While the king was traversing the corridors that led to the cardinal’s wing of the château, accompanied only by his valet, his officer of musketeers, breathing like a man who’d been holding his breath a long time, stepped out from the entry chamber which the king had thought empty. This little room was really part of the king’s bedchamber, separated by nothing but a thin partition. And this partition, which blocked only the eyes, did nothing to prevent the ears from hearing everything that passed within.
So, there was no doubt but that this Lieutenant of Musketeers must have heard every word exchanged in His Majesty’s chamber. Warned in time by the king’s final words, the officer had exited into the antechamber ahead of him, to salute him as he passed and to watch him until he disappeared down the corridor.
Once the king had disappeared, he shook his head in a way that belonged only to him, and said, in voice that forty years after leaving Gascony still retained its accent, “It’s a sad service for a sad king.” Then, these words pronounced, the lieutenant resumed his place in the armchair, extending his legs and closing his eyes like a man who intends to meditate or to sleep.
During this short monologue and the arrangements that followed, while the king passed down the long corridors of the old château, a different kind of scene was playing out in the cardinal’s chambers. Mazarin had gone to bed suffering somewhat from the gout, but as he was a man of order who made use even of pain, he made his wakefulness into the humble servant of his work. Therefore, he’d had Bernouin,* his personal valet, bring him a small travel desk so he could write while lying in bed. But gout is not an adversary that gives in easily, and as every movement stabbed him with pain, he asked Bernouin, “Is Brienne still there?”
“No, Monseigneur,” replied the valet de chambre. “Monsieur de Brienne,41 by your leave, has gone to bed. But if Your Eminence so desires we can always wake him.”
“No, it isn’t worth it. Now let’s see. Damn these numbers!” And the cardinal gazed at nothing while counting on his fingers.
“The numbers again?” said Bernouin. “Fine! If Your Eminence is going to return to his calculations, I can promise him a fine migraine in the morning. And Doctor Guénaud didn’t come with us.”
“You’re right, Bernouin. Well, you’ll just have to stand in for Brienne, my friend. Really, though, I should have brought Monsieur Colbert.* That young man will go far, Bernouin, very far. Such orderly thinking!”
“Maybe,” said the valet, “but personally I don’t like the face of your young man who will go far.”
“Enough, Bernouin, enough. I didn’t ask for your opinion. Now sit here, take the pen, and write.”
“Very well, Monseigneur. Where shall I write?”
“There, under those two lines I drew across.”
“Got it.”
“Write: seven hundred sixty thousand livres.”
“Done.”
“In Lyons…” The cardinal seemed to hesitate.
“In Lyons,” repeated Bernouin.
“Three million nine hundred thousand livres.”
“Fine, Monseigneur.”
“In Bordeaux, seven million.”
“Seven,” repeated Bernouin.
“Ah, yes,” said the cardinal with a smile, “seven.” He sighed and resumed, “You understand, Bernouin, that this is all money there to be spent.”
“Ohé, Monseigneur, whether it’s to be spent or saved is nothing to me, since none of these millions are mine.”
“These are the king’s millions; this is the king’s money we’re counting. Can we get on with it? You always interrupt me!”
“Seven million in Bordeaux.”
“Yes, that’s right! In Madrid, four. I tell you whose money it is, Bernouin, because everyone is so foolish as to think I’m rolling in millions. I reject such nonsense! A minister has nothing of his own. Now, let’s continue: general receipts, seven million. Real estate, nine million. Got all that, Bernouin?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“On the markets, six hundred thousand livres. Assorted properties, two million. Oh, I forgot—the furnishings of the various châteaux…”
“Should I add the royal crown?” asked Bernouin.
“No need for that, its inclusion is implied. Now, got everything, Bernouin?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“And these sums…?”
“Are all lined up in a column.”
“Total them, Bernouin.”
“Thirty-nine million two hundred and sixty thousand livres, Monseigneur.”
“Agh!” spat the cardinal. “Still short of forty million!”
Bernouin added the numbers again. “Yes, Monseigneur, short by seven hundred forty thousand livres.”
Mazarin asked for the ledger and checked it over carefully. “Just the same,” said Bernouin, “thirty-nine million two hundred and sixty thousand livres is a nice round sum.”
“Ah, Bernouin! But I wish the king had forty million for us.”
“Didn’t Your Eminence say that all this money belongs to His Majesty?”
“Absolutely, that couldn’t be clearer. But these thirty-nine million are spoken for, and well beyond.”
Bernouin smiled to himself like a man who believes no more than he has to, meanwhile preparing the cardinal’s night medicine and fluffing his pillow.
“Hmpf!” said Mazarin, once the valet had left the chamber. “Still less than forty million! Will I never achieve my goal of reaching forty-five? Who knows if I have enough time left to do it? I’m sinking fast, I’ll never make it. Still, maybe I can find two or three million in the pockets of our good friends the Spaniards. They plundered Peru, those people, and there must be some of that still around.”
He was talking this way, focused on his figures and forgetting about his gout, which gave way to this most important of his preoccupations, when Bernouin, upset, suddenly burst back into his room. “Well?” demanded the cardinal. “What is it?”
“The king! The king, Monseigneur!”
“The king? How?” said Mazarin, stuffing the ledger under his covers. “The king here—and at this hour! I should think he’d been long abed. What is it?”
Louis XIV heard these final words and saw the cardinal sitting up in surprise, for he came in at just that moment. “It’s nothing, Monsieur le Cardinal,” he said, “or at least nothing to alarm you; it’s just an important discussion that I need to have with Your Eminence tonight, that’s all.”
Mazarin immediately thought of the attention the king had paid to his remarks about Mademoiselle de Mancini and assumed the discussion had to be about that. That was reassuring, and he adopted a charming and receptive demeanor, which in turn reassured the young king. When Louis was seated, the cardinal said, “Sire, I should by rights listen to Your Majesty while standing, but the agony of my condition…”
“No standing on ceremony between us, my dear Cardinal,” said Louis affectionately. “I’m not the king, just your pupil, as you know, and it’s doubly true this evening, as I come to you as a supplicant, a very humble supplicant both eager and hopeful.”
Mazarin, seeing the color mounting in the king’s face, was confirmed in his first idea, which was that thoughts of love were behind these pretty words. But this time that cunning politician, wise though he was, had it wrong: this blush wasn’t caused by shy and youthful passion, but rather by the nervous rise of royal pride.
Like a good uncle, Mazarin sought to facilitate the expected amorous confidence. “Speak, Sire,” he said, “and since Your Majesty will temporarily forget that I’m his subject and call me his tutor and teacher, I listen to Your Majesty with an open heart.”
“Merci, Monsieur le Cardinal,” replied the king, “but what I have to say to Your Eminence is not on my own account.”
“Too bad, Sire,” said the cardinal. “I’m just in the mood for Your Majesty to ask me for something important, even at personal sacrifice… but whatever you’ve come to ask me, I’m ready to gratify you by granting it, my dear Sire.”
“Well, then! Here’s what it’s about,” said the king, his heart beating at a rate equaled only by that of his minister. “I just received a visit from my royal brother, the King of England.”
Mazarin sprang up in bed as if he’d been jolted by a Leyden bottle or Voltaic battery, while an expression of surprise, or rather deep disappointment, was followed by such a flash of anger that even Louis XIV, novice diplomat though he was, could tell that the minister had expected him to say something else.
“Charles II!” cried Mazarin, his lip curling in disdain. “You received a visit from Charles II?”
“From King Charles II,” replied Louis XIV, according his fellow grandson of Henri IV the title Mazarin appeared to forget. “Yes, Monsieur le Cardinal, that unhappy prince has touched my heart with an account of his misfortunes. He’s in great distress, Monsieur le Cardinal, and I share his pain—I, who have seen my own throne disputed, and was forced, in the time of unrest, to leave my own capital—I, in short, who understand such misfortune, was moved to help a royal brother now dispossessed and fugitive.”
“Indeed?” sneered Mazarin. “Why doesn’t he have a Jules Mazarin near him as you do, Sire? His crown would still be on his head.”
“I know all that my house owes to Your Eminence,” said the king, with some hauteur. “You must believe that, for my part, Monsieur, I will never forget it. It’s because my brother the King of England lacks the minister of genius who saved me that I turn now to that same minister to come to his aid. If you extend your hand over his head, rest assured, Monsieur le Cardinal, that your hand would be able to restore the crown to his brow from where it fell at the foot of his father’s scaffold.”
“Sire,” replied Mazarin, “I’m grateful for your good opinion of me, but we have no business meddling over there. They are madmen who deny God and behead their kings. They’re dangerous, Sire, and their hands reek with the stain of royal blood. That policy offends me, and I reject it.”
“Then help us to replace it with another.”
“Such as?”
“The restoration of Charles II.”
“What? My God!” said Mazarin. “Does that poor prince flatter himself that he can grasp such a mirage?”
“But yes!” replied the young king, intimidated by the difficulties his minister seemed to foresee in the project. “He’s only asking for a million.”
“Is that all? One little million, if you please?” said the cardinal ironically, his Italian accent creeping out. “One little million, if you please, my brother? Bah! A family of beggars.”
“Cardinal,” said Louis XIV, lifting his chin, “this family of beggars is a branch of my own family.”
“And are you rich enough to give others millions, Sire? Do you have such millions?”
“Oh!” said Louis XIV with an agony in his heart that he struggled not to show on his face. “Yes, Monsieur le Cardinal, I know how poor I am. But I’m sure the Crown of France must be worth a million, and for this good deed, I’m even willing to pledge my crown. There must be a Jewish moneylender who will give me a million for it.”
“So, Sire, you say you need a million?” asked Mazarin.
“Yes, Monsieur, that’s what I’m saying.”
“You’re badly mistaken, Sire, you’d need much more than that. I will show you, Sire, how much you really need. Bernouin! Where are you?”
“What, Cardinal?” said the king. “Are you going to consult a lackey about my royal business?”
“Bernouin!” the cardinal called again, appearing not to notice the young king’s feeling of humiliation. “Come here and repeat to me that sum we were discussing just now.”
“Cardinal, didn’t you hear me?” said Louis, pale with indignation.
“Don’t be angry, Sire; I manage Your Majesty’s affairs in an open and aboveboard fashion; everyone in France knows I keep an open book. What was I having you do just now, Bernouin?”
“Your Eminence had me adding up sums, Monseigneur.”
“Which you did, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“To figure the sum that His Majesty needs at the moment, right? Isn’t that what I said? Speak frankly, my friend.”
“As Your Eminence says.”
“Well, then! How much did I say I wanted?”
“Forty-five million, I believe.”
“And how much do we have if we combine all our resources?”
“Thirty-nine million two hundred sixty thousand livres.”
“Very well, Bernouin, that’s all I needed to know. You may leave us now,” said the cardinal, turning his sharp eyes on the young king, who was dumb with stupefaction.
“But… that is…” stammered the king.
“Ah, Sire! You still doubt?” said the cardinal. “Well! Here’s the proof of what you just heard.” And Mazarin drew from under his covers the number-filled ledger and presented it to the king, who averted his eyes, so deep was his grief and shame.
“So, if you want a million, Sire, that’s a million not accounted for here, and it’s actually forty-six million Your Majesty needs. Well, I fear there aren’t enough Jews in the world to lend you such a sum, even if you did pledge the Crown of France.”
The king, clenching his trembling fists, pushed back his chair. “Then it seems,” he said, “my brother the King of England must die of hunger.”
“Sire,” replied Mazarin, in a softer tone, “remember this proverb, which I offer you as a basis of sound policy: ‘Rejoice in being poor when your neighbor is poor as well.’ ”
Louis thought for a few moments, while glancing curiously at the ledger peeking out from under the cardinal’s bolster. “So,” he said, “it’s impossible to fulfill my request for money, Monsieur le Cardinal?”
“Absolutely, Sire.”
“Remember that this will make an enemy of him if he regains the throne without my help.”
“If that’s Your Majesty’s only concern, then he should rest easy,” said the cardinal eagerly.
“All right, I don’t insist,” said Louis XIV.
“Have I convinced you, at least, Sire?” said the cardinal, placing his hand on the king’s.
“Completely.”
“If there’s anything else, ask for it, Sire, and I’ll be happy to see that you get it, having refused you this.”
“Anything else, Monsieur?”
“Why, yes! Am I not in service, body and soul, to Your Majesty? Hey, Bernouin! Torches and guards for His Majesty! His Majesty is returning to his apartments.”
“Not yet, Monsieur. Since I find your good will at my disposal, I’ll take advantage of it.”
“Something personal, Sire?” asked the cardinal, hoping that the subject would finally turn to his niece.
“No, Monsieur, nothing for me,” replied Louis, “but once more for my brother Charles.”
Mazarin’s expression darkened, and he muttered something that Louis couldn’t hear.