The King, Louis XIII, was still in the prime of his young manhood, and though as yet bitterly disappointed that his queen had not presented him with an heir, still could hope. Had not his favorite astrologer assured him that in good time a son would be born to him who would be the greatest king who ever sat upon the throne of France? Superstitious and duly mystical, he believed this, and later events bore out his earlier faith.
Oppressed, beaten, despised and ignored by his terrible mother in his youth, ridiculed and neglected by the courtiers who had surrounded her, always the game of his younger and gayer and whistling brother, Gaston, who was a favorite of Marie de Medicis and her slavish Court, overlooked by ministers and statesmen, ignored and relegated to silent musty corners as he had been before his access to the throne of France, it was to be expected that he would now have a timid and deprecating air, a humility and embarrassment, an eagerness to please, a fearfulness of temperament.
Nevertheless, he had none of these characteristics which usually beset those upon whom oppression, ridicule and neglect have sat for all the formative years of a man’s life. His manner, though quiet and reserved and cold, was yet simply arrogant. He had none of the frail physique of the persecuted. His body was strong and supple, giving an impression of full activity. He loved sports and the military life, and was impressive in them both. His temperament was hard and fixed, narrow and capricious, obstinate and silent, always jealous and suspicious and inexorable. In all, he exhibited an astonishing metier de roi. His was truly a triumph of man over circumstance, reticent yet proud, sullen yet imperious, commanding respect and filling the beholder with uncertainty.
He was dressed so soberly, but so regally, that he was conspicuous in that dazzling assemblage. His toilette was conservative, for he had no eye or care for color or elegance, preferring a soldiery aspect. He was not handsome, but he was impressive. His complexion was yellowish, revealing his Italian blood, as did his cold yet luminous dark eyes. His face was long, somewhat cavernous, and had an air of gloom and abstraction, heightened by long dank locks of black hair, which he disdained to cover with a wig. His mouth, with its heavy underlip, usually was apart, but this, strangely, did not detract from its firmness and stubbornness. When he spoke, his voice was low, carefully controlled, for he was afflicted at times with a stammer. Cold and disdainful, there were none who could claim intimacy with him, except the Cardinal, whom he passionately disliked and feared. (Nevertheless, being an astute man, he was never unconscious of the fact that it was the Cardinal who had restored the dignity of the throne, and its power, and that it was the Cardinal who served him with unremitting implacability and devotion. Perhaps it was this, and his own jealousy, that impelled his dislike.)
Overpowered as he was by the Cardinal’s personality and genius, he could yet be grateful as a king, if not as a man, for all that the Cardinal had bestowed upon him. In every fresh success presented to him by the Cardinal, he could say ceremoniously yet coldly: “France is grateful to you, Monseigneur.” Nor was there hypocrisy or duplicity in this statement. However, in his private life and thoughts, he was consumed by detestation, fear and hatred, suspecting always the Cardinal’s words and motives.
His queen, who moved modestly a pace in his rear, was a vision of beauty and bewitching charm, dressed in a pale rose petticoat flounced with lace, with a bodice of silver fabric. The pearls she wore about her neck were no more lustrous than those famous bared shoulders and graceful arms. The perfume that scented her seemed the emanations from her own fair body. Her chestnut hair, loosened, curled in a cascade from the crown of her head, and glittered with diamonds. Lovely though she was, it was noted that her face was paler and sadder than usual, and deeply abstracted, as though she had recently suffered overmuch. Her smile dazzled, but it was the smile of a mannequin, and her eyes darted before her in a kind of dull terror, as if seeking an enemy.
The Cardinal materialized, as it were, from the air itself, still keeping the Duc de Tremblant at his insistent side. He greeted the King with the deepest reverence, but that young man’s eyes regarded his master with dislike and ill nature, tempered with gloom and resentment.
“How, now,” said the King, “I had heard your Eminence was too indisposed to attend such a gay event.”
“I could not resist, Sire, having been given to understand that your Majesty would be present,” replied the Cardinal, gravely.
“Ah!” exclaimed the other, with bad humor. “I have been present at the tables almost every night, but your Eminence has not been there!”
During this exchange, the sly and gloating eyes of the guests noted with what loathing and fear the young Queen regarded the Cardinal, with what a tremor she shrank from his touch when he lingeringly kissed her hand, with what horror and despair her green eyes blazed. She appeared to dwindle before him, as if her very flesh melted. When he murmured a greeting to her, her pale lips fell open, then did not stir again, as if no effort of her will could compel her to speak.
A collation had been prepared for the King, who had a voracious appetite. Even though the orchestra and all the fiddlers set up the gay lifting strains of his favorite ballet, La Merlaison, he would not be detained, but repaired to the waiting chamber and the delicacies. The Queen kept to his side, like a frightened dog, fleeing with him away from the presence of the loathsome Cardinal. He watched her flight, with a peculiar smile, and his breath was quickened.
The guests began to dance. They were well acquainted with the appetite of the King. But the orchestra had changed its tune, on the disappearance of the King, who would wish to lead the first measure of the ballet. Back and forth, round and round, in long graceful circles, the dancers flew over the polished floors which reflected back the color of their costumes and the motions of their bodies. The air became suffocating.
The Cardinal had led the Duc de Tremblant near a quieter corner behind pots of flowering shrubs. He seemed determined not to leave the Duc for an instant. They sat on little gilded chairs and thoughtfully watched the dancing for a moment or two. The Duc hid his anxious impatience. He knew the hour. And within that hour, he must leave on his secret mission. Concealed in his apartments, waited the Comte van Tets. Nevertheless, he strove for an appearance of ease and tranquillity.
The Cardinal began to speak languidly of inconsequential things. Then he remarked that he was excessively weary, that he had been urging the King to allow him to retire from affairs of State, because of the condition of his health. The Duc hid a faint smile at this hypocrisy. But the Cardinal must have discerned it, with his subtlety, for he smiled slightly, himself.
“What did his Majesty say to this?” asked the Duc.
“He implored me not to desert him,” replied the Cardinal, meditatively.
What grave concession did you force from him, then? thought the Duc, and some cold premonition moved in his heart.
“But even kings are not insensible to the illnesses of their servants,” he said, watching the Cardinal with a penetrating look.
The Cardinal sighed, lifted one shoulder. “Who am I, compared to the State?” he murmured. “I live only to serve France.” Suddenly his pale and narrow countenance quickened, and his eyes became incandescent. “You do not believe that, Monsieur le Duc?”
“I do believe it,” said the Duc, sincerely. “But what is truly the welfare of France—your hopes, or mine—I do not really know.”
The Cardinal seemed pleased by this honest answer. He laid his thin white hand affectionately on the Duc’s arm. “You are no liar, and I love you for that, Raoul. What it is to find a man who is not a liar! You speak of your hopes. But you are a Huguenot. Your design for France cannot be truly salubrious. Would you reduce France to the arid sterility of Protestantism? That creed of the shopkeeper and the petty land-owner and the yeoman? The Church has always been the patron of aristocratic art, understanding that the common man can never truly appreciate the arts, nor comprehend them. It is sacrilege to expose them to him.”
“Art is universal,” replied the Duc. “When it becomes aristocratic, it is no longer art. That is a contradiction in terms. In Art, there is only a democracy, an equality; it is like sunshine.”
The Cardinal pondered these words, during which the orchestra became louder and gayer. Then he shook his head. “Do not think that I am not acquainted with the words of those who preceded and followed Luther. I have followed all their weighty arguments. I consider Erasmus, for instance, a dangerous and stupid man, as are all visionaries.
“When men consider themselves the equal of all other men, then there will be no heroes. Heroes are vitally necessary to inspire the people. Hero worship is the most powerful, the most noble, instinct of man. In the dead level of Protestant equality there shall rise no heroes, no saints, no lofty statues to stand against the sky. The Church knows this. Therefore, she encourages aristocracy of birth and privilege, and an aristocracy of mind. She comprehends that men are not created equal.”
He continued: “Do not misunderstand me. The Church knows that in the sight of God every soul is equal to another. But there are those who are called upon to serve in humility and poverty and pain, and those who are born to rule, in this world. She does not fly in the face of God.
“When every man is literate—and, please God, this shall never happen—when every man is given opportunity equally with that of all other men, the ultimate result can only be a dread uniformity, a dull sameness and colorlessness imposed upon the rich variety and colorful exuberance of human life. Would you wish this, Monsieur?”
“I admit that there is in inequality an inherent capacity,” said the Duc, slowly. “But I affirm the doctrine that every man shall be given freedom to develop what capacity he possesses, for his own joy, and the welfare of the nation. I believe in the right of every man to peace, to personal dignity and freedom, to a measure of security upon the secure and fixed earth.”
“Nonsense,” smiled the Cardinal. “The very stuff of life is alarms, uncertainties and dangers. The seeker after peace is the seeker after death, the weary man, the impotent man, who can no longer deal with the emergencies of the day. Does your faith promise such security?”
The Duc was silent. Now his brow was wet. Even at this moment he ought to be in his apartments. But the tenacious Cardinal would not let him go, and now the Duc felt a stirring of fear. Was it truly possible that the Cardinal knew of this mission? The Duc was still incredulous, though he was well aware of the enormous spy system of this frightful man.
The Cardinal was speaking again, indulgently. “Raoul, if you had a moment’s absolute power in this world, what would be your first and only act?”
The Duc turned to him, and his long unhandsome face was kindled with a sort of passionate beauty.
“I would eliminate from the minds of all the peoples all memory of history,” he said.
The Cardinal meditated upon this, with deep somberness. At last, he smiled. “I see!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I see all the possibilities!”
In the meantime, the King had returned to the drawingrooms. Arsène, who was wandering through the guests like an apprehensive ghost, sought out a friend of his, a courtier close to the King, the Comte d’Harcourt. He drew the Comte aside, and said:
“What is this between his Majesty and his Eminence? Did you note the Cardinal’s abashed countenance?”
The Comte d’Harcourt, a simple and devout Catholic, nodded in anxious agreement. “His Majesty has only ill-natured things to say lately of his Eminence. It seems that the King wishes an instant attack upon England, which the Cardinal will not countenance, in his wisdom.” At this, he allowed his voice to drop cautiously.
Arsène affected to laugh lightly. “Ah, so that is it! I was conversing with his Eminence, and he hinted that he had about arrived at much of the King’s opinion. But you know how devilishly proud he is. He will not approach his Majesty unless summoned. How trivial matters can decide the fate of nations! Now, if his Majesty should summon him, speak graciously to him, who can tell what might transpire?”
The Comte was all eagerness. “Are you sure of this, Arsène? Then, not a moment must be lost. The King has slept little lately, and the Cardinal has avoided him. I shall speak to his Majesty instantly!”
When the Comte had pushed his way into the press to the King’s side, Arsène, moving swiftly, approached his betrothed, who was infuriated the while she smiled and coquetted with two gallants. She watched Arsène’s approach with blazing eyes, and tapped her little foot. But he spoke boldly: “Mademoiselle, your uncle is in yonder corner conversing with the Cardinal, who bores him. Will you not rescue him? I would do so myself, but I see Madame beckoning to me imperiously.”
Clarisse was fond of her uncle. Moreover, she was deeply mortified at Arsène’s latest neglect, and wished to escape from her cavaliers. Arsène followed her at a discreet distance. He dared not let the Cardinal see him, whose suspicions were always supersensitive. He saw Clarisse engage the two gentlemen in conversation, and now he saw the approach of the eager Comte d’Harcourt. The Comte whispered something to the Cardinal, who showed every indication of annoyance and uncertainty. Then he turned to the Duc. But the Duc had requested his nece to dance with him, and the Cardinal had apparently exacted some promise from the Duc, for the latter had bowed and smiled before sweeping his niece into the intricacies of a new ballet.
Arsène slipped along the outskirts of the dancing guests, keeping the Duc and Clarisse within view. At last he saw the Duc lead the girl to a group of friends, where she began to fan herself, laughing at her uncle’s strenuous activity. The Duc began to search the crowds, and Arsène deftly inserted himself within range of his glance, but discreetly retired again. He moved to a quiet and isolated spot, and within a few moments the Duc joined him with an anxious face.
“There is no time to waste!” he said. “I thank you, Arsène. Let us go!”
They made their way to the rear of the mansion, and fled silently up the winding servants’ entrance, for they had avoided the crowded stairway of the drawing rooms. They reached the Duc’s apartments, unseen. On the journey there, the Duc had already begun to unfasten his garments and remove his wig, which he carried under his arm. No one was in the apartments. The servants were having festivities of their own. Here all was silence, except for a burning taper. The Duc unlocked his cabinet, whispered a word, and the Comte van Tets, perspiring and crimson, emerged, dressed in dark garments and a voluminous cloak. They all conversed in whispers as the Duc changed his clothing, fastened on his sword belt.
“I beseech you again to allow me to accompany you,” said Arsène.
“Impossible! Have you forgotten, too, that you are to be married within two days, you impatient bridegroom?” The Duc, even in his haste, paused to laugh soundlessly.
Arsène said nothing more, but his expression became more and more apprehensive. Then, at last he said:
“I regret your decision to take only four guards with you, Monsieur. I fully recognize your argument that a larger coterie would attract attention. But it would also give would-be attackers pause.”
“We must not attract attention,” replied the Duc, pulling his plumed hat far over his face, and then examining the holsters of his pistols. “So, we must face some danger in order to keep our mission secret. However, I anticipate no trouble. Who knows of our going? Now, Arsène, I beg you to return to the dance. Our absence may already be noted.”
He hesitated, then suddenly embraced the gloomy young man with unusual warmth and affection, kissing him heartily on both cheeks. Then he held his arms in his strong kind grasp, looking deeply into his eyes.
“God bless you, Arsène,” he said. “You are young. Whatever occurs, you must not forget. You must not turn aside.”
This seemed ominous to Arsène, who paled. He laid his hands on the Duc’s shoulders, and felt tears rising to his eyes. But before he could speak, the Duc and the Comte van Tets had left him.
He was left alone in the dim chamber. Through open doors he could see the other rooms, flickering wanly in the single taper. A coldness gathered about his heart. It appeared to him that death and danger had lurked here, that they had gone in the wake of his friend. He did not have the faith of a Paul de Vitry. He really believed nothing. He could not pray. Now, he passionately wished that he had faith, that he could fall simply on his knees and beg the protection of heaven upon the Duc. But he had no words, in spite of the long years of his training under priests, which had served only to bestow ridicule and skepticism in his heart. He had more faith in his sword. That cursed wedding of his! But for that he would be cantering at the Duc’s side at this very moment. In the strength of his youth and his egotism, he believed that his presence would be sufficient to ward off all danger and protect his friend invincibly.
At last he had a thought: I must keep the Cardinal in sight. I must allay any of his suspicions.
He returned to the festivities. He found the Cardinal conversing languidly with a group of gentlemen and smirking ladies. He discerned that the Cardinal looked frightfully ill. His face was drawn and blue with fatigue; his terrible eyes were sunken and haunted. He stroked his imperial, and his hand shook, in spite of his smiles and his courteous air of attention.
Arsène inconspicuously made his way to the Cardinal’s rear, so that it appeared that he had been standing there for some time. So it was that when the Cardinal turned and glanced about him, he saw a young man who had the aspect of one who was filled with ennui. His eye lighted until it was blazing with a baleful light. But he smiled amiably.
He took Arsène by the arm and led him away.
“Have you seen Monsieur le Duc, Arsène? He promised to wait for me in order that we might finish our conversation.”
“The Duc?” replied Arsène, with a look of artless surprise. “Certes, I saw him but five minutes ago!” He turned and searched the crowd with an excellent imitation of concentration. He knew that the Cardinal was afflicted with poorness of vision. “Ah, there he is, Monseigneur. I believe he is dancing with Madame Deauville, yonder.”
The Cardinal squinted in the direction Arsène indicated. His bearded lips parted as though he drew a breath through them.
“Good. Arsène, I am retiring to the spot where I last conversed with the Duc. Will you ask him to come to me there?”
Obediently, Arsène moved away. He found Madame de Tremblant the center of a hilarious group. He drew her aside. Her pale and protuberant eyes regarded him with annoyance, yet affection.
“Madame,” he whispered, “I have a message for you from the Duc.”
Her expression immediately became concerned and secret, and full of anxiety.
“He has had to leave inconspicuously, upon an urgent call. He will return within a week. He begged me to tell you that you must suffer no apprehension.”
She played with her fan, and wet her thick painted lips. She darted a glance about her of furtive fear. Then she said: “But your wedding, Arsène. He was to give Clarisse to you! Who can take his place?”
But she spoke absently. She was pallid under her rouge. She regarded the young man with grave fright. She loved her husband’s brother with a deep intensity. She had loved him before her marriage to his younger brother, but he had not returned her love. She understood many things about him. Now her rude heart was filled with a hideous premonition that she would never see him again.
She suddenly caught Arsène by the arm, and her fingers were the fingers of a stableboy in their iron strength.
“No! Tell me nothing! I have not asked! My God, what is to become of him? He is in no danger, Arsène? No, do not tell me. I cannot bear to know.”
Her bosom heaved. Drops of sweat appeared on her upper lip. They burst through the powder on her brow.
Arsène was silent. His heart was heavy and dark. Madame covered her mouth with her fan, and over it her eyes regarded him with savage terror.
Finally he whispered: “I must return to the Cardinal. He is waiting for the Duc. I must delay him—”
“It is as bad as that?” she murmured.
“It is as bad,” he replied, somberly.
“My God!” she moaned.
He left her and sought out the Cardinal, who was leaning back against a white plaster pillar in an attitude of extreme exhaustion. He opened his eyes as he heard Arsène approach, and when he saw that he was alone a white shadow passed over his countenance like the shadow of dissolution.
Arsène bowed before him. “The Duc begs that you will excuse him for a few moments longer,” he said. “He will return shortly.”
The Cardinal was silent. His hand fumbled for the golden cross that hung from his neck. He played with it for a moment, then he lifted his fingers high and let the cross drop heavily. During all this, his sunken and gleaming eyes did not leave Arsène’s face.
He said, in a strange and sinking voice: “I await his return.”