“The intention is good,” Richelieu said, “but nonetheless, let’s send my doctor Chicot to have a look at this poor devil. Are you sure the Comte de Moret didn’t recognize you?”
“Yes, Monseigneur, quite sure.”
“What was he doing, disguised, at that inn?”
“We may yet find out. Your Eminence, would you care to guess who I met at the corner of the Rue du Plâtre and the Rue de l’Homme-Armé?”
“Who?”
“Disguised as a peasant of the Pyrenees. . . .”
“Tell me instantly, du Tremblay! It’s getting late, and I don’t have time to spare.”
“Madame de Fargis.”
“Madame de Fargis!” the cardinal exclaimed. “And she was coming from the inn?”
“It seems probable.”
“She as a Catalan, he as a Basque. It was a meeting.”
“That’s what I thought—but there’s more than one kind of meeting, Monseigneur. The lady is a libertine, and the young man is the son of Henri IV.”
“It was no love rendezvous, du Tremblay. The count comes from Italy, by way of Piedmont. He had, I’d wager my head, letters to the queen—or even queens. He must take care!” Richelieu said, glowering. “I already have two other sons of Henri IV in prison!”
“In short, Monseigneur, that was my evening. I thought it important enough to report it.”
“With good reason, du Tremblay. And you say this young man is staying with the Duc de Montmorency?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“So he’s in it as well? Has Montmorency forgotten that I’ve already had to behead one of his family? He wants to be constable, like his father and grandfather before him. He already has a rival in Créqui, who thinks he deserves the title because he married a daughter of the Lesdiguières. As if it were so easy to bear the sword of du Guesclin! At least Montmorency is a true knight who values honor. Well, he who wants the constable’s sword must go look for it before the walls of Casale. It’s been a good evening so far, du Tremblay, and I hope to complete it as well.”
“Does Monseigneur have anything else he’d like me to do?”
“Keep an eye, as I’ve said, on the Inn of the Painted Beard, but discreetly. Don’t lose sight of that wounded man until he’s either healed or buried. I thought the Comte de Moret was already busy with another woman than Fargis, who’s already juggling Cramail and Marillac. But if Providence points to her, du Tremblay, that changes the entire affair. But Providence, as you know, doesn’t do everything for us.”
“And on this occasion, we should recall the proverb, or rather the maxim, ‘Heaven helps those who help themselves.’”
“You are bursting with insight, my dear du Tremblay, and I would have been sad to have missed you. Let me just help the pope by ridding him of the Spanish, whom he fears, and the Austrians, whom he hates, and we’ll arrange so that the first red hat that arrives from Rome fits the measurements of your head.”
“If it were not for the size of my head, I would beg Monseigneur just to give me one of his old hats as a sign that, whatever favors heaven brings me, I will always be his servant and never his equal.” And, crossing his hands on his chest, Father Joseph bowed humbly.
At the door he met Cavois, who stood aside to let him leave, as the others had withdrawn upon his arrival. His Gray Eminence having left, Cavois said to the cardinal, “He is here, Monseigneur.”
“Souscarrières?”
“Yes, Monseigneur.”
“He was at home, then?”
“No, but his servant told me he’d be in a gambling den he frequents on Rue Villedot, and in fact, there he was.”
“Have him enter.”
Cavois stood immobile, eyes cast down.
“Well?” asked the cardinal.
“Monseigneur, I wish to ask a favor.”
“Do so, Cavois. You know I esteem you and will do what I can.”
“I only hoped that, once Monsieur Souscarrières departs, I might be permitted to spend the rest of the night at home. Since our return to Paris, Monseigneur, it’s been eight days, or rather eight nights, and I’ve yet to spend one in my own bed.”
“And you’re tired from your duties?”
“No, Monseigneur. But Madame Cavois is tired of sleeping . . . alone.”
“Madame Cavois is amorous, then?”
“Yes, Monseigneur. But it’s her husband she’s amorous for.”
“She would be a good example for the ladies of the Court. Cavois, you may spend the night with your wife.”
“Oh! Thank you, Monseigneur!”
“I authorize you to go and find her.”
“Find Madame Cavois?”
“Yes—and bring her here.”
“Here, Monseigneur? To what end?”
“I’d like to speak with her.”
“Speak? To my wife?” Cavois cried, astonished.
“I have a gift to bestow in recompense for these sleepless nights on my account.”
“A gift?” Cavois said, beyond astonished.
“Bring in Monsieur Souscarrières, Cavois, and while I talk with him, go fetch your wife.”
“But, Monseigneur,” said Cavois, “she’ll have gone to bed.”
“Get her up.”
“She won’t want to come.”
“Take two guards with you.”
Cavois laughed. “Very well, I’ll do it, Monseigneur,” he said, “but I warn you, Madame Cavois says what she thinks, and plenty of it.”
“Good. Candor is all too rare at Court, Cavois.”
“So, Monseigneur’s order is . . . serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious, Cavois.”
“Then Monseigneur will be obeyed.” Cavois, still skeptical, bowed and withdrew.
The cardinal took advantage of his brief solitude to open the panel above his desk. In the same place where he had put his request he found a reply, written with the brevity he required in dispatches:
The Comte de Moret is the lover of Madame de la Montagne, the Seigneur de Souscarrières of Madame de Maugi-ron. The unhappy rival: the Marquis de Pisany.
“It’s astounding,” murmured the cardinal as he closed the panel, “how everything tonight seems to tie together. It’s almost enough to make one believe, like that fool du Tremblay, that there really is a Providence.”
Just then his secretary, Charpentier, assuming the role of a footman or steward, opened the door and announced, “Messire Pierre de Bellegarde, Comte de Montbrun and Seigneur de Souscarrières.”
XIII
In Which Madame Cavois Becomes
Partner to Monsieur Michel
As our readers know, the man announced with such a pompous display of titles was none other than our friend Souscarrières, whose portrait we sketched at the beginning of this volume.
Souscarrières entered with such an air of nonchalance, giving His Eminence such a casual greeting, that it was tantamount to effrontery.
The cardinal cast his gaze about, as if searching for someone who might have entered with Souscarrières.
“Pardon, Monseigneur,” Souscarrières said, putting one foot gallantly forward and posing with his hat in his right hand, “but is Your Eminence looking for something?”
“I’m looking for those other people who were announced along with you, Monsieur Michel.”
“Michel?” repeated Souscarrières, astonished. “Who bears that name?”
“Who? I believe you do, my dear Monsieur.”
“Oh! I mustn’t let Monseigneur make such a grave error. I’m the acknowledged son of Messire Roger de Saint-Larry, Duc de Bellegarde and Grand Equerry of France. My illustrious father still lives and would be happy to so inform you. I am Seigneur de Souscarrières thanks to an estate which I acquired. I was made a marquis by Madame la Duchesse Nicole de Lorraine upon my marriage with the noble Demoiselle Anne de Rogers.”
“My dear Monsieur Michel,” replied Richelieu, “allow me to relate your history. I know it better than you
do, and will instruct you.”
“I’m aware,” Souscarrières said, “that great men such as Your Eminence, after days of hard work, sometimes enjoy an hour of amusement. Blessed are those who can provide such a genius with some amusement, even if it’s at their own expense.”
And Souscarrières, delighted with the compliment he’d concocted, bowed before the cardinal.
“You are wrong from start to finish, Monsieur Michel,” the cardinal continued, stubbornly clinging to that name. “I’m not tired, am in no need of amusement, and wouldn’t take such at your expense. But as I have a proposal for you, I’d like to demonstrate that I do so because of your personal merit, and not because I’m deceived by your purported names and titles.”
The cardinal accompanied this last sentence with one of those wry smiles that, in his moments of good humor, were particular to him.
“Then let Your Eminence speak without any beating around the bush,” said Souscarrières.
“Shall I begin then, Monsieur Michel?”
Souscarrières, in no position to resist, just bowed.
“You know the Rue des Bourdonnais, do you not, Monsieur Michel?” asked the cardinal.
“One would have to be from Cathay not to know of it, Monseigneur.”
“Well! In your youth there was a notable baker who kept the Inn of the Chimneys there. This worthy man, who was a fine cook and whose fare I sampled many times when I was Bishop of Luçon, was named Michel and had the honor to be your father.”
“I thought I’d already mentioned to Your Eminence that I’m the acknowledged son of the Duc de Bellegarde,” insisted the Seigneur de Souscarrières, albeit with less confidence.
“Quite so,” replied the cardinal. “And I can tell you how this recognition came about. This worthy baker had a wife, very pretty, to whom all the gentry who came to the Inn of the Chimneys paid court. One happy day she gave birth to a son. This son was you, my dear Monsieur Michel, and as you were born during a marriage in which your father—or, if you will, your mother’s husband—was still living, you must bear the name of your parents. Remember, my dear Monsieur Michel, that only kings have the right to legitimize the children of adultery.”
“The devil!” muttered Souscarrières.
“Let’s get to your acknowledgement. A pretty child, you became a handsome young man, excelling at athletics, fleet of foot, playing tennis like d’Alichon, and flashing a sword like Fontenay. Having reached such a degree of perfection, you resolved to turn these talents to making your fortune. To commence your campaign, you crossed over to England, where your success at sports won you five hundred thousand francs. Is that accurate?”
“Yes, Monseigneur, give or take a few pistoles.”
“It was there that you had, one morning, a visit from a certain Lalande, who was Tennis Master to His Majesty the King. Here’s what he said, more or less: ‘Pardieu, Monsieur de Souscarrières!’ Ah, pardon me, I forgot—I don’t know why you’ve never liked the name Michel, which is a very pleasant name, but the first time you came into some money, you spent a thousand pistoles to buy a crumbling hovel in the country near Grosbois that went by the name of Souscarrières. Thereafter you were no longer Michel but Souscarrières, and eventually the Seigneur de Souscarrières. I apologize for the long digression, but I think it’s essential to understanding the story.”
Souscarrières bowed.
“So this Lalande said to you, ‘Pardieu, Monsieur de Souscarrières, you’ve done well: you have spirit, you have heart, you excel at sports, and you’re lucky in love. You lack only the advantage of birth. I know one is unable to choose one’s father and mother, or we’d all choose for father a Peer of France and for mother a Duchess of the Queen’s Circle. But when one is wealthy, there are ways to correct these small aberrations of chance.’ I wasn’t there, my dear Monsieur Michel, but I imagine that your eyes widened at this preamble. Lalande continued, ‘You have only to choose, you understand, between all the great nobles who made love to madame your mother, and select the least fastidious. Monsieur de Bellegarde, for example: his heavenly reward is approaching. Your mother will be delighted to make you a gentleman; she need only inform Monsieur le Grand that you’re not the baker’s son but his, and his conscience won’t allow such a fine youth to call the wrong man his father. Since his memory is failing, he won’t even remember if he was her lover or not; he’ll acknowledge you, and that acknowledgement will be worth thirty thousand francs.’ Isn’t that how it went?”
“More or less, Monseigneur. But I must say Your Eminence has overlooked one thing.”
“What’s that? Though my memory may be better than Monsieur de Bellegarde’s, if it’s at fault, I’m ready to acknowledge my mistake.”
“That in addition to the five hundred thousand francs Your Eminence mentioned, I brought back from England the innovation of the sedan chair, and for the last three years I’ve sought the French patent for it.”
“You’re mistaken, dear Monsieur Michel. I’ve forgotten neither that invention nor your application to me for the patent—on the contrary, that’s exactly why I’ve sent for you. But everything in its turn. ‘A proper order,’ says the philosopher, ‘is one-half of genius.’ First let’s discuss your marriage.”
“Couldn’t we skip that, Monseigneur?”
“By no means. Where did you get your title of marquis, if not from the Duchesse Nicole de Lorraine on the occasion of your wedding? At the time, there were many rumors linking you and the worthy duchess, rumors you were careful not to deny, and when she died six months ago, you dressed your five-year-old child in mourning. But everyone has the right to dress their children as they will, so I won’t admonish you for that.”
“Monseigneur is very good,” said Souscarrières.
“Anyway, you returned from Lorraine with a young girl you brought away with you, Mademoiselle Anne de Rogers. You claimed she was the daughter of a grand seigneur, but in fact she was simply the daughter of the duchess. It was on the occasion of your marriage with her that you were, you say, made Marquis de Montbrun; but for that elevation to be valid, it would have to have been Monsieur Michel who was made marquis and not Monsieur de Bellegarde, for an illegitimate son could not be so recognized. Since you don’t have the right to use the name Bellegarde, you couldn’t become a marquis of that name, which is not and cannot be yours.”
“Monseigneur is very hard on me!”
“On the contrary, dear Monsieur Michel, I’m as sweet as syrup, as you’ll see. Madame Michel, who had no idea what circumstance she’d fall into by marrying a man like you—Madame Michel allowed herself to be beguiled by Villaudry. You know Villaudry, the younger son of the man Miossens killed. You caught wind of something going on when you heard she’d given Villaudry a bracelet made from a lock of her hair. You threatened to throw her into the canal of Souscarrières—but you weren’t quite sure of her betrayal, and, as you’re not a bad man at heart, you waited upon further proof. When you had that proof—a letter written entirely in her hand, which left no doubt as to your dishonor—you followed her into the garden, drew your dagger, and told her to pray to God. She could see that this wasn’t like when you’d threatened to throw her into the canal, that this time you were serious. You stabbed twice but fortunately only struck her hand, cutting off two of her fingers. Seeing her blood, you pitied her, spared her life, and sent her back to Lorraine.
“As for Villaudry, because you’d been lenient to your wife, you decided to show him no mercy. You found him at mass at the church of the Minims near the Place Royale and charged in, sword in hand, but he refused to commit sacrilege and kept his own blade in the scabbard. Not that he didn’t want to fight you; he even said, ‘I’d draw on you if I had a reputation to protect, but as I don’t, there’s no reason to fight here.’ And indeed, he then formally called you out, as if you really were the son of Monsieur de Bellegarde, and met you in the Place Royale, the same place where Bouteville fought Beuvron. You carried off the affair extremely well, acce
pting all your opponent’s requirements, then giving him six wounds with the point of your sword and any number of blows with the flat of your blade.
“But Bouteville, too, had carried off his affair extremely well, which didn’t stop me from having him beheaded. I’d have shortened you as well, Monsieur Michel, if you’d really been Pierre de Bellegarde, Marquis de Montbrun, and Seigneur de Souscarrières—because, worse even than Bouteville, you’d drawn your sword in a church, which would have meant cutting off your hands as well as your head. Do you hear me, my dear Monsieur Michel?”
“Pardieu! Yes, Monseigneur, I hear you,” Souscarrières replied. “And I must say that I’ve heard conversations much more welcome than this one.”
“Then it’s just as well you didn’t meet your end that time, although this evening you returned to your former ways with the poor Marquis de Pisany. He must have been mad with rage to get in a fight with a buffoon like you.”
“I didn’t pick a fight with him, Monseigneur; he’s the one who attacked me.”
“Well, at least this poor marquis wasn’t so unlucky as to pick his fight in the Rue de la Cerisaie, where he’d have had to face both you and the Comte de Moret.”
“Monseigneur! What do you know . . .?”
“What I know is that if the point of your sword hadn’t struck his hump and slid down, and that if his ribs didn’t overlap each other like an iron breastplate, you’d have nailed him like a beetle to the wall. You really have a rotten temper, dear Monsieur Michel.”
“I swear, Monseigneur, I wasn’t looking for a fight. Voiture and Brancas will tell you so. I was just overheated from having followed him from the Rue de l’Homme-Armé almost all the way to the Louvre.”
At this mention of the Rue de l’Homme-Armé, Richelieu was suddenly all attention.