“Well! was it for happiness they wept?”
“No, but for love, and they vowed to each other a thousand tendernesses, which the king asks no better to keep. Now this letter is a beginning of the execution.”
“And what does His Eminence think of this love, which is, by the by, no secret to anybody?”
Bernouin took the gentleman by the arm, and whilst ascending the staircase—“In confidence,” said he, in a low voice, “His Eminence looks for success in the affair. I know very well we shall have war with Spain; but, bah! war will please the nobles. My Lord Cardinal, besides, can endow his niece royally, nay, more than royally. There will be money, festivities, and fireworks—everybody will be delighted.”
“Well, for my part,” replied the gentleman, shaking his head, “it appears to me that this letter is very light to contain all that.”
“My friend,” replied Bernouin, “I am certain of what I tell you. M. d’Artagnan related all that passed to me.”
“Ay, ay! and what did he tell you? Let us hear.”
“I accosted him by asking him, on the part of the cardinal, if there were any news, without discovering my designs, observe, for M. d’Artagnan is a cunning hand. ‘My dear Monsieur Bernouin,’ he replied, ‘the king is madly in love with Mademoiselle de Mancini, that is all I have to tell you.’ And then I asked him: ‘Do you think, to such a degree that it will urge him to act contrary to the designs of His Eminence?’ ‘Ah! don’t ask me,’ said he; ‘I think the king capable of anything; he has a will of iron, and what he wills he wills in earnest. If he takes it into his head to marry Mademoiselle de Mancini, he will marry her, depend upon it.’ And thereupon he left me and went straight to the stables, took a horse, saddled it himself, jumped upon its back, and set off as if the devil were at his heels.”
“So that you believe, then—”
“I believe that Monsieur the lieutenant of the Guards knew more than he was willing to say.”
“In you opinion, then, M. d’Artagnan—”
“Is gone, according to all probability, after the exiles, to carry out all that can facilitate the success of the king’s love.”
Chatting thus, the two confidants arrived at the door of His Eminence’s apartment. His Eminence’s gout had left him; he was walking about his chamber in a state of great anxiety, listening at doors and looking out of windows. Bernouin entered, followed by the gentleman, who had orders from the king to place the letter in the hands of the cardinal himself. Mazarin took the letter, but before opening it, he got up a ready smile, a smile of circumstance, able to throw a veil over emotions of whatever sort they might be. So prepared, whatever was the impression received from the letter, no reflection of that impression was allowed to transpire upon his countenance.
“Well,” said he, when he had read and reread the letter, “very well, Monsieur. Inform the king that I thank him for his obedience to the wishes of the queen-mother, and that I will do everything for the accomplishment of his will.”
The gentleman left the room. The door had scarcely closed before the cardinal, who had no mask for Bernouin, took off that which had so recently covered his face, and with a most dismal expression—“Call M. de Brienne,” said he. Five minutes afterward the secretary entered.
“Monsieur,” said Mazarin, “I have just rendered a great service to the monarchy, the greatest I have ever rendered it. You will carry this letter, which proves it, to Her Majesty the queen-mother, and when she shall have returned it to you, you will lodge it in portfolio B, which is filed with documents and papers relative to my ministry.”
Brienne went as desired, and, as the letter was unsealed, did not fail to read it on his way. There is likewise no doubt that Bernouin, who was on good terms with everybody, approached so near to the secretary as to be able to read the letter over his shoulder; so that the news spread with such activity through the castle, that Mazarin might have feared it would reach the ears of the queen-mother before M. de Brienne could convey Louis XIV’s letter to her. A moment after orders were given for departure, and M. de Condé having been to pay his respects to the king on his pretended rising, inscribed the city of Poitiers upon his tablets, as the place of sojourn and rest for Their Majesties.
Thus in a few instants was unraveled an intrigue which had covertly occupied all the diplomacies of Europe. It had nothing, however, very clear as a result, but to make a poor lieutenant of Musketeers lose his commission and his fortune. It is true, that in exchange he gained his liberty. We shall soon know how M. d’Artagnan profited by this. For the moment, if the reader will permit us, we shall return to the hostelry of les Medici, of which one of the windows opened at the very moment the orders were given for the departure of the king.
The window that opened was that of one of the rooms of Charles II. The unfortunate prince had passed the night in bitter reflections, his head resting on his hands, and his elbows on the table, whilst Parry, infirm and old, wearied in body and in mind, had fallen asleep in a corner. A singular fortune was that of this faithful servant, who saw beginning for the second generation the fearful series of misfortunes which had weighed so heavily on the first. When Charles II had well thought over the fresh defeat he had experienced, when he perfectly comprehended the complete isolation into which he had just fallen, on seeing his fresh hope left behind him, he was seized as with a vertigo, and sank back into the large armchair in which he was
