A lackey, in somber black, entered with a silver cup of hot milk mixed with spiced wine. The Cardinal drank slowly and gratefully. There was silence in the chamber. The golden shadows of the sun lengthened, struck the pale and subtle countenance on its silken pillows. Now it was imbued with an attenuated grandeur and delicacy, and it could now be seen that the Cardinal had in himself the quality of nobility and patrician melancholy. The soldier, the diplomat, the schemer, the liar and the hypocrite, the courtier and the politician and the murderer, were obscured by a frail envelope of transparent and luminous flesh. The face of the Jesuit, the priest, the dreamer and the poet arrested itself.
As the sunlight slowly mounted to his eyes, he recalled that visitors still waited in the antechamber. The light quenched itself from his features, and the old expression of intolerant malice returned.
Three gentlemen were then admitted, together, and at their appearance, the Cardinal’s face narrowed, became closed and more subtle. But he smiled at them sweetly, and greeted them in the most affectionate terms.
The first gentleman was Raoul, the Duc de Tremblant, brother-in-law of Madame de Tremblant, who was the mother of Mademoiselle Clarisse, the betrothed of Arsène de Richepin. Monsieur le Duc was a Huguenot. Upon perceiving him, Louis turned paler than ever, and the most vindictive look appeared on his marble features. He hated almost all men; for de Tremblant he had a particularly virulent detestation.
De Tremblant did not appear to be a gentleman to inspire any one’s animosity. It is true that he had little of the traditional Frenchman’s elegance and urbanity and cynicism, and light grace of body and manner. He was a man of about fifty, tall, angular and somewhat ungainly of locomotion, his sober but rich garments hanging awkwardly on a lean but upright figure. His doublet, breeches and hose were of dark purple wool, his collar and cuffs of plain white linen, his shoes plain and simple with a silver buckle. The sword he wore had an unornamented silver hilt, and clanked against his hip and knee as if he were unaccustomed to wear it. However, he had the reputation of being a formidable swordsman, a reputation received incredulously by those who judged by superficial appearances. He might have been an obscure squire, a country gentlemen, a bourgeois of undistinguished ancestry, rather than a nobleman of an old and illustrious name beside which the family of the King himself was plebeian and coarse.
His face was long, gaunt, and much wrinkled, for it was a stranger to the perfumed unguents so sedulously affected by other gentlemen. Moreover, the skin was dark and parched by wind and sun. He spent much time on his country estates, sometimes, to the horror of his peers, working with his peasants in the fields and actually guiding a plow. As a result, his hands were calloused, the nails broken, his face so lined that when he smiled his gentle but disillusioned smile a whole deep web of wrinkles broke out about his large thin mouth, long bony nose and small contemplative brown eyes. He had shaggy grizzled eyebrows, and this gave him a quizzical expression, heightened by the one-sided twist of his mobile lips. Like many Huguenots who were Protestant in their souls as well as their politics, he affected no personal adornments, and his graying hair was closely cut about his long and narrow head. Some of his friends affectionately declared that he had the appearance of an elderly but patrician thoroughbred horse.
Even his enemies could find nothing venal or scandalous in any part of his life, for he had austerity and great simplicity and enormous kindness and understanding. When he smiled, his look was so sweet, so direct, so honest, that viciousness subsided in itself, growling. He was no innocent; he was never deceived. But he had acquired no bitterness in his association with men, though much sadness. As a consequence, he preferred the company of his ignorant peasants and the air of the unsullied country. “It is not possible to love men, nor to feel compassion for them, if one lives among them,” he would often say.
He was one of the most powerful magnates in France, and his personal wealth was tremendous. Yet he never abused his power, never asserted it except in righting some injustice, and lived in the utmost simplicity. He needed no luxury about him, as did the Cardinal, to assure himself that he was adequately protected against others. He had too many inner fortitudes to be harassed by a constant fear of his fellows. Reticent, humorous, watchful and kind, hating no man and despising only the fearful and the ambitious, he was deeply loved by his few friends and appallingly hated by his enemies.
The Cardinal had a deep liking for him, wary though it was, and cynical. In de Tremblant’s presence, as in the presence of Père Joseph, he relaxed to a great extent, knowing that there was no hypocrite, no creature of duplicity and self-seeking. He would have liked to see more of de Tremblant, but the latter rarely appeared in the Louvre or the Palais-Cardinal, except on grave missions concerning his friends or his religion. This explained the wariness of the Cardinal, and the arching of his eyebrows. The Duc de Bouillon, the Duc de Rohan, and the Duc de Tremblant were the three most formidable Huguenots in France. When they appeared in concert, as they did today, the Cardinal felt in himself the gathering of sly and formidable forces and uneasiness.
He greeted them with expressions of pleasure and friendship. If he liked de Tremblant, he hated the Duc de Rohan, and the Duc de Bouillon. He knew that de Tremblant would regard even his venalities and duplicities with humorous understanding. But the other nobles would have no such tolerance. He knew, too, that de Tremblant was a Protestant, not from desire to retain personal power and rich estates, but from deep conviction. The other two were Protestants less from conviction and devotion, than from hatred of the King and himself.
The Duc de Rohan was somewhat older than de Tremblant, but because of his colossal animal vitality and robustness appeared younger. He was not the son of his mother for nothing. His mother had been of the House of Parthenay, of Poitou, like the Cardinal, himself. Indomitable, arrogant, courageous and intrepid, she had bequeathed these qualities to her sons, and notably to the Duc de Rohan, though she was not responsible for his sly good-humor and loud infectious laugh. Her family was a branch of the famous Lusignans, who had never abandoned their dream of a union of France and England under one government.
Henri, Duc de Rohan, was tall but so broad that he appeared shorter than he was. His large strong body was full of power. Though dressing in soberer garments than those of his position affected, he yet loved elegance, and the darkness of his clothing was set off with rich lace collars, gold buttons and an elaborate sword. However, he was untidy, and not too clean. He had a broad coarse face, with the wide nostrils of those who loved life and lived gustily, and his hair and mustaches were bright red. This redness extended even to his skin, which was very florid, and even to his small quick and lively eyes, so that he seemed imbued with a vigorous hot fire. Though he laughed much, and always had great humor and a fund of obscene jokes rising from the less refined brothels and the gutters, the Cardinal knew him as a dangerous and remorseless man, obstinate, shrewd, brave and ruthless. He had the quick and irascible temper of those of his coloring, and his hand was almost always on the hilt of his sword.
The Duc was a powerful leader, the recipient of the complete devotion of his followers. The Protestants of the south and west of France adored him, trusted him as they did no other. They knew he would never betray them, even for reasons of overpowering self-gain. He was the best example of those who were Protestants by policy, and so was never bedeviled by those tolerant and thoughtful vacillations which afflicted de Tremblant, and made him too meditative, too hesitant, too reluctant to go to excess. Moreover, he was married to Sully’s daughter, that dedicated woman.
Men like de Rohan find in their own hatred, and the hatred of others, their greatest stimulant. He knew that if the Catholics hated him, the powerful nobles of the Huguenot towns hated him also, fearing for their own power, and knowing that their own followers did not trust them overmuch. They knew that their followers adored de Rohan, especially the Presbyterian masses, who distrusted the Calvinists and the Lutherans. De Rohan had the ability to conciliate all these sects, weld them together in a strong Protestant bloc.
It had been the Cardinal’s policy to conciliate the Huguenots for the sake of French unity against the enemies abroad. He had particularly conciliated de Rohan. But he knew that this conciliation was armed, that he was grasping a tiger by the tail, or holding a bull by the horns. No explanations could confuse de Rohan as they might confuse de Tremblant. De Rohan was uncomplex. He saw through all the Cardinal’s magician’s tricks.
The Duc de Bouillon was a Huguenot noble for whom the Cardinal had the greatest respect and the utmost enmity. If he liked de Tremblant, and was wary of de Rohan, he feared de Bouillon. This scion of the mighty House of La Tour d’Auvergne was respected even by the King, and regarded with awe by the French people. Brilliant, lucid, cold and strong, he was too intellectual to be enamored of nationalism, and too sane to be enthusiastic and vehement over the beguilements of prejudice. An icy energy radiated from him, undeceived and cunning. He was a Frenchman, but had a great sympathy for the Germanies, and, indeed, there was something Teutonic about his calm, his method, his immovability and inflexibility. There was a balance in his character which no transport of others could shake. He was amoral rather than immoral, for he loved no one but himself, worked for nothing but himself. He loved power, not as the Cardinal loved it as a means to life, but for itself. His first wife had left him the principality of Sedan, and the Cardinal knew only too well that this principality on the north-eastern frontier was the vulnerable head of France, as La Rochelle was its Achilles heel. It was an ominous Huguenot stronghold, and of this stronghold de Bouillon was independent king. Henry IV, himself, had been more than a trifle afraid of de Bouillon, knowing that he was not inspired by any true Protestantism, and served it only because it was a barricade against the King, and the upholder of his own power.
He had been reared in the Catholic faith, and had abandoned that faith because he saw in the abandonment an opportunity for himself between the Germanies and Holland, and the King. He was a Calvinist, and did not hesitate to play the Calvinists and Lutherans against each other, for the advancement of himself.
So far, de Bouillon had operated with the Cardinal in the effort to prevent the House of Austria from succeeding in its plan of recovering all the Germanies for Rome. He had a loquacious tongue, and an open manner, but this hid a deviousness of temperament which the Cardinal only too well suspected. “A man who tells everything never tells anything,” he would say, thinking of de Bouillon.
He had an extremely convincing manner, this Duc de Bouillon, Count of Turenne and Prince of Sedan, this cold and remorseless luster after power. He inspired trust in others, for he spoke with cool detachment and an air of logic. But never was trust less deserved, as many found to their bitterness. He served only himself, and so long as the desires and plans of others coincided with his own, he was sleepless in accomplishing them.
Slender, tall, graceful and yet compact of appearance, middle-aged yet vigorous, with short curling hair on a round skull, pale blue eyes full of strength and craft, a pointed beard which did not conceal his strong and rigid mouth, eloquent of glance and gesture, his was an imposing presence. The Cardinal feared him, with good reason. He had long suspected that here was no true Frenchman, devoted to his country and his people, but one of those creatures who have no race, no allegiance, no patriotism, and no love. He also suspected that the Duc de Bouillon’s greatest ambition was the restoration of the old dream of Burgundy, in which a strong Rhenish principality took up its stronghold between France and Germany.
So, they came to him, these three, the first, a Protestant by devout conviction, the second, a political Protestant, the third, a Protestant by ambition. And the Cardinal, gazing courteously and smilingly at them, knew that in their hands and his own, was the fate of France.
“Messieurs!” he exclaimed, extending both his white and narrow hands to them, with the most open glances and air of pleasure. He reserved the longest smile, however, for de Bouillon, knowing him to be the head of the French Huguenots, the strongest enemy of the King, and himself, one of the greatest intellects in France.
They bowed, returning his smile. Père Joseph eyed the three with loathing suspicion. Louis regarded them with the wildest hatred.
The three were aware of the presence of Père Joseph. For an instant their eyes flickered at each other. But that was all. De Tremblant, who distrusted all great religious ardor, believing it the well from which flowed superstition, cruelty, oppression and hatred, felt aversion for the Capuchin. De Rohan was certain that Père Joseph was less a Capuchin than he was a politician, and, understanding politicians only too well, regarded Père Joseph with intense suspicion. De Bouillon, the renegade Catholic with a memory of the tremendous and mystic machinations of his former church, felt that here was his personal enemy. Each, then, out of his own reasons, ignored Père Joseph, who sat far back in shadow near the fireplace.
The Cardinal glanced swiftly at Louis, who colored, knowing that he was being imperiously called upon to act as lackey. However, the young priest, in silence, drew three chairs to the Cardinal’s bedside, and the magnates seated themselves, de Tremblant with an awkward clanking of his sword, de Rohan with a spread of his stout thighs and an exhalation of strong animal smell, and de Bouillon with the cold and mechanical grace which was one of his characteristics. The Cardinal, still smiling, and sparkling of eye and gracious of tongue, let his rapier glance pass from one to the other.
Finally, after a long exchange of polite and amusing amenities, de Bouillon said coolly: “No doubt your Eminence is surprised at this visit in force?” And he elegantly waved his hand to indicate his two companions.
The Cardinal raised his eyebrows and smiled charmingly.
“Ought I to be surprised, Monsieur le Duc? Am I too egotistic in believing that I am being visited by friends who come to inquire with regard to my health?”
De Rohan laughed his loud and boisterous laugh. His reddish eyes danced. He winked at de Bouillon who gave him a cold and momentary stare.
“I for one,” said de Rohan, with another wink directed at the Cardinal, “am no hypocrite. It is true that your Eminence’s health is of momentous import to all of us. To France. But we have heard no rumors that Monseigneur’s health is precarious. Therefore, this visit, though concerning a lesser matter than your Eminence’s state of being, is of importance. Moreover, if Monseigneur had been seriously indisposed, I should have heard of it from Madame d’Aiguillon, herself.” And the lusty Duc winked again, with an obscene smirk.
The Cardinal was not disturbed. He leaned back on his cushions and daintily held his hands high, stroking the thin fingers. He inclined his head, smiling again. He waited.
A furrow appeared for an instant between de Bouillon’s cold blue eyes. He concentrated his formidable gaze upon the Cardinal. At that look, the Cardinal felt a queasy sensation at the pit of his stomach. Whenever he was engaged, in treacherous activities, or contemplating them, nothing could be more open than his expression, more simple. So, he returned de Bouillon’s penetrating regard with an air of gentle candor, which did not deceive de Bouillon in the slightest.
“I have no need to recount to Monseigneur the long and arduous campaign we three have been engaged in with your Eminence, for the welfare, glory and safety of France,” said de Bouillon, in his smooth and emotionless voice. “Nor of our efforts in concert to frustrate and render impotent the Habsburgs, who threaten the whole of France. I flatter all of us when I say I believe we have been increasingly successful. So long as France remains united, at peace within herself, she can come to no harm.”
“Have I not always maintained this?” asked the Cardinal, with an air of puzzled surprise. “Have I been ungrateful to you gentlemen, or unaware of your services to France?”
“That is true,” said de Tremblant. “None of us has doubted your Eminence’s devotion to France.” And he cast a glance at his two companions.
De Rohan pursed his thick, fleshy red lips and narrowed his mahogany-colored eyes. He thrust out his strong stout legs and stared boldly at the Cardinal. De Bouillon displayed no outward emotions. He sat as still as an apparition.
“Nevertheless,” continued de Bouillon, imperturbably, “we have heard rumors. It was only courteous that we come to your Eminence to repeat them, and ask for reassurance.”
“That is only just,” said the Cardinal. He frowned faintly. “However, I cannot believe that Messieurs would lend attention to mere rumor. I confess I am bewildered.”
Père Joseph, in his dim corner, leaned forward and listened intently. His fiery eyes gleamed and flashed in the dusk.
“Rumor,” said de Bouillon, meditatively, “is sometimes the first flash of lightning before the storm. I am not given to lend credence to rumor, as a rule. Nevertheless, the air between all of us should not be clouded.”
“If it become clouded, it must be clarified, immediately,” assented the Cardinal, seemingly more and more puzzled, and assuming an air of patient dignity.
De Rohan laughed again, his loud hoarse laugh. De Tremblant drew his kind brows together reprovingly. But de Rohan could not be repressed. He pointed a derisive finger at the Cardinal.
“Your Eminence is noted for his genius for clarification,” he said, boisterously. “That is why I insisted upon this visit.” De Bouillon ignored him. He regarded the Cardinal steadfastly with his passionless eyes. “It is said that almost irresistible persuasion is being brought upon your Eminence to revoke the Edict of Nantes,” he said.
The Cardinal paled. His tiger’s eyes flashed as he forced himself upright. “And there is a rumor, Monsieur le Duc, that you are conspiring with England for the advancement of your dream of another Burgundy, to the detriment of France,” he said, almost in a whisper.
There was a sharp and thunderous silence, as the two men stared fixedly at each other. De Rohan turned noisily in his chair and regarded de Bouillon with amazed suspicion. De Tremblant appeared incredulous, and the web of wrinkles on his face deepened.
“Which,” said the Cardinal, very softly, “contains the most truth?”
But if he wished to nonplus de Bouillon, he failed. The Duc remained unmoved, even if his firm thin mouth tightened spasmodically.
“Rumor,” said the Cardinal reflectively, and contemplating the ceiling, “is a hag who sits in a corner and spins lies. I have never given this most extravagant spinning of hers the least credence. No doubt Monsieur le Duc has been equally incredulous with rumors concerning myself.”
“I hope,” said de Bouillon, formally, “that the rumor concerning the Edict of Nantes is as equally without foundation as the accusation against me.”
“I can assure. Monsieur that it is,” replied the Cardinal, as formally. Again, their eyes transfixed each other.
De Bouillon’s countenance grew narrower, more intense. The Cardinal, with acrid amusement, knew that this antagonist was swiftly, in his mind, reviewing the list of his few confidants in an effort to determine who was the whispering traitor. The Cardinal waited, with a manner of sweet detachment, for the Duc to reach a conclusion.
De Rohan had been directing a scowling look from the Cardinal to de Bouillon. “This exchange of polite amenities is very edifying,” he said, in a bellicose voice. “It is even more edifying to observe how trust is now completely restored between Monsieur le Duc and Monseigneur. However, I regret to say that I have a question of my own, and it is not edifying.”
The Cardinal, having momentarily silenced his most dangerous antagonist, turned smilingly to de Rohan. Here was a red bear whom even the King and himself had not taught to dance, and whose apparent clumsiness concealed an explosive threat.
“It is said,” exclaimed de Rohan, loudly, “that your Eminence is contemplating attacking La Rochelle, at the insistence of the Queen.”
Again, the Cardinal paled, and a flame darted from his eyes. But his voice was cool and controlled when he answered: “And, Monsieur le Duc, it is said that you are in constant communication with de Buckingham, and are even now in possession of promises from him as to the number of English ships and English soldiers to aid in a new Rochellais rebellion. An unprovoked rebellion against the King.”
De Rohan, less an artist in duplicity and in ability to conceal his emotions than was de Bouillon, stared blankly, his heavy mouth falling open. His florid countenance became slightly less ruddy.
The Cardinal continued tranquilly: “Rumor, as I have said, is a spinner of lies. She is also reputed to instill ideas where ideas never flourished before. I do not recommend lending an ear to her. For instance, I was only amused when it was reported to me that Monsieur le Duc’s brother, Soubise, the captain of the La Rochelle Huguenots, is now very active in inciting his subordinates against the King.” He smiled sweetly. “You will observe how ridiculous is rumor. It is even whispered that Monsieur le Duc, himself, has been in secret consultation with Prince Gaston, the King’s brother, and even with the Queen Mother, when it was discussed if a rebellion from La Rochelle might not serve to destroy myself.”
“Lies!” shouted de Rohan, turning a dark crimson. He panted. He glared at the Cardinal as if the latter were the fiend, himself.
The Cardinal inclined his head. “I have said this,” he replied, soothingly.
De Bouillon and de Tremblant turned to de Rohan, who was becoming more and more congested of countenance, more and more infuriated. De Bouillon’s gaze was thoughtful; on his lips hovered a grim faint smile of surprise that this coarse man might have the subtle intelligence to plot so astutely. He was also coldly annoyed. England could not so disperse herself as to aid, simultaneously, himself and de Rohan. England, apparently, was up to her old tricks of promising everything with great generosity, to every possible ally, to every possible enemy of the King. De Bouillon wanted all England’s strength for himself, for his own ambitions. If she really intended to aid de Rohan, also, there would be less help for himself. I must immediately demand an explanation from de Buckingham, he thought with icy anger. The accursed Rochellais! He would not allow them to draw strength from his own fortresses, no, not even if he had to conspire with the Cardinal, himself, to destroy them!
As for de Tremblant, he was horrified. It seemed to him that stenches rose all about him, the stenches of treason and all duplicity arising from the wicked souls of these three men. He had the deepest conviction in himself that the Cardinal had struck at truth, just as he was certain that if the Cardinal had not yet decided upon attacking the Huguenots, he was contemplating the thought.
Disillusioned though he had long been at the acts and plottings of men, each fresh confirmation unnerved, saddened him, inspired him with despair. He, himself, wanted only that France be strong and unthreatened, his beloved France, whose every clod, every tree, every wind, blossom and blade of grass, was dearer to him than his own flesh. He had supported the Cardinal because he knew that the latter had for France a passionate devotion, tortured though it was, and dark and unfathomable. His abiding dream had been of an impregnable France, filled with tolerance, amity, unity, and peace, culture and tranquillity. Moreover, as a devout Protestant, the cause of Protestantism lived intensely in his heart, not a belligerent Protestantism, but a faith living in simplicity and affection with Catholicism, each drawing wisdom from the other as two brothers, differing in opinion, yet subsisting under the same roof in tolerance and love and understanding.
Now he saw that de Bouillon, out of his own ambition, would set England and France against each other, and France might fall, ruined forever: He saw that de Rohan, the intolerant political Protestant who hated political Catholicism, was conspiring against the unity of France out of his own hatred for the King. And he saw that the Cardinal, that obscure and vacillating man burning with frustration and lust, might very easily be impelled, against his own convictions and reasoning, to attack the Huguenots and so throw France into fatal civil conflict again. Which would win? The Cardinal’s passion and devotion for France, or lust for a silly woman? With what frail and human threads were the garments of fate woven!
Yet, he thought, perhaps the Cardinal was less obsessed by a woman than determined that no foreign power should interfere with the internal affairs of France. If England’s object was to destroy the unity of France by conspiring with the Huguenots, then the Cardinal had no choice but to attack and subdue the Huguenots. The reasonableness of de Tremblant, his unfortunate ability to see all sides of a controversy, bedevilled him again, left him exhausted, confused, depressed. His beloved France might soon again find her hands red with civil blood, thanks to de Bouillon, de Rohan and the Cardinal. He could not determine who was the most venal. He was only certain that he felt for the three of them the utmost anger, detestation and indignation. He never trusted the Protestantism of de Bouillon, knowing it rose from expediency and ambition. He did not trust the Protestantism of de Rohan, knowing it sprang less from faith than political faithlessness, hatred for the King and personal loathing for Catholicism. (Though what an excellent friar he would have made! thought de Tremblant bitterly.) And now, he did not know whether he could trust the Cardinal’s love for France!
He sank deeply into his gloomy contemplations, sighing heavily. Then he became aware that the Cardinal had spoken to him, and he lifted his weary eyes.
He spoke slowly, ponderously, yet with such intensity that de Rohan, de Bouillon, the Cardinal, Père Joseph, and even the somber Louis, listened with intense and unwilling concentration:
“I have no personal ambitions,” he said, casting a long and bitter look at de Bouillon, a contemptuous look at de Rohan, and a sad look at the Cardinal. “I have no desire for power, beyond that which God has seen fit to give me out of His own mysterious reasons. I wish only the strength and safety of France, in which she can renew herself, inspire herself, and live in rich and fruitful peace.”
He paused. His long and unhandsome face, so thoughtful, so wise, so kind, was contorted by a spasm of sorrowful pain. He pressed his brown knotted hands to his temples, as if to subdue a pang. He sighed again.
“This only have I wanted, this, and the peace and tolerance which was promised my fellow believers by the Edict of Nantes. This only have I fought for, and dreamed.” He dropped his hands and regarded the others with burning indignation, despair and anger.
“Why will you not let France live? Is there not in any of you a love for the land which gave you birth, no devotion to her? Must you be men first, and Frenchmen last? Is there no light in your souls, no dedication, no solemn determination that no enemy, internal or external, shall destroy our country? Who are any of you who is greater, more important, more significant, than France?”
He stood up, and because he was trembling so violently, he caught at the back of his chair. The luminous window behind him threw his long lean figure into heroic silhouette. No one stirred in the room. All stared at him fixedly.
He moistened his dry and shaking lips. “A few days ago, in examining my father’s books, I came upon an old dusty prophecy.
“‘When Frenchmen are by Frenchmen foul betrayed,
And hating brothers on invaders smiled.
When Frenchmen’s hands in Frenchmen’s blood are laid,
Then France is lost forever, and her fame defiled.’”
He paused again. The slow solemn words had rung like the sound of doom in the great, sun-filled chamber, and every man had listened, his heart beating rapidly. De Tremblant lifted his hand, and so stern, so warning, so terrible, was his aspect, that they could only gaze at him, fascinated.
“Reflect!” he cried. “I feel in my soul that this prophecy is true, that the day Frenchmen smile upon the invader, when they conspire with the invader and the enemy, when they defer to the invader, accept his proclamations out of hatred for their own brothers or their own ambition, when their love for France is less than their detestation of their brothers, when all courage, all honor, all dignity and pride have left France, when she is filled with venal and plotting little men who love their putrid small souls more than they love their country, then France will fall, crumbling in obscene fragments in the dust, never to rise again, never again to aspire, never again to light the torch of culture and faith in her temples. And never again shall peace come to her, save the peace of the grave!”
He flung his hands over his face, as if seized by intolerable anguish.
The Cardinal tried to smile, touching his mouth with his hand. A gleam of derision appeared on the cold bearded lips of de Bouillon. De Rohan’s florid face thickened, and his red eyes flickered uneasily. Père Joseph leaned forward on his chair and gazed at de Tremblant as one gazes at a sibyl. But Louis smiled scornfully, thinking of the Habsburgs and the Spaniards, who, if they indeed wished to be “invaders” could yet save France from worse enemies: the French Protestants. The integrity of France was less, to Louis, than the integrity of Christendom.
The Cardinal indeed smiled, for a smile, to him, was a defense. But his subtle soul, always intrinsically mystic despite his cold reason, was disturbed and filled with dark clouds. He would have spoken, but de Tremblant, with a sudden wild gesture of despair, flung out his hands, glanced distractedly about him, and left the chamber, hurrying as from pestilence with his long awkward gait.
When the massive door had closed behind him, de Rohan burst into a long raucous laugh. His full belly shook; he threw back his red bearded head, and his teeth glittered in the clear golden light. His big thick hands, overgrown with red curling hairs, slapped his huge thighs. De Bouillon sat in calm immobility, his classic and aristocratic countenance inscrutable. The Cardinal, though mechanically smiling, was yet absorbed in the chaotic visions in his own soul. But Père Joseph plucked at his russet beard, and his protruding blue eyes sparkled with vehement fire.
Then de Bouillon spoke in his monotonous and unmoved voice: “It is unfortunate that our dear de Tremblant is so passionate. I confess I never suspected such violence in him, and trusted him because I believed in its absence. Violent men, however, can never be trusted.”
But the Cardinal, continuing his smile, regarded de Bouillon with the utmost candor.
“I believe only in violent men. Only these are no hypocrites, no plotters, no schemers, no liars.”
De Bouillon returned his look with his frozen and formidable eyes. De Rohan, who had heard nothing of this exchange, laughed with increasing enjoyment.
Then de Bouillon raised his pale eyebrows. “It is said that his Eminence is never violent,” he remarked, softly.
When de Rohan and de Bouillon had departed, and the Cardinal had completed his friendly reassurances, which de Rohan had received with truculence, and de Bouillon in polite silence, the Cardinal turned to Père Joseph.
“Well, my dear friend,” he said, with a languid wave of his hand, “what do you think of these three?”
The Capuchin slowly approached the bed, and looked down at the Cardinal long and piercingly.
Then he spoke, with heavy significance:
“The Duc de Bouillon is a dangerous and unremittingly virulent man.
Because he is ambitious, and has sacrificed himself for his ambition. The Duc de Rohan is dangerous, also, for he hates your Eminence, Catholicism, and the King. But he is not so menacing as de Bouillon, for he is not so ambitious.”
He paused, then resumed solemnly: “But the Duc de Tremblant is the most dangerous of all. He is not ambitious. He does not hate. However, he has convictions, heretical though they are. And a man with convictions beyond his own welfare, his own ambition, is dangerous beyond imagining. Nothing will halt him. Nothing deter him. He is inspired by his own private truth. And a man inspired by what he considers truth can not be silenced, not be turned aside.”
He continued, after a moment: “De Bouillon can be bought. De Rohan can be made to pause, out of prudence. But you cannot buy de Tremblant. You cannot make him pause. He is of the stuff of the original Protestants; he is of the stuff of Luther. For him Rome has only one verdict—”
“Death,” said the Cardinal.
The two friends looked intently at each other. It was the Cardinal, finally, who had to turn aside his eyes, and over whose face melancholy and sadness passed like a cloud.