“At forty millions, five hundred and sixty thousand, two hundred livres, nine cents, eight farthings,” replied Colbert.
The cardinal heaved a deep sigh, and looked at Colbert with wonder, but he allowed a smile to steal across his lips.
“Known money,” added Colbert, in reply to that smile.
The cardinal gave quite a start in bed. “What do you mean by that?” said he.
“I mean,” said Colbert, “that besides those forty millions, five hundred and sixty thousand, two hundred livres, nine cents, eight farthings, there are thirteen millions that are not known.”
“Ouf!” sighed Mazarin, “what a man!”
At this moment, the head of Bernouin appeared through the embrasure of the door.
“What is it?” asked Mazarin, “and why do you disturb me?”
“The Théatin father, Your Eminence’s director, was sent for this evening; and he cannot come again to my lord till after tomorrow.”
Mazarin looked a Colbert, who rose and took his hat, saying: “I shall come again, my lord.”
Mazarin hesitated. “No, no,” said he; “I have as much business to transact with you as with him. Besides, you are my other confessor—and what I have to say to one the other may hear. Remain where you are, Colbert.”
“But my lord, if there be no secret of penitence, will the director consent to my being here?”
“Do not trouble yourself about that; come into the ruelle.”
“I can wait outside, Monseigneur.”
“No, no, it will do you good to hear the confession of a rich man.”
Colbert bowed and went into the ruelle.
“Introduce the Théatin father,” said Mazarin, closing the curtains.
45
Confession of a Man of Wealth
The Théatin entered deliberately, without being too much astonished at the noise and agitation which anxiety for the cardinal’s health had raised in his household. “Come in, my Reverend Father,” said Mazarin, after a last look at the ruelle, “come in and console me.”
“That is my duty, my lord,” replied the Théatin.
“Begin by sitting down, and making yourself comfortable, for I am going to begin with a general confession; you will afterwards give me a good absolution, and I shall believe myself more tranquil.”
“My lord,” said the father, “you are not so ill as to make a general confession urgent—and it will be very fatiguing—take care.”
“You suspect, then, that it may be long, Father?”
“How can I think it otherwise, when a man has lived so completely as Your Eminence has done?”
“Ah! that is true!—yes—the recital may be long.”
“The mercy of God is great,” snuffled the Théatin.
“Stop,” said Mazarin; “there I begin to terrify myself with having allowed so many things to pass which the Lord might reprove.”
“Is that not always so?” said the Théatin naively, removing further from the lamp his thin pointed face, like that of a mole. “Sinners are so forgetful beforehand, and scrupulous when it is too late.”
“Sinners?” replied Mazarin. “Do you use that word ironically, and to reproach me with all the genealogies I have allowed to be made on my account—I—the son of a fisherman, in fact?”1
“Hum!” said the Théatin.
“That is a first sin, Father; for I have allowed myself made to descend from two old Roman consuls, S. Geganius Macerinus 1st, Macerinus 2nd, and Proculus Macerinus 3rd, of whom the Chronicle of Haolander speaks. From Macerinus to Mazarin the proximity was tempting. Macerinus, a diminutive, means leanish, poorish, out of case. Oh! Reverend Father! Mazarini may now be carried to the augmentative Maigre, thin as Lazarus. Look!”—and he showed his fleshless arms.
“In your having been born of a family of fishermen I see nothing injurious to you; for—St. Peter was a fisherman; and if you are a prince of the church, my lord, he was the supreme head of it. Pass on, if you please.”
“So much the more for my having threatened with the Bastille a certain Bounet, a priest of Avignon, who wanted to publish a genealogy of the Casa Mazarini much too marvelous.”
“To be probable?” replied the Théatin.
“Oh! if I had acted up to his idea, Father, that would have been the vice of pride—another sin.”
“It was an excess of wit, and a person is not to be reproached with such sorts of abuses. Pass on, pass on!”
“I was all pride. Look you, Father, I will endeavor to divide that into capital sins.”
“I like divisions, when well made.”
“I am glad of that. You must know that in 1630—alas! that is thirty-one years ago—”
“You were then twenty-nine years old, Monseigneur.”
“A hotheaded age. I was then something of a soldier, and I threw myself at Casal into the arquebusades, to show that I rode on horseback as well as an officer. It is true, I restored peace between the French and the Spaniards. That redeems my sin a little.”
“I see no sin in being able to ride well on horseback,” said the Théatin; “that is in perfect good taste, and does honor to our gown. As a Christian, I approve of your having prevented the effusion of blood; as a monk, I am proud of the bravery a monk has exhibited.”
Mazarin bowed his head humbly. “Yes,” said he, “but the consequences?”
“What consequences?”
“Eh! that damned sin of pride has roots without end. From the time that I threw myself in that manner between two armies, that I had smelt powder and faced lines of soldiers, I have held generals a little in contempt.”
“Ah!” said the father.
“There is the evil; so that I have not found one endurable since that time.”
“The fact is,” said the Théatin, “that the generals we have had have not been remarkable.”
“Oh!” cried Mazarin, “there was Monsieur le Prince. I have tormented him thoroughly!”
“He is not much to be pitied: he has acquired sufficient glory, and sufficient wealth.”
“That may be, for Monsieur le Prince; but M. Beaufort, for example—whom I held suffering so long in the dungeon of Vincennes?”
“Ah! but he was a rebel, and the safety of the state required that you should make a sacrifice. Pass on!”
“I believe I have exhausted pride.
