“What do you think Monck wishes to do, then?”
“Eh! sire, if I knew that, I would not tell you to mistrust him, for I should be stronger than he; but with him, I am afraid to guess—to guess!—you understand my word?—for if I thought I had guessed, I should stop at an idea, and, in spite of myself, should pursue that idea. Since that man has been in power yonder, I am like one of the damned in Dante whose neck Satan has twisted, and who walk forward, looking behind them. I am traveling towards Madrid, but I never lose sight of London. To guess, with that devil of a man, is to deceive one’s self and to deceive one’s self is to ruin one’s self. God keep me from ever seeking to guess what he aims at; I confine myself to watching what he does, and that is well enough. Now I believe—you observe the meaning of the word I believe?—I believe, with respect to Monck, ties one to nothing—I believe that he has a strong inclination to succeed Cromwell. Your Charles II has already caused proposals to be made to him by ten persons; he has satisfied himself with driving these ten meddlers from his presence, without saying anything to them but, ‘Begone, or I will have you hung.’ That man is a sepulcher! At this moment Monck is affecting devotion to the Rump Parliament; of this devotion, I am not the dupe. Monck has no wish to be assassinated—an assassination would stop him in the middle of his operations; and his work must be accomplished;—so I believe—but do not believe what I believe, sire: for as I say I believe from habit—I believe that Monck is keeping on friendly terms with the parliament till the day comes for dispersing it. You are asked for swords, but they are to fight against Monck. God preserve you from fighting against Monck, sire; for Monck would beat us, and I should never console myself after being beaten by Monck. I should say to myself, Monck has foreseen that victory ten years. For God’s sake, sire, out of friendship for you, if not out of consideration for himself, let Charles II keep quiet. Your Majesty will give him a little income here; give him one of your châteaux. Yes, yes—wait awhile. But I forgot the treaty—that famous treaty of which we were just now speaking. Your Majesty has not even the right to give him a château.”
“How is that?”
“Yes, yes; Your Majesty is bound not to grant hospitality to King Charles, and to compel him to leave France even. It was on this account we forced him to quit you, and yet here he is again. Sire, I hope you will give your brother to understand that he cannot remain with us; that it is impossible he should be allowed to compromise us; or I myself—”
“Enough, my lord,” said Louis XIV, rising. “In refusing me a million, perhaps you may be right; your millions are your own. In refusing me two hundred gentlemen, you are still further in the right; for you are prime minister, and you have, in the eyes of France, the responsibility of peace and war. But that you should pretend to prevent me, who am king, from extending my hospitality to the grandson of Henry IV, to my cousin-german, to the companion of my childhood—there your power stops, and there begins my will.”
“Sire,” said Mazarin, delighted at being let off so cheaply, and who had, besides, only fought so earnestly to arrive at that—“sire, I shall always bend before the will of my king. Let my king, then, keep near him, or in one of his châteaux, the king of England; let Mazarin know it, but let not the minister know it.”
“Good night, my lord,” said Louis XIV, “I go away in despair.”
“But convinced, and that is all I desire, sire,” replied Mazarin.
The king made no answer, and retired quite pensive, convinced, not of all Mazarin had told him, but of one thing which he took care not to mention to him; and that was, that it was necessary for him to study seriously both his own affairs and those of Europe, for he found them very difficult and very obscure. Louis found the king of England seated in the same place where he had left him. On perceiving him, the English prince arose; but at the first glance he saw discouragement written in dark letters upon his cousin’s brow. Then, speaking first, as if to facilitate the painful avowal that Louis had to make to him—
“Whatever it may be,” said he, “I shall never forget all the kindness, all the friendship you have exhibited towards me.”
“Alas!” replied Louis, in a melancholy tone, “only barren goodwill, my brother.”
Charles II became extremely pale; he passed his cold hand over his brow, and struggled for a few instants against a faintness that made him tremble. “I understand,” said he at last; “no more hope!”
Louis seized the hand of Charles II. “Wait, my brother,” said he; “precipitate nothing; everything may change; hasty resolutions ruin all causes; add another year of trial, I implore you, to the years you have already undergone. You have, to induce
