced
      toward him, saluting him with a complacent and confident smile which
      astonished all the people there, accustomed to the great world, seeming to
      say: &ldquo;We have secret affairs together; you shall see how agreeable
      he makes himself to me. I am at home in his cabinet.&rdquo; His heavy and
      awkward manner, however, betrayed a very inferior being; it was
      Laubardemont.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richelieu knit his brows when he saw him, and cast a glance at Joseph;
      then, turning toward those who surrounded him, he said, with bitter scorn:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is there some criminal about us to be apprehended?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, turning his back upon the discomfited Laubardemont, the Cardinal
      left him redder than his robe, and, preceded by the crowd of personages
      who were to escort him in carriages or on horseback, he descended the
      great staircase of the palace.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the people and the authorities of Narbonne viewed this royal departure
      with amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal entered alone a spacious square litter, in which he was to
      travel to Perpignan, his infirmities not permitting him to go in a coach,
      or to perform the journey on horseback. This kind of moving chamber
      contained a bed, a table, and a small chair for the page who wrote or read
      for him. This machine, covered with purple damask, was carried by eighteen
      men, who were relieved at intervals of a league; they were selected among
      his guards, and always performed this service of honor with uncovered
      heads, however hot or wet the weather might be. The Duc d&rsquo;Angouleme,
      the Marechals de Schomberg and d&rsquo;Estrees, Fabert, and other
      dignitaries were on horseback beside the litter; after them, among the
      most prominent were the Cardinal de la Vallette and Mazarin, with
      Chavigny, and the Marechal de Vitry, anxious to avoid the Bastille, with
      which it was said he was threatened.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two coaches followed for the Cardinal&rsquo;s secretaries, physicians, and
      confessor; then eight others, each with four horses, for his gentlemen,
      and twenty-four mules for his luggage. Two hundred musketeers on foot
      marched close behind him, and his company of men-at-arms of the guard and
      his light-horse, all gentlemen, rode before and behind him on splendid
      horses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Such was the equipage in which the prime minister proceeded to Perpignan;
      the size of the litter often made it necessary to enlarge the roads, and
      knock down the walls of some of the towns and villages on the way, into
      which it could not otherwise enter, &ldquo;so that,&rdquo; say the authors
      and manuscripts of the time, full of a sincere admiration for all this
      luxury&mdash;&ldquo;so that he seemed a conqueror entering by the breach.&rdquo;
      We have sought in vain with great care in these documents, for any account
      of proprietors or inhabitants of these dwellings so making room for his
      passage who shared in this admiration; but we have been unable to find any
      mention of such.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII. THE INTERVIEW
    </h2>
    <p>
      The pompous cortege of the Cardinal halted at the beginning of the camp.
      All the armed troops were drawn up in the finest order; and amid the sound
      of cannon and the music of each regiment the litter traversed a long line
      of cavalry and infantry, formed from the outermost tent to that of the
      minister, pitched at some distance from the royal quarters, and which its
      purple covering distinguished at a distance. Each general of division
      obtained a nod or a word from the Cardinal, who at length reaching his
      tent and, dismissing his train, shut himself in, waiting for the time to
      present himself to the King. But, before him, every person of his escort
      had repaired thither individually, and, without entering the royal abode,
      had remained in the long galleries covered with striped stuff, and
      arranged as became avenues leading to the Prince. The courtiers walking in
      groups, saluted one another and shook hands, regarding each other
      haughtily, according to their connections or the lords to whom they
      belonged. Others whispered together, and showed signs of astonishment,
      pleasure, or anger, which showed that something extraordinary had taken
      place. Among a thousand others, one singular dialogue occurred in a corner
      of the principal gallery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I ask, Monsieur l&rsquo;Abbe, why you look at me so fixedly?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parbleu! Monsieur de Launay, it is because I&rsquo;m curious to see
      what you will do. All the world abandons your Cardinal-Duke since your
      journey into Touraine; if you do not believe it, go and ask the people of
      Monsieur or of the Queen. You are behind-hand ten minutes by the watch
      with the Cardinal de la Vallette, who has just shaken hands with Rochefort
      and the gentlemen of the late Comte de Soissons, whom I shall regret as
      long as I live.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Gondi, I understand you; is it a challenge with which
      you honor me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur le Comte,&rdquo; answered the young Abbe, saluting
      him with all the gravity of the time; &ldquo;I sought an occasion to
      challenge you in the name of Monsieur d&rsquo;Attichi, my friend, with
      whom you had something to do at Paris.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur l&rsquo;Abbe, I am at your command. I will seek my
      seconds; do you the same.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On horseback, with sword and pistol, I suppose?&rdquo; added Gondi,
      with the air of a man arranging a party of pleasure, lightly brushing the
      sleeve of his cassock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you please,&rdquo; replied the other. And they separated for a
      time, saluting one another with the greatest politeness, and with profound
      bows.
    </p>
    <p>
      A brilliant crowd of gentlemen circulated around them in the gallery. They
      mingled with it to procure friends for the occasion. All the elegance of
      the costumes of the day was displayed by the court that morning-small
      cloaks of every color, in velvet or in satin, embroidered with gold or
      silver; crosses of St. Michael and of the Holy Ghost; the ruffs, the
      sweeping hat-plumes, the gold shoulder-knots, the chains by which the long
      swords hung: all glittered and sparkled, yet not so brilliantly as did the
      fiery glances of those warlike youths, or their sprightly conversation, or
      their intellectual laughter. Amid the assembly grave personages and great
      lords passed on, followed by their numerous gentlemen.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little Abbe de Gondi, who was very shortsighted, made his way through
      the crowd, knitting his brows and half shutting his eyes, that he might
      see the better, and twisting his moustache, for ecclesiastics wore them in
      those days. He looked closely at every one in order to recognize his
      friends, and at last stopped before a young man, very tall and dressed in
      black from head to foot; his sword, even, was of quite dark, bronzed
      steel. He was talking with a captain of the guards, when the Abbe de Gondi
      took him aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Thou,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I need you as my second in
      an hour, on horseback, with sword and pistol, if you will do me that
      honor.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, you know I am entirely at your service on all occasions.
      Where shall we meet?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In front of the Spanish bastion, if you please.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me for returning to a conversation that greatly interests
      me. I will be punctual at the rendezvous.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And De Thou quitted him to rejoin the Captain. He had said all this in the
      gentlest of voices with unalterable coolness, and even with somewhat of an
      abstracted manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little Abbe squeezed his hand with warm satisfaction, and continued
      his search.
    </p>
    <p>
      He did not so easily effect an agreement with the young lords to whom he
      addressed himself; for they knew him better than did De Thou, and when
      they saw him coming they tried to avoid him, or laughed at him openly, and
      would not promise to serve him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Abbe! there you are hunting again; I&rsquo;ll swear it&rsquo;s
      a second you want,&rdquo; said the Duc de Beaufort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I wager,&rdquo; added M. de la Rochefoucauld, &ldquo;that it&rsquo;s
      against one of the Cardinal-Duke&rsquo;s people.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are both right, gentlemen; but since when have you laughed at
      affairs of honor?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The saints forbid I should,&rdquo; said M. de Beaufort. &ldquo;Men
      of the sword like us ever reverence tierce, quarte, and octave; but as for
      the folds of the cassock, I know nothing of them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardieu! Monsieur, you know well enough that it does not embarrass
      my wrist, as I will prove to him who chooses; as to the gown itself, I
      should like to throw it into the gutter.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it to tear it that you fight so often?&rdquo; asked La
      Rochefoucauld. &ldquo;But remember, my dear Abbe, that you yourself are
      within it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Gondi turned to look at the clock, wishing to lose no more time in such
      sorry jests; but he had no better success elsewhere. Having stopped two
      gentlemen in the service of the young Queen, whom he thought ill-affected
      toward the Cardinal, and consequently glad to measure weapons with his
      creatures, one of them said to him very gravely:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Gondi, you know what has just happened; the King has
      said aloud, &lsquo;Whether our imperious Cardinal wishes it or not, the
      widow of Henri le Grand shall no longer remain in exile.&rsquo; Imperious!
      the King never before said anything so strong as that, Monsieur l&rsquo;Abbe,
      mark that. Imperious! it is open disgrace. Certainly no one will dare to
      speak to him; no doubt he will quit the court this very day.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard this, Monsieur, but I have an affair&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is lucky for you he stopped short in the middle of your career.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An affair of honor&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whereas Mazarin is quite a friend of yours.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But will you, or will you not, listen to me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a friend indeed! your adventures are always uppermost in his
      thoughts. Your fine duel with Monsieur de Coutenan about the pretty little
      pin-maker,&mdash;he even spoke of it to the King. Adieu, my dear Abbe, we
      are in great haste; adieu, adieu!&rdquo; And, taking his friend&rsquo;s
      arm, the young mocker, without listening to another word, walked rapidly
      down the gallery and disappeared in the throng.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor Abbe was much mortified at being able to get only one second, and
      was watching sadly the passing of the hour and of the crowd, when he
      perceived a young gentleman whom he did not know, seated at a table,
      leaning on his elbow with a pensive air; he wore mourning which indicated
      no connection with any great house or party, and appeared to await,
      without any impatience, the time for attending the King, looking with a
      heedless air at those who surrounded him, and seeming not to notice or to
      know any of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gondi looked at him a moment, and accosted him without hesitation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, I have not the honor of your acquaintance, but a
      fencing-party can never be unpleasant to a man of honor; and if you will
      be my second, in a quarter of an hour we shall be on the ground. I am Paul
      de Gondi; and I have challenged Monsieur de Launay, one of the Cardinal&rsquo;s
      clique, but in other respects a very gallant fellow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The unknown, apparently not at all surprised at this address, replied,
      without changing his attitude: &ldquo;And who are his seconds?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, I don&rsquo;t know; but what matters it who serves him? We
      stand no worse with our friends for having exchanged a thrust with them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The stranger smiled nonchalantly, paused for an instant to pass his hand
      through his long chestnut hair, and then said, looking idly at a large,
      round watch which hung at his waist:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Monsieur, as I have nothing better to do, and as I have no
      friends here, I am with you; it will pass the time as well as anything
      else.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, taking his large, black-plumed hat from the table, he followed the
      warlike Abbe, who went quickly before him, often running back to hasten
      him on, like a child running before his father, or a puppy that goes
      backward and forward twenty times before it gets to the end of a street.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, two ushers, attired in the royal livery, opened the great
      curtains which separated the gallery from the King&rsquo;s tent, and
      silence reigned. The courtiers began to enter slowly, and in succession,
      the temporary dwelling of the Prince. He received them all gracefully, and
      was the first to meet the view of each person introduced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before a very small table surrounded with gilt armchairs stood Louis XIII,
      encircled by the great officers of the crown. His dress was very elegant:
      a kind of fawn-colored vest, with open sleeves, ornamented with
      shoulder-knots and blue ribbons, covered him down to the waist. Wide
      breeches reached to the knee, and the yellow-and-red striped stuff of
      which they were made was ornamented below with blue ribbons. His
      riding-boots, reaching hardly more than three inches above the ankle, were
      turned over, showing so lavish a lining of lace that they seemed to hold
      it as a vase holds flowers. A small mantle of blue velvet, on which was
      embroidered the cross of the Holy Ghost, covered the King&rsquo;s left
      arm, which rested on the hilt of his sword.
    </p>
    <p>
      His head was uncovered, and his pale and noble face was distinctly
      visible, lighted by the sun, which penetrated through the top of the tent.
      The small, pointed beard then worn augmented the appearance of thinness in
      his face, while it added to its melancholy expression. By his lofty brow,
      his classic profile, his aquiline nose, he was at once recognized as a
      prince of the great race of Bourbon. He had all the characteristic traits
      of his ancestors except their penetrating glance; his eyes seemed red from
      weeping, and veiled with a perpetual drowsiness; and the weakness of his
      vision gave him a somewhat vacant look.
    </p>
    <p>
      He called around him, and was attentive to, the greatest enemies of the
      Cardinal, whom he expected every moment; and, balancing himself with one
      foot over the other, an hereditary habit of his family, he spoke quickly,
      but pausing from time to time to make a gracious inclination of the head,
      or a gesture of the hand, to those who passed before him with low
      reverences.
    </p>
    <p>
      The court had been thus paying its respects to the King for two hours
      before the Cardinal appeared; the whole court stood in close ranks behind
      the Prince, and in the long galleries which extended from his tent.
      Already longer intervals elapsed between the names of the courtiers who
      were announced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shall we not see our cousin the Cardinal?&rdquo; said the King,
      turning, and looking at Montresor, one of Monsieur&rsquo;s gentlemen, as
      if to encourage him to answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is said to be very ill just now, Sire,&rdquo; was the answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet I do not see how any but your Majesty can cure him,&rdquo;
      said the Duc de Beaufort.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We cure nothing but the king&rsquo;s evil,&rdquo; replied Louis;
      &ldquo;and the complaints of the Cardinal are always so mysterious that we
      own we can not understand them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Prince thus essayed to brave his minister, gaining strength in jests,
      the better to break his yoke, insupportable, but so difficult to remove.
      He almost thought he had succeeded in this, and, sustained by the joyous
      air surrounding him, he already privately congratulated himself on having
      been able to assume the supreme empire, and for the moment enjoyed all the
      power of which he fancied himself possessed. An involuntary agitation in
      the depth of his heart had warned him indeed that, the hour passed, all
      the burden of the State would fall upon himself alone; but he talked in
      order to divert the troublesome thought, and, concealing from himself the
      doubt he had of his own inability to reign, he set his imagination to work
      upon the result of his enterprises, thus forcing himself to forget the
      tedious roads which had led to them. Rapid phrases succeeded one another
      on his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall soon take Perpignan,&rdquo; he said to Fabert, who stood
      at some distance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Cardinal, Lorraine is ours,&rdquo; he added to La Vallette.
      Then, touching Mazarin&rsquo;s arm:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not so difficult to manage a State as is supposed, eh?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Italian, who was not so sure of the Cardinal&rsquo;s disgrace as most
      of the courtiers, answered, without compromising himself:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Sire, the late successes of your Majesty at home and abroad
      prove your sagacity in choosing your instruments and in directing them,
      and&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Duc de Beaufort, interrupting him with that self-confidence, that
      loud voice and overbearing air, which subsequently procured him the
      surname of Important, cried out, vehemently:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardieu! Sire, it needs only to will. A nation is driven like a
      horse, with spur and bridle; and as we are all good horsemen, your Majesty
      has only to choose among us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This fine sally had not time to take effect, for two ushers cried,
      simultaneously, &ldquo;His Eminence!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The King&rsquo;s face flushed involuntarily, as if he had been surprised
      en flagrant delit. But immediately gaining confidence, he assumed an air
      of resolute haughtiness, which was not lost upon the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter, attired in all the pomp of a cardinal, leaning upon two young
      pages, and followed by his captain of the guards and more than five
      hundred gentlemen attached to his house, advanced toward the King slowly
      and pausing at each step, as if forced to it by his sufferings, but in
      reality to observe the faces before him. A glance sufficed.
    </p>
    <p>
      His suite remained at the entrance of the royal tent; of all those within
      it, not one was bold enough to salute him, or to look toward him. Even La
      Vallette feigned to be occupied in a conversation with Montresor; and the
      King, who desired to give him an unfavorable reception, greeted him
      lightly and continued a private conversation in a low voice with the Duc
      de Beaufort.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal was therefore forced, after the first salute, to stop and
      pass to the side of the crowd of courtiers, as if he wished to mingle with
      them, but in reality to test them more closely; they all recoiled as at
      the sight of a leper. Fabert alone advanced toward him with the frank,
      brusque air habitual with him, and, making use of the terms belonging to
      his profession, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my lord, you make a breach in the midst of them like a
      cannon-ball; I ask pardon in their name.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you stand firm before me as before the enemy,&rdquo; said the
      Cardinal; &ldquo;you will have no cause to regret it in the end, my dear
      Fabert.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Mazarin also approached the Cardinal, but with caution, and, giving to his
      mobile features an expression of profound sadness, made him five or six
      very low bows, turning his back to the group gathered around the King, so
      that in the latter quarter they might be taken for those cold and hasty
      salutations which are made to a person one desires to be rid of, and, on
      the part of the Duke, for tokens of respect, blended with a discreet and
      silent sorrow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister, ever calm, smiled disdainfully; and, assuming that firm look
      and that air of grandeur which he always wore in the hour of danger, he
      again leaned upon his pages, and, without waiting for a word or a glance
      from his sovereign, he suddenly resolved upon his line of conduct, and
      walked directly toward him, traversing the whole length of the tent. No
      one had lost sight of him, although all affected not to observe him. Every
      one now became silent, even those who were conversing with the King. All
      the courtiers bent forward to see and to hear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Louis XIII turned toward him in astonishment, and, all presence of mind
      totally failing him, remained motionless and waited with an icy glance-his
      sole force, but a force very effectual in a prince.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal, on coming close to the monarch, did not bow; and, without
      changing his attitude, with his eyes lowered and his hands placed on the
      shoulders of the two boys half bending, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sire, I come to implore your Majesty at length to grant me the
      retirement for which I have long sighed. My health is failing; I feel that
      my life will soon be ended. Eternity approaches me, and before rendering
      an account to the eternal King, I would render one to my earthly
      sovereign. It is eighteen years, Sire, since you placed in my hands a weak
      and divided kingdom; I return it to you united and powerful. Your enemies
      are overthrown and humiliated. My work is accomplished. I ask your Majesty&rsquo;s
      permission to retire to Citeaux, of which I am abbot, and where I may end
      my days in prayer and meditation.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The King, irritated by some haughty expressions in this address, showed
      none of the signs of weakness which the Cardinal had expected, and which
      he had always seen in him when he had threatened to resign the management
      of affairs. On the contrary, feeling that he had the eyes of the whole
      court upon him, Louis looked upon him with the air of a king, and coldly
      replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We thank you, then, for your services, Monsieur le Cardinal, and
      wish you the repose you desire.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Richelieu was deeply moved, but no indication of his anger appeared upon
      his countenance. &ldquo;Such was the coldness with which you left
      Montmorency to die,&rdquo; he said to himself; &ldquo;but you shall not
      escape me thus.&rdquo; He then continued aloud, bowing at the same time:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The only recompense I ask for my services is that your Majesty will
      deign to accept from me, as a gift, the Palais-Cardinal I have erected at
      my own expense in Paris.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The King, astonished, bowed his assent. A murmur of surprise for a moment
      agitated the attentive court.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I also throw myself at your Majesty&rsquo;s feet, to beg that you
      will grant me the revocation of an act of rigor, which I solicited (I
      publicly confess it), and which I perhaps regarded too hastily beneficial
      to the repose of the State. Yes, when I was of this world, I was too
      forgetful of my early sentiments of personal respect and attachment, in my
      eagerness for the public welfare; but now that I already enjoy the
      enlightenment of solitude, I see that I have done wrong, and I repent.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The attention of the spectators was redoubled, and the uneasiness of the
      King became visible.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, there is one person, Sire, whom I have always loved, despite
      her wrong toward you, and the banishment which the affairs of the kingdom
      forced me to bring about for her; a person to whom I have owed much, and
      who should be very dear to you, notwithstanding her armed attempts against
      you; a person, in a word, whom I implore you to recall from exile&mdash;the
      Queen Marie de Medicis, your mother!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The King uttered an involuntary exclamation, so little did he expect to
      hear that name. A repressed agitation suddenly appeared upon every face.
      All waited in silence the King&rsquo;s reply. Louis XIII looked for a long
      time at his old minister without speaking, and this look decided the fate
      of France; in that instant he called to mind all the indefatigable
      services of Richelieu, his unbounded devotion, his wonderful capacity, and
      was surprised at himself for having wished to part with him. He felt
      deeply affected at this request, which had probed for the exact cause of
      his anger at the bottom of his heart, and uprooted it, thus taking from
      his hands the only weapon he had against his old servant. Filial love
      brought words of pardon to his lips and tears into his eyes. Rejoicing to
      grant what he desired most of all things in the world, he extended his
      hands to the Duke with all the nobleness and kindliness of a Bourbon. The
      Cardinal bowed and respectfully kissed it; and his heart, which should
      have burst with remorse, only swelled in the joy of a haughty triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King, deeply touched, abandoning his hand to him, turned gracefully
      toward his court and said, with a trembling voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We often deceive ourselves, gentlemen, and especially in our
      knowledge of so great a politician as this.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope he will never leave us, since his heart is as good as his
      head.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cardinal de la Vallette instantly seized the sleeve of the King&rsquo;s
      mantle, and kissed it with all the ardor of a lover, and the young Mazarin
      did much the same with Richelieu himself, assuming, with admirable Italian
      suppleness, an expression radiant with joy and tenderness. Two streams of
      flatterers hastened, one toward the King, the other toward the minister;
      the former group, not less adroit than the second, although less direct,
      addressed to the Prince thanks which could be heard by the minister, and
      burned at the feet of the one incense which was intended for the other. As
      for Richelieu, bowing and smiling to right and left, he stepped forward
      and stood at the right hand of the King as his natural place. A stranger
      entering would rather have thought, indeed, that it was the King who was
      on the Cardinal&rsquo;s left hand. The Marechal d&rsquo;Estrees, all the
      ambassadors, the Duc d&rsquo;Angouleme, the Due d&rsquo;Halluin
      (Schomberg), the Marechal de Chatillon, and all the great officers of the
      crown surrounded him, each waiting impatiently for the compliments of the
      others to be finished, in order to pay his own, fearing lest some one else
      should anticipate him with the flattering epigram he had just improvised,
      or the phrase of adulation he was inventing.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for Fabert, he had retired to a corner of the tent, and seemed to have
      paid no particular attention to the scene. He was chatting with Montresor
      and the gentlemen of Monsieur, all sworn enemies of the Cardinal, because,
      out of the throng he avoided, he had found none but these to speak to.
      This conduct would have seemed extremely tactless in one less known; but
      although he lived in the midst of the court, he was ever ignorant of its
      intrigues. It was said of him that he returned from a battle he had
      gained, like the King&rsquo;s hunting-horse, leaving the dogs to caress
      their master and divide the quarry, without seeking even to remember the
      part he had had in the triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      The storm, then, seemed entirely appeased, and to the violent agitations
      of the morning succeeded a gentle calm. A respectful murmur, varied with
      pleasant laughter and protestations of attachment, was all that was heard
      in the tent. The voice of the Cardinal arose from time to time: &ldquo;The
      poor Queen! We shall, then, soon again see her! I never had dared to hope
      for such happiness while I lived!&rdquo; The King listened to him with
      full confidence, and made no attempt to conceal his satisfaction. &ldquo;It
      was assuredly an idea sent to him from on high,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;this
      good Cardinal, against whom they had so incensed me, was thinking only of
      the union of my family. Since the birth of the Dauphin I have not tasted
      greater joy than at this moment. The protection of the Holy Virgin is
      manifested over our kingdom.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment, a captain of the guards came up and whispered in the King&rsquo;s
      ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A courier from Cologne?&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;let him wait
      in my cabinet.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, unable to restrain his impatience, &ldquo;I will go! I will go!&rdquo;
      he said, and entered alone a small, square tent attached to the larger
      one. In it he saw a young courier holding a black portfolio, and the
      curtains closed upon the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal, left sole master of the court, concentrated all its homage;
      but it was observed that he no longer received it with his former presence
      of mind. He inquired frequently what time it was, and exhibited an anxiety
      which was not assumed; his hard, unquiet glances turned toward the smaller
      tent. It suddenly opened; the King appeared alone, and stopped on the
      threshold. He was paler than usual, and trembled in every limb; he held in
      his hand a large letter with five black seals.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said he, in a loud but broken voice, &ldquo;the
      Queen has just died at Cologne; and I perhaps am not the first to hear of
      it,&rdquo; he added, casting a severe look toward the impassible Cardinal,
      &ldquo;but God knows all! To horse in an hour, and attack the lines!
      Marechals, follow me.&rdquo; And he turned his back abruptly, and
      reentered his cabinet with them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The court retired after the minister, who, without giving any sign of
      sorrow or annoyance, went forth as gravely as he had entered, but now a
      victor.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      BOOK 3.
    </h2>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX. THE SIEGE
    </h2>
    <p>
      There are moments in our life when we long ardently for strong excitement
      to drown our petty griefs&mdash;times when the soul, like the lion in the
      fable, wearied with the continual attacks of the gnat, earnestly desires a
      mightier enemy and real danger. Cinq-Mars found himself in this condition
      of mind, which always results from a morbid sensibility in the organic
      constitution and a perpetual agitation of the heart. Weary of continually
      turning over in his mind a combination of the events which he desired, and
      of those which he dreaded; weary of calculating his chances to the best of
      his power; of summoning to his assistance all that his education had
      taught him concerning the lives of illustrious men, in order to compare it
      with his present situation; oppressed by his regrets, his dreams,
      predictions, fancies, and all that imaginary world in which he had lived
      during his solitary journey-he breathed freely upon finding himself thrown
      into a real world almost as full of agitation; and the realizing of two
      actual dangers restored circulation to his blood, and youth to his whole
      being.
    </p>
    <p>
      Since the nocturnal scene at the inn near Loudun, he had not been able to
      resume sufficient empire over his mind to occupy himself with anything
      save his cherished though sad reflections; and consumption was already
      threatening him, when happily he arrived at the camp of Perpignan, and
      happily also had the opportunity of accepting the proposition of the Abbe
      de Gondi&mdash;for the reader has no doubt recognized Cinq-Mars in the
      person of that young stranger in mourning, so careless and so melancholy,
      whom the duellist in the cassock invited to be his second.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had ordered his tent to be pitched as a volunteer in the street of the
      camp assigned to the young noblemen who were to be presented to the King
      and were to serve as aides-de-camp to the Generals; he soon repaired
      thither, and was quickly armed, horsed, and cuirassed, according to the
      custom of the time, and set out alone for the Spanish bastion, the place
      of rendezvous. He was the first arrival, and found that a small plot of
      turf, hidden among the works of the besieged place, had been well chosen
      by the little Abbe for his homicidal purposes; for besides the probability
      that no one would have suspected officers of engaging in a duel
      immediately beneath the town which they were attacking, the body of the
      bastion separated them from the French camp, and would conceal them like
      an immense screen. It was wise to take these precautions, for at that time
      it cost a man his head to give himself the satisfaction of risking his
      body.
    </p>
    <p>
      While waiting for his friends and his adversaries, Cinq-Mars had time to
      examine the southern side of Perpignan, before which he stood. He had
      heard that these works were not those which were to be attacked, and he
      tried in vain to account for the besieger&rsquo;s projects. Between this
      southern face of the town, the mountains of Albere, and the Col du
      Perthus, there might have been advantageous lines of attack, and redoubts
      against the accessible point; but not a single soldier was stationed
      there. All the forces seemed directed upon the north of Perpignan, upon
      the most difficult side, against a brick fort called the Castillet, which
      surmounted the gate of Notre-Dame. He discovered that a piece of ground,
      apparently marshy, but in reality very solid, led up to the very foot of
      the Spanish bastion; that this post was guarded with true Castilian
      negligence, although its sole strength lay entirely in its defenders; for
      its battlements, almost in ruin, were furnished with four pieces of cannon
      of enormous calibre, embedded in the turf, and thus rendered immovable,
      and impossible to be directed against a troop advancing rapidly to the
      foot of the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was easy to see that these enormous pieces had discouraged the
      besiegers from attacking this point, and had kept the besieged from any
      idea of addition to its means of defence. Thus, on the one side, the
      vedettes and advanced posts were at a distance, and on the other, the
      sentinels were few and ill supported. A young Spaniard, carrying a long
      gun, with its rest suspended at his side and the burning match in his
      right hand, who was walking with nonchalance upon the rampart, stopped to
      look at Cinq-Mars, who was riding about the ditches and moats.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Senor caballero,&rdquo; he cried, &ldquo;are you going to take the
      bastion by yourself on horseback, like Don Quixote&mdash;Quixada de la
      Mancha?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same time he detached from his side the iron rest, planted it in
      the ground, and supported upon it the barrel of his gun in order to take
      aim, when a grave and older Spaniard, enveloped in a dirty brown cloak,
      said to him in his own tongue:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Ambrosio de demonio&rsquo;, do you not know that it is
      forbidden to throw away powder uselessly, before sallies or attacks are
      made, merely to have the pleasure of killing a boy not worth your match?
      It was in this very place that Charles the Fifth threw the sleeping
      sentinel into the ditch and drowned him. Do your duty, or I shall follow
      his example.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Ambrosio replaced the gun upon his shoulder, the rest at his side, and
      continued his walk upon the rampart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars had been little alarmed at this menacing gesture, contenting
      himself with tightening the reins of his horse and bringing the spurs
      close to his sides, knowing that with a single leap of the nimble animal
      he should be carried behind the wall of a hut which stood near by, and
      should thus be sheltered from the Spanish fusil before the operation of
      the fork and match could be completed. He knew, too, that a tacit
      convention between the two armies prohibited marksmen from firing upon the
      sentinels; each party would have regarded it as assassination. The soldier
      who had thus prepared to attack Cinq-Mars must have been ignorant of this
      understanding. Young D&rsquo;Effiat, therefore, made no visible movement;
      and when the sentinel had resumed his walk upon the rampart, he again
      betook himself to his ride upon the turf, and presently saw five cavaliers
      directing their course toward him. The first two, who came on at full
      gallop, did not salute him, but, stopping close to him, leaped to the
      ground, and he found himself in the arms of the Counsellor de Thou, who
      embraced him tenderly, while the little Abbe de Gondi, laughing heartily,
      cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Behold another Orestes recovering his Pylades, and at the moment of
      immolating a rascal who is not of the family of the King of kings, I
      assure you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! is it you, my dear Cinq-Mars?&rdquo; cried De Thou; &ldquo;and
      I knew not of your arrival in the camp! Yes, it is indeed you; I recognize
      you, although you are very pale. Have you been ill, my dear friend? I have
      often written to you; for my boyish friendship has always remained in my
      heart.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I,&rdquo; answered Henri d&rsquo;Effiat, &ldquo;I have been
      very culpable toward you; but I will relate to you all the causes of my
      neglect. I can speak of them, but I was ashamed to write them. But how
      good you are! Your friendship has never relaxed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew you too well,&rdquo; replied De Thou; &ldquo;I knew that
      there could be no real coldness between us, and that my soul had its echo
      in yours.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words they embraced once more, their eyes moist with those
      sweet tears which so seldom flow in one&rsquo;s life, but with which it
      seems, nevertheless, the heart is always charged, so much relief do they
      give in flowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      This moment was short; and during these few words, Gondi had been pulling
      them by their cloaks, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To horse! to horse, gentlemen! Pardieu! you will have time enough
      to embrace, if you are so affectionate; but do not delay. Let our first
      thought be to have done with our good friends who will soon arrive. We are
      in a fine position, with those three villains there before us, the archers
      close by, and the Spaniards up yonder! We shall be under three fires.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He was still speaking, when De Launay, finding himself at about sixty
      paces from his opponents, with his seconds, who were chosen from his own
      friends rather than from among the partisans of the Cardinal, put his
      horse to a canter, advanced gracefully toward his young adversaries, and
      gravely saluted them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, I think that we shall do well to select our men, and to
      take the field; for there is talk of attacking the lines, and I must be at
      my post.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are ready, Monsieur,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;and as for
      selecting opponents, I shall be very glad to become yours, for I have not
      forgotten the Marechal de Bassompierre and the wood of Chaumont. You know
      my opinion concerning your insolent visit to my mother.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very young, Monsieur. In regard to Madame, your mother, I
      fulfilled the duties of a man of the world; toward the Marechal, those of
      a captain of the guard; here, those of a gentleman toward Monsieur l&rsquo;Abbe,
      who has challenged me; afterward I shall have that honor with you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I permit you,&rdquo; said the Abbe, who was already on
      horseback.
    </p>
    <p>
      They took sixty paces of ground&mdash;all that was afforded them by the
      extent of the meadow that enclosed them. The Abbe de Gondi was stationed
      between De Thou and his friend, who sat nearest the ramparts, upon which
      two Spanish officers and a score of soldiers stood, as in a balcony, to
      witness this duel of six persons&mdash;a spectacle common enough to them.
      They showed the same signs of joy as at their bullfights, and laughed with
      that savage and bitter laugh which their temperament derives from their
      admixture of Arab blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a sign from Gondi, the six horses set off at full gallop, and met,
      without coming in contact, in the middle of the arena; at that instant,
      six pistol-shots were heard almost together, and the smoke covered the
      combatants.
    </p>
    <p>
      When it dispersed, of the six cavaliers and six horses but three men and
      three animals were on their legs. Cinq-Mars was on horseback, giving his
      hand to his adversary, as calm as himself; at the other end of the field,
      De Thou stood by his opponent, whose horse he had killed, and whom he was
      helping to rise. As for Gondi and De Launay, neither was to be seen.
      Cinq-Mars, looking about for them anxiously, perceived the Abbe&rsquo;s
      horse, which, caracoling and curvetting, was dragging after him the future
      cardinal, whose foot was caught in the stirrup, and who was swearing as if
      he had never studied anything but the language of the camp. His nose and
      hands were stained and bloody with his fall and with his efforts to seize
      the grass; and he was regarding with considerable dissatisfaction his
      horse, which in spite of himself he irritated with his spurs, making its
      way to the trench, filled with water, which surrounded the bastion, when,
      happily, Cinq-Mars, passing between the edge of the swamp and the animal,
      seized its bridle and stopped its career.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear Abbe, I see that no great harm has come to you, for
      you speak with decided energy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Corbleu!&rdquo; cried Gondi, wiping the dust out of his eyes,
      &ldquo;to fire a pistol in the face of that giant I had to lean forward
      and rise in my stirrups, and thus I lost my balance; but I fancy that he
      is down, too.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, sir,&rdquo; said De Thou, coming up; &ldquo;there is
      his horse swimming in the ditch with its master, whose brains are blown
      out. We must think now of escaping.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Escaping! That, gentlemen, will be rather difficult,&rdquo; said
      the adversary of Cinq-Mars, approaching. &ldquo;Hark! there is the
      cannon-shot, the signal for the attack. I did not expect it would have
      been given so soon. If we return we shall meet the Swiss and the
      foot-soldiers, who are marching in this direction.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Fontrailles says well,&rdquo; said De Thou; &ldquo;but
      if we do not return, here are these Spaniards, who are running to arms,
      and whose balls we shall presently have whistling about our heads.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, let us hold a council,&rdquo; said Gondi; &ldquo;summon
      Monsieur de Montresor, who is uselessly occupied in searching for the body
      of poor De Launay. You have not wounded him, Monsieur De Thou?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Monsieur l&rsquo;Abbe; not every one has so good an aim as you,&rdquo;
      said Montresor, bitterly, limping from his fall. &ldquo;We shall not have
      time to continue with the sword.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to continuing, I will not consent to it, gentlemen,&rdquo; said
      Fontrailles; &ldquo;Monsieur de Cinq-Mars has behaved too nobly toward me.
      My pistol went off too soon, and his was at my very cheek&mdash;I feel the
      coldness of it now&mdash;but he had the generosity to withdraw it and fire
      in the air. I shall not forget it; and I am his in life and in death.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must think of other things now,&rdquo; interrupted Cinq-Mars;
      &ldquo;a ball has just whistled past my ear. The attack has begun on all
      sides; and we are surrounded by friends and by enemies.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, the cannonading was general; the citadel, the town, and the army
      were covered with smoke. The bastion before them as yet was unassailed,
      and its guards seemed less eager to defend it than to observe the fate of
      the other fortifications.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe that the enemy has made a sally,&rdquo; said Montresor,
      &ldquo;for the smoke has cleared from the plain, and I see masses of
      cavalry charging under the protection of the battery.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, who had not ceased to observe the
      walls, &ldquo;there is a very decided part which we could take, an
      important share in this&mdash;we might enter this ill-guarded bastion.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An excellent idea, Monsieur,&rdquo; said Fontrailles; &ldquo;but we
      are but five against at least thirty, and are in plain sight and easily
      counted.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, the idea is not bad,&rdquo; said Gondi; &ldquo;it is better
      to be shot up there than hanged down here, as we shall be if we are found,
      for De Launay must be already missed by his company, and all the court
      knows of our quarrel.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parbleu! gentlemen,&rdquo; said Montresor, &ldquo;help is coming to
      us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A numerous troop of horse, in great disorder, advanced toward them at full
      gallop; their red uniform made them visible from afar. It seemed to be
      their intention to halt on the very ground on which were our embarrassed
      duellists, for hardly had the first cavalier reached it when cries of
      &ldquo;Halt!&rdquo; were repeated and prolonged by the voices of the
      chiefs who were mingled with their cavaliers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us go to them; these are the men-at-arms of the King&rsquo;s
      guard,&rdquo; said Fontrailles. &ldquo;I recognize them by their black
      cockades. I see also many of the light-horse with them; let us mingle in
      the disorder, for I fancy they are &lsquo;ramenes&rsquo;.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This is a polite phrase signifying in military language &ldquo;put to
      rout.&rdquo; All five advanced toward the noisy and animated troops, and
      found that this conjecture was right. But instead of the consternation
      which one might expect in such a case, they found nothing but a youthful
      and rattling gayety, and heard only bursts of laughter from the two
      companies.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, pardieu! Cahuzac,&rdquo; said one, &ldquo;your horse runs
      better than mine; I suppose you have exercised it in the King&rsquo;s
      hunts!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I see, &lsquo;twas that we might be the sooner rallied that you
      arrived here first,&rdquo; answered the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think the Marquis de Coislin must be mad, to make four hundred of
      us charge eight Spanish regiments.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! Locmaria, your plume is a fine ornament; it looks like a
      weeping willow. If we follow that, it will be to our burial.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, I said to you before,&rdquo; angrily replied the young
      officer, &ldquo;that I was sure that Capuchin Joseph, who meddles in
      everything, was mistaken in telling us to charge, upon the part of the
      Cardinal. But would you have been satisfied if those who have the honor of
      commanding you had refused to charge?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no, no!&rdquo; answered all the young men, at the same time
      forming themselves quickly into ranks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I said,&rdquo; interposed the old Marquis de Coislin, who, despite
      his white head, had all the fire of youth in his eyes, &ldquo;that if you
      were commanded to mount to the assault on horseback, you would do it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo! bravo!&rdquo; cried all the men-at-arms, clapping their
      hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Monsieur le Marquis,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, approaching,
      &ldquo;here is an opportunity to execute what you have promised. I am only
      a volunteer; but an instant ago these gentlemen and I examined this
      bastion, and I believe that it is possible to take it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, we must first examine the ditch to see&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment a ball from the rampart of which they were speaking struck
      in the head the horse of the old captain, laying it low.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Locmaria, De Mouy, take the command, and to the assault!&rdquo;
      cried the two noble companies, believing their leader dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop a moment, gentlemen,&rdquo; said old Coislin, rising, &ldquo;I
      will lead you, if you please. Guide us, Monsieur volunteer, for the
      Spaniards invite us to this ball, and we must reply politely.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Hardly had the old man mounted another horse, which one of his men brought
      him, and drawn his sword, when, without awaiting his order, all these
      ardent youths, preceded by Cinq-Mars and his friends, whose horses were
      urged on by the squadrons behind, had thrown themselves into the morass,
      wherein, to their great astonishment and to that of the Spaniards, who had
      counted too much upon its depth, the horses were in the water only up to
      their hams; and in spite of a discharge of grape-shot from the two largest
      pieces, all reached pell-mell a strip of land at the foot of the
      half-ruined ramparts. In the ardor of the rush, Cinq-Mars and Fontrailles,
      with the young Locmaria, forced their horses upon the rampart itself; but
      a brisk fusillade killed the three animals, which rolled over their
      masters.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dismount all, gentlemen!&rdquo; cried old Coislin; &ldquo;forward
      with pistol and sword! Abandon your horses!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      All obeyed instantly, and threw themselves in a mass upon the breach.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, De Thou, whose coolness never quitted him any more than his
      friendship, had not lost sight of the young Henri, and had received him in
      his arms when his horse fell. He helped him to rise, restored to him his
      sword, which he had dropped, and said to him, with the greatest calmness,
      notwithstanding the balls which rained on all sides:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend, do I not appear very ridiculous amid all this skirmish,
      in my costume of Counsellor in Parliament?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parbleu!&rdquo; said Montresor, advancing, &ldquo;here&rsquo;s the
      Abbe, who quite justifies you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, in fact, little Gondi, pushing on among the light horsemen, was
      shouting, at the top of his voice: &ldquo;Three duels and an assault. I
      hope to get rid of my cassock at last!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Saying this, he cut and thrust at a tall Spaniard.
    </p>
    <p>
      The defence was not long. The Castilian soldiers were no match for the
      French officers, and not one of them had time or courage to recharge his
      carbine.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, we will relate this to our mistresses in Paris,&rdquo;
      said Locmaria, throwing his hat into the air; and Cinq-Mars, De Thou,
      Coislin, De Mouy, Londigny, officers of the red companies, and all the
      young noblemen, with swords in their right hands and pistols in their
      left, dashing, pushing, and doing each other by their eagerness as much
      harm as they did the enemy, finally rushed upon the platform of the
      bastion, as water poured from a vase, of which the opening is too small,
      leaps out in interrupted gushes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Disdaining to occupy themselves with the vanquished soldiers, who cast
      themselves at their feet, they left them to look about the fort, without
      even disarming them, and began to examine their conquest, like schoolboys
      in vacation, laughing with all their hearts, as if they were at a
      pleasure-party.
    </p>
    <p>
      A Spanish officer, enveloped in his brown cloak, watched them with a
      sombre air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What demons are these, Ambrosio?&rdquo; said he to a soldier.
      &ldquo;I never have met with any such before in France. If Louis XIII has
      an entire army thus composed, it is very good of him not to conquer all
      Europe.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I do not believe they are very numerous; they must be some poor
      adventurers, who have nothing to lose and all to gain by pillage.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; said the officer; &ldquo;I will try to
      persuade one of them to let me escape.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And slowly approaching, he accosted a young light-horseman, of about
      eighteen, who was sitting apart from his comrades upon the parapet. He had
      the pink-and-white complexion of a young girl; his delicate hand held an
      embroidered handkerchief, with which he wiped his forehead and his golden
      locks He was consulting a large, round watch set with rubies, suspended
      from his girdle by a knot of ribbons.
    </p>
    <p>
      The astonished Spaniard paused. Had he not seen this youth overthrow his
      soldiers, he would not have believed him capable of anything beyond
      singing a romance, reclined upon a couch. But, filled with the suggestion
      of Ambrosio, he thought that he might have stolen these objects of luxury
      in the pillage of the apartments of a woman; so, going abruptly up to him,
      he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hombre! I am an officer; will you restore me to liberty, that I may
      once more see my country?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The young Frenchman looked at him with the gentle expression of his age,
      and, thinking of his own family, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, I will present you to the Marquis de Coislin, who will, I
      doubt not, grant your request; is your family of Castile or of Aragon?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Coislin will ask the permission of somebody else, and will
      make me wait a year. I will give you four thousand ducats if you will let
      me escape.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      That gentle face, those girlish features, became infused with the purple
      of fury; those blue eyes shot forth lightning; and, exclaiming, &ldquo;Money
      to me! away, fool!&rdquo; the young man gave the Spaniard a ringing box on
      the ear. The latter, without hesitating, drew a long poniard from his
      breast, and, seizing the arm of the Frenchman, thought to plunge it easily
      into his heart; but, nimble and vigorous, the youth caught him by the
      right arm, and, lifting it with force above his head, sent it back with
      the weapon it held upon the head of the Spaniard, who was furious with
      rage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! eh! Softly, Olivier!&rdquo; cried his comrades, running from
      all directions; &ldquo;there are Spaniards enough on the ground already.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And they disarmed the hostile officer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What shall we do with this lunatic?&rdquo; said one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should not like to have him for my valet-dechambre,&rdquo;
      returned another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He deserves to be hanged,&rdquo; said a third; &ldquo;but, faith,
      gentlemen, we don&rsquo;t know how to hang. Let us send him to that
      battalion of Swiss which is now passing across the plain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And the calm and sombre Spaniard, enveloping himself anew in his cloak,
      began the march of his own accord, followed by Ambrosio, to join the
      battalion, pushed by the shoulders and urged on by five or six of these
      young madcaps.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, the first troop of the besiegers, astonished at their success,
      had followed it out to the end; Cinq-Mars, so advised by the aged Coislin,
      had made with him the circuit of the bastion, and found to their vexation
      that it was completely separated from the city, and that they could not
      follow up their advantage. They, therefore, returned slowly to the
      platform, talking by the way, to rejoin De Thou and the Abbe de Gondi,
      whom they found laughing with the young light-horsemen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have Religion and justice with us, gentlemen; we could not fail
      to triumph.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No doubt, for they fought as hard as we.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was silence at the approach of Cinq-Mars, and they remained for an
      instant whispering and asking his name; then all surrounded him, and took
      his hand with delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, you are right,&rdquo; said their old captain; &ldquo;he
      is, as our fathers used to say, the best doer of the day. He is a
      volunteer, who is to be presented today to the King by the Cardinal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By the Cardinal! We will present him ourselves. Ah, do not let him
      be a Cardinalist; he is too good a fellow for that!&rdquo; exclaimed all
      the young men, with vivacity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, I will undertake to disgust you with him,&rdquo; said
      Olivier d&rsquo;Entraigues, approaching Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;for I have been
      his page. Rather serve in the red companies; come, you will have good
      comrades there.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The old Marquis saved Cinq-Mars the embarrassment of replying, by ordering
      the trumpets to sound and rally his brilliant companies. The cannon was no
      longer heard, and a soldier announced that the King and the Cardinal were
      traversing the lines to examine the results of the day. He made all the
      horses pass through the breach, which was tolerably wide, and ranged the
      two companies of cavalry in battle array, upon a spot where it seemed
      impossible that any but infantry could penetrate.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X. THE RECOMPENSE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Cardinal Richelieu had said to himself, &ldquo;To soften the first
      paroxysm of the royal grief, to open a source of emotions which shall turn
      from its sorrow this wavering soul, let this city be besieged; I consent.
      Let Louis go; I will allow him to strike a few poor soldiers with the
      blows which he wishes, but dares not, to inflict upon me. Let his anger
      drown itself in this obscure blood; I agree. But this caprice of glory
      shall not derange my fixed designs; this city shall not fall yet. It shall
      not become French forever until two years have past; it shall come into my
      nets only on the day upon which I have fixed in my own mind. Thunder,
      bombs, and cannons; meditate upon your operations, skilful captains;
      hasten, young warriors. I shall silence your noise, I shall dissipate your
      projects, and make your efforts abortive; all shall end in vain smoke, for
      I shall conduct in order to mislead you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This is the substance of what passed in the bald head of the Cardinal
      before the attack of which we have witnessed a part. He was stationed on
      horseback, upon one of the mountains of Salces, north of the city; from
      this point he could see the plain of Roussillon before him, sloping to the
      Mediterranean. Perpignan, with its ramparts of brick, its bastions, its
      citadel, and its spire, formed upon this plain an oval and sombre mass on
      its broad and verdant meadows; the vast mountains surrounded it, and the
      valley, like an enormous bow curved from north to south, while, stretching
      its white line in the east, the sea looked like its silver cord. On his
      right rose that immense mountain called the Canigou, whose sides send
      forth two rivers into the plain below. The French line extended to the
      foot of this western barrier. A crowd of generals and of great lords were
      on horseback behind the minister, but at twenty paces&rsquo; distance and
      profoundly silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cardinal Richelieu had at first followed slowly the line of operations,
      but had later returned and stationed himself upon this height, whence his
      eye and his thought hovered over the destinies of besiegers and besieged.
      The whole army had its eyes upon him, and could see him from every point.
      All looked upon him as their immediate chief, and awaited his gesture
      before they acted. France had bent beneath his yoke a long time; and
      admiration of him shielded all his actions to which another would have
      been often subjected. At this moment, for instance, no one thought of
      smiling, or even of feeling surprised, that the cuirass should clothe the
      priest; and the severity of his character and aspect suppressed every
      thought of ironical comparisons or injurious conjectures. This day the
      Cardinal appeared in a costume entirely martial: he wore a reddish-brown
      coat, embroidered with gold, a water-colored cuirass, a sword at his side,
      pistols at his saddle-bow, and he had a plumed hat; but this he seldom put
      on his head, which was still covered with the red cap. Two pages were
      behind him; one carried his gauntlets, the other his casque, and the
      captain of his guards was at his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the King had recently named him generalissimo of his troops, it was to
      him that the generals sent for their orders; but he, knowing only too well
      the secret motives of his master&rsquo;s present anger, affected to refer
      to that Prince all who sought a decision from his own mouth. It happened
      as he had foreseen; for he regulated and calculated the movements of that
      heart as those of a watch, and could have told with precision through what
      sensations it had passed. Louis XIII came and placed himself at his side;
      but he came as a pupil, forced to acknowledge that his master is in the
      right. His air was haughty and dissatisfied, his language brusque and dry.
      The Cardinal remained impassible. It was remarked that the King, in
      consulting him, employed the words of command, thus reconciling his
      weakness and his power of place, his irresolution and his pride, his
      ignorance and his pretensions, while his minister dictated laws to him in
      a tone of the most profound obedience.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will have them attack immediately, Cardinal,&rdquo; said the
      Prince on coming up; &ldquo;that is to say,&rdquo; he added, with a
      careless air, &ldquo;when all your preparations are made, and you have
      fixed upon the hour with our generals.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sire, if I might venture to express my judgment, I should be glad
      did your Majesty think proper to begin the attack in a quarter of an hour,
      for that will give time enough to advance the third line.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes; you are right, Monsieur le Cardinal! I think so, too. I
      will go and give my orders myself; I wish to do everything myself.
      Schomberg, Schomberg! in a quarter of an hour I wish to hear the
      signal-gun; I command it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And Schomberg, taking the command of the right wing, gave the order, and
      the signal was made.
    </p>
    <p>
      The batteries, arranged long since by the Marechal de la Meilleraie, began
      to batter a breach, but slowly, because the artillerymen felt that they
      had been directed to attack two impregnable points; and because, with
      their experience, and above all with the common sense and quick perception
      of French soldiers, any one of them could at once have indicated the point
      against which the attack should have been directed. The King was surprised
      at the slowness of the firing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;La Meilleraie,&rdquo; said he, impatiently, &ldquo;these batteries
      do not play well; your cannoneers are asleep.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The principal artillery officers were present as well as the Marechal; but
      no one answered a syllable. They had looked toward the Cardinal, who
      remained as immovable as an equestrian statue, and they imitated his
      example. The answer must have been that the fault was not with the
      soldiers, but with him who had ordered this false disposition of the
      batteries; and this was Richelieu himself, who, pretending to believe them
      more useful in that position, had stopped the remarks of the chiefs.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King, astonished at this silence, and, fearing that he had committed
      some gross military blunder by his question, blushed slightly, and,
      approaching the group of princes who had accompanied him, said, in order
      to reassure himself:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;D&rsquo;Angouleme, Beaufort, this is very tiresome, is it not? We
      stand here like mummies.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Charles de Valois drew near and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It seems to me, Sire, that they are not employing here the machines
      of the engineer Pompee-Targon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parbleu!&rdquo; said the Duc de Beaufort, regarding Richelieu
      fixedly, &ldquo;that is because we were more eager to take Rochelle than
      Perpignan at the time that Italian came. Here we have not an engine ready,
      not a mine, not a petard beneath these walls; and the Marechal de la
      Meilleraie told me this morning that he had proposed to bring some with
      which to open the breach. It was neither the Castillet, nor the six great
      bastions which surround it, nor the half-moon, we should have attacked. If
      we go on in this way, the great stone arm of the citadel will show us its
      fist a long time yet.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal, still motionless, said not a single word; he only made a
      sign to Fabert, who left the group in attendance, and ranged his horse
      behind that of Richelieu, close to the captain of his guards.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duc de la Rochefoucauld, drawing near the King, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe, Sire, that our inactivity makes the enemy insolent, for
      look! here is a numerous sally, directing itself straight toward your
      Majesty; and the regiments of Biron and De Ponts fall back after firing.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said the King, drawing his sword, &ldquo;let us charge
      and force those villains back again. Bring on the cavalry with me, D&rsquo;Angouleme.
      Where is it, Cardinal?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Behind that hill, Sire, there are in column six regiments of
      dragoons, and the carabineers of La Roque; below you are my men-at-arms
      and my light horse, whom I pray your Majesty to employ, for those of your
      Majesty&rsquo;s guard are ill guided by the Marquis de Coislin, who is
      ever too zealous. Joseph, go tell him to return.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He whispered to the Capuchin, who had accompanied him, huddled up in
      military attire, which he wore awkwardly, and who immediately advanced
      into the plain.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the mean time, the compact columns of the old Spanish infantry issued
      from the gate of Notre-Dame like a dark and moving forest, while from
      another gate proceeded the heavy cavalry, which drew up on the plain. The
      French army, in battle array at the foot of the hill where the King stood,
      behind fortifications of earth, behind redoubts and fascines of turf,
      perceived with alarm the men-at-arms and the light horse pressed between
      these two forces, ten times their superior in numbers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sound the charge!&rdquo; cried Louis XIII; &ldquo;or my old Coislin
      is lost.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he descended the hill, with all his suite as ardent as himself; but
      before he reached the plain and was at the head of his musketeers, the two
      companies had taken their course, dashing off with the rapidity of
      lightning, and to the cry of &ldquo;Vive le Roi!&rdquo; They fell upon the
      long column of the enemy&rsquo;s cavalry like two vultures upon a serpent;
      and, making a large and bloody gap, they passed beyond, and rallied behind
      the Spanish bastion, leaving the enemy&rsquo;s cavalry so astonished that
      they thought only of re-forming their own ranks, and not of pursuing.
    </p>
    <p>
      The French army uttered a burst of applause; the King paused in amazement.
      He looked around him, and saw a burning desire for attack in all eyes; the
      valor of his race shone in his own. He paused yet another instant in
      suspense, listening, intoxicated, to the roar of the cannon, inhaling the
      odor of the powder; he seemed to receive another life, and to become once
      more a Bourbon. All-who looked on him felt as if they were commanded by
      another man, when, raising his sword and his eyes toward the sun, he
      cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Follow me, brave friends! here I am King of France!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      His cavalry, deploying, dashed off with an ardor which devoured space,
      and, raising billows of dust from the ground, which trembled beneath them,
      they were in an instant mingled with the Spanish cavalry, and both were
      swallowed up in an immense and fluctuating cloud.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now! now!&rdquo; cried the Cardinal, in a voice of thunder, from
      his elevation, &ldquo;now remove the guns from their useless position!
      Fabert, give your orders; let them be all directed upon the infantry which
      slowly approaches to surround the King. Haste! save the King!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Immediately the Cardinal&rsquo;s suite, until then sitting erect as so
      many statues, were in motion. The generals gave their orders; the
      aides-de-camp galloped off into the plain, where, leaping over the
      ditches, barriers, and palisades, they arrived at their destination as
      soon as the thought that directed them and the glance that followed them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the few and interrupted flashes which had shone from the
      discouraged batteries became a continual and immense flame, leaving no
      room for the smoke, which rose to the sky in an infinite number of light
      and floating wreaths; the volleys of cannon, which had seemed like far and
      feeble echoes, changed into a formidable thunder whose roll was as rapid
      as that of drums beating the charge; while from three opposite points
      large red flashes from fiery mouths fell upon the dark columns which
      issued from the besieged city.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, without changing his position, but with ardent eyes and
      imperative gestures, Richelieu ceased not to multiply his orders, casting
      upon those who received them a look which implied a sentence of death if
      he was not instantly obeyed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The King has overthrown the cavalry; but the foot still resist. Our
      batteries have only killed, they have not conquered. Forward with three
      regiments of infantry instantly, Gassion, La Meilleraie, and Lesdiguieres!
      Take the enemy&rsquo;s columns in flank. Order the rest of the army to
      cease from the attack, and to remain motionless throughout the whole line.
      Bring paper! I will write myself to Schomberg.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A page alighted and advanced, holding a pencil and paper. The minister,
      supported by four men of his suite, also alighted, but with difficulty,
      uttering a cry, wrested from him by pain; but he conquered it by an
      effort, and seated himself upon the carriage of a cannon. The page
      presented his shoulder as a desk; and the Cardinal hastily penned that
      order which contemporary manuscripts have transmitted to us, and which
      might well be imitated by the diplomatists of our day, who are, it seems,
      more desirous to maintain themselves in perfect balance between two ideas
      than to seek those combinations which decide the destinies of the world,
      regarding the clear and obvious dictates of true genius as beneath their
      profound subtlety.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;M. le Marechal, do not risk anything, and reflect before you
   attack. When you are thus told that the King desires you not to
   risk anything, you are not to understand that his Majesty forbids
   you to fight at all; but his intention is that you do not engage in
   a general battle unless it be with a notable hope of gain from the
   advantage which a favorable situation may present, the
   responsibility of the battle naturally falling upon you.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      These orders given, the old minister, still seated upon the gun-carriage,
      his arms resting upon the touch-hole, and his chin upon his arms, in the
      attitude of one who adjusts and points a cannon, continued in silence to
      watch the battle, like an old wolf, which, sated with victims and torpid
      with age, contemplates in the plain the ravages of a lion among a herd of
      cattle, which he himself dares not attack. From time to time his eye
      brightens; the smell of blood rejoices him, and he laps his burning tongue
      over his toothless jaw.
    </p>
    <p>
      On that day, it was remarked by his servants&mdash;or, in other words, by
      all surrounding him&mdash;that from the time of his rising until night he
      took no nourishment, and so fixed all the application of his soul on the
      events which he had to conduct that he triumphed over his physical pains,
      seeming, by forgetting, to have destroyed them. It was this power of
      attention, this continual presence of mind, that raised him almost to
      genius. He would have attained it quite, had he not lacked native
      elevation of soul and generous sensibility of heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Everything happened upon the field of battle as he had wished, fortune
      attending him there as well as in the cabinet. Louis XIII claimed with
      eager hand the victory which his minister had procured for him; he had
      contributed himself, however, only that grandeur which consists in
      personal valor.
    </p>
    <p>
      The cannon had ceased to roar when the broken columns of infantry fell
      back into Perpignan; the remainder had met the same fate, was already
      within the walls, and on the plain no living man was to be seen, save the
      glittering squadrons of the King, who followed him, forming ranks as they
      went.
    </p>
    <p>
      He returned at a slow walk, and contemplated with satisfaction the
      battlefield swept clear of enemies; he passed haughtily under the very
      fire of the Spanish guns, which, whether from lack of skill, or by a
      secret agreement with the Prime Minister, or from very shame to kill a
      king of France, only sent after him a few balls, which, passing two feet
      above his head, fell in front of the lines, and merely served to increase
      the royal reputation for courage.
    </p>
    <p>
      At every step, however, that he took toward the spot where Richelieu
      awaited him, the King&rsquo;s countenance changed and visibly fell; he
      lost all the flush of combat; the noble sweat of triumph dried upon his
      brow. As he approached, his usual pallor returned to his face, as if
      having the right to sit alone on a royal head; his look lost its fleeting
      fire, and at last, when he joined the Cardinal, a profound melancholy
      entirely possessed him. He found the minister as he had left him, on
      horseback; the latter, still coldly respectful, bowed, and after a few
      words of compliment, placed himself near Louis to traverse the lines and
      examine the results of the day, while the princes and great lords, riding
      at some distance before and behind, formed a crowd around them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The wily minister was careful not to say a word or to make a gesture that
      could suggest the idea that he had had the slightest share in the events
      of the day; and it was remarkable that of all those who came to hand in
      their reports, there was not one who did not seem to divine his thoughts,
      and exercise care not to compromise his occult power by open obedience.
      All reports were made to the King. The Cardinal then traversed, by the
      side of the Prince, the right of the camp, which had not been under his
      view from the height where he had remained; and he saw with satisfaction
      that Schomberg, who knew him well, had acted precisely as his master had
      directed, bringing into action only a few of the light troops, and
      fighting just enough not to incur reproach for inaction, and not enough to
      obtain any distinct result. This line of conduct charmed the minister, and
      did not displease the King, whose vanity cherished the idea of having been
      the sole conqueror that day. He even wished to persuade himself, and to
      have it supposed, that all the efforts of Schomberg had been fruitless,
      saying to him that he was not angry with him, that he had himself just had
      proof that the enemy before him was less despicable than had been
      supposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To show you that you have lost nothing in our estimation,&rdquo; he
      added, &ldquo;we name you a knight of our order, and we give you public
      and private access to our person.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal affectionately pressed his hand as he passed him, and the
      Marechal, astonished at this deluge of favors, followed the Prince with
      his bent head, like a culprit, recalling, to console himself, all the
      brilliant actions of his career which had remained unnoticed, and mentally
      attributing to them these unmerited rewards to reconcile them to his
      conscience.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King was about to retrace his steps, when the Due de Beaufort, with an
      astonished air, exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Sire, have I still the powder in my eyes, or have I been
      sun-struck? It appears to me that I see upon yonder bastion several
      cavaliers in red uniforms who greatly resemble your light horse whom we
      thought to be killed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal knitted his brows.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Impossible, Monsieur,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;the imprudence of
      Monsieur de Coislin has destroyed his Majesty&rsquo;s men-at-arms and
      those cavaliers. It is for that reason I ventured just now to say to the
      King that if the useless corps were suppressed, it might be very
      advantageous from a military point of view.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardieu! your Eminence will pardon me,&rdquo; answered the Duc de
      Beaufort; &ldquo;but I do not deceive myself, and there are seven or eight
      of them driving prisoners before them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! let us go to the point,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;if I
      find my old Coislin there I shall be very glad.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With great caution, the horses of the King and his suite passed across the
      marsh, and with infinite astonishment their riders saw on the ramparts the
      two red companies in battle array as on parade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vive Dieu!&rdquo; cried Louis; &ldquo;I think that not one of them
      is missing! Well, Marquis, you keep your word&mdash;you take walls on
      horseback.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In my opinion, this point was ill chosen,&rdquo; said Richelieu,
      with disdain; &ldquo;it in no way advances the taking of Perpignan, and
      must have cost many lives.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, you are right,&rdquo; said the King, for the first time
      since the intelligence of the Queen&rsquo;s death addressing the Cardinal
      without dryness; &ldquo;I regret the blood which must have been spilled
      here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Only two of own young men have been wounded in the attack, Sire,&rdquo;
      said old Coislin; &ldquo;and we have gained new companions-in-arms, in the
      volunteers who guided us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are they?&rdquo; said the Prince.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Three of them have modestly retired, Sire; but the youngest, whom
      you see, was the first who proposed the assault, and the first to venture
      his person in making it. The two companies claim the honor of presenting
      him to your Majesty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars, who was on horseback behind the old captain, took off his hat
      and showed his pale face, his large, dark eyes, and his long, chestnut
      hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those features remind me of some one,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;what
      say you, Cardinal?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter, who had already cast a penetrating glance at the newcomer,
      replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Unless I am mistaken, this young man is&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Henri d&rsquo;Effiat,&rdquo; said the volunteer, bowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sire, it is the same whom I had announced to your Majesty, and who
      was to have been presented to you by me; the second son of the Marechal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Louis, warmly, &ldquo;I am glad to see the son of
      my old friend presented by this bastion. It is a suitable introduction, my
      boy, for one bearing your name. You will follow us to the camp, where we
      have much to say to you. But what! you here, Monsieur de Thou? Whom have
      you come to judge?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sire,&rdquo; answered Coislin, &ldquo;he has condemned to death,
      without judging, sundry Spaniards, for he was the second to enter the
      place.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I struck no one, Monsieur,&rdquo; interrupted De Thou reddening;
      &ldquo;it is not my business. Herein I have no merit; I merely accompanied
      my friend, Monsieur de Cinq-Mars.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We approve your modesty as well as your bravery, and we shall not
      forget this. Cardinal, is there not some presidency vacant?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Richelieu did not like De Thou. And as the sources of his dislike were
      always mysterious, it was difficult to guess the cause of this animosity;
      it revealed itself in a cruel word that escaped him. The motive was a
      passage in the history of the President De Thou&mdash;the father of the
      young man now in question&mdash;wherein he stigmatized, in the eyes of
      posterity, a granduncle of the Cardinal, an apostate monk, sullied with
      every human vice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richelieu, bending to Joseph&rsquo;s ear, whispered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see that man; his father put my name into his history. Well, I
      will put his into mine.&rdquo; And, truly enough, he subsequently wrote it
      in blood. At this moment, to avoid answering the King, he feigned not to
      have heard his question, and to be wholly intent upon the merit of
      Cinq-Mars and the desire to see him well placed at court.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I promised you beforehand to make him a captain in my guards,&rdquo;
      said the Prince; &ldquo;let him be nominated to-morrow. I would know more
      of him, and raise him to a higher fortune, if he pleases me. Let us now
      retire; the sun has set, and we are far from our army. Tell my two good
      companies to follow us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister, after repeating the order, omitting the implied praise,
      placed himself on the King&rsquo;s right hand, and the whole court quitted
      the bastion, now confided to the care of the Swiss, and returned to the
      camp.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two red companies defiled slowly through the breach which they had
      effected with such promptitude; their countenances were grave and silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars went up to his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are heroes but ill recompensed,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;not a
      favor, not a compliment.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, on the other hand,&rdquo; said the simple De Thou &ldquo;I, who
      came here against my will&mdash;receive one. Such are courts, such is
      life; but above us is the true judge, whom men can not blind.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This will not prevent us from meeting death tomorrow, if necessary,&rdquo;
      said the young Olivier, laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI. THE BLUNDERS
    </h2>
    <p>
      In order to appear before the King, Cinq-Mars had been compelled to mount
      the charger of one of the light horse, wounded in the affair, having lost
      his own at the foot of the rampart. As the two companies were marching
      out, he felt some one touch his shoulder, and, turning round, saw old
      Grandchamp leading a very beautiful gray horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will Monsieur le Marquis mount a horse of his own?&rdquo; said he.
      &ldquo;I have put on the saddle and housings of velvet embroidered in gold
      that remained in the trench. Alas, when I think that a Spaniard might have
      taken it, or even a Frenchman! For just now there are so many people who
      take all they find, as if it were their own; and then, as the proverb
      says, &lsquo;What falls in the ditch is for the soldier.&rsquo; They might
      also have taken the four hundred gold crowns that Monsieur le Marquis, be
      it said without reproach, forgot to take out of the holsters. And the
      pistols! Oh, what pistols! I bought them in Germany; and here they are as
      good as ever, and with their locks perfect. It was quite enough to kill
      the poor little black horse, that was born in England as sure as I was at
      Tours in Touraine, without also exposing these valuables to pass into the
      hands of the enemy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While making this lamentation, the worthy man finished saddling the gray
      horse. The column was long enough filing out to give him time to pay
      scrupulous attention to the length of the stirrups and of the bands, all
      the while continuing his harangue.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I beg your pardon, Monsieur, for being somewhat slow about this;
      but I sprained my arm slightly in lifting Monsieur de Thou, who himself
      raised Monsieur le Marquis during the grand scuffle.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How camest thou there at all, stupid?&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars.
      &ldquo;That is not thy business. I told thee to remain in the camp.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, as to remaining in the camp, that is out of the question. I can&rsquo;t
      stay there; when I hear a musket-shot, I should be ill did I not see the
      flash. As for my business, that is to take care of your horses, and you
      are on them. Monsieur, think you I should not have saved, had I been able,
      the life of the poor black horse down there in the trench? Ah, how I loved
      him!&mdash;a horse that gained three races in his time&mdash;a time too
      short for those who loved him as I loved him! He never would take his corn
      but from his dear Grandchamp; and then he would caress me with his head.
      The end of my left ear that he carried away one day&mdash;poor fellow!&mdash;proves
      it, for it was not out of ill-will he bit it off; quite the contrary. You
      should have heard how he neighed with rage when any one else came near
      him; that was the reason why he broke Jean&rsquo;s leg. Good creature, I
      loved him so!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When he fell I held him on one side with one hand and M. de
      Locmaria with the other. I thought at first that both he and that
      gentleman would recover; but unhappily only one of them returned to life,
      and that was he whom I least knew. You seem to be laughing at what I say
      about your horse, Monsieur; you forget that in times of war the horse is
      the soul of the cavalier. Yes, Monsieur, his soul; for what is it that
      intimidates the infantry? It is the horse! It certainly is not the man,
      who, once seated, is little more than a bundle of hay. Who is it that
      performs the fine deeds that men admire? The horse. There are times when
      his master, who a moment before would rather have been far away, finds
      himself victorious and rewarded for his horse&rsquo;s valor, while the
      poor beast gets nothing but blows. Who is it gains the prize in the race?
      The horse, that sups hardly better than usual, while the master pockets
      the gold, and is envied by his friends and admired by all the lords as if
      he had run himself. Who is it that hunts the roebuck, yet puts but a
      morsel in his own mouth? Again, the horse; sometimes the horse is even
      eaten himself, poor animal! I remember in a campaign with Monsieur le
      Marechal, it happened that&mdash;But what is the matter, Monsieur, you
      grow pale?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bind up my leg with something&mdash;a handkerchief, a strap, or
      what you will. I feel a burning pain there; I know not what.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your boot is cut, Monsieur. It may be some ball; however, lead is
      the friend of man.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is no friend of mine, at all events.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, who loves, chastens! Lead must not be ill spoken of! What is
      that&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While occupied in binding his master&rsquo;s leg below the knee, the
      worthy Grandchamp was about to hold forth in praise of lead as absurdly as
      he had in praise of the horse, when he was forced, as well as Cinq-Mars,
      to hear a warm and clamorous dispute among some Swiss soldiers who had
      remained behind the other troops. They were talking with much
      gesticulation, and seemed busied with two men among a group of about
      thirty soldiers.
    </p>
    <p>
      D&rsquo;Effiat, still holding out his leg to his servant, and leaning on
      the saddle of his horse, tried, by listening attentively, to understand
      the subject of the colloquy; but he knew nothing of German, and could not
      comprehend the dispute. Grandchamp, who, still holding the boot, had also
      been listening very seriously, suddenly burst into loud laughter, holding
      his sides in a manner not usual with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, ha, ha! Monsieur, here are two sergeants disputing which they
      ought to hang of the two Spaniards there; for your red comrades did not
      take the trouble to tell them. One of the Swiss says that it&rsquo;s the
      officer, the other that it&rsquo;s the soldier; a third has just made a
      proposition for meeting the difficulty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what does he say?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He suggests that they hang them both.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop! stop!&rdquo; cried Cinq-Mars to the soldiers, attempting to
      walk; but his leg would not support him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put me on my horse, Grandchamp.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, you forget your wound.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do as I command, and then mount thyself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The old servant grumblingly obeyed, and then galloped off, in fulfilment
      of another imperative order, to stop the Swiss, who were just about to
      hang their two prisoners to a tree, or to let them hang themselves; for
      the officer, with the sang-froid of his nation, had himself passed the
      running noose of a rope around his own neck, and, without being told, had
      ascended a small ladder placed against the tree, in order to tie the other
      end of the rope to one of its branches. The soldier, with the same calm
      indifference, was looking on at the Swiss disputing around him, while
      holding the ladder.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars arrived in time to save them, gave his name to the Swiss
      sergeant, and, employing Grandchamp as interpreter, said that the two
      prisoners were his, and that he would take them to his tent; that he was a
      captain in the guards, and would be responsible for them. The German, ever
      exact in discipline, made no reply; the only resistance was on the part of
      the prisoner. The officer, still on the top of the ladder, turned round,
      and speaking thence as from a pulpit, said, with a sardonic laugh:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should much like to know what you do here? Who told you I wished
      to live?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not ask to know anything about that,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars;
      &ldquo;it matters not to me what becomes of you afterward. All I propose
      now is to prevent an act which seems to me unjust and cruel. You may kill
      yourself afterward, if you like.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well said,&rdquo; returned the ferocious Spaniard; &ldquo;you
      please me. I thought at first you meant to affect the generous in order to
      oblige me to be grateful, which is a thing I detest. Well, I consent to
      come down; but I shall hate you as much as ever, for you are a Frenchman.
      Nor do I thank you, for you only discharge a debt you owe me, since it was
      I who this morning kept you from being shot by this young soldier while he
      was taking aim at you; and he is a man who never missed a chamois in the
      mountains of Leon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be it as you will,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;come down.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was his character ever to assume with others the mien they wore toward
      him; and the rudeness of the Spaniard made him as hard as iron toward him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A proud rascal that, Monsieur,&rdquo; said Grandchamp; &ldquo;in
      your place Monsieur le Marechal would certainly have left him on his
      ladder. Come, Louis, Etienne, Germain, escort Monsieur&rsquo;s prisoners&mdash;a
      fine acquisition, truly! If they bring you any luck, I shall be very much
      surprised.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars, suffering from the motion of his horse, rode only at the pace
      of his prisoners on foot, and was accordingly at a distance behind the red
      companies, who followed close upon the King. He meditated on his way what
      it could be that the Prince desired to say to him. A ray of hope presented
      to his mind the figure of Marie de Mantua in the distance; and for a
      moment his thoughts were calmed. But all his future lay in that brief
      sentence&mdash;&ldquo;to please the King&rdquo;; and he began to reflect
      upon all the bitterness in which his task might involve him.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment he saw approaching his friend, De Thou, who, anxious at his
      remaining behind, had sought him in the plain, eager to aid him if
      necessary.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is late, my friend; night approaches. You have delayed long; I
      feared for you. Whom have you here? What has detained you? The King will
      soon be asking for you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Such were the rapid inquiries of the young counsellor, whose anxiety, more
      than the battle itself, had made him lose his accustomed serenity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was slightly wounded; I bring a prisoner, and I was thinking of
      the King. What can he want me for, my friend? What must I do if he
      proposes to place me about his person? I must please him; and at this
      thought&mdash;shall I own it?&mdash;I am tempted to fly. But I trust that
      I shall not have that fatal honor. &lsquo;To please,&rsquo; how
      humiliating the word! &lsquo;to obey&rsquo; quite the opposite! A soldier
      runs the chance of death, and there&rsquo;s an end. But in what base
      compliances, what sacrifices of himself, what compositions with his
      conscience, what degradation of his own thought, may not a courtier be
      involved! Ah, De Thou, my dear De Thou! I am not made for the court; I
      feel it, though I have seen it but for a moment. There is in my
      temperament a certain savageness, which education has polished only on the
      surface. At a distance, I thought myself adapted to live in this
      all-powerful world; I even desired it, led by a cherished hope of my
      heart. But I shuddered at the first step; I shuddered at the mere sight of
      the Cardinal. The recollection of the last of his crimes, at which I was
      present, kept me from addressing him. He horrifies me; I never can endure
      to be near him. The King&rsquo;s favor, too, has that about it which
      dismays me, as if I knew it would be fatal to me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad to perceive this apprehension in you; it may be most
      salutary,&rdquo; said De Thou, as they rode on. &ldquo;You are about to
      enter into contact with power. Before, you did not even conceive it; now
      you will touch it with your very hand. You will see what it is, and what
      hand hurls the lightning. Heaven grant that that lightning may never
      strike you! You will probably be present in those councils which regulate
      the destiny of nations; you will see, you will perchance originate, those
      caprices whence are born sanguinary wars, conquests, and treaties; you
      will hold in your hand the drop of water which swells into mighty
      torrents. It is only from high places that men can judge of human affairs;
      you must look from the mountaintop ere you can appreciate the littleness
      of those things which from below appear to us great.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, were I on those heights, I should at least learn the lesson you
      speak of; but this Cardinal, this man to whom I must be under obligation,
      this man whom I know too well by his works&mdash;what will he be to me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A friend, a protector, no doubt,&rdquo; answered De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Death were a thousand times preferable to his friendship! I hate
      his whole being, even his very name; he spills the blood of men with the
      cross of the Redeemer!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What horrors are you saying, my friend? You will ruin yourself if
      you reveal your sentiments respecting the Cardinal to the King.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind; in the midst of these tortuous ways, I desire to take a
      new one, the right line. My whole opinion, the opinion of a just man,
      shall be unveiled to the King himself, if he interrogate me, even should
      it cost me my head. I have at last seen this King, who has been described
      to me as so weak; I have seen him, and his aspect has touched me to the
      heart in spite of myself. Certainly, he is very unfortunate, but he can
      not be cruel; he will listen to the truth.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; but he will not dare to make it triumph,&rdquo; answered the
      sage De Thou. &ldquo;Beware of this warmth of heart, which often draws you
      by sudden and dangerous movements. Do not attack a colossus like Richelieu
      without having measured him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is just like my tutor, the Abbe Quillet. My dear and prudent
      friend, neither the one nor the other of you know me; you do not know how
      weary I am of myself, and whither I have cast my gaze. I must mount or
      die.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! already ambitious?&rdquo; exclaimed De Thou, with extreme
      surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      His friend inclined his head upon his hands, abandoning the reins of his
      horse, and did not answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! has this selfish passion of a riper age obtained possession
      of you at twenty, Henri? Ambition is the saddest of all hopes.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet it possesses me entirely at present, for I see only by
      means of it, and by it my whole heart is penetrated.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Cinq-Mars, I no longer recognize you! how different you were
      formerly! I do not conceal from you that you appear to me to have
      degenerated. In those walks of our childhood, when the life, and, above
      all, the death of Socrates, caused tears of admiration and envy to flow
      from our eyes; when, raising ourselves to the ideal of the highest virtue,
      we wished that those illustrious sorrows, those sublime misfortunes, which
      create great men, might in the future come upon us; when we constructed
      for ourselves imaginary occasions of sacrifices and devotion&mdash;if the
      voice of a man had pronounced, between us two, the single world, &lsquo;ambition,&rsquo;
      we should have believed that we were touching a serpent.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou spoke with the heat of enthusiasm and of reproach. Cinq-Mars went
      on without answering, and still with his face in his hands. After an
      instant of silence he removed them, and allowed his eyes to be seen, full
      of generous tears. He pressed the hand of his friend warmly, and said to
      him, with a penetrating accent:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur de Thou, you have recalled to me the most beautiful
      thoughts of my earliest youth. Do not believe that I have fallen; I am
      consumed by a secret hope which I can not confide even to you. I despise,
      as much as you, the ambition which will seem to possess me. All the world
      will believe in it; but what do I care for the world? As for you, noble
      friend, promise me that you will not cease to esteem me, whatever you may
      see me do. I swear that my thoughts are as pure as heaven itself!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said De Thou, &ldquo;I swear by heaven that I believe
      you blindly; you give me back my life!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They shook hands again with effusion of heart, and then perceived that
      they had arrived almost before the tent of the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      Day was nearly over; but one might have believed that a softer day was
      rising, for the moon issued from the sea in all her splendor. The
      transparent sky of the south showed not a single cloud, and it seemed like
      a veil of pale blue sown with silver spangles; the air, still hot, was
      agitated only by the rare passage of breezes from the Mediterranean; and
      all sounds had ceased upon the earth. The fatigued army reposed beneath
      their tents, the line of which was marked by the fires, and the besieged
      city seemed oppressed by the same slumber; upon its ramparts nothing was
      to be seen but the arms of the sentinels, which shone in the rays of the
      moon, or the wandering fire of the night-rounds. Nothing was to be heard
      but the gloomy and prolonged cries of its guards, who warned one another
      not to sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only around the King that all things waked, but at a great distance
      from him. This Prince had dismissed all his suite; he walked alone before
      his tent, and, pausing sometimes to contemplate the beauty of the heavens,
      he appeared plunged in melancholy meditation. No one dared to interrupt
      him; and those of the nobility who had remained in the royal quarters had
      gathered about the Cardinal, who, at twenty paces from the King, was
      seated upon a little hillock of turf, fashioned into a seat by the
      soldiers. There he wiped his pale forehead, fatigued with the cares of the
      day and with the unaccustomed weight of a suit of armor; he bade adieu, in
      a few hurried but always attentive and polite words, to those who came to
      salute him as they retired. No one was near him now except Joseph, who was
      talking with Laubardemont. The Cardinal was looking at the King, to see
      whether, before reentering, this Prince would not speak to him, when the
      sound of the horses of Cinq-Mars was heard. The Cardinal&rsquo;s guards
      questioned him, and allowed him to advance without followers, and only
      with De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are come too late, young man, to speak with the King,&rdquo;
      said the Cardinal-Duke with a sharp voice. &ldquo;One can not make his
      Majesty wait.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The two friends were about to retire, when the voice of Louis XIII himself
      made itself heard. This Prince was at that moment in one of those false
      positions which constituted the misfortune of his whole life. Profoundly
      irritated against his minister, but not concealing from himself that he
      owed the success of the day to him, desiring, moreover, to announce to him
      his intention to quit the army and to raise the siege of Perpignan, he was
      torn between the desire of speaking to the Cardinal and the fear lest his
      anger might be weakened. The minister, upon his part, dared not be the
      first to speak, being uncertain as to the thoughts which occupied his
      master, and fearing to choose his time ill, but yet not able to decide
      upon retiring. Both found themselves precisely in the position of two
      lovers who have quarrelled and desire to have an explanation, when the
      King, seized with joy the first opportunity of extricating himself. The
      chance was fatal to the minister. See upon what trifles depend those
      destinies which are called great.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it not Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?&rdquo; said the King, in a loud
      voice. &ldquo;Let him approach; I am waiting for him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Young D&rsquo;Effiat approached on horseback, and at some paces from the
      King desired to set foot to earth; but hardly had his leg touched the
      ground when he dropped upon his knees.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon, Sire!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I believe that I am wounded;&rdquo;
      and the blood issued violently from his boot.
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou had seen him fall, and had approached to sustain him. Richelieu
      seized this opportunity of advancing also, with dissembled eagerness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remove this spectacle from the eyes of the King,&rdquo; said he.
      &ldquo;You see very well that this young man is dying.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; said Louis, himself supporting him; &ldquo;a
      king of France knows how to see a man die, and has no fear of the blood
      which flows for him. This young man interests me. Let him be carried into
      my tent, and let my doctors attend him. If his wound is not serious, he
      shall come with me to Paris, for the siege is suspended, Monsieur le
      Cardinal. Such is my desire; other affairs call me to the centre of the
      kingdom. I will leave you here to command in my absence. This is what I
      desired to say to you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words the King went abruptly into his tent, preceded by his
      pages and his officers, carrying flambeaux.
    </p>
    <p>
      The royal pavilion was closed, and Cinq-Mars was borne in by De Thou and
      his people, while the Duc de Richelieu, motionless and stupefied, still
      regarded the spot where this scene had passed. He appeared thunder-struck,
      and incapable of seeing or hearing those who observed him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laubardemont, still intimidated by his ill reception of the preceding day,
      dared not speak a word to him, and Joseph hardly recognized in him his
      former master. For an instant he regretted having given himself to him,
      and fancied that his star was waning; but, reflecting that he was hated by
      all men and had no resource save in Richelieu, he seized him by the arm,
      and, shaking him roughly, said to him in a low voice, but harshly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, Monseigneur, you are chickenhearted; come with us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, appearing to sustain him by the elbow, but in fact drawing him in
      spite of himself, with the aid of Laubardemont, he made him enter his
      tent, as a schoolmaster forces a schoolboy to rest, fearing the effects of
      the evening mist upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The prematurely aged man slowly obeyed the wishes of his two parasites,
      and the purple of the pavilion dropped upon him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII. THE NIGHT-WATCH
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
        The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight,
        Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
        What do I fear? Myself?
        I love myself!
             SHAKESPEARE.
</pre>
    <p>
      Hardly was the Cardinal in his tent before he dropped, armed and
      cuirassed, into a great armchair; and there, holding his handkerchief to
      his mouth with a fixed gaze, he remained in this attitude, letting his two
      dark confidants wonder whether contemplation or annihilation maintained
      him in it. He was deadly pale, and a cold sweat streamed upon his brow. In
      wiping it with a sudden movement, he threw behind him his red cap, the
      only ecclesiastical sign which remained upon him, and again rested with
      his mouth upon his hands. The Capuchin on one side, and the sombre
      magistrate on the other, considered him in silence, and seemed, with their
      brown and black costumes like the priest and the notary of a dying man.
    </p>
    <p>
      The friar, drawing from the depth of his chest a voice that seemed better
      suited to repeat the service of the dead than to administer consolation,
      spoke first:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If Monseigneur will recall my counsels given at Narbonne, he will
      confess that I had a just presentiment of the troubles which this young
      man would one day cause him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The magistrate continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have learned from the old deaf abbe who dined at the house of the
      Marechale d&rsquo;Effiat, and who heard all, that this young Cinq-Mars
      exhibited more energy than one would have imagined, and that he attempted
      to rescue the Marechal de Bassompierre. I have still by me the detailed
      report of the deaf man, who played his part very well. His Eminence the
      Cardinal must be sufficiently convinced by it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have told Monseigneur,&rdquo; resumed Joseph&mdash;for these two
      ferocious Seyds alternated their discourse like the shepherds of Virgil&mdash;&ldquo;I
      have told him that it would be well to get rid of this young D&rsquo;Effiat,
      and that I would charge myself with the business, if such were his good
      pleasure. It would be easy to destroy him in the opinion of the King.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be safer to make him die of his wound,&rdquo; answered
      Laubardemont; &ldquo;if his Eminence would have the goodness to command
      me, I know intimately the assistant-physician, who cured me of a blow on
      the forehead, and is now attending to him. He is a prudent man, entirely
      devoted to Monseigneur the Cardinal-Duke, and whose affairs have been
      somewhat embarrassed by gambling.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe,&rdquo; replied Joseph, with an air of modesty, mingled
      with a touch of bitterness, &ldquo;that if his Excellency proposed to
      employ any one in this useful project, it should be his accustomed
      negotiator, who has had some success in the past.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fancy that I could enumerate some signal instances,&rdquo;
      answered Laubardemont, &ldquo;and very recent ones, of which the
      difficulty was great.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, no doubt,&rdquo; said the father, with a bow and an air of
      consideration and politeness, &ldquo;your most bold and skilfully executed
      commission was the trial of Urbain Grandier, the magician. But, with
      Heaven&rsquo;s assistance, one may be enabled to do things quite as worthy
      and bold. It is not without merit, for instance,&rdquo; added he, dropping
      his eyes like a young girl, &ldquo;to have extirpated vigorously a royal
      Bourbon branch.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not very difficult,&rdquo; answered the magistrate, with
      bitterness, &ldquo;to select a soldier from the guards to kill the Comte
      de Soissons; but to preside, to judge&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And to execute one&rsquo;s self,&rdquo; interrupted the heated
      Capuchin, &ldquo;is certainly less difficult than to educate a man from
      infancy in the thought of accomplishing great things with discretion, and
      to bear all tortures, if necessary, for the love of heaven, rather than
      reveal the name of those who have armed him with their justice, or to die
      courageously upon the body of him that he has struck, as did one who was
      commissioned by me. He uttered no cry at the blow of the sword of
      Riquemont, the equerry of the Prince. He died like a saint; he was my
      pupil.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To give orders is somewhat different from running risk one&rsquo;s
      self.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And did I risk nothing at the siege of Rochelle?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of being drowned in a sewer, no doubt,&rdquo; said Laubardemont.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you,&rdquo; said Joseph, &ldquo;has your danger been that of
      catching your fingers in instruments of torture? And all this because the
      Abbess of the Ursulines is your niece.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a good thing for your brothers of Saint Francis, who held
      the hammers; but I&mdash;I was struck in the forehead by this same
      Cinq-Mars, who was leading an enraged multitude.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you quite sure of that?&rdquo; cried Joseph, delighted. &ldquo;Did
      he dare to act thus against the commands of the King?&rdquo; The joy which
      this discovery gave him made him forget his anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fools!&rdquo; exclaimed the Cardinal, suddenly breaking his long
      silence, and taking from his lips his handkerchief stained with blood.
      &ldquo;I would punish your angry dispute had it not taught me many secrets
      of infamy on your part. You have exceeded my orders; I commanded no
      torture, Laubardemont. That is your second fault. You cause me to be hated
      for nothing; that was useless. But you, Joseph, do not neglect the details
      of this disturbance in which Cinq-Mars was engaged; it may be of use in
      the end.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have all the names and descriptions,&rdquo; said the secret
      judge, eagerly, bending his tall form and thin, olive-colored visage,
      wrinkled with a servile smile, down to the armchair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is well! it is well!&rdquo; said the minister, pushing him back;
      &ldquo;but that is not the question yet. You, Joseph, be in Paris before
      this young upstart, who will become a favorite, I am certain. Become his
      friend; make him of my party or destroy him. Let him serve me or fall.
      But, above all, send me every day safe persons to give me verbal accounts.
      I will have no more writing for the future. I am much displeased with you,
      Joseph. What a miserable courier you chose to send from Cologne! He could
      not understand me. He saw the King too soon, and here we are still in
      disgrace in consequence. You have just missed ruining me entirely. Go and
      observe what is about to be done in Paris. A conspiracy will soon be
      hatched against me; but it will be the last. I remain here in order to let
      them all act more freely. Go, both of you, and send me my valet after the
      lapse of two hours; I wish now to be alone.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The steps of the two men were still to be heard as Richelieu, with eyes
      fixed upon the entrance to the tent, pursued them with his irritated
      glance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wretches!&rdquo; he exclaimed, when he was alone, &ldquo;go and
      accomplish some more secret work, and afterward I will crush you, in pure
      instruments of my power. The King will soon succumb beneath the slow
      malady which consumes him. I shall then be regent; I shall be King of
      France myself; I shall no longer have to dread the caprices of his
      weakness. I will destroy the haughty races of this country. I will be
      alone above them all. Europe shall tremble.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the blood, which again filled his mouth, obliged him to apply his
      handkerchief to it once more.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, what do I say? Unhappy victim that I am! Here am I,
      death-stricken! My dissolution is near; my blood flows, and my spirit
      desires to labor still. Why? For whom? Is it for glory? That is an empty
      word. Is it for men? I despise them. For whom, then, since I shall die,
      perhaps, in two or three years? Is it for God? What a name! I have not
      walked with Him! He has seen all&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he let his head fall upon his breast, and his eyes met the great
      cross of gold which was suspended from his neck. He could not help
      throwing himself back in his chair; but it followed him. He took it; and
      considering it with fixed and devouring looks, he said in a low voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Terrible sign! thou followest me! Shall I find thee elsewhere&mdash;divinity
      and suffering? What am I? What have I done?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      For the first time a singular and unknown terror penetrated him. He
      trembled, at once frozen and scorched by an invincible shudder. He dared
      not lift his eyes, fearing to meet some terrible vision. He dared not
      call, fearing to hear the sound of his own voice. He remained profoundly
      plunged in meditations on eternity, so terrible for him, and he murmured
      the following kind of prayer:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Great God, if Thou hearest me, judge me then, but do not isolate me
      in judging me! Look upon me, surrounded by the men of my generation;
      consider the immense work I had undertaken! Was not an enormous lever
      wanted to bestir those masses; and if this lever in falling crushes some
      useless wretches, am I very culpable? I seem wicked to men; but Thou,
      Supreme judge, dost thou regard me thus?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No; Thou knowest it is boundless power which makes creature
      culpable against creature. It is not Armand de Richelieu who destroys; it
      is the Prime-Minister. It is not for his personal injuries; it is to carry
      out a system. But a system&mdash;what is this word? Is it permitted me to
      play thus with men, to regard them as numbers for working out a thought,
      which perhaps is false? I overturn the framework of the throne. What if,
      without knowing it, I sap its foundations and hasten its fall! Yes, my
      borrowed power has seduced me. O labyrinth! O weakness of human thought!
      Simple faith, why did I quit thy path? Why am I not a simple priest? If I
      dared to break with man and give myself to God, the ladder of Jacob would
      again descend in my dreams.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment his ear was struck by a great noise outside&mdash;laughter
      of soldiers, ferocious shouts and oaths, mingled with words which were a
      long time sustained by a weak yet clear voice; one would have said it was
      the voice of an angel interrupted by the laughter of demons. He rose and
      opened a sort of linen window, worked in the side of his square tent. A
      singular spectacle presented itself to his view; he remained some instants
      contemplating it, attentive to the conversation which was going on.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen, listen, La Valeur!&rdquo; said one soldier to another.
      &ldquo;See, she begins again to speak and to sing!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put her in the middle of the circle, between us and the fire.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not know her! You do not know her!&rdquo; said another.
      &ldquo;But here is Grand-Ferre, who says that he knows her.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I tell you I know her; and, by Saint Peter of Loudun, I will
      swear that I have seen her in my village, when I had leave of absence; and
      it was upon an occasion at which one shuddered, but concerning which one
      dares not talk, especially to a Cardinalist like you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! and pray why dare not one speak of it, you great simpleton?&rdquo;
      said an old soldier, twisting up his moustache.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not spoken of because it burns the tongue. Do you understand
      that?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t understand it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, nor I neither; but certain citizens told it to me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here a general laugh interrupted him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, ha, ha! is he a fool?&rdquo; said one. &ldquo;He listens to
      what the townsfolk tell him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well! if you listen to their gabble, you have time to lose,&rdquo;
      said another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not know, then, what my mother said, greenhorn?&rdquo; said
      the eldest, gravely dropping his eyes with a solemn air, to compel
      attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! how can you think that I know it, La Pipe? Your mother must
      have died of old age before my grandfather came into the world.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, greenhorn, I will tell you! You shall know, first of all,
      that my mother was a respectable Bohemian, as much attached to the
      regiment of carabineers of La Roque as my dog Canon there. She carried
      brandy round her neck in a barrel, and drank better than the best of us.
      She had fourteen husbands, all soldiers, who died upon the field of
      battle.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! that was a woman!&rdquo; interrupted the soldiers, full of
      respect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And never once in her life did she speak to a townsman, unless it
      was to say to him on coming to her lodging, &lsquo;Light my candle and
      warm my soup.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and what was it that your mother said to you?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you are in such a hurry, you shall not know, greenhorn. She said
      habitually in her talk, &lsquo;A soldier is better than a dog; but a dog
      is better than a bourgeois.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bravo! bravo! that was well said!&rdquo; cried the soldier, filled
      with enthusiasm at these fine words.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That,&rdquo; said Grand-Ferre, &ldquo;does not prove that the
      citizens who made the remark to me that it burned the tongue were in the
      right; besides, they were not altogether citizens, for they had swords,
      and they were grieved at a cure being burned, and so was I.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh! what was it to you that they burned your cure, great simpleton?&rdquo;
      said a sergeant, leaning upon the fork of his arquebus; &ldquo;after him
      another would come. You might have taken one of our generals in his stead,
      who are all cures at present; for me, I am a Royalist, and I say it
      frankly.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold your tongue!&rdquo; cried La Pipe; &ldquo;let the girl speak.
      It is these dogs of Royalists who always disturb us in our amusements.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What say you?&rdquo; answered Grand-Ferre. &ldquo;Do you even know
      what it is to be a Royalist?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said La Pipe; &ldquo;I know you all very well. Go, you
      are for the old self-called princes of the peace, together with the
      wranglers against the Cardinal and the gabelle. Am I right or not?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, old red-stocking. A Royalist is one who is for the King; that&rsquo;s
      what it is. And as my father was the King&rsquo;s valet, I am for the
      King, you see; and I have no liking for the red-stockings, I can tell you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you call me red-stocking, eh?&rdquo; answered the old soldier.
      &ldquo;You shall give me satisfaction to-morrow morning. If you had made
      war in the Valteline, you would not talk like that; and if you had seen
      his Eminence marching upon the dike at Rochelle, with the old Marquis de
      Spinola, while volleys of cannonshot were sent after him, you would have
      nothing to say about red-stockings.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, let us amuse ourselves, instead of quarrelling,&rdquo; said
      the other soldiers.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men who conversed thus were standing round a great fire, which
      illuminated them more than the moon, beautiful as it was; and in the
      centre of the group was the object of their gathering and their cries. The
      Cardinal perceived a young woman arrayed in black and covered with a long,
      white veil. Her feet were bare; a thick cord clasped her elegant figure; a
      long rosary fell from her neck almost to her feet, and her hands, delicate
      and white as ivory, turned its beads and made them pass rapidly beneath
      her fingers. The soldiers, with a barbarous joy, amused themselves with
      laying little brands in her way to burn her naked feet. The oldest took
      the smoking match of his arquebus, and, approaching it to the edge of her
      robe, said in a hoarse voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, madcap, tell me your history, or I will fill you with powder
      and blow you up like a mine; take care, for I have already played that
      trick to others besides you, in the old wars of the Huguenots. Come, sing.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The young woman, looking at him gravely, made no reply, but lowered her
      veil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t manage her well,&rdquo; said Grand-Ferre, with a
      drunken laugh; &ldquo;you will make her cry. You don&rsquo;t know the fine
      language of the court; let me speak to her.&rdquo; And, touching her on
      the chin, &ldquo;My little heart,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;if you will
      please, my sweet, to resume the little story you told just now to these
      gentlemen, I will pray you to travel with me upon the river Du Tendre, as
      the great ladies of Paris say, and to take a glass of brandy with your
      faithful chevalier, who met you formerly at Loudun, when you played a
      comedy in order to burn a poor devil.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The young woman crossed her arms, and, looking around her with an
      imperious air, cried:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Withdraw, in the name of the God of armies; withdraw, impious men!
      There is nothing in common between us. I do not understand your tongue,
      nor you mine. Go, sell your blood to the princes of the earth at so many
      oboles a day, and leave me to accomplish my mission! Conduct me to the
      Cardinal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A coarse laugh interrupted her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think,&rdquo; said a carabineer of Maurevert, &ldquo;that
      his Eminence the Generalissimo will receive you with your feet naked? Go
      and wash them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Lord has said, &lsquo;Jerusalem, lift thy robe, and pass the
      rivers of water,&rsquo;&rdquo; she answered, her arms still crossed.
      &ldquo;Let me be conducted to the Cardinal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Richelieu cried in a loud voice, &ldquo;Bring the woman to me, and let her
      alone!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      All were silent; they conducted her to the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; said she, beholding him&mdash;&ldquo;why bring me
      before an armed man?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They left her alone with him without answering.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal looked at her with a suspicious air. &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo;
      said he, &ldquo;what are you doing in the camp at this hour? And if your
      mind is not disordered, why these naked feet?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a vow; it is a vow,&rdquo; answered the young woman, with an
      air of impatience, seating herself beside him abruptly. &ldquo;I have also
      made a vow not to eat until I have found the man I seek.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My sister,&rdquo; said the Cardinal, astonished and softened,
      looking closely at her, &ldquo;God does not exact such rigors from a weak
      body, and particularly from one of your age, for you seem very young.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Young! oh, yes, I was very young a few days ago; but I have since
      passed two existences at least, so much have I thought and suffered. Look
      on my countenance.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And she discovered a face of perfect beauty. Black and very regular eyes
      gave life to it; but in their absence one might have thought her features
      were those of a phantom, she was so pale. Her lips were blue and
      quivering; and a strong shudder made her teeth chatter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are ill, my sister,&rdquo; said the minister, touched, taking
      her hand, which he felt to be burning hot. A sort of habit of inquiring
      concerning his own health, and that of others, made him touch the pulse of
      her emaciated arm; he felt that the arteries were swollen by the beatings
      of a terrible fever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas!&rdquo; he continued, with more of interest, &ldquo;you have
      killed yourself with rigors beyond human strength! I have always blamed
      them, and especially at a tender age. What, then, has induced you to do
      this? Is it to confide it to me that you are come? Speak calmly, and be
      sure of succor.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Confide in men!&rdquo; answered the young woman; &ldquo;oh, no,
      never! All have deceived me. I will confide myself to no one, not even to
      Monsieur Cinq-Mars, although he must soon die.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; said Richelieu, contracting his brows, but with a
      bitter laugh,&mdash;&ldquo;what! do you know this young man? Has he been
      the cause of your misfortune?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no! He is very good, and hates wickedness; that is what will
      ruin him. Besides,&rdquo; said she, suddenly assuming a harsh and savage
      air, &ldquo;men are weak, and there are things which women must
      accomplish. When there were no more valiant men in Israel, Deborah arose.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! how came you with all this fine learning?&rdquo; continued the
      Cardinal, still holding her hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, I can&rsquo;t explain that!&rdquo; answered she, with a
      touching air of naivete and a very gentle voice; &ldquo;you would not
      understand me. It is the Devil who has taught me all, and who has
      destroyed me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my child! it is always he who destroys us; but he instructs us
      ill,&rdquo; said Richelieu, with an air of paternal protection and an
      increasing pity. &ldquo;What have been your faults? Tell them to me; I am
      very powerful.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah,&rdquo; said she, with a look of doubt, &ldquo;you have much
      influence over warriors, brave men and generals! Beneath your cuirass must
      beat a noble heart; you are an old General who knows nothing of the tricks
      of crime.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Richelieu smiled; this mistake flattered him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I heard you ask for the Cardinal; do you desire to see him? Did you
      come here to seek him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The girl drew back and placed a finger upon her forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had forgotten it,&rdquo; said she; &ldquo;you have talked to me
      too much. I had overlooked this idea, and yet it is an important one; it
      is for that that I have condemned myself to the hunger which is killing
      me. I must accomplish it, or I shall die first. Ah,&rdquo; said she,
      putting her hand beneath her robe in her bosom, whence she appeared to
      take something, &ldquo;behold it! this idea&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She suddenly blushed, and her eyes widened extraordinarily. She continued,
      bending to the ear of the Cardinal:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you; listen! Urbain Grandier, my lover Urbain, told me
      this night that it was Richelieu who had been the cause of his death. I
      took a knife from an inn, and I come here to kill him; tell me where he
      is.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal, surprised and terrified, recoiled with horror. He dared not
      call his guards, fearing the cries of this woman and her accusations;
      nevertheless, a transport of this madness might be fatal to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This frightful history will pursue me everywhere!&rdquo; cried he,
      looking fixedly at her, and thinking within himself of the course he
      should take.
    </p>
    <p>
      They remained in silence, face to face, in the same attitude, like two
      wrestlers who contemplate before attacking each other, or like the pointer
      and his victim petrified by the power of a look.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the mean time, Laubardemont and Joseph had gone forth together; and ere
      separating they talked for a moment before the tent of the Cardinal,
      because they were eager mutually to deceive each other. Their hatred had
      acquired new force by their recent quarrel; and each had resolved to ruin
      his rival in the mind of his master. The judge then began the dialogue,
      which each of them had prepared, taking the arm of the other as by one and
      the same movement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, reverend father! how you have afflicted me by seeming to take
      in ill part the trifling pleasantries which I said to you just now.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens, no! my dear Monsieur, I am far from that. Charity, where
      would be charity? I have sometimes a holy warmth in conversation, for the
      good of the State and of Monseigneur, to whom I am entirely devoted.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, who knows it better than I, reverend father? But render me
      justice; you also know how completely I am attached to his Eminence the
      Cardinal, to whom I owe all. Alas! I have employed too much zeal in
      serving him, since he reproaches me with it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reassure yourself,&rdquo; said Joseph; &ldquo;he bears no ill-will
      toward you. I know him well; he can appreciate one&rsquo;s actions in
      favor of one&rsquo;s family. He, too, is a very good relative.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, there it is,&rdquo; answered Laubardemont; &ldquo;consider my
      condition. My niece would have been totally ruined at her convent had
      Urbain triumphed; you feel that as well as I do, particularly as she did
      not quite comprehend us, and acted the child when she was compelled to
      appear.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it possible? In full audience! What you tell me indeed makes me
      feel for you. How painful it must have been!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More so than you can imagine. She forgot, in her madness, all that
      she had been told, committed a thousand blunders in Latin, which we
      patched up as well as we could; and she even caused an unpleasant scene on
      the day of the trial, very unpleasant for me and the judges&mdash;there
      were swoons and shrieks. Ah, I swear that I would have scolded her well
      had I not been forced to quit precipitately that, little town of Loudun.
      But, you see, it is natural enough that I am attached to her. She is my
      nearest relative; for my son has turned out ill, and no one knows what has
      become of him during the last four years. Poor little Jeanne de Belfiel! I
      made her a nun, and then abbess, in order to preserve all for that scamp.
      Had I foreseen his conduct, I should have retained her for the world.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She is said to have great beauty,&rdquo; answered Joseph; &ldquo;that
      is a precious gift for a family. She might have been presented at court,
      and the King&mdash;Ah! ah! Mademoiselle de la Fayette&mdash;eh! eh!&mdash;Mademoiselle
      d&rsquo;Hautefort&mdash;you understand; it may be even possible to think
      of it yet.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that is like you, Monseigneur! for we know that you have been
      nominated to the cardinalate; how good you are to remember the most
      devoted of your friends!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Laubardemont was yet talking to Joseph when they found themselves at the
      end of the line of the camp, which led to the quarter of the volunteers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May God and his Holy Mother protect you during my absence!&rdquo;
      said Joseph, stopping. &ldquo;To-morrow I depart for Paris; and as I shall
      have frequent business with this young Cinq-Mars, I shall first go to see
      him, and learn news of his wound.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Had I been listened to,&rdquo; said Laubardemont, &ldquo;you would
      not now have had this trouble.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, you are right!&rdquo; answered Joseph, with a profound sigh,
      and raising his eyes to heaven; &ldquo;but the Cardinal is no longer the
      same man. He will not take advantage of good ideas; he will ruin us if he
      goes on thus.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, making a low bow to the judge, the Capuchin took the road which he
      had indicated to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Laubardemont followed him for some time with his eyes, and, when he was
      quite sure of the route which he had taken, he returned, or, rather, ran
      back to the tent of the minister. &ldquo;The Cardinal dismisses him, he
      tells me; that shows that he is tired of him. I know secrets which will
      ruin him. I will add that he is gone to pay court to the future favorite.
      I will replace this monk in the favor of the minister. The moment is
      propitious. It is midnight; he will be alone for an hour and a half yet.
      Let me run.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He arrived at the tent of the guards, which was before the pavilion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur gives audience to some one,&rdquo; said the captain,
      hesitating; &ldquo;you can not enter.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind; you saw me leave an hour ago, and things are passing of
      which I must give an account.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come in, Laubardemont,&rdquo; cried the minister; &ldquo;come in
      quickly, and alone.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He entered. The Cardinal, still seated, held the two hands of the nun in
      one of his, and with the other he imposed silence upon his stupefied
      agent, who remained motionless, not yet seeing the face of this woman. She
      spoke volubly, and the strange things she said contrasted horribly with
      the sweetness of her voice. Richelieu seemed moved.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I will stab him with a knife. It is the knife which the demon
      Behirith gave me at the inn; but it is the nail of Sisera. It has a handle
      of ivory, you see; and I have wept much over it. Is it not singular, my
      good General? I will turn it in the throat of him who killed my friend, as
      he himself told me to do; and afterward I will burn the body. There is
      like for like, the punishment which God permitted to Adam. You have an
      astonished air, my brave general; but you would be much more so, were I to
      repeat to you his song&mdash;the song which he sang to me again last
      night, at the hour of the funeral-pyre&mdash;you understand?&mdash;the
      hour when it rains, the hour when my hand burns as now. He said to me:
      &lsquo;They are much deceived, the magistrates, the red judges. I have
      eleven demons at my command; and I shall come to see you when the clock
      strikes, under a canopy of purple velvet, with torches&mdash;torches of
      resin to give us light&mdash;&rsquo; Ah, that is beautiful! Listen, listen
      to what he sings!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And she sang to the air of De Profundis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it not singular, my good General?&rdquo; said she, when she had
      finished; &ldquo;and I&mdash;I answer him every evening.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then he speaks as spirits and prophets speak. He says: &lsquo;Woe,
      woe to him who has shed blood! Are the judges of the earth gods? No, they
      are men who grow old and suffer, and yet they dare to say aloud, Let that
      man die! The penalty of death, the pain of death&mdash;who has given to
      man the right of imposing it on man? Is the number two? One would be an
      assassin, look you! But count well, one, two, three. Behold, they are wise
      and just, these grave and salaried criminals! O crime, the horror of
      Heaven! If you looked upon them from above as I look upon them, you would
      be yet paler than I am. Flesh destroys flesh! That which lives by blood
      sheds blood coldly and without anger, like a God with power to create!&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The cries which the unhappy girl uttered, as she rapidly spoke these
      words, terrified Richelieu and Laubardemont so much that they still
      remained motionless. The delirium and the fever continued to transport
      her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Did the judges tremble?&rsquo; said Urbain Grandier to me.
      &lsquo;Did they tremble at deceiving themselves?&rsquo; They work the work
      of the just. The question! They bind his limbs with ropes to make him
      speak. His skin cracks, tears away, and rolls up like a parchment; his
      nerves are naked, red, and glittering; his bones crack; the marrow spurts
      out. But the judges sleep! they dream of flowers and spring. &lsquo;How
      hot the grand chamber is!&rsquo; says one, awaking; &lsquo;this man has
      not chosen to speak! Is the torture finished?&rsquo; And pitiful at last,
      he dooms him to death&mdash;death, the sole fear of the living! death, the
      unknown world! He sends before him a furious soul which will wait for him.
      Oh! has he never seen the vision of vengeance? Has he never seen before
      falling asleep the flayed prevaricator?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Already weakened by fever, fatigue, and grief, the Cardinal, seized with
      horror and pity, exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, for the love of God, let this terrible scene have an end! Take
      away this woman; she is mad!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The frantic creature turned, and suddenly uttering loud cries, &ldquo;Ah,
      the judge! the judge! the judge!&rdquo; she said, recognizing
      Laubardemont.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter, clasping his hands and trembling before the Cardinal, said
      with terror:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, Monseigneur, pardon me! she is my niece, who has lost her
      reason. I was not aware of this misfortune, or she would have been shut up
      long ago. Jeanne! Jeanne! come, Madame, to your knees! ask forgiveness of
      Monseigneur the Cardinal-duc.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is Richelieu!&rdquo; she cried; and astonishment seemed wholly
      to paralyze this young and unhappy beauty. The flush which had animated
      her at first gave place to a deadly pallor, her cries to a motionless
      silence, her wandering looks to a frightful fixedness of her large eyes,
      which constantly followed the agitated minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take away this unfortunate child quickly,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;she
      is dying, and so am I. So many horrors pursue me since that sentence that
      I believe all hell is loosed upon me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He rose as he spoke; Jeanne de Belfiel, still silent and stupefied, with
      haggard eyes, open mouth, and head bent forward, yet remained beneath the
      shock of her double surprise, which seemed to have extinguished the rest
      of her reason and her strength. At the movement of the Cardinal, she
      shuddered to find herself between him and Laubardemont, looked by turns at
      one and the other, let the knife which she held fall from her hand, and
      retired slowly toward the opening of the tent, covering herself completely
      with her veil, and looking wildly and with terror behind her upon her
      uncle who followed, like an affrighted lamb, which already feels at its
      back the burning breath of the wolf about to seize it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus they both went forth; and hardly had they reached the open air, when
      the furious judge caught the hands of his victim, tied them with a
      handkerchief, and easily led her, for she uttered no cry, not even a sigh,
      but followed him with her head still drooping upon her bosom, and as if
      plunged in profound somnambulism.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII. THE SPANIARD
    </h2>
    <p>
      Meantime, a scene of different nature was passing in the tent of
      Cinq-Mars; the words of the King, the first balm to his wounds, had been
      followed by the anxious care of the surgeons of the court. A spent ball,
      easily extracted, had been the only cause of his accident. He was allowed
      to travel and all was ready. The invalid had received up to midnight
      friendly or interested visits; among the first were those of little Gondi
      and of Fontrailles, who were also preparing to quit Perpignan for Paris.
      The ex-page, Olivier d&rsquo;Entraigues, joined with them in complimenting
      the fortunate volunteer, whom the King seemed to have distinguished. The
      habitual coldness of the Prince toward all who surrounded him having
      caused those who knew of them to regard the few words he had spoken as
      assured signs of high favor, all came to congratulate him.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, released from visitors, he lay upon his camp-bed. De Thou sat
      by his side, holding his hand, and Grandchamp at his feet, still grumbling
      at the numerous interruptions that had fatigued his wounded master.
      Cinq-Mars himself tasted one of those moments of calm and hope, which so
      refresh the soul as well as the body. His free hand secretly pressed the
      gold cross that hung next to his heart, the beloved donor of which he was
      so soon to behold. Outwardly, he listened with kindly looks to the
      counsels of the young magistrate; but his inward thoughts were all turned
      toward the object of his journey&mdash;the object, also, of his life. The
      grave De Thou went on in a calm, gentle voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall soon follow you to Paris. I am happier than you at seeing
      the King take you there with him. You are right in looking upon it as the
      beginning of a friendship which must be turned to profit. I have reflected
      deeply on the secret causes of your ambition, and I think I have divined
      your heart. Yes; that feeling of love for France, which made it beat in
      your earliest youth, must have gained greater strength. You would be near
      the King in order to serve your country, in order to put in action those
      golden dreams of your early years. The thought is a vast one, and worthy
      of you! I admire you; I bow before you. To approach the monarch with the
      chivalrous devotion of our fathers, with a heart full of candor, and
      prepared for any sacrifice; to receive the confidences of his soul; to
      pour into his those of his subjects; to soften the sorrows of the King by
      telling him the confidence his people have in him; to cure the wounds of
      the people by laying them open to its master, and by the intervention of
      your favor thus to reestablish that intercourse of love between the father
      and his children which for eighteen years has been interrupted by a man
      whose heart is marble; for this noble enterprise, to expose yourself to
      all the horrors of his vengeance and, what is even worse, to brave all the
      perfidious calumnies which pursue the favorite to the very steps of the
      throne&mdash;this dream was worthy of you.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pursue it, my friend,&rdquo; De Thou continued. &ldquo;Never become
      discouraged. Speak loudly to the King of the merit and misfortunes of his
      most illustrious friends who are trampled on. Tell him fearlessly that his
      old nobility have never conspired against him; and that from the young
      Montmorency to the amiable Comte de Soissons, all have opposed the
      minister, and never the monarch. Tell him that the old families of France
      were born with his race; that in striking them he affects the whole
      nation; and that, should he destroy them, his own race will suffer, that
      it will stand alone exposed to the blast of time and events, as an old oak
      trembling and exposed to the wind of the plain, when the forest which
      surrounded and supported it has been destroyed. Yes!&rdquo; cried De Thou,
      growing animated, &ldquo;this aim is a fine and noble one. Go on in your
      course with a resolute step; expel even that secret shame, that shyness,
      which a noble soul experiences before it can resolve upon flattering&mdash;upon
      paying what the world calls its court. Alas, kings are accustomed to these
      continual expressions of false admiration for them! Look upon them as a
      new language which must be learned&mdash;a language hitherto foreign to
      your lips, but which, believe me, may be nobly spoken, and which may
      express high and generous thoughts.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      During this warm discourse of his friend, Cinq-Mars could not refrain from
      a sudden blush; and he turned his head on his pillow toward the tent, so
      that his face might not be seen. De Thou stopped:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter, Henri? You do not answer. Am I deceived?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars gave a deep sigh and remained silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is not your heart affected by these ideas which I thought would
      have transported it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The wounded man looked more calmly at his friend and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought, my dear De Thou, that you would not interrogate me
      further, and that you were willing to repose a blind confidence in me.
      What evil genius has moved you thus to sound my soul? I am not a stranger
      to these ideas which possess you. Who told you that I had not conceived
      them? Who told you that I had not formed the firm resolution of
      prosecuting them infinitely farther in action than you have put them in
      words? Love for France, virtuous hatred of the ambition which oppresses
      and shatters her ancient institutions with the axe of the executioner, the
      firm belief that virtue may be as skilful as crime,&mdash;these are my
      gods as much as yours. But when you see a man kneeling in a church, do you
      ask him what saint or what angel protects him and receives his prayer?
      What matters it to you, provided that he pray at the foot of the altars
      that you adore&mdash;provided that, if called upon, he fall a martyr at
      the foot of those &lsquo;altars? When our forefathers journeyed with naked
      feet toward the Holy Sepulchre, with pilgrims&rsquo; staves in their
      hands, did men inquire the secret vow which led them to the Holy Land?
      They struck, they died; and men, perhaps God himself, asked no more. The
      pious captain who led them never stripped their bodies to see whether the
      red cross and haircloth concealed any other mysterious symbol; and in
      heaven, doubtless, they were not judged with any greater rigor for having
      aided the strength of their resolutions upon earth by some hope permitted
      to a Christian&mdash;some second and secret thought, more human, and
      nearer the mortal heart.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou smiled and slightly blushed, lowering his eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend,&rdquo; he answered, gravely; &ldquo;this excitement may
      be injurious to you. Let us not continue this subject; let us not mingle
      God and heaven in our discourse. It is not well; and draw the coverings
      over your shoulder, for the night is cold. I promise you,&rdquo; he added,
      covering his young invalid with a maternal care&mdash;&ldquo;I promise not
      to offend you again with my counsels.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I,&rdquo; cried Cinq-Mars, despite the interdiction to speak,
      &ldquo;swear to you by this gold cross you see, and by the Holy Mary, to
      die rather than renounce the plan that you first traced out! You may one
      day, perhaps, be forced to pray me to stop; but then it will be too late.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well!&rdquo; repeated the counsellor, &ldquo;now sleep; if you
      do not stop, I will go on with you, wherever you lead me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, taking a prayer-book from his pocket, he began to read attentively;
      in a short time he looked at Cinq-Mars, who was still awake. He made a
      sign to Grandchamp to put the lamp out of sight of the invalid; but this
      new care succeeded no better. The latter, with his eyes still open, tossed
      restlessly on his narrow bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, you are not calm,&rdquo; said De Thou, smiling; &ldquo;I will
      read to you some pious passage which will put your mind in repose. Ah, my
      friend, it is here that true repose is to be found; it is in this
      consolatory book, for, open it where you will, you will always see, on the
      one hand, man in the only condition that suits his weakness&mdash;prayer,
      and the uncertainty as to his destiny&mdash;and, on the other, God himself
      speaking to him of his infirmities! What a glorious and heavenly
      spectacle! What a sublime bond between heaven and earth! Life, death, and
      eternity are there; open it at random.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes!&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, rising with a vivacity which had
      something boyish in it; &ldquo;you shall read to me, but let me open the
      book. You know the old superstition of our country&mdash;when the
      mass-book is opened with a sword, the first page on the left contains the
      destiny of him who reads, and the first person who enters after he has
      read is powerfully to influence the reader&rsquo;s future fate.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What childishness! But be it as you will. Here is your sword;
      insert the point. Let us see.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me read myself,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, taking one side of the
      book. Old Grandchamp gravely advanced his tawny face and his gray hair to
      the foot of the bed to listen. His master read, stopped at the first
      phrase, but with a smile, perhaps slightly forced, he went on to the end.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I. Now it was in the city of Milan that they appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;II. The high-priest said to them, &lsquo;Bow down and adore the
      gods.&rsquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;III. And the people were silent, looking at their faces, which
      appeared as the faces of angels.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;IV. But Gervais, taking the hand of Protais, cried, looking to
      heaven, and filled with the Holy Ghost:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;V. Oh, my brother! I see the Son of man smiling upon us; let me die
      first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;VI. For if I see thy blood, I fear I shall shed tears unworthy of
      the Lord our God.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;VII. Then Protais answered him in these words:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;VIII. My brother, it is just that I should perish after thee, for I
      am older, and have more strength to see thee suffer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;IX. But the senators and people ground their teeth at them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;X. And the soldiers having struck them, their heads fell together
      on the same stone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;XI. Now it was in this same place that the blessed Saint Ambroise
      found the ashes of the two martyrs which gave sight to the blind.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, looking at his friend when he had
      finished, &ldquo;what do you say to that?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God&rsquo;s will be done! but we should not scrutinize it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor put off our designs for a child&rsquo;s play,&rdquo; said D&rsquo;Effiat
      impatiently, and wrapping himself in a cloak which was thrown over him.
      &ldquo;Remember the lines we formerly so frequently quoted, &lsquo;Justum
      et tenacem Propositi viruna&rsquo;; these iron words are stamped upon my
      brain. Yes; let the universe crumble around me, its wreck shall carry me
      away still resolute.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us not compare the thoughts of man with those of Heaven; and
      let us be submissive,&rdquo; said De Thou, gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amen!&rdquo; said old Grandchamp, whose eyes had filled with tears,
      which he hastily brushed away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What hast thou to do with it, old soldier? Thou weepest,&rdquo;
      said his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amen!&rdquo; said a voice, in a nasal tone, at the entrance of the
      tent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Parbleu, Monsieur! rather put that question to his Gray Eminence,
      who comes to visit you,&rdquo; answered the faithful servant, pointing to
      Joseph, who advanced with his arms crossed, making a salutation with a
      frowning air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, it will be he, then!&rdquo; murmured Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps I come inopportunely,&rdquo; said Joseph, soothingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perhaps very opportunely,&rdquo; said Henri d&rsquo;Effiat,
      smiling, with a glance at De Thou. &ldquo;What can bring you here, Father,
      at one o&rsquo;clock in the morning? It should be some good work.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph saw he was ill-received; and as he had always sundry reproaches to
      make himself with reference to all persons whom he addressed, and as many
      resources in his mind for getting out of the difficulty, he fancied that
      they had discovered the object of his visit, and felt that he should not
      select a moment of ill humor for preparing the way to friendship.
      Therefore, seating himself near the bed, he said, coldly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I come, Monsieur, to speak to you on the part of the
      Cardinal-Generalissimo, of the two Spanish prisoners you have made; he
      desires to have information concerning them as soon as possible. I am to
      see and question them. But I did not suppose you were still awake; I
      merely wished to receive them from your people.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      After a forced interchange of politeness, they ordered into the tent the
      two prisoners, whom Cinq-Mars had almost forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      They appeared&mdash;the one, young and displaying an animated and rather
      wild countenance, was the soldier; the other, concealing his form under a
      brown cloak, and his gloomy features, which had something ambiguous in
      their expression, under his broad-brimmed hat, which he did not remove,
      was the officer. He spoke first:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you make me leave my straw and my sleep? Is it to deliver me
      or hang me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neither,&rdquo; said Joseph.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have I to do with thee, man with the long beard? I did not see
      thee at the breach.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It took some time after this amiable exordium to make the stranger
      understand the right a Capuchin had to interrogate him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;what dost thou want?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would know your name and your country.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not tell my name; and as for my country, I have the air of
      a Spaniard, but perhaps am not one, for a Spaniard never acknowledges his
      country.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Father Joseph, turning toward the two friends, said: &ldquo;Unless I
      deceive myself, I have heard his voice somewhere. This man speaks French
      without an accent; but it seems he wishes to give us enigmas, as in the
      East.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The East? that is it,&rdquo; said the prisoner. &ldquo;A Spaniard
      is a man from the East; he is a Catholic Turk; his blood either flags or
      boils; he is lazy or indefatigable; indolence makes him a slave, ardor a
      tyrant; immovable in his ignorance, ingenious in his superstition, he
      needs only a religious book and a tyrannical master; he obeys the law of
      the pyre; he commands by that of the poniard. At night he falls asleep in
      his bloodthirsty misery, nurses fanaticism, and awakes to crime. Who is
      this gentleman? Is it the Spaniard or the Turk? Guess! Ah! you seem to
      think that I have wit, because I light upon analogy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, gentlemen, you do me honor; and yet the idea may be carried
      much further, if desired. If I pass to the physical order, for example,
      may I not say to you, This man has long and serious features, a black and
      almond-shaped eye, rugged brows, a sad and mobile mouth, tawny, meagre,
      and wrinkled cheeks; his head is shaved, and he covers it with a black
      handkerchief in the form of a turban; he passes the whole day lying or
      standing under a burning sun, without motion, without utterance, smoking a
      pipe that intoxicates him. Is this a Turk or a Spaniard? Are you
      satisfied, gentlemen? Truly, it would seem so; you laugh, and at what do
      you laugh? I, who have presented this idea to you&mdash;I have not
      laughed; see, my countenance is sad. Ah! perhaps it is because the gloomy
      prisoner has suddenly become a gossip, and talks rapidly. That is nothing!
      I might tell you other things, and render you some service, my worthy
      friends.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I should relate anecdotes, for example; if I told you I knew a
      priest who ordered the death of some heretics before saying mass, and who,
      furious at being interrupted at the altar during the holy sacrifice, cried
      to those who asked for his orders, &lsquo;Kill them all! kill them all!&rsquo;&mdash;should
      you all laugh, gentlemen? No, not all! This gentleman here, for instance,
      would bite his lips and his beard. Oh! it is true he might answer that he
      did wisely, and that they were wrong to interrupt his unsullied prayer.
      But if I added that he concealed himself for an hour behind the curtain of
      your tent, Monsieur de Cinq-Mars, to listen while you talked, and that he
      came to betray you, and not to get me, what would he say? Now, gentlemen,
      are you satisfied? May I retire after this display?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The prisoner had uttered this with the rapidity of a quack vending his
      wares, and in so loud a voice that Joseph was quite confounded. He arose
      indignantly at last, and, addressing himself to Cinq-Mars, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can you suffer a prisoner who should have been hanged to speak
      to you thus, Monsieur?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Spaniard, without deigning to notice him any further, leaned toward D&rsquo;Effiat,
      and whispered in his ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can be of no further use to you; give me my liberty. I might ere
      this have taken it; but I would not do so without your consent. Give it
      me, or have me killed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, if you will!&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars to him. &ldquo;I assure you
      I shall be very glad;&rdquo; and he told his people to retire with the
      soldier, whom he wished to keep in his service.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was the affair of a moment. No one remained any longer in the tent
      with the two friends, except the abashed Joseph and the Spaniard. The
      latter, taking off his hat, showed a French but savage countenance. He
      laughed, and seemed to respire more air into his broad chest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I am a Frenchman,&rdquo; he said to Joseph. &ldquo;But I hate
      France, because she gave birth to my father, who is a monster, and to me,
      who have become one, and who once struck him. I hate her inhabitants,
      because they have robbed me of my whole fortune at play, and because I
      have robbed them and killed them. I have been two years in Spain in order
      to kill more Frenchmen; but now I hate Spain still more. No one will know
      the reason why. Adieu! I must live henceforth without a nation; all men
      are my enemies. Go on, Joseph, and you will soon be as good as I. Yes, you
      have seen me once before,&rdquo; he continued, violently striking him in
      the breast and throwing him down. &ldquo;I am Jacques de Laubardemont, the
      son of your worthy friend.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, quickly leaving the tent, he disappeared like an
      apparition. De Thou and the servants, who ran to the entrance, saw him,
      with two bounds, spring over a surprised and disarmed soldier, and run
      toward the mountains with the swiftness of a deer, despite various
      musket-shots. Joseph took advantage of the disorder to slip away,
      stammering a few words of politeness, and left the two friends laughing at
      his adventure and his disappointment, as two schoolboys laugh at seeing
      the spectacles of their pedagogue fall off. At last they prepared to seek
      a rest of which they both stood in need, and which they soon found-=the
      wounded man in his bed, and the young counsellor in his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for the Capuchin, he walked toward his tent, meditating how he should
      turn all this so as to take the greatest possible revenge, when he met
      Laubardemont dragging the young mad-woman by her two hands. They recounted
      to each other their mutual and horrible adventures.
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph had no small pleasure in turning the poniard in the wound of his
      friend&rsquo;s heart, by telling him of the fate of his son.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are not exactly happy in your domestic relations,&rdquo; he
      added. &ldquo;I advise you to shut up your niece and hang your son, if you
      are fortunate enough to find him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Laubardemont replied with a hideous laugh:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for this idiot here, I am going to give her to an ex-secret
      judge, at present a smuggler in the Pyrenees at Oleron. He can do what he
      pleases with her&mdash;make her a servant in his posada, for instance. I
      care not, so that my lord never hears of her.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Jeanne de Belfiel, her head hanging down, gave no sign of sensibility.
      Every glimmer of reason was extinguished in her; one word alone remained
      upon her lips, and this she continually pronounced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The judge! the judge! the judge!&rdquo; she murmured, and was
      silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her uncle and Joseph threw her, almost like a sack of corn, on one of the
      horses which were led up by two servants. Laubardemont mounted another,
      and prepared to leave the camp, wishing to get into the mountains before
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A good journey to you!&rdquo; he said to Joseph. &ldquo;Execute
      your business well in Paris. I commend to you Orestes and Pylades.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A good journey to you!&rdquo; answered the other. &ldquo;I commend
      to you Cassandra and OEdipus.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! he has neither killed his father nor married his mother.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But he is on the high-road to those little pleasantries.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adieu, my reverend Father!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adieu, my venerable friend!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then each added aloud, but in suppressed tones:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adieu, assassin of the gray robe! During thy absence I shall have
      the ear of the Cardinal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adieu, villain in the red robe! Go thyself and destroy thy cursed
      family. Finish shedding that portion of thy blood that is in others&rsquo;
      veins. That share which remains in thee, I will take charge of. Ha! a
      well-employed night!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br /><br /><br />
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    <h2>
      BOOK 4.
    </h2>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV. THE RIOT
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
       &ldquo;Thus with imagin&rsquo;d wing our swift scene flies,
        In motion of no less celerity
        Than that of thought,&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      exclaims the immortal Shakespeare in the chorus of one of his tragedies.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
       &ldquo;Suppose that you have seen
        The well-appointed king
        Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet
        With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning.
       ......
       ... behold,
        And follow.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      With this poetic movement he traverses time and space, and transports at
      will the attentive assembly to the theatre of his sublime scenes.
    </p>
    <p>
      We shall avail ourselves of the same privilege, though without the same
      genius. No more than he shall we seat ourselves upon the tripod of the
      unities, but merely casting our eyes upon Paris and the old dark palace of
      the Louvre, we will at once pass over the space of two hundred leagues and
      the period of two years.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two years! what changes may they not have upon men, upon their families,
      and, above all, in that great and so troublous family of nations, whose
      long alliances a single day suffices to destroy, whose wars are ended by a
      birth, whose peace is broken by a death! We ourselves have beheld kings
      returning to their dwelling on a spring day; that same day a vessel sailed
      for a voyage of two years. The navigator returned. The kings were seated
      upon their thrones; nothing seemed to have taken place in his absence, and
      yet God had deprived those kings of a hundred days of their reign.
    </p>
    <p>
      But nothing was changed for France in 1642, the epoch to which we turn,
      except her fears and her hopes. The future alone had changed its aspect.
      Before again beholding our personages, we must contemplate at large the
      state of the kingdom.
    </p>
    <p>
      The powerful unity of the monarchy was rendered still more imposing by the
      misfortunes of the neighboring States. The revolutions in England, and
      those in Spain and Portugal, rendered the peace which France enjoyed still
      more admired. Strafford and Olivares, overthrown or defeated, aggrandized
      the immovable Richelieu.
    </p>
    <p>
      Six formidable armies, reposing upon their triumphant weapons, served as a
      rampart to the kingdom. Those of the north, in league with Sweden, had put
      the Imperialists to flight, still pursued by the spirit of Gustavus
      Adolphus, those on the frontiers of Italy had in Piedmont received the
      keys of the towns which had been defended by Prince Thomas; and those
      which strengthened the chain of the Pyrenees held in check revolted
      Catalonia, and chafed before Perpignan, which they were not allowed to
      take. The interior was not happy, but tranquil. An invisible genius seemed
      to have maintained this calm, for the King, mortally sick, languished at
      St. Germain with a young favorite; and the Cardinal was, they said, dying
      at Narbonne. Some deaths, however, betrayed that he yet lived; and at
      intervals, men falling as if struck by a poisonous blast recalled to mind
      the invisible power.
    </p>
    <p>
      St.-Preuil, one of Richelieu&rsquo;s enemies, had just laid his &ldquo;iron
      head&rdquo; upon the scaffold without shame or fear, as he himself said on
      mounting it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, France seemed to govern herself, for the prince and the minister
      had been separated a long time; and of these two sick men, who hated each
      other, one never had held the reins of State, the other no longer showed
      his power&mdash;he was no longer named in the public acts; he appeared no
      longer in the government, and seemed effaced everywhere; he slept, like
      the spider surrounded by his webs.
    </p>
    <p>
      If some events and some revolutions had taken place during these two
      years, it must have been in hearts; it must have been some of those occult
      changes from which, in monarchies without firm foundation, terrible
      overthrows and long and bloody dissensions arise.
    </p>
    <p>
      To enlighten ourselves, let us glance at the old black building of the
      unfinished Louvre, and listen to the conversation of those who inhabited
      it and those who surrounded it.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was the month of December; a rigorous winter had afflicted Paris, where
      the misery and inquietude of the people were extreme. However, curiosity
      was still alive, and they were eager for the spectacles given by the
      court. Their poverty weighed less heavily upon them while they
      contemplated the agitations of the rich. Their tears were less bitter on
      beholding the struggles of power; and the blood of the nobles which
      reddened their streets, and seemed the only blood worthy of being shed,
      made them bless their own obscurity. Already had tumultuous scenes and
      conspicuous assassinations proved the monarch&rsquo;s weakness, the
      absence and approaching end of the minister, and, as a kind of prologue to
      the bloody comedy of the Fronde, sharpened the malice and even fired the
      passions of the Parisians. This confusion was not displeasing to them.
      Indifferent to the causes of the quarrels which were abstruse for them,
      they were not so with regard to individuals, and already began to regard
      the party chiefs with affection or hatred, not on account of the interest
      which they supposed them to take in the welfare of their class, but simply
      because as actors they pleased or displeased.
    </p>
    <p>
      One night, especially, pistol and gun-shots had been heard frequently in
      the city; the numerous patrols of the Swiss and the body-guards had even
      been attacked, and had met with some barricades in the tortuous streets of
      the Ile Notre-Dame; carts chained to the posts, and laden with barrels,
      prevented the cavaliers from advancing, and some musket-shots had wounded
      several men and horses. However, the town still slept, except the quarter
      which surrounded the Louvre, which was at this time inhabited by the Queen
      and M. le Duc d&rsquo;Orleans. There everything announced a nocturnal
      expedition of a very serious nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was two o&rsquo;clock in the morning. It was freezing, and the darkness
      was intense, when a numerous assemblage stopped upon the quay, which was
      then hardly paved, and slowly and by degrees occupied the sandy ground
      that sloped down to the Seine. This troop was composed of about two
      hundred men; they were wrapped in large cloaks, raised by the long Spanish
      swords which they wore. Walking to and fro without preserving any order,
      they seemed to wait for events rather than to seek them. Many seated
      themselves, with their arms folded, upon the loose stones of the newly
      begun parapet; they preserved perfect silence. However, after a few
      minutes passed in this manner, a man, who appeared to come out of one of
      the vaulted doors of the Louvre, approached slowly, holding a
      dark-lantern, the light from which he turned upon the features of each
      individual, and which he blew out after finding the man he sought among
      them. He spoke to him in a whisper, taking him by the hand:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Olivier, what did Monsieur le Grand say to you?
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   [The master of the horse, Cinq-Mars, was thus named by abbreviation.
   This name will often occur in the course of the recital.]
</pre>
    <p>
      Does all go well?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I saw him yesterday at Saint-Germain. The old cat is very ill
      at Narbonne; he is going &lsquo;ad patres&rsquo;. But we must manage our
      affairs shrewdly, for it is not the first time that he has played the
      torpid. Have you people enough for this evening, my dear Fontrailles?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be easy; Montresor is coming with a hundred of Monsieur&rsquo;s
      gentlemen. You will recognize him; he will be disguised as a master-mason,
      with a rule in his hand. But, above all, do not forget the passwords. Do
      you know them all well, you and your friends?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, all except the Abbe de Gondi, who has not yet arrived; but
      &lsquo;Dieu me pardonne&rsquo;, I think he is there himself! Who the devil
      would have known him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And here a little man without a cassock, dressed as a soldier of the
      French guards, and wearing a very black false moustache, slipped between
      them. He danced about with a joyous air, and rubbed his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Vive Dieu! all goes on well, my friend. Fiesco could not do better;&rdquo;
      and rising upon his toes to tap Olivier upon the shoulder, he continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know that for a man who has just quitted the rank of pages,
      you don&rsquo;t manage badly, Sire Olivier d&rsquo;Entraigues? and you
      will be among our illustrious men if we find a Plutarch. All is well
      organized; you arrive at the very moment, neither too soon nor too late,
      like a true party chief. Fontrailles, this young man will get on, I
      prophesy. But we must make haste; in two hours we shall have some of the
      archbishops of Paris, my uncle&rsquo;s parishioners. I have instructed
      them well; and they will cry, &lsquo;Long live Monsieur! Long live the
      Regency! No more of the Cardinal!&rsquo; like madmen. They are good
      devotees, thanks to me, who have stirred them up. The King is very ill.
      Oh, all goes well, very well! I come from Saint-Germain. I have seen our
      friend Cinq-Mars; he is good, very good, still firm as a rock. Ah, that is
      what I call a man! How he has played with them with his careless and
      melancholy air! He is master of the court at present. The King, they say,
      is going to make him duke and peer. It is much talked of; but he still
      hesitates. We must decide that by our movement this evening. The will of
      the people! He must do the will of the people; we will make him hear it.
      It will be the death of Richelieu, you&rsquo;ll see. It is, above all,
      hatred of him which is to predominate in the cries, for that is the
      essential thing. That will at last decide our Gaston, who is still
      uncertain, is he not?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how can he be anything else?&rdquo; said Fontrailles. &ldquo;If
      he were to take a resolution to-day in our favor it would be unfortunate.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why so?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because we should be sure that to-morrow morning he would be
      against us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind,&rdquo; replied the Abbe; &ldquo;the Queen is firm.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And she has heart also,&rdquo; said Olivier; &ldquo;that gives me
      some hope for Cinq-Mars, who, it seems to me, has sometimes dared to frown
      when he looked at her.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Child that you are, how little do you yet know of the court!
      Nothing can sustain him but the hand of the King, who loves him as a son;
      and as for the Queen, if her heart beats, it is for the past and not for
      the future. But these trifles are not to the purpose. Tell me, dear
      friend, are you sure of your young Advocate whom I see roaming about
      there? Is he all right?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Perfectly; he is an excellent Royalist. He would throw the Cardinal
      into the river in an instant. Besides, it is Fournier of Loudun; that is
      saying everything.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, this is the kind of men we like. But take care of
      yourselves, Messieurs; some one comes from the Rue Saint-Honore.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who goes there?&rdquo; cried the foremost of the troop to some men
      who were advancing. &ldquo;Royalists or Cardinalists?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gaston and Le Grand,&rdquo; replied the newcomers, in low tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is Montresor and Monsieur&rsquo;s people,&rdquo; said
      Fontrailles. &ldquo;We may soon begin.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, &lsquo;par la corbleu&rsquo;!&rdquo; said the newcomer,
      &ldquo;for the Cardinalists will pass at three o&rsquo;clock. Some one
      told us so just now.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are they going?&rdquo; said Fontrailles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are more than two hundred of them to escort Monsieur de
      Chavigny, who is going to see the old cat at Narbonne, they say. They
      thought it safer to pass by the Louvre.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we will give him a velvet paw!&rdquo; said the Abbe.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he finished saying this, a noise of carriages and horses was heard.
      Several men in cloaks rolled an enormous stone into the middle of the
      street. The foremost cavaliers passed rapidly through the crowd, pistols
      in hand, suspecting that something unusual was going on; but the
      postilion, who drove the horses of the first carriage, ran upon the stone
      and fell.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whose carriage is this which thus crushes foot-passengers?&rdquo;
      cried the cloakmen, all at once. &ldquo;It is tyrannical. It can be no
      other than a friend of the Cardinal de la Rochelle.&rdquo;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   [During the long siege of La Rochelle, this name was given to
   Cardinal Richelieu, to ridicule his obstinacy in commanding as
   General-in-Chief, and claiming for himself the merit of taking that
   town.]
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is one who fears not the friends of the little Le Grand,&rdquo;
      exclaimed a voice from the open door, from which a man threw himself upon
      a horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drive these Cardinalists into the river!&rdquo; cried a shrill,
      piercing voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a signal for the pistol-shots which were furiously exchanged on
      every side, and which lighted up this tumultuous and sombre scene. The
      clashing of swords and trampling of horses did not prevent the cries from
      being heard on one side: &ldquo;Down with the minister! Long live the
      King! Long live Monsieur and Monsieur le Grand! Down with the
      red-stockings!&rdquo; On the other: &ldquo;Long live his Eminence! Long
      live the great Cardinal! Death to the factious! Long live the King!&rdquo;
      For the name of the King presided over every hatred, as over every
      affection, at this strange time.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men on foot had succeeded, however, in placing the two carriages
      across the quay so as to make a rampart against Chavigny&rsquo;s horses,
      and from this, between the wheels, through the doors and springs,
      overwhelmed them with pistol-shots, and dismounted many. The tumult was
      frightful, but suddenly the gates of the Louvre were thrown open, and two
      squadrons of the body-guard came out at a trot. Most of them carried
      torches in their hands to light themselves and those they were about to
      attack. The scene changed. As the guards reached each of the men on foot,
      the latter was seen to stop, remove his hat, make himself known, and name
      himself; and the guards withdrew, sometimes saluting him, and sometimes
      shaking him by the hand. This succor to Chavigny&rsquo;s carriages was
      then almost useless, and only served to augment the confusion. The
      body-guards, as if to satisfy their consciences, rushed through the throng
      of duellists, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, gentlemen, be moderate!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But when two gentlemen had decidedly crossed swords, and were in active
      conflict, the guard who beheld them stopped to judge the fight, and
      sometimes even to favor the one who he thought was of his opinion, for
      this body, like all France, had their Royalists and their Cardinalists.
    </p>
    <p>
      The windows of the Louvre were lighted one after another, and many women&rsquo;s
      heads were seen behind the little lozenge-shaped panes, attentively
      watching the combat.
    </p>
    <p>
      Numerous Swiss patrols came out with flambeaux.
    </p>
    <p>
      These soldiers were easily distinguished by an odd uniform. The right
      sleeve was striped blue and red, and the silk stocking of the right leg
      was red; the left side was striped with blue, red, and white, and the
      stocking was white and red. It had, no doubt, been hoped in the royal
      chateau that this foreign troop would disperse the crowd, but they were
      mistaken. These impassible soldiers coldly and exactly executed, without
      going beyond, the orders they had received, circulating symmetrically
      among the armed groups, which they divided for a moment, returning before
      the gate with perfect precision, and resuming their ranks as on parade,
      without informing themselves whether the enemies among whom they had
      passed had rejoined or not.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the noise, for a moment appeased, became general by reason of personal
      disputes. In every direction challenges, insults, and imprecations were
      heard. It seemed as if nothing but the destruction of one of the two
      parties could put an end to the combat, when loud cries, or rather
      frightful howls, raised the tumult to its highest pitch. The Abbe de
      Gondi, dragging a cavalier by his cloak to pull him down, exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here are my people! Fontrailles, now you will see something worth
      while! Look! look already who they run! It is really charming.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he abandoned his hold, and mounted upon a stone to contemplate the
      manoeuvres of his troops, crossing his arms with the importance of a
      General of an army. Day was beginning to break, and from the end of the
      Ile St.-Louis a crowd of men, women, and children of the lowest dregs of
      the people was seen rapidly advancing, casting toward heaven and the
      Louvre strange vociferations. Girls carried long swords; children dragged
      great halberds and pikes of the time of the League; old women in rags
      pulled by cords old carts full of rusty and broken arms; workmen of every
      trade, the greater number drunk, followed, armed with clubs, forks,
      lances, shovels, torches, stakes, crooks, levers, sabres, and spits. They
      sang and howled alternately, counterfeiting with atrocious yells the cries
      of a cat, and carrying as a flag one of these animals suspended from a
      pole and wrapped in a red rag, thus representing the Cardinal, whose taste
      for cats was generally known. Public criers rushed about, red and
      breathless, throwing on the pavement and sticking up on the parapets, the
      posts, the walls of the houses, and even on the palace, long satires in
      short stanzas upon the personages of the time. Butcher-boys and scullions,
      carrying large cutlasses, beat the charge upon saucepans, and dragged in
      the mud a newly slaughtered pig, with the red cap of a chorister on its
      head. Young and vigorous men, dressed as women, and painted with a coarse
      vermilion, were yelling, &ldquo;We are mothers of families ruined by
      Richelieu! Death to the Cardinal!&rdquo; They carried in their arms
      figures of straw that looked like children, which they threw into the
      river.
    </p>
    <p>
      When this disgusting mob overran the quays with its thousands of imps, it
      produced a strange effect upon the combatants, and entirely contrary to
      that expected by their patron. The enemies on both sides lowered their
      arms and separated. Those of Monsieur and Cinq-Mars were revolted at
      seeing themselves succored by such auxiliaries, and, themselves aiding the
      Cardinal&rsquo;s gentlemen to remount their horses and to gain their
      carriages, and their valets to convey the wounded to them, gave their
      adversaries personal rendezvous to terminate their quarrel upon a ground
      more secret and more worthy of them. Ashamed of the superiority of numbers
      and the ignoble troops which they seemed to command, foreseeing, perhaps,
      for the first time the fearful consequences of their political
      machinations, and what was the scum they were stirring up, they withdrew,
      drawing their large hats over their eyes, throwing their cloaks over their
      shoulders, and avoiding the daylight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have spoiled all, my dear Abbe, with this mob,&rdquo; said
      Fontrailles, stamping his foot, to Gondi, who was already sufficiently
      nonplussed; &ldquo;your good uncle has fine parishioners!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not my fault,&rdquo; replied Gondi, in a sullen tone; &ldquo;these
      idiots came an hour too late. Had they arrived in the night, they would
      not have been seen, which spoils the effect somewhat, to speak the truth
      (for I grant that daylight is detrimental to them), and we would only have
      heard the voice of the people &lsquo;Vox populi, vox Dei&rsquo;.
      Nevertheless, no great harm has been done. They will by their numbers give
      us the means of escaping without being known, and, after all, our task is
      ended; we did not wish the death of the sinner. Chavigny and his men are
      worthy fellows, whom I love; if he is only slightly wounded, so much the
      better. Adieu; I am going to see Monsieur de Bouillon, who has arrived
      from Italy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Olivier,&rdquo; said Fontrailles, &ldquo;go at once to
      Saint-Germain with Fournier and Ambrosio; I will go and give an account to
      Monsieur, with Montresor.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      All separated, and disgust accomplished, with these highborn men, what
      force could not bring about.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus ended this fray, likely to bring forth great misfortunes. No one was
      killed in it. The cavaliers, having gained a few scratches and lost a few
      purses, resumed their route by the side of the carriages along the
      by-streets; the others escaped, one by one, through the populace they had
      attracted. The miserable wretches who composed it, deprived of the chief
      of the troops, still remained two hours, yelling and screaming until the
      effect of their wine was gone, and the cold had extinguished at once the
      fire of their blood and that of their enthusiasm. At the windows of the
      houses, on the quay of the city, and along the walls, the thoughtful and
      genuine people of Paris watched with a sorrowful air and in mournful
      silence these preludes of disorder; while the various bodies of merchants,
      dressed in black and preceded by their provosts, walked slowly and
      courageously through the populace toward the Palais de justice, where the
      parliament was to assemble, to make complaint of these terrible nocturnal
      scenes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The apartments of Gaston d&rsquo;Orleans were in great confusion. This
      Prince occupied the wing of the Louvre parallel with the Tuileries; and
      his windows looked into the court on one side, and on the other over a
      mass of little houses and narrow streets which almost entirely covered the
      place. He had risen precipitately, awakened suddenly by the report of the
      firearms, had thrust his feet into large square-toed slippers with high
      heels, and, wrapped in a large silk dressing-gown, covered with golden
      ornaments embroidered in relief, walked to and fro in his bedroom, sending
      every minute a fresh lackey to see what was going on, and ordering them
      immediately to go for the Abbe de la Riviere, his general counsellor; but
      he was unfortunately out of Paris. At every pistol-shot this timid Prince
      rushed to the windows, without seeing anything but some flambeaux, which
      were carried quickly along. It was in vain he was told that the cries he
      heard were in his favor; he did not cease to walk up and down the
      apartments, in the greatest disorder-his long black hair dishevelled, and
      his blue eyes open and enlarged by disquiet and terror. He was still thus
      when Montresor and Fontrailles at length arrived and found him beating his
      breast, and repeating a thousand times, &ldquo;Mea culpa, mea culpa!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have come at last!&rdquo; he exclaimed from a distance, running
      to meet them. &ldquo;Come! quick! What is going on? What are they doing
      there? Who are these assassins? What are these cries?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They cry, &lsquo;Long live Monsieur!&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaston, without appearing to hear, and holding the door of his chamber
      open for an instant, that his voice might reach the galleries in which
      were the people of his household, continued to cry with all his strength,
      gesticulating violently:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know nothing of all this, and I have authorized nothing. I will
      not hear anything! I will not know anything! I will never enter into any
      project! These are rioters who make all this noise; do not speak to me of
      them, if you wish to be well received here. I am the enemy of no man; I
      detest such scenes!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Fontrailles, who knew the man with whom he had to deal, said nothing, but
      entered with his friend, that Monsieur might have time to discharge his
      first fury; and when all was said, and the door carefully shut, he began
      to speak:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we come to ask you a thousand
      pardons for the impertinence of these people, who will persist in crying
      out that they desire the death of your enemy, and that they would even
      wish to make you regent should we have the misfortune to lose his Majesty.
      Yes, the people are always frank in their discourse; but they are so
      numerous that all our efforts could not restrain them. It was truly a cry
      from the heart&mdash;an explosion of love, which reason could not
      restrain, and which escaped all bounds.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what has happened, then?&rdquo; interrupted Gaston, somewhat
      calmed. &ldquo;What have they been doing these four hours that I have
      heard them?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That love,&rdquo; said Montresor, coldly, &ldquo;as Monsieur de
      Fontrailles had the honor of telling you, so escaped all rule and bounds
      that we ourselves were carried away by it, and felt seized with that
      enthusiasm which always transports us at the mere name of Monsieur, and
      which leads us on to things which we had not premeditated.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what, then, have you done?&rdquo; said the Prince.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Those things,&rdquo; replied Fontrailles, &ldquo;of which Monsieur
      de Montresor had the honor to speak to Monsieur are precisely those which
      I foresaw here yesterday evening, when I had the honor of conversing with
      you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not the question,&rdquo; interrupted Gaston. &ldquo;You
      cannot say that I have ordered or authorized anything. I meddle with
      nothing; I know nothing of government.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I admit,&rdquo; continued Fontrailles, &ldquo;that your Highness
      ordered nothing, but you permitted me to tell you that I foresaw that this
      night would be a troubled one about two o&rsquo;clock, and I hoped that
      your astonishment would not have been too great.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Prince, recovering himself little by little, and seeing that he did
      not alarm the two champions, having also upon his conscience and reading
      in their eyes the recollection of the consent which he had given them the
      evening before, sat down upon the side of his bed, crossed his arms, and,
      looking at them with the air of a judge, again said in a commanding tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what, then, have you done?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, hardly anything, Monseigneur,&rdquo; said Fontrailles. &ldquo;Chance
      led us to meet in the crowd some of our friends who had a quarrel with
      Monsieur de Chavigny&rsquo;s coachman, who was driving over them. A few
      hot words ensued and rough gestures, and a few scratches, which kept
      Monsieur de Chavigny waiting, and that is all.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Absolutely all,&rdquo; repeated Montresor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, all?&rdquo; exclaimed Gaston, much moved, and tramping about
      the chamber. &ldquo;And is it, then, nothing to stop the carriage of a
      friend of the Cardinal-Duke? I do not like such scenes. I have already
      told you so. I do not hate the Cardinal; he is certainly a great
      politician, a very great politician. You have compromised me horribly; it
      is known that Montresor is with me. If he has been recognized, they will
      say that I sent him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chance,&rdquo; said Montresor, &ldquo;threw in my way this peasant&rsquo;s
      dress, which Monsieur may see under my cloak, and which, for that reason,
      I preferred to any other.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaston breathed again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are sure, then, that you have not been recognized. You
      understand, my dear friend, how painful it would be to me. You must admit
      yourself&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure of it!&rdquo; exclaimed the Prince&rsquo;s gentleman. &ldquo;I
      would stake my head and my share in Paradise that no one has seen my
      features or called my by my name.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; continued Gaston, again seating himself on his bed,
      and assuming a calmer air, in which even a slight satisfaction was
      visible, &ldquo;tell me, then, what has happened.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Fontrailles took upon himself the recital, in which, as we may suppose,
      the populace played a great part and Monsieur&rsquo;s people none, and in
      his peroration he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From our windows even, Monseigneur, respectable mothers of families
      might have been seen, driven by despair, throwing their children into the
      Seine, cursing Richelieu.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, it is dreadful!&rdquo; exclaimed the Prince, indignant, or
      feigning to be so, and to believe in these excesses. &ldquo;Is it, then,
      true that he is so generally detested? But we must allow that he deserves
      it. What! his ambition and avarice have, then, reduced to this extremity
      the good inhabitants of Paris, whom I love so much.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monseigneur,&rdquo; replied the orator. &ldquo;And it is not
      Paris alone, it is all France, which, with us, entreats you to decide upon
      delivering her from this tyrant. All is ready; nothing is wanting but a
      sign from your august head to annihilate this pygmy, who has attempted to
      assault the royal house itself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! Heaven is my witness that I myself forgive him!&rdquo;
      answered Gaston, raising up his eyes. &ldquo;But I can no longer bear the
      cries of the people. Yes, I will help them; that is to say,&rdquo;
      continued the Prince, &ldquo;so that my dignity is not compromised, and
      that my name does not appear in the matter.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, but it is precisely that which we want,&rdquo; exclaimed
      Fontrailles, a little more at his ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See, Monseigneur, there are already some names to put after yours,
      who will not fear to sign. I will tell you them immediately, if you wish
      it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;but,&rdquo; said the Duc d&rsquo;Orleans, timidly,
      &ldquo;do you know that it is a conspiracy which you propose to me so
      coolly?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fie, Monseigneur, men of honor like us! a conspiracy! Oh! not at
      all; a league at the utmost, a slight combination to give a direction to
      the unanimous wish of the nation and the court&mdash;that is all.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But that is not so clear, for, after all, this affair will be
      neither general nor public; therefore, it is a conspiracy. You will not
      avow that you are concerned in it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I, Monseigneur! Excuse me to all the world, since the kingdom is
      already in it, and I am of the kingdom. And who would not sign his name
      after that of Messieurs de Bouillon and Cinq-Mars?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;After, perhaps, not before,&rdquo; said Gaston, fixing his eyes
      upon Fontrailles more keenly than he had expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter hesitated a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, what would Monseigneur do should I tell him the names
      after which he could sign his?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! ha! this is amusing,&rdquo; answered the Prince, laughing;
      &ldquo;know you not that above mine there are not many? I see but one.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And if there be one, will Monseigneur promise to sign that of
      Gaston beneath it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, parbleu! with all my heart. I risk nothing there, for I see
      none but that of the King, who surely is not of the party.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, from this moment permit us,&rdquo; said Montresor, &ldquo;to
      take you at your word, and deign at present to consent to two things only:
      to see Monsieur de Bouillon in the Queen&rsquo;s apartments, and Monsieur
      the master of the horse at the King&rsquo;s palace.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Agreed!&rdquo; said Monsieur, gayly, tapping Montresor on the
      shoulder. &ldquo;I will to-day wait on my sister-in-law at her toilette,
      and I will invite my brother to hunt the stag with me at Chambord.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The two friends asked nothing further, and were themselves surprised at
      their work. They never had seen so much resolution in their chief.
      Accordingly, fearing to lead him to a topic which might divert him from
      the path he had adopted, they hastened to turn the conversation upon other
      subjects, and retired in delight, leaving as their last words in his ear
      that they relied upon his keeping his promise.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV. THE ALCOVE
    </h2>
    <p>
      While a prince was thus reassured with difficulty by those who surrounded
      him, and allowed them to see a terror which might have proved contagious,
      a princess more exposed to accidents, more isolated by the indifference of
      her husband, weaker by nature and by the timidity which is the result of
      the absence of happiness, on her side set the example of the calmest
      courage and the most pious resignation, and tranquillized her terrified
      suite; this was the Queen. Having slept hardly an hour, she heard shrill
      cries behind the doors and the thick tapestries of her chamber. She
      ordered her women to open the door, and the Duchesse de Chevreuse, in her
      night attire, and wrapped in a great cloak, fell, nearly fainting, at the
      foot of her bed, followed by four of her ladies-in-waiting and three of
      the women of the bed-chamber. Her delicate feet were bare, and bleeding
      from a wound she had received in running.
    </p>
    <p>
      She cried, weeping like a child, that a pistol-shot had broken her
      shutters and her window-panes, and had wounded her; she entreated the
      Queen to send her into exile, where she would be more tranquil than in a
      country where they wished to assassinate her because she was the friend of
      her Majesty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Her hair was in great disorder, and fell to her feet. It was her chief
      beauty; and the young Queen thought that this toilette was less the result
      of chance than might have been imagined.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear, what has happened?&rdquo; she said to her with
      sang-froid. &ldquo;You look like a Magdalen, but in her youth, and before
      she repented. It is probable that if they wish to harm any one here it is
      I; calm yourself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Madame! save me, protect me! it is Richelieu who pursues me, I
      am sure!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound of pistols, which was then heard more distinctly, convinced the
      Queen that the terrors of Madame de Chevreuse were not vain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come and dress me, Madame de Motteville!&rdquo; cried she. But that
      lady had completely lost her self-possession, and, opening one of those
      immense ebony coffers which then answered the purpose of wardrobes, took
      from it a casket of the Princess&rsquo;s diamonds to save it, and did not
      listen to her. The other women had seen on a window the reflection of
      torches, and, imagining that the palace was on fire, threw jewels, laces,
      golden vases, and even the china, into sheets which they intended to lower
      into the street. At this moment Madame de Guemenee arrived, a little more
      dressed than the Duchesse de Chevreuse, but taking events still more
      tragically. Her terror inspired the Queen with a slight degree of fear,
      because of the ceremonious and placid character she was known to possess.
      She entered without curtseying, pale as a spectre, and said with
      volubility:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, it is time to make our confession. The Louvre is attacked,
      and all the populace are arriving from the city, I have been told.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Terror silenced and rendered motionless all the persons present.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall die!&rdquo; exclaimed the Duchesse de Chevreuse, still on
      her knees. &ldquo;Ah, my God! why did I leave England? Yes, let us
      confess. I confess aloud. I have loved&mdash;I have been loved by&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the Queen, &ldquo;I do not undertake to hear your
      confession to the end. That would not perhaps be the least of my dangers,
      of which, however, you think little.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The coolness of Anne of Austria, and this last severe observation,
      however, restored a little calm to this beautiful personage, who rose in
      confusion, and perceiving the disordered state of her toilet, went to
      repair it as she best could in a closet near by.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dona Stefania,&rdquo; said the Queen to one of her women, the only
      Spaniard whom she had retained, &ldquo;go seek the captain of the guards.
      It is time that I should see men at last, and hear something reasonable.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She said this in Spanish, and the mystery of this order, spoken in a
      tongue which the ladies did not understand, restored those in the chamber
      to their senses.
    </p>
    <p>
      The waiting-woman was telling her beads, but she rose from the corner of
      the alcove in which she had sought refuge, and hastened to obey her
      mistress.
    </p>
    <p>
      The signs of revolt and the evidences of terror became meantime more
      distinct. In the great court of the Louvre was heard the trampling of the
      horses of the guards, the orders of the chiefs, the rolling of the Queen&rsquo;s
      carriages, which were being prepared, should it be necessary to fly. The
      rattling of the iron chains dragged along the pavement to form barricades
      in case of an attack, hurried steps in the corridor, the clash of arms,
      the confused cries of the people, which rose and fell, went and came
      again, like the noise of the waves and the winds. The door once more
      opened, and this time it was to admit a very charming person.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I expected you, dear Marie,&rdquo; said the Queen, extending her
      arms to the Duchesse de Mantua. &ldquo;You have been more courageous than
      any of us; you are attired fit to be seen by all the court.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was not in bed, fortunately,&rdquo; replied the young Princesse
      de Gonzaga, casting down her eyes. &ldquo;I saw all these people from the
      windows. O Madame, Madame, fly! I implore you to escape by the secret
      stairway, and let us remain in your place. They might take one of us for
      the Queen.&rdquo; And she added, with tears, &ldquo;I have heard cries of
      death. Fly, Madame! I have no throne to lose. You are the daughter, the
      wife, and the mother of kings. Save yourself, and leave us here!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have more to lose than I, &lsquo;m&rsquo;amaie&rsquo;, in
      beauty, youth, and, I hope, in happiness,&rdquo; said the Queen, with a
      gracious smile, giving the Duchess her beautiful hands to kiss. &ldquo;Remain
      in my alcove and welcome; but we will both remain there. The only service
      I accept from you, my sweet child, is to bring to my bed that little
      golden casket which my poor Motteville has left on the ground, and which
      contains all that I hold most precious.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, as she took it, she whispered in Marie&rsquo;s ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Should any misfortune happen to me, swear that you will throw it
      into the Seine.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will obey you, Madame, as my benefactress and my second mother,&rdquo;
      Marie answered, weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sound of the conflict redoubled on the quays, and the windows
      reflected the flash of the firearms, of which they heard the explosion.
      The captain of the guards and the captain of the Swiss sent for orders
      from the Queen through Dona Stefania.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I permit them to enter,&rdquo; said the Queen. &ldquo;Stand aside,
      ladies. I am a man in a moment like this; and I ought to be so.&rdquo;
      Then, raising the bed-curtains, she continued, addressing the two
      officers:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, first remember that you answer with your heads for the
      life of the princes, my children. You know that, Monsieur de Guitaut?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I sleep across their doorway, Madame; but this disturbance does not
      threaten either them or your Majesty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well; do not think of me until after them,&rdquo; interrupted
      the Queen, &ldquo;and protect indiscriminately all who are threatened. You
      also hear me, Monsieur de Bassompierre; you are a gentleman. Forget that
      your uncle is yet in the Bastille, and do your duty by the grandsons of
      the dead King, his friend.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a young man, with a frank, open countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Majesty,&rdquo; said he, with a slight German accent, &ldquo;may
      see that I have forgotten my family, and not yours.&rdquo; And he
      displayed his left hand despoiled of two fingers, which had just been cut
      off. &ldquo;I have still another hand,&rdquo; said he, bowing and
      withdrawing with Guitaut.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen, much moved, rose immediately, and, despite the prayers of the
      Princesse de Guemenee, the tears of Marie de Gonzaga, and the cries of
      Madame de Chevreuse, insisted upon placing herself at the window, and half
      opened it, leaning upon the shoulder of the Duchesse de Mantua.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do I hear?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;They are crying, &lsquo;Long
      live the King! Long live the Queen!&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The people, imagining they recognized her, redoubled their cries at this
      moment, and shouted louder than ever, &ldquo;Down with the Cardinal! Long
      live Monsieur le Grand!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie shuddered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the matter with you?&rdquo; said the Queen, observing her.
      But as she did not answer, and trembled in every limb, this good and
      gentle Princess appeared not to perceive it; and, paying the greatest
      attention to the cries and movements of the populace, she even exaggerated
      an inquietude which she had not felt since the first name had reached her
      ear. An hour later, when they came to tell her that the crowd only awaited
      a sign from her hand to withdraw, she waved it graciously, and with an air
      of satisfaction. But this joy was far from being complete, for her heart
      was still troubled by many things, and, above all, by the presentiment of
      the regency. The more she leaned forward to show herself, the more she
      beheld the revolting scenes which the increasing light revealed. Terror
      took possession of her soul as it became necessary to appear calm and
      confiding; and her heart was saddened at the very gayety of her words and
      countenance. Exposed to all eyes, she felt herself a mere woman, and
      shuddered in looking at that people whom she would soon perhaps be called
      upon to govern, and who already took upon themselves to demand the death
      of ministers, and to call upon their Queen to appear before them.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saluted them.
    </p>
    <p>
      A hundred and fifty years later that salute was repeated by another
      princess, like herself of Austrian blood, and Queen of France. The
      monarchy without foundation, such as Richelieu made it, was born and died
      between these two salutes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Princess at last closed her windows, and hastened to dismiss her timid
      suite. The thick curtains fell again over the barred windows; and the room
      was no longer lighted by a day which was odious to her. Large white wax
      flambeaux burned in candelabra, in the form of golden arms, which stand
      out from the framed and flowered tapestries with which the walls were
      hung. She remained alone with Marie de Mantua; and reentering with her the
      enclosure which was formed by the royal balustrade, she fell upon her bed,
      fatigued by her courage and her smiles, and burst into tears, leaning her
      head upon her pillow. Marie, on her knees upon a velvet footstool, held
      one of her hands in both hers, and without daring to speak first, leaned
      her head tremblingly upon it; for until that moment, tears never had been
      seen in the Queen&rsquo;s eyes.
    </p>
    <p>
      They remained thus for some minutes. The Princess, then raising herself up
      by a painful effort, spoke:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not afflict yourself, my child; let me weep. It is such a relief
      to one who reigns! If you pray to God for me, ask Him to grant me
      sufficient strength not to hate the enemy who pursues me everywhere, and
      who will destroy the royal family of France and the monarchy by his
      boundless ambition. I recognize him in all that has taken place; I see him
      in this tumultuous revolt.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, Madame! is he not at Narbonne?&mdash;for it is the Cardinal
      of whom you speak, no doubt; and have you not heard that these cries were
      for you, and against him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, &lsquo;m&rsquo;amie&rsquo;, he is three hundred leagues away
      from us, but his fatal genius keeps guard at the door. If these cries have
      been heard, it is because he has allowed them; if these men were
      assembled, it is because they have not yet reached the hour which he has
      destined for their destruction. Believe me, I know him; and I have dearly
      paid for the knowledge of that dark soul. It has cost me all the power of
      my rank, the pleasures of my age, the affection of my family and even the
      heart of my husband. He has isolated me from the whole world. He now
      confines me within a barrier of honors and respect; and formerly he dared,
      to the scandal of all France, to bring an accusation against myself. They
      examined my papers, they interrogated me, they made me sign myself guilty,
      and ask the King&rsquo;s pardon for a fault of which I was ignorant; and I
      owed to the devotion, and the perhaps eternal imprisonment of a faithful
      servant, the preservation of this casket which you have saved for me. I
      read in your looks that you think me too fearful; but do not deceive
      yourself, as all the court now does. Be sure, my dear child, that this man
      is everywhere, and that he knows even our thoughts.&rdquo;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   [His name was Laporte. Neither the fear of torture nor the hope of
   the Cardinal&rsquo;s reward could draw from him one word of the Queen&rsquo;s
   secrets.]
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, Madame! does he know all that these men have cried under your
      windows, and the names of those who sent them?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; no doubt he knows it, or has foreseen it. He permits it; he
      authorizes it, to compromise me in the King&rsquo;s eyes, and keep him
      forever separated from me. He would complete my humiliation.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the King has not loved him for two years; he loves another.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen smiled; she gazed some time in silence upon the pure and open
      features of the beautiful Marie, and her look, full of candor, which was
      languidly raised toward her. She smoothed back the black curls which
      shaded her noble forehead, and seemed to rest her eyes and her soul in
      looking at the charming innocence displayed upon so lovely a face. She
      kissed her cheek, and resumed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You do not suspect, my poor child, a sad truth. It is that the King
      loves no one, and that those who appear the most in favor will be the
      soonest abandoned by him, and thrown to him who engulfs and devours all.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, mon Dieu! what is this you tell me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know how many he has destroyed?&rdquo; continued the Queen,
      in a low voice, and looking into her eyes as if to read in them all her
      thoughts, and to make her own penetrate there. &ldquo;Do you know the end
      of his favorites? Have you been told of the exile of Baradas; of that of
      Saint-Simon; of the convent of Mademoiselle de la Fayette, the shame of
      Madame d&rsquo;Hautfort, the death of Chalais? All have fallen before an
      order from Richelieu to his master. Without this favor, which you mistake
      for friendship, their lives would have been peaceful. But this favor is
      mortal; it is a poison. Look at this tapestry, which represents Semele.
      The favorites of Louis XIII resemble that woman; his attachment devours
      like this fire, which dazzles and consumes her.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But the young Duchess was no longer in a condition to listen to the Queen.
      She continued to fix her large, dark eyes upon her, dimmed by a veil of
      tears; her hands trembled in those of Anne of Austria, and her lips
      quivered with convulsive agitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am very cruel, am I not, Marie?&rdquo; continued the Queen, in an
      extremely sweet voice, and caressing her like a child from whom one would
      draw an avowal. &ldquo;Oh, yes; no doubt I am very wicked! Your heart is
      full; you can not bear it, my child. Come, tell me; how do matters stand
      with you and Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this word grief found a vent, and, still on her knees at the Queen&rsquo;s
      feet, Marie in her turn shed upon the bosom of the good Princess a deluge
      of tears, with childish sobs and so violent an agitation of her head and
      her beautiful shoulders that it seemed as if her heart would break. The
      Queen waited a long time for the end of this first emotion, rocking her in
      her arms as if to appease her grief, frequently repeating, &ldquo;My
      child, my child, do not afflict yourself thus!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Madame!&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;I have been guilty toward
      you; but I did not reckon upon that heart. I have done wrong, and I shall
      perhaps be punished severely for it. But, alas! how shall I venture to
      confess to you, Madame? It was not so much to open my heart to you that
      was difficult; it was to avow to you that I had need to read there myself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen reflected a moment, laying her finger upon her lips. &ldquo;You
      are right,&rdquo; she then replied; &ldquo;you are quite right. Marie, it
      is always the first word which is the most difficult to say; and that
      difficulty often destroys us. But it must be so; and without this rule one
      would be often wanting in dignity. Ah, how difficult it is to reign!
      To-day I would descend into your heart, but I come too late to do you
      good.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie de Mantua hung her head without making any reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Must I encourage you to speak?&rdquo; said the Queen. &ldquo;Must I
      remind you that I have almost adopted you for my eldest daughter? that
      after seeking to unite you with the King&rsquo;s brother, I prepared for
      you the throne of Poland? Must I do more, Marie? Yes, I must, I will. If
      afterward you do not open your whole heart to me, I have misjudged you.
      Open this golden casket; here is the key. Open it fearlessly; do not
      tremble as I do.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duchesse de Mantua obeyed with hesitation, and beheld in this little
      chased coffer a knife of rude form, the handle of which was of iron, and
      the blade very rusty. It lay upon some letters carefully folded, upon
      which was the name of Buckingham. She would have lifted them; Anne of
      Austria stopped her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seek nothing further,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;that is all the
      treasure of the Queen. And it is a treasure; for it is the blood of a man
      who lives no longer, but who lived for me. He was the most beautiful, the
      bravest, the most illustrious of the nobles of Europe. He covered himself
      with the diamonds of the English crown to please me. He raised up a fierce
      war and armed fleets, which he himself commanded, that he might have the
      happiness of once fighting him who was my husband. He traversed the seas
      to gather a flower upon which I had trodden, and ran the risk of death to
      kiss and bathe with his tears the foot of this bed in the presence of two
      of my ladies-in-waiting. Shall I say more? Yes, I will say it to you&mdash;I
      loved him! I love him still in the past more than I could love him in the
      present. He never knew it, never divined it. This face, these eyes, were
      marble toward him, while my heart burned and was breaking with grief; but
      I was the Queen of France!&rdquo; Here Anne of Austria forcibly grasped
      Marie&rsquo;s arm. &ldquo;Dare now to complain,&rdquo; she continued,
      &ldquo;if you have not yet ventured to speak to me of your love, and dare
      now to be silent when I have told you these things!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes, Madame, I shall dare to confide my grief to you, since you
      are to me&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A friend, a woman!&rdquo; interrupted the Queen. &ldquo;I was a
      woman in my terror, which put you in possession of a secret unknown to the
      whole world. I am a woman by a love which survives the man I loved. Speak;
      tell me! It is now time.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is too late, on the contrary,&rdquo; replied Marie, with a
      forced smile. &ldquo;Monsieur de Cinq-Mars and I are united forever.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Forever!&rdquo; exclaimed the Queen. &ldquo;Can you mean it? And
      your rank, your name, your future&mdash;is all lost? Do you reserve this
      despair for your brother, the Duc de Bethel, and all the Gonzagas?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For more than four years I have thought of it. I am resolved; and
      for ten days we have been affianced.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Affianced!&rdquo; exclaimed the Queen, clasping her hands. &ldquo;You
      have been deceived, Marie. Who would have dared this without the King&rsquo;s
      order? It is an intrigue which I will know. I am sure that you have been
      misled and deceived.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie hesitated a moment, and then said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing is more simple, Madame, than our attachment. I inhabited,
      you know, the old chateau of Chaumont, with the Marechale d&rsquo;Effiat,
      the mother of Monsieur de Cinq-Mars. I had retired there to mourn the
      death of my father; and it soon happened that Monsieur de Cinq-Mars had to
      deplore the loss of his. In this numerous afflicted family, I saw his
      grief only, which was as profound as mine. All that he said, I had already
      thought, and when we spoke of our afflictions we found them wholly alike.
      As I had been the first to suffer, I was better acquainted with sorrow
      than he; and I endeavored to console him by telling him all that I had
      suffered, so that in pitying me he forgot himself. This was the beginning
      of our love, which, as you see, had its birth, as it were, between two
      tombs.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God grant, my sweet, that it may have a happy termination!&rdquo;
      said the Queen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope so, Madame, since you pray for me,&rdquo; continued Marie.
      &ldquo;Besides, everything now smiles upon me; but at that time I was very
      miserable. The news arrived one day at the chateau that the Cardinal had
      called Monsieur de Cinq-Mars to the army. It seemed to me that I was again
      deprived of one of my relatives; and yet we were strangers. But Monsieur
      de Bassompierre spoke without ceasing of battles and death. I retired
      every evening in grief, and I wept during the night. I thought at first
      that my tears flowed for the past, but I soon perceived that it was for
      the future; and I felt that they could not be the same tears, since I
      wished to conceal them. Some time passed in the expectation of his
      departure. I saw him every day; and I pitied him for having to depart,
      because he repeated to me every instant that he would have wished to live
      eternally as he then did, in his own country and with us. He was thus
      without ambition until the day of his departure, because he knew not
      whether he was&mdash;whether he was&mdash;I dare not say it to your
      Majesty&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie blushed, cast down her humid eyes, and smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well!&rdquo; said the Queen, &ldquo;whether he was beloved,&mdash;is
      it not so?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And in the evening, Madame, he left, ambitious.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is evident, certainly. He left,&rdquo; said Anne of Austria,
      somewhat relieved; &ldquo;but he has been back two years, and you have
      seen him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seldom, Madame,&rdquo; said the young Duchess, proudly; &ldquo;and
      always in the presence of the priest, before whom I have promised to be
      the wife of no other than Cinq-Mars.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it really, then, a marriage? Have you dared to do it? I shall
      inquire. But, Heaven, what faults! how many faults in the few words I have
      heard! Let me reflect upon them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, speaking aloud to herself, the Queen continued, her eyes and head
      bent in the attitude of reflection:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Reproaches are useless and cruel if the evil is done. The past is
      no longer ours; let us think of the future. Cinq-Mars is brave, able, and
      even profound in his ideas. I have observed that he has done much in two
      years, and I now see that it was for Marie. He comports himself well; he
      is worthy of her in my eyes, but not so in the eyes of Europe. He must
      rise yet higher. The Princesse de Mantua can not, may not, marry less than
      a prince. He must become one. By myself I can do nothing; I am not the
      Queen, I am the neglected wife of the King. There is only the Cardinal,
      the eternal Cardinal, and he is his enemy; and perhaps this disturbance&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas! it is the beginning of war between them. I saw it at once.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is lost then!&rdquo; exclaimed the Queen, embracing Marie.
      &ldquo;Pardon me, my child, for thus afflicting you; but in times like
      these we must see all and say all. Yes, he is lost if he does not himself
      overthrow this wicked man&mdash;for the King will not renounce him; force
      alone&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will overthrow him, Madame. He will do it, if you will assist
      him. You are the divinity of France. Oh, I conjure you, protect the angel
      against the demon! It is your cause, that of your royal family, that of
      all your nation.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, above all, your cause, my child; and it is as such that I
      will embrace it to the utmost extent of my power. That is not great, as I
      have told you; but such as it is, I lend it to you entirely, provided,
      however, that this angel does not stoop to commit mortal sins,&rdquo;
      added she, with a meaning look. &ldquo;I heard his name pronounced this
      night by voices most unworthy of him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Madame, I would swear that he knows nothing of it!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, my child, do not speak of State affairs. You are not yet
      learned enough in them. Let me sleep, if I can, before the hour of my
      toilette. My eyes are burning, and yours also, perhaps.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Saying these words, the amiable Queen laid her head upon the pillow which
      covered the casket, and soon Marie saw her fall asleep through sheer
      fatigue. She then rose, and, seating herself in a great, tapestried,
      square armchair, clasped her hands upon her knees, and began to reflect
      upon her painful situation. Consoled by the aspect of her gentle
      protectress, she often raised her eyes to watch her slumber, and sent her
      in secret all the blessings which love showers upon those who protect it,
      sometimes kissing the curls of her blond hair, as if by this kiss she
      could convey to her soul all the ideas favorable to the thought ever
      present to her mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen&rsquo;s slumber was prolonged, while Marie thought and wept.
      However, she remembered that at ten o&rsquo;clock she must appear at the
      royal toilette before all the court. She resolved to cast aside
      reflection, to dry her tears, and she took a thick folio volume placed
      upon a table inlaid with enamel and medallions; it was the &lsquo;Astree&rsquo;
      of M. d&rsquo;Urfe&mdash;a work &lsquo;de belle galanterie&rsquo; adored
      by the fair prudes of the court. The unsophisticated and straightforward
      mind of Marie could not enter into these pastoral loves. She was too
      simple to understand the &lsquo;bergeres du Lignon&rsquo;, too clever to
      be pleased at their discourse, and too impassioned to feel their
      tenderness. However, the great popularity of the romance so far influenced
      her that she sought to compel herself to take an interest in it; and,
      accusing herself internally every time that she felt the ennui which
      exhaled from the pages of the book, she ran through it with impatience to
      find something to please and transport her. An engraving arrested her
      attention. It represented the shepherdess Astree with high-heeled shoes, a
      corset, and an immense farthingale, standing on tiptoe to watch floating
      down the river the tender Celadon, drowning himself in despair at having,
      been somewhat coldly received in the morning. Without explaining to
      herself the reason of the taste and accumulated fallacies of this picture,
      she sought, in turning over the pages, something which could fix her
      attention; she saw the word &ldquo;Druid.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! here is a great character,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I shall no
      doubt read of one of those mysterious sacrificers of whom Britain, I am
      told, still preserves the monuments; but I shall see him sacrificing men.
      That would be a spectacle of horror; however, let us read it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Saying this, Marie read with repugnance, knitting her brows, and nearly
      trembling, the following:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;The Druid Adamas delicately called the shepherds Pimandre,
   Ligdamont, and Clidamant, newly arrived from Calais. &lsquo;This
   adventure can not terminate,&rsquo; said he, &lsquo;but by the extremity of
   love. The soul, when it loves, transforms itself into the object
   beloved; it is to represent this that my agreeable enchantments will
   show you in this fountain the nymph Sylvia, whom you all three love.
   The high-priest Amasis is about to come from Montbrison, and will
   explain to you the delicacy of this idea. Go, then, gentle
   shepherds! If your desires are well regulated, they will not cause
   you any torments; and if they are not so, you will be punished by
   swoonings similar to those of Celadon, and the shepherdess Galatea,
   whom the inconstant Hercules abandoned in the mountains of Auvergne,
   and who gave her name to the tender country of the Gauls; or you
   will be stoned by the shepherdesses of Lignon, as was the ferocious
   Amidor. The great nymph of this cave has made an enchantment.&rsquo;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      The enchantment of the great nymph was complete on the Princess, who had
      hardly sufficient strength to find out with a trembling hand, toward the
      end of the book, that the Druid Adamas was an ingenious allegory,
      representing the Lieutenant-General of Montbrison, of the family of the
      Papons. Her weary eyes closed, and the great book slipped from her lap to
      the cushion of velvet upon which her feet were placed, and where the
      beautiful Astree and the gallant Celadon reposed luxuriously, less
      immovable than Marie de Mantua, vanquished by them and by profound
      slumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI. THE CONFUSION
    </h2>
    <p>
      This same morning, the various events of which we have seen in the
      apartments of Gaston d&rsquo;Orleans and of the Queen, the calm and
      silence of study reigned in a modest cabinet of a large house near the
      Palais de justice. A bronze lamp, of a gothic shape, struggling with the
      coming day, threw its red light upon a mass of papers and books which
      covered a large table; it lighted the bust of L&rsquo;Hopital, that of
      Montaigne the essayist, the President de Thou, and of King Louis XIII.
    </p>
    <p>
      A fireplace sufficiently large for a man to enter and sit there was
      occupied by a large fire burning upon enormous andirons. Upon one of these
      was placed the foot of the studious De Thou, who, already risen, examined
      with attention the new works of Descartes and Grotius. He was writing upon
      his knee his notes upon these books of philosophy and politics, which were
      then the general subjects of conversation; but at this moment the &lsquo;Meditations
      Metaphysiques&rsquo; absorbed all his attention. The philosopher of
      Touraine enchanted the young counsellor. Often, in his enthusiasm, he
      struck the book, uttering exclamations of admiration; sometimes he took a
      sphere placed near him, and, turning it with his fingers, abandoned
      himself to the most profound reveries of science; then, led by them to a
      still greater elevation of mind, he would suddenly throw himself upon his
      knees before a crucifix, placed upon the chimney-piece, because at the
      limits of the human mind he had found God. At other times he buried
      himself in his great armchair, so as to be nearly sitting upon his
      shoulders, and, placing his two hands upon his eyes, followed in his head
      the trace of the reasoning of Rene Descartes, from this idea of the first
      meditation:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;Suppose that we are asleep, and that all these particularities&mdash;
   that is, that we open our eyes, move our heads, spread our arms&mdash;are
   nothing but false illusions.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      to this sublime conclusion of the third:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;Only one thing remains to be said; it is that like the idea of
   myself, that of God is born and produced with me from the time I was
   created. And certainly it should not be thought strange that God,
   in creating me, should have implanted in me this idea, to be, as it
   were, the mark of the workman impressed upon his work.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      These thoughts entirely occupied the mind of the young counsellor, when a
      loud noise was heard under the windows. He thought that some house on fire
      excited these prolonged cries, and hastened to look toward the wing of the
      building occupied by his mother and sisters; but all appeared to sleep
      there, and the chimneys did not even send forth any smoke, to attest that
      its inhabitants were even awake. He blessed Heaven for it; and, running to
      another window, he saw the people, whose exploits we have witnessed,
      hastening toward the narrow streets which led to the quay.
    </p>
    <p>
      After examining this rabble of women and children, the ridiculous flag
      which led them, and the rude disguises of the men: &ldquo;It is some
      popular fete or some carnival comedy,&rdquo; said he; and again returning
      to the corner of the fire, he placed a large almanac upon the table, and
      carefully sought in it what saint was honored that day. He looked in the
      column of the month of December; and, finding at the fourth day of this
      month the name of Ste.-Barbe, he remembered that he had seen several small
      cannons and barrels pass, and, perfectly satisfied with the explanation
      which he had given himself, he hastened to drive away the interruption
      which had called off his attention, and resumed his quiet studies, rising
      only to take a book from the shelves of his library, and, after reading in
      it a phrase, a line, or only a word, he threw it from him upon his table
      or on the floor, covered in this way with books or papers which he would
      not trouble himself to return to their places, lest he should break the
      thread of his reveries.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly the door was hastily opened, and a name was announced which he
      had distinguished among those at the bar&mdash;a man whom his connections
      with the magistracy had made personally known to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And by what chance, at five o&rsquo;clock in the morning, do I see
      Monsieur Fournier?&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;Are there some unfortunates to
      defend, some families to be supported by the fruits of his talent, some
      error to dissipate in us, some virtue to awaken in our hearts? for these
      are of his accustomed works. You come, perhaps, to inform me of some fresh
      humiliation of our parliament. Alas! the secret chambers of the Arsenal
      are more powerful than the ancient magistracy of Clovis. The parliament is
      on its knees; all is lost, unless it is soon filled with men like
      yourself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, I do not merit your praise,&rdquo; said the Advocate,
      entering, accompanied by a grave and aged man, enveloped like himself in a
      large cloak. &ldquo;I deserve, on the contrary, your censure; and I am
      almost a penitent, as is Monsieur le Comte du Lude, whom you see here. We
      come to ask an asylum for the day.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An asylum! and against whom?&rdquo; said De Thou, making them sit
      down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Against the lowest people in Paris, who wish to have us for chiefs,
      and from whom we fly. It is odious; the sight, the smell, the ear, and the
      touch, above all, are too severely wounded by it,&rdquo; said M. du Lude,
      with a comical gravity. &ldquo;It is too much!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! too much, you say?&rdquo; said De Thou, very much astonished,
      but not willing to show it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; answered the Advocate; &ldquo;really, between
      ourselves, Monsieur le Grand goes too far.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he pushes things too fast. He will render all our projects
      abortive,&rdquo; added his companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! and you say he goes too far?&rdquo; replied M. de Thou, rubbing
      his chin, more and more surprised.
    </p>
    <p>
      Three months had passed since his friend Cinq-Mars had been to see him;
      and he, without feeling much disquieted about it&mdash;knowing that he was
      at St.-Germain in high favor, and never quitting the King&mdash;was far
      removed from the news of the court. Absorbed in his grave studies, he
      never heard of public events till they were forced upon his attention. He
      knew nothing of current life until the last moment, and often amused his
      intimate friends by his naive astonishment&mdash;the more so that from a
      little worldly vanity he desired to have it appear as if he were fully
      acquainted with the course of events, and tried to conceal the surprise he
      experienced at every fresh intelligence. He was now in this situation, and
      to this vanity was added the feeling of friendship; he would not have it
      supposed that Cinq-Mars had been negligent toward him, and, for his friend&rsquo;s
      honor even, would appear to be aware of his projects.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know very well how we stand now,&rdquo; continued the Advocate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, of course. Well?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Intimate as you are with him, you can not be ignorant that all has
      been organizing for a year past.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly, all has been organizing; but proceed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will admit with us that Monsieur le Grand is wrong?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that is as it may be; but explain yourself. I shall see.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you know upon what we had agreed at the last conference of
      which he informed you?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! that is to say&mdash;pardon me, I perceive it almost; but set
      me a little upon the track.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is useless; you no doubt remember what he himself recommended us
      to do at Marion de Lorme&rsquo;s?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To add no one to our list,&rdquo; said M. du Lude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, yes, yes! I understand,&rdquo; said De Thou; &ldquo;that
      appears reasonable, very reasonable, truly.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; continued Fournier, &ldquo;he himself has infringed
      this agreement; for this morning, besides the ragamuffins whom that ferret
      the Abbe de Gondi brought to us, there was some vagabond captain, who
      during the night struck with sword and poniard gentlemen of both parties,
      crying out at the top of his voice, &lsquo;A moi, D&rsquo;Aubijoux! You
      gained three thousand ducats from me; here are three sword-thrusts for
      you. &lsquo;A moi&rsquo;, La Chapelle! I will have ten drops of your blood
      in exchange for my ten pistoles!&rsquo; and I myself saw him attack these
      gentlemen and many more of both sides, loyally enough, it is true&mdash;for
      he struck them only in front and on their guard&mdash;but with great
      success, and with a most revolting impartiality.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur, and I was about to tell him my opinion,&rdquo;
      interposed De Lude, &ldquo;when I saw him escape through the crowd like a
      squirrel, laughing greatly with some suspicious looking men with dark,
      swarthy faces; I do not doubt, however, that Monsieur de Cinq-Mars sent
      him, for he gave orders to that Ambrosio whom you must know&mdash;that
      Spanish prisoner, that rascal whom he has taken for a servant. In faith, I
      am disgusted with all this; and I was not born to mingle with this
      canaille.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This, Monsieur,&rdquo; replied Fournier, &ldquo;is very different
      from the affair at Loudun. There the people only rose, without actually
      revolting; it was the sensible and estimable part of the populace,
      indignant at an assassination, and not heated by wine and money. It was a
      cry raised against an executioner&mdash;a cry of which one could honorably
      be the organ&mdash;and not these howlings of factious hypocrisy, of a mass
      of unknown people, the dregs of the mud and sewers of Paris. I confess
      that I am very tired of what I see; and I have come to entreat you to
      speak about it to Monsieur le Grand.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou was very much embarrassed during this conversation, and sought in
      vain to understand what Cinq-Mars could have to do with the people, who
      appeared to him merely merrymaking; on the other hand, he persisted in not
      owning his ignorance. It was, however, complete; for the last time he had
      seen his friend, he had spoken only of the King&rsquo;s horses and
      stables, of hawking, and of the importance of the King&rsquo;s huntsmen in
      the affairs of the State, which did not seem to announce vast projects in
      which the people could take a part. He at last timidly ventured to say:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Messieurs, I promise to do your commission; meanwhile, I offer you
      my table and beds as long as you please. But to give my advice in this
      matter is very difficult. By the way, it was not the fete of Sainte-Barbe
      I saw this morning?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Sainte-Barbe!&rdquo; said Fournier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Sainte-Barbe!&rdquo; echoed Du Lude. &ldquo;They burned powder.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, yes, yes! that is what Monsieur de Thou means,&rdquo; said
      Fournier, laughing; &ldquo;very good, very good indeed! Yes, I think
      to-day is Sainte-Barbe.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou was now altogether confused and reduced to silence; as for the
      others, seeing that they did not understand him, nor he them, they had
      recourse to silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were sitting thus mute, when the door opened to admit the old tutor
      of Cinq-Mars, the Abbe Quillet, who entered, limping slightly. He looked
      very gloomy, retaining none of his former gayety in his air or language;
      but his look was still animated, and his speech energetic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me, my dear De Thou, that I so early disturb you in your
      occupations; it is strange, is it not, in a gouty invalid? Ah, time
      advances; two years ago I did not limp. I was, on the contrary, nimble
      enough at the time of my journey to Italy; but then fear gives legs as
      well as wings.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, retiring into the recess of a window, he signed De Thou to come to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I need hardly remind you, my friend, who are in their secrets, that
      I affianced them a fortnight ago, as they have told you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, indeed! Whom?&rdquo; exclaimed poor De Thou, fallen from the
      Charybdis into the Scylla of astonishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, come, don&rsquo;t affect surprise; you know very well whom,&rdquo;
      continued the Abbe. &ldquo;But, faith, I fear I have been too complaisant
      with them, though these two children are really interesting in their love.
      I fear for him more than for her; I doubt not he is acting very foolishly,
      judging from the disturbance this morning. We must consult together about
      it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; said De Thou, very gravely, &ldquo;upon my honor, I do
      not know what you mean. Who is acting foolishly?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, my dear Monsieur, will you still play the mysterious with me?
      It is really insulting,&rdquo; said the worthy man, beginning to be angry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, indeed, I mean it not; whom have you affianced?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again! fie, Monsieur!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what was the disturbance this morning?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are laughing at me! I take my leave,&rdquo; said the Abbe,
      rising.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I vow that I understand not a word of all that has been told me
      to-day. Do you mean Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, Monsieur, very well! you treat me as a Cardinalist; very
      well, we part,&rdquo; said the Abbe Quillet, now altogether furious. And
      he snatched up his crutch and quitted the room hastily, without listening
      to De Thou, who followed him to his carriage, seeking to pacify him, but
      without effect, because he did not wish to name his friend upon the stairs
      in the hearing of his servants, and could not explain the matter
      otherwise. He had the annoyance of seeing the old Abbe depart, still in a
      passion; he called out to him amicably, &ldquo;Tomorrow,&rdquo; as the
      coachman drove off, but got no answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, however, not uselessly that he had descended to the foot of the
      stairs, for he saw thence hideous groups of the mob returning from the
      Louvre, and was thus better able to judge of the importance of their
      movements in the morning; he heard rude voices exclaiming, as in triumph:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She showed herself, however, the little Queen!&rdquo; &ldquo;Long
      live the good Duc de Bouillon, who is coming to us! He has a hundred
      thousand men with him, all on rafts on the Seine. The old Cardinal de la
      Rochelle is dead! Long live the King! Long live Monsieur le Grand!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The cries redoubled at the arrival of a carriage and four, with the royal
      livery, which stopped at the counsellor&rsquo;s door, and in which De Thou
      recognized the equipage of Cinq-Mars; Ambrosio alighted to open the ample
      curtains, which the carriages of that period had for doors. The people
      threw themselves between the carriage-steps and the door of the house, so
      that Cinq-Mars had an absolute struggle ere he could get out and disengage
      himself from the market-women, who sought to embrace him, crying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here you are, then, my sweet, my dear! Here you are, my pet! Ah,
      how handsome he is, the love, with his big collar! Isn&rsquo;t he worth
      more than the other fellow with the white moustache? Come, my son, bring
      us out some good wine this morning.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Henri d&rsquo;Effiat pressed, blushing deeply the while, his friend&rsquo;s
      hand,&mdash;who hastened to have his doors closed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This popular favor is a cup one must drink,&rdquo; said he, as they
      ascended the stairs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It appears to me,&rdquo; replied De Thou, gravely, &ldquo;that you
      drink it even to the very dregs.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will explain all this clamorous affair to you,&rdquo; answered
      Cinq-Mars, somewhat embarrassed. &ldquo;At present, if you love me, dress
      yourself to accompany me to the Queen&rsquo;s toilette.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I promised you blind adherence,&rdquo; said the counsellor; &ldquo;but
      truly I can not keep my eyes shut much longer if&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Once again, I will give you a full explanation as we return from
      the Queen. But make haste; it is nearly ten o&rsquo;clock.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I will go with you,&rdquo; replied De Thou, conducting him
      into his cabinet, where were the Comte du Lude and Fournier, while he
      himself passed into his dressing-room.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII. TOILETTE
    </h2>
    <p>
      The carriage of the Grand Equerry was rolling rapidly toward the Louvre,
      when, closing the curtain, he took his friend&rsquo;s hand, and said to
      him with emotion:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear De Thou, I have kept great secrets in my heart, and, believe
      me, they have weighed heavily there; but two fears impelled me to silence&mdash;that
      of your danger, and&mdash;shall I say it?&mdash;that of your counsels.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yet well you know,&rdquo; replied De Thou, &ldquo;that I despise
      the first; and I deemed that you did not despise the second.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, but I feared, and still fear them. I would not be stopped. Do
      not speak, my friend; not a word, I conjure you, before you have heard and
      seen all that is about to take place. I will return with you to your house
      on quitting the Louvre; there I will listen to you, and thence I shall
      depart to continue my work, for nothing will shake my resolve, I warn you.
      I have just said so to the gentlemen at your house.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      In his accent Cinq-Mars had nothing of the brusqueness which clothed his
      words. His voice was conciliatory, his look gentle, amiable, affectionate,
      his air as tranquil as it was determined. There was no indication of the
      slightest effort at control. De Thou remarked it, and sighed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alighting from the carriage with him, De Thou followed him up the great
      staircase of the Louvre. When they entered the Queen&rsquo;s apartment,
      announced by two ushers dressed in black and bearing ebony rods, she was
      seated at her toilette. This was a table of black wood, inlaid with
      tortoiseshell, mother-of-pearl, and brass, in an infinity of designs of
      very bad taste, but which give to all furniture an air of grandeur which
      we still admire in it. A mirror, rounded at the top, which the ladies of
      our time would consider small and insignificant, stood in the middle of
      the table, whereon were scattered jewels and necklaces.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anne of Austria, seated before it in a large armchair of crimson velvet,
      with long gold fringe, was as motionless and grave as on her throne, while
      Dona Stefania and Madame de Motteville, on either side, lightly touched
      her beautiful blond hair with a comb, as if finishing the Queen&rsquo;s
      coiffure, which, however, was already perfectly arranged and decorated
      with pearls. Her long tresses, though light, were exquisitely glossy,
      manifesting that to the touch they must be fine and soft as silk. The
      daylight fell without a shade upon her forehead, which had no reason to
      dread the test, itself reflecting an almost equal light from its
      surpassing fairness, which the Queen was pleased thus to display. Her blue
      eyes, blended with green, were large and regular, and her vermilion mouth
      had that underlip of the princesses of Austria, somewhat prominent and
      slightly cleft, in the form of a cherry, which may still be marked in all
      the female portraits of this time, whose painters seemed to have aimed at
      imitating the Queen&rsquo;s mouth, in order to please the women of her
      suite, whose desire was, no doubt, to resemble her.
    </p>
    <p>
      The black dress then adopted by the court, and of which the form was even
      fixed by an edict, set off the ivory of her arms, bare to the elbow, and
      ornamented with a profusion of lace, which flowed from her loose sleeves.
      Large pearls hung in her ears and from her girdle. Such was the appearance
      of the Queen at this moment. At her feet, upon two velvet cushions, a boy
      of four years old was playing with a little cannon, which he was
      assiduously breaking in pieces. This was the Dauphin, afterward Louis XIV.
      The Duchesse Marie de Mantua was seated on her right hand upon a stool.
      The Princesse de Guemenee, the Duchesse de Chevreuse, and Mademoiselle de
      Montbazon, Mesdemoiselles de Guise, de Rohan, and de Vendome, all
      beautiful and brilliant with youth, were behind her, standing. In the
      recess of a window, Monsieur, his hat under his arm, was talking in a low
      voice with a man, stout, with a red face and a steady and daring eye. This
      was the Duc de Bouillon. An officer about twenty-five years of age,
      well-formed, and of agreeable presence, had just given several papers to
      the Prince, which the Duc de Bouillon appeared to be explaining to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou, after having saluted the Queen, who said a few words to him,
      approached the Princesse de Guemenee, and conversed with her in an
      undertone, with an air of affectionate intimacy, but all the while intent
      upon his friend&rsquo;s interest. Secretly trembling lest he should have
      confided his destiny to a being less worthy of him than he wished, he
      examined the Princess Marie with the scrupulous attention, the
      scrutinizing eye of a mother examining the woman whom her son has selected
      for his bride&mdash;for he thought that Marie could not be altogether a
      stranger to the enterprise of Cinq-Mars. He saw with dissatisfaction that
      her dress, which was extremely elegant, appeared to inspire her with more
      vanity than became her on such an occasion. She was incessantly
      rearranging upon her forehead and her hair the rubies which ornamented her
      head, and which scarcely equalled the brilliancy and animated color of her
      complexion. She looked frequently at Cinq-Mars; but it was rather the look
      of coquetry than that of love, and her eyes often glanced toward the
      mirror on the toilette, in which she watched the symmetry of her beauty.
      These observations of the counsellor began to persuade him that he was
      mistaken in suspecting her to be the aim of Cinq-Mars, especially when he
      saw that she seemed to have a pleasure in sitting at the Queen&rsquo;s
      side, while the duchesses stood behind her, and that she often looked
      haughtily at them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In that heart of nineteen,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;love, were there
      love, would reign alone and above all to-day. It is not she!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen made an almost imperceptible movement of the head to Madame de
      Guemenee. After the two friends had spoken a moment with each person
      present, and at this sign, all the ladies, except Marie de Mantua, making
      profound courtesies, quitted the apartment without speaking, as if by
      previous arrangement. The Queen, then herself turning her chair, said to
      Monsieur:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother, I beg you will come and sit down by me. We will consult
      upon what I have already told you. The Princesse Marie will not be in the
      way. I begged her to remain. We have no interruption to fear.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen seemed more at ease in her manner and language; and no longer
      preserving her severe and ceremonious immobility, she signed to the other
      persons present to approach her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaston d&rsquo;Orleans, somewhat alarmed at this solemn opening, came
      carelessly, sat down on her right hand, and said with a half-smile and a
      negligent air, playing with his ruff and the chain of the Saint Esprit
      which hung from his neck:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think, Madame, that we shall fatigue the ears of so young a
      personage by a long conference. She would rather hear us speak of dances,
      and of marriage, of an elector, or of the King of Poland, for example.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie assumed a disdainful air; Cinq-Mars frowned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pardon me,&rdquo; replied the Queen, looking at her; &ldquo;I
      assure you the politics of the present time interest her much. Do not seek
      to escape us, my brother,&rdquo; added she, smiling. &ldquo;I have you
      to-day! It is the least we can do to listen to Monsieur de Bouillon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter approached, holding by the hand the young officer of whom we
      have spoken.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must first,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;present to your Majesty the
      Baron de Beauvau, who has just arrived from Spain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From Spain?&rdquo; said the Queen, with emotion. &ldquo;There is
      courage in that; you have seen my family?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will speak to you of them, and of the Count-Duke of Olivares. As
      to courage, it is not the first time he has shown it. He commanded the
      cuirassiers of the Comte de Soissons.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How? so young, sir! You must be fond of political wars.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On the contrary, your Majesty will pardon me,&rdquo; replied he,
      &ldquo;for I served with the princes of the peace.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Anne of Austria smiled at this jeu-de-mot. The Duc de Bouillon, seizing
      the moment to bring forward the grand question he had in view, quitted
      Cinq-Mars, to whom he had just given his hand with an air of the most
      zealous friendship, and approaching the Queen with him, &ldquo;It is
      miraculous, Madame,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that this period still contains
      in its bosom some noble characters, such as these;&rdquo; and he pointed
      to the master of the horse, to young Beauvau, and to De Thou. &ldquo;It is
      only in them that we can place our hope for the future. Such men are
      indeed very rare now, for the great leveller has swung a long scythe over
      France.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it of Time you speak,&rdquo; said the Queen, &ldquo;or of a real
      personage?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too real, too living, too long living, Madame!&rdquo; replied the
      Duke, becoming more animated; &ldquo;but his measureless ambition, his
      colossal selfishness can no longer be endured. All those who have noble
      hearts are indignant at this yoke; and at this moment, more than ever, we
      see misfortunes threatening us in the future. It must be said, Madame&mdash;yes,
      it is no longer time to blind ourselves to the truth, or to conceal it&mdash;the
      King&rsquo;s illness is serious. The moment for thinking and resolving has
      arrived, for the time to act is not far distant.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The severe and abrupt tone of M. de Bouillon did not surprise Anne of
      Austria; but she had always seen him more calm, and was, therefore,
      somewhat alarmed by the disquietude he betrayed. Quitting accordingly the
      tone of pleasantry which she had at first adopted, she said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! what fear you, and what would you do?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear nothing for myself, Madame, for the army of Italy or Sedan
      will always secure my safety; but I fear for you, and perhaps for the
      princes, your sons.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For my children, Monsieur le Duc, for the sons of France? Do you
      hear him, my brother, and do you not appear astonished?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen was deeply agitated.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Madame,&rdquo; said Gaston d&rsquo;Orleans, calmly; &ldquo;you
      know that I am accustomed to persecution. I am prepared to expect anything
      from that man. He is master; we must be resigned.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He master!&rdquo; exclaimed the Queen. &ldquo;And from whom does he
      derive his powers, if not from the King? And after the King, what hand
      will sustain him? Can you tell me? Who will prevent him from again
      returning to nothing? Will it be you or I?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be himself,&rdquo; interrupted M. de Bouillon, &ldquo;for
      he seeks to be named regent; and I know that at this moment he
      contemplates taking your children from you, and requiring the King to
      confide them to his care.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Take them from me!&rdquo; cried the mother, involuntarily seizing
      the Dauphin, and taking him in her arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      The child, standing between the Queen&rsquo;s knees, looked at the men who
      surrounded him with a gravity very singular for his age, and, seeing his
      mother in tears, placed his hand upon the little sword he wore.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Monseigneur,&rdquo; said the Duc de Bouillon, bending half down
      to address to him what he intended for the Princess, &ldquo;it is not
      against us that you must draw your sword, but against him who is
      undermining your throne. He prepares an empire for you, no doubt. You will
      have an absolute sceptre; but he has scattered the fasces which indicated
      it. Those fasces were your ancient nobility, whom he has decimated. When
      you are king, you will be a great king. I foresee it; but you will have
      subjects only, and no friends, for friendship exists only in independence
      and a kind of equality which takes its rise in force. Your ancestors had
      their peers; you will not have yours. May God aid you then, Monseigneur,
      for man may not do it without institutions! Be great; but above all,
      around you, a great man, let there be others as strong, so that if the one
      stumbles, the whole monarchy may not fall.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duc de Bouillon had a warmth of expression and a confidence of manner
      which captivated those who heard him. His valor, his keen perception in
      the field, the profundity of his political views, his knowledge of the
      affairs of Europe, his reflective and decided character, all rendered him
      one of the most capable and imposing men of his time-the only one, indeed,
      whom the Cardinal-Duc really feared. The Queen always listened to him with
      confidence, and allowed him to acquire a sort of empire over her. She was
      now more deeply moved than ever.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, would to God,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;that my son&rsquo;s
      mind was ripe for your counsels, and his arm strong enough to profit by
      them! Until that time, however, I will listen, I will act for him. It is I
      who should be, and it is I who shall be, regent. I will not resign this
      right save with life. If we must make war, we will make it; for I will do
      everything but submit to the shame and terror of yielding up the future
      Louis XIV to this crowned subject. Yes,&rdquo; she went on, coloring and
      closely pressing the young Dauphin&rsquo;s arm, &ldquo;yes, my brother,
      and you gentlemen, counsel me! Speak! how do we stand? Must I depart?
      Speak openly. As a woman, as a wife, I could have wept over so mournful a
      position; but now see, as a mother, I do not weep. I am ready to give you
      orders if it is necessary.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Never had Anne of Austria looked so beautiful as at this moment; and the
      enthusiasm she manifested electrified all those present, who needed but a
      word from her mouth to speak. The Duc de Bouillon cast a glance at
      Monsieur, which decided him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ma foi!&rdquo; said he, with deliberation, &ldquo;if you give
      orders, my sister, I will be the captain of your guards, on my honor, for
      I too am weary of the vexations occasioned me by this knave. He continues
      to persecute me, seeks to break off my marriage, and still keeps my
      friends in the Bastille, or has them assassinated from time to time; and
      besides, I am indignant,&rdquo; said he, recollecting himself and assuming
      a more solemn air, &ldquo;I am indignant at the misery of the people.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My brother,&rdquo; returned the Princess, energetically, &ldquo;I
      take you at your word, for with you, one must do so; and I hope that
      together we shall be strong enough for the purpose. Do only as Monsieur le
      Comte de Soissons did, but survive your victory. Side with me, as you did
      with Monsieur de Montmorency, but leap the ditch.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Gaston felt the point of this. He called to mind the well-known incident
      when the unfortunate rebel of Castelnaudary leaped almost alone a large
      ditch, and found on the other side seventeen wounds, a prison, and death
      in the sight of Monsieur, who remained motionless with his army. In the
      rapidity of the Queen&rsquo;s enunciation he had not time to examine
      whether she had employed this expression proverbially or with a direct
      reference; but at all events, he decided not to notice it, and was indeed
      prevented from doing so by the Queen, who continued, looking at Cinq-Mars:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, above all, no panic-terror! Let us know exactly where we are,
      Monsieur le Grand. You have just left the King. Is there fear with you?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      D&rsquo;Effiat had not ceased to observe Marie de Mantua, whose expressive
      countenance exhibited to him all her ideas far more rapidly and more
      surely than words. He read there the desire that he should speak&mdash;the
      desire that he should confirm the Prince and the Queen. An impatient
      movement of her foot conveyed to him her will that the thing should be
      accomplished, the conspiracy arranged. His face became pale and more
      pensive; he pondered for a moment, realizing that his destiny was
      contained in that hour. De Thou looked at him and trembled, for he knew
      him well. He would fain have said one word to him, only one word; but
      Cinq-Mars had already raised his head. He spoke:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not think, Madame, that the King is so ill as you suppose. God
      will long preserve to us this Prince. I hope so; I am even sure of it. He
      suffers, it is true, suffers much; but it is his soul more peculiarly that
      is sick, and of an evil which nothing can cure&mdash;of an evil which one
      would not wish to one&rsquo;s greatest enemy, and which would gain him the
      pity of the whole world if it were known. The end of his misery&mdash;that
      is to say, of his life&mdash;will not be granted him for a long time. His
      languor is entirely moral. There is in his heart a great revolution going
      on; he would accomplish it, and can not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The King has felt for many long years growing within him the seeds
      of a just hatred against a man to whom he thinks he owes gratitude, and it
      is this internal combat between his natural goodness and his anger that
      devours him. Every year that has passed has deposited at his feet, on one
      side, the great works of this man, and on the other, his crimes. It is the
      last which now weigh down the balance. The King sees them and is
      indignant; he would punish, but all at once he stops and weeps. If you
      could witness him thus, Madame, you would pity him. I have seen him seize
      the pen which was to sign his exile, dip it into the ink with a bold hand,
      and use it&mdash;for what?&mdash;to congratulate him on some recent
      success. He at once applauds himself for his goodness as a Christian,
      curses himself for his weakness as a sovereign judge, despises himself as
      a king. He seeks refuge in prayer, and plunges into meditation upon the
      future; then he rises terrified because he has seen in thought the
      tortures which this man merits, and how deeply no one knows better than
      he. You should hear him in these moments accuse himself of criminal
      weakness, and exclaim that he himself should be punished for not having
      known how to punish. One would say that there are spirits which order him
      to strike, for his arms are raised as he sleeps. In a word, Madame, the
      storm murmurs in his heart, but burns none but himself. The thunderbolts
      are chained.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, let us loose them!&rdquo; exclaimed the Duc de
      Bouillon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He who touches them may die of the contact,&rdquo; said Monsieur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But what a noble devotion!&rdquo; cried the Queen.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How I should admire the hero!&rdquo; said Marie, in a half-whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do it,&rdquo; answered Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will do it,&rdquo; said M. de Thou, in his ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Young Beauvau had approached the Duc de Bouillon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;do you forget what follows?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, &lsquo;pardieu&rsquo;! I do not forget it,&rdquo; replied the
      latter, in a low voice; then, addressing the Queen, &ldquo;Madame,&rdquo;
      said he, &ldquo;accept the offer of Monsieur le Grand. He is more in a
      position to sway the King than either you or I; but hold yourself
      prepared, for the Cardinal is too wary to be caught sleeping. I do not
      believe in his illness. I have no faith in the silence and immobility of
      which he has sought to persuade us these two years past. I would not
      believe in his death even, unless I had myself thrown his head into the
      sea, like that of the giant in Ariosto. Hold yourself ready to meet all
      contingencies, and let us, meanwhile, hasten our operations. I have shown
      my plans to Monsieur just now; I will give you a summary of them. I offer
      you Sedan, Madame, for yourself, and for Messeigneurs, your sons. The army
      of Italy is mine; I will recall it if necessary. Monsieur le Grand is
      master of half the camp of Perpignan. All the old Huguenots of La Rochelle
      and the South are ready to come to him at the first nod. All has been
      organized for a year past, by my care, to meet events.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should not hesitate,&rdquo; said the Queen, &ldquo;to place
      myself in your hands, to save my children, if any misfortune should happen
      to the King. But in this general plan you forget Paris.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is ours on every side; the people by the archbishop, without his
      suspecting it, and by Monsieur de Beaufort, who is its king; the troops by
      your guards and those of Monsieur, who shall be chief in command, if he
      please.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I! I! oh, that positively can not be! I have not enough people, and
      I must have a retreat stronger than Sedan,&rdquo; said Gaston.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It suffices for the Queen,&rdquo; replied M. de Bouillon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that may be! but my sister does not risk so much as a man who
      draws the sword. Do you know that these are bold measures you propose?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What, even if we have the King on our side?&rdquo; asked Anne of
      Austria.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Madame, yes; we do not know how long that may last. We must
      make ourselves sure; and I do nothing without the treaty with Spain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do nothing, then,&rdquo; said the Queen, coloring deeply; &ldquo;for
      certainly I will never hear that spoken of.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yet, Madame, it were more prudent, and Monsieur is right,&rdquo;
      said the Duc de Bouillon; &ldquo;for the Count-Duke of San Lucra offers us
      seventeen thousand men, tried troops, and five hundred thousand crowns in
      ready money.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; exclaimed the Queen, with astonishment, &ldquo;have
      you dared to proceed so far without my consent? already treaties with
      foreigners!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Foreigners, my sister! could we imagine that a princess of Spain
      would use that word?&rdquo; said Gaston.
    </p>
    <p>
      Anne of Austria rose, taking the Dauphin by the hand; and, leaning upon
      Marie: &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;I am a Spaniard; but I am
      the grand-daughter of Charles V, and I know that a queen&rsquo;s country
      is where her throne is. I leave you, gentlemen; proceed without me. I know
      nothing of the matter for the future.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She advanced some steps, but seeing Marie pale and bathed in tears, she
      returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, however, solemnly promise you inviolable secrecy; but
      nothing more.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      All were mentally disconcerted, except the Duc de Bouillon, who, not
      willing to lose the advantages he had gained, said to the Queen, bowing
      respectfully:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are grateful for this promise, Madame, and we ask no more,
      persuaded that after the first success you will be entirely with us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Not wishing to engage in a war of words, the Queen courtesied somewhat
      less coldly, and quitted the apartment with Marie, who cast upon Cinq-Mars
      one of those looks which comprehend at once all the emotions of the soul.
      He seemed to read in her beautiful eyes the eternal and mournful devotion
      of a woman who has given herself up forever; and he felt that if he had
      once thought of withdrawing from his enterprise, he should now have
      considered himself the basest of men.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the two princesses had disappeared, &ldquo;There, there! I told
      you so, Bouillon, you offended the Queen,&rdquo; said Monsieur; &ldquo;you
      went too far. You can not certainly accuse me of having been hesitating
      this morning. I have, on the contrary, shown more resolution than I ought
      to have done.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am full of joy and gratitude toward her Majesty,&rdquo; said M.
      de Bouillon, with a triumphant air; &ldquo;we are sure of the future. What
      will you do now, Monsieur de Cinq-Mars?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have told you, Monsieur; I draw not back, whatever the
      consequences. I will see the King; I will run every risk to obtain his
      assent.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the treaty with Spain?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou seized Cinq-Mars by the arm, and, advancing suddenly, said, with a
      solemn air:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have decided that it shall be only signed after the interview
      with the King; for should his Majesty&rsquo;s just severity toward the
      Cardinal dispense with it, we have thought it better not to expose
      ourselves to the discovery of so dangerous a treaty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      M. de Bouillon frowned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I did not know Monsieur de Thou,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I should
      have regarded this as a defection; but from him&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur,&rdquo; replied the counsellor, &ldquo;I think I may
      engage myself, on my honor, to do all that Monsieur le Grand does; we are
      inseparable.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars looked at his friend, and was astonished to see upon his mild
      countenance the expression of sombre despair; he was so struck with it
      that he had not the courage to gainsay him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is right, gentlemen,&rdquo; he said with a cold but kindly
      smile; &ldquo;the King will perhaps spare us much trouble. We may do good
      things with him. For the rest, Monseigneur, and you, Monsieur le Duc,&rdquo;
      he added with immovable firmness, &ldquo;fear not that I shall ever draw
      back. I have burned all the bridges behind me. I must advance; the
      Cardinal&rsquo;s power shall fall, or my head.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is strange, very strange!&rdquo; said Monsieur; &ldquo;I see
      that every one here is farther advanced in the conspiracy than I imagined.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so, Monsieur,&rdquo; said the Duc de Bouillon; &ldquo;we
      prepared only that which you might please to accept. Observe that there is
      nothing in writing. You have but to speak, and nothing exists or ever has
      existed; according to your order, the whole thing shall be a dream or a
      volcano.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, well, I am content, if it must be so,&rdquo; said Gaston;
      &ldquo;let us occupy ourselves with more agreeable topics. Thank God, we
      have a little time before us! I confess I wish that it were all over. I am
      not fitted for violent emotions; they affect my health,&rdquo; he added,
      taking M. de Beauvau&rsquo;s arm. &ldquo;Tell us if the Spanish women are
      still pretty, young man. It is said you are a great gallant among them.
      &lsquo;Tudieu&rsquo;! I&rsquo;m sure you&rsquo;ve got yourself talked of
      there. They tell me the women wear enormous petticoats. Well, I am not at
      all against that; they make the foot look smaller and prettier. I&rsquo;m
      sure the wife of Don Louis de Haro is not handsomer than Madame de
      Guemenee, is she? Come, be frank; I&rsquo;m told she looks like a nun. Ah!
      you do not answer; you are embarrassed. She has then taken your fancy; or
      you fear to offend our friend Monsieur de Thou in comparing her with the
      beautiful Guemenee. Well, let&rsquo;s talk of the customs; the King has a
      charming dwarf I&rsquo;m told, and they put him in a pie. He is a
      fortunate man, that King of Spain! I don&rsquo;t know another equally so.
      And the Queen, she is still served on bended knee, is she not? Ah! that is
      a good custom; we have lost it. It is very unfortunate&mdash;more
      unfortunate than may be supposed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And Gaston d&rsquo;Orleans had the confidence to speak in this tone nearly
      half an hour, with a young man whose serious character was not at all
      adapted to such conversation, and who, still occupied with the importance
      of the scene he had just witnessed and the great interests which had been
      discussed, made no answer to this torrent of idle words. He looked at the
      Duc de Bouillon with an astonished air, as if to ask him whether this was
      really the man whom they were going to place at the head of the most
      audacious enterprise that had ever been launched; while the Prince,
      without appearing to perceive that he remained unanswered, replied to
      himself, speaking with volubility, as he drew him gradually out of the
      room. He feared that one of the gentlemen present might recommence the
      terrible conversation about the treaty; but none desired to do so, unless
      it were the Duc de Bouillon, who, however, preserved an angry silence. As
      for Cinq-Mars, he had been led away by De Thou, under cover of the
      chattering of Monsieur, who took care not to appear to notice their
      departure.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      BOOK 5.
    </h2>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII. THE SECRET
    </h2>
    <p>
      De Thou had reached home with his friend; his doors were carefully shut,
      and orders given to admit no one, and to excuse him to the refugees for
      allowing them to depart without seeing them again; and as yet the two
      friends had not spoken to each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      The counsellor had thrown himself into his armchair in deep meditation.
      Cinq-Mars, leaning against the lofty chimneypiece, awaited with a serious
      and sorrowful air the termination of this silence. At length De Thou,
      looking fixedly at him and crossing his arms, said in a hollow and
      melancholy voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This, then, is the goal you have reached! These, the consequences
      of your ambition! You are are about to banish, perhaps slay, a man, and to
      bring then, a foreign army into France; I am, then, to see you an assassin
      and a traitor to your country! By what tortuous paths have you arrived
      thus far? By what stages have you descended so low?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Any other than yourself would not speak thus to me twice,&rdquo;
      said Cinq-Mars, coldly; &ldquo;but I know you, and I like this
      explanation. I desired it, and sought it. You shall see my entire soul. I
      had at first another thought, a better one perhaps, more worthy of our
      friendship, more worthy of friendship&mdash;friendship, the second thing
      upon earth.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He raised his eyes to heaven as he spoke, as if he there sought the
      divinity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it would have been better. I intended to have said nothing to
      you on the subject. It was a painful task to keep silence; but hitherto I
      have succeeded. I wished to have conducted the whole enterprise without
      you; to show you only the finished work. I wished to keep you beyond the
      circle of my danger; but shall I confess my weakness? I feared to die, if
      I have to die, misjudged by you. I can well sustain the idea of the world&rsquo;s
      malediction, but not of yours; but this has decided me upon avowing all to
      you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! and but for this thought, you would have had the courage to
      conceal yourself forever from me? Ah, dear Henri, what have I done that
      you should take this care of my life? By what fault have I deserved to
      survive you, if you die? You have had the strength of mind to hoodwink me
      for two whole years; you have never shown me aught of your life but its
      flowers; you have never entered my solitude but with a joyous countenance,
      and each time with a fresh favor. Ah, you must be very guilty or very
      virtuous!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not seek in my soul more than therein lies. Yes, I have deceived
      you; and that fact was the only peace and joy I had in the world. Forgive
      me for having stolen these moments from my destiny, so brilliant, alas! I
      was happy in the happiness you supposed me to enjoy; I made you happy in
      that dream, and I am only guilty in that I am now about to destroy it, and
      to show myself as I was and am. Listen: I shall not detain you long; the
      story of an impassioned heart is ever simple. Once before, I remember, in
      my tent when I was wounded, my secret nearly escaped me; it would have
      been happy, perhaps, had it done so. Yet what would counsel have availed
      me? I should not have followed it. In a word, &lsquo;tis Marie de Mantua
      whom I love.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! she who is to be Queen of Poland?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If she is ever queen, it can only be after my death. But listen:
      for her I became a courtier; for her I have almost reigned in France; for
      her I am about to fall&mdash;perhaps to die.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Die! fall! when I have been reproaching your triumph! when I have
      wept over the sadness of your victory!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! you know me but ill, if you suppose that I shall be the dupe of
      Fortune, when she smiles upon me; if you suppose that I have not pierced
      to the bottom of my destiny! I struggle against it, but &lsquo;tis the
      stronger I feel it. I have undertaken a task beyond human power; and I
      shall fail in it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, then, not stop? What is the use of intellect in the business
      of the world?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None; unless, indeed, it be to tell us the cause of our fall, and
      to enable us to foresee the day on which we shall fall. I can not now
      recede. When a man is confronted with such an enemy as Richelieu, he must
      overcome him or be crushed by him. Tomorrow I shall strike the last blow;
      did I not just now, in your presence, engage to do so?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And it is that very engagement that I would oppose. What confidence
      have you in those to whom you thus abandon your life? Have you not read
      their secret thoughts?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know them all; I have read their hopes through their feigned
      rage; I know that they tremble while they threaten. I know that even now
      they are ready to make their peace by giving me up; but it is my part to
      sustain them and to decide the King. I must do it, for Marie is my
      betrothed, and my death is written at Narbonne. It is voluntarily, it is
      with full knowledge of my fate, that I have thus placed myself between the
      block and supreme happiness. That happiness I must tear from the hands of
      Fortune, or die on that scaffold. At this instant I experience the joy of
      having broken down all doubt. What! blush you not at having thought me
      ambitious from a base egoism, like this Cardinal&mdash;ambitious from a
      puerile desire for a power which is never satisfied? I am ambitious, but
      it is because I love. Yes, I love; in that word all is comprised. But I
      accuse you unjustly. You have embellished my secret intentions; you have
      imparted to me noble designs (I remember them), high political
      conceptions. They are brilliant, they are grand, doubtless; but&mdash;shall
      I say it to you?&mdash;such vague projects for the perfecting of corrupt
      societies seem to me to crawl far below the devotion of love. When the
      whole soul vibrates with that one thought, it has no room for the nice
      calculation of general interests; the topmost heights of earth are far
      beneath heaven.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou shook his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can I answer?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;I do not understand you;
      your reasoning unreasons you. You hunt a shadow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nay,&rdquo; continued Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;far from destroying my
      strength, this inward fire has developed it. I have calculated everything.
      Slow steps have led me to the end which I am about to attain. Marie drew
      me by the hand; could I retreat? I would not have done it though a world
      faced me. Hitherto, all has gone well; but an invisible barrier arrests
      me. This barrier must be broken; it is Richelieu. But now in your presence
      I undertook to do this; but perhaps I was too hasty. I now think I was so.
      Let him rejoice; he expected me. Doubtless he foresaw that it would be the
      youngest whose patience would first fail. If he played on this
      calculation, he played well. Yet but for the love that has urged me on, I
      should have been stronger than he, and by just means.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then a sudden change came over the face of Cinq-Mars. He turned pale and
      red twice; and the veins of his forehead rose like blue lines drawn by an
      invisible hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he added, rising, and clasping together his hands with
      a force which indicated the violent despair concentred in his heart,
      &ldquo;all the torments with which love can tear its victims I have felt
      in my breast. This timid girl, for whom I would shake empires, for whom I
      have suffered all, even the favor of a prince, who perhaps has not felt
      all I have done for her, can not yet be mine. She is mine before God, yet
      I am estranged from her; nay, I must hear daily discussed before me which
      of the thrones of Europe will best suit her, in conversations wherein I
      may not even raise my voice to give an opinion, and in which they scorn as
      mate for her princes of the blood royal, who yet have precedence far
      before me. I must conceal myself like a culprit to hear through a grating
      the voice of her who is my wife; in public I must bow before her&mdash;her
      husband, yet her servant! &lsquo;Tis too much; I can not live thus. I must
      take the last step, whether it elevate me or hurl me down.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And for your personal happiness you would overthrow a State?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The happiness of the State is one with mine. I secure that
      undoubtedly in destroying the tyrant of the King. The horror with which
      this man inspires me has passed into my very blood. When I was first on my
      way to him, I encountered in my journey his greatest crime. He is the
      genius of evil for the unhappy King! I will exorcise him. I might have
      become the genius of good for Louis XIII. It was one of the thoughts of
      Marie, her most cherished thought. But I do not think I shall triumph in
      the uneasy soul of the Prince.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon what do you rely, then?&rdquo; said De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon the cast of a die. If his will can but once last for a few
      hours, I have gained. &lsquo;Tis a last calculation on which my destiny
      hangs.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And that of your Marie!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Could you suppose it?&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, impetuously. &ldquo;No,
      no! If he abandons me, I sign the treaty with Spain, and then-war!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, horror!&rdquo; exclaimed the counsellor. &ldquo;What, a war! a
      civil war, and a foreign alliance!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, &lsquo;tis a crime,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, coldly; &ldquo;but
      have I asked you to participate in it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cruel, ungrateful man!&rdquo; replied his friend; &ldquo;can you
      speak to me thus? Know you not, have I not proved to you, that friendship
      holds the place of every passion in my heart? Can I survive the least of
      your misfortunes, far less your death. Still, let me influence you not to
      strike France. Oh, my friend! my only friend! I implore you on my knees,
      let us not thus be parricides; let us not assassinate our country! I say
      us, because I will never separate myself from your actions. Preserve to me
      my self-esteem, for which I have labored so long; sully not my life and my
      death, which are both yours.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou had fallen at the feet of his friend, who, unable to preserve his
      affected coldness, threw himself into his arms, as he raised him, and,
      pressing him to his heart, said in a stifled voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why love me thus? What have you done, friend? Why love me? You who
      are wise, pure, and virtuous; you who are not led away by an insensate
      passion and the desire for vengeance; you whose soul is nourished only by
      religion and science&mdash;why love me? What has my friendship given you
      but anxiety and pain? Must it now heap dangers on you? Separate yourself
      from me; we are no longer of the same nature. You see courts have
      corrupted me. I have no longer openness, no longer goodness. I meditate
      the ruin of a man; I can deceive a friend. Forget me, scorn me. I am not
      worthy of one of your thoughts; how should I be worthy of your perils?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;By swearing to me not to betray the King and France,&rdquo;
      answered De Thou. &ldquo;Know you that the preservation of your country is
      at stake; that if you yield to Spain our fortifications, she will never
      return them to us; that your name will be a byword with posterity; that
      French mothers will curse it when they shall be forced to teach their
      children a foreign language&mdash;know you all this? Come.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he drew him toward the bust of Louis XIII.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Swear before him (he is your friend also), swear never to sign this
      infamous treaty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars lowered his eyes, but with dogged tenacity answered, although
      blushing as he did so:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have said it; if they force me to it, I will sign.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou turned pale, and let fall his hand. He took two turns in his room,
      his arms crossed, in inexpressible anguish. At last he advanced solemnly
      toward the bust of his father, and opened a large book standing at its
      foot; he turned to a page already marked, and read aloud:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think, therefore, that M. de Ligneboeuf was justly condemned to
      death by the Parliament of Rouen, for not having revealed the conspiracy
      of Catteville against the State.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then keeping the book respectfully opened in his hand, and contemplating
      the image of the President de Thou, whose Memoirs he held, he continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my father, you thought well.... I shall be a criminal, I shall
      merit death; but can I do otherwise? I will not denounce this traitor,
      because that also would be treason; and he is my friend, and he is
      unhappy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, advancing toward Cinq-Mars, and again taking his hand, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do much for you in acting thus; but expect nothing further from
      me, Monsieur, if you sign this treaty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars was moved to the heart&rsquo;s core by this scene, for he felt
      all that his friend must suffer in casting him off. Checking, however, the
      tears which were rising to his smarting lids, and embracing De Thou
      tenderly, he exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, De Thou, I find you still perfect. Yes, you do me a service in
      alienating yourself from me, for if your lot had been linked to mine, I
      should not have dared to dispose of my life. I should have hesitated to
      sacrifice it in case of need; but now I shall assuredly do so. And I
      repeat to you, if they force me, I shall sign the treaty with Spain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIX. THE HUNTING PARTY
    </h2>
    <p>
      Meanwhile the illness of Louis XIII threw France into the apprehension
      which unsettled States ever feel on the approach of the death of princes.
      Although Richelieu was the hub of the monarchy, he reigned only in the
      name of Louis, though enveloped with the splendor of the name which he had
      assumed. Absolute as he was over his master, Richelieu still feared him;
      and this fear reassured the nation against his ambitious desires, to which
      the King himself was the fixed barrier. But this prince dead, what would
      the imperious minister do? Where would a man stop who had already dared so
      much? Accustomed to wield the sceptre, who would prevent him from still
      holding it, and from subscribing his name alone to laws which he alone
      would dictate? These fears agitated all minds. The people in vain looked
      throughout the kingdom for those pillars of the nobility, at the feet of
      whom they had been wont to find shelter in political storms. They now only
      saw their recent tombs. Parliament was dumb; and men felt that nothing
      could be opposed to the monstrous growth of the Cardinal&rsquo;s usurping
      power. No one was entirely deceived by the affected sufferings of the
      minister. None was touched with that feigned agony which had too often
      deceived the public hope; and distance nowhere prevented the weight of the
      dreaded &lsquo;parvenu&rsquo; from being felt.
    </p>
    <p>
      The love of the people soon revived toward the son of Henri IV. They
      hastened to the churches; they prayed, and even wept. Unfortunate princes
      are always loved. The melancholy of Louis, and his mysterious sorrow
      interested all France; still living, they already regretted him, as if
      each man desired to be the depositary of his troubles ere he carried away
      with him the grand mystery of what is suffered by men placed so high that
      they can see nothing before them but their tomb.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King, wishing to reassure the whole nation, announced the temporary
      reestablishment of his health, and ordered the court to prepare for a
      grand hunting party to be given at Chambord&mdash;a royal domain, whither
      his brother, the Duc d&rsquo;Orleans, prayed him to return.
    </p>
    <p>
      This beautiful abode was the favorite retreat of Louis, doubtless because,
      in harmony with his feelings, it combined grandeur with sadness. He often
      passed whole months there, without seeing any one whatsoever, incessantly
      reading and re-reading mysterious papers, writing unknown documents, which
      he locked up in an iron coffer, of which he alone had the key. He
      sometimes delighted in being served by a single domestic, and thus so to
      forget himself by the absence of his suite as to live for many days
      together like a poor man or an exiled citizen, loving to figure to himself
      misery or persecution, in order the better to enjoy royalty afterward.
      Another time he would be in a more entire solitude; and having forbidden
      any human creature to approach him, clothed in the habit of a monk, he
      would shut himself up in the vaulted chapel. There, reading the life of
      Charles V, he would imagine himself at St. Just, and chant over himself
      that mass for the dead which brought death upon the head of the Spanish
      monarch.
    </p>
    <p>
      But in the midst of these very chants and meditations his feeble mind was
      pursued and distracted by contrary images. Never did life and the world
      appear to him more fair than in such times of solitude among the tombs.
      Between his eyes and the page which he endeavored to read passed brilliant
      processions, victorious armies, or nations transported with love. He saw
      himself powerful, combating, triumphant, adored; and if a ray of the sun
      through the large windows fell upon him, suddenly rising from the foot of
      the altar, he felt himself carried away by a thirst for daylight and the
      open air, which led him from his gloomy retreat. But returned to real
      life, he found there once more disgust and ennui, for the first men he met
      recalled his power to his recollection by their homage.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was then that he believed in friendship, and summoned it to his side;
      but scarcely was he certain of its possession than unconquerable scruples
      suddenly seized upon his soul-scruples concerning a too powerful
      attachment to the creature, turning him from the Creator, and frequently
      inward reproaches for removing himself too much from the affairs of the
      State. The object of his momentary affection then seemed to him a despotic
      being, whose power drew him from his duties; but, unfortunately for his
      favorites, he had not the strength of mind outwardly to manifest toward
      them the resentment he felt, and thus to warn them of their danger, but,
      continuing to caress them, he added by this constraint fuel to the secret
      fire of his heart, and was impelled to an absolute hatred of them. There
      were moments when he was capable of taking any measures against them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars knew perfectly the weakness of that mind, which could not keep
      firmly in any path, and the weakness of a heart which could neither wholly
      love nor wholly hate. Thus, the position of favorite, the envy of all
      France, the object of jealousy even on the part of the great minister, was
      so precarious and so painful that, but for his love, he would have burst
      his golden chains with greater joy than a galley-slave feels when he sees
      the last ring that for two long years he has been filing with a steel
      spring concealed in his mouth, fall to the earth. This impatience to meet
      the fate he saw so near hastened the explosion of that patiently prepared
      mine, as he had declared to his friend; but his situation was that of a
      man who, placed by the side of the book of life, should see hovering over
      it the hand which is to indite his damnation or his salvation. He set out
      with Louis to Chambord, resolved to take the first opportunity favorable
      to his design. It soon presented itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The very morning of the day appointed for the chase, the King sent word to
      him that he was waiting for him on the Escalier du Lys. It may not,
      perhaps, be out of place to speak of this astonishing construction.
    </p>
    <p>
      Four leagues from Blois, and one league from the Loire, in a small and
      deep valley, between marshy swamps and a forest of large holm-oaks, far
      from any highroad, the traveller suddenly comes upon a royal, nay, a magic
      castle. It might be said that, compelled by some wonderful lamp, a genie
      of the East had carried it off during one of the &ldquo;thousand and one
      nights,&rdquo; and had brought it from the country of the sun to hide it
      in the land of fogs and mist, for the dwelling of the mistress of a
      handsome prince.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hidden like a treasure; with its blue domes, its elegant minarets rising
      from thick walls or shooting into the air, its long terraces overlooking
      the wood, its light spires bending with the wind, its terraces everywhere
      rising over its colonnades, one might there imagine one&rsquo;s self in
      the kingdom of Bagdad or of Cashmir, did not the blackened walls, with
      their covering of moss and ivy, and the pallid and melancholy hue of the
      sky, denote a rainy climate. It was indeed a genius who raised this
      building; but he came from Italy, and his name was Primaticcio. It was
      indeed a handsome prince whose amours were concealed in it; but he was a
      king, and he bore the name of Francois I. His salamander still spouts fire
      everywhere about it. It sparkles in a thousand places on the arched roofs,
      and multiplies the flames there like the stars of heaven; it supports the
      capitals with burning crowns; it colors the windows with its fires; it
      meanders up and down the secret staircases, and everywhere seems to devour
      with its flaming glances the triple crescent of a mysterious Diane&mdash;that
      Diane de Poitiers, twice a goddess and twice adored in these voluptuous
      woods.
    </p>
    <p>
      The base of this strange monument is like the monument itself, full of
      elegance and mystery; there is a double staircase, which rises in two
      interwoven spirals from the most remote foundations of the edifice up to
      the highest points, and ends in a lantern or small lattice-work cabinet,
      surmounted by a colossal fleur-de-lys, visible from a great distance. Two
      men may ascend it at the same moment, without seeing each other.
    </p>
    <p>
      This staircase alone seems like a little isolated temple. Like our
      churches, it is sustained and protected by the arcades of its thin, light,
      transparent, openwork wings. One would think the docile stone had given
      itself to the finger of the architect; it seems, so to speak, kneaded
      according to the slightest caprice of his imagination. One can hardly
      conceive how the plans were traced, in what terms the orders were
      explained to the workmen. The whole thing appears a transient thought, a
      brilliant revery that at once assumed a durable form&mdash;-the
      realization of a dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars was slowly ascending the broad stairs which led him to the King&rsquo;s
      presence, and stopping longer at each step, in proportion as he approached
      him, either from disgust at the idea of seeing the Prince whose daily
      complaints he had to hear, or thinking of what he was about to do, when
      the sound of a guitar struck his ear. He recognized the beloved instrument
      of Louis and his sad, feeble, and trembling voice faintly reechoing from
      the vaulted ceiling. Louis seemed trying one of those romances which he
      was wont to compose, and several times repeated an incomplete strain with
      a trembling hand. The words could scarcely be distinguished; all that
      Cinq-Mars heard were a few such as &lsquo;Abandon, ennui de monde, et
      belle flamme.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young favorite shrugged his shoulders as he listened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What new chagrin moves thee?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Come, let me
      again attempt to read that chilled heart which thinks it needs something.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He entered the narrow cabinet.
    </p>
    <p>
      Clothed in black, half reclining on a couch, his elbows resting upon
      pillows, the Prince was languidly touching the chords of his guitar; he
      ceased this when he saw the grand ecuyer enter, and, raising his large
      eyes to him with an air of reproach, swayed his head to and fro for a long
      time without speaking. Then in a plaintive but emphatic tone, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do I hear, Cinq-Mars? What do I hear of your conduct? How much
      you do pain me by forgetting all my counsels! You have formed a guilty
      intrigue; was it from you I was to expect such things&mdash;you whom I so
      loved for your piety and virtue?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Full of his political projects, Cinq-Mars thought himself discovered, and
      could not help a momentary anxiety; but, perfectly master of himself, he
      answered without hesitation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Sire; and I was about to declare it to you, for I am
      accustomed to open my soul to you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Declare it to me!&rdquo; exclaimed the King, turning red and white,
      as under the shivering of a fever; &ldquo;and you dare to contaminate my
      ears with these horrible avowals, Monsieur, and to speak so calmly of your
      disorder! Go! you deserve to be condemned to the galley, like Rondin; it
      is a crime of high treason you have committed in your want of faith toward
      me. I had rather you were a coiner, like the Marquis de Coucy, or at the
      head of the Croquants, than do as you have done; you dishonor your family,
      and the memory of the marechal your father.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars, deeming himself wholly lost, put the best face he could upon
      the matter, and said with an air of resignation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, Sire, send me to be judged and put to death; but spare
      me your reproaches.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you insult me, you petty country-squire?&rdquo; answered Louis.
      &ldquo;I know very well that you have not incurred the penalty of death in
      the eyes of men; but it is at the tribunal of God, Monsieur, that you will
      be judged.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens, Sire!&rdquo; replied the impetuous young man, whom the
      insulting phrase of the King had offended, &ldquo;why do you not allow me
      to return to the province you so much despise, as I have sought to do a
      hundred times? I will go there. I can not support the life I lead with
      you; an angel could not bear it. Once more, let me be judged if I am
      guilty, or allow me to return to Touraine. It is you who have ruined me in
      attaching me to your person. If you have caused me to conceive lofty
      hopes, which you afterward overthrew, is that my fault? Wherefore have you
      made me grand ecuyer, if I was not to rise higher? In a word, am I your
      friend or not? and, if I am, why may I not be duke, peer, or even
      constable, as well as Monsieur de Luynes, whom you loved so much because
      he trained falcons for you? Why am I not admitted to the council? I could
      speak as well as any of the old ruffs there; I have new ideas, and a
      better arm to serve you. It is your Cardinal who has prevented you from
      summoning me there. And it is because he keeps you from me that I detest
      him,&rdquo; continued Cinq-Mars, clinching his fist, as if Richelieu stood
      before him; &ldquo;yes, I would kill him with my own hand, if need were.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      D&rsquo;Effiat&rsquo;s eyes were inflamed with anger; he stamped his foot
      as he spoke, and turned his back to the King, like a sulky child, leaning
      against one of the columns of the cupola.
    </p>
    <p>
      Louis, who recoiled before all resolution, and who was always terrified by
      the irreparable, took his hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      O weakness of power! O caprices of the human heart! it was by this
      childish impetuosity, these very defects of his age, that this young man
      governed the King of France as effectually as did the first politician of
      the time. This Prince believed, and with some show of reason, that a
      character so hasty must be sincere; and even his fiery rage did not anger
      him. It did not apply to the real subject of his reproaches, and he could
      well pardon him for hating the Cardinal. The very idea of his favorite&rsquo;s
      jealousy of the minister pleased him, because it indicated attachment; and
      all he dreaded was his indifference. Cinq-Mars knew this, and had desired
      to make it a means of escape, preparing the King to regard all that he had
      done as child&rsquo;s play, as the consequence of his friendship for him;
      but the danger was not so great, and he breathed freely when the Prince
      said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Cardinal is not in question here. I love him no more than you
      do; but it is with your scandalous conduct I reproach you, and which I
      shall have much difficulty to pardon in you. What, Monsieur! I learn that
      instead of devoting yourself to the pious exercises to which I have
      accustomed you, when I fancy you are at your Salut or your Angelus&mdash;you
      are off from Saint Germain, and go to pass a portion of the night&mdash;with
      whom? Dare I speak of it without sin? With a woman lost in reputation, who
      can have no relations with you but such as are pernicious to the safety of
      your soul, and who receives free-thinkers at her house&mdash;in a word,
      Marion de Lorme. What have you to say? Speak.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Leaving his hand in that of the King, but still leaning against the
      column, Cinq-Mars answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it then so culpable to leave grave occupations for others more
      serious still? If I go to the house of Marion de Lorme, it is to hear the
      conversation of the learned men who assemble there. Nothing is more
      harmless than these meetings. Readings are given there which, it is true,
      sometimes extend far into the night, but which commonly tend to exalt the
      soul, so far from corrupting it. Besides, you have never commanded me to
      account to you for all that I do; I should have informed you of this long
      ago if you had desired it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Cinq-Mars, Cinq-Mars! where is your confidence? Do you feel no
      need of it? It is the first condition of a perfect friendship, such as
      ours ought to be, such as my heart requires.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice of Louis became more affectionate, and the favorite, looking at
      him over his shoulder, assumed an air less angry, but still simply ennuye,
      and resigned to listening to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How often have you deceived me!&rdquo; continued the King; &ldquo;can
      I trust myself to you? Are they not fops and gallants whom you meet at the
      house of this woman? Do not courtesans go there?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heavens! no, Sire; I often go there with one of my friends&mdash;a
      gentleman of Touraine, named Rene Descartes.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Descartes! I know that name! Yes, he is an officer who
      distinguished himself at the siege of Rochelle, and who dabbles in
      writing; he has a good reputation for piety, but he is connected with
      Desbarreaux, who is a free-thinker. I am sure that you must mix with many
      persons who are not fit company for you, many young men without family,
      without birth. Come, tell me whom saw you last there?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Truly, I can scarcely remember their names,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars,
      looking at the ceiling; &ldquo;sometimes I do not even ask them. There
      was, in the first place, a certain Monsieur&mdash;Monsieur Groot, or
      Grotius, a Hollander.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know him, a friend of Barnevelt; I pay him a pension. I liked him
      well enough; but the Card&mdash;but I was told that he was a high
      Calvinist.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I also saw an Englishman, named John Milton; he is a young man just
      come from Italy, and is returning to London. He scarcely speaks at all.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know him&mdash;not at all; but I&rsquo;m sure he&rsquo;s
      some other Calvinist. And the Frenchmen, who were they?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The young man who wrote Cinna, and who has been thrice rejected at
      the Academie Francaise; he was angry that Du Royer occupied his place
      there. He is called Corneille.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said the King, folding his arms, and looking at him
      with an air of triumph and reproach, &ldquo;I ask you who are these
      people? Is it in such a circle that you ought to be seen?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars was confounded at this observation, which hurt his self-pride,
      and, approaching the King, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right, Sire; but there can be no harm in passing an hour or
      two in listening to good conversation. Besides, many courtiers go there,
      such as the Duc de Bouillon, Monsieur d&rsquo;Aubijoux, the Comte de
      Brion, the Cardinal de la Vallette, Messieurs de Montresor, Fontrailles;
      men illustrious in the sciences, as Mairet, Colletet, Desmarets, author of
      Araine; Faret, Doujat, Charpentier, who wrote the Cyropedie; Giry, Besons,
      and Baro, the continuer of Astree&mdash;all academicians.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! now, indeed, here are men of real merit,&rdquo; said Louis;
      &ldquo;there is nothing to be said against them. One can not but gain from
      their society. Theirs are settled reputations; they&rsquo;re men of
      weight. Come, let us make up; shake hands, child. I permit you to go there
      sometimes, but do not deceive me any more; you see I know all. Look at
      this.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, the King took from a great iron chest set against the wall
      enormous packets of paper scribbled over with very fine writing. Upon one
      was written, Baradas, upon another, D&rsquo;Hautefort, upon a third, La
      Fayette, and finally, Cinq-Mars. He stopped at the latter, and continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See how many times you have deceived me! These are the continual
      faults of which I have myself kept a register during the two years I have
      known you; I have written out our conversations day by day. Sit down.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars obeyed with a sigh, and had the patience for two long hours to
      listen to a summary of what his master had had the patience to write
      during the course of two years. He yawned many times during the reading,
      as no doubt we should all do, were it needful to report this dialogue,
      which was found in perfect order, with his will, at the death of the King.
      We shall only say that he finished thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In fine, hear what you did on the seventh of December, three days
      ago. I was speaking to you of the flight of the hawk, and of the knowledge
      of hunting, in which you are deficient. I said to you, on the authority of
      La Chasse Royale, a work of King Charles IX, that after the hunter has
      accustomed his dog to follow a beast, he must consider him as of himself
      desirous of returning to the wood, and the dog must not be rebuked or
      struck in order to make him follow the track well; and that in order to
      teach a dog to set well, creatures that are not game must not be allowed
      to pass or run, nor must any scents be missed, without putting his nose to
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear what you replied to me (and in a tone of ill-humor&mdash;mind
      that!) &lsquo;Ma foi! Sire, give me rather regiments to conduct than birds
      and dogs. I am sure that people would laugh at you and me if they knew how
      we occupy ourselves.&rsquo; And on the eighth&mdash;wait, yes, on the
      eighth&mdash;while we were singing vespers together in my chambers, you
      threw your book angrily into the fire, which was an impiety; and afterward
      you told me that you had let it drop&mdash;a sin, a mortal sin. See, I
      have written below, lie, underlined. People never deceive me, I assure
      you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Sire&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wait a moment! wait a moment! In the evening you told me the
      Cardinal had burned a man unjustly, and out of personal hatred.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I repeat it, and maintain it, and will prove it, Sire. It is
      the greatest crime of all of that man whom you hesitate to disgrace, and
      who renders you unhappy. I myself saw all, heard, all, at Loudun. Urbain
      Grandier was assassinated, rather than tried. Hold, Sire, since you have
      there all those memoranda in your own hand, merely reperuse the proofs
      which I then gave you of it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Louis, seeking the page indicated, and going back to the journey from
      Perpignan to Paris, read the whole narrative with attention, exclaiming:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What horrors! How is it that I have forgotten all this? This man
      fascinates me; that&rsquo;s certain. You are my true friend, Cinq-Mars.
      What horrors! My reign will be stained by them. What! he prevented the
      letters of all the nobility and notables of the district from reaching me!
      Burn, burn alive! without proofs! for revenge! A man, a people have
      invoked my name in vain; a family curses me! Oh, how unhappy are kings!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And the Prince, as he concluded, threw aside his papers and wept.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Sire, those are blessed tears that you weep!&rdquo; exclaimed
      Cinq-Mars, with sincere admiration. &ldquo;Would that all France were here
      with me! She would be astonished at this spectacle, and would scarcely
      believe it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Astonished! France, then, does not know me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, Sire,&rdquo; said D&rsquo;Effiat, frankly; &ldquo;no one knows
      you. And I myself, with the rest of the world, at times accuse you of
      coldness and indifference.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of coldness, when I am dying with sorrow! Of coldness, when I have
      immolated myself to their interests! Ungrateful nation! I have sacrificed
      all to it, even pride, even the happiness of guiding it myself, because I
      feared on its account for my fluctuating life. I have given my sceptre to
      be borne by a man I hate, because I believed his hand to be stronger than
      my own. I have endured the ill he has done to myself, thinking that he did
      good to my people. I have hidden my own tears to dry theirs; and I see
      that my sacrifice has been even greater than I thought it, for they have
      not perceived it. They have believed me incapable because I was kind, and
      without power because I mistrusted my own. But, no matter! God sees and
      knows me!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Sire, show yourself to France such as you are; reassume your
      usurped power. France will do for your love what she would never do from
      fear. Return to life, and reascend the throne.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no; my life is well-nigh finished, my dear friend. I am no
      longer capable of the labor of supreme command.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Sire, this persuasion alone destroys your vigor. It is time
      that men should cease to confound power with crime, and call this union
      genius. Let your voice be heard proclaiming to the world that the reign of
      virtue is about to begin with your own; and hence forth those enemies whom
      vice has so much difficulty in suppressing will fall before a word uttered
      from your heart. No one has as yet calculated all that the good faith of a
      king of France may do for his people&mdash;that people who are drawn so
      instantaneously to ward all that is good and beautiful, by their
      imagination and warmth of soul, and who are always ready with every kind
      of devotion. The King, your father, led us with a smile. What would not
      one of your tears do?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      During this address the King, very much surprised, frequently reddened,
      hemmed, and gave signs of great embarrassment, as always happened when any
      attempt was made to bring him to a decision. He also felt the approach of
      a conversation of too high an order, which the timidity of his soul
      forbade him to venture upon; and repeatedly putting his hand to his chest,
      knitting his brows as if suffering violent pain, he endeavored to relieve
      himself by the apparent attack of illness from the embarrassment of
      answering. But, either from passion, or from a resolution to strike the
      crowning blow, Cinq-Mars went on calmly and with a solemnity that awed
      Louis, who, forced into his last intrenchments, at length said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Cinq-Mars, how can I rid myself of a minister who for eighteen
      years past has surrounded me with his creatures?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is not so very powerful,&rdquo; replied the grand ecuyer;
      &ldquo;and his friends will be his most sure enemies if you but make a
      sign of your head. The ancient league of the princes of peace still
      exists, Sire, and it is only the respect due to the choice of your Majesty
      that prevents it from manifesting itself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, mon Dieu! thou mayst tell them not to stop on my account. I
      would not restrain them; they surely do not accuse me of being a
      Cardinalist. If my brother will give me the means of replacing Richelieu,
      I will adopt them with all my heart.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I believe, Sire, that he will to-day speak to you of Monsieur le
      Duc de Bouillon. All the Royalists demand him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t dislike him,&rdquo; said the King, arranging his
      pillows; &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t dislike him at all, although he is somewhat
      factious. We are relatives. Knowest thou, chez ami&rdquo;&mdash;and he
      placed on this favorite expression more emphasis than usual&mdash;&ldquo;knowest
      thou that he is descended in direct line from Saint Louis, by Charlotte de
      Bourbon, daughter of the Duc de Montpensier? Knowest thou that seven
      princes of the blood royal have been united to his house; and eight
      daughters of his family, one of whom was a queen, have been married to
      princes of the blood royal? Oh, I don&rsquo;t at all dislike him! I have
      never said so, never!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Sire,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, with confidence, &ldquo;Monsieur
      and he will explain to you during the hunt how all is prepared, who are
      the men that may be put in the place of his creatures, who the
      field-marshals and the colonels who may be depended upon against Fabert
      and the Cardinalists of Perpignan. You will see that the minister has very
      few for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Queen, Monsieur, the nobility, and the parliaments are on our
      side; and the thing is done from the moment that your Majesty is not
      opposed to it. It has been proposed to get rid of the Cardinal as the
      Marechal d&rsquo;Ancre was got rid of, who deserved it less than he.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As Concini?&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;Oh, no, it must not be. I
      positively can not consent to it. He is a priest and a cardinal. We shall
      be excommunicated. But if there be any other means, I am very willing.
      Thou mayest speak of it to thy friends; and I on my side will think of the
      matter.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The word once spoken, the King gave himself up to his resentment, as if he
      had satisfied it, as if the blow were already struck. Cinq-Mars was vexed
      to see this, for he feared that his anger thus vented might not be of long
      duration. However, he put faith in his last words, especially when, after
      numberless complaints, Louis added:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And would you believe that though now for two years I have mourned
      my mother, ever since that day when he so cruelly mocked me before my
      whole court by asking for her recall when he knew she was dead&mdash;ever
      since that day I have been trying in vain to get them to bury her in
      France with my fathers? He has exiled even her ashes.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment Cinq-Mars thought he heard a sound on the staircase; the
      King reddened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;go! Make haste and prepare for the hunt!
      Thou wilt ride next to my carriage. Go quickly! I desire it; go!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he himself pushed Cinq-Mars toward the entrance by which he had come.
    </p>
    <p>
      The favorite went out; but his master&rsquo;s anxiety had not escaped him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He slowly descended, and tried to divine the cause of it in his mind, when
      he thought he heard the sound of feet ascending the other staircase. He
      stopped; they stopped. He re-ascended; they seemed to him to descend. He
      knew that nothing could be seen between the interstices of the
      architecture; and he quitted the place, impatient and very uneasy, and
      determined to remain at the door of the entrance to see who should come
      out. But he had scarcely raised the tapestry which veiled the entrance to
      the guardroom than he was surrounded by a crowd of courtiers who had been
      awaiting him, and was fain to proceed to the work of issuing the orders
      connected with his post, or to receive respects, communications,
      solicitations, presentations, recommendations, embraces&mdash;to observe
      that infinitude of relations which surround a favorite, and which require
      constant and sustained attention, for any absence of mind might cause
      great misfortunes. He thus almost forgot the trifling circumstance which
      had made him uneasy, and which he thought might after all have only been a
      freak of the imagination. Giving himself up to the sweets of a kind of
      continual apotheosis, he mounted his horse in the great courtyard,
      attended by noble pages, and surrounded by brilliant gentlemen.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur soon arrived, followed by his people; and in an hour the King
      appeared, pale, languishing, and supported by four men. Cinq-Mars,
      dismounting, assisted him into a kind of small and very low carriage,
      called a brouette, and the horses of which, very docile and quiet ones,
      the King himself drove. The prickers on foot at the doors held the dogs in
      leash; and at the sound of the horn scores of young nobles mounted, and
      all set out to the place of meeting.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was a farm called L&rsquo;Ormage that the King had fixed upon; and the
      court, accustomed to his ways, followed the many roads of the park, while
      the King slowly followed an isolated path, having at his side the grand
      ecuyer and four persons whom he had signed to approach him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The aspect of this pleasure party was sinister. The approach of winter had
      stripped well-nigh all the leaves from the great oaks in the park, whose
      dark branches now stood up against a gray sky, like branches of funereal
      candelabra. A light fog seemed to indicate rain; through the melancholy
      boughs of the thinned wood the heavy carriages of the court were seen
      slowly passing on, filled with women, uniformly dressed in black, and
      obliged to await the result of a chase which they did not witness. The
      distant hounds gave tongue, and the horn was sometimes faintly heard like
      a sigh. A cold, cutting wind compelled every man to don cloaks, and some
      of the women, putting over their faces a veil or mask of black velvet to
      keep themselves from the air which the curtains of their carriages did not
      intercept (for there were no glasses at that time), seemed to wear what is
      called a domino. All was languishing and sad. The only relief was that
      ever and anon groups of young men in the excitement of the chase flew down
      the avenue like the wind, cheering on the dogs or sounding their horns.
      Then all again became silent, as after the discharge of fireworks the sky
      appears darker than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a path, parallel with that followed by the King, were several courtiers
      enveloped in their cloaks. Appearing little intent upon the stag, they
      rode step for step with the King&rsquo;s brouette, and never lost sight of
      him. They conversed in low tones.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Excellent! Fontrailles, excellent! victory! The King takes his arm
      every moment. See how he smiles upon him! See! Monsieur le Grand dismounts
      and gets into the brouette by his side. Come, come, the old fox is done at
      last!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s nothing! Did you not see how the King shook hands
      with Monsieur? He&rsquo;s made a sign to you, Montresor. Look, Gondi!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look, indeed! That&rsquo;s very easy to say; but I don&rsquo;t see
      with my own eyes. I have only those of faith, and yours. Well, what are
      they doing now? I wish to Heaven I were not so near-sighted! Tell me, what
      are they doing?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Montresor answered, &ldquo;The King bends his ear toward the Duc de
      Bouillon, who is speaking to him; he speaks again! he gesticulates! he
      does not cease! Oh, he&rsquo;ll be minister!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will be minister!&rdquo; said Fontrailles.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will be minister!&rdquo; echoed the Comte du Lude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no doubt of it!&rdquo; said Montresor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope he&rsquo;ll give me a regiment, and I&rsquo;ll marry my
      cousin,&rdquo; cried Olivier d&rsquo;Entraigues, with boyish vivacity.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Abbe de Gondi sneered, and, looking up at the sky, began to sing to a
      hunting tune.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
       &ldquo;Les etourneaux ont le vent bon,
        Ton ton, ton ton, ton taine, ton ton&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think, gentlemen, you are more short-sighted than I, or else
      miracles will come to pass in the year of grace 1642; for Monsieur de
      Bouillon is no nearer being Prime-Minister, though the King do embrace
      him, than I. He has good qualities, but he will not do; his qualities are
      not various enough. However, I have much respect for his great and
      singularly foolish town of Sedan, which is a fine shelter in case of need.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Montresor and the rest were too attentive to every gesture of the Prince
      to answer him; and they continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;See, Monsieur le Grand takes the reins, and is driving.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Abbe replied with the same air:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
       &ldquo;Si vous conduisez ma brouette,
        Ne versez pas, beau postillon,
        Ton ton, ton ton, ton taine, ton ton.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Abbe, your songs will drive me mad!&rdquo; said Fontrailles.
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got airs ready for every event in life.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will also find you events which shall go to all the airs,&rdquo;
      answered Gondi.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, the air of these pleases me!&rdquo; said Fontrailles, in an
      under voice. &ldquo;I shall not be obliged by Monsieur to carry his
      confounded treaty to Madrid, and I am not sorry for it; it is a somewhat
      touchy commission. The Pyrenees are not so easily passed as may be
      supposed; the Cardinal is on the road.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! Ha!&rdquo; cried Montresor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! Ha!&rdquo; said Olivier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what is the matter with you? ah, ah!&rdquo; asked Gondi.
      &ldquo;What have you discovered that is so great?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, the King has again shaken hands with Monsieur. Thank Heaven,
      gentlemen, we&rsquo;re rid of the Cardinal! The old boar is hunted down.
      Who will stick the knife into him? He must be thrown into the sea.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s too good for him,&rdquo; said Olivier; &ldquo;he must
      be tried.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Certainly,&rdquo; said the Abbe; &ldquo;and we sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t
      want for charges against an insolent fellow who has dared to discharge a
      page, shall we?&rdquo; Then, curbing his horse, and letting Olivier and
      Montresor pass on, he leaned toward M. du Lude, who was talking with two
      other serious personages, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In truth, I am tempted to let my valet-de-chambre into the secret;
      never was a conspiracy treated so lightly. Great enterprises require
      mystery. This would be an admirable one if some trouble were taken with
      it. &lsquo;Tis in itself a finer one than I have ever read of in history.
      There is stuff enough in it to upset three kingdoms, if necessary, and the
      blockheads will spoil all. It is really a pity. I should be very sorry. I&rsquo;ve
      a taste for affairs of this kind; and in this one in particular I feel a
      special interest. There is grandeur about it, as can not be denied. Do you
      not think so, D&rsquo;Aubijoux, Montmort?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While he was speaking, several large and heavy carriages, with six and
      four horses, followed the same path at two hundred paces behind these
      gentlemen; the curtains were open on the left side through which to see
      the King. In the first was the Queen; she was alone at the back, clothed
      in black and veiled. On the box was the Marechale d&rsquo;Effiat; and at
      the feet of the Queen was the Princesse Marie. Seated on one side on a
      stool, her robe and her feet hung out of the carriage, and were supported
      by a gilt step&mdash;for, as we have already observed, there were then no
      doors to the coaches. She also tried to see through the trees the
      movements of the King, and often leaned back, annoyed by the passing of
      the Prince-Palatine and his suite.
    </p>
    <p>
      This northern Prince was sent by the King of Poland, apparently on a
      political negotiation, but in reality, to induce the Duchesse de Mantua to
      espouse the old King Uladislas VI; and he displayed at the court of France
      all the luxury of his own, then called at Paris &ldquo;barbarian and
      Scythian,&rdquo; and so far justified these names by strange eastern
      costumes. The Palatine of Posnania was very handsome, and wore, in common
      with the people of his suite, a long, thick beard. His head, shaved like
      that of a Turk, was covered with a furred cap. He had a short vest,
      enriched with diamonds and rubies; his horse was painted red, and amply
      plumed. He was attended by a company of Polish guards in red and yellow
      uniforms, wearing large cloaks with long sleeves, which hung negligently
      from the shoulder. The Polish lords who escorted him were dressed in gold
      and silver brocade; and behind their shaved heads floated a single lock of
      hair, which gave them an Asiatic and Tartar aspect, as unknown at the
      court of Louis XIII as that of the Moscovites. The women thought all this
      rather savage and alarming.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie de Mantua was importuned with the profound salutations and Oriental
      elegancies of this foreigner and his suite. Whenever he passed before her,
      he thought himself called upon to address a compliment to her in broken
      French, awkwardly made up of a few words about hope and royalty. She found
      no other means to rid herself of him than by repeatedly putting her
      handkerchief to her nose, and saying aloud to the Queen:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In truth, Madame, these gentlemen have an odor about them that
      makes one quite ill.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It will be desirable to strengthen your nerves and accustom
      yourself to it,&rdquo; answered Anne of Austria, somewhat dryly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, fearing she had hurt her feelings, she continued gayly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will become used to them, as we have done; and you know that in
      respect to odors I am rather fastidious. Monsieur Mazarin told me, the
      other day, that my punishment in purgatory will consist in breathing ill
      scents and sleeping in Russian cloth.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet the Queen was very grave, and soon subsided into silence. Burying
      herself in her carriage, enveloped in her mantle, and apparently taking no
      interest in what was passing around her, she yielded to the motion of the
      carriage. Marie, still occupied with the King, talked in a low voice with
      the Marechale d&rsquo;Effiat; each sought to give the other hopes which
      neither felt, and sought to deceive each other out of love.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame, I congratulate you; Monsieur le Grand is seated with the
      King. Never has he been so highly distinguished,&rdquo; said Marie.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then she was silent for a long time, and the carriage rolled mournfully
      over the dead, dry leaves.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, I see it with joy; the King is so good!&rdquo; answered the
      Marechale.
    </p>
    <p>
      And she sighed deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      A long and sad silence again followed; each looked at the other and
      mutually found their eyes full of tears. They dared not speak again; and
      Marie, drooping her head, saw nothing but the brown, damp earth scattered
      by the wheels. A melancholy revery occupied her mind; and although she had
      before her the spectacle of the first court of Europe at the feet of him
      she loved, everything inspired her with fear, and dark presentiments
      involuntarily agitated her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly a horse passed by her like the wind; she raised her eyes, and had
      just time to see the features of Cinq-Mars. He did not look at her; he was
      pale as a corpse, and his eyes were hidden under his knitted brows and the
      shadows of his lowered hat. She followed him with trembling eyes; she saw
      him stop in the midst of the group of cavaliers who preceded the
      carriages, and who received him with their hats off.
    </p>
    <p>
      A moment after he went into the wood with one of them, looking at her from
      the distance, and following her with his eyes until the carriage had
      passed; then he seemed to give the man a roll of papers, and disappeared.
      The mist which was falling prevented her from seeing him any more. It was,
      indeed, one of those fogs so frequent on the banks of the Loire.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sun looked at first like a small blood-red moon, enveloped in a
      tattered shroud, and within half an hour was concealed under so thick a
      cloud that Marie could scarcely distinguish the foremost horses of the
      carriage, while the men who passed at the distance of a few paces looked
      like grizzly shadows. This icy vapor turned to a penetrating rain and at
      the same time a cloud of fetid odor. The Queen made the beautiful Princess
      sit beside her; and they turned toward Chambord quickly and in silence.
      They soon heard the horns recalling the scattered hounds; the huntsmen
      passed rapidly by the carriage, seeking their way through the fog, and
      calling to each other. Marie saw only now and then the head of a horse, or
      a dark body half issuing from the gloomy vapor of the woods, and tried in
      vain to distinguish any words. At length her heart beat; there was a call
      for M. de Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The King asks for Monsieur le Grand,&rdquo; was repeated about;
      &ldquo;where can Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer be gone to?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A voice, passing near, said, &ldquo;He has just lost himself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      These simple words made her shudder, for her afflicted spirit gave them
      the most sinister meaning. The terrible thought pursued her to the chateau
      and into her apartments, wherein she hastened to shut herself. She soon
      heard the noise of the entry of the King and of Monsieur, then, in the
      forest, some shots whose flash was unseen. She in vain looked at the
      narrow windows; they seemed covered on the outside with a white cloth that
      shut out the light.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, at the extremity of the forest, toward Montfrault, there had
      lost themselves two cavaliers, wearied with seeking the way to the chateau
      in the monotonous similarity of the trees and paths; they were about to
      stop near a pond, when eight or nine men, springing from the thickets,
      rushed upon them, and before they had time to draw, hung to their legs and
      arms and to the bridles of their horses in such a manner as to hold them
      fixed. At the same time a hoarse voice cried in the fog:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you Royalists or Cardinalists? Cry, &lsquo;Vive le Grand!&rsquo;
      or you are dead men!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Scoundrels,&rdquo; answered the first cavalier, trying to open the
      holsters of his pistols, &ldquo;I will have you hanged for abusing my
      name.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dios es el Senor!&rdquo; cried the same voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      All the men immediately released their hold, and ran into the wood; a
      burst of savage laughter was heard, and a man approached Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Amigo, do you not recognize me? &lsquo;Tis but a joke of Jacques,
      the Spanish captain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Fontrailles approached, and said in a low voice to the grand ecuyer:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur, this is an enterprising fellow; I would advise you to
      employ him. We must neglect no chance.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me,&rdquo; said Jacques de Laubardemont, &ldquo;and
      answer at once. I am not a phrase-maker, like my father. I bear in mind
      that you have done me some good offices; and lately again, you have been
      useful to me, as you always are, without knowing it, for I have somewhat
      repaired my fortune in your little insurrections. If you will, I can
      render you an important service; I command a few brave men.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What service?&rdquo; asked Cinq-Mars. &ldquo;We will see.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I commence by a piece of information. This morning while you
      descended the King&rsquo;s staircase on one side, Father Joseph ascended
      the other.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! this, then, is the secret of his sudden and inexplicable
      change! Can it be? A king of France! and to allow us to confide all our
      secrets to him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! is that all? Do you say nothing? You know I have an old
      account to settle with the Capuchin.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that to me?&rdquo; and he hung down his head, absorbed
      in a profound revery.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It matters a great deal to you, since you have only to speak the
      word, and I will rid you of him before thirty-six hours from this time,
      though he is now very near Paris. We might even add the Cardinal, if you
      wish.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave me; I will use no poniards,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! I understand you,&rdquo; replied Jacques. &ldquo;You are right;
      you would prefer our despatching him with the sword. This is just. He is
      worth it; &lsquo;tis a distinction due to him. It were undoubtedly more
      suitable for great lords to take charge of the Cardinal; and that he who
      despatches his Eminence should be in a fair way to be a marechal. For
      myself, I am not proud; one must not be proud, whatever one&rsquo;s merit
      in one&rsquo;s profession. I must not touch the Cardinal; he&rsquo;s a
      morsel for a king!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor any others,&rdquo; said the grand ecuyer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, let us have the Capuchin!&rdquo; said Captain Jacques,
      urgently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are wrong if you refuse this office,&rdquo; said Fontrailles;
      &ldquo;such things occur every day. Vitry began with Concini; and he was
      made a marechal. You see men extremely well at court who have killed their
      enemies with their own hands in the streets of Paris, and you hesitate to
      rid yourself of a villain! Richelieu has his agents; you must have yours.
      I can not understand your scruples.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not torment him,&rdquo; said Jacques, abruptly; &ldquo;I
      understand it. I thought as he does when I was a boy, before reason came.
      I would not have killed even a monk; but let me speak to him.&rdquo; Then,
      turning toward Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;Listen: when men conspire, they seek the
      death or at least the downfall of some one, eh?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he paused.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now in that case, we are out with God, and in with the Devil, eh?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Secundo, as they say at the Sorbonne; it&rsquo;s no worse when one
      is damned, to be so for much than for little, eh?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ergo, it is indifferent whether a thousand or one be killed. I defy
      you to answer that.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing could be better argued, Doctor-dagger,&rdquo; said
      Fontrailles, half-laughing, &ldquo;I see you will be a good
      travelling-companion. You shall go with me to Spain if you like.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know you are going to take the treaty there,&rdquo; answered
      Jacques; &ldquo;and I will guide you through the Pyrenees by roads unknown
      to man. But I shall be horribly vexed to go away without having wrung the
      neck of that old he-goat, whom we leave behind, like a knight in the midst
      of a game of chess. Once more Monsieur,&rdquo; he continued with an air of
      pious earnestness, &ldquo;if you have any religion in you, refuse no
      longer; recollect the words of our theological fathers, Hurtado de Mendoza
      and Sanchez, who have proved that a man may secretly kill his enemies,
      since by this means he avoids two sins&mdash;that of exposing his life,
      and that of fighting a duel. It is in accordance with this grand
      consolatory principle that I have always acted.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go, go!&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, in a voice thick with rage; &ldquo;I
      have other things to think of.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of what more important?&rdquo; said Fontrailles; &ldquo;this might
      be a great weight in the balance of our destinies.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am thinking how much the heart of a king weighs in it,&rdquo;
      said Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You terrify me,&rdquo; replied the gentleman; &ldquo;we can not go
      so far as that!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nor do I think what you suppose, Monsieur,&rdquo; continued D&rsquo;Effiat,
      in a severe tone. &ldquo;I was merely reflecting how kings complain when a
      subject betrays them. Well, war! war! civil war, foreign war, let your
      fires be kindled! since I hold the match, I will apply it to the mine.
      Perish the State! perish twenty kingdoms, if necessary! No ordinary
      calamities suffice when the King betrays the subject. Listen to me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he took Fontrailles a few steps aside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I only charged you to prepare our retreat and succors, in case of
      abandonment on the part of the King. Just now I foresaw this abandonment
      in his forced manifestation of friendship; and I decided upon your setting
      out when he finished his conversation by announcing his departure for
      Perpignan. I feared Narbonne; I now see that he is going there to deliver
      himself up a prisoner to the Cardinal. Go at once. I add to the letters I
      have given you the treaty here; it is in fictitious names, but here is the
      counterpart, signed by Monsieur, by the Duc de Bouillon, and by me. The
      Count-Duke of Olivares desires nothing further. There are blanks for the
      Duc d&rsquo;Orleans, which you will fill up as you please. Go; in a month
      I shall expect you at Perpignan. I will have Sedan opened to the seventeen
      thousand Spaniards from Flanders.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, advancing toward the adventurer, who awaited him, he said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For you, brave fellow, since you desire to aid me, I charge you
      with escorting this gentleman to Madrid; you will be largely recompensed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Jacques, twisting his moustache, replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, you do not then scorn to employ me! you exhibit your judgment
      and taste. Do you know that the great Queen Christina of Sweden has asked
      for me, and wished to have me with her as her confidential man. She was
      brought up to the sound of the cannon by the &lsquo;Lion of the North,&rsquo;
      Gustavus Adolphus, her father. She loves the smell of powder and brave
      men; but I would not serve her, because she is a Huguenot, and I have
      fixed principles, from which I never swerve. &lsquo;Par exemple&rsquo;, I
      swear to you by Saint Jacques to guide Monsieur through the passes of the
      Pyrenees to Oleron as surely as through these woods, and to defend him
      against the Devil, if need be, as well as your papers, which we will bring
      you back without blot or tear. As for recompense, I want none. I always
      find it in the action itself. Besides, I do not receive money, for I am a
      gentleman. The Laubardemonts are a very ancient and very good family.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adieu, then, noble Monsieur,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;go!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      After having pressed the hand of Fontrailles, he sighed and disappeared in
      the wood, on his return to the chateau of Chambord.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XX. THE READING
    </h2>
    <p>
      Shortly after the events just narrated, at the corner of the Palais-Royal,
      at a small and pretty house, numerous carriages were seen to draw up, and
      a door, reached by three steps, frequently to open. The neighbors often
      came to their windows to complain of the noise made at so late an hour of
      the night, despite the fear of robbers; and the patrol often stopped in
      surprise, and passed on only when they saw at each carriage ten or twelve
      footmen, armed with staves and carrying torches. A young gentleman,
      followed by three lackeys, entered and asked for Mademoiselle de Lorme. He
      wore a long rapier, ornamented with pink ribbon. Enormous bows of the same
      color on his high-heeled shoes almost entirely concealed his feet, which
      after the fashion of the day he turned very much out. He frequently
      twisted a small curling moustache, and before entering combed his small
      pointed beard. There was but one exclamation when he was announced.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here he is at last!&rdquo; cried a young and rich voice. &ldquo;He
      has made us wait long enough for him, the dear Desbarreaux. Come, take a
      seat! place yourself at this table and read.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The speaker was a woman of about four-and-twenty, tall and handsome,
      notwithstanding her somewhat woolly black hair and her dark olive
      complexion. There was something masculine in her manner, which she seemed
      to derive from her circle, composed entirely of men. She took their arm
      unceremoniously, as she spoke to them, with a freedom which she
      communicated to them. Her conversation was animated rather than joyous. It
      often excited laughter around her; but it was by dint of intellect that
      she created gayety (if we may so express it), for her countenance,
      impassioned as it was, seemed incapable of bending into a smile, and her
      large blue eyes, under her jet-black hair, gave her at first rather a
      strange appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Desbarreaux kissed her hand with a gallant and chivalrous air. He then,
      talking to her all the time, walked round the large room, where were
      assembled nearly thirty persons-some seated in the large arm chairs,
      others standing in the vast chimney-place, others conversing in the
      embrasures of the windows under the heavy curtains. Some of them were
      obscure men, now illustrious; others illustrious men, now obscure for
      posterity. Thus, among the latter, he profoundly saluted MM. d&rsquo;Aubijoux,
      de Brion, de Montmort, and other very brilliant gentlemen, who were there
      as judges; tenderly, and with an air of esteem, pressed the hands of MM.
      Monteruel, de Sirmond, de Malleville, Baro, Gombauld, and other learned
      men, almost all called great men in the annals of the Academy of which
      they were the founders&mdash;itself called sometimes the Academic des
      Beaux Esprits, but really the Academic Francaise. But M. Desbarreaux gave
      but a mere patronizing nod to young Corneille, who was talking in a corner
      with a foreigner, and with a young man whom he presented to the mistress
      of the house by the name of M. Poquelin, son of the &lsquo;valet-de-chambre
      tapissier du roi&rsquo;. The foreigner was Milton; the young man was
      Moliere.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the reading expected from the young Sybarite, a great contest arose
      between him and other poets and prose writers of the time. They spoke to
      each other with great volubility and animation a language incomprehensible
      to any one who should suddenly have come among them without being
      initiated, eagerly pressing each other&rsquo;s hands with affectionate
      compliments and infinite allusions to their works.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, here you are, illustrious Baro!&rdquo; cried the newcomer.
      &ldquo;I have read your last sixain. Ah, what a sixain! how full of the
      gallant and the tendre?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that you say of the tendre?&rdquo; interrupted Marion de
      Lorme; &ldquo;have you ever seen that country? You stopped at the village
      of Grand-Esprit, and at that of Jolis-Vers, but you have been no farther.
      If Monsieur le Gouverneur de Notre Dame de la Garde will please to show us
      his new chart, I will tell you where you are.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Scudery arose with a vainglorious and pedantic air; and, unrolling upon
      the table a sort of geographical chart tied with blue ribbons, he himself
      showed the lines of red ink which he had traced upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is the finest piece of Clelie,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;This
      chart is generally found very gallant; but &lsquo;tis merely a slight
      ebullition of playful wit, to please our little literary cabale. However,
      as there are strange people in the world, it is possible that all who see
      it may not have minds sufficiently well turned to understand it. This is
      the road which must be followed to go from Nouvelle-Amitie to Tendre; and
      observe, gentlemen, that as we say Cumae-on-the-Ionian-Sea,
      Cumae-on-the-Tyrrhean-Sea, we shall say Tendre-sur-Inclination,
      Tendre-sur-Estime, and Tendre-sur-Reconnaissance. We must begin by
      inhabiting the village of Grand-Coeur, Generosity, Exactitude, and
      Petits-Soins.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! how very pretty!&rdquo; interposed Desbarreaux. &ldquo;See the
      villages marked out; here is Petits-Soins, Billet-Galant, then
      Billet-Doux!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh! &lsquo;tis ingenious in the highest degree!&rdquo; cried
      Vaugelas, Colletet, and the rest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And observe,&rdquo; continued the author, inflated with this
      success, &ldquo;that it is necessary to pass through Complaisance and
      Sensibility; and that if we do not take this road, we run the risk of
      losing our way to Tiedeur, Oubli, and of falling into the Lake of
      Indifference.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Delicious! delicious! &lsquo;gallant au supreme!&rsquo;&rdquo;
      cried the auditors; &ldquo;never was greater genius!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Madame,&rdquo; resumed Scudery, &ldquo;I now declare it in
      your house: this work, printed under my name, is by my sister&mdash;she
      who translated &lsquo;Sappho&rsquo; so agreeably.&rdquo; And without being
      asked, he recited in a declamatory tone verses ending thus:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          L&rsquo;Amour est un mal agreable
          Don&rsquo;t mon coeur ne saurait guerir;
          Mais quand il serait guerissable,
          Il est bien plus doux d&rsquo;en mourir.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! had that Greek so much wit? I can not believe it,&rdquo;
      exclaimed Marion de Lorme; &ldquo;how superior Mademoiselle de Scudery is
      to her! That idea is wholly hers; she must unquestionably put these
      charming verses into &lsquo;Clelie&rsquo;. They will figure well in that
      Roman history.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Admirable, perfect!&rdquo; cried all the savans; &ldquo;Horatius,
      Aruns, and the amiable Porsenna are such gallant lovers.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They were all bending over the &ldquo;carte de Tendre,&rdquo; and their
      fingers crossed in following the windings of the amorous rivers. The young
      Poquelin ventured to raise a timid voice and his melancholy but acute
      glance, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What purpose does this serve? Is it to give happiness or pleasure?
      Monsieur seems to me not singularly happy, and I do not feel very gay.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The only reply he got was a general look of contempt; he consoled himself
      by meditating, &lsquo;Les Precieuses Ridicules&rsquo;.
    </p>
    <p>
      Desbarreaux prepared to read a pious sonnet, which he was penitent for
      having composed in an illness; he seemed to be ashamed of having thought
      for a moment upon God at the sight of his lightning, and blushed at the
      weakness. The mistress of the house stopped him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not yet time to read your beautiful verses; you would be
      interrupted. We expect Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer and other gentlemen; it
      would be actual murder to allow a great mind to speak during this noise
      and confusion. But here is a young Englishman who has just come from
      Italy, and is on his return to London. They tell me he has composed a poem&mdash;I
      don&rsquo;t know what; but he&rsquo;ll repeat some verses of it. Many of
      you gentlemen of the Academy know English; and for the rest he has had the
      passages he is going to read translated by an ex-secretary of the Duke of
      Buckingham, and here are copies in French on this table.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, she took them and distributed them among her erudite visitors.
      The company seated themselves, and were silent. It took some time to
      persuade the young foreigner to speak or to quit the recess of the window,
      where he seemed to have come to a very good understanding with Corneille.
      He at last advanced to an armchair placed near the table; he seemed of
      feeble health, and fell into, rather than seated himself in, the chair. He
      rested his elbow on the table, and with his hand covered his large and
      beautiful eyes, which were half closed, and reddened with nightwatches or
      tears. He repeated his fragments from memory. His doubting auditors looked
      at him haughtily, or at least patronizingly; others carelessly glanced
      over the translation of his verses.
    </p>
    <p>
      His voice, at first suppressed, grew clearer by the very flow of his
      harmonious recital; the breath of poetic inspiration soon elevated him to
      himself; and his look, raised to heaven, became sublime as that of the
      young evangelist, conceived by Raffaello, for the light still shone on it.
      He narrated in his verses the first disobedience of man, and invoked the
      Holy Spirit, who prefers before all other temples a pure and simple heart,
      who knows all, and who was present at the birth of time.
    </p>
    <p>
      This opening was received with a profound silence; and a slight murmur
      arose after the enunciation of the last idea. He heard not; he saw only
      through a cloud; he was in the world of his own creation. He continued.
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke of the infernal spirit, bound in avenging fire by adamantine
      chains, lying vanquished nine times the space that measures night and day
      to mortal men; of the darkness visible of the eternal prisons and the
      burning ocean where the fallen angels float. Then, his voice, now
      powerful, began the address of the fallen angel. &ldquo;Art thou,&rdquo;
      he said, &ldquo;he who in the happy realms of light, clothed with
      transcendent brightness, didst outshine myriads? From what height fallen?
      What though the field be lost, all is not lost! Unconquerable will and
      study of revenge, immortal hate and courage never to submit nor yield-what
      is else not to be overcome.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here a lackey in a loud voice announced MM. de Montresor and d&rsquo;Entraigues.
      They saluted, exchanged a few words, deranged the chairs, and then settled
      down. The auditors availed themselves of the interruption to institute a
      dozen private conversations; scarcely anything was heard but expressions
      of censure, and imputations of bad taste. Even some men of merit, dulled
      by a particular habit of thinking, cried out that they did not understand
      it; that it was above their comprehension (not thinking how truly they
      spoke); and from this feigned humility gained themselves a compliment, and
      for the poet an impertinent remark&mdash;a double advantage. Some voices
      even pronounced the word &ldquo;profanation.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The poet, interrupted, put his head between his hands and his elbows on
      the table, that he might not hear the noise either of praise or censure.
      Three men only approached him, an officer, Poquelin, and Corneille; the
      latter whispered to Milton:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would advise you to change the picture; your hearers are not on a
      level with this.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The officer pressed the hand of the English poet and said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I admire you with all my soul.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The astonished Englishman looked at him, and saw an intellectual,
      impassioned, and sickly countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      He bowed, and collected himself, in order to proceed. His voice took a
      gentle tone and a soft accent; he spoke of the chaste happiness of the two
      first of human beings. He described their majestic nakedness, the
      ingenuous command of their looks, their walk among lions and tigers, which
      gambolled at their feet; he spoke of the purity of their morning prayer,
      of their enchanting smile, the playful tenderness of their youth, and
      their enamored conversation, so painful to the Prince of Darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gentle tears quite involuntarily made humid the eyes of the beautiful
      Marion de Lorme. Nature had taken possession of her heart, despite her
      head; poetry filled it with grave and religious thoughts, from which the
      intoxication of pleasure had ever diverted her. The idea of virtuous love
      appeared to her for the first time in all its beauty; and she seemed as if
      struck with a magic wand, and changed into a pale and beautiful statue.
    </p>
    <p>
      Corneille, his young friend, and the officer, were full of a silent
      admiration which they dared not express, for raised voices drowned that of
      the surprised poet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t stand this!&rdquo; cried Desbarreaux. &ldquo;It is of
      an insipidity to make one sick.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what absence of grace, gallantry, and the belle flamme!&rdquo;
      said Scudery, coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, how different from our immortal D&rsquo;Urfe!&rdquo; said Baro,
      the continuator.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where is the &lsquo;Ariane,&rsquo; where the &lsquo;Astrea?&rsquo;&rdquo;
      cried, with a groan, Godeau, the annotator.
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole assembly well-nigh made these obliging remarks, though uttered
      so as only to be heard by the poet as a murmur of uncertain import. He
      understood, however, that he produced no enthusiasm, and collected himself
      to touch another chord of his lyre.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment the Counsellor de Thou was announced, who, modestly
      saluting the company, glided silently behind the author near Corneille,
      Poquelin, and the young officer. Milton resumed his strain.
    </p>
    <p>
      He recounted the arrival of a celestial guest in the garden of Eden, like
      a second Aurora in mid-day, shaking the plumes of his divine wings, that
      filled the air with heavenly fragrance, who recounted to man the history
      of heaven, the revolt of Lucifer, clothed in an armor of diamonds, raised
      on a car brilliant as the sun, guarded by glittering cherubim, and
      marching against the Eternal. But Emmanuel appears on the living chariot
      of the Lord; and his two thousand thunderbolts hurled down to hell, with
      awful noise, the accursed army confounded.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this the company arose; and all was interrupted, for religious scruples
      became leagued with false taste. Nothing was heard but exclamations which
      obliged the mistress of the house to rise also, and endeavor to conceal
      them from the author. This was not difficult, for he was entirely absorbed
      in the elevation of his thoughts. His genius at this moment had nothing in
      common with the earth; and when he once more opened his eyes on those who
      surrounded him, he saw near him four admirers, whose voices were better
      heard than those of the assembly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Corneille said to him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen. If you aim at present glory, do not expect it from so fine
      a work. Pure poetry is appreciated by but few souls. For the common run of
      men, it must be closely allied with the almost physical interest of the
      drama. I had been tempted to make a poem of &lsquo;Polyeuctes&rsquo;; but
      I shall cut down this subject, abridge it of the heavens, and it shall be
      only a tragedy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What matters to me the glory of the moment?&rdquo; answered Milton.
      &ldquo;I think not of success. I sing because I feel myself a poet. I go
      whither inspiration leads me. Its path is ever the right one. If these
      verses were not to be read till a century after my death, I should write
      them just the same.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I admire them before they are written,&rdquo; said the young
      officer. &ldquo;I see in them the God whose innate image I have found in
      my heart.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is it speaks thus kindly to me?&rdquo; asked the poet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am Rene Descartes,&rdquo; replied the soldier, gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How, sir!&rdquo; cried De Thou. &ldquo;Are you so happy as to be
      related to the author of the Princeps?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am the author of that work,&rdquo; replied Rene.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You, sir!&mdash;but&mdash;still&mdash;pardon me&mdash;but&mdash;are
      you not a military man?&rdquo; stammered out the counsellor, in amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, what has the habit of the body to do with the thought? Yes, I
      wear the sword. I was at the siege of Rochelle. I love the profession of
      arms because it keeps the soul in a region of noble ideas by the continual
      feeling of the sacrifice of life; yet it does not occupy the whole man. He
      can not always apply his thoughts to it. Peace lulls them. Moreover, one
      has also to fear seeing them suddenly interrupted by an obscure blow or an
      absurd and untimely accident. And if a man be killed in the execution of
      his plan, posterity preserves an idea of the plan which he himself had
      not, and which may be wholly preposterous; and this is the evil side of
      the profession for a man of letters.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou smiled with pleasure at the simple language of this superior man&mdash;this
      man whom he so admired, and in his admiration loved. He pressed the hand
      of the young sage of Touraine, and drew him into an adjoining cabinet with
      Corneille, Milton, and Moliere, and with them enjoyed one of those
      conversations which make us regard as lost the time which precedes them
      and the time which is to follow them.
    </p>
    <p>
      For two hours they had enchanted one another with their discourse, when
      the sound of music, of guitars and flutes playing minuets, sarabands,
      allemandes, and the Spanish dances which the young Queen had brought into
      fashion, the continual passing of groups of young ladies and their joyous
      laughter, all announced that the ball had commenced. A very young and
      beautiful person, holding a large fan as it were a sceptre, and surrounded
      by ten young men, entered their retired chamber with her brilliant court,
      which she ruled like a queen, and entirely put to the rout the studious
      conversers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Adieu, gentlemen!&rdquo; said De Thou. &ldquo;I make way for
      Mademoiselle de l&rsquo;Enclos and her musketeers.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Really, gentlemen,&rdquo; said the youthful Ninon, &ldquo;we seem
      to frighten you. Have I disturbed you? You have all the air of
      conspirators.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are perhaps more so than these gentlemen, although we dance,&rdquo;
      said Olivier d&rsquo;Entraigues, who led her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! your conspiracy is against me, Monsieur le Page!&rdquo; said
      Ninon, looking the while at another light-horseman, and abandoning her
      remaining arm to a third, the other gallants seeking to place themselves
      in the way of her flying ceillades, for she distributed her glances
      brilliant as the rays of the sun dancing over the moving waters.
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou stole away without any one thinking of stopping him, and was
      descending the great staircase, when he met the little Abbe de Gondi, red,
      hot, and out of breath, who stopped him with an animated and joyous air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How now! whither go you? Let the foreigners and savans go. You are
      one of us. I am somewhat late; but our beautiful Aspasia will pardon me.
      Why are you going? Is it all over?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, it seems so. When the dancing begins, the reading is done.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The reading, yes; but the oaths?&rdquo; said the Abbe, in a low
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What oaths?&rdquo; asked De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is not Monsieur le Grand come?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I expected to see him; but I suppose he has not come, or else he
      has gone.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! come with me,&rdquo; said the bare-brained Abbe. &ldquo;You
      are one of us. Parbleu! it is impossible to do without you; come!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou, unwilling to refuse, and thus appear to disown his friends, even
      for parties of pleasure which annoyed him, followed De Gondi, who passed
      through two cabinets, and descended a small private staircase. At each
      step he took, he heard more distinctly the voices of an assemblage of men.
      Gondi opened the door. An unexpected spectacle met his view.
    </p>
    <p>
      The chamber he was entering, lighted by a mysterious glimmer, seemed the
      asylum of the most voluptuous rendezvous. On one side was a gilt bed, with
      a canopy of tapestry ornamented with feathers, and covered with lace and
      ornaments. The furniture, shining with gold, was of grayish silk, richly
      embroidered. Velvet cushions were at the foot of each armchair, upon a
      thick carpet. Small mirrors, connected with one another by ornaments of
      silver, seemed an entire glass, itself a perfection then unknown, and
      everywhere multiplied their glittering faces. No sound from without could
      penetrate this throne of delight; but the persons assembled there seemed
      far remote from the thoughts which it was calculated to give rise to. A
      number of men, whom he recognized as courtiers, or soldiers of rank,
      crowded the entrance of this chamber and an adjoining apartment of larger
      dimensions. All were intent upon that which was passing in the centre of
      the first room. Here, ten young men, standing, and holding in their hands
      their drawn swords, the points of which were lowered toward the ground,
      were ranged round a table. Their faces, turned to Cinq-Mars, announced
      that they had just taken an oath to him. The grand ecuyer stood by himself
      before the fireplace, his arms folded with an air of all-absorbing
      reflection. Standing near him, Marion de Lorme, grave and collected,
      seemed to have presented these gentlemen to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Cinq-Mars perceived his friend, he rushed toward the door, casting a
      terrible glance at Gondi, and seizing De Thou by both arms, stopped him on
      the last step.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you here?&rdquo; he said, in a stifled voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who brought you here? What would you with me? You are lost if you
      enter.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you yourself here? What do I see in this house?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The consequences of that you wot of. Go; this air is poisoned for
      all who are here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is too late; they have seen me. What would they say if I were to
      withdraw? I should discourage them; you would be lost.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This dialogue had passed in low and hurried tones; at the last word, De
      Thou, pushing aside his friend, entered, and with a firm step crossed the
      apartment to the fireplace.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars, trembling with rage, resumed his place, hung his head,
      collected himself, and soon raising a more calm countenance, continued a
      discourse which the entrance of his friend had interrupted:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be then with us, gentlemen; there is no longer any need for so much
      mystery. Remember that when a strong mind embraces an idea, it must follow
      it to all its consequences. Your courage will have a wider field than that
      of a court intrigue. Thank me; instead of a conspiracy, I give you a war.
      Monsieur de Bouillon has departed to place himself at the head of his army
      of Italy; in two days, and before the king, I quit Paris for Perpignan.
      Come all of you thither; the Royalists of the army await us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he threw around him calm and confident looks; he saw gleams of joy
      and enthusiasm in the eyes of all who surrounded him. Before allowing his
      own heart to be possessed by the contagious emotion which precedes great
      enterprises, he desired still more firmly to assure himself of them, and
      said with a grave air:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, war, gentlemen; think of it, open war. Rochelle and Navarre
      are arousing their Protestants; the army of Italy will enter on one side;
      the king&rsquo;s brother will join us on the other. The man we combat will
      be surrounded, vanquished, crushed. The parliaments will march in our
      rear, bearing their petitions to the King, a weapon as powerful as our
      swords; and after the victory we will throw ourselves at the feet of Louis
      XIII, our master, that he may pardon us for having delivered him from a
      cruel and ambitious man, and hastened his own resolution.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, again glancing around him, he saw increasing confidence in the looks
      and attitudes of his accomplices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How!&rdquo; he continued, crossing his arms, and yet restraining
      with an effort his own emotion; &ldquo;you do not recoil before this
      resolution, which would appear a revolt to any other men! Do you not think
      that I have abused the powers you have vested in me? I have carried
      matters very far; but there are times when kings would be served, as it
      were in spite of themselves. All is arranged, as you know. Sedan will open
      its gates to us; and we are sure of Spain. Twelve thousand veteran troops
      will enter Paris with us. No place, however, will be given up to the
      foreigner; they will all have a French garrison, and be taken in the name
      of the King.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Long live the King! long live the Union! the new Union, the Holy
      League!&rdquo; cried the assembly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has come, then!&rdquo; cried Cinq-Mars, with enthusiasm; &ldquo;it
      has come&mdash;the most glorious day of my life. Oh, youth, youth, from
      century to century called frivolous and improvident! of what will men now
      accuse thee, when they behold conceived, ripened, and ready for execution,
      under a chief of twenty-two, the most vast, the most just, the most
      beneficial of enterprises? My friends, what is a great life but a thought
      of youth executed by mature age? Youth looks fixedly into the future with
      its eagle glance, traces there a broad plan, lays the foundation stone;
      and all that our entire existence afterward can do is to approximate to
      that first design. Oh, when can great projects arise, if not when the
      heart beats vigorously in the breast? The mind is not sufficient; it is
      but an instrument.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A fresh outburst of joy had followed these words, when an old man with a
      white beard stood forward from the throng.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah!&rdquo; said Gondi, in a low voice, &ldquo;here&rsquo;s the old
      Chevalier de Guise going to dote, and damp us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And truly enough, the old man, pressing the hand of Cinq-Mars, said slowly
      and with difficulty, having placed himself near him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my son, and you, my children, I see with joy that my old
      friend Bassompierre is about to be delivered by you, and that you are
      about to avenge the Comte de Soissons and the young Montmorency. But it is
      expedient for youth, all ardent as it is, to listen to those who have seen
      much. I have witnessed the League, my children, and I tell you that you
      can not now, as then, take the title of the Holy League, the Holy Union,
      the Protectors of Saint Peter, or Pillars of the Church, because I see
      that you reckon on the support of the Huguenots; nor can you put upon your
      great seal of green wax an empty throne, since it is occupied by a king.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may say by two,&rdquo; interrupted Gondi, laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, however, of great importance,&rdquo; continued old Guise,
      amid the tumultuous young men, &ldquo;to take a name to which the people
      may attach themselves; that of War for the Public Welfare has been made
      use of; Princes of Peace only lately. It is necessary to find one.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, the War of the King,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, the War of the King!&rdquo; cried Gondi and all the young men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Moreover,&rdquo; continued the old seigneur, &ldquo;it is essential
      to gain the approval of the theological faculty of the Sorbonne, which
      heretofore sanctioned even the &lsquo;hautgourdiers&rsquo; and the &lsquo;sorgueurs&rsquo;,&mdash;[Names
      of the leaguers.]&mdash;and to put in force its second proposition&mdash;that
      it is permitted to the people to disobey the magistrates, and to hang
      them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, Chevalier!&rdquo; exclaimed Gondi; &ldquo;this is not the
      question. Let Monsieur le Grand speak; we are thinking no more of the
      Sorbonne at present than of your Saint Jacques Clement.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a laugh, and Cinq-Mars went on:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wished, gentlemen, to conceal nothing from you as to the projects
      of Monsieur, those of the Duke de Bouillon, or my own, for it is just that
      a man who stakes his life should know at what game; but I have placed
      before you the least fortunate chances, and I have not detailed our
      strength, for there is not one of you but knows the secret of it. Is it to
      you, Messieurs de Montresor and de Saint-Thibal, I need tell the treasures
      that Monsieur places at our disposal? Is it to you, Monsieur d&rsquo;Aignou,
      Monsieur de Mouy, that I need tell how many gentlemen are eager to join
      your companies of men-at-arms and light-horse, to fight the Cardinalists;
      how many in Touraine and in Auvergne, where lay the lands of the House of
      D&rsquo;Effiat, and whence will march two thousand seigneurs, with their
      vassals?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Baron de Beauvau, shall I recall the zeal and valor of the
      cuirassiers whom you brought to the unhappy Comte de Soissons, whose cause
      was ours, and whom you saw assassinated in the midst of his triumph by him
      whom with you he had defeated? Shall I tell these gentlemen of the joy of
      the Count-Duke of Olivares at the news of our intentions, and the letters
      of the Cardinal-Infanta to the Duke de Bouillon? Shall I speak of Paris to
      the Abbe de Gondi, to D&rsquo;Entraigues, and to you, gentlemen, who are
      daily witnesses of her misery, of her indignation, and her desire to break
      forth? While all foreign nations demand peace, which the Cardinal de
      Richelieu still destroys by his want of faith (as he has done in violating
      the treaty of Ratisbon), all orders of the State groan under his violence,
      and dread that colossal ambition which aspires to no less than the
      temporal and even spiritual throne of France.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A murmur of approbation interrupted Cinq-Mars. There was then silence for
      a moment; and they heard the sound of wind instruments, and the measured
      tread of the dancers.
    </p>
    <p>
      This noise caused a momentary diversion and a smile in the younger portion
      of the assembly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars profited by this; and raising his eyes, &ldquo;Pleasures of
      youth,&rdquo; he cried&mdash;&ldquo;love, music, joyous dances&mdash;why
      do you not alone occupy our leisure hours? Why are not you our sole
      ambition? What resentment may we not justly feel that we have to make our
      cries of indignation heard above our bursts of joy, our formidable secrets
      in the asylum of love, and our oaths of war and death amid the
      intoxication of and of life!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Curses on him who saddens the youth of a people! When wrinkles
      furrow the brow of the young men, we may confidently say that the finger
      of a tyrant has hollowed them out. The other troubles of youth give it
      despair and not consternation. Watch those sad and mournful students pass
      day after day with pale foreheads, slow steps, and half-suppressed voices.
      One would think they fear to live or to advance a step toward the future.
      What is there then in France? A man too many.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he continued; &ldquo;for two years I have watched the
      insidious and profound progress of his ambition. His strange practices,
      his secret commissions, his judicial assassinations are known to you.
      Princes, peers, marechals&mdash;all have been crushed by him. There is not
      a family in France but can show some sad trace of his passage. If he
      regards us all as enemies to his authority, it is because he would have in
      France none but his own house, which twenty years ago held only one of the
      smallest fiefs of Poitou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The humiliated parliament has no longer any voice. The presidents
      of Nismes, Novion, and Bellievre have revealed to you their courageous but
      fruitless resistance to the condemnation to death of the Duke de la
      Vallette.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The presidents and councils of sovereign courts have been
      imprisoned, banished, suspended&mdash;a thing before unheard of&mdash;because
      they have raised their voices for the king or for the public.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The highest offices of justice, who fill them? Infamous and corrupt
      men, who suck the blood and gold of the country. Paris and the maritime
      towns taxed; the rural districts ruined and laid waste by the soldiers and
      other agents of the Cardinal; the peasants reduced to feed on animals
      killed by the plague or famine, or saving themselves by self-banishment&mdash;such
      is the work of this new justice. His worthy agents have even coined money
      with the effigy of the Cardinal-Duke. Here are some of his royal pieces.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The grand ecuyey threw upon the table a score of gold doubloons whereon
      Richelieu was represented. A fresh murmur of hatred toward the Cardinal
      arose in the apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And think you the clergy are less trampled on and less
      discontented? No. Bishops have been tried against the laws of the State
      and in contempt of the respect due to their sacred persons. We have seen,
      in consequence, Algerine corsairs commanded by an archbishop. Men of the
      lowest condition have been elevated to the cardinalate. The minister
      himself, devouring the most sacred things, has had himself elected general
      of the orders of Citeaux, Cluny, and Premontre, throwing into prison the
      monks who refused him their votes. Jesuits, Carmelites, Cordeliers,
      Augustins, Dominicans, have been forced to elect general vicars in France,
      in order no longer to communicate at Rome with their true superiors,
      because he would be patriarch in France, and head of the Gallican Church.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a schismatic! a monster!&rdquo; cried several voices.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His progress, then, is apparent, gentlemen. He is ready to seize
      both temporal and spiritual power. He has little by little fortified
      himself against the King in the strongest towns of France&mdash;seized the
      mouths of the principal rivers, the best ports of the ocean, the
      salt-pits, and all the securities of the kingdom. It is the King, then,
      whom we must deliver from this oppression. &lsquo;Le roi et la paix!&rsquo;
      shall be our cry. The rest must be left to Providence.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars greatly astonished the assembly, and De Thou himself, by this
      address. No one had ever before heard him speak so long together, not even
      in fireside conversation; and he had never by a single word shown the
      least aptitude for understanding public affairs. He had, on the contrary,
      affected the greatest indifference on the subject, even in the eyes of
      those whom he was molding to his projects, merely manifesting a virtuous
      indignation at the violence of the minister, but affecting not to put
      forward any of his own ideas, in order not to suggest personal ambition as
      the aim of his labors. The confidence given to him rested on his favor
      with the king and his personal bravery. The surprise of all present was
      therefore such as to cause a momentary silence. It was soon broken by all
      the transports of Frenchmen, young or old, when fighting of whatever kind
      is held out to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among those who came forward to press the hand of the young party leader,
      the Abbe de Gondi jumped about like a kid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have already enrolled my regiment!&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;I have
      some superb fellows!&rdquo; Then, addressing Marion de Lorme, &ldquo;Parbleu!
      Mademoiselle, I will wear your colors&mdash;your gray ribbon, and your
      order of the Allumette. The device is charming&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &lsquo;Nous ne brullons que pour bruller les autres.&rsquo;
</pre>
    <p>
      And I wish you could see all the fine things we shall do if we are
      fortunate enough to come to blows.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The fair Marion, who did not like him, began to talk over his head to M.
      de Thou&mdash;a mortification which always exasperated the little Abbe,
      who abruptly left her, walking as tall as he could, and scornfully
      twisting his moustache.
    </p>
    <p>
      All at once a sudden silence took possession of the assembly. A rolled
      paper had struck the ceiling and fallen at the feet of Cinq-Mars. He
      picked it up and unrolled it, after having looked eagerly around him. He
      sought in vain to divine whence it came; all those who advanced had only
      astonishment and intense curiosity depicted in their faces.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here is my name wrongly written,&rdquo; he said coldly.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               &ldquo;A CINQ MARCS,

            CENTURIE DE NOSTRADAMUS.

       Quand bonnet rouge passera par la fenetre,
          A quarante onces on coupera tete,
              Et tout finira.&rdquo;

   [This punning prediction was made public three months before the,
   conspiracy.]
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a traitor among us, gentlemen,&rdquo; he said, throwing
      away the paper. &ldquo;But no matter. We are not men to be frightened by
      his sanguinary jests.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must find the traitor out, and throw him through the window,&rdquo;
      said the young men.
    </p>
    <p>
      Still, a disagreeable sensation had come over the assembly. They now only
      spoke in whispers, and each regarded his neighbor with distrust. Some
      withdrew; the meeting grew thinner. Marion de Lorme repeated to every one
      that she would dismiss her servants, who alone could be suspected. Despite
      her efforts a coldness reigned throughout the apartment. The first
      sentences of Cinq-Mars&rsquo; address, too, had left some uncertainty as
      to the intentions of the King; and this untimely candor had somewhat
      shaken a few of the less determined conspirators.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gondi pointed this out to Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark ye!&rdquo; he said in a low voice. &ldquo;Believe me, I have
      carefully studied conspiracies and assemblages; there are certain purely
      mechanical means which it is necessary to adopt. Follow my advice here; I
      know a good deal of this sort of thing. They want something more. Give
      them a little contradiction; that always succeeds in France. You will
      quite make them alive again. Seem not to wish to retain them against their
      will, and they will remain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The grand ecuyer approved of the suggestion, and advancing toward those
      whom he knew to be most deeply compromised, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the rest, gentlemen, I do not wish to force any one to follow
      me. Plenty of brave men await us at Perpignan, and all France is with us.
      If any one desires to secure himself a retreat, let him speak. We will
      give him the means of placing himself in safety at once.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Not one would hear of this proposition; and the movement it occasioned
      produced a renewal of the oaths of hatred against the minister.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars, however, proceeded to put the question individually to some of
      the persons present, in the election of whom he showed much judgment; for
      he ended with Montresor, who cried that he would pass his sword through
      his body if he had for a moment entertained such an idea, and with Gondi,
      who, rising fiercely on his heels, exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer, my retreat is the archbishopric of Paris
      and L&rsquo;Ile Notre-Dame. I&rsquo;ll make it a place strong enough to
      keep me from being taken.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And yours?&rdquo; he said to De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;At your side,&rdquo; murmured De Thou, lowering his eyes, unwilling
      to give importance to his resolution by the directness of his look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will have it so? Well, I accept,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;and
      my sacrifice herein, dear friend, is greater than yours.&rdquo; Then
      turning toward the assembly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, I see in you the last men of France, for after the
      Montmorencys and the Soissons, you alone dare lift a head free and worthy
      of our old liberty. If Richelieu triumph, the ancient bases of the
      monarchy will crumble with us. The court will reign alone, in the place of
      the parliaments, the old barriers, and at the same time the powerful
      supports of the royal authority. Let us be conquerors, and France will owe
      to us the preservation of her ancient manners and her time-honored
      guarantees. And now, gentlemen, it were a pity to spoil the ball on this
      account. You hear the music. The ladies await you. Let us go and dance.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Cardinal shall pay the fiddlers,&rdquo; added Gondi.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young men applauded with a laugh; and all reascended to the ballroom
      as lightly as they would have gone to the battlefield.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXI. THE CONFESSIONAL
    </h2>
    <p>
      It was on the day following the assembly that had taken place in the house
      of Marion de Lorme. A thick snow covered the roofs of Paris and settled in
      its large gutters and streets, where it arose in gray heaps, furrowed by
      the wheels of carriages.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was eight o&rsquo;clock, and the night was dark. The tumult of the city
      was silent on account of the thick carpet the winter had spread for it,
      and which deadened the sound of the wheels over the stones, and of the
      feet of men and horses. In a narrow street that winds round the old church
      of St. Eustache, a man, enveloped in his cloak, slowly walked up and down,
      constantly watching for the appearance of some one. He often seated
      himself upon one of the posts of the church, sheltering himself from the
      falling snow under one of the statues of saints which jutted out from the
      roof of the building, stretching over the narrow path like birds of prey,
      which, about to make a stoop, have folded their wings. Often, too, the old
      man, opening his cloak, beat his arms against his breast to warm himself,
      or blew upon his fingers, ill protected from the cold by a pair of buff
      gloves reaching nearly to the elbow. At last he saw a slight shadow
      gliding along the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Santa Maria! what villainous countries are these of the North!&rdquo;
      said a woman&rsquo;s voice, trembling. &ldquo;Ah, the duchy of Mantua!
      would I were back there again, Grandchamp!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pshaw! don&rsquo;t speak so loud,&rdquo; said the old domestic,
      abruptly. &ldquo;The walls of Paris have Cardinalist ears, and more
      especially the walls of the churches. Has your mistress entered? My master
      awaits her at the door.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes; she has gone in.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be silent,&rdquo; said Grandchamp. &ldquo;The sound of the clock is
      cracked. That&rsquo;s a bad sign.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That clock has sounded the hour of a rendezvous.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For me, it sounds like a passing-bell. But be silent, Laure; here
      are three cloaks passing.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They allowed three men to pass. Grandchamp followed them, made sure of the
      road they took, and returned to his seat, sighing deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The snow is cold, Laure, and I am old. Monsieur le Grand might have
      chosen another of his men to keep watch for him while he&rsquo;s making
      love. It&rsquo;s all very well for you to carry love-letters and ribbons
      and portraits and such trash, but for me, I ought to be treated with more
      consideration. Monsieur le Marechal would not have done so. Old domestics
      give respectability to a house, and should be themselves respected.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has your master arrived long, &lsquo;caro amico&rsquo;?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh, cara, cayo! leave me in peace. We had both been freezing for an
      hour when you came. I should have had time to smoke three Turkish pipes.
      Attend to your business, and go and look to the other doors of the church,
      and see that no suspicious person is prowling about. Since there are but
      two vedettes, they must beat about well.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, what a thing it is to have no one to whom to say a friendly
      word when it is so cold! and my poor mistress! to come on foot all the way
      from the Hotel de Nevers. Ah, amore! qui regna amore!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, Italian, wheel about, I tell thee. Let me hear no more of thy
      musical tongue.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Santa Maria! What a harsh voice, dear Grandchamp! You were much
      more amiable at Chaumont, in Turena, when you talked to me of &lsquo;miei
      occhi neri.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold thy tongue, prattler! Once more, thy Italian is only good for
      buffoons and rope-dancers, or to accompany the learned dogs.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Italia mia! Grandchamp, listen to me, and you shall hear the
      language of the gods. If you were a gallant man, like him who wrote this
      for a Laure like me!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And she began to hum:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        Lieti fiori a felici, e ben nate erbe
        Che Madonna pensando premer sole;
        Piaggia ch&rsquo;ascolti su dolci parole
        E del bel piede alcun vestigio serbe.
</pre>
    <p>
      The old soldier was but little used to the voice of a young girl; and in
      general when a woman spoke to him, the tone he assumed in answering always
      fluctuated between an awkward compliment and an ebullition of temper. But
      on this occasion he appeared moved by the Italian song, and twisted his
      moustache, which was always with him a sign of embarrassment and distress.
      He even omitted a rough sound something like a laugh, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pretty enough, &lsquo;mordieu!&rsquo; that recalls to my mind the
      siege of Casal; but be silent, little one. I have not yet heard the Abbe
      Quillet come. This troubles me. He ought to have been here before our two
      young people; and for some time past&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Laure, who was afraid of being sent alone to the Place St. Eustache,
      answered that she was quite sure he had gone in, and continued:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
       &ldquo;Ombrose selve, ove&rsquo;percote il sole
        Che vi fa co&rsquo;suoi raggi alte a superbe.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hum!&rdquo; said the worthy old soldier, grumbling. &ldquo;I have
      my feet in the snow, and a gutter runs down on my head, and there&rsquo;s
      death at my heart; and you sing to me of violets, of the sun, and of
      grass, and of love. Be silent!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, retiring farther in the recess of the church, he leaned his gray head
      upon his hands, pensive and motionless. Laure dared not again speak to
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      While her waiting-woman had gone to find Grandchamp, the young and
      trembling Marie with a timid hand had pushed open the folding-door of the
      church.
    </p>
    <p>
      She there found Cinq-Mars standing, disguised, and anxiously awaiting her.
      As soon as she recognized him, she advanced with rapid steps into the
      church, holding her velvet mask over her face, and hastened to take refuge
      in a confessional, while Henri carefully closed the door of the church by
      which she had entered. He made sure that it could not be opened on the
      outside, and then followed his betrothed to kneel within the place of
      penitence. Arrived an hour before her, with his old valet, he had found
      this open&mdash;a certain and understood sign that the Abbe Quillet, his
      tutor, awaited him at the accustomed place. His care to prevent any
      surprise had made him remain himself to guard the entrance until the
      arrival of Marie. Delighted as he was at the punctuality of the good Abbe,
      he would still scarcely leave his post to thank him. He was a second
      father to him in all but authority; and he acted toward the good priest
      without much ceremony.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old parish church of St. Eustache was dark. Besides the perpetual
      lamp, there were only four flambeaux of yellow wax, which, attached above
      the fonts against the principal pillars, cast a red glimmer upon the blue
      and black marble of the empty church. The light scarcely penetrated the
      deep niches of the aisles of the sacred building. In one of the chapels&mdash;the
      darkest of them&mdash;was the confessional, of which we have before
      spoken, whose high iron grating and thick double planks left visible only
      the small dome and the wooden cross. Here, on either side, knelt Cinq-Mars
      and Marie de Mantua. They could scarcely see each other, but found that
      the Abbe Quillet, seated between them, was there awaiting them. They could
      see through the little grating the shadow of his hood. Henri d&rsquo;Effiat
      approached slowly; he was regulating, as it were, the remainder of his
      destiny. It was not before his king that he was about to appear, but
      before a more powerful sovereign, before her for whom he had undertaken
      his immense work. He was about to test her faith; and he trembled.
    </p>
    <p>
      He trembled still more when his young betrothed knelt opposite to him; he
      trembled, because at the sight of this angel he could not help feeling all
      the happiness he might lose. He dared not speak first, and remained for an
      instant contemplating her head in the shade, that young head upon which
      rested all his hopes. Despite his love, whenever he looked upon her he
      could not refrain from a kind of dread at having undertaken so much for a
      girl, whose passion was but a feeble reflection of his own, and who
      perhaps would not appreciate all the sacrifices he had made for her&mdash;bending
      the firm character of his mind to the compliances of a courtier,
      condemning it to the intrigues and sufferings of ambition, abandoning it
      to profound combinations, to criminal meditations, to the gloomy labors of
      a conspirator.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hitherto, in their secret interviews, she had always received each fresh
      intelligence of his progress with the transports of pleasure of a child,
      but without appreciating the labors of each of these so arduous steps that
      lead to honors, and always asking him with naivete when he would be
      Constable, and when they should marry, as if she were asking him when he
      would come to the Caroussel, or whether the weather was fine. Hitherto, he
      had smiled at these questions and this ignorance, pardonable at eighteen,
      in a girl born to a throne and accustomed to a grandeur natural to her,
      which she found around her on her entrance into life; but now he made more
      serious reflections upon this character. And when, but just quitting the
      imposing assembly of conspirators, representatives of all the orders of
      the kingdom, his ear, wherein still resounded the masculine voices that
      had sworn to undertake a vast war, was struck with the first words of her
      for whom that war was commenced, he feared for the first time lest this
      naivete should be in reality simple levity, not coming from the heart. He
      resolved to sound it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, heavens! how I tremble, Henri!&rdquo; she said as she entered
      the confessional; &ldquo;you make me come without guards, without a coach.
      I always tremble lest I should be seen by my people coming out of the
      Hotel de Nevers. How much longer must I yet conceal myself like a
      criminal? The Queen was very angry when I avowed the matter to her; and
      whenever she speaks to me of it, &lsquo;tis with her severe air that you
      know, and which always makes me weep. Oh, I am terribly afraid!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She was silent; Cinq-Mars replied only with a deep sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! you do not speak to me!&rdquo; she said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are these, then, all your terrors?&rdquo; asked Cinq-Mars,
      bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can I have greater? Oh, &lsquo;mon ami&rsquo;, in what a tone, with
      what a voice, do you address me! Are you angry because I came too late?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Too soon, Madame, much too soon, for the things you are to hear&mdash;for
      I see you are far from prepared for them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie, affected at the gloomy and bitter tone of his voice, began to weep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, what have I done,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;that you should
      call me Madame, and treat me thus harshly?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be tranquil,&rdquo; replied Cinq-Mars, but with irony in his tone.
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis not, indeed, you who are guilty; but I&mdash;I alone;
      not toward you, but for you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you done wrong, then? Have you ordered the death of any one?
      Oh, no, I am sure you have not, you are so good!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;are you as nothing in my
      designs? Did I misconstrue your thoughts when you looked at me in the
      Queen&rsquo;s boudoir? Can I no longer read in your eyes? Was the fire
      which animated them that of a love for Richelieu? That admiration which
      you promised to him who should dare to say all to the King, where is it?
      Is it all a falsehood?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie burst into tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You still speak to me with bitterness,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I
      have not deserved it. Do you suppose, because I speak not of this fearful
      conspiracy, that I have forgotten it? Do you not see me miserable at the
      thought? Must you see my tears? Behold them; I shed enough in secret.
      Henri, believe that if I have avoided this terrible subject in our last
      interviews, it is from the fear of learning too much. Have I any other
      thought that that of your dangers? Do I not know that it is for me you
      incur them? Alas! if you fight for me, have I not also to sustain attacks
      no less cruel? Happier than I, you have only to combat hatred, while I
      struggle against friendship. The Cardinal will oppose to you men and
      weapons; but the Queen, the gentle Anne of Austria, employs only tender
      advice, caresses, sometimes tears.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Touching and invincible constraint to make you accept a throne,&rdquo;
      said Cinq-Mars, bitterly. &ldquo;I well conceive you must need some
      efforts to resist such seductions; but first, Madame, I must release you
      from your vows.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, great Heaven! what is there, then, against us?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is God above us, and against us,&rdquo; replied Henri, in a
      severe tone; &ldquo;the King has deceived me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was an agitated movement on the part of the Abbe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie exclaimed, &ldquo;I foresaw it; this is the misfortune I dreamed and
      dreamed of! It is I who caused it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He deceived me, as he pressed my hand,&rdquo; continued Cinq-Mars;
      &ldquo;he betrayed me by the villain Joseph, whom an offer has been made
      to me to poniard.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Abbe gave a start of horror which half opened the door of the
      confessional.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O father, fear nothing,&rdquo; said Henri d&rsquo;Effiat; &ldquo;your
      pupil will never strike such blows. Those I prepare will be heard from
      afar, and the broad day will light them up; but there remains a duty&mdash;a
      sacred duty&mdash;for me to fulfil. Behold your son sacrifice himself
      before you! Alas! I have not lived long in the sight of happiness, and I
      am about, perhaps, to destroy it by your hand, that consecrated it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he opened the light grating which separated him from his old
      tutor; the latter, still observing an extraordinary silence, passed his
      hood over his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Restore this nuptial ring to the Duchesse de Mantua,&rdquo; said
      Cinq-Mars, in a tone less firm; &ldquo;I can not keep it unless she give
      it me a second time, for I am not the same whom she promised to espouse.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The priest hastily seized the ring, and passed it through the opposite
      grating; this mark of indifference astonished Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! Father,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;are you also changed?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie wept no longer; but, raising her angelic voice, which awakened a
      faint echo along the aisles of the church, as the softest sigh of the
      organ, she said, returning the ring to Cinq-Mars:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O dearest, be not angry! I comprehend you not. Can we break asunder
      what God has just united, and can I leave you, when I know you are
      unhappy? If the King no longer loves you, at least you may be assured he
      will not harm you, since he has not harmed the Cardinal, whom he never
      loved. Do you think yourself undone, because he is perhaps unwilling to
      separate from his old servant? Well, let us await the return of his
      friendship; forget these conspirators, who affright me. If they give up
      hope, I shall thank Heaven, for then I shall no longer tremble for you.
      Why needlessly afflict ourselves? The Queen loves us, and we are both very
      young; let us wait. The future is beautiful, since we are united and sure
      of ourselves. Tell me what the King said to you at Chambord. I followed
      you long with my eyes. Heavens! how sad to me was that hunting party!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has betrayed me, I tell you,&rdquo; answered Cinq-Mars. &ldquo;Yet
      who could have believed it, that saw him press our hands, turning from his
      brother to me, and to the Duc de Bouillon, making himself acquainted with
      the minutest details of the conspiracy, of the very day on which Richelieu
      was to be arrested at Lyons, fixing himself the place of his exile (our
      party desired his death, but the recollection of my father made me ask his
      life). The King said that he himself would direct the whole affair at
      Perpignan; yet just before, Joseph, that foul spy, had issued from out of
      the cabinet du Lys. O Marie! shall I own it? at the moment I heard this,
      my very soul was tossed. I doubted everything; it seemed to me that the
      centre of the world was unhinged when I found truth quit the heart of the
      King. I saw our whole edifice crumble to the ground; another hour, and the
      conspiracy would vanish away, and I should lose you forever. One means
      remained; I employed it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What means?&rdquo; said Marie.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The treaty with Spain was in my hand; I signed it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, heavens! destroy it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is gone.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who bears it?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fontrailles.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Recall him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will, ere this, have passed the defiles of Oleron,&rdquo; said
      Cinq-Mars, rising up. &ldquo;All is ready at Madrid, all at Sedan. Armies
      await me, Marie&mdash;armies! Richelieu is in the midst of them. He
      totters; it needs but one blow to overthrow him, and you are mine forever&mdash;forever
      the wife of the triumphant Cinq-Mars.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of Cinq-Mars the rebel,&rdquo; she said, sighing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, have it so, the rebel; but no longer the favorite. Rebel,
      criminal, worthy of the scaffold, I know it,&rdquo; cried the impassioned
      youth, falling on his knees; &ldquo;but a rebel for love, a rebel for you,
      whom my sword will at last achieve for me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, a sword imbrued in the blood of your country! Is it not a
      poniard?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pause! for pity, pause, Marie! Let kings abandon me, let warriors
      forsake me, I shall only be the more firm; but a word from you will
      vanquish me, and once again the time for reflection will be passed from
      me. Yes, I am a criminal; and that is why I still hesitate to think myself
      worthy of you. Abandon me, Marie; take back the ring.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can not,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;for I am your wife, whatever you
      be.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You hear her, father!&rdquo; exclaimed Cinq-Mars, transported with
      happiness; &ldquo;bless this second union, the work of devotion, even more
      beautiful than that of love. Let her be mine while I live.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Without answering, the Abbe opened the door of the confessional and had
      quitted the church ere Cinq-Mars had time to rise and follow him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going? What is the matter?&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      But no one answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not call out, in the name of Heaven!&rdquo; said Marie, &ldquo;or
      I am lost; he has doubtless heard some one in the church.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But D&rsquo;Effiat, agitated, and without answering her, rushed forth, and
      sought his late tutor through the church, but in vain. Drawing his sword,
      he proceeded to the entrance which Grandchamp had to guard; he called him
      and listened.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now let him go,&rdquo; said a voice at the corner of the street;
      and at the same moment was heard the galloping of horses.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Grandchamp, wilt thou answer?&rdquo; cried Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Help, Henri, my dear boy!&rdquo; exclaimed the voice of the Abbe
      Quillet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whence come you? You endanger me,&rdquo; said the grand ecuyer,
      approaching him.
    </p>
    <p>
      But he saw that his poor tutor, without a hat in the falling snow, was in
      a most deplorable condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They stopped me, and they robbed me,&rdquo; he cried. &ldquo;The
      villains, the assassins! they prevented me from calling out; they stopped
      my mouth with a handkerchief.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this noise, Grandchamp at length came, rubbing his eyes, like one just
      awakened. Laure, terrified, ran into the church to her mistress; all
      hastily followed her to reassure Marie, and then surrounded the old Abbe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The villains! they bound my hands, as you see. There were more than
      twenty of them; they took from me the key of the side door of the church.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! just now?&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;and why did you quit
      us?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quit you! why, they have kept me there two hours.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two hours!&rdquo; cried Henri, terrified.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, miserable old man that I am!&rdquo; said Grandchamp; &ldquo;I
      have slept while my master was in danger. It is the first time.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were not with us, then, in the confessional?&rdquo; continued
      Cinq-Mars, anxiously, while Marie tremblingly pressed against his arm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What!&rdquo; said the Abbe, &ldquo;did you not see the rascal to
      whom they gave my key?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No! whom?&rdquo; cried all at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father Joseph,&rdquo; answered the good priest.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fly! you are lost!&rdquo; cried Marie.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK 6
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXII. THE STORM
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &lsquo;Blow, blow, thou winter wind;
          Thou art not so unkind
          As man&rsquo;s ingratitude.
          Thy tooth is not so keen,
          Because thou art not seen,
          Although thy breath be rude.
     Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly.
     Most friendship is feigning; most loving mere folly.&rsquo;

                       SHAKESPEARE.
</pre>
    <p>
      Amid that long and superb chain of the Pyrenees which forms the embattled
      isthmus of the peninsula, in the centre of those blue pyramids, covered in
      gradation with snow, forests, and downs, there opens a narrow defile, a
      path cut in the dried-up bed of a perpendicular torrent; it circulates
      among rocks, glides under bridges of frozen snow, twines along the edges
      of inundated precipices to scale the adjacent mountains of Urdoz and
      Oleron, and at last rising over their unequal ridges, turns their nebulous
      peak into a new country which has also its mountains and its depths, and,
      quitting France, descends into Spain. Never has the hoof of the mule left
      its trace in these windings; man himself can with difficulty stand upright
      there, even with the hempen boots which can not slip, and the hook of the
      pikestaff to force into the crevices of the rocks.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the fine summer months the &lsquo;pastour&rsquo;, in his brown cape,
      and his black long-bearded ram lead hither flocks, whose flowing wool
      sweeps the turf. Nothing is heard in these rugged places but the sound of
      the large bells which the sheep carry, and whose irregular tinklings
      produce unexpected harmonies, casual gamuts, which astonish the traveller
      and delight the savage and silent shepherd. But when the long month of
      September comes, a shroud of snow spreads itself from the peak of the
      mountains down to their base, respecting only this deeply excavated path,
      a few gorges open by torrents, and some rocks of granite, which stretch
      out their fantastical forms, like the bones of a buried world.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is then that light troops of chamois make their appearance, with their
      twisted horns extending over their backs, spring from rock to rock as if
      driven before the wind, and take possession of their aerial desert.
      Flights of ravens and crows incessantly wheel round and round in the gulfs
      and natural wells which they transform into dark dovecots, while the brown
      bear, followed by her shaggy family, who sport and tumble around her in
      the snow, slowly descends from their retreat invaded by the frost. But
      these are neither the most savage nor the most cruel inhabitants that
      winter brings into these mountains; the daring smuggler raises for himself
      a dwelling of wood on the very boundary of nature and of politics. There
      unknown treaties, secret exchanges, are made between the two Navarres,
      amid fogs and winds.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was in this narrow path on the frontiers of France that, about two
      months after the scenes we have witnessed in Paris, two travellers, coming
      from Spain, stopped at midnight, fatigued and dismayed. They heard
      musket-shots in the mountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The scoundrels! how they have pursued us!&rdquo; said one of them.
      &ldquo;I can go no farther; but for you I should have been taken.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And you will be taken still, as well as that infernal paper, if you
      lose your time in words; there is another volley on the rock of Saint
      Pierre-de-L&rsquo;Aigle. Up there, they suppose we have gone in the
      direction of the Limacon; but, below, they will see the contrary. Descend;
      it is doubtless a patrol hunting smugglers. Descend.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how? I can not see.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never mind, descend. Take my arm.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold me; my boots slip,&rdquo; said the first traveller, stamping
      on the edge of the rock to make sure of the solidity of the ground before
      trusting himself upon it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Go on; go on!&rdquo; said the other, pushing him. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s
      one of the rascals passing over our heads.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, in fact, the shadow of a man, armed with a long gun, was reflected on
      the snow. The two adventurers stood motionless. The man passed on. They
      continued their descent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They will take us,&rdquo; said the one who was supporting the
      other. &ldquo;They have turned us. Give me your confounded parchment. I
      wear the dress of a smuggler, and I can pass for one seeking an asylum
      among them; but you would have no resource with your laced dress.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are right,&rdquo; said his companion; and, resting his foot
      against the edge of the rock, and reclining on the slope, he gave him a
      roll of hollow wood.
    </p>
    <p>
      A gun was fired, and a ball buried itself, hissing, in the snow at their
      feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Marked!&rdquo; said the first. &ldquo;Roll down. If you are not
      dead when you get to the bottom, take the road you see before you. On the
      left of the hollow is Santa Maria. But turn to the right; cross Oleron;
      and you are on the road to Pau and are saved. Go; roll down.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he pushed his comrade, and without condescending to look
      after him, and himself neither ascending nor descending, followed the
      flank of the mountain horizontally, hanging on by rocks, branches, and
      even by plants, with the strength and energy of a wild-cat, and soon found
      himself on firm ground before a small wooden hut, through which a light
      was visible. The adventurer went all around it, like a hungry wolf round a
      sheepfold, and, applying his eye to one of the openings, apparently saw
      what determined him, for without further hesitation he pushed the
      tottering door, which was not even fastened by a latch. The whole but
      shook with the blow he had given it. He then saw that it was divided into
      two cabins by a partition. A large flambeau of yellow wax lighted the
      first. There, a young girl, pale and fearfully thin, was crouched in a
      corner on the damp floor, just where the melted snow ran under the planks
      of the cottage. Very long black hair, entangled and covered with dust,
      fell in disorder over her coarse brown dress; the red hood of the Pyrenees
      covered her head and shoulders. Her eyes were cast down; and she was
      spinning with a small distaff attached to her waist. The entry of a man
      did not appear to move her in the least.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha! La moza,&mdash;[girl]&mdash;get up and give me something to
      drink. I am tired and thirsty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The young girl did not answer, and, without raising her eyes, continued to
      spin assiduously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dost hear?&rdquo; said the stranger, thrusting her with his foot.
      &ldquo;Go and tell thy master that a friend wishes to see him; but first
      give me some drink. I shall sleep here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She answered, in a hoarse voice, still spinning:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I drink the snow that melts on the rock, or the green scum that
      floats on the water of the swamp. But when I have spun well, they give me
      water from the iron spring. When I sleep, the cold lizards crawl over my
      face; but when I have well cleaned a mule, they throw me hay. The hay is
      warm; the hay is good and warm. I put it under my marble feet.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What tale art thou telling me?&rdquo; said Jacques. &ldquo;I spoke
      not of thee.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They make me hold a man while they kill him. Oh, what blood I have
      had on my hands! God forgive them!&mdash;if that be possible. They make me
      hold his head, and the bucket filled with crimson water. O Heaven!&mdash;I,
      who was the bride of God! They throw their bodies into the abyss of snow;
      but the vulture finds them; he lines his nest with their hair. I now see
      thee full of life; I shall see thee bloody, pale, and dead.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The adventurer, shrugging his shoulders, began to whistle as he passed the
      second door. Within he found the man he had seen through the chinks of the
      cabin. He wore the blue berret cap of the Basques on one side, and,
      enveloped in an ample cloak, seated on the pack-saddle of a mule, and
      bending over a large brazier, smoked a cigar, and from time to time drank
      from a leather bottle at his side. The light of the brazier showed his
      full yellow face, as well as the chamber, in which mule-saddles were
      ranged round the byasero as seats. He raised his head without altering his
      position.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, oh! is it thou, Jacques?&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;Is it thou?
      Although &lsquo;tis four years since I saw thee, I recognize thee. Thou
      art not changed, brigand! There &lsquo;tis still, thy great knave&rsquo;s
      face. Sit down there, and take a drink.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, here I am. But how the devil camest thou here? I thought thou
      wert a judge, Houmain!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I thought thou wert a Spanish captain, Jacques!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! I was so for a time, and then a prisoner. But I got out of the
      thing very snugly, and have taken again to the old trade, the free life,
      the good smuggling work.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Viva! viva! Jaleo!&rdquo;&mdash;[A common Spanish oath.]&mdash;cried
      Houmain. &ldquo;We brave fellows can turn our hands to everything. Thou
      camest by the other passes, I suppose, for I have not seen thee since I
      returned to the trade.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes; I have passed where thou wilt never pass,&rdquo; said
      Jacques.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what hast got?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A new merchandise. My mules will come tomorrow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silk sashes, cigars, or linen?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou wilt know in time, amigo,&rdquo; said the ruffian. &ldquo;Give
      me the skin. I&rsquo;m thirsty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, drink. It&rsquo;s true Valdepenas! We&rsquo;re so jolly here,
      we bandoleros! Ay! jaleo! jaleo! come, drink; our friends are coming.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What friends?&rdquo; said Jacques, dropping the horn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be uneasy, but drink. I&rsquo;ll tell thee all about it
      presently, and then we&rsquo;ll sing the Andalusian Tirana.&rdquo;&mdash;[A
      kind of ballad.]
    </p>
    <p>
      The adventurer took the horn, and assumed an appearance of ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And who&rsquo;s that great she-devil I saw out there?&rdquo; he
      said. &ldquo;She seems half dead.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no! she&rsquo;s only mad. Drink; I&rsquo;ll tell thee all about
      her.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And taking from his red sash a long poniard denticulated on each side like
      a saw, Houmain used it to stir up the fire, and said with vast gravity:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou must know first, if thou dost not know it already, that down
      below there [he pointed toward France] the old wolf Richelieu carries all
      before him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, ah!&rdquo; said Jacques.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; they call him the king of the King. Thou knowest? There is,
      however, a young man almost as strong as he, and whom they call Monsieur
      le Grand. This young fellow commands almost the whole army of Perpignan at
      this moment. He arrived there a month ago; but the old fox is still at
      Narbonne&mdash;a very cunning fox, indeed. As to the King, he is sometimes
      this, sometimes that [as he spoke, Houmain turned his hand outward and
      inward], between zist and zest; but while he is determining, I am for zist&mdash;that
      is to say, I&rsquo;m a Cardinalist. I&rsquo;ve been regularly doing
      business for my lord since the first job he gave me, three years ago. I&rsquo;ll
      tell thee about it. He wanted some men of firmness and spirit for a little
      expedition, and sent for me to be judge-Advocate.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! a very pretty post, I&rsquo;ve heard.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, &lsquo;tis a trade like ours, where they sell cord instead of
      thread; but it is less honest, for they kill men oftener. But &lsquo;tis
      also more profitable; everything has its price.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very properly so,&rdquo; said Jacques.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Behold me, then, in a red robe. I helped to give a yellow one and
      brimstone to a fine fellow, who was cure at Loudun, and who had got into a
      convent of nuns, like a wolf in a fold; and a fine thing he made of it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ha, ha, ha! That&rsquo;s very droll!&rdquo; laughed Jacques.
      &ldquo;Drink,&rdquo; said Houmain. &ldquo;Yes, Jago, I saw him after the
      affair, reduced to a little black heap like this charcoal. See, this
      charcoal at the end of my poniard. What things we are! That&rsquo;s just
      what we shall all come to when we go to the Devil.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, none of these pleasantries!&rdquo; said the other, very
      gravely. &ldquo;You know that I am religious.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I don&rsquo;t say no; it may be so,&rdquo; said Houmain, in
      the same tone. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s Richelieu, a Cardinal! But, no matter.
      Thou must know, then, as I was Advocate-General, I advocated&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, thou art quite a wit!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a little. But, as I was saying, I advocated into my own pocket
      five hundred piastres, for Armand Duplessis pays his people well, and
      there&rsquo;s nothing to be said against that, except that the money&rsquo;s
      not his own; but that&rsquo;s the way with us all. I determined to invest
      this money in our old trade; and I returned here. Business goes on well.
      There is sentence of death out against us; and our goods, of course, sell
      for half as much again as before.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; exclaimed Jacques; &ldquo;lightning at
      this time of year?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, the storms are beginning; we&rsquo;ve had two already. We are
      in the clouds. Dost hear the roll of the thunder? But this is nothing;
      come, drink. &lsquo;Tis almost one in the morning; we&rsquo;ll finish the
      skin and the night together. As I was telling thee, I made acquaintance
      with our president&mdash;a great scoundrel called Laubardemont. Dost know
      him?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, a little,&rdquo; said Jacques; &ldquo;he&rsquo;s a regular
      miser. But never mind that; go on.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, as we had nothing to conceal from one another, I told him of
      my little commercial plans, and asked him, when any good jobs presented
      themselves, to think of his judicial comrade; and I&rsquo;ve had no cause
      to complain of him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said Jacques, &ldquo;and what has he done?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, first, two years ago, he himself brought, me, on horseback
      behind him, his niece that thou&rsquo;st seen out there.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His niece!&rdquo; cried Jacques, rising; &ldquo;and thou treat&rsquo;st
      her like a slave! Demonio!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drink,&rdquo; said Houmain, quietly stirring the brazier with his
      poniard; &ldquo;he himself desired it should be so. Sit down.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Jacques did so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think,&rdquo; continued the smuggler, &ldquo;that he&rsquo;d
      even be sorry to know that she was&mdash;dost understand?&mdash;to hear
      she was under the snow rather than above it; but he would not put her
      there himself, because he&rsquo;s a good relative, as he himself said.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And as I know,&rdquo; said Jacques; &ldquo;but go on.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou mayst suppose that a man like him, who lives at court, does
      not like to have a mad niece in his house. The thing is self-evident; if I&rsquo;d
      continued to play my part of the man of the robe, I should have done the
      same in a similar case. But here, as you perceive, we don&rsquo;t care
      much for appearances; and I&rsquo;ve taken her for a servant. She has
      shown more good sense than I expected, although she has rarely ever spoken
      more than a single word, and at first came the delicate over us. Now she
      rubs down a mule like a groom. She has had a slight fever for the last few
      days; but &lsquo;twill pass off one way or the other. But, I say, don&rsquo;t
      tell Laubardemont that she still lives; he&rsquo;d think &lsquo;twas for
      the sake of economy I&rsquo;ve kept her for a servant.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How! is he here?&rdquo; cried Jacques.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Drink!&rdquo; replied the phlegmatic Houmain, who himself set the
      example most assiduously, and began to half shut his eyes with a
      languishing air. &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis the second transaction I&rsquo;ve had
      with this Laubardemont&mdash;or demon, or whatever the name is; but
      &lsquo;tis a good devil of a demon, at all events. I love him as I do my
      eyes; and I will drink his health out of this bottle of Jurangon here.
      &lsquo;Tis the wine of a jolly fellow, the late King Henry. How happy we
      are here!&mdash;Spain on the right hand, France on the left; the wine-skin
      on one side, the bottle on the other! The bottle! I&rsquo;ve left all for
      the bottle!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he knocked off the neck of a bottle of white wine. After
      taking a long draught, he continued, while the stranger closely watched
      him:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he&rsquo;s here; and his feet must be rather cold, for he&rsquo;s
      been waiting about the mountains ever since sunset, with his guards and
      our comrades. Thou knowest our bandoleros, the true contrabandistas?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! and what do they hunt?&rdquo; said Jacques.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, that&rsquo;s the joke!&rdquo; answered the drunkard. &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis
      to arrest two rascals, who want to bring here sixty thousand Spanish
      soldiers in paper in their pocket. You don&rsquo;t, perhaps, quite
      understand me, &lsquo;croquant&rsquo;. Well, &lsquo;tis as I tell thee&mdash;in
      their own pockets.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, ay! I understand,&rdquo; said Jacques, loosening his poniard in
      his sash, and looking at the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, devil&rsquo;s-skin, let&rsquo;s sing the Tirana. Take
      the bottle, throw away the cigar, and sing.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words the drunken host began to sing in Spanish, interrupting
      his song with bumpers, which he threw down his throat, leaning back for
      the greater ease, while Jacques, still seated, looked at him gloomily by
      the light of the brazier, and meditated what he should do.
    </p>
    <p>
      A flash of lightning entered the small window, and filled the room with a
      sulphurous odor. A fearful clap immediately followed; the cabin shook; and
      a beam fell outside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo, the house!&rdquo; cried the drunken man; &ldquo;the Devil&rsquo;s
      among us; and our friends are not come!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sing!&rdquo; said Jacques, drawing the pack upon which he was close
      to that of Houmain.
    </p>
    <p>
      The latter drank to encourage himself, and then continued to sing.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he ended, he felt his seat totter, and fell backward; Jacques, thus
      freed from him, sprang toward the door, when it opened, and his head
      struck against the cold, pale face of the mad-woman. He recoiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The judge!&rdquo; she said, as she entered; and she fell prostrate
      on the cold ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      Jacques had already passed one foot over her; but another face appeared,
      livid and surprised-that of a very tall man, enveloped in a cloak covered
      with snow. He again recoiled, and laughed a laugh of terror and rage. It
      was Laubardemont, followed by armed men; they looked at one another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, com-r-a-d-e, yo-a ra-a-scal!&rdquo; hiccuped Houmain, rising
      with difficulty; &ldquo;thou&rsquo;rt a Royalist.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But when he saw these two men, who seemed petrified by each other, he
      became silent, as conscious of his intoxication; and he reeled forward to
      raise up the madwoman, who was still lying between the judge and the
      Captain. The former spoke first.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you not he we have been pursuing?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is he!&rdquo; said the armed men, with one voice; &ldquo;the
      other has escaped.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Jacques receded to the split planks that formed the tottering wall of the
      hut; enveloping himself in his cloak, like a bear forced against a tree by
      the hounds, and, wishing to gain a moment&rsquo;s respite for reflection,
      he said, firmly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The first who passes that brazier and the body of that girl is a
      dead man.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he drew a long poniard from his cloak. At this moment Houmain,
      kneeling, turned the head of the girl. Her eyes were closed; he drew her
      toward the brazier, which lighted up her face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, heavens!&rdquo; cried Laubardemont, forgetting himself in his
      fright; &ldquo;Jeanne again!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be calm, my lo-lord,&rdquo; said Houmain, trying to open the
      eyelids, which closed again, and to raise her head, which fell back again
      like wet linen; &ldquo;be, be&mdash;calm! Do-n&rsquo;t ex-cite yourself;
      she&rsquo;s dead, decidedly.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Jacques put his foot on the body as on a barrier, and, looking with a
      ferocious laugh in the face of Laubardemont, said to him in a low voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me pass, and I will not compromise thee, courtier; I will not
      tell that she was thy niece, and that I am thy son.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Laubardemont collected himself, looked at his men, who pressed around him
      with advanced carabines; and, signing them to retire a few steps, he
      answered in a very low voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me the treaty, and thou shalt pass.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here it is, in my girdle; touch it, and I will call you my father
      aloud. What will thy master say?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it me, and I will spare thy life.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me pass, and I will pardon thy having given me that life.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Still the same, brigand?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, assassin.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What matters to thee that boy conspirator?&rdquo; asked the judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What matters to thee that old man who reigns?&rdquo; answered the
      other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me that paper; I&rsquo;ve sworn to have it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave it with me; I&rsquo;ve sworn to carry it back.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can be thy oath and thy God?&rdquo; demanded Laubardemont.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And thine?&rdquo; replied Jacques. &ldquo;Is&rsquo;t the crucifix
      of red-hot iron?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here Houmain, rising between them, laughing and staggering, said to the
      judge, slapping him on the shoulder.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a long time coming to an understanding, friend; do-on&rsquo;t
      you know him of old? He&rsquo;s a very good fellow.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I? no!&rdquo; cried Laubardemont, aloud; &ldquo;I never saw him
      before.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment, Jacques, who was protected by the drunkard and the
      smallness of the crowded chamber, sprang violently against the weak planks
      that formed the wall, and by a blow of his heel knocked two of them out,
      and passed through the space thus created. The whole side of the cabin was
      broken; it tottered, and the wind rushed in.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hallo! Demonio! Santo Demonio! where art going?&rdquo; cried the
      smuggler; &ldquo;thou art breaking my house down, and on the side of the
      ravine, too.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      All cautiously approached, tore away the planks that remained, and leaned
      over the abyss. They contemplated a strange spectacle. The storm raged in
      all its fury; and it was a storm of the Pyrenees. Enormous flashes of
      lightning came all at once from all parts of the horizon, and their fires
      succeeded so quickly that there seemed no interval; they appeared to be a
      continuous flash. It was but rarely the flaming vault would suddenly
      become obscure; and it then instantly resumed its glare. It was not the
      light that seemed strange on this night, but the darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The tall thin peaks and whitened rocks stood out from the red background
      like blocks of marble on a cupola of burning brass, and resembled, amid
      the snows, the wonders of a volcano; the waters gushed from them like
      flames; the snow poured down like dazzling lava.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this moving mass a man was seen struggling, whose efforts only involved
      him deeper and deeper in the whirling and liquid gulf; his knees were
      already buried. In vain he clasped his arms round an enormous pyramidal
      and transparent icicle, which reflected the lightning like a rock of
      crystal; the icicle itself was melting at its base, and slowly bending
      over the declivity of the rock. Under the covering of snow, masses of
      granite were heard striking against each other, as they descended into the
      vast depths below. Yet they could still save him; a space of scarcely four
      feet separated him from Laubardemont.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I sink!&rdquo; he cried; &ldquo;hold out to me something, and thou
      shalt have the treaty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give it me, and I will reach thee this musket,&rdquo; said the
      judge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There it is,&rdquo; replied the ruffian, &ldquo;since the Devil is
      for Richelieu!&rdquo; and taking one hand from the hold of his slippery
      support, he threw a roll of wood into the cabin. Laubardemont rushed back
      upon the treaty like a wolf on his prey. Jacques in vain held out his arm;
      he slowly glided away with the enormous thawing block turned upon him, and
      was silently buried in the snow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, villain,&rdquo; were his last words, &ldquo;thou hast deceived
      me! but thou didst not take the treaty from me. I gave it thee, Father!&rdquo;
      and he disappeared wholly under the thick white bed of snow. Nothing was
      seen in his place but the glittering flakes which the lightning had
      ploughed up, as it became extinguished in them; nothing was&mdash;heard
      but the rolling of the thunder and the dash of the water against the
      rocks, for the men in the half-ruined cabin, grouped round a corpse and a
      villain, were silent, tongue-tied with horror, and fearing lest God
      himself should send a thunderbolt upon them.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIII. ABSENCE
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          L&rsquo;absence est le plus grand des maux,
          Non pas pour vous, cruelle!

                       LA FONTAINE.
</pre>
    <p>
      Who has not found a charm in watching the clouds of heaven as they float
      along? Who has not envied them the freedom of their journeyings through
      the air, whether rolled in great masses by the wind, and colored by the
      sun, they advance peacefully, like fleets of dark ships with gilt prows,
      or sprinkled in light groups, they glide quickly on, airy and elongated,
      like birds of passage, transparent as vast opals detached from the
      treasury of the heavens, or glittering with whiteness, like snows from the
      mountains carried on the wings of the winds? Man is a slow traveller who
      envies those rapid journeyers; less rapid than his imagination, they have
      yet seen in a single day all the places he loves, in remembrance or in
      hope,&mdash;those that have witnessed his happiness or his misery, and
      those so beautiful countries unknown to us, where we expect to find
      everything at once. Doubtless there is not a spot on the whole earth, a
      wild rock, an arid plain, over which we pass with indifference, that has
      not been consecrated in the life of some man, and is not painted in his
      remembrance; for, like battered vessels, before meeting inevitable wreck,
      we leave some fragment of ourselves on every rock.
    </p>
    <p>
      Whither go the dark-blue clouds of that storm of the Pyrenees? It is the
      wind of Africa which drives them before it with a fiery breath. They fly;
      they roll over one another, growlingly throwing out lightning before them,
      as their torches, and leaving suspended behind them a long train of rain,
      like a vaporous robe. Freed by an effort from the rocky defiles that for a
      moment had arrested their course, they irrigate, in Bearn, the picturesque
      patrimony of Henri IV; in Guienne, the conquests of Charles VII; in
      Saintogne, Poitou, and Touraine, those of Charles V and of Philip
      Augustus; and at last, slackening their pace above the old domain of Hugh
      Capet, halt murmuring on the towers of St. Germain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Madame!&rdquo; exclaimed Marie de Mantua to the Queen, &ldquo;do
      you see this storm coming up from the south?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You often look in that direction, &lsquo;ma chere&rsquo;,&rdquo;
      answered Anne of Austria, leaning on the balcony.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the direction of the sun, Madame.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And of tempests, you see,&rdquo; said the Queen. &ldquo;Trust in my
      friendship, my child; these clouds can bring no happiness to you. I would
      rather see you turn your eyes toward Poland. See the fine people you might
      command.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment, to avoid the rain, which began to fall, the
      Prince-Palatine passed rapidly under the windows of the Queen, with a
      numerous suite of young Poles on horseback. Their Turkish vests, with
      buttons of diamonds, emeralds, and rubies; their green and gray cloaks;
      the lofty plumes of their horses, and their adventurous air-gave them a
      singular eclat to which the court had easily become accustomed. They
      paused for a moment, and the Prince made two salutes, while the light
      animal he rode passed gracefully sideways, keeping his front toward the
      princesses; prancing and snorting, he shook his mane, and seemed to salute
      by putting his head between his legs. The whole suite repeated the
      evolution as they passed. The Princesse Marie had at first shrunk back,
      lest they should see her tears; but the brilliant and flattering spectacle
      made her return to the balcony, and she could not help exclaiming:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How gracefully the Palatine rides that beautiful horse! he seems
      scarce conscious of it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen smiled, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is conscious about her who might be his queen tomorrow, if she
      would but make a sign of the head, and let but one glance from her great
      black almond-shaped eyes be turned on that throne, instead of always
      receiving these poor foreigners with poutings, as now.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And Anne of Austria kissed the cheek of Marie, who could not refrain from
      smiling also; but she instantly sunk her head, reproaching herself, and
      resumed her sadness, which seemed gliding from her. She even needed once
      more to contemplate the great clouds that hung over the chateau.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor child,&rdquo; continued the Queen, &ldquo;thou dost all thou
      canst to be very faithful, and to keep thyself in the melancholy of thy
      romance. Thou art making thyself ill with weeping when thou shouldst be
      asleep, and with not eating. Thou passest the night in revery and in
      writing; but I warn thee, thou wilt get nothing by it, except making
      thyself thin and less beautiful, and the not being a queen. Thy Cinq-Mars
      is an ambitious youth, who has lost himself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Seeing Marie conceal her head in her handkerchief to weep, Anne of Austria
      for a moment reentered her chamber, leaving Marie in the balcony, and
      feigned to be looking for some jewels at her toilet-table; she soon
      returned, slowly and gravely, to the window. Marie was more calm, and was
      gazing sorrowfully at the landscape before her, the hills in the distance,
      and the storm gradually spreading itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen resumed in a more serious tone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God has been more merciful to you than your imprudence perhaps
      deserved, Marie. He has saved you from great danger. You were willing to
      make great sacrifices, but fortunately they have not been accomplished as
      you expected. Innocence has saved you from love. You are as one who,
      thinking she has swallowed a deadly poison, has in reality drunk only pure
      and harmless water.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Madame, what mean you? Am I not unhappy enough already?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not interrupt me,&rdquo; said the Queen; &ldquo;you will, ere
      long, see your present position with different eyes. I will not accuse you
      of ingratitude toward the Cardinal; I have too many reasons for not liking
      him. I myself witnessed the rise of the conspiracy. Still, you should
      remember, &lsquo;ma chere&rsquo;, that he was the only person in France
      who, against the opinion of the Queen-mother and of the court, insisted
      upon war with the duchy of Mantua, which he recovered from the empire and
      from Spain, and returned to the Duc de Nevers, your father. Here, in this
      very chateau of Saint-Germain, was signed the treaty which deposed the
      Duke of Guastalla.&mdash;[The 19th of May, 1632.]&mdash;You were then very
      young; they must, however, have told you of it. Yet here, through love
      alone (I am willing to believe, with yourself, that it is so), a young man
      of two-and-twenty is ready to get him assassinated.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Madame, he is incapable of such a deed. I swear to you that he
      has refused to adopt it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have begged you, Marie, to let me speak. I know that he is
      generous and loyal. I am willing to believe that, contrary to the custom
      of our times, he would not go so far as to kill an old man, as did the
      Chevalier de Guise. But can he prevent his assassination, if his troops
      make him prisoner? This we can not say, any more than he. God alone knows
      the future. It is, at all events, certain that it is for you he attacks
      him, and, to overthrow him, is preparing civil war, which perhaps is
      bursting forth at the very moment that we speak&mdash;a war without
      success. Whichever way it turns, it can only effect evil, for Monsieur is
      going to abandon the conspiracy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How, Madame?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen to me. I tell you I am certain of it; I need not explain
      myself further. What will the grand ecuyer do? The King, as he rightly
      anticipated, has gone to consult the Cardinal. To consult him is to yield
      to him; but the treaty of Spain is signed. If it be discovered, what can
      Monsieur de Cinq-Mars do? Do not tremble thus. We will save him; we will
      save his life, I promise you. There is yet time, I hope.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Madame, you hope! I am lost!&rdquo; cried Marie, half fainting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us sit down,&rdquo; said the Queen; and, placing herself near
      Marie, at the entrance to the chamber, she continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Doubtless Monsieur will treat for all the conspirators in treating
      for himself; but exile will be the least punishment, perpetual exile.
      Behold, then, the Duchesse de Nevers and Mantua, the Princesse Marie de
      Gonzaga, the wife of Monsieur Henri d&rsquo;Effiat, Marquis de Cinq-Mars,
      exiled!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Madame, I will follow him into exile. It is my duty; I am his
      wife!&rdquo; exclaimed Marie, sobbing. &ldquo;I would I knew he were
      already banished and in safety.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dreams of eighteen!&rdquo; said the Queen, supporting Marie.
      &ldquo;Awake, child, awake! you must. I deny not the good qualities of
      Monsieur de Cinq-Mars. He has a lofty character, a vast mind, and great
      courage; but he may no longer be aught for you, and, fortunately, you are
      not his wife, or even his betrothed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am his, Madame-his alone.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But without the benediction,&rdquo; replied Anne of Austria;
      &ldquo;in a word, without marriage. No priest would have dared&mdash;not
      even your own; he told me so. Be silent!&rdquo; she added, putting her two
      beautiful hands on Marie&rsquo;s lips. &ldquo;Be silent! You would say
      that God heard your vow; that you can not live without him; that your
      destinies are inseparable from his; that death alone can break your union?
      The phrases of your age, delicious chimeras of a moment, at which one day
      you will smile, happy at not having to lament them all your life. Of the
      many and brilliant women you see around me at court, there is not one but
      at your age had some beautiful dream of love, like this of yours, who did
      not form those ties, which they believed indissoluble, and who did not in
      secret take eternal oaths. Well, these dreams are vanished, these knots
      broken, these oaths forgotten; and yet you see them happy women and
      mothers. Surrounded by the honors of their rank, they laugh and dance
      every night. I again divine what you would say&mdash;they loved not as you
      love, eh? You deceive yourself, my dear child; they loved as much, and
      wept no less.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And here I must make you acquainted with that great mystery which
      constitutes your despair, since you are ignorant of the malady that
      devours you. We have a twofold existence, &lsquo;m&rsquo;amie&rsquo;: our
      internal life, that of our feelings powerfully works within us, while the
      external life dominates despite ourselves. We are never independent of
      men, more especially in an elevated condition. Alone, we think ourselves
      mistresses of our destiny; but the entrance of two or three people fastens
      on all our chains, by recalling our rank and our retinue. Nay; shut
      yourself up and abandon yourself to all the daring and extraordinary
      resolutions that the passions may raise up in you, to the marvellous
      sacrifices they may suggest to you. A lackey coming and asking your orders
      will at once break the charm and bring you back to your real life. It is
      this contest between your projects and your position which destroys you.
      You are invariably angry with yourself; you bitterly reproach yourself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie turned away her head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, you believe yourself criminal. Pardon yourself, Marie; all men
      are beings so relative and so dependent one upon another that I know not
      whether the great retreats of the world that we sometimes see are not made
      for the world itself. Despair has its pursuits, and solitude its coquetry.
      It is said that the gloomiest hermits can not refrain from inquiring what
      men say of them. This need of public opinion is beneficial, in that it
      combats, almost always victoriously, that which is irregular in our
      imagination, and comes to the aid of duties which we too easily forget.
      One experiences (you will feel it, I hope) in returning to one&rsquo;s
      proper lot, after the sacrifice of that which had diverted the reason, the
      satisfaction of an exile returning to his family, of a sick person at
      sight of the sun after a night afflicted with frightful dreams.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is this feeling of a being returned, as it were, to its natural
      state that creates the calm which you see in many eyes that have also had
      their tears-for there are few women who have not known tears such as
      yours. You would think yourself perjured if you renounced Cinq-Mars! But
      nothing binds you; you have more than acquitted yourself toward him by
      refusing for more than two years past the royal hands offered you. And,
      after all, what has he done, this impassioned lover? He has elevated
      himself to reach you; but may not the ambition which here seems to you to
      have aided love have made use of that love? This young man seems to me too
      profound, too calm in his political stratagems, too independent in his
      vast resolutions, in his colossal enterprises, for me to believe him
      solely occupied by his tenderness. If you have been but a means instead of
      an end, what would you say?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would still love him,&rdquo; answered Marie. &ldquo;While he
      lives, I am his.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And while I live,&rdquo; said the Queen, with firmness, &ldquo;I
      will oppose the alliance.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At these last words the rain and hail fell violently on the balcony. The
      Queen took advantage of the circumstance abruptly to leave the room and
      pass into that where the Duchesse de Chevreuse, Mazarin, Madame de
      Guemenee, and the Prince-Palatine had been awaiting her for a short time.
      The Queen walked up to them. Marie placed herself in the shade of a
      curtain in order to conceal the redness of her eyes. She was at first
      unwilling to take part in the sprightly conversation; but some words of it
      attracted her attention. The Queen was showing to the Princesse de
      Guemenee diamonds she had just received from Paris.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As for this crown, it does not belong to me. The King had it
      prepared for the future Queen of Poland. Who that is to be, we know not.&rdquo;
      Then turning toward the Prince-Palatine, &ldquo;We saw you pass, Prince.
      Whom were you going to visit?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mademoiselle la Duchesse de Rohan,&rdquo; answered the Pole.
    </p>
    <p>
      The insinuating Mazarin, who availed himself of every opportunity to worm
      out secrets, and to make himself necessary by forced confidences, said,
      approaching the Queen:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That comes very apropos, just as we were speaking of the crown of
      Poland.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie, who was listening, could not hear this, and said to Madame de
      Guemenee, who was at her side:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is Monsieur de Chabot, then, King of Poland?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Queen heard that, and was delighted at this touch of pride. In order
      to develop its germ, she affected an approving attention to the
      conversation that ensued.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Princesse de Guemenee exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can you conceive such a marriage? We really can&rsquo;t get it out
      of our heads. This same Mademoiselle de Rohan, whom we have seen so
      haughty, after having refused the Comte de Soissons, the Duc de Weimar,
      and the Duc de Nemours, to marry Monsieur de Chabot, a simple gentleman!
      &lsquo;Tis really a sad pity! What are we coming to? &lsquo;Tis impossible
      to say what it will all end in.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! can it be true? Love at court! a real love affair! Can it be
      believed?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time the Queen continued opening and shutting and playing with
      the new crown.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Diamonds suit only black hair,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Let us see.
      Let me put it on you, Marie. Why, it suits her to admiration!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One would suppose it had been made for Madame la Princesse,&rdquo;
      said the Cardinal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would give the last drop of my blood for it to remain on that
      brow,&rdquo; said the Prince-Palatine.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie, through the tears that were still on her cheek, gave an infantine
      and involuntary smile, like a ray of sunshine through rain. Then, suddenly
      blushing deeply, she hastily took refuge in her apartments.
    </p>
    <p>
      All present laughed. The Queen followed her with her eyes, smiled,
      presented her hand for the Polish ambassador to kiss, and retired to write
      a letter.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXIV. THE WORK
    </h2>
    <p>
      One night, before Perpignan, a very unusual event took place. It was ten o&rsquo;clock;
      and all were asleep. The slow and almost suspended operations of the siege
      had rendered the camp and the town inactive. The Spaniards troubled
      themselves little about the French, all communication toward Catalonia
      being open as in time of peace; and in the French army men&rsquo;s minds
      were agitated with that secret anxiety which precedes great events.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet all was calm; no sound was heard but that of the measured tread of the
      sentries. Nothing was seen in the dark night but the red light of the
      matches of their guns, always smoking, when suddenly the trumpets of the
      musketeers, of the light-horse, and of the men-at-arms sounded almost
      simultaneously, &ldquo;boot and saddle,&rdquo; and &ldquo;to horse.&rdquo;
      All the sentinels cried to arms; and the sergeants, with flambeaux, went
      from tent to tent, along pike in their hands, to waken the soldiers, range
      them in lines, and count them. Some files marched in gloomy silence along
      the streets of the camp, and took their position in battle array. The
      sound of the mounted squadrons announced that the heavy cavalry were
      making the same dispositions. After half an hour of movement the noise
      ceased, the torches were extinguished, and all again became calm, but the
      army was on foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the last tents of the camp shone within as a star with flambeaux.
      On approaching this little white and transparent pyramid, we might have
      distinguished the shadows of two men reflected on the canvas as they
      walked to and fro within. Outside several men on horseback were in
      attendance; inside were De Thou and Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      To see the pious and wise De Thou thus up and armed at this hour, you
      might have taken him for one of the chiefs of the revolt. But a closer
      examination of his serious countenance and mournful expression immediately
      showed that he blamed it, and allowed himself to be led into it and
      endangered by it from an extraordinary resolution which aided him to
      surmount the horror he had of the enterprise itself. From the day when
      Henri d&rsquo;Effiat had opened his heart and confided to him its whole
      secret, he had seen clearly that all remonstrance was vain with a young
      man so powerfully resolved.
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou had even understood what M. de Cinq-Mars had not told him, and had
      seen in the secret union of his friend with the Princesse Marie, one of
      those ties of love whose mysterious and frequent faults, voluptuous and
      involuntary derelictions, could not be too soon purified by public
      benediction. He had comprehended that punishment, impossible to be
      supported long by a lover, the adored master of that young girl, and who
      was condemned daily to appear before her as a stranger, to receive
      political disclosures of marriages they were preparing for her. The day
      when he received his entire confession, he had done all in his power to
      prevent Cinq-Mars going so far in his projects as the foreign alliance. He
      had evoked the gravest recollections and the best feelings, without any
      other result than rendering the invincible resolution of his friend more
      rude toward him. Cinq-Mars, it will be recollected, had said to him
      harshly, &ldquo;Well, did I ask you to take part in this conspiracy?&rdquo;
      And he had desired only to promise not to denounce it; and he had
      collected all his power against friendship to say, &ldquo;Expect nothing
      further from me if you sign this treaty.&rdquo; Yet Cinq-Mars had signed
      the treaty; and De Thou was still there with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The habit of familiarly discussing the projects of his friend had perhaps
      rendered them less odious to him. His contempt for the vices of the
      Prime-Minister; his indignation at the servitude of the parliaments to
      which his family belonged, and at the corruption of justice; the powerful
      names, and more especially the noble characters of the men who directed
      the enterprise&mdash;all had contributed to soften down his first painful
      impression. Having once promised secrecy to M. de Cinq-Mars, he considered
      himself as in a position to accept in detail all the secondary
      disclosures; and since the fortuitous event which had compromised him with
      the conspirators at the house of Marion de Lorme, he considered himself
      united to them by honor, and engaged to an inviolable secrecy. Since that
      time he had seen Monsieur, the Duc de Bouillon, and Fontrailles; they had
      become accustomed to speak before him without constraint, and he to hear
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dangers which threatened his friend now drew him into their vortex
      like an invincible magnet. His conscience accused him; but he followed
      Cinq-Mars wherever he went without even, from excess of delicacy,
      hazarding a single expression which might resemble a personal fear. He had
      tacitly given up his life, and would have deemed it unworthy of both to
      manifest a desire to regain it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The master of the horse was in his cuirass; he was armed, and wore large
      boots. An enormous pistol, with a lighted match, was placed upon his table
      between two flambeaux. A heavy watch in a brass case lay near the pistol.
      De Thou, wrapped in a black cloak, sat motionless with folded arms.
      Cinq-Mars paced backward and forward, his arms crossed behind his back,
      from time to time looking at the hand of the watch, too sluggish in his
      eyes. He opened the tent, looked up to the heavens, and returned.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not see my star there,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;but no matter.
      She is here in my heart.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The night is dark,&rdquo; said De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say rather that the time draws nigh. It advances, my friend; it
      advances. Twenty minutes more, and all will be accomplished. The army only
      waits the report of this pistol to begin.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou held in his hand an ivory crucifix, and looking first at the
      cross, and then toward heaven, &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is the
      hour to complete the sacrifice. I repent not; but oh, how bitter is the
      cup of sin to my lips! I had vowed my days to innocence and to the works
      of the soul, and here I am about to commit a crime, and to draw the sword.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But forcibly seizing the hand of Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;It is for you, for you!&rdquo;
      he added with the enthusiasm of a blindly devoted heart. &ldquo;I rejoice
      in my errors if they turn to your glory. I see but your happiness in my
      fault. Forgive me if I have returned for a moment to the habitual thought
      of my whole life.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars looked steadfastly at him; and a tear stole slowly down his
      cheek.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Virtuous friend,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;may your fault fall only on
      my head! But let us hope that God, who pardons those who love, will be for
      us; for we are criminal&mdash;I through love, you through friendship.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then suddenly looking at the watch, he took the long pistol in his hand,
      and gazed at the smoking match with a fierce air. His long hair fell over
      his face like the mane of a young lion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do not consume,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;burn slowly. Thou art about
      to light a flame which the waves of ocean can not extinguish. The flame
      will soon light half Europe; it may perhaps reach the wood of thrones.
      Burn slowly, precious flame! The winds which fan thee are violent and
      fearful; they are love and hatred. Reserve thyself! Thy explosion will be
      heard afar, and will find echoes in the peasant&rsquo;s but and the king&rsquo;s
      palace.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Burn, burn, poor flame! Thou art to me a sceptre and a thunderbolt!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou, still holding his ivory crucifix in his hand, said in a low
      voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Lord, pardon us the blood that will be shed! We combat the wicked
      and the impious.&rdquo; Then, raising his voice, &ldquo;My friend, the
      cause of virtue will triumph,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;it alone will
      triumph. God has ordained that the guilty treaty should not reach us; that
      which constituted the crime is no doubt destroyed. We shall fight without
      the foreigners, and perhaps we shall not fight at all. God will change the
      heart of the king.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis the hour! &lsquo;tis the hour!&rdquo; exclaimed
      Cinq-Mars, his eyes fixed upon the watch with a kind of savage joy;
      &ldquo;four minutes more, and the Cardinalists in the camp will be
      crushed! We shall march upon Narbonne! He is there! Give me the pistol!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words he hastily opened the tent, and took up the match.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A courier from Paris! an express from court!&rdquo; cried a voice
      outside, as a man, heated with hard riding and overcome with fatigue,
      threw himself from his horse, entered, and presented a letter to
      Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From the Queen, Monseigneur,&rdquo; he said. Cinq-Mars turned pale,
      and read as follows:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   M. DE CINQ-MARS: I write this letter to entreat and conjure you to
   restore to her duties our well-beloved adopted daughter and friend,
   the Princesse Marie de Gonzaga, whom your affection alone turns from
   the throne of Poland, which has been offered to her. I have sounded
   her heart. She is very young, and I have good reason to believe
   that she would accept the crown with less effort and less grief than
   you may perhaps imagine.

   It is for her you have undertaken a war which will put to fire and
   sword my beautiful and beloved France. I supplicate and implore you
   to act as a gentleman, and nobly to release the Duchesse de Mantua
   from the promises she may have made you. Thus restore repose to her
   soul, and peace to our beloved country.

   The Queen, who will throw herself at your feet if need be,

                         ANNE.
</pre>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars calmly replaced the pistol upon the table; his first impulse had
      been to turn its muzzle upon himself. However, he laid it down, and
      snatching a pencil, wrote on the back of the letter;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   MADAME: Marie de Gonzaga, being my wife, can not be Queen of Poland
   until after my death. I die.

                         CINQ-MARS.
</pre>
    <p>
      Then, as if he would not allow himself time for a moment&rsquo;s
      reflection, he forced the letter into the hands of the courier.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To horse! to horse!&rdquo; cried he, in a furious tone. &ldquo;If
      you remain another instant, you are a dead man!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He saw him gallop off, and reentered the tent. Alone with his friend, he
      remained an instant standing, but pale, his eyes fixed, and looking on the
      ground like a madman. He felt himself totter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;De Thou!&rdquo; he cried.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you, my friend, my dear friend? I am with you. You have
      acted grandly, most grandly, sublimely!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;De Thou!&rdquo; he cried again, in a hollow voice, and fell with
      his face to the ground, like an uprooted tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      Violent tempests assume different aspects, according to the climates in
      which they take place. Those which have spread over a terrible space in
      northern countries assemble into one single cloud under the torrid zone&mdash;the
      more formidable, that they leave the horizon in all its purity, and that
      the furious waves still reflect the azure of heaven while tinged with the
      blood of man. It is the same with great passions. They assume strange
      aspects according to our characters; but how terrible are they in vigorous
      hearts, which have preserved their force under the veil of social forms?
      When youth and despair embrace, we know not to what fury they may rise, or
      what may be their sudden resignation; we know not whether the volcano will
      burst the mountain or become suddenly extinguished within its entrails.
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou, in alarm, raised his friend. The blood gushed from his nostrils
      and ears; he would have thought him dead, but for the torrents of tears
      which flowed from his eyes. They were the only sign of life. Suddenly he
      opened his lids, looked around him, and by an extraordinary energy resumed
      his senses and the power of his will.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am in the presence of men,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;I must finish
      with them. My friend, it is half-past eleven; the hour for the signal has
      passed. Give, in my name, the order to return to quarters. It was a false
      alarm, which I will myself explain this evening.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou had already perceived the importance of this order; he went out
      and returned immediately.
    </p>
    <p>
      He found Cinq-Mars seated, calm, and endeavoring to cleanse the blood from
      his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;De Thou,&rdquo; said he, looking fixedly at him, &ldquo;retire; you
      disturb me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I leave you not,&rdquo; answered the latter.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Fly, I tell you! the Pyrenees are not far distant. I can not speak
      much longer, even to you; but if you remain with me, you will die. I give
      you warning.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I remain,&rdquo; repeated De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May God preserve you, then!&rdquo; answered Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;for I
      can do nothing more; the moment has passed. I leave you here. Call
      Fontrailles and all the confederates: distribute these passports among
      them. Let them fly immediately; tell them all has failed, but that I thank
      them. For you, once again I say, fly with them, I entreat you; but
      whatever you do, follow me not&mdash;follow me not, for your life! I swear
      to you not to do violence to myself!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      With these words, shaking his friend&rsquo;s hand without looking at him,
      he rushed from the tent.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meantime, some leagues thence another conversation was taking place. At
      Narbonne, in the same cabinet in which we formerly beheld Richelieu
      regulating with Joseph the interests of the State, were still seated the
      same men, nearly as we have described them. The minister, however, had
      grown much older in three years of suffering; and the Capuchin was as much
      terrified with the result of his expedition as his master appeared
      tranquil.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal, seated in his armchair, his legs bound and encased with furs
      and warm clothing, had upon his knees three kittens, which gambolled upon
      his scarlet robe. Every now and then he took one of them and placed it
      upon the others, to continue their sport. He smiled as he watched them. On
      his feet lay their mother, looking like an enormous animated muff.
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph, seated near him, was going over the account of all he had heard in
      the confessional. Pale even now, at the danger he had run of being
      discovered, or of being murdered by Jacques, he concluded thus:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In short, your Eminence, I can not help feeling agitated to my
      heart&rsquo;s core when I reflect upon the dangers which have, and still
      do, threaten you. Assassins offer themselves to poniard you. I beheld in
      France the whole court against you, one half of the army, and two
      provinces. Abroad, Spain and Portugal are ready to furnish troops.
      Everywhere there are snares or battles, poniards or cannon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal yawned three times, without discontinuing his amusement, and
      then said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A cat is a very fine animal. It is a drawing-room tiger. What
      suppleness, what extraordinary finesse! Here is this little yellow one
      pretending to sleep, in order that the tortoise-shell one may not notice
      it, but fall upon its brother; and this one, how it tears the other! See
      how it sticks its claws into its side! It would kill and eat it, I fully
      believe, if it were the stronger. It is very amusing. What pretty animals!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He coughed and sneezed for some time; then he continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Messire Joseph, I sent word to you not to speak to me of business
      until after my supper... I have an appetite now, and it is not yet my
      hour. Chicot, my doctor, recommends regularity, and I feel my usual pain
      in my side. This is how I shall spend the evening,&rdquo; he added,
      looking at the clock. &ldquo;At nine, we will settle the affairs of
      Monsieur le Grand. At ten, I shall be carried round the garden to take the
      air by moonlight. Then I shall sleep for an hour or two. At midnight the
      King will be here; and at four o&rsquo;clock you may return to receive the
      various orders for arrests, condemnations, or any others I may have to
      give you, for the provinces, Paris, or the armies of his Majesty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Richelieu said all this in the same tone of voice, with a uniform
      enunciation, affected only by the weakness of his chest and the loss of
      several teeth.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was seven in the evening. The Capuchin withdrew. The Cardinal supped
      with the greatest tranquillity; and when the clock struck half-past eight,
      he sent for Joseph, and said to him, when he was seated:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This, then, is all they have been able to do against me during more
      than two years. They are poor creatures, truly! The Duc de Bouillon, whom
      I thought possessed some ability, has forfeited all claim to my opinion. I
      have watched him closely; and I ask you, has he taken one step worthy of a
      true statesman? The King, Monsieur, and the rest, have only shown their
      teeth against me, and without depriving me of one single man. The young
      Cinq-Mars is the only man among them who has any consecutiveness of ideas.
      All that he has done has been done surprisingly well. I must do him
      justice; he had good qualities. I should have made him my pupil, had it
      not been for his obstinate character. But he has here charged me &lsquo;a
      l&rsquo;outrance, and must take the consequences. I am sorry for him. I
      have left them to float about in open water for the last two years. I
      shall now draw the net.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is time, Monseigneur,&rdquo; said Joseph, who often trembled
      involuntarily as he spoke. &ldquo;Do you bear in mind that from Perpignan
      to Narbonne the way is short? Do you know that if your army here is
      powerful, your own troops are weak and uncertain; that the young nobles
      are furious; and that the King is not sure?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal looked at the clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is only half-past eight, Joseph. I have already told you that I
      will not talk about this affair until nine. Meantime, as justice must be
      done, you will write what I shall dictate, for my memory serves me well.
      There are still some objectionable persons left, I see by my notes&mdash;four
      of the judges of Urbain Grandier. He was a rare genius, that Urbain
      Grandier,&rdquo; he added, with a malicious expression. Joseph bit his
      lips. &ldquo;All the other judges have died miserably. As to Houmain, he
      shall be hanged as a smuggler by and by. We may leave him alone for the
      present. But there is that horrible Lactantius, who lives peacefully,
      Barre, and Mignon. Take a pen, and write to the Bishop of Poitiers,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;MONSEIGNEUR: It is his Majesty&rsquo;s pleasure that Fathers Mignon and
   Barre be superseded in their cures, and sent with the shortest
   possible delay to the town of Lyons, with Father Lactantius,
   Capuchin, to be tried before a special tribunal, charged with
   criminal intentions against the State.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Joseph wrote as coolly as a Turk strikes off a head at a sign from his
      master. The Cardinal said to him, while signing the letter:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will let you know how I wish them to disappear, for it is
      important to efface all traces of that affair. Providence has served me
      well. In removing these men, I complete its work. That is all that
      posterity shall know of the affair.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he read to the Capuchin that page of his memoirs in which he recounts
      the possession and sorceries of the magician.&mdash;[Collect. des Memoires
      xxviii. 189.]&mdash;During this slow process, Joseph could not help
      looking at the clock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are anxious to come to Monsieur le Grand,&rdquo; said the
      Cardinal at last. &ldquo;Well, then, to please you, let us begin.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you think I have not my reasons for being tranquil? You think
      that I have allowed these poor conspirators to go too far. No, no! Here
      are some little papers that would reassure you, did you know their
      contents. First, in this hollow stick is the treaty with Spain, seized at
      Oleron. I am well satisfied with Laubardemont; he is an able man.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The fire of ferocious jealousy sparkled under the thick eyebrows of the
      monk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Monseigneur,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you know not from whom he
      seized it. He certainly suffered him to die, and in that respect we can
      not complain, for he was the agent of the conspiracy; but it was his son.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say you the truth?&rdquo; cried the Cardinal, in a severe tone.
      &ldquo;Yes, for you dare not lie to me. How knew you this?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From his attendants, Monsiegneur. Here are their reports. They will
      testify to them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal having examined these papers, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will employ him once more to try our conspirators, and then you
      shall do as you like with him. I give him to you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph joyfully pocketed his precious denunciations, and continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your Eminence speaks of trying men who are still armed and on
      horseback.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are not all so. Read this letter from Monsieur to Chavigny. He
      asks for pardon. He dared not address me the first day, and his prayers
      rose no higher than the knees of one of my servants.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   To M. de Chavigny:

   M. DE CHAVIGNY: Although I believe that you are little satisfied
   with me (and in truth you have reason to be dissatisfied), I do not
   the less entreat you to endeavor my reconciliation with his
   Eminence, and rely for this upon the true love you bear me, and
   which, I believe, is greater than your anger. You know how much I
   require to be relieved from the danger I am in. You have already
   twice stood my friend with his Eminence. I swear to you this shall
   be the last time I give you such an employment.
                       GASTON D&rsquo;ORLEANS.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the next day he took courage, and sent this to myself,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   To his Excellency the Cardinal-Duc:

   MY COUSIN: This ungrateful M. le Grand is the most guilty man in the
   world to have displeased you. The favors he received from his
   Majesty have always made me doubtful of him and his artifices. For
   you, my cousin, I retain my whole esteem. I am truly repentant at
   having again been wanting in the fidelity I owe to my Lord the King,
   and I call God to witness the sincerity with which I shall be for
   the rest of my life your most faithful friend, with the same
   devotion that I am, my cousin, your affectionate cousin,
                              GASTON.
</pre>
    <p>
      and the third to the King. His project choked him; he could not keep it
      down. But I am not so easily satisfied. I must have a free and full
      confession, or I will expel him from the kingdom. I have written to him
      this morning.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   [MONSIEUR: Since God wills that men should have recourse to a frank
   and entire confession to be absolved of their faults in this world,
   I indicate to you the steps you must take to be delivered from this
   danger. Your Highness has commenced well; you must continue. This
   is all I can say to you.]
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As to the magnificent and powerful Due de Bouillon, sovereign lord
      of Sedan and general-in-chief of the armies in Italy, he has just been
      arrested by his officers in the midst of his soldiers, concealed in a
      truss of straw. There remain, therefore, only our two young neighbors.
      They imagine they have the camp wholly at their orders, while they really
      have only the red troops. All the rest, being Monsieur&rsquo;s men, will
      not act, and my troops will arrest them. However, I have permitted them to
      appear to obey. If they give the signal at half-past eleven, they will be
      arrested at the first step. If not, the King will give them up to me this
      evening. Do not open your eyes so wide. He will give them up to me, I
      repeat, this night, between midnight and one o&rsquo;clock. You see that
      all has been done without you, Joseph. We can dispense with you very well;
      and truly, all this time, I do not see that we have received any great
      service from you. You grow negligent.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Monseigneur! did you but know the trouble I have had to
      discover the route of the bearers of the treaty! I only learned it by
      risking my life between these young people.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal laughed contemptuously, leaning back in his chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou must have been very ridiculous and very fearful in that box,
      Joseph; I dare say it was the first time in thy life thou ever heardst
      love spoken of. Dost thou like the language, Father Joseph? Tell me, dost
      thou clearly understand it? I doubt whether thou hast formed a very
      refined idea of it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Richelieu, his arms crossed, looked at his discomfited Capuchin with
      infinite delight, and continued in the scornfully familiar tone of a grand
      seigneur, which he sometimes assumed, pleasing himself with putting forth
      the noblest expressions through the most impure lips:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, now, Joseph, give me a definition of love according to thy
      idea. What can it be&mdash;for thou seest it exists out of romances. This
      worthy youngster undertook these little conspiracies through love. Thou
      heardst it thyself with throe unworthy ears. Come, what is love? For my
      part, I know nothing about it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The monk was astounded, and looked upon the ground with the stupid eye of
      some base animal. After long consideration, he replied in a drawling and
      nasal voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be a kind of malignant fever which leads the brain astray;
      but in truth, Monseigneur, I have never reflected on it until this moment.
      I have always been embarrassed in speaking to a woman. I wish women could
      be omitted from society altogether; for I do not see what use they are,
      unless it be to disclose secrets, like the little Duchess or Marion de
      Lorme, whom I can not too strongly recommend to your Eminence. She thought
      of everything, and herself threw our little prophecy among the
      conspirators with great address. We have not been without the marvellous
      this time. As in the siege of Hesdin, all we have to do is to find a
      window through which you may pass on the day of the execution.&rdquo;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   [In 1638, Prince Thomas having raised the siege of Hesdin, the
   Cardinal was much vexed at it. A nun of the convent of Mount
   Calvary had said that the victory would be to the King and Father
   Joseph, thus wishing it to be believed that Heaven protected the
   minister.&mdash;Memoires pour l&rsquo;histoire du Cardinal de Richelieu.]
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is another of your absurdities, sir,&rdquo; said the Cardinal;
      &ldquo;you will make me as ridiculous as yourself, if you go on so; I am
      too powerful to need the assistance of Heaven. Do not let that happen
      again. Occupy yourself only with the people I consign to you. I traced
      your part before. When the master of the horse is taken, you will see him
      tried and executed at Lyons. I will not be known in this. This affair is
      beneath me; it is a stone under my feet, upon which I ought not to have
      bestowed so much attention.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph was silent; he could not understand this man, who, surrounded on
      every side by armed enemies, spoke of the future as of a present over
      which he had the entire control, and of the present as a past which he no
      longer feared. He knew not whether to look upon him as a madman or a
      prophet, above or below the standard of human nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      His astonishment was redoubled when Chavigny hastily entered, and nearly
      falling, in his heavy boots, over the Cardinal&rsquo;s footstool,
      exclaimed in great agitation:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, one of your servants has just arrived from Perpignan; and he
      has beheld the camp in an uproar, and your enemies in the saddle.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They will soon dismount, sir,&rdquo; replied Richelieu, replacing
      his footstool. &ldquo;You appear to have lost your equanimity.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But&mdash;but, Monseigneur, must we not warn Monsieur de Fabert?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let him sleep, and go to bed yourself; and you also, Joseph.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur, another strange event has occurred&mdash;the King has
      arrived.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, that is extraordinary,&rdquo; said the minister, looking at
      his watch. &ldquo;I did not expect him these two hours. Retire, both of
      you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A heavy trampling and the clattering of arms announced the arrival of the
      Prince; the folding-doors were thrown open; the guards in the Cardinal&rsquo;s
      service struck the ground thrice with their pikes; and the King appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      He entered, supporting himself with a cane on one side, and on the other
      leaning upon the shoulder of his confessor, Father Sirmond, who withdrew,
      and left him with the Cardinal; the latter rose with difficulty, but could
      not advance a step to meet the King, because his legs were bandaged and
      enveloped. He made a sign that they should assist the King to a seat near
      the fire, facing himself. Louis XIII fell into an armchair furnished with
      pillows, asked for and drank a glass of cordial, prepared to strengthen
      him against the frequent fainting-fits caused by his malady of languor,
      signed to all to leave the room, and, alone with Richelieu, he said in a
      languid voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am departing, my dear Cardinal; I feel that I shall soon return
      to God. I become weaker from day to day; neither the summer nor the
      southern air has restored my strength.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall precede your Majesty,&rdquo; replied the minister. &ldquo;You
      see that death has already conquered my limbs; but while I have a head to
      think and a hand to write, I shall be at the service of your Majesty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I am sure it was your intention to add, &lsquo;a heart to love
      me.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can your Majesty doubt it?&rdquo; answered the Cardinal, frowning,
      and biting his lips impatiently at this speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sometimes I doubt it,&rdquo; replied the King. &ldquo;Listen: I
      wish to speak openly to you, and to complain of you to yourself. There are
      two things which have been upon my conscience these three years. I have
      never mentioned them to you; but I reproached you secretly; and could
      anything have induced me to consent to any proposals contrary to your
      interest, it would be this recollection.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      There was in this speech that frankness natural to weak minds, who seek by
      thus making their ruler uneasy, to compensate for the harm they dare not
      do him, and revenge their subjection by a childish controversy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Richelieu perceived by these words that he had run a great risk; but he
      saw at the same time the necessity of venting all his spleen, and, to
      facilitate the explosion of these important avowals, he accumulated all
      the professions he thought most calculated to provoke the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no!&rdquo; his Majesty at length exclaimed, &ldquo;I shall
      believe nothing until you have explained those two things, which are
      always in my thoughts, which were lately mentioned to me, and which I can
      justify by no reasoning. I mean the trial of Urbain Grandier, of which I
      was never well informed, and the reason for the hatred you bore to my
      unfortunate mother, even to her very ashes.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is this all, Sire?&rdquo; said Richelieu. &ldquo;Are these my only
      faults? They are easily explained. The first it was necessary to conceal
      from your Majesty because of its horrible and disgusting details of
      scandal. There was certainly an art employed, which can not be looked upon
      as guilty, in concealing, under the title of &lsquo;magic,&rsquo; crimes
      the very names of which are revolting to modesty, the recital of which
      would have revealed dangerous mysteries to the innocent; this was a holy
      deceit practised to hide these impurities from the eyes of the people.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Enough, enough, Cardinal,&rdquo; said Louis XIII, turning away his
      head, and looking downward, while a blush covered his face; &ldquo;I can
      not hear more. I understand you; these explanations would disgust me. I
      approve your motives; &lsquo;tis well. I had not been told that; they had
      concealed these dreadful vices from me. Are you assured of the proofs of
      these crimes?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have them all in my possession, Sire; and as to the glorious
      Queen, Marie de Medicis, I am surprised that your Majesty can forget how
      much I was attached to her. Yes, I do not fear to acknowledge it; it is to
      her I owe my elevation. She was the first who deigned to notice the Bishop
      of Luton, then only twenty-two years of age, to place me near her. What
      have I not suffered when she compelled me to oppose her in your Majesty&rsquo;s
      interest! But this sacrifice was made for you. I never had, and never
      shall have, to regret it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis well for you, but for me!&rdquo; said the King,
      bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Sire,&rdquo; exclaimed the Cardinal, &ldquo;did not the Son of
      God himself set you an example? It is by the model of every perfection
      that we regulate our counsels; and if the monument due to the precious
      remains of your mother is not yet raised, Heaven is my witness that the
      works were retarded through the fear of afflicting your heart by bringing
      back the recollection of her death. But blessed be the day in which I have
      been permitted to speak to you on the subject! I myself shall say the
      first mass at Saint-Denis, when we shall see her deposited there, if
      Providence allows me the strength.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The countenance of the King assumed a more affable yet still cold
      expression; and the Cardinal, thinking that he could go no farther that
      evening in persuasion, suddenly resolved to make a more powerful move, and
      to attack the enemy in front. Still keeping his eyes firmly fixed upon the
      King, he said, coldly:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And was it for this you consented to my death?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Me!&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;You have been deceived; I have
      indeed heard of a conspiracy, and I wished to speak to you about it; but I
      have commanded nothing against you.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&lsquo;The conspirators do not say so, Sire; but I am bound to
      believe your Majesty, and I am glad for your sake that men were deceived.
      But what advice were you about to condescend to give me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&mdash;I wished to tell you frankly, and between ourselves, that
      you will do well to beware of Monsieur&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Sire, I can not now heed it; for here is a letter which he has
      just sent to me for you. He seems to have been guilty even toward your
      Majesty.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The King read in astonishment:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   MONSEIGNEUR: I am much grieved at having once more failed in the
   fidelity which I owe to your Majesty. I humbly entreat you to allow
   me to ask a thousand pardons, with the assurances of my submission
   and repentance.
        Your very humble servant,
                    GASTON.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does this mean?&rdquo; cried Louis; &ldquo;dare they arm
      against me also?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Also!&rdquo; muttered the Cardinal, biting his lips; &ldquo;yes,
      Sire, also; and this makes me believe, to a certain degree, this little
      packet of papers.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While speaking, he drew a roll of parchment from a piece of hollowed
      elder, and opened it before the eyes of the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is simply a treaty with Spain, which I think does not bear the
      signature of your Majesty. You may see the twenty articles all in due
      form. Everything is here arranged&mdash;the place of safety, the number of
      troops, the supplies of men and money.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The traitors!&rdquo; cried the King, in great agitation; &ldquo;they
      must be seized. My brother renounces them and repents; but do not fail to
      arrest the Duc de Bouillon.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It shall be done, Sire.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will be difficult, in the middle of the army in Italy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will answer with my head for his arrest, Sire; but is there not
      another name to be added?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who&mdash;what&mdash;Cinq-Mars?&rdquo; inquired the King,
      hesitating.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Exactly so, Sire,&rdquo; answered the Cardinal.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see&mdash;but&mdash;I think&mdash;we might&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear me!&rdquo; exclaimed Richelieu, in a voice of thunder; &ldquo;all
      must be settled to-day. Your favorite is mounted at the head of his party;
      choose between him and me. Yield up the boy to the man, or the man to the
      boy; there is no alternative.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what will you do if I consent?&rdquo; said the King.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will have his head and that of his friend.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never! it is impossible!&rdquo; replied the King, with horror, as
      he relapsed into the same state of irresolution he evinced when with
      Cinq-Mars against Richelieu. &ldquo;He is my friend as well as you; my
      heart bleeds at the idea of his death. Why can you not both agree? Why
      this division? It is that which has led him to this. You have between you
      brought me to the brink of despair; you have made me the most miserable of
      men.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Louis hid his head in his hands while speaking, and perhaps he shed tears;
      but the inflexible minister kept his eyes upon him as if watching his
      prey, and without remorse, without giving the King time for reflection&mdash;on
      the contrary, profiting by this emotion to speak yet longer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And is it thus,&rdquo; he continued, in a harsh and cold voice,
      &ldquo;that you remember the commandments of God communicated to you by
      the mouth of your confessor? You told me one day that the Church expressly
      commanded you to reveal to your prime minister all that you might hear
      against him; yet I have never heard from you of my intended death! It was
      necessary that more faithful friends should apprise me of this conspiracy;
      that the guilty themselves through the mercy of Providence should
      themselves make the avowal of their fault. One only, the most guilty, yet
      the least of all, still resists, and it is he who has conducted the whole;
      it is he who would deliver France into the power of the foreigner, who
      would overthrow in one single day my labors of twenty years. He would call
      up the Huguenots of the south, invite to arms all orders of the State,
      revive crushed pretensions, and, in fact, renew the League which was put
      down by your father. It is that&mdash;do not deceive yourself&mdash;it is
      that which raises so many heads against you. Are you prepared for the
      combat? If so, where are your arms?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The King, quite overwhelmed, made no reply; he still covered his face with
      his hands. The stony-hearted Cardinal crossed his arms and continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I fear that you imagine it is for myself I speak. Do you really
      think that I do not know my own powers, and that I fear such an adversary?
      Really, I know not what prevents me from letting you act for yourself&mdash;from
      transferring the immense burden of State affairs to the shoulders of this
      youth. You may imagine that during the twenty years I have been acquainted
      with your court, I have not forgotten to assure myself a retreat where, in
      spite of you, I could now go to live the six months which perhaps remain
      to me of life. It would be a curious employment for me to watch the
      progress of such a reign. What answer would you return, for instance, when
      all the inferior potentates, regaining their station, no longer kept in
      subjection by me, shall come in your brother&rsquo;s name to say to you,
      as they dared to say to Henri IV on his throne: &lsquo;Divide with us all
      the hereditary governments and sovereignties, and we shall be content.&rsquo;&mdash;[Memoires
      de Sully, 1595.]&mdash;You will doubtless accede to their request; and it
      is the least you can do for those who will have delivered you from
      Richelieu. It will, perhaps, be fortunate, for to govern the
      Ile-de-France, which they will no doubt allow you as the original domain,
      your new minister will not require many secretaries.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      While speaking thus, he furiously pushed the huge table, which nearly
      filled the room, and was laden with papers and numerous portfolios.
    </p>
    <p>
      Louis was aroused from his apathetic meditation by the excessive audacity
      of this discourse. He raised his head, and seemed to have instantly formed
      one resolution for fear he should adopt another.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, sir,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;my answer is that I will reign
      alone.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be it so!&rdquo; replied Richelieu. &ldquo;But I ought to give you
      notice that affairs are at present somewhat complicated. This is the hour
      when I generally commence my ordinary avocations.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will act in your place,&rdquo; said Louis. &ldquo;I will open the
      portfolios and issue my commands.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try, then,&rdquo; said Richelieu. &ldquo;I shall retire; and if
      anything causes you to hesitate, you can send for me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He rang a bell. In the same instant, and as if they had awaited the
      signal, four vigorous footmen entered, and carried him and his chair into
      another apartment, for we have before remarked that he was unable to walk.
      While passing through the chambers where the secretaries were at work, he
      called out in a loud voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will receive his Majesty&rsquo;s commands.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The King remained alone, strong in his new resolution, and, proud in
      having once resisted, he became anxious immediately to plunge into
      political business. He walked around the immense table, and beheld as many
      portfolios as they then counted empires, kingdoms, and States in Europe.
      He opened one and found it divided into sections equalling in number the
      subdivisions of the country to which it related. All was in order, but in
      alarming order for him, because each note only referred to the very
      essence of the business it alluded to, and related only to the exact point
      of its then relations with France. These laconic notes proved as enigmatic
      to Louis, as did the letters in cipher which covered the table. Here all
      was confusion. An edict of banishment and expropriation of the Huguenots
      of La Rochelle was mingled with treaties with Gustavus Adolphus and the
      Huguenots of the north against the empire. Notes on General Bannier and
      Wallenstein, the Duc de Weimar, and Jean de Witt were mingled with
      extracts from letters taken from the casket of the Queen, the list of the
      necklaces and jewels they contained, and the double interpretation which
      might be put upon every phrase of her notes. Upon the margin of one of
      these letters was written: &ldquo;For four lines in a man&rsquo;s
      handwriting he might be criminally tried.&rdquo; Farther on were scattered
      denunciations against the Huguenots; the republican plans they had drawn
      up; the division of France into departments under the annual dictatorship
      of a chief. The seal of this projected State was affixed to it,
      representing an angel leaning upon a cross, and holding in his hand a
      Bible, which he raised to his forehead. By the side was a document which
      contained a list of those cardinals the pope had selected the same day as
      the Bishop of Lurgon (Richelieu). Among them was to be found the Marquis
      de Bedemar, ambassador and conspirator at Venice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Louis XIII exhausted his powers in vain over the details of another
      period, seeking unsuccessfully for any documents which might allude to the
      present conspiracy, to enable him to perceive its true meaning, and all
      that had been attempted against him, when a diminutive man, of an olive
      complexion, who stooped much, entered the cabinet with a measured step.
      This was a Secretary of State named Desnoyers. He advanced, bowing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May I be permitted to address your Majesty on the affairs of
      Portugal?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And consequently of Spain?&rdquo; said Louis. &ldquo;Portugal is a
      province of Spain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of Portugal,&rdquo; reiterated Desnoyers. &ldquo;Here is the
      manifesto we have this moment received.&rdquo; And he read, &ldquo;Don
      John, by the grace of God, King of Portugal and of Algarves, kingdoms on
      this side of Africa, lord over Guinea, by conquest, navigation, and trade
      with Arabia, Persia, and the Indies&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is all that?&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;Who talks in this
      manner?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Duke of Braganza, King of Portugal, crowned already some time
      by a man whom they call Pinto. Scarcely has he ascended the throne than he
      offers assistance to the revolted Catalonians.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has Catalonia also revolted? The King, Philip IV, no longer has the
      Count-Duke for his Prime-Minister?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just the contrary, Sire. It is on this very account. Here is the
      declaration of the States-General of Catalonia to his Catholic Majesty,
      signifying that the whole country will take up arms against his
      sacrilegious and excommunicated troops. The King of Portugal&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say the Duke of Braganza!&rdquo; replied Louis. &ldquo;I recognize
      no rebels.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Duke of Braganza, then,&rdquo; coldly repeated the Secretary of
      State, &ldquo;sends his nephew, Don Ignacio de Mascarenas, to the
      principality of Catalonia, to seize the protection (and it may be the
      sovereignty) of that country, which he would add to that he has just
      reconquered. Your Majesty&rsquo;s troops are before Perpignan&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, and what of that?&rdquo; said Louis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Catalonians are more disposed toward France than toward
      Portugal, and there is still time to deprive the King of-the Duke of
      Portugal, I should say&mdash;of this protectorship.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! I assist rebels! You dare&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such was the intention of his Eminence,&rdquo; continued the
      Secretary of State. &ldquo;Spain and France are nearly at open war, and
      Monsieur d&rsquo;Olivares has not hesitated to offer the assistance of his
      Catholic Majesty to the Huguenots.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good. I will consider it,&rdquo; said the King. &ldquo;Leave
      me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sire, the States-General of Catalonia are in a dilemma. The troops
      from Aragon march against them.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We shall see. I will come to a decision in a quarter of an hour,&rdquo;
      answered Louis XIII.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little Secretary of State left the apartment discontented and
      discouraged. In his place Chavigny immediately appeared, holding a
      portfolio, on which were emblazoned the arms of England. &ldquo;Sire,&rdquo;
      said he, &ldquo;I have to request your Majesty&rsquo;s commands upon the
      affairs of England. The Parliamentarians, commanded by the Earl of Essex,
      have raised the siege of Gloucester. Prince Rupert has at Newbury fought a
      disastrous battle, and of little profit to his Britannic Majesty. The
      Parliament is prolonged. All the principal cities take part with it,
      together with all the seaports and the Presbyterian population. King
      Charles I implores assistance, which the Queen can no longer obtain from
      Holland.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Troops must be sent to my brother of England,&rdquo; said Louis;
      but he wanted to look over the preceding papers, and casting his eyes over
      the notes of the Cardinal, he found that under a former request of the
      King of England he had written with his own hand:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must consider some time and wait. The Commons are strong. King
      Charles reckons upon the Scots; they will sell him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We must be cautious. A warlike man has been over to see Vincennes,
      and he has said that &lsquo;princes ought never to be struck, except on
      the head.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal had added &ldquo;remarkable,&rdquo; but he had erased this
      word and substituted &ldquo;formidable.&rdquo; Again, beneath:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This man rules Fairfax. He plays an inspired part. He will be a
      great man&mdash;assistance refused&mdash;money lost.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The King then said, &ldquo;No, no! do nothing hastily. I shall wait.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Sire,&rdquo; said Chavigny, &ldquo;events pass rapidly. If the
      courier be delayed, the King&rsquo;s destruction may happen a year sooner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have they advanced so far?&rdquo; asked Louis.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the camp of the Independents they preach up the republic with
      the Bible in their hands. In that of the Royalists, they dispute for
      precedency, and amuse themselves.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But one turn of good fortune may save everything?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Stuarts are not fortunate, Sire,&rdquo; answered Chavigny,
      respectfully, but in a tone which left ample room for consideration.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave me,&rdquo; said the King, with some displeasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      The State-Secretary slowly retired.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was then that Louis XIII beheld himself as he really was, and was
      terrified at the nothingness he found in himself. He at first stared at
      the mass of papers which surrounded him, passing from one to the other,
      finding dangers on every side, and finding them still greater with the
      remedies he invented. He rose; and changing his place, he bent over, or
      rather threw himself upon, a geographical map of Europe. There he found
      all his fears concentrated. In the north, the south, the very centre of
      the kingdom, revolutions appeared to him like so many Eumenides. In every
      country he thought he saw a volcano ready to burst forth. He imagined he
      heard cries of distress from kings, who appealed to him for help, and the
      furious shouts of the populace. He fancied he felt the territory of France
      trembling and crumbling beneath his feet. His feeble and fatigued sight
      failed him. His weak head was attacked by vertigo, which threw all his
      blood back upon his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Richelieu!&rdquo; he cried, in a stifled voice, while he rang a
      bell; &ldquo;summon the Cardinal immediately.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And he swooned in an armchair.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the King opened his eyes, revived by salts and potent essences which
      had been applied to his lips and temples, he for one instant beheld
      himself surrounded by pages, who withdrew as soon as he opened his eyes,
      and he was once more left alone with the Cardinal. The impassible minister
      had had his chair placed by that of the King, as a physician would seat
      himself by the bedside of his patient, and fixed his sparkling and
      scrutinizing eyes upon the pale countenance of Louis. As soon as his
      victim could hear him, he renewed his fearful discourse in a hollow voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have recalled me. What would you with me?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Louis, who was reclining on the pillow, half opened his eyes, fixed them
      upon Richelieu, and hastily closed them again. That bony head, armed with
      two flaming eyes, and terminating in a pointed and grizzly beard, the cap
      and vestments of the color of blood and flames,&mdash;all appeared to him
      like an infernal spirit.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must reign,&rdquo; he said, in a languid voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But will you give me up Cinq-Mars and De Thou?&rdquo; again urged
      the implacable minister, bending forward to read in the dull eyes of the
      Prince, as an avaricious heir follows up, even to the tomb, the last
      glimpses of the will of a dying relative.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must reign,&rdquo; repeated the King, turning away his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sign then,&rdquo; said Richelieu; &ldquo;the contents of this are,
      &lsquo;This is my command&mdash;to take them, dead or alive.&rsquo;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Louis, whose head still reclined on the raised back of the chair, suffered
      his hand to fall upon the fatal paper, and signed it. &ldquo;For pity&rsquo;s
      sake, leave me; I am dying!&rdquo; he said.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not yet all,&rdquo; continued he whom men call the great
      politician. &ldquo;I place no reliance on you; I must first have some
      guarantee and assurance. Sign this paper, and I will leave you:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;When the King shall go to visit the Cardinal, the guards of the
   latter shall remain under arms; and when the Cardinal shall visit
   the King, the guards of the Cardinal shall share the same post with
   those of his Majesty.
</pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Again:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;His Majesty undertakes to place the two princes, his sons, in the
   Cardinal&rsquo;s hands, as hostages of the good faith of his attachment.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My children!&rdquo; exclaimed Louis, raising his head, &ldquo;dare
      you?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you rather that I should retire?&rdquo; said Richelieu.
    </p>
    <p>
      The King again signed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is all finished now?&rdquo; he inquired, with a deep sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      All was not finished; one other grief was still in reserve for him. The
      door was suddenly opened, and Cinq-Mars entered. It was the Cardinal who
      trembled now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you here, sir?&rdquo; said he, seizing the bell to ring
      for assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      The master of the horse was as pale as the King, and without condescending
      to answer Richelieu, he advanced steadily toward Louis XIII, who looked at
      him with the air of a man who has just received a sentence of death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would, Sire, find it difficult to have me arrested, for I have
      twenty thousand men under my command,&rdquo; said Henri d&rsquo;Effiat, in
      a sweet and subdued voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Alas, Cinq-Mars!&rdquo; replied the King, sadly; &ldquo;is it thou
      who hast been guilty of these crimes?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Sire; and I also bring you my sword, for no doubt you came
      here to surrender me,&rdquo; said he, unbuckling his sword, and laying it
      at the feet of the King, who fixed his eyes upon the floor without making
      any reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars smiled sadly, but not bitterly, for he no longer belonged to
      this earth. Then, looking contemptuously at Richelieu, &ldquo;I surrender
      because I wish to die, but I am not conquered.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal clenched his fist with passion; but he restrained his fury.
      &ldquo;Who are your accomplices?&rdquo; he demanded. Cinq-Mars looked
      steadfastly at Louis, and half opened his lips to speak. The King bent
      down his head, and felt at that moment a torture unknown to all other men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have none,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, pitying the King; and he slowly
      left the apartment. He stopped in the first gallery. Fabert and all the
      gentlemen rose on seeing him. He walked up to the commander, and said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir, order these gentlemen to arrest me!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      They looked at each other, without daring to approach him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir, I am your prisoner; yes, gentlemen, I am without my
      sword, and I repeat to you that I am the King&rsquo;s prisoner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not understand what I see,&rdquo; said the General; &ldquo;there
      are two of you who surrender, and I have no instruction to arrest any one.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two!&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;the other is doubtless De Thou.
      Alas! I recognize him by this devotion.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And had I not also guessed your intention?&rdquo; exclaimed the
      latter, coming forward, and throwing himself into his arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXV. THE PRISONERS
    </h2>
    <p>
      Amoung those old chateaux of which France is every year deprived
      regretfully, as of flowers from her, crown, there was one of a grim and
      savage appearance upon the left bank of the Saline. It looked like a
      formidable sentinel placed at one of the gates of Lyons, and derived its
      name from an enormous rock, known as Pierre-Encise, which terminates in a
      peak&mdash;a sort of natural pyramid, the summit of which overhanging the
      river in former times, they say, joined the rocks which may still be seen
      on the opposite bank, forming the natural arch of a bridge; but time, the
      waters, and the hand of man have left nothing standing but the ancient
      mass of granite which formed the pedestal of the now destroyed fortress.
    </p>
    <p>
      The archbishops of Lyons, as the temporal lords of the city, had built and
      formerly resided in this castle. It afterward became a fortress, and
      during the reign of Louis XIII a State prison. One colossal tower, where
      the daylight could only penetrate through three long loopholes, commanded
      the edifice, and some irregular buildings surrounded it with their massive
      walls, whose lines and angles followed the form of the immense and
      perpendicular rock.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was here that the Cardinal, jealous of his prey, determined to imprison
      his young enemies, and to conduct them himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Allowing Louis to precede him to Paris, he removed his captives from
      Narbonne, dragging them in his train to ornament his last triumph, and
      embarking on the Rhone at Tarascon, nearly, at the mouth of the river, as
      if to prolong the pleasure of revenge which men have dared to call that of
      the gods, displayed to the eyes of the spectators on both sides of the
      river the luxury of his hatred; he slowly proceeded on his course up the
      river in barges with gilded oars and emblazoned with his armorial
      bearings, reclining in the first and followed by his two victims in the
      second, which was fastened to his own by a long chain.
    </p>
    <p>
      Often in the evening, when the heat of the day was passed, the awnings of
      the two boats were removed, and in the one Richelieu might be seen, pale,
      and seated in the stern; in that which followed, the two young prisoners,
      calm and collected, supported each other, watching the passage of the
      rapid stream. Formerly the soldiers of Caesar, who encamped on the same
      shores, would have thought they beheld the inflexible boatman of the
      infernal regions conducting the friendly shades of Castor and Pollux.
      Christians dared not even reflect, or see a priest leading his two enemies
      to the scaffold; it was the first minister who passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus he went on his way until he left his victims under guard at the
      identical city in which the late conspirators had doomed him to perish.
      Thus he loved to defy Fate herself, and to plant a trophy on the very spot
      which had been selected for his tomb.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;He was borne,&rdquo; says an ancient manuscript journal of this year,
   &ldquo;along the river Rhone in a boat in which a wooden chamber had been
   constructed, lined with crimson fluted velvet, the flooring of which
   was of gold. The same boat contained an antechamber decorated in
   the same manner. The prow and stern of the boat were occupied by
   soldiers and guards, wearing scarlet coats embroidered with gold,
   silver, and silk; and many lords of note. His Eminence occupied a
   bed hung with purple taffetas. Monseigneur the Cardinal Bigni, and
   Messeigneurs the Bishops of Nantes and Chartres, were there, with
   many abbes and gentlemen in other boats. Preceding his vessel, a
   boat sounded the passages, and another boat followed, filled with
   arquebusiers and officers to command them. When they approached any
   isle, they sent soldiers to inspect it, to discover whether it was
   occupied by any suspicious persons; and, not meeting any, they
   guarded the shore until two boats which followed had passed. They
   were filled with the nobility and well-armed soldiers.

   &ldquo;Afterward came the boat of his Eminence, to the stern of which was
   attached a little boat, which conveyed MM. de Thou and Cinq-Mars,
   guarded by an officer of the King&rsquo;s guard and twelve guards from the
   regiment of his Eminence. Three vessels, containing the clothes and
   plate of his Eminence, with several gentlemen and soldiers, followed
   the boats.

   &ldquo;Two companies of light-horsemen followed the banks of the Rhone in
   Dauphin, and as many on the Languedoc and Vivarais side, and a noble
   regiment of foot, who preceded his Eminence in the towns which he
   was to enter, or in which he was to sleep. It was pleasant to
   listen to the trumpets, which, played in Dauphine, were answered by
   those in Vivarais, and repeated by the echoes of our rocks. It
   seemed as if all were trying which could play best.&rdquo;&mdash;[See Notes.]
</pre>
    <p>
      In the middle of a night of the month of September, while everything
      appeared to slumber in the impregnable tower which contained the
      prisoners, the door of their outer chamber turned noiselessly on its
      hinges, and a man appeared on the threshold, clad in a brown robe confined
      round his waist by a cord. His feet were encased in sandals, and his hand
      grasped a large bunch of keys; it was Joseph. He looked cautiously round
      without advancing, and contemplated in silence the apartment occupied by
      the master of the horse. Thick carpets covered the floor, and large and
      splendid hangings concealed the walls of the prison; a bed hung with red
      damask was prepared, but it was unoccupied. Seated near a high chimney in
      a large armchair, attired in a long gray robe, similar in form to that of
      a priest, his head bent down, and his eyes fixed upon a little cross of
      gold by the flickering light of a lamp, he was absorbed in so deep a
      meditation that the Capuchin had leisure to approach him closely, and
      confront the prisoner before he perceived him. Suddenly, however,
      Cinq-Mars raised his head and exclaimed, &ldquo;Wretch, what do you here?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Young man, you are violent,&rdquo; answered the mysterious
      intruder, in a low voice. &ldquo;Two months&rsquo; imprisonment ought to
      have been enough to calm you. I come to tell you things of great
      importance. Listen to me! I have thought much of you; and I do not hate
      you so much as you imagine. The moments are precious. I will tell you all
      in a few words: in two hours you will be interrogated, tried, and
      condemned to death with your friend. It can not be otherwise, for all will
      be finished the same day.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know it,&rdquo; answered Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;and I am prepared.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then, I can still release you from this affair. I have
      reflected deeply, as I told you; and I am here to make a proposal which
      can but give you satisfaction. The Cardinal has but six months to live.
      Let us not be mysterious; we must speak openly. You see where I have
      brought you to serve him; and you can judge by that the point to which I
      would conduct him to serve you. If you wish it, we can cut short the six
      months of his life which still remain. The King loves you, and will recall
      you with joy when he finds you still live. You may long live, and be
      powerful and happy, if you will protect me, and make me cardinal.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Astonishment deprived the young prisoner of speech. He could not
      understand such language, and seemed to be unable to descend to it from
      his higher meditations. All that he could say was:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your benefactor, Richelieu?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capuchin smiled, and, drawing nearer, continued in an undertone:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Policy admits of no benefits; it contains nothing but interest. A
      man employed by a minister is no more bound to be grateful than a horse
      whose rider prefers him to others. My pace has been convenient to him; so
      much the better. Now it is my interest to throw him from the saddle. Yes,
      this man loves none but himself. I now see that he has deceived me by
      continually retarding my elevation; but once again, I possess the sure
      means for your escape in silence. I am the master here. I will remove the
      men in whom he trusts, and replace them by others whom he has condemned to
      die, and who are near at hand confined in the northern tower&mdash;the
      Tour des Oubliettes, which overhangs the river. His creatures will occupy
      their places. I will recommend a physician&mdash;an empyric who is devoted
      to me&mdash;to the illustrious Cardinal, who has been given over by the
      most scientific in Paris. If you will unite with me, he shall convey to
      him a universal and eternal remedy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Away!&rdquo; exclaimed Cinq-Mars. &ldquo;Leave me, thou infernal
      monk! No, thou art like no other man! Thou glidest with a noiseless and
      furtive step through the darkness; thou traversest the walls to preside at
      secret crimes; thou placest thyself between the hearts of lovers to
      separate them eternally. Who art thou? Thou resemblest a tormented spirit
      of the damned!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Romantic boy!&rdquo; answered Joseph; &ldquo;you would have
      possessed high attainments had it not been for your false notions. There
      is perhaps neither damnation nor soul. If the dead returned to complain of
      their fate, I should have a thousand around me; and I have never seen any,
      even in my dreams.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monster!&rdquo; muttered Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Words again!&rdquo; said Joseph; &ldquo;there is neither monster
      nor virtuous man. You and De Thou, who pride yourselves on what you call
      virtue&mdash;you have failed in causing the death of perhaps a hundred
      thousand men&mdash;at once and in the broad daylight&mdash;for no end,
      while Richelieu and I have caused the death of far fewer, one by one, and
      by night, to found a great power. Would you remain pure and virtuous, you
      must not interfere with other men; or, rather, it is more reasonable to
      see that which is, and to say with me, it is possible that there is no
      such thing as a soul. We are the sons of chance; but relative to other
      men, we have passions which we must satisfy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I breathe again!&rdquo; exclaimed Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;he believes not
      in God!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Richelieu, you, and I were born ambitious; it followed, then, that
      everything must be sacrificed to this idea.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wretched man, do not compare me to thyself!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the plain truth, nevertheless,&rdquo; replied the Capuchin&rsquo;;
      &ldquo;only you now see that our system was better than yours.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Miserable wretch, it was for love&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, no! it was not that; here are mere words again. You have
      perhaps imagined it was so; but it was for your own advancement. I have
      heard you speak to the young girl. You thought but of yourselves; you do
      not love each other. She thought but of her rank, and you of your
      ambition. One loves in order to hear one&rsquo;s self called perfect, and
      to be adored; it is still the same egoism.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cruel serpent!&rdquo; cried Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;is it not enough that
      thou hast caused our deaths? Why dost thou come here to cast thy venom
      upon the life thou hast taken from us? What demon has suggested to thee
      thy horrible analysis of hearts?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hatred of everything which is superior to myself,&rdquo; replied
      Joseph, with a low and hollow laugh, &ldquo;and the desire to crush those
      I hate under my feet, have made me ambitious and ingenious in finding the
      weakness of your dreams.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just Heaven, dost thou hear him?&rdquo; exclaimed Cinq-Mars, rising
      and extending his arms upward.
    </p>
    <p>
      The solitude of his prison; the pious conversations of his friend; and,
      above all, the presence of death, which, like the light of an unknown
      star, paints in other colors the objects we are accustomed to see;
      meditations on eternity; and (shall we say it?) the great efforts he had
      made to change his heartrending regrets into immortal hopes, and to direct
      to God all that power of love which had led him astray upon earth-all this
      combined had worked a strange revolution in him; and like those ears of
      corn which ripen suddenly on receiving one ray from the sun, his soul had
      acquired light, exalted by the mysterious influence of death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Just Heaven!&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;if this wretch and his
      master are human, can I also be a man? Behold, O God, behold two distinct
      ambitions&mdash;the one egoistical and bloody, the other devoted and
      unstained; theirs roused by hatred, and ours inspired by love. Look down,
      O Lord, judge, and pardon! Pardon, for we have greatly erred in walking
      but for a single day in the same paths which, on earth, possess but one
      name to whatever end it may tend!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Joseph interrupted him harshly, stamping his foot on the ground:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you have finished your prayer,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you will
      perhaps inform me whether you will assist me; and I will instantly&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never, impure wretch, never!&rdquo; said Henri d&rsquo;Effiat.
      &ldquo;I will never unite with you in an assassination. I refused to do so
      when powerful, and upon yourself.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were wrong; you would have been master now.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what happiness should I find in my power when shared as it must
      be by a woman who does not understand me; who loved me feebly, and prefers
      a crown?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Inconceivable folly!&rdquo; said the Capuchin, laughing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All with her; nothing without her&mdash;that was my desire.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is from obstinacy and vanity that you persist; it is impossible,&rdquo;
      replied Joseph. &ldquo;It is not in nature.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou who wouldst deny the spirit of self-sacrifice,&rdquo; answered
      Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;dost thou understand that of my friend?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It does not exist; he follows you because&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Here the Capuchin, slightly embarrassed, reflected an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because&mdash;because&mdash;he has formed you; you are his work; he
      is attached to you by the self-love of an author. He was accustomed to
      lecture you; and he felt that he should not find another pupil so docile
      to listen to and applaud him. Constant habit has persuaded him that his
      life was bound to yours; it is something of that kind. He will accompany
      you mechanically. Besides, all is not yet finished; we shall see the end
      and the examination. He will certainly deny all knowledge of the
      conspiracy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He will not deny it!&rdquo; exclaimed Cinq-Mars, impetuously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He knew it, then? You confess it,&rdquo; said Joseph, triumphantly;
      &ldquo;you have not said as much before.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Heaven, what have I done!&rdquo; gasped Cinq-Mars, hiding his
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Calm yourself; he is saved, notwithstanding this avowal, if you
      accept my offer.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      D&rsquo;Effiat remained silent for a short time.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Capuchin continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Save your friend. The King&rsquo;s favor awaits you, and perhaps
      the love which has erred for a moment.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Man, or whatever else thou art, if thou hast in thee anything
      resembling a heart,&rdquo; answered the prisoner, &ldquo;save him! He is
      the purest of created beings; but convey him far away while yet he sleeps,
      for should he awake, thy endeavors would be vain.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What good will that do me?&rdquo; said the Capuchin, laughing.
      &ldquo;It is you and your favor that I want.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The impetuous Cinq-Mars rose, and, seizing Joseph by the arm, eying him
      with a terrible look, said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I degraded him in interceding with thee for him.&rdquo; He
      continued, raising the tapestry which separated his apartment from that of
      his friend, &ldquo;Come, and doubt, if thou canst, devotion and the
      immortality of the soul. Compare the uneasiness and misery of thy triumph
      with the calmness of our defeat, the meanness of thy reign with the
      grandeur of our captivity, thy sanguinary vigils to the slumbers of the
      just.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A solitary lamp threw its light on De Thou. The young man was kneeling on
      a cushion, surmounted by a large ebony crucifix. He seemed to have fallen
      asleep while praying. His head, inclining backward, was still raised
      toward the cross. His pale lips wore a calm and divine smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Holy Father, how he sleeps!&rdquo; exclaimed the astonished
      Capuchin, thoughtlessly uniting to his frightful discourse the sacred name
      he every day pronounced. He suddenly retired some paces, as if dazzled by
      a heavenly vision.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nonsense, nonsense!&rdquo; he said, shaking his head, and passing
      his hand rapidly over his face. &ldquo;All this is childishness. It would
      overcome me if I reflected on it. These ideas may serve as opium to
      produce a calm. But that is not the question; say yes or no.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, pushing him to the door by the shoulder.
      &ldquo;I will not accept life; and I do not regret having compromised De
      Thou, for he would not have bought his life at the price of an
      assassination. And when he yielded at Narbonne, it was not that he might
      escape at Lyons.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then wake him, for here come the judges,&rdquo; said the furious
      Capuchin, in a sharp, piercing voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lighted by flambeaux, and preceded by a detachment of the Scotch guards,
      fourteen judges entered, wrapped in long robes, and whose features were
      not easily distinguished. They seated themselves in silence on the right
      and left of the huge chamber. They were the judges delegated by the
      Cardinal to judge this sad and solemn affair&mdash;all true men to the
      Cardinal Richelieu, and in his confidence, who from Tarascon had chosen
      and instructed them. He had the Chancellor Seguier brought to Lyons, to
      avoid, as he stated in the instructions he sent by Chavigny to the King
      Louis XIII&mdash;&ldquo;to avoid all the delays which would take place if
      he were not present. M. de Mayillac,&rdquo; he adds, &ldquo;was at Nantes
      for the trial of Chulais, M. de Chateau-Neuf at Toulouse, superintending
      the death of M. de Montmorency, and M. de Bellievre at Paris, conducting
      the trial of M. de Biron. The authority and intelligence of these
      gentlemen in forms of justice are indispensable.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Chancellor arrived with all speed. But at this moment he was informed
      that he was not to appear, for fear that he might be influenced by the
      memory of his ancient friendship for the prisoner, whom he only saw
      tete-a-tete. The commissioners and himself had previously and rapidly
      received the cowardly depositions of the Duc d&rsquo;Orleans, at
      Villefranche, in Beaujolais, and then at Vivey,&mdash;[House which
      belonged to an Abbe d&rsquo;Esnay, brother of M. de Villeroy, called
      Montresor.] two miles from Lyons, where this wretched prince had received
      orders to go, begging forgiveness, and trembling, although surrounded by
      his followers, whom from very pity he had been allowed to retain,
      carefully watched, however, by the French and Swiss guards. The Cardinal
      had dictated to him his part and answers word for word; and in
      consideration of this docility, they had exempted him in form from the
      painful task of confronting MM. de Cinq-Mars and De Thou. The chancellor
      and commissioners had also prepared M. de Bouillon, and, strong with their
      preliminary work, they visited in all their strength the two young
      criminals whom they had determined not to save.
    </p>
    <p>
      History has only handed down to us the names of the State counsellors who
      accompanied Pierre Seguier, but not those of the other commissioners, of
      whom it is only mentioned that there were six from the parliament of
      Grenoble, and two presidents. The counsellor, or reporter of the State,
      Laubardemont, who had directed them in all, was at their head. Joseph
      often whispered to them with the most studied politeness, glancing at
      Laubardemont with a ferocious sneer.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was arranged that an armchair should serve as a bar; and all were
      silent in expectation of the prisoner&rsquo;s answer.
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke in a soft and clear voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Say to Monsieur le Chancelier that I have the right of appeal to
      the parliament of Paris, and to object to my judges, because two of them
      are my declared enemies, and at their head one of my friends, Monsieur de
      Seguier himself, whom I maintained in his charge.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I will spare you much trouble, gentlemen, by pleading guilty to
      the whole charge of conspiracy, arranged and conducted by myself alone. It
      is my wish to die. I have nothing to add for myself; but if you would be
      just, you will not harm the life of him whom the King has pronounced to be
      the most honest man in France, and who dies for my sake alone.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Summon him,&rdquo; said Laubardemont.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two guards entered the apartment of De Thou, and led him forth. He
      advanced, and bowed gravely, while an angelical smile played upon his
      lips. Embracing Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;Here at last is our day of glory,&rdquo;
      said he. &ldquo;We are about to gain heaven and eternal happiness.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We understand,&rdquo; said Laubardemont, &ldquo;we have been given
      to understand by Monsieur de Cinq-Mars himself, that you were acquainted
      with this conspiracy?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      De Thou answered instantly, and without hesitation. A half-smile was still
      on his lips, and his eyes cast down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen, I have passed my life in studying human laws, and I know
      that the testimony of one accused person can not condemn another. I can
      also repeat what I said before, that I should not have been believed had I
      denounced the King&rsquo;s brother without proof. You perceive, then, that
      my life and death entirely rest with myself. I have, however, well weighed
      the one and the other. I have clearly foreseen that whatever life I may
      hereafter lead, it could not but be most unhappy after the loss of
      Monsieur de Cinq-Mars. I therefore acknowledge and confess that I was
      aware of his conspiracy. I did my utmost to prevent it, to deter him from
      it. He believed me to be his only and faithful friend, and I would not
      betray him. Therefore, I condemn myself by the very laws which were set
      forth by my father, who, I hope, forgives me.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words, the two friends precipitated themselves into each other&rsquo;s
      arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My friend, my friend, how bitterly I regret that I have caused your
      death! Twice I have betrayed you; but you shall know in what manner.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But De Thou, embracing and consoling his friend, answered, raising his
      eyes from the ground:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, happy are we to end our days in this manner! Humanly speaking,
      I might complain of you; but God knows how much I love you. What have we
      done to merit the grace of martyrdom, and the happiness of dying together?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The judges were not prepared for this mildness, and looked at each other
      with surprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they would only give me a good partisan,&rdquo; muttered a
      hoarse voice (it was Grandchamp, who had crept into the room, and whose
      eyes were red with fury), &ldquo;I would soon rid Monseigneur of all these
      black-looking fellows.&rdquo; Two men with halberds immediately placed
      themselves silently at his side. He said no more, and to compose himself
      retired to a window which overlooked the river, whose tranquil waters the
      sun had not yet lighted with its beams, and appeared to pay no attention
      to what was passing in the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, Laubardemont, fearing that the judges might be touched with
      compassion, said in a loud voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In pursuance of the order of Monseigneur the Cardinal, these two
      men will be put to the rack; that is to say, to the ordinary and
      extraordinary question.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Indignation forced Cinq-Mars again to assume his natural character;
      crossing his arms, he made two steps toward Laubardemont and Joseph, which
      alarmed them. The former involuntarily placed his hand to his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are we at Loudun?&rdquo; exclaimed the prisoner; but De Thou,
      advancing, took his hand and held it. Cinq-Mars was silent, then continued
      in a calm voice, looking steadfastly at the judges:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Messieurs, this measure appears to me rather harsh; a man of my age
      and rank ought not to be subjected to these formalities. I have confessed
      all, and I will confess it all again. I willingly and gladly accept death;
      it is not from souls like ours that secrets can be wrung by bodily
      suffering. We are prisoners by our own free will, and at the time chosen
      by us. We have confessed enough for you to condemn us to death; you shall
      know nothing more. We have obtained what we wanted.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you doing, my friend?&rdquo; interrupted De Thou. &ldquo;He
      is mistaken, gentlemen, we do not refuse this martyrdom which God offers
      us; we demand it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;do you need such infamous
      tortures to obtain salvation&mdash;you who are already a martyr, a
      voluntary martyr to friendship? Gentlemen, it is I alone who possess
      important secrets; it is the chief of a conspiracy who knows all. Put me
      alone to the torture if we must be treated like the worst of malefactors.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For the sake of charity,&rdquo; added De Thou, &ldquo;deprive me
      not of equal suffering with my friend; I have not followed him so far, to
      abandon him at this dreadful moment, and not to use every effort to
      accompany him to heaven.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      During this debate, another was going forward between Laubardemont and
      Joseph. The latter, fearing that torments would induce him to disclose the
      secret of his recent proposition, advised that they should not be resorted
      to; the other, not thinking his triumph complete by death alone,
      absolutely insisted on their being applied. The judges surrounded and
      listened to these secret agents of the Prime-Minister; however, many
      circumstances having caused them to suspect that the influence of the
      Capuchin was more powerful than that of the judge, they took part with
      him, and decided for mercy, when he finished by these words uttered in a
      low voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know their secrets. There is no necessity to force them from
      their lips, because they are useless, and relate to too high
      circumstances. Monsieur le Grand has no one to denounce but the King, and
      the other the Queen. It is better that we should remain ignorant. Besides,
      they will not confess. I know them; they will be silent&mdash;the one from
      pride, the other through piety. Let them alone. The torture will wound
      them; they will be disfigured and unable to walk. That will spoil the
      whole ceremony; they must be kept to appear.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      This last observation prevailed. The judges retired to deliberate with the
      chancellor. While departing, Joseph whispered to Laubardemont:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have provided you with enough pleasure here; you will still have
      that of deliberating, and then you shall go and examine three men who are
      confined in the northern tower.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      These were the three judges who had condemned Urbain Grandier.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he spoke, he laughed heartily, and was the last to leave the room,
      pushing the astonished master of requests before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sombre tribunal had scarcely disappeared when Grandchamp, relieved
      from his two guards, hastened toward his master, and, seizing his hand,
      said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the name of Heaven, come to the terrace, Monseigneur! I have
      something to show you; in the name of your mother, come!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But at that moment the chamber door was opened, and the old Abbe Quillet
      appeared.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My children! my dear children!&rdquo; exclaimed the old man,
      weeping bitterly. &ldquo;Alas! why was I only permitted to enter to-day?
      Dear Henri, your mother, your brother, your sister, are concealed here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be quiet, Monsieur l&rsquo;Abbe!&rdquo; said Grandchamp; &ldquo;do
      come to the terrace, Monseigneur.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      But the old priest still detained and embraced his pupil.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We hope,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;we hope for mercy.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall refuse it,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We hope for nothing but the mercy of God,&rdquo; added De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence!&rdquo; said Grandchamp, &ldquo;the judges are returning.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And the door opened again to admit the dismal procession, from which
      Joseph and Laubardemont were missing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Gentlemen,&rdquo; exclaimed the good Abbe, addressing the
      commissioners, &ldquo;I am happy to tell you that I have just arrived from
      Paris, and that no one doubts but that all the conspirators will be
      pardoned. I have had an interview at her Majesty&rsquo;s apartments with
      Monsieur himself; and as to the Duc de Bouillon, his examination is not
      unfav&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Silence!&rdquo; cried M. de Seyton, the lieutenant of the Scotch
      guards; and the commissioners entered and again arranged themselves in the
      apartment.
    </p>
    <p>
      M. de Thou, hearing them summon the criminal recorder of the presidial of
      Lyons to pronounce the sentence, involuntarily launched out in one of
      those transports of religious joy which are never displayed but by the
      martyrs and saints at the approach of death; and, advancing toward this
      man, he exclaimed:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quam speciosi pedes evangelizantium pacem, evangelizantium bona!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, taking the hand of Cinq-Mars, he knelt down bareheaded to receive
      the sentence, as was the custom. D&rsquo;Effiat remained standing; and
      they dared not compel him to kneel. The sentence was pronounced in these
      words:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;The Attorney-General, prosecutor on the part of the State, on a
   charge of high treason; and Messire Henri d&rsquo;Effiat de Cinq-Mars,
   master of the horse, aged twenty-two, and Francois Auguste de Thou,
   aged thirty-five, of the King&rsquo;s privy council, prisoners in the
   chateau of Pierre-Encise, at Lyons, accused and defendants on the
   other part:

   &ldquo;Considered, the special trial commenced by the aforesaid attorney-
   general against the said D&rsquo;Efiiat and De Thou; informations,
   interrogations, confessions, denegations, and confrontations, and
   authenticated copies of the treaty with Spain, it is considered in
   the delegated chamber:

   &ldquo;That he who conspires against the person of the ministers of
   princes is considered by the ancient laws and constitutions of the
   emperors to be guilty of high treason; (2) that the third ordinance
   of the King Louis XI renders any one liable to the punishment of
   death who does not reveal a conspiracy against the State.

   &ldquo;The commissioners deputed by his Majesty have declared the said
   D&rsquo;Effiat and De Thou guilty and convicted of the crime of high
   treason:

   &ldquo;The said D&rsquo;Effiat, for the conspiracies and enterprises, league,
   and treaties, formed by him with the foreigner against the State;

   &ldquo;And the said De Thou, for having a thorough knowledge of this
   conspiracy.

   &ldquo;In reparation of which crimes they have deprived them of all honors
   and dignities, and condemned them to be deprived of their heads on a
   scaffold, which is for this purpose erected in the Place des
   Terreaux, in this city.

   &ldquo;It is further declared that all and each of their possessions, real
   and personal, be confiscated to the King, and that those which they
   hold from the crown do pass immediately to it again of the aforesaid
   goods, sixty thousand livres being devoted to pious uses.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      After the sentence was pronounced, M. de Thou exclaimed in a loud voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be blessed! God be praised!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have never feared death,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, coldly.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, according to the forms prescribed, M. Seyton, the lieutenant of the
      Scotch guards, an old man upward of sixty years of age, declared with
      emotion that he placed the prisoners in the hands of the Sieur Thome,
      provost of the merchants of Lyons; he then took leave of them, followed by
      the whole of the body-guard, silently, and in tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Weep not,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars; &ldquo;tears are useless. Rather
      pray for us; and be assured that I do not fear death.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He shook them by the hand, and De Thou embraced them; after which they
      left the apartment, their eyes filled with tears, and hiding their faces
      in their cloaks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Barbarians!&rdquo; exclaimed the Abbe Quillet; &ldquo;to find arms
      against them, one must search the whole arsenal of tyrants. Why did they
      admit me at this moment?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;As a confessor, Monsieur,&rdquo; whispered one of the
      commissioners; &ldquo;for no stranger has entered this place these two
      months.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the huge gates of the prison were closed, and the outside
      gratings lowered, &ldquo;To the terrace, in the name of Heaven!&rdquo;
      again exclaimed Grandchamp. And he drew his master and De Thou thither.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old preceptor followed them, weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want with us in a moment like this?&rdquo; said
      Cinq-Mars, with indulgent gravity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look at the chains of the town,&rdquo; said the faithful servant.
    </p>
    <p>
      The rising sun had hardly tinged the sky. In the horizon a line of vivid
      yellow was visible, upon which the mountain&rsquo;s rough blue outlines
      were boldly traced; the waves of the Saline, and the chains of the town
      hanging from one bank to the other, were still veiled by a light vapor,
      which also rose from Lyons and concealed the roofs of the houses from the
      eye of the spectator. The first tints of the morning light had as yet
      colored only the most elevated points of the magnificent landscape. In the
      city the steeples of the Hotel de Ville and St. Nizier, and on the
      surrounding hills the monasteries of the Carmelites and Ste.-Marie, and
      the entire fortress of Pierre-Encise were gilded with the fires of the
      coming day. The joyful peals from the churches were heard, the peaceful
      matins from the convent and village bells. The walls of the prison were
      alone silent.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;what are we to see the beauty
      of the plains, the richness of the city, or the calm peacefulness of these
      villages? Ah, my friend, in every place there are to be found passions and
      griefs, like those which have brought us here.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The old Abbe and Grandchamp leaned over the parapet, watching the bank of
      the river.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The fog is so thick, we can see nothing yet,&rdquo; said the Abbe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How slowly our last sun appears!&rdquo; said De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you not see low down there, at the foot of the rocks, on the
      opposite bank, a small white house, between the Halincourt gate and the
      Boulevard Saint Jean?&rdquo; asked the Abbe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I see nothing,&rdquo; answered Cinq-Mars, &ldquo;but a mass of
      dreary wall.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hark!&rdquo; said the Abbe; &ldquo;some one speaks near us!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, a confused, low, and inexplicable murmur was heard in a little
      turret, the back of which rested upon the platform of the terrace. As it
      was scarcely larger than a pigeon-house, the prisoners had not until now
      observed it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are they already coming to fetch us?&rdquo; said Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bah! bah!&rdquo; answered Grandchamp, &ldquo;do not make yourself
      uneasy; it is the Tour des Oubliettes. I have prowled round the fort for
      two months, and I have seen men fall from there into the water at least
      once a week. Let us think of our affair. I see a light down there.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      An invincible curiosity, however, led the two prisoners to look at the
      turret, in spite of the horror of their own situation. It advanced to the
      extremity of the rock, over a gulf of foaming green water of great depth.
      A wheel of a mill long deserted was seen turning with great rapidity.
      Three distinct sounds were now heard, like those of a drawbridge suddenly
      lowered and raised to its former position by a recoil or spring striking
      against the stone walls; and three times a black substance was seen to
      fall into the water with a splash.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy! can these be men?&rdquo; exclaimed the Abbe, crossing
      himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought I saw brown robes turning in the air,&rdquo; said
      Grandchamp; &ldquo;they are the Cardinal&rsquo;s friends.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A horrible cry was heard from the tower, accompanied by an impious oath.
      The heavy trap groaned for the fourth time. The green water received with
      a loud noise a burden which cracked the enormous wheel of the mill; one of
      its large spokes was torn away, and a man entangled in its beams appeared
      above the foam, which he colored with his blood. He rose twice, and sank
      beneath the waters, shrieking violently; it was Laubardemont.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cinq-Mars drew back in horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a Providence,&rdquo; said Grandchamp; &ldquo;Urbain
      Grandier summoned him in three years. But come, come! the time is
      precious! Do not remain motionless. Be it he, I am not surprised, for
      those wretches devour each other. But let us endeavor to deprive them of
      their choicest morsel. Vive Dieu! I see the signal! We are saved! All is
      ready; run to this side, Monsieur l&rsquo;Abbe! See the white handkerchief
      at the window! our friends are prepared.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Abbe seized the hands of both his friends, and drew them to that side
      of the terrace toward which they had at first looked. &ldquo;Listen to me,
      both of you,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;You must know that none of the
      conspirators has profited by the retreat you secured for them. They have
      all hastened to Lyons, disguised, and in great number; they have
      distributed sufficient gold in the city to secure them from being
      betrayed; they are resolved to make an attempt to deliver you. The time
      chosen is that when they are conducting you to the scaffold; the signal is
      your hat, which you will place on your head when they are to commence.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The worthy Abbe, half weeping, half smiling hopefully, related that upon
      the arrest of his pupil he had hastened to Paris; that such secrecy
      enveloped all the Cardinal&rsquo;s actions that none there knew the place
      in which the master of the horse was detained. Many said that he was
      banished; and when the reconciliation between Monsieur and the Duc de
      Bouillon and the King was known, men no longer doubted that the life of
      the other was assured, and ceased to speak of this affair, which, not
      having been executed, compromised few persons. They had even in some
      measure rejoiced in Paris to see the town of Sedan and its territory added
      to the kingdom in exchange for the letters of abolition granted to the
      Duke, acknowledged innocent in common with Monsieur; so that the result of
      all the arrangements had been to excite admiration of the Cardinal&rsquo;s
      ability, and of his clemency toward the conspirators, who, it was said,
      had contemplated his death. They even spread the report that he had
      facilitated the escape of Cinq-Mars and De Thou, occupying himself
      generously with their retreat to a foreign land, after having bravely
      caused them to be arrested in the midst of the camp of Perpignan.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this part of the narrative, Cinq-Mars could not avoid forgetting his
      resignation, and clasping his friend&rsquo;s hand, &ldquo;Arrested!&rdquo;
      he exclaimed. &ldquo;Must we renounce even the honor of having voluntarily
      surrendered ourselves? Must we sacrifice all, even the opinion of
      posterity?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is vanity again,&rdquo; replied De Thou, placing his fingers
      on his lips. &ldquo;But hush! let us hear the Abbe to the end.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The tutor, not doubting that the calmness which these two young men
      exhibited arose from the joy they felt in finding their escape assured,
      and seeing that the sun had hardly yet dispersed the morning mists,
      yielded himself without restraint to the involuntary pleasure which old
      men always feel in recounting new events, even though they afflict the
      hearers. He related all his fruitless endeavors to discover his pupil&rsquo;s
      retreat, unknown to the court and the town, where none, indeed, dared to
      pronounce the name of Cinq-Mars in the most secret asylums. He had only
      heard of the imprisonment at Pierre-Encise from the Queen herself, who had
      deigned to send for him, and charge him to inform the Marechale d&rsquo;Effiat
      and all the conspirators that they might make a desperate effort to
      deliver their young chief. Anne of Austria had even ventured to send many
      of the gentlemen of Auvergne and Touraine to Lyons to assist in their last
      attempt.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The good Queen!&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;she wept greatly when I saw
      her, and said that she would give all she possessed to save you. She
      reproached herself deeply for some letter, I know not what. She spoke of
      the welfare of France, but did not explain herself. She said that she
      admired you, and conjured you to save yourself, if it were only through
      pity for her, whom you would otherwise consign to everlasting remorse.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Said she nothing else?&rdquo; interrupted De Thou, supporting
      Cinq-Mars, who grew visibly paler.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing more,&rdquo; said the old man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And no one else spoke of me?&rdquo; inquired the master of the
      horse.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No one,&rdquo; said the Abbe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If she had but written to me!&rdquo; murmured Henri.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remember, my father, that you were sent here as a confessor,&rdquo;
      said De Thou.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here old Grandchamp, who had been kneeling before Cinq-Mars, and dragging
      him by his clothes to the other side of the terrace, exclaimed in a broken
      voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monseigneur&mdash;my master&mdash;my good master&mdash;do you see
      them? Look there&mdash;&lsquo;tis they! &lsquo;tis they&mdash;all of them!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who, my old friend?&rdquo; asked his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who? Great Heaven! look at that window! Do you not recognize them?
      Your mother, your sisters, and your brother.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And the day, now fairly broken, showed him in the distance several women
      waving their handkerchiefs; and there, dressed all in black, stretching
      out her arms toward the prison, sustained by those about her, Cinq-Mars
      recognized his mother, with his family, and his strength failed him for a
      moment. He leaned his head upon his friend&rsquo;s breast and wept.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How many times must I, then, die?&rdquo; he murmured; then, with a
      gesture, returning from the top of the tower the salutations of his
      family, &ldquo;Let us descend quickly, my father!&rdquo; he said to the
      old Abbe. &ldquo;You will tell me at the tribunal of penitence, and before
      God, whether the remainder of my life is worth my shedding more blood to
      preserve it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It was there that Cinq-Mars confessed to God what he alone and Marie de
      Mantua knew of their secret and unfortunate love. &ldquo;He gave to his
      confessor,&rdquo; says Father Daniel, &ldquo;a portrait of a noble lady,
      set in diamonds, which were to be sold, and the money employed in pious
      works.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      M. de Thou, after having confessed, wrote a letter;&mdash;[See the copy of
      this letter to Madame la Princesse de Guemenee, in the notes at the end of
      the volume.]&mdash;after which (according to the account given by his
      confessor) he said, &ldquo;This is the last thought I will bestow upon
      this world; let us depart for heaven!&rdquo; and walking up and down the
      room with long strides, he recited aloud the psalm, &lsquo;Miserere mei,
      Deus&rsquo;, with an incredible ardor of spirit, his whole frame trembling
      so violently it seemed as if he did not touch the earth, and that the soul
      was about to make its exit from his body. The guards were mute at this
      spectacle, which made them all shudder with respect and horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile, all was calm in the city of Lyons, when to the great
      astonishment of its inhabitants, they beheld the entrance through all its
      gates of troops of infantry and cavalry, which they knew were encamped at
      a great distance. The French and the Swiss guards, the regiment of
      Pompadours, the men-at-arms of Maurevert, and the carabineers of La Roque,
      all defiled in silence. The cavalry, with their muskets on the pommel of
      the saddle, silently drew up round the chateau of Pierre-Encise; the
      infantry formed a line upon the banks of the Saone from the gate of the
      fortress to the Place des Terreaux. It was the usual spot for execution.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;Four companies of the bourgeois of Lyons, called &lsquo;pennonage&rsquo;, of
   which about eleven or twelve hundred men, were ranged [says the
   journal of Montresor] in the midst of the Place des Terreaux, so as
   to enclose a space of about eighty paces each way, into which they
   admitted no one but those who were absolutely necessary.

   &ldquo;In the centre of this space was raised a scaffold about seven feet
   high and nine feet square, in the midst of which, somewhat forward,
   was placed a stake three feet in height, in front of which was a
   block half a foot high, so that the principal face of the scaffold
   looked toward the shambles of the Terreaux, by the side of the
   Saone. Against the scaffold was placed a short ladder of eight
   rounds, in the direction of the Dames de St. Pierre.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      Nothing had transpired in the town as to the name of the prisoners. The
      inaccessible walls of the fortress let none enter or leave but at night,
      and the deep dungeons had sometimes confined father and son for years
      together, four feet apart from each other, without their even being aware
      of the vicinity. The surprise was extreme at these striking preparations,
      and the crowd collected, not knowing whether for a fete or for an
      execution.
    </p>
    <p>
      This same secrecy which the agents of the minister had strictly preserved
      was also carefully adhered to by the conspirators, for their heads
      depended on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Montresor, Fontrailles, the Baron de Beauvau, Olivier d&rsquo;Entraigues,
      Gondi, the Comte du Lude, and the Advocate Fournier, disguised as
      soldiers, workmen, and morris-dancers, armed with poniards under their
      clothes, had dispersed amid the crowd more than five hundred gentlemen and
      domestics, disguised like themselves. Horses were ready on the road to
      Italy, and boats upon the Rhone had been previously engaged. The young
      Marquis d&rsquo;Effiat, elder brother of Cinq-Mars, dressed as a
      Carthusian, traversed the crowd, without ceasing, between the Place des
      Terreaux and the little house in which his mother and sister were
      concealed with the Presidente de Pontac, the sister of the unfortunate De
      Thou. He reassured them, gave them from time to time a ray of hope, and
      returned to the conspirators to satisfy himself that each was prepared for
      action.
    </p>
    <p>
      Each soldier forming the line had at his side a man ready to poniard him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The vast crowd, heaped together behind the line of guards, pushed them
      forward, passed their lines, and made them lose ground. Ambrosio, the
      Spanish servant whom Cinq-Mars had saved, had taken charge of the captain
      of the pikemen, and, disguised as a Catalonian musician, had commenced a
      dispute with him, pretending to be determined not to cease playing the
      hurdy-gurdy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every one was at his post.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Abbe de Gondi, Olivier d&rsquo;Entraigues, and the Marquis d&rsquo;Effiat
      were in the midst of a group of fish-women and oyster-wenches, who were
      disputing and bawling, abusing one of their number younger and more timid
      than her masculine companions. The brother of Cinq-Mars approached to
      listen to their quarrel.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why,&rdquo; said she to the others, &ldquo;would you have Jean
      le Roux, who is an honest man, cut off the heads of two Christians,
      because he is a butcher by trade? So long as I am his wife, I&rsquo;ll not
      allow it. I&rsquo;d rather&mdash;&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, you are wrong!&rdquo; replied her companions. &ldquo;What is&rsquo;t
      to thee whether the meat he cuts is eaten or not eaten? Why, thou&rsquo;lt
      have a hundred crowns to dress thy three children all in new clothes. Thou&rsquo;rt
      lucky to be the wife of a butcher. Profit, then, &lsquo;ma mignonne&rsquo;,
      by what God sends thee by the favor of his Eminence.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me alone!&rdquo; answered the first speaker. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
      not accept it. I&rsquo;ve seen these fine young gentlemen at the windows.
      They look as mild as lambs.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well! and are not thy lambs and calves killed?&rdquo; said Femme le
      Bon. &ldquo;What fortune falls to this little woman! What a pity!
      especially when it is from the reverend Capuchin!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How horrible is the gayety of the people!&rdquo; said Olivier d&rsquo;Entraigues,
      unguardedly. All the women heard him, and began to murmur against him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of the people!&rdquo; said they; &ldquo;and whence comes this
      little bricklayer with his plastered clothes?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; interrupted another, &ldquo;dost not see that &lsquo;tis
      some gentleman in disguise? Look at his white hands! He never worked a
      square; &lsquo;tis some little dandy conspirator. I&rsquo;ve a great mind
      to go and fetch the captain of the watch to arrest him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Abbe de Gondi felt all the danger of this situation, and throwing
      himself with an air of anger upon Olivier, and assuming the manners of a
      joiner, whose costume and apron he had adopted, he exclaimed, seizing him
      by the collar:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re just right. &lsquo;Tis a little rascal that never
      works! These two years that my father&rsquo;s apprenticed him, he has done
      nothing but comb his hair to please the girls. Come, get home with you!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      And, striking him with his rule, he drove him through the crowd, and
      returned to place himself on another part of the line. After having well
      reprimanded the thoughtless page, he asked him for the letter which he
      said he had to give to M. de Cinq-Mars when he should have escaped.
      Olivier had carried it in his pocket for two months. He gave it him.
      &ldquo;It is from one prisoner to another,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;for the
      Chevalier de jars, on leaving the Bastille, sent it me from one of his
      companions in captivity.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ma foi!&rdquo; said Gondi, &ldquo;there may be some important
      secret in it for our friends. I&rsquo;ll open it. You ought to have
      thought of it before. Ah, bah! it is from old Bassompierre. Let us read
      it.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   MY DEAR CHILD: I learn from the depths of the Bastille, where I
   still remain, that you are conspiring against the tyrant Richelieu,
   who does not cease to humiliate our good old nobility and the
   parliaments, and to sap the foundations of the edifice upon which
   the State reposes. I hear that the nobles are taxed and condemned
   by petty judges, contrary to the privileges of their condition,
   forced to the arriere-ban, despite the ancient customs.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! the old dotard!&rdquo; interrupted the page, laughing
      immoderately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not so foolish as you imagine, only he is a little behindhand for
      our affair.&rdquo;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;I can not but approve this generous project, and I pray you give me
   to wot all your proceedings&mdash;&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! the old language of the last reign!&rdquo; said Olivier.
      &ldquo;He can&rsquo;t say &lsquo;Make me acquainted with your proceedings,&rsquo;
      as we now say.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me read, for Heaven&rsquo;s sake!&rdquo; said the Abbe; &ldquo;a
      hundred years hence they&rsquo;ll laugh at our phrases.&rdquo; He
      continued:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;I can counsel you, notwithstanding my great age, in relating to you
   what happened to me in 1560.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, faith! I&rsquo;ve not time to waste in reading it all. Let us
      see the end.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;When I remember my dining at the house of Madame la Marechale
   d&rsquo;Effiat, your mother, and ask myself what has become of all the
   guests, I am really afflicted. My poor Puy-Laurens has died at
   Vincennes, of grief at being forgotten by Monsieur in his prison;
   De Launay killed in a duel, and I am grieved at it, for although I
   was little satisfied with my arrest, he did it with courtesy, and I
   have always thought him a gentleman. As for me, I am under lock and
   key until the death of M. le Cardinal. Ah, my child! we were
   thirteen at table. We must not laugh at old superstitions. Thank
   God that you are the only one to whom evil has not arrived!&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There again!&rdquo; said Olivier, laughing heartily; and this time
      the Abbe de Gondi could not maintain his gravity, despite all his efforts.
    </p>
    <p>
      They tore the useless letter to pieces, that it might not prolong the
      detention of the old marechal, should it be found, and drew near the Place
      des Terreaux and the line of guards, whom they were to attack when the
      signal of the hat should be given by the young prisoner.
    </p>
    <p>
      They beheld with satisfaction all their friends at their posts, and ready
      &ldquo;to play with their knives,&rdquo; to use their own expression. The
      people, pressing around them, favored them without being aware of it.
      There came near the Abbe a troop of young ladies dressed in white and
      veiled. They were going to church to communicate; and the nuns who
      conducted them, thinking, like most of the people, that the preparations
      were intended to do honor to some great personage, allowed them to mount
      upon some large hewn stones, collected behind the soldiers. There they
      grouped themselves with the grace natural to their age, like twenty
      beautiful statues upon a single pedestal. One would have taken them for
      those vestals whom antiquity invited to the sanguinary shows of the
      gladiators. They whispered to each other, looking around them, laughing
      and blushing together like children.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Abbe de Gondi saw with impatience that Olivier was again forgetting
      his character of conspirator and his costume of a bricklayer in ogling
      these girls, and assuming a mien too elegant, an attitude too refined, for
      the position in life he was supposed to occupy. He already began to
      approach them, turning his hair with his fingers, when Fontrailles and
      Montresor fortunately arrived in the dress of Swiss soldiers. A group of
      gentlemen, disguised as sailors, followed them with iron-shod staves in
      their hands. There was a paleness on their faces which announced no good.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stop here!&rdquo; said one of them to his suite; &ldquo;this is the
      place.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The sombre air and the silence of these spectators contrasted with the gay
      and anxious looks of the girls, and their childish exclamations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, the fine procession!&rdquo; they cried; &ldquo;there are at
      least five hundred men with cuirasses and red uniforms, upon fine horses.
      They&rsquo;ve got yellow feathers in their large hats.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are strangers&mdash;Catalonians,&rdquo; said a French guard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whom are they conducting here? Ah, here is a fine gilt coach! but
      there&rsquo;s no one in it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah! I see three men on foot; where are they going?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To death!&rdquo; said Fontrailles, in a deep, stern voice which
      silenced all around. Nothing was heard but the slow tramp of the horses,
      which suddenly stopped, from one of those delays that happen in all
      processions. They then beheld a painful and singular spectacle. An old man
      with a tonsured head walked with difficulty, sobbing violently, supported
      by two young men of interesting and engaging appearance, who held one of
      each other&rsquo;s hands behind his bent shoulders, while with the other
      each held one of his arms. The one on the left was dressed in black; he
      was grave, and his eyes were cast down. The other, much younger, was
      attired in a striking dress. A pourpoint of Holland cloth, adorned with
      broad gold lace, and with large embroidered sleeves, covered him from the
      neck to the waist, somewhat in the fashion of a woman&rsquo;s corset; the
      rest of his vestments were in black velvet, embroidered with silver palms.
      Gray boots with red heels, to which were attached golden spurs; a scarlet
      cloak with gold buttons&mdash;all set off to advantage his elegant and
      graceful figure. He bowed right and left with a melancholy smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      An old servant, with white moustache, and beard, followed with his head
      bent down, leading two chargers, richly comparisoned. The young ladies
      were silent; but they could not restrain their sobs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, then, that poor old man whom they are leading to the
      scaffold,&rdquo; they exclaimed; &ldquo;and his children are supporting
      him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Upon your knees, ladies,&rdquo; said a man, &ldquo;and pray for
      him!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;On your knees,&rdquo; cried Gondi, &ldquo;and let us pray that God
      will deliver him!&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      All the conspirators repeated, &ldquo;On your knees! on your knees!&rdquo;
      and set the example to the people, who imitated them in silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We can see his movements better now,&rdquo; said Gondi, in a
      whisper to Montresor. &ldquo;Stand up; what is he doing?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He has stopped, and is speaking on our side, saluting us; I think
      he has recognized us.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      Every house, window, wall, roof, and raised platform that looked upon the
      place was filled with persons of every age and condition.
    </p>
    <p>
      The most profound silence prevailed throughout the immense multitude. One
      might have heard the wings of a gnat, the breath of the slightest wind,
      the passage of the grains of dust which it raised; yet the air was calm,
      the sun brilliant, the sky blue. The people listened attentively. They
      were close to the Place des Terreaux; they heard the blows of the hammer
      upon the planks, then the voice of Cinq-Mars.
    </p>
    <p>
      A young Carthusian thrust his pale face between two guards. All the
      conspirators rose above the kneeling people. Every one put his hand to his
      belt or in his bosom, approaching close to the soldier whom he was to
      poniard.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is he doing?&rdquo; asked the Carthusian. &ldquo;Has he his
      hat upon his head?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He throws his hat upon the ground far from him,&rdquo; calmly
      answered the arquebusier.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026">
       <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XXVI. THE FETE
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &ldquo;Mon Dieu! quest-ce que ce monde!&rdquo;

                  Dernieres paroles de M. Cinq-Mars
</pre>
    <p>
      The same day that the melancholy procession took place at Lyons, and
      during the scenes we have just witnessed, a magnificent fete was given at
      Paris with all the luxury and bad taste of the time. The powerful Cardinal
      had determined to fill the first two towns in France with his pomp. The
      Cardinal&rsquo;s return was the occasion on which this fete was announced,
      as given to the King and all his court.
    </p>
    <p>
      Master of the French empire by force, the Cardinal desired to be master of
      French opinion by seduction; and, weary of dominating, hoped to please.
      The tragedy of &ldquo;Mirame&rdquo; was to be represented in a hall
      constructed expressly for this great day, which raised the expenses of
      this entertainment, says Pelisson, to three hundred thousand crowns.
    </p>
    <p>
      The entire guard of the Prime-Minister were under arms; his four companies
      of musketeers and gens d&rsquo;armes were ranged in a line upon the vast
      staircases and at the entrance of the long galleries of the
      Palais-Cardinal. This brilliant pandemonium, where the mortal sins have a
      temple on each floor, belonged that day to pride alone, which occupied it
      from top to bottom. Upon each step was placed one of the arquebusiers of
      the Cardinal&rsquo;s guard, holding a torch in one hand and a long carbine
      in the other. The crowd of his gentlemen circulated between these living
      candelabra, while in the large garden, surrounded by huge chestnut-trees,
      now replaced by a range of archers, two companies of mounted light-horse,
      their muskets in their hands, were ready to obey the first order or the
      first fear of their master.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal, carried and followed by his thirty-eight pages, took his
      seat in his box hung with purple, facing that in which the King was half
      reclining behind the green curtains which preserved him from the glare of
      the flambeaux. The whole court filled the boxes, and rose when the King
      appeared. The orchestra commenced a brilliant overture, and the pit was
      thrown open to all the men of the town and the army who presented
      themselves. Three impetuous waves of spectators rushed in and filled it in
      an instant. They were standing, and so thickly pressed together that the
      movement of a single arm sufficed to cause in the crowd a movement similar
      to the waving of a field of corn. There was one man whose head thus
      described a large circle, as that of a compass, without his feet quitting
      the spot to which they were fixed; and some young men were carried out
      fainting.
    </p>
    <p>
      The minister, contrary to custom, advanced his skeleton head out of his
      box, and saluted the assembly with an air which was meant to be gracious.
      This grimace obtained an acknowledgment only from the boxes; the pit was
      silent. Richelieu had wished to show that he did not fear the public
      judgment upon his work, and had given orders to admit without distinction
      all who should present themselves. He began to repent of this, but too
      late. The impartial assembly was as cold at the tragedie-pastorale itself.
      In vain did the theatrical bergeres, covered with jewels, raised upon red
      heels, with crooks ornamented with ribbons and garlands of flowers upon
      their robes, which were stuck out with farthingale&rsquo;s, die of love in
      tirades of two hundred verses; in vain did the &lsquo;amants parfaits&rsquo;
      starve themselves in solitary caves, deploring their death in emphatic
      tones, and fastening to their hair ribbons of the favorite color of their
      mistress; in vain did the ladies of the court exhibit signs of perfect
      ecstasy, leaning over the edges of their boxes, and even attempt a few
      fainting-fits&mdash;the silent pit gave no other sign of life than the
      perpetual shaking of black heads with long hair.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Cardinal bit his lips and played the abstracted during the first and
      second acts; the silence in which the third and fourth passed off so
      wounded his paternal heart that he had himself raised half out of the
      balcony, and in this uncomfortable and ridiculous position signed to the
      court to remark the finest passages, and himself gave the signal for
      applause. It was acted upon from some of the boxes, but the impassible pit
      was more silent than ever; leaving the affair entirely between the stage
      and the upper regions, they obstinately remained neuter. The master of
      Europe and France then cast a furious look at this handful of men who
      dared not to admire his work, feeling in his heart the wish of Nero, and
      thought for a moment how happy he should be if all those men had but one
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Suddenly this black and before silent mass became animated, and endless
      rounds of applause burst forth, to the great astonishment of the boxes,
      and above all, of the minister. He bent forward and bowed gratefully, but
      drew back on perceiving that the clapping of hands interrupted the actors
      every time they wished to proceed. The King had the curtains of his box,
      until then closed, opened, to see what excited so much enthusiasm. The
      whole court leaned forward from their boxes, and perceived among the
      spectators on the stage a young man, humbly dressed, who had just seated
      himself there with difficulty. Every look was fixed upon him. He appeared
      utterly embarrassed by this, and sought to cover himself with his little
      black cloak-far too short for the purpose. &ldquo;Le Cid! le Cid!&rdquo;
      cried the pit, incessantly applauding.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Terrified, Corneille escaped behind the scenes, and all was again
      silent. The Cardinal, beside himself with fury, had his curtain closed,
      and was carried into his galleries, where was performed another scene,
      prepared long before by the care of Joseph, who had tutored the attendants
      upon the point before quitting Paris. Cardinal Mazarin exclaimed that it
      would be quicker to pass his Eminence through a long glazed window, which
      was only two feet from the ground, and led from his box to the apartments;
      and it opened and the page passed his armchair through it. Hereupon a
      hundred voices rose to proclaim the accomplishment of the grand prophecy
      of Nostradamus. They said:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The bonnet rouge!-that&rsquo;s Monseigneur; &lsquo;quarante onces!&rsquo;&mdash;that&rsquo;s
      Cinq-Mars; &lsquo;tout finira!&rsquo;&mdash;that&rsquo;s De Thou. What a
      providential incident! His Eminence reigns over the future as over the
      present.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      He advanced thus upon his ambulatory throne through the long and splendid
      galleries, listening to this delicious murmur of a new flattery; but
      insensible to the hum of voices which deified his genius, he would have
      given all their praises for one word, one single gesture of that immovable
      and inflexible public, even had that word been a cry of hatred; for clamor
      can be stifled, but how avenge one&rsquo;s self on silence? The people can
      be prevented from striking, but who can prevent their waiting? Pursued by
      the troublesome phantom of public opinion, the gloomy minister only
      thought himself in safety when he reached the interior of his palace amid
      his flattering courtiers, whose adorations soon made him forget that a
      miserable pit had dared not to admire him. He had himself placed like a
      king in the midst of his vast apartments, and, looking around him,
      attentively counted the powerful and submissive men who surrounded him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Counting them, he admired himself. The chiefs of the great families, the
      princes of the Church, the presidents of all the parliaments, the
      governors of the provinces, the marshals and generals-in-chief of the
      armies, the nuncio, the ambassadors of all the kingdoms, the deputies and
      senators of the republics, were motionless, submissive, and ranged around
      him, as if awaiting his orders. There was no longer a look to brave his
      look, no longer a word to raise itself against his will, not a project
      that men dared to form in the most secret recesses of the heart, not a
      thought which did not proceed from his. Mute Europe listened to him by its
      representatives. From time to time he raise an imperious voice, and threw
      a self-satisfied word to this pompous circle, as a man who throws a copper
      coin among a crowd of beggars. Then might be distinguished, by the pride
      which lit up his looks and the joy visible in his countenance, the prince
      who had received such a favor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Transformed into another man, he seemed to have made a step in the
      hierarchy of power, so surrounded with unlooked-for adorations and sudden
      caresses was the fortunate courtier, whose obscure happiness the Cardinal
      did not even perceive. The King&rsquo;s brother and the Duc de Bouillon
      stood in the crowd, whence the minister did not deign to withdraw them.
      Only he ostentatiously said that it would be well to dismantle a few
      fortresses, spoke at length of the necessity of pavements and quays at
      Paris, and said in two words to Turenne that he might perhaps be sent to
      the army in Italy, to seek his baton as marechal from Prince Thomas.
    </p>
    <p>
      While Richelieu thus played with the great and small things of Europe,
      amid his noisy fete, the Queen was informed at the Louvre that the time
      was come for her to proceed to the Cardinal&rsquo;s palace, where the King
      awaited her after the tragedy. The serious Anne of Austria did not witness
      any play; but she could not refuse her presence at the fete of the
      Prime-Minister. She was in her oratory, ready to depart, and covered with
      pearls, her favorite ornament; standing opposite a large glass with Marie
      de Mantua, she was arranging more to her satisfaction one or two details
      of the young Duchess&rsquo;s toilette, who, dressed in a long pink robe,
      was herself contemplating with attention, though with somewhat of ennui
      and a little sullenness, the ensemble of her appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      She saw her own work in Marie, and, more troubled, thought with deep
      apprehension of the moment when this transient calm would cease, despite
      the profound knowledge she had of the feeling but frivolous character of
      Marie. Since the conversation at St.-Germain (the fatal letter), she had
      not quitted the young Princess, and had bestowed all her care to lead her
      mind to the path which she had traced out for her, for the most decided
      feature in the character of Anne of Austria was an invincible obstinacy in
      her calculations, to which she would fain have subjected all events and
      all passions with a geometrical exactitude. There is no doubt that to this
      positive and immovable mind we must attribute all the misfortunes of her
      regency. The sombre reply of Cinq-Mars; his arrest; his trial&mdash;all
      had been concealed from the Princesse Marie, whose first fault, it is
      true, had been a movement of self-love and a momentary forgetfulness.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the Queen by nature was good-hearted, and had bitterly repented
      her precipitation in writing words so decisive, and whose consequences had
      been so serious; and all her endeavors had been applied to mitigate the
      results. In reflecting upon her conduct in reference to the happiness of
      France, she applauded herself for having thus, at one stroke, stifled the
      germ of a civil war which would have shaken the State to its very
      foundations. But when she approached her young friend and gazed on that
      charming being whose happiness she was thus destroying in its bloom, and
      reflected that an old man upon a throne, even, would not recompense her
      for the eternal loss she was about to sustain; when she thought of the
      entire devotion, the total abnegation of himself, she had witnessed in a
      young man of twenty-two, of so lofty a character, and almost master of the
      kingdom&mdash;she pitied Marie, and admired from her very soul the man
      whom she had judged so ill.
    </p>
    <p>
      She would at least have desired to explain his worth to her whom he had
      loved so deeply, and who as yet knew him not; but she still hoped that the
      conspirators assembled at Lyons would be able to save him, and once
      knowing him to be in a foreign land she could tell all to her dear Marie.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the latter, she had at first feared war. But surrounded by the Queen&rsquo;s
      people, who had let nothing reach her ear but news dictated by this
      Princess, she knew, or thought she knew, that the conspiracy had not taken
      place; that the King and the Cardinal had returned to Paris nearly at the
      same time; that Monsieur, relapsed for a while, had reappeared at court;
      that the Duc de Bouillon, on ceding Sedan, had also been restored to
      favor; and that if the &lsquo;grand ecuyer&rsquo; had not yet appeared,
      the reason was the more decided animosity of the Cardinal toward him, and
      the greater part he had taken in the conspiracy. But common sense and
      natural justice clearly said that having acted under the order of the King&rsquo;s
      brother, his pardon ought to follow that of this Prince.
    </p>
    <p>
      All then, had calmed the first uneasiness of her heart, while nothing had
      softened the kind of proud resentment she felt against Cinq-Mars, so
      indifferent as not to inform her of the place of his retreat, known to the
      Queen and the whole court, while, she said to herself, she had thought but
      of him. Besides, for two months the balls and fetes had so rapidly
      succeeded each other, and so many mysterious duties had commanded her
      presence, that she had for reflection and regret scarce more than the time
      of her toilette, at which she was generally almost alone. Every evening
      she regularly commenced the general reflection upon the ingratitude and
      inconstancy of men&mdash;a profound and novel thought, which never fails
      to occupy the head of a young person in the time of first love&mdash;but
      sleep never permitted her to finish the reflection; and the fatigue of
      dancing closed her large black eyes ere her ideas had found time to
      classify themselves in her memory, or to present her with any distinct
      images of the past.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the morning she was always surrounded by the young princesses of the
      court, and ere she well had time to dress had to present herself in the
      Queen&rsquo;s apartment, where awaited her the eternal, but now less
      disagreeable homage of the Prince-Palatine. The Poles had had time to
      learn at the court of France that mysterious reserve, that eloquent
      silence which so pleases the women, because it enhances the importance of
      things always secret, and elevates those whom they respect, so as to
      preclude the idea of exhibiting suffering in their presence. Marie was
      regarded as promised to King Uladislas; and she herself&mdash;we must
      confess it&mdash;had so well accustomed herself to this idea that the
      throne of Poland occupied by another queen would have appeared to her a
      monstrous thing. She did not look forward with pleasure to the period of
      ascending it, but had, however, taken possession of the homage which was
      rendered her beforehand. Thus, without avowing it even to herself, she
      greatly exaggerated the supposed offences of Cinq-Mars, which the Queen
      had expounded to her at St. Germain.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are as fresh as the roses in this bouquet,&rdquo; said the
      Queen. &ldquo;Come, &lsquo;ma chere&rsquo;, are you ready? What means this
      pouting air? Come, let me fasten this earring. Do you not like these toys,
      eh? Will you have another set of ornaments?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no, Madame. I think that I ought not to decorate myself at all,
      for no one knows better than yourself how unhappy I am. Men are very cruel
      toward us!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have reflected on what you said, and all is now clear to me. Yes,
      it is quite true that he did not love me, for had he loved me he would
      have renounced an enterprise that gave me so much uneasiness. I told him,
      I remember, indeed, which was very decided,&rdquo; she added, with an
      important and even solemn air, &ldquo;that he would be a rebel&mdash;yes,
      Madame, a rebel. I told him so at Saint-Eustache. But I see that your
      Majesty was right. I am very unfortunate! He had more ambition than love.&rdquo;
      Here a tear of pique escaped from her eyes, and rolled quickly down her
      cheek, as a pearl upon a rose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, it is certain,&rdquo; she continued, fastening her bracelets;
      &ldquo;and the greatest proof is that in the two months he has renounced
      his enterprise&mdash;you told me that you had saved him&mdash;he has not
      let me know the place of his retreat, while I during that time have been
      weeping, have been imploring all your power in his favor; have sought but
      a word that might inform me of his proceedings. I have thought but of him;
      and even now I refuse every day the throne of Poland, because I wish to
      prove to the end that I am constant, that you yourself can not make me
      disloyal to my attachment, far more serious than his, and that we are of
      higher worth than the men. But, however, I think I may attend this fete,
      since it is not a ball.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes, my dear child! come, come!&rdquo; said the Queen,
      desirous of putting an end to this childish talk, which afflicted her all
      the more that it was herself who had encouraged it. &ldquo;Come, you will
      see the union that prevails between the princes and the Cardinal, and we
      shall perhaps hear some good news.&rdquo; They departed.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the two princesses entered the long galleries of the Palais-Cardinal,
      they were received and coldly saluted by the King and the minister, who,
      closely surrounded by silent courtiers, were playing at chess upon a small
      low table. All the ladies who entered with the Queen or followed her,
      spread through the apartments; and soon soft music sounded in one of the
      saloons&mdash;a gentle accompaniment to the thousand private conversations
      carried on round the play tables.
    </p>
    <p>
      Near the Queen passed, saluting her, a young newly married couple&mdash;the
      happy Chabot and the beautiful Duchesse de Rohan. They seemed to shun the
      crowd, and to seek apart a moment to speak to each other of themselves.
      Every one received them with a smile and looked after them with envy.
      Their happiness was expressed as strongly in the countenances of others as
      in their own.
    </p>
    <p>
      Marie followed them with her eyes. &ldquo;Still they are happy,&rdquo; she
      whispered to the Queen, remembering the censure which in her hearing had
      been thrown upon the match.
    </p>
    <p>
      But without answering, Anne of Austria, fearful that in the crowd some
      inconsiderate expression might inform her young friend of the mournful
      event so interesting to her, placed herself with Marie behind the King.
      Monsieur, the Prince-Palatine, and the Duc de Bouillon came to speak to
      her with a gay and lively air. The second, however, casting upon Marie a
      severe and scrutinizing glance, said to her:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Madame la Princesse, you are most surprisingly beautiful and gay
      this evening.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She was confused at these words, and at seeing the speaker walk away with
      a sombre air. She addressed herself to the Duc d&rsquo;Orleans, who did
      not answer, and seemed not to hear her. Marie looked at the Queen, and
      thought she remarked paleness and disquiet on her features. Meantime, no
      one ventured to approach the minister, who was deliberately meditating his
      moves. Mazarin alone, leaning over his chair, followed all the strokes
      with a servile attention, giving gestures of admiration every time that
      the Cardinal played. Application to the game seemed to have dissipated for
      a moment the cloud that usually shaded the minister&rsquo;s brow. He had
      just advanced a tower, which placed Louis&rsquo;s king in that false
      position which is called &ldquo;stalemate,&rdquo;&mdash;a situation in
      which the ebony king, without being personally attacked, can neither
      advance nor retire in any direction. The Cardinal, raising his eyes,
      looked at his adversary and smiled with one corner of his mouth, not being
      able to avoid a secret analogy. Then, observing the dim eyes and dying
      countenance of the Prince, he whispered to Mazarin:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, I think he&rsquo;ll go before me. He is greatly changed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      At the same time he himself was seized with a long and violent cough,
      accompanied internally with the sharp, deep pain he so often felt in the
      side. At the sinister warning he put a handkerchief to his mouth, which he
      withdrew covered with blood. To hide it, he threw it under the table, and
      looked around him with a stern smile, as if to forbid observation. Louis
      XIII, perfectly insensible, did not make the least movement, beyond
      arranging his men for another game with a skeleton and trembling hand.
      There two dying men seemed to be throwing lots which should depart first.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment a clock struck the hour of midnight. The King raised his
      head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, ah!&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;this morning at twelve Monsieur le
      Grand had a disagreeable time of it.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      A piercing shriek was uttered behind him. He shuddered, and threw himself
      forward, upsetting the table. Marie de Mantua lay senseless in the arms of
      the Queen, who, weeping bitterly, said in the King&rsquo;s ear:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, Sire, your axe has a double edge.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      She then bestowed all her cares and maternal kisses upon the young
      Princess, who, surrounded by all the ladies of the court, only came to
      herself to burst into a torrent of tears. As soon as she opened her eyes,
      &ldquo;Alas! yes, my child,&rdquo; said Anne of Austria. &ldquo;My poor
      girl, you are Queen of Poland.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      It has often happened that the same event which causes tears to flow in
      the palace of kings has spread joy without, for the people ever suppose
      that happiness reigns at festivals. There were five days&rsquo; rejoicings
      for the return of the minister, and every evening under the windows of the
      Palais-Cardinal and those of the Louvre pressed the people of Paris. The
      late disturbances had given them a taste for public movements. They rushed
      from one street to another with a curiosity at times insulting and
      hostile, sometimes walking in silent procession, sometimes sending forth
      loud peals of laughter or prolonged yells, of which no one understood the
      meaning. Bands of young men fought in the streets and danced in rounds in
      the squares, as if manifesting some secret hope of pleasure and some
      insensate joy, grievous to the upright heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was remarkable that profound silence prevailed exactly in those places
      where the minister had ordered rejoicings, and that the people passed
      disdainfully before the illuminated facade of his palace. If some voices
      were raised, it was to read aloud in a sneering tone the legends and
      inscriptions with which the idiot flattery of some obscure writers had
      surrounded the portraits of the minister. One of these pictures was
      guarded by arquebusiers, who, however, could not preserve it from the
      stones which were thrown at it from a distance by unseen hands. It
      represented the Cardinal-Generalissimo wearing a casque surrounded by
      laurels. Above it was inscribed:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;Grand Duc: c&rsquo;est justement que la France t&rsquo;honore;
     Ainsi que le dieu Mars dans Paris on t&rsquo;adore.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      These fine phrases did not persuade the people that they were happy. They
      no more adored the Cardinal than they did the god Mars, but they accepted
      his fetes because they served as a covering for disorder. All Paris was in
      an uproar. Men with long beards, carrying torches, measures of wine, and
      two drinking-cups, which they knocked together with a great noise, went
      along, arm in arm, shouting in chorus with rude voices an old round of the
      League:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            &ldquo;Reprenons la danse;
             Allons, c&rsquo;est assez.
             Le printemps commence;
             Les rois sont passes.

            &ldquo;Prenons quelque treve;
             Nous sommes lasses.
             Les rois de la feve
             Nous ont harasses.

            &ldquo;Allons, Jean du Mayne,
             Les rois sont passes.

            &ldquo;Les rois de la feve
             Nous ont harasses.
             Allons, Jean du Mayne,
             Les rois sont passes.&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      The frightful bands who howled forth these words traversed the Quais and
      the Pont-Neuf, squeezing against the high houses, which then covered the
      latter, the peaceful citizens who were led there by simple curiosity. Two
      young men, wrapped in cloaks, thus thrown one against the other,
      recognized each other by the light of a torch placed at the foot of the
      statue of Henri IV, which had been lately raised.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! still at Paris?&rdquo; said Corneille to Milton. &ldquo;I
      thought you were in London.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hear you the people, Monsieur? Do you hear them? What is this
      ominous chorus,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &lsquo;Les rois sont passes&rsquo;?&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is nothing, Monsieur. Listen to their conversation.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The parliament is dead,&rdquo; said one of the men; &ldquo;the
      nobles are dead. Let us dance; we are the masters. The old Cardinal is
      dying. There is no longer any but the King and ourselves.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you hear that drunken wretch, Monsieur?&rdquo; asked Corneille.
      &ldquo;All our epoch is in those words of his.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! is this the work of the minister who is called great among
      you, and even by other nations? I do not understand him.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will explain the matter to you presently,&rdquo; answered
      Corneille. &ldquo;But first listen to the concluding part of this letter,
      which I received to-day. Draw near this light under the statue of the late
      King. We are alone. The crowd has passed. Listen!
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
   &ldquo;It was by one of those unforeseen circumstances which prevent the
   accomplishment of the noblest enterprises that we were not able to
   save MM. de Cinq-Mars and De Thou. We might have foreseen that,
   prepared for death by long meditation, they would themselves refuse
   our aid; but this idea did not occur to any of us. In the
   precipitation of our measures, we also committed the fault of
   dispersing ourselves too much in the crowd, so that we could not
   take a sudden resolution. I was unfortunately stationed near the
   scaffold; and I saw our unfortunate friends advance to the foot of
   it, supporting the poor Abbe Quillet, who was destined to behold the
   death of the pupil whose birth he had witnessed. He sobbed aloud,
   and had strength enough only to kiss the hands of the two friends.
   We all advanced, ready to throw ourselves upon the guards at the
   announced signal; but I saw with grief M. de Cinq-Mars cast his hat
   from him with an air of disdain. Our movement had been observed,
   and the Catalonian guard was doubled round the scaffold. I could
   see no more; but I heard much weeping around me. After the three
   usual blasts of the trumpet, the recorder of Lyons, on horseback at
   a little distance from the scaffold, read the sentence of death, to
   which neither of the prisoners listened. M. de Thou said to M. de
   Cinq-Mars:

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Well, dear friend, which shall die first? Do you remember Saint-
   Gervais and Saint-Protais?&rsquo;

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Which you think best,&rsquo; answered Cinq-Mars.

   &ldquo;The second confessor, addressing M. de Thou, said, &lsquo;You are the
   elder.&rsquo;

   &ldquo;&lsquo;True,&rsquo; said M. de Thou; and, turning to M. le Grand, &lsquo;You are the
   most generous; you will show me the way to the glory of heaven.&rsquo;

   &ldquo;&lsquo;Alas!&rsquo; said Cinq-Mars; &lsquo;I have opened to you that of the
   precipice; but let us meet death nobly, and we shall revel in the
   glory and happiness of heaven!&rsquo;

   &ldquo;Hereupon he embraced him, and ascended the scaffold with surprising
   address and agility. He walked round the scaffold, and contemplated
   the whole of the great assembly with a calm countenance, which
   betrayed no sign of fear, and a serious and graceful manner. He
   then went round once more, saluting the people on every side,
   without appearing to recognize any of us, with a majestic and
   charming expression of face; he then knelt down, raising his eyes to
   heaven, adoring God, and recommending himself to Him. As he
   embraced the crucifix, the father confessor called to the people to
   pray for him; and M. le Grand, opening his arms, still holding his
   crucifix, made the same request to the people. Then he readily
   knelt before the block, holding the stake, placed his neck upon it,
   and asked the confessor, &lsquo;Father, is this right?&rsquo; Then, while they
   were cutting off his hair, he raised his eyes to heaven, and said,
   sighing:

   &ldquo;&lsquo;My God, what is this world? My God, I offer thee my death as a
   satisfaction for my sins!&rsquo;

   &ldquo;&lsquo;What are you waiting for? What are you doing there?&rsquo; he said to
   the executioner, who had not yet taken his axe from an old bag he
   had brought with him. His confessor, approaching, gave him a
   medallion; and he, with an incredible tranquillity of mind, begged
   the father to hold the crucifix before his eyes, which he would not
   allow to be bound. I saw the two trembling hands of the Abbe
   Quillet, who raised the crucifix. At this moment a voice, as clear
   and pure as that of an angel, commenced the &lsquo;Ave, maris stella&rsquo;.
   In the universal silence I recognized the voice of M. de Thou, who
   was at the foot of the scaffold; the people repeated the sacred
   strain. M. de Cinq-Mars clung more tightly to the stake; and I saw
   a raised axe, made like the English axes. A terrible cry of the
   people from the Place, the windows, and the towers told me that it
   had fallen, and that the head had rolled to the ground. I had
   happily strength enough left to think of his soul, and to commence a
   prayer for him.

   &ldquo;I mingled it with that which I heard pronounced aloud by our
   unfortunate and pious friend De Thou. I rose and saw him spring
   upon the scaffold with such promptitude that he might almost have
   been said to fly. The father and he recited a psalm; he uttered it
   with the ardor of a seraphim, as if his soul had borne his body to
   heaven. Then, kneeling down, he kissed the blood of Cinq-Mars as
   that of a martyr, and became himself a greater martyr. I do not
   know whether God was pleased to grant him this last favor; but I saw
   with horror that the executioner, terrified no doubt at the first
   blow he had given, struck him upon the top of his head, whither the
   unfortunate young man raised his hand; the people sent forth a long
   groan, and advanced against the executioner. The poor wretch,
   terrified still more, struck him another blow, which only cut the
   skin and threw him upon the scaffold, where the executioner rolled
   upon him to despatch him. A strange event terrified the people as
   much as the horrible spectacle. M. de Cinq-Mars&rsquo; old servant held
   his horse as at a military funeral; he had stopped at the foot of
   the scaffold, and like a man paralyzed, watched his master to the
   end, then suddenly, as if struck by the same axe, fell dead under
   the blow which had taken off his master&rsquo;s head.

   &ldquo;I write these sad details in haste, on board a Genoese galley, into
   which Fontrailles, Gondi, Entraigues, Beauvau, Du Lude, myself, and
   others of the chief conspirators have retired. We are going to
   England to await until time shall deliver France from the tyrant
   whom we could not destroy. I abandon forever the service of the
   base Prince who betrayed us.

                       &ldquo;MONTRESOR&rdquo;
 </pre>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Such,&rdquo; continued Corneille, &ldquo;has been the fate of these
      two young men whom you lately saw so powerful. Their last sigh was that of
      the ancient monarchy. Nothing more than a court can reign here henceforth;
      the nobles and the senates are destroyed.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And this is your pretended great man!&rdquo; said Milton. &ldquo;What
      has he sought to do? He would, then, create republics for future ages,
      since he destroys the basis of your monarchy?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Look not so far,&rdquo; answered Corneille; &ldquo;he only seeks to
      reign until the end of his life. He has worked for the present and not for
      the future; he has continued the work of Louis XI; and neither one nor the
      other knew what they were doing.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The Englishman smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that true genius followed another
      path. This man has shaken all that he ought to have supported, and they
      admire him! I pity your nation.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pity it not!&rdquo; exclaimed Corneille, warmly; &ldquo;a man
      passes away, but a people is renewed. This people, Monsieur, is gifted
      with an immortal energy, which nothing can destroy; its imagination often
      leads it astray, but superior reason will ever ultimately master its
      disorders.&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      The two young and already great men walked, as they conversed, upon the
      space which separates the statue of Henri IV from the Place Dauphine; they
      stopped a moment in the centre of this Place.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Monsieur,&rdquo; continued Corneille, &ldquo;I see every
      evening with what rapidity a noble thought finds its echo in French
      hearts; and every evening I retire happy at the sight. Gratitude
      prostrates the poor people before this statue of a good king! Who knows
      what other monument another passion may raise near this? Who can say how
      far the love of glory will lead our people? Who knows that in the place
      where we now are, there may not be raised a pyramid taken from the East?&rdquo;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;These are the secrets of the future,&rdquo; said Milton. &ldquo;I,
      like yourself, admire your impassioned nation; but I fear them for
      themselves. I do not well understand them; and I do not recognize their
      wisdom when I see them lavishing their admiration upon men such as he who
      now rules you. The love of power is very puerile; and this man is devoured
      by it, without having force enough to seize it wholly. By an utter
      absurdity, he is a tyrant under a master. Thus has this colossus, never
      firmly balanced, been all but overthrown by the finger of a boy. Does that
      indicate genius? No, no! when genius condescends to quit the lofty regions
      of its true home for a human passion, at least, it should grasp that
      passion in its entirety. Since Richelieu only aimed at power, why did he
      not, if he was a genius, make himself absolute master of power? I am going
      to see a man who is not yet known, and whom I see swayed by this miserable
      ambition; but I think that he will go farther. His name is Cromwell!&rdquo;
    </p>

<pre xml:space="preserve">



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