“But Lord Montrose,” replied the queen, “I have heard of his great and rapid successes of battles gained. I heard it said that he was marching to the frontier to join the king.”
“Yes, Madame; but on the frontier he was met by Lesly; he had tried victory by means of superhuman undertakings. Now victory has abandoned him. Montrose, beaten at Philiphaugh, was obliged to disperse the remains of his army and to fly, disguised as a servant. He is at Bergen, in Norway.”
“Heaven preserve him!” said the queen. “It is at least a consolation to know that some who have so often risked their lives for us are safe. And now, my lord, that I see how hopeless the position of the king is, tell me with what you are charged on the part of my royal husband.”
“Well, then, Madame,” said de Winter, “the king wishes you to try and discover the dispositions of the king and queen toward him.”
“Alas! you know that even now the king is but a child and the queen a woman weak enough. Here, Monsieur Mazarin is everything.”
“Does he desire to play the part in France that Cromwell plays in England?”
“Oh, no! He is a subtle, conscienceless Italian, who though he very likely dreams of crime, dares not commit it; and unlike Cromwell, who disposes of both Houses, Mazarin has had the queen to support him in his struggle with the parliament.”
“More reason, then, he should protect a king pursued by parliament.”
The queen shook her head despairingly.
“If I judge for myself, my lord,” she said, “the cardinal will do nothing, and will even, perhaps, act against us. The presence of my daughter and myself in France is already irksome to him; much more so would be that of the king. My lord,” added Henrietta, with a melancholy smile, “it is sad and almost shameful to be obliged to say that we have passed the winter in the Louvre without money, without linen, almost without bread, and often not rising from bed because we wanted fire.”
“Horrible!” cried de Winter; “the daughter of Henry IV, and the wife of King Charles! Wherefore did you not apply, then, Madame, to the first person you saw from us?”
“Such is the hospitality shown to a queen by the minister from whom a king demands it.”
“But I heard that a marriage between the Prince of Wales and Mademoiselle d’Orléans was spoken of,” said de Winter.
“Yes, for an instant I hoped it was so. The young people felt a mutual esteem; but the queen, who at first sanctioned their affection, changed her mind, and Monsieur, the Duc d’Orléans, who had encouraged the familiarity between them, has forbidden his daughter to think any more about the union. Oh, my lord!” continued the queen, without restraining her tears, “it is better to fight as the king has done, and to die, as perhaps he will, than live in beggary like me.”
“Courage, Madame! courage! Do not despair! The interests of the French crown, endangered at this moment, are to discountenance rebellion in a neighboring nation. Mazarin, as a statesman, will understand the politic necessity.”
“Are you sure,” said the queen doubtfully, “that you have not been forestalled?”
“By whom?”
“By the Joices, the Prinns, the Cromwells?”
“By a tailor, a coachmaker, a brewer! Ah! I hope, Madame, that the cardinal will not enter into negotiations with such men!”
“Ah! what is he himself?” asked Madame Henrietta.
“But for the honor of the king—of the queen.”
“Well, let us hope he will do something for the sake of their honor,” said the queen. “A true friend’s eloquence is so powerful, my lord, that you have reassured me. Give me your hand and let us go to the minister; and yet,” she added, “suppose he should refuse and that the king loses the battle?”
“His Majesty will then take refuge in Holland, where I hear His Highness the Prince of Wales now is.”
“And can His Majesty count upon many such subjects as yourself for his flight?”
“Alas! no, Madame,” answered de Winter; “but the case is provided for and I am come to France to seek allies.”
“Allies!” said the queen, shaking her head.
“Madame,” replied de Winter, “provided I can find some of my good old friends of former times I will answer for anything.”
“Come then, my lord,” said the queen, with the painful doubt that is felt by those who have suffered much; “come, and may Heaven hear you.”
XXXVII
Cromwell’s Letter
At the very moment when the queen quitted the convent to go to the Palais Royal, a young man dismounted at the gate of this royal abode and announced to the guards that he had something of importance to communicate to Cardinal Mazarin. Although the cardinal was often tormented by fear, he was more often in need of counsel and information, and he was therefore sufficiently accessible. The true difficulty of being admitted was not to be found at the first door, and even the second was passed easily enough; but at the third watched, besides the guard and the doorkeepers, the faithful Bernouin, a Cerberus whom no speech could soften, no wand, even of gold, could charm.
It was therefore at the third door that those who solicited or were bidden to an audience underwent their formal interrogatory.
The young man having left his horse tied to the gate in the court, mounted the great staircase and addressed the guard in the first chamber.
“Cardinal Mazarin?” said he.
“Pass on,” replied the guard.
The cavalier entered the second hall, which was guarded by the musketeers and doorkeepers.
“Have you a letter of audience?” asked a porter, advancing to the new arrival.
“I have one, but not one from Cardinal Mazarin.”
“Enter, and ask for Monsieur Bernouin,” said the porter, opening the door of the third room. Whether he only held his usual post or whether it was by accident, Monsieur Bernouin was found standing
