Title: Cinq Mars — Volume 5
Author: Vigny, Alfred de
Language: English
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CINQ MARS

By ALFRED DE VIGNY



BOOK 5.


CHAPTER XVIII

THE SECRET

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.

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:

"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?"

"Any other than yourself would not speak thus to me twice," said Cinq-
Mars, coldly; "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--friendship, the second thing upon earth."

He raised his eyes to heaven as he spoke, as if he there sought the
divinity.

"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's malediction, but not of yours; but this has decided me upon
avowing all to you."

"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!"

"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, 'tis Marie de Mantua whom I love."

"How! she who is to be Queen of Poland?"

"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--perhaps to die."

"Die!  fall!  when I have been reproaching your triumph!  when I have
wept over the sadness of your victory!"

"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 'tis the
stronger I feel it.  I have undertaken a task beyond human power; and I
shall fail in it."

"Why, then, not stop?  What is the use of intellect in the business of
the world?"

"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?"

"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?"

"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--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--shall I say it to you?--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."

De Thou shook his head.

"What can I answer?"  he said.  "I do not understand you; your reasoning
unreasons you.  You hunt a shadow."

"Nay," continued Cinq-Mars; "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."

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.

"Yes," he added, rising, and clasping together his hands with a force
which indicated the violent despair concentred in his heart, "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--her husband,
yet her servant!  'Tis too much; I can not live thus.  I must take the
last step, whether it elevate me or hurl me down."

"And for your personal happiness you would overthrow a State?"

"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."

"Upon what do you rely, then?"  said De Thou.

"Upon the cast of a die.  If his will can but once last for a few hours,
I have gained.  'Tis a last calculation on which my destiny hangs."

"And that of your Marie!"

"Could you suppose it?"  said Cinq-Mars, impetuously.  "No, no!  If he
abandons me, I sign the treaty with Spain, and then-war!"

"Ah, horror!"  exclaimed the counsellor.  "What, a war!  a civil war, and
a foreign alliance!"

"Ay, 'tis a crime," said Cinq-Mars, coldly; "but have I asked you to
participate in it?"

"Cruel, ungrateful man!"  replied his friend; "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."

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:

"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--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?"

"By swearing to me not to betray the King and France," answered De Thou.
"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--
know you all this?  Come."

And he drew him toward the bust of Louis XIII.

"Swear before him (he is your friend also), swear never to sign this
infamous treaty."

Cinq-Mars lowered his eyes, but with dogged tenacity answered, although
blushing as he did so:

"I have said it; if they force me to it, I will sign."

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:

"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."

Then keeping the book respectfully opened in his hand, and contemplating
the image of the President de Thou, whose Memoirs he held, he continued:

"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."

Then, advancing toward Cinq-Mars, and again taking his hand, he said:

"I do much for you in acting thus; but expect nothing further from me,
Monsieur, if you sign this treaty."

Cinq-Mars was moved to the heart'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:

"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."



CHAPTER XIX

THE HUNTING PARTY

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'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 'parvenu' from being felt.

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.

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--a royal domain, whither his
brother, the Duc d'Orleans, prayed him to return.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 "thousand and
one nights," 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.

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'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--that Diane de Poitiers, twice a goddess and twice
adored in these voluptuous woods.

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.

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---the realization
of a dream.

Cinq-Mars was slowly ascending the broad stairs which led him to the
King'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 'Abandon,
ennui de monde, et belle flamme.

The young favorite shrugged his shoulders as he listened.

"What new chagrin moves thee?"  he said.  "Come, let me again attempt to
read that chilled heart which thinks it needs something."

He entered the narrow cabinet.

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:

"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--you whom I so
loved for your piety and virtue?"

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:

"Yes, Sire; and I was about to declare it to you, for I am accustomed to
open my soul to you."

"Declare it to me!"  exclaimed the King, turning red and white, as under
the shivering of a fever; "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."

Cinq-Mars, deeming himself wholly lost, put the best face he could upon
the matter, and said with an air of resignation:

"Well, then, Sire, send me to be judged and put to death; but spare me
your reproaches."

"Do you insult me, you petty country-squire?"  answered Louis.  "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."

"Heavens, Sire!"  replied the impetuous young man, whom the insulting
phrase of the King had offended, "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," continued Cinq-
Mars, clinching his fist, as if Richelieu stood before him; "yes, I would
kill him with my own hand, if need were."

D'Effiat'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.

Louis, who recoiled before all resolution, and who was always terrified
by the irreparable, took his hand.

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'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'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:

"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--you
are off from Saint Germain, and go to pass a portion of the night--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--in a
word, Marion de Lorme.  What have you to say?  Speak."

Leaving his hand in that of the King, but still leaning against the
column, Cinq-Mars answered:

"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."

"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."

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.

"How often have you deceived me!"  continued the King; "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?"

"Heavens!  no, Sire; I often go there with one of my friends--a gentleman
of Touraine, named Rene Descartes."

"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?"

"Truly, I can scarcely remember their names," said Cinq-Mars, looking at
the ceiling; "sometimes I do not even ask them.  There was, in the first
place, a certain Monsieur--Monsieur Groot, or Grotius, a Hollander."

"I know him, a friend of Barnevelt; I pay him a pension.  I liked him
well enough; but the Card--but I was told that he was a high Calvinist."

"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."

"I don't know him--not at all; but I'm sure he's some other Calvinist.
And the Frenchmen, who were they?"

"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."

"Well," said the King, folding his arms, and looking at him with an air
of triumph and reproach, "I ask you who are these people?  Is it in such
a circle that you ought to be seen?"

Cinq-Mars was confounded at this observation, which hurt his self-pride,
and, approaching the King, he said:

"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'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--all academicians."

"Ah! now, indeed, here are men of real merit," said Louis; "there is
nothing to be said against them.  One can not but gain from their
society.  Theirs are settled reputations; they'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."

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'Hautefort, upon a third,
La Fayette, and finally, Cinq-Mars.  He stopped at the latter, and
continued:

"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."

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:

"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.

"Hear what you replied to me (and in a tone of ill-humor--mind that!) '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.'  And on the eighth--wait, yes, on the eighth--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--a sin, a mortal sin.  See, I have written below, lie,
underlined.  People never deceive me, I assure you."

"But, Sire--"

"Wait a moment!  wait a moment!  In the evening you told me the Cardinal
had burned a man unjustly, and out of personal hatred."

"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."

Louis, seeking the page indicated, and going back to the journey from
Perpignan to Paris, read the whole narrative with attention, exclaiming:

"What horrors!  How is it that I have forgotten all this?  This man
fascinates me; that'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!"

And the Prince, as he concluded, threw aside his papers and wept.

"Ah, Sire, those are blessed tears that you weep!"  exclaimed Cinq-Mars,
with sincere admiration.  "Would that all France were here with me!  She
would be astonished at this spectacle, and would scarcely believe it."

"Astonished!  France, then, does not know me?"

"No, Sire," said D'Effiat, frankly; "no one knows you.  And I myself,
with the rest of the world, at times accuse you of coldness and
indifference."

"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!"

"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."

"No, no; my life is well-nigh finished, my dear friend.  I am no longer
capable of the labor of supreme command.'"

"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--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?"

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:

"But, Cinq-Mars, how can I rid myself of a minister who for eighteen
years past has surrounded me with his creatures?"

"He is not so very powerful," replied the grand ecuyer; "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."

"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."

"I believe, Sire, that he will to-day speak to you of Monsieur le Duc de
Bouillon.  All the Royalists demand him."

"I don't dislike him," said the King, arranging his pillows; "I don't
dislike him at all, although he is somewhat factious.  We are relatives.
Knowest thou, chez ami"--and he placed on this favorite expression more
emphasis than usual--"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't at all dislike him!  I have never said so, never!"

"Well, Sire," said Cinq-Mars, with confidence, "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.

"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'Ancre was got rid of, who deserved it less than he."

"As Concini?"  said the King.  "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."

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:

"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--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."

At this moment Cinq-Mars thought he heard a sound on the staircase; the
King reddened.

"Go," he said; "go!  Make haste and prepare for the hunt!  Thou wilt ride
next to my carriage.  Go quickly!  I desire it; go!"

And he himself pushed Cinq-Mars toward the entrance by which he had come.

The favorite went out; but his master's anxiety had not escaped him.

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--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.

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.

It was a farm called L'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.

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.

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's brouette, and never lost
sight of him.  They conversed in low tones.

"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!"

"Ah, that's nothing!  Did you not see how the King shook hands with
Monsieur?  He's made a sign to you, Montresor.  Look, Gondi!"

"Look, indeed!  That's very easy to say; but I don'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?"

Montresor answered, "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'll be minister!"

"He will be minister!"  said Fontrailles.

"He will be minister!"  echoed the Comte du Lude.

"Oh, no doubt of it!"  said Montresor.

"I hope he'll give me a regiment, and I'll marry my cousin," cried
Olivier d'Entraigues, with boyish vivacity.

The Abbe de Gondi sneered, and, looking up at the sky, began to sing to a
hunting tune.

              "Les etourneaux ont le vent bon,
               Ton ton, ton ton, ton taine, ton ton--"

"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."

Montresor and the rest were too attentive to every gesture of the Prince
to answer him; and they continued:

"See, Monsieur le Grand takes the reins, and is driving."

The Abbe replied with the same air:

              "Si vous conduisez ma brouette,
               Ne versez pas, beau postillon,
               Ton ton, ton ton, ton taine, ton ton."

"Ah, Abbe, your songs will drive me mad!"  said Fontrailles.  "You've
got airs ready for every event in life."

"I will also find you events which shall go to all the airs," answered
Gondi.

"Faith, the air of these pleases me!"  said Fontrailles, in an under
voice.  "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."

"Ha! Ha!"  cried Montresor.

"Ha!  Ha!"  said Olivier.

"Well, what is the matter with you?  ah, ah!"  asked Gondi.  "What have
you discovered that is so great?"

"Why, the King has again shaken hands with Monsieur.  Thank Heaven,
gentlemen, we'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."

"That's too good for him," said Olivier; "he must be tried."

"Certainly," said the Abbe; "and we sha'n't want for charges against an
insolent fellow who has dared to discharge a page, shall we?"  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:

"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.  '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'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'Aubijoux, Montmort?"

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'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--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.

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 "barbarian and
Scythian," 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.

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:

"In truth, Madame, these gentlemen have an odor about them that makes one
quite ill."

"It will be desirable to strengthen your nerves and accustom yourself to
it," answered Anne of Austria, somewhat dryly.

Then, fearing she had hurt her feelings, she continued gayly:

"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."

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'Effiat; each sought to give the other hopes which
neither felt, and sought to deceive each other out of love.

"Madame, I congratulate you; Monsieur le Grand is seated with the King.
Never has he been so highly distinguished," said Marie.

Then she was silent for a long time, and the carriage rolled mournfully
over the dead, dry leaves.

"Yes, I see it with joy; the King is so good!"  answered the Marechale.

And she sighed deeply.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"The King asks for Monsieur le Grand," was repeated about; "where can
Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer be gone to?"

A voice, passing near, said, "He has just lost himself."

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.

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:

"Are you Royalists or Cardinalists?  Cry, 'Vive le Grand!' or you are
dead men!"

"Scoundrels," answered the first cavalier, trying to open the holsters of
his pistols, "I will have you hanged for abusing my name."

"Dios es el Senor!"  cried the same voice.

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.

"Amigo, do you not recognize me?  'Tis but a joke of Jacques, the Spanish
captain."

Fontrailles approached, and said in a low voice to the grand ecuyer:

"Monsieur, this is an enterprising fellow; I would advise you to employ
him.  We must neglect no chance."

"Listen to me," said Jacques de Laubardemont, "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."

"What service?"  asked Cinq-Mars.  "We will see."

"I commence by a piece of information.  This morning while you descended
the King's staircase on one side, Father Joseph ascended the other."

"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."

"Well! is that all?  Do you say nothing?  You know I have an old account
to settle with the Capuchin."

"What's that to me?"  and he hung down his head, absorbed in a profound
revery.

"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."

"Leave me; I will use no poniards," said Cinq-Mars.

"Ah!  I understand you," replied Jacques.  "You are right; you would
prefer our despatching him with the sword.  This is just.  He is worth
it; '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's merit in one's
profession.  I must not touch the Cardinal; he's a morsel for a king!"

"Nor any others," said the grand ecuyer.

"Oh, let us have the Capuchin!"  said Captain Jacques, urgently.

"You are wrong if you refuse this office," said Fontrailles; "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."

"Do not torment him," said Jacques, abruptly; "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."  Then, turning toward
Cinq-Mars, "Listen: when men conspire, they seek the death or at least
the downfall of some one, eh?"

And he paused.

"Now in that case, we are out with God, and in with the Devil, eh?"

"Secundo, as they say at the Sorbonne; it's no worse when one is damned,
to be so for much than for little, eh?"

"Ergo, it is indifferent whether a thousand or one be killed.  I defy you
to answer that."

"Nothing could be better argued, Doctor-dagger," said Fontrailles, half-
laughing, "I see you will be a good travelling-companion.  You shall go
with me to Spain if you like."

"I know you are going to take the treaty there," answered Jacques; "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," he continued with an air of pious
earnestness, "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--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."

"Go, go!"  said Cinq-Mars, in a voice thick with rage; "I have other
things to think of."

"Of what more important?"  said Fontrailles; "this might be a great
weight in the balance of our destinies."

"I am thinking how much the heart of a king weighs in it," said Cinq-
Mars.

"You terrify me," replied the gentleman; "we can not go so far as that!"

"Nor do I think what you suppose, Monsieur," continued D'Effiat, in a
severe tone.  "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."

And he took Fontrailles a few steps aside.

"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'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."

Then, advancing toward the adventurer, who awaited him, he said:

"For you, brave fellow, since you desire to aid me, I charge you with
escorting this gentleman to Madrid; you will be largely recompensed."

Jacques, twisting his moustache, replied:

"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 'Lion of the North,'
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.  'Par exemple', 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."

"Adieu, then, noble Monsieur," said Cinq-Mars; go!"

After having pressed the hand of Fontrailles, he sighed and disappeared
in the wood, on his return to the chateau of Chambord.



CHAPTER XX

THE READING

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.

"Here he is at last!"  cried a young and rich voice.  "He has made us
wait long enough for him, the dear Desbarreaux.  Come, take a seat!
place yourself at this table and read."

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.

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'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--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 'valet-de-chambre
tapissier du roi'.  The foreigner was Milton; the young man was Moliere.

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's hands with
affectionate compliments and infinite allusions to their works.

"Ah, here you are, illustrious Baro!"  cried the newcomer.  "I have read
your last sixain.  Ah, what a sixain!  how full of the gallant and the
tendre?"

"What is that you say of the tendre?"  interrupted Marion de Lorme; "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."

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.

"This is the finest piece of Clelie," he said.  "This chart is generally
found very gallant; but '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, Cuma;-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."

"Ah!  how very pretty!"  interposed Desbarreaux.  "See the villages
marked out; here is Petits-Soins, Billet-Galant, then Billet-Doux!"

"Oh! 'tis ingenious in the highest degree!"  cried Vaugelas, Colletet,
and the rest.

"And observe," continued the author, inflated with this success, "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."

"Delicious!  delicious!  'gallant au supreme!'" cried the auditors;
"never was greater genius!"

"Well, Madame," resumed Scudery, "I now declare it in your house: this
work, printed under my name, is by my sister--she who translated 'Sappho'
so agreeably."  And without being asked, he recited in a declamatory tone
verses ending thus:

                    L'Amour est un mal agreable
                    Don't mon coeur ne saurait guerir;
                    Mais quand il serait guerissable,
                    Il est bien plus doux d'en mourir.

"How!  had that Greek so much wit?  I can not believe it," exclaimed
Marion de Lorme; "how superior Mademoiselle de Scudery is to her!  That
idea is wholly hers; she must unquestionably put these charming verses
into 'Clelie'.  They will figure well in that Roman history."

"Admirable, perfect!"  cried all the savans; "Horatius, Aruns, and the
amiable Porsenna are such gallant lovers."

They were all bending over the "carte de Tendre," 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:

"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."

The only reply he got was a general look of contempt; he consoled himself
by meditating, 'Les Precieuses Ridicules'.

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.

"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--I don't know what; but he'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."

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.

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.

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.

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.  "Art thou," he said,
"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."

Here a lackey in a loud voice announced MM. de Montresor and
d'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--a double advantage.  Some voices even pronounced the word
"profanation."

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:

"I would advise you to change the picture; your hearers are not on a
level with this."

The officer pressed the hand of the English poet and said to him:

"I admire you with all my soul."

The astonished Englishman looked at him, and saw an intellectual,
impassioned, and sickly countenance.

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.

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.

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.

"I can't stand this!"  cried Desbarreaux.  "It is of an insipidity to
make one sick."

"And what absence of grace, gallantry, and the belle flamme!"  said
Scudery, coldly.

"Ah, how different from our immortal D'Urfe!"  said Baro, the
continuator.

"Where is the 'Ariane,' where the 'Astrea?'" cried, with a groan, Godeau,
the annotator.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Corneille said to him:

"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 ' Polyeuctes'; but I
shall cut down this subject, abridge it of the heavens, and it shall be
only a tragedy."

"What matters to me the glory of the moment?"  answered Milton.  "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."

"I admire them before they are written," said the young officer.  "I see
in them the God whose innate image I have found in my heart."

"Who is it speaks thus kindly to me?"  asked the poet.

"I am Rene Descartes," replied the soldier, gently.

"How, sir!"  cried De Thou.  "Are you so happy as to be related to the
author of the Princeps?"

"I am the author of that work," replied Rene.

"You, sir!--but--still--pardon me--but--are you not a military man?"
stammered out the counsellor, in amazement.

"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."

De Thou smiled with pleasure at the simple language of this superior man
--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.

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.

"Adieu, gentlemen!"  said De Thou.  "I make way for Mademoiselle de
l'Enclos and her musketeers."

"Really, gentlemen," said the youthful Ninon, "we seem to frighten you.
Have I disturbed you?  You have all the air of conspirators."

"We are perhaps more so than these gentlemen, although we dance," said
Olivier d'Entraigues, who led her.

"Ah!  your conspiracy is against me, Monsieur le Page!"  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.

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.

"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?"

"Why, it seems so.  When the dancing begins, the reading is done."

"The reading, yes; but the oaths?"  said the Abbe, in a low voice.

"What oaths?"  asked De Thou.

"Is not Monsieur le Grand come?"

"I expected to see him; but I suppose he has not come, or else he has
gone."

"No, no!  come with me," said the bare-brained Abbe.  "You are one of us.
Parbleu!  it is impossible to do without you; come!"

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.

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.

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.

"What do you here?" he said, in a stifled voice.

"Who brought you here?  What would you with me?  You are lost if you
enter."

"What do you yourself here?  What do I see in this house?"

"The consequences of that you wot of.  Go; this air is poisoned for all
who are here."

"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."

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.

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:

"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."

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:

"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'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."

Here, again glancing around him, he saw increasing confidence in the
looks and attitudes of his accomplices.

"How!"  he continued, crossing his arms, and yet restraining with an
effort his own emotion; "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."

"Long live the King!  long live the Union!  the new Union, the Holy
League!" cried the assembly.

"It has come, then!"  cried Cinq-Mars, with enthusiasm; "it has come--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."

A fresh outburst of joy had followed these words, when an old man with a
white beard stood forward from the throng.

"Bah!"  said Gondi, in a low voice, "here's the old Chevalier de Guise
going to dote, and damp us."

And truly enough, the old man, pressing the hand of Cinq-Mars, said
slowly and with difficulty, having placed himself near him:

"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."

"You may say by two," interrupted Gondi, laughing.

"It is, however, of great importance," continued old Guise, amid the
tumultuous young men, "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."

"Well, the War of the King," said Cinq-Mars.

"Ay, the War of the King!"  cried Gondi and all the young men.

"Moreover," continued the old seigneur, "it is essential to gain the
approval of the theological faculty of the Sorbonne, which heretofore
sanctioned even the 'hautgourdiers' and the 'sorgueurs',--[Names of the
leaguers.]--and to put in force its second proposition--that it is
permitted to the people to disobey the magistrates, and to hang them."

"Eh, Chevalier!"  exclaimed Gondi; "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."

There was a laugh, and Cinq-Mars went on:

"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'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'Effiat, and whence will march two thousand seigneurs,
with their vassals?

"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'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."

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.

This noise caused a momentary diversion and a smile in the younger
portion of the assembly.

Cinq-Mars profited by this; and raising his eyes, "Pleasures of youth,"
he cried--"love, music, joyous dances--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!"

"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."

"Yes," he continued; "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--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.

"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.

"The presidents and councils of sovereign courts have been imprisoned,
banished, suspended--a thing before unheard of--because they have raised
their voices for the king or for the public.

"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--
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."

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.

"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."

"He's a schismatic! a monster!"  cried several voices.

"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--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.  'Le roi et la paix!' shall be our cry.
The rest must be left to Providence."

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.

Among those who came forward to press the hand of the young party leader,
the Abbe de Gondi jumped about like a kid.

"I have already enrolled my regiment!"  he cried.  "I have some superb
fellows!"  Then, addressing Marion de Lorme, "Parbleu!  Mademoiselle, I
will wear your colors--your gray ribbon, and your order of the Allumette.
The device is charming--

          'Nous ne brullons que pour bruller les autres.'

And I wish you could see all the fine things we shall do if we are
fortunate enough to come to blows."

The fair Marion, who did not like him, began to talk over his head to M.
de Thou--a mortification which always exasperated the little Abbe, who
abruptly left her, walking as tall as he could, and scornfully twisting
his moustache.

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.

"Here is my name wrongly written," he said coldly.

                             "A CINQ MARCS,

                        CENTURIE DE NOSTRADAMUS.

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

     [This punning prediction was made public three months before the,
     conspiracy.]

"There is a traitor among us, gentlemen," he said, throwing away the
paper.  "But no matter.  We are not men to be frightened by his
sanguinary jests."

"We must find the traitor out, and throw him through the window," said
the young men.

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' 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.

Gondi pointed this out to Cinq-Mars.

"Hark ye!"  he said in a low voice.  "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."

The grand ecuyer approved of the suggestion, and advancing toward those
whom he knew to be most deeply compromised, said:

"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."

Not one would hear of this proposition; and the movement it occasioned
produced a renewal of the oaths of hatred against the minister.

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:

"Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer, my retreat is the archbishopric of Paris and
L'Ile Notre-Dame.  I'll make it a place strong enough to keep me from
being taken."

"And yours?"  he said to De Thou.

"At your side," murmured De Thou, lowering his eyes, unwilling to give
importance to his resolution by the directness of his look.

"You will have it so?  Well, I accept," said Cinq-Mars; "and my sacrifice
herein, dear friend, is greater than yours."  Then turning toward the
assembly:

"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."

"The Cardinal shall pay the fiddlers," added Gondi.

The young men applauded with a laugh; and all reascended to the ballroom
as lightly as they would have gone to the battlefield.



CHAPTER XXI

THE CONFESSIONAL

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.

It was eight o'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.

"Ah, Santa Maria!  what villainous countries are these of the North!"
said a woman's voice, trembling.  "Ah, the duchy of Mantua!  would I were
back there again, Grandchamp!"

"Pshaw!  don't speak so loud," said the old domestic, abruptly.  "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."

"Yes, yes; she has gone in."

"Be silent," said Grandchamp.  "The sound of the clock is cracked.
That's a bad sign."

"That clock has sounded the hour of a rendezvous."

"For me, it sounds like a passing-bell.  But be silent, Laure; here are
three cloaks passing."

They allowed three men to pass.  Grandchamp followed them, made sure of
the road they took, and returned to his seat, sighing deeply.

"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's making love.
It'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."

"Has your master arrived long, 'caro amico'?"

"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."

"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!"

"Come, Italian, wheel about, I tell thee.  Let me hear no more of thy
musical tongue."

"Ah, Santa Maria!  What a harsh voice, dear Grandchamp!  You were much
more amiable at Chaumont, in Turena, when you talked to me of 'miei occhi
neri."

"Hold thy tongue, prattler!  Once more, thy Italian is only good for
buffoons and rope-dancers, or to accompany the learned dogs."

"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!"

And she began to hum:

               Lieti fiori a felici, e ben nate erbe
               Che Madonna pensando premer sole;
               Piaggia ch'ascolti su dolci parole
               E del bel piede alcun vestigio serbe.

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:

"Pretty enough, 'mordieu!' 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--"

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:

              "Ombrose selve, ove'percote il sole
               Che vi fa co'suoi raggi alte a superbe."

"Hum!"  said the worthy old soldier, grumbling.  "I have my feet in the
snow, and a gutter runs down on my head, and there's death at my heart;
and you sing to me of violets, of the sun, and of grass, and of love.
Be silent!"

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.

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.

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--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.

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
--the darkest of them--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'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.

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--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.

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.

"Oh, heavens!  how I tremble, Henri!"  she said as she entered the
confessional; "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, 'tis with her severe air that you know, and which
always makes me weep.  Oh, I am terribly afraid!"

She was silent; Cinq-Mars replied only with a deep sigh.

"How! you do not speak to me!"  she said.

"Are these, then, all your terrors?"  asked Cinq-Mars, bitterly.

"Can I have greater?  Oh, 'mon ami', in what a tone, with what a voice,
do you address me!  Are you angry because I came too late?"

"Too soon, Madame, much too soon, for the things you are to hear--for I
see you are far from prepared for them."

Marie, affected at the gloomy and bitter tone of his voice, began to
weep.

"Alas, what have I done," she said, "that you should call me Madame, and
treat me thus harshly?"

"Be tranquil," replied Cinq-Mars, but with irony in his tone.  "'Tis not,
indeed, you who are guilty; but I--I alone; not toward you, but for you."

"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!"

"What!"  said Cinq-Mars, "are you as nothing in my designs?  Did I
misconstrue your thoughts when you looked at me in the Queen'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?"

Marie burst into tears.

"You still speak to me with bitterness," she said; "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."

"Touching and invincible constraint to make you accept a throne," said
Cinq-Mars, bitterly.  "I well conceive you must need some efforts to
resist such seductions; but first, Madame, I must release you from your
vows."

"Alas, great Heaven!  what is there, then, against us?"

"There is God above us, and against us," replied Henri, in a severe tone;
"the King has deceived me."

There was an agitated movement on the part of the Abbe.

Marie exclaimed, "I foresaw it; this is the misfortune I dreamed and
dreamed of!  It is I who caused it?"

"He deceived me, as he pressed my hand," continued Cinq-Mars; "he
betrayed me by the villain Joseph, whom an offer has been made to me to
poniard."

The Abbe gave a start of horror which half opened the door of the
confessional.

"O father, fear nothing," said Henri d'Effiat; "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--a sacred duty--
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."

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.

"Restore this nuptial ring to the Duchesse de Mantua," said Cinq-Mars,
in a tone less firm; "I can not keep it unless she give it me a second
time, for I am not the same whom she promised to espouse."

The priest hastily seized the ring, and passed it through the opposite
grating; this mark of indifference astonished Cinq-Mars.

"What!  Father," he said, "are you also changed?"

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:

"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!"

"He has betrayed me, I tell you," answered Cinq-Mars.  "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."

"What means?"  said Marie.

"The treaty with Spain was in my hand; I signed it."

"Ah, heavens! destroy it."

"It is gone."

"Who bears it?"

"Fontrailles."

"Recall him."

"He will, ere this, have passed the defiles of Oleron," said Cinq-Mars,
rising up.  "All is ready at Madrid, all at Sedan.  Armies await me,
Marie--armies!  Richelieu is in the midst of them.  He totters; it needs
but one blow to overthrow him, and you are mine forever--forever the wife
of the triumphant Cinq-Mars."

"Of Cinq-Mars the rebel," she said, sighing.

"Well, have it so, the rebel; but no longer the favorite.  Rebel,
criminal, worthy of the scaffold, I know it," cried the impassioned
youth, falling on his knees; "but a rebel for love, a rebel for you,
whom my sword will at last achieve for me."

"Alas, a sword imbrued in the blood of your country!  Is it not a
poniard?"

"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."

"I can not," she said; "for I am your wife, whatever you be."

"You hear her, father!"  exclaimed Cinq-Mars, transported with happiness;
"bless this second union, the work of devotion, even more beautiful than
that of love.  Let her be mine while I live."

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.

"Where are you going?  What is the matter?"  he cried.

But no one answered.

"Do not call out, in the name of Heaven!"  said Marie, "or I am lost; he
has doubtless heard some one in the church."

But D'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.

"Now let him go," said a voice at the corner of the street; and at the
same moment was heard the galloping of horses.

"Grandchamp, wilt thou answer?"  cried Cinq-Mars.

"Help, Henri, my dear boy!"  exclaimed the voice of the Abbe Quillet.

"Whence come you?  You endanger me," said the grand ecuyer, approaching
him.

But he saw that his poor tutor, without a hat in the falling snow, was in
a most deplorable condition.

"They stopped me, and they robbed me," he cried.  "The villains, the
assassins!  they prevented me from calling out; they stopped my mouth
with a handkerchief."

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.

"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."

"How!  just now?"  said Cinq-Mars; "and why did you quit us?"

"Quit you!  why, they have kept me there two hours."

"Two hours!"  cried Henri, terrified.

"Ah, miserable old man that I am!"  said Grandchamp; "I have slept while
my master was in danger.  It is the first time."

"You were not with us, then, in the confessional?"  continued Cinq-Mars,
anxiously, while Marie tremblingly pressed against his arm.

"What!"  said the Abbe, "did you not see the rascal to whom they gave my
key?"

"No!  whom?"  cried all at once.

"Father Joseph," answered the good priest.

"Fly!  you are lost!"  cried Marie.



ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

They have believed me incapable because I was kind
They tremble while they threaten





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