“No,” replied Richelieu, loosing the reins to let Sully run to his goal.
“Then listen,” said that supreme calculator, who had reduced everything to the science of numbers. “First: King Henri IV was born fourteen centuries, fourteen decades, and fourteen years after the nativity of Our Lord Jesus. Second: his first day was December 14 and his last May 14. Third: there were fourteen letters in his name, Henri de Navarre. Fourth: he lived four times fourteen years, four times fourteen days and fourteen weeks. Fifth: he was wounded by Jean Chatel in 1594, fourteen days after December 14, between which and the time of his death was fourteen years, fourteen months, and fourteen times five days. Sixth: he won the Battle of Ivry on March 14. Seventh: Monsieur le Dauphin, who is now the reigning king, was baptized on August 14. Eighth: the king was killed on May 14, fourteen centuries and fourteen lustrums since the incarnation. Ninth: Ravaillac was executed fourteen days after the king’s death. Tenth and finally: one hundred fifteen times fourteen is 1610, the year in which he died.”
“Yes,” said Richelieu, “that is both curious and strange. But everyone has a magic number. This Dame de Coëtman,” he continued, “did she not also address you directly, Monsieur le Duc?”
Sully looked down. “Even the best and most devoted have their blind spots. I did mention her to the king. But the king just shrugged and said, ‘What would you have, Rosny’—he continued to use my birth name though he’d made me Duc de Sully—‘What would you have, Rosny? It’s all in God’s hands.’”
“This warning came in the form of a letter, did it not, Monsieur le Duc?”
“Yes.”
“To whom was this letter addressed?”
“To me, to be passed on to the king.”
“Who did it come from?”
“From the Dame de Coëtman.”
“Did another copy come from another woman?”
“From Mademoiselle de Gournay.”
“Then I must ask you, Monsieur le Duc—and I do so in the name and the honor of France. . . .”
Sully nodded, indicating that he was ready to answer.
“. . . This letter, why did you not pass it on to the king?”
“Because it openly accused Queen Marie de Médicis, Épernon, and Concini.”
“This letter, Monsieur le Duc—did you keep it?”
“No, I gave it up.”
“May I ask to whom?”
“To the one who brought it—to Mademoiselle de Gournay.”
“Do you have any reluctance, Monsieur le Duc, to write me the following note: ‘Mademoiselle de Gournay is authorized to deliver to Monsieur le Cardinal de Richelieu the letter sent on May 11, 1610, from the Dame de Coëtman to the Duc de Sully’?”
“No, if Mademoiselle de Gournay refuses you. But she won’t, as she is poor and in need, so it’s unlikely you’ll need my authorization.”
“But if I do?”
“Send me a messenger and he’ll return with the note.”
“Now, one final matter, Monsieur de Sully, and you will have earned my heartfelt gratitude.”
Sully bowed.
“In the house of Joly de Fleury, at the corner of Rue Saint-Honoré and Rue des Bons-Enfants, behind a brick in the wall, was hidden the process verbal of Ravaillac to Parliament.”
“No: that document had been kept in the Palais de Justice, where it was destroyed in a fire. What Joly de Fleury had was the statement Ravaillac dictated at the scaffold, in between the tongs and the molten lead.”
“That statement is no longer in the Fleury family’s hands.”
“It was, in fact, given up by Monsieur de Fleury before he died.”
“You know that for certain?” asked Richelieu.
“Yes.”
“You know it!” he cried, unable to suppress a gesture of joy. “So, then, you can tell me where it is? This sheet, it would be my saving grace. It is nothing less than the glory, the grandeur, and the honor of France—it is everything! In the name of Heaven, tell me I may have it.”
“Impossible.”
“Impossible? Why?”
“I have sworn a vow.”
The cardinal rose. “If the Duc de Sully has sworn a vow, then I must honor the oath of the Duc de Sully. But in truth,” he said, “this may be fatal for France.”
And, without attempting to appeal to Sully by so much as a single word, he bowed deeply, receiving from the old minister in return a polite but moderate salute, and withdrew, beginning to doubt in that Providence that Father Joseph had promised would help him.
XXVI
The Cardinal in His Dressing Gown
At about seven in the morning, the cardinal returned to his house in the Place Royale and discharged his chair porters, who found themselves well paid and were therefore satisfied with their night. He slept for two hours and then went down to his study, in his dressing gown and slippers, at about half past nine.
This office, where he worked twelve to fourteen hours a day, was the center of Richelieu’s world. He broke for lunch with his confessor, along with his cronies, clowns, and hangers-on. Then back to his study, where he would nap on his couch, which was as large as a bed, when politics kept him too long at his desk. He usually had dinner with his niece.
No one was allowed in his study, which was full of state secrets, unless Richelieu was there, the exception being Charpentier, his secretary, whom he trusted as he did himself. Once inside, Charpentier would unlock all the connecting doors, except for the one which led to Marion Delorme’s house, of which only Richelieu had the key.
Cavois had been indiscreet enough to say that sometimes, instead of going up to sleep in his bedchamber, the cardinal would rest in his clothes on the couch in his office. And once, during the night, Cavois had heard the cardinal conversing with someone else, a voice he’d recognized as a woman’s.
Word quickly got around, and the gossips all said that the woman had to be Marion Delorme, who was barely eighteen and was then in the flower of her youthful beauty. She was said to pass through the wall like a fairy, or like a sylph through a keyhole, and to talk with the cardinal about matters that had nothing to do with politics.
But no one had ever actually seen her within the cardinal’s house.
However, we who have entered the notorious office and know all its secrets are already aware that it had a private mailbox which the cardinal used to correspond with his beautiful neighbor. Marion Delorme had no need to come to the cardinal, nor the cardinal to go to Marion.
That day, he seems to have had something to tell her, for upon entering his study he wrote two lines on a piece of paper, opened the near side of the private mailbox, slipped the sheet within, rang the bell, and closed his door.
This sheet, as we can report to our readers, from whom we have nothing to hide, contained the following question: “How many times in the last week has the Comte de Moret visited Madame de la Montagne? Is he faithful or unfaithful? In short, what do we know about him?”
It was signed, as usual, “Armand.” However, both handwriting and signature were disguised, and had nothing in common with the handwriting and signature of the great minister.
Then he called Charpentier and asked who was waiting in the antechamber. “The Reverend Father Mulot, Monsieur de Lafollone, and Monsieur de Bois-Robert,” the secretary replied.
“Very well,” said Richelieu, “have them come in.”
We’ve said that the cardinal usually had lunch with his confessor, his cronies, clowns, and hangers-on, and perhaps our readers were surprised to find His Eminence’s confessor in such company, but Father Mulot wasn’t one of these stuffy clerics who burdened his penitents with litanies of pater nosters and ave marias.
No, Father Mulot was, above all else, the cardinal’s friend. Eleven years earlier, after the assassination of the Maréchal d’Ancre, Concino Concini, when the queen mother was exiled to Blois and the young Richelieu, who was then Bishop of Luçon, to Avignon, Father Mulot had done something extraordinary. Either o
ut of friendship for Richelieu or from confidence in his genius to come, Mulot had sold everything he owned, raising three or four thousand crowns, then brought all this money and placed it in the hands of the cardinal-to-be. Thereafter, he became one of Richelieu’s closest and most outspoken advisers.
And he was a good courtier, though on the subject of bad wine he was quite insufferable. One day while dining at the house of Monsieur d’Alaincourt, the Governor of Lyon, he was outraged by the wine that was put before them. He called over the servant who’d brought it, grabbed him by the ear, and said, “My friend, only a scoundrel would serve such wine to his master. Maybe he doesn’t know any better, but I do, so take away this swill and bring us some decent wine.”
As an enthusiast of the vine, the worthy chaplain had earned a nose like that of Bardolph, the jolly companion of England’s Henry V, so red it could almost serve as a lantern. One day, when he was still Bishop of Luçon, Richelieu was trying on some beaver hats, and asked Father Mulot what he thought. “Do you think this one suits me?” he asked.
“It would match your robes better, Your Grandeur,” Bois-Robert had interrupted, “if it was the same color as your confessor’s nose.”
The stalwart Mulot had never forgiven Bois-Robert this little jest.
The second guest waiting on the cardinal was a gentleman of Touraine named Lafollone. He was a sort of watchdog the king had given the cardinal to make sure no one bothered him unnecessarily or disturbed him with trivial matters. This Lafollone was as great an eater as Mulot was a drinker, and to watch the one drink and the other eat was one of the cardinal’s daily amusements. Indeed, Lafollone thought of nothing but the table. When others said it was a good day for a walk, a nice day for a hunt, or good weather for a swim, he always replied that it was a good day to eat. The cardinal had other guardians, but with Lafollone around he never needed a taster.
The third guest, or rather the third person waiting on the cardinal, was François Le Métel de Bois-Robert, one of his literary collaborators as well as his jester. Though no one could say why, Bois-Robert was always irritable. He had come from Rouen, where he’d been a lawyer, but had left that city after having been accused by a woman of fathering her two children. Upon arriving in Paris, he first attached himself to Cardinal du Perron, but then decided he’d rather enter the service of Cardinal Richelieu. But, as we said, he was an irritable man, whose tongue was sharp when he wasn’t accorded the respect he thought he deserved. “Eh, Monsieur,” he said one day to the cardinal, “you let dogs eat the crumbs from your table. Am I worse than a dog?”
This humility disarmed the cardinal, who took Bois-Robert into his friendship, and soon found he couldn’t do without him. When the cardinal was in a good mood, he called him “Le Bois” for short, repeating a joke made by Monsieur de Châteauneuf about the wood that comes from Normandy.
Bois-Robert was the cardinal’s morning paper: thanks to him, the cardinal knew everything that was happening in the republic of letters he was nurturing. Bois-Robert, who had a great heart beneath his prickly exterior, guided the cardinal’s hand in his efforts as a patron of the arts, sometimes even forcing that hand to open when it was clenched due to hostility or jealousy. Bois-Robert, in his way, helped Richelieu rise above hostility, and convinced him that the powerful should put themselves beyond jealousy.
One understands how, given the eternal tension of politics, the continual threat of conspiracy, and his endless struggle against the enemies who surrounded him, the cardinal needed from time to time to escape into levity. It was almost, for him, a matter of mental health: for the bow that is strung too tight can break.
It was especially after nights like the one he’d just endured that the cardinal sought the company of these three, who afforded him a few moments of rest from his duties, his cares, and his labors. Moreover, besides the tales he anticipated from the witty and energetic Bois-Robert, he hoped to be able to learn from him where he could find what remained of the former Demoiselle de Gournay.
As soon as his letter to Marion Delorme was deposited in their private mailbox, as we’ve said, he ordered Charpentier to admit his three guests.
Charpentier opened the door. Bois-Robert and Lafollone deferred to each other, each desiring the other to enter first, but Mulot, who seemed to be in a bad mood, pushed both aside and entered before them.
He had a letter in his hand. “Oh, ho!” said the cardinal. “What have you there, my dear abbot?”
“What have I here?” Mulot cried, stamping his foot. “What I have here makes me furious!”
“And why is that?”
“Those who wrote this will never write me another!”
“Who?”
“The ones who write to me on your behalf!”
“Bon Dieu! What have they put in this letter?”
“What’s in the letter is not the problem. In fact, for a letter from some of your people, it’s quite polite for a change.”
“What’s the problem, then?”
“The way it’s addressed! You know perfectly well I’m your confessor, not your almoner, since if I ever consent to be someone’s almoner, it’ll be for someone more important than you. I am a Canon of Sainte-Chapelle!”
“So, how was this addressed?”
“They wrote: To Monsieur Mulot, Almoner to His Eminence—the dolts!”
“Well,” said the cardinal, laughing, as he’d expected some such response, “what if it was me who addressed the letter?”
“If it was you, then I am astonished. Though it wouldn’t be, God knows, the first nonsense you’ve ever perpetrated.”
“It’s good to know just what sort of thing irritates you.”
“This doesn’t irritate me; it infuriates me!”
“All the better!”
“Why all the better?”
“Because you’re so amusing when you’re angry. And since I love to see you angry, I will address you from now on as Monsieur Mulot, Almoner to His Eminence.”
“Just try it, and you’ll see.”
“I’ll see what?”
“You’ll see me leave you to eat lunch by yourself.”
“I’ll just send Cavois to fetch you.”
“I’ll refuse to eat.”
“He’ll force you to eat.”
“I won’t drink, either.”
“He’ll shove bottles of Romanée, Clos-Vougeot, and Chambertin right up your nose.”
“Quiet, you!” Mulot cried, overwhelmed with fury and advancing on the cardinal with clenched fists. “You, why, I’ll tell the world you’re a—a terrible man!”
“Mulot! Mulot!” The cardinal was overcome with laughter at Mulot, who was beside himself. “Take care, or you’ll find yourself hanged!”
“Hanged? On what pretext?”
“On the pretext that you reveal the secrets of the confessional!” The other guests burst out laughing as Mulot tore the letter in pieces and threw them into the fire.
During this incident, the servants had brought in a table already set. “Ah, let’s find out what’s for lunch,” said Lafollone, “and see if there’s anything that will tempt a gentleman who’s already had an excellent breakfast.” Raising the covers of the dishes one after another, he said, “Ah-ha! White capons royale, a sausage of plovers and larks, two roasted woodcocks, mushrooms stuffed with Provençale crayfish à la Bordeaux—one could have lunch with that, in a pinch.”
“Eh, pardieu!” Mulot said. “As to food, there will always be plenty of that. Everyone knows the cardinal indulges in all the mortal sins, especially gluttony, but let’s see what he has to offer us in the way of wine. H’mm, a Bouzy red, a Bordeaux grand cru—excellent for those who suffer from stomachache, like all the wines of Bordeaux. Long live the wines of Burgundy! A Pommard, a moulin-à-vent . . . could be better, I suppose, but it will do.”
“So, abbot, for lunch we have champagne, Bordeaux, and burgundy, and that isn’t enough for you?”
“I’m not saying it isn’t enough,?
?? Mulot said in a conciliatory tone; “I’m just saying the choices could be better.”
“Are you lunching with us, Le Bois?” asked the cardinal.
“Your Eminence will excuse me. You asked me to come by this morning but said nothing of lunch, so I’ve already eaten with Racan, whom I met sitting with his heels up on the corner of Rue Vieille-du-Temple and Rue Saint-Antoine.”
“The devil you say! Come to the table, Mulot, take a seat, Lafollone, be quiet and listen, as Monsieur Le Bois is going to regale us with some pretty tale.”
“The tale, the tale,” Lafollone said. “I’m not the one to interrupt you.”
“I raise this glass of Pommard to your tale, Master Le Bois,” said Mulot, still a trifle cross. “I hope this one is better than usual.”
“I’m not here to amuse you,” said Bois-Robert. “I speak only the truth.”
“The truth,” said the cardinal, “is that it’s just like you to be sitting with your heels up on a street corner at half past eight in the morning!”
“Monseigneur shall judge for himself. Your Eminence knows that Malherbe lives not a hundred paces from here, in the Rue des Tournelles.”
“I’m aware of that,” said the cardinal, who ate very little because of his bad stomach, and thus could talk while eating.
“Well! It seems that last night he was carousing with Ivrande and Racan at his place, and all three ended up sleeping, dead drunk, in Malherbe’s bedchamber. Racan is the first to awaken—he had business at an early hour. He gets up and puts on Ivrande’s trunk-hose for trousers without noticing the mistake, puts on Ivrande’s shoes into the bargain, washes his face, and leaves. Five minutes later Ivrande wakes up and can’t find his shoes. ‘Mordieu!’ he says to Malherbe. ‘I’ll bet that absent-minded Racan took them!’ So Ivrande puts on Malherbe’s breeches, despite the poet’s protests from his bed, and races off after Racan, whom he can see going down the street in clothes far too large for him.
“Ivrande catches up to Racan and demands the return of his clothes. ‘My faith, you’re right!’ Racan tells him. And without further ado, as I’ve had the honor to tell Your Eminence, he sits down on the corner of Rue Saint-Antoine and Rue Vieille-du-Temple, in the view of all the passersby of Paris, takes off his pants and shoes and trades them with Ivrande.