The young man followed her, speechless, breathless, bewildered. In the narrow, dark closet, the girl had had no choice but to squeeze up against him, and, although protected by the powerful hand of chastity, she couldn’t prevent the count from becoming drunk on her breath, absorbing through every pore the sensuous scent that emanates from the body of a young woman, the very fragrance of nubile youth.
Before opening the last door, hearing his footsteps approaching, she extended her hand toward the count and said, in a voice not entirely steady, “Monseigneur, be so kind as to wait here. When she wants to receive you, Her Majesty will call.” And she went in to the queen.
This time, Anne of Austria was neither sleeping nor pretending to sleep. “Is that you, dear Isabelle?” she asked, drawing aside the curtain more quickly and rising more eagerly than she had for the king.
“Yes, Madame, it’s me,” the young woman replied, standing so her head was in shadow and the queen couldn’t see the flush that lit up her face.
“You know the king just left?”
“I saw him, Madame.”
“He doubtless suspects.”
“Perhaps, but he can’t be sure.”
“The count is here?”
“In the next chamber.”
“Light a taper and give me a hand mirror.”
Isabelle obeyed, giving the mirror to the queen, and holding the candle to illuminate it.
Anne of Austria was pretty rather than beautiful. Her features were very small, the nose undistinguished, but her skin was clear and she had the glorious blond hair of the Flemish dynasty she shared with Charles V and Philip II. A thorough coquette, she was well aware of its effect on men, even her brother-in-law Monsieur, so she took the trouble to arrange a few locks that had become ruffled, straightened the folds of her long silk robe, and raised herself to pose on one elbow. Returning the mirror to her maid of honor with a smile of thanks, she indicated that she was ready.
Isabelle put the mirror and the candle on the vanity, bowed respectfully, and retired through the door where the queen had told the king her maid of honor was asleep on a couch.
The bedchamber remained lit by the double glow of the candle and a small lamp, both placed so as to shed their rays on the side of the bed where Anne of Austria had spoken to the king, and now waited to give audience to the Comte de Moret.
However, left alone, the queen, before calling him, seemed to be awaiting someone or something. Several times she turned toward the rear of the room, gesturing and muttering impatiently.
Finally, almost together, two doors opened at the back of the room. From one came a young man of twenty, with a lively face, black hair, and hard eyes, which softened into insincerity. He was splendidly attired in white satin, with a red cloak embroidered with gold. He wore the Order of Saint-Esprit at his neck, as shown in contemporary portraits of him, and held a white felt hat decorated with two feathers the color of his cloak.
This young man was Gaston d’Orléans, usually referred to as Monsieur, and according to the scandal-mongers of the Louvre was the particular favorite of his mother because he was the son of the handsome Concino Concini. And anyone who sees the image of the one next to the other, as we did the other day at the Museum of Blois, where hang the portraits of the Maréchal d’Ancre and the second son of Marie de Médicis, would note the extraordinary resemblance between the two that gives credence to that grave accusation.
We said that since the Chalais affair, the king had held Monsieur in contempt. Indeed, Louis XIII did have a kind of conscience—he was sensitive to what was then called the honor of the crown, and is now called the honor of France. His egotism and vanity had, in Richelieu’s hands, been molded from vices into a sort of virtue. But Gaston, both disingenuous and cowardly, had been deeply implicated in the conspiracy of Nantes. He had wanted to enter the King’s Council; and to keep the peace, Richelieu had consented; but when Monsieur wanted to bring with him his adviser, the corrupt Ornano, Richelieu had refused. The young prince had shouted, sworn, stormed, and declared that the Council could either accept Ornano voluntarily or by force. Richelieu, who couldn’t arrest Gaston, instead arrested Ornano. At that, Gaston had burst through the door of the Council, and in a haughty voice demanded to know who had dared to arrest his adviser.
“It was I,” Richelieu calmly responded.
And that would have been the end of it, leaving Gaston seething in quiet shame, if Madame de Chevreuse, at the urging of Spain, had not herself urged Chalais on. Chalais went to Monsieur and offered to rid him of the cardinal. This is what he proposed, or rather whispered, to Gaston: he would go with his followers to dine with Richelieu at his château of Fleury, and there at his table, betray his hospitality by having his men-at-arms assassinate the defenseless priest. For sixty years, Spain had extended its hideous yellow-stained hand in this way to remove anyone great enough to oppose it. In politics, removal means death. Thus she had removed Coligny, William of Nassau, Henri III, Henri IV—and now it was Richelieu’s turn. It was a process as crude as it was effective.
But this time, it failed.
After that incident, Richelieu, like Hercules in the Augean stables, began cleaning the Court of its treacherous princes. The Vendômes, two bastards of Henri IV, were arrested. The Comte de Soissons fled, Madame de Chevreuse was exiled, and the Duc de Longueville was disgraced. As for Monsieur, he signed a confession in which he denounced and renounced his friends. He was then married and enriched, but dishonored.
Chalais bore the shame of the conspiracy alone, and it cost him his head.
And yet Monsieur, already so deep in dishonor, was then only twenty years old.
Entering by the other door, at almost the same time as Monsieur, was a woman of fifty-five or fifty-six, royally dressed, wearing a small gold crown atop her head, a long ermine-trimmed purple robe, and a dress of white satin with gold embroidery. The ensemble was new, but neither beautiful nor distinguished. Her corpulent bulk showed why Henri IV had called her his “fat banker.” Marie de Médicis, resentful and discontented, delighted in intrigue. Though she was the mental inferior of Catherine de Médicis, she eclipsed her in debauchery. If we are to believe all that was said, only one of her children belonged to Henri IV: Henriette, later Queen of England.
But of all her children, she loved none but Gaston. She was willing to advance his interest even if it meant the death of her eldest son, an event she already welcomed as inevitable. As with Catherine de Médicis and her son Henri III, her obsession was to see Gaston on the throne. But Louis XIII hated her as much as she hated him for a more serious charge than that. It was said that she as good as placed the knife in the hands of the assassin Ravaillac, who killed Henri IV. A confession taken from Ravaillac on the wheel had been said to implicate both her and the Duc d’Épernon—but a fire at the Palace of Justice had removed all trace of this confession.
The day before, mother and son had been summoned by Anne of Austria, who informed them that the Comte de Moret, who had arrived in Paris a week earlier, had letters for them from the Duke of Savoy. They came to the queen, as we have seen, by two different doors, which led to their own apartments. If caught, they planned to plead concern for the indisposition of Her Majesty, learned of only at the ballet, an illness that so worried them that they came directly, without even changing their clothes. As for the Comte de Moret, in the event of surprise, he was to hide somewhere. A young man of twenty-two is always easy to hide; Anne of Austria had experience with that sort of conjuring trick.
Meanwhile, the Comte de Moret waited in the next room where he, to the bottom of his heart, thanked God for the delay. How could he appear before the queen troubled and trembling after parting from his unknown guide? The ten-minute reprieve was barely enough to enable him to calm the beating of his heart and steady his voice. From this agitation he passed into a reverie, more sweet than any he’d known before.
All at once, the voice of Anne of Austria made him start and break out of his reverie.
“Count,” she asked, “are you there?”
“Yes, Madame,” replied the count, “here and awaiting the orders of Your Majesty.”
“Come in, then, for we are eager to receive you.”
X
Letters Read Aloud and Letters Read Alone
The Comte de Moret shook his young and graceful head, as if to dispel his dreams, and, pushing open the door before him, stood on the threshold of Anne of Austria’s bedchamber.
We must admit that his first glance, despite the high-ranking people present, was to look for his charming guide, who had left him without ever revealing her face. But though his eyes sought the most obscure corners of the room, eventually he had to give up and set his gaze and mind on the group within the light.
This group, as we’ve said, consisted of the queen mother, the reigning queen, and the Duc d’Orléans.
The queen mother was standing beside the bed; Anne of Austria was upon it; and Gaston was sitting beside his sister-in-law.
The count bowed deeply, advanced toward the bed, and fell on one knee before Anne of Austria, who presented her hand to kiss. Then, stooping to the floor, the young prince touched his lips to the hem of Marie de Médicis’s robe, and finally, still on one knee, turned to Gaston to kiss his hand—but Monsieur lifted him up and said, “Come into my arms, my brother!”
The Comte de Moret, who as a true son of Henri IV had a frank and honest heart, could not believe all that was said of Gaston. He’d been in England during the Chalais conspiracy, and afterward had known Madame de Chevreuse there, who’d been careful in what she’d said about the affair. He’d been in Italy during the siege of La Rochelle, when Gaston had pretended illness to avoid going to the front. And, having avoided the enticements of the Court, he had taken no part in those intrigues which had furthered the jealousies of Marie de Médicis against her husband’s other children.
He thus went joyfully into Gaston’s embrace, honoring his brother with the warmth of his heart.
Then, saluting the queen, he said, “Your Majesty should know, given the joy I feel at admission to the royal presence on his behalf, that I am profoundly grateful to the Duke of Savoy.”
The queen smiled. “Indeed,” she said, “it is for us to be thankful for your kind help to two poor disgraced princesses, one rebuffed from the love of her husband, the other from the affection of her son, beside a brother who’s been refused his brother’s embrace—because you bear, as you say, letters that must bring us consolation.”
The Comte de Moret took three sealed envelopes from his doublet. “This, Madame,” he said, handing a letter to the queen, “is a letter addressed to you from Don Gonzalès de Cordova, Governor of Milan and representative in Italy of His Majesty Philip IV, your august brother. He begs you to use all the influence you have to keep Monsieur de Fargis as ambassador to Madrid.”
“My influence!” repeated the queen. “I might have influence over a king who was a man, but who could have influence over a king who is a ghost but a necromancer such as the cardinal-duke?”
The count bowed, then turned to the queen mother and presented her with a second letter. “As to this note, Madame, all I know is that it’s very important, and in the personal handwriting of the Duke of Savoy. Everything within it is secret, and it was to be given to Your Majesty in person.”
The queen mother took the letter eagerly, opened it, and, as she could not read it where she was, approached the candle and the lamp on the vanity.
“And finally,” continued the Comte de Moret, presenting the third letter to Gaston, “here is a note addressed to Your Highness from Madame Christine, your august sister, who is more beautiful and charming than August itself.”
As each read the letter addressed to him or her, the count took advantage of the time to sweep his gaze once more into every corner of the room—but it held only the two queens, Gaston, and himself.
Marie de Médicis returned to her daughter-in-law’s bedside and said, addressing the count, “Monsieur, when we deal with a man of your rank who makes himself available to a disgraced prince and two such oppressed women, it’s best to keep no secrets from him. Better to accept his word of honor that, as an ally or a neutral, he will religiously keep any secret entrusted to him.”
“Your Majesty,” said the Comte de Moret, bowing and pressing his hand to his chest, “you have my word of honor to remain silent, whether as neutral or ally. But my silence should not be regarded as a commitment of devotion.”
The two queens exchanged a look. “You have reservations, then?” Marie de Médicis asked with her voice, as Anne of Austria and Gaston asked with their eyes.
“I have two, Madame,” replied the count in a soft but firm voice. “To my regret, I must remind you that I am the son of King Henri IV. I cannot draw my sword against the Protestants or against the king my brother. Likewise I cannot refuse to draw steel upon any foreign enemy against whom the King of France makes war, if the King of France calls for this honor.”
“Neither the king nor the Protestants are our enemies, Prince,” said the queen mother, emphasizing the word prince. “Our enemy, our sole enemy, our mortal enemy, who has sworn our destruction, is the cardinal.”
“I have no affection for the cardinal, Madame, but I have the honor to point out that it’s difficult for a gentleman to make war on a priest. However, on the other hand, if it pleases God to send him adversity, I shall regard it as punishment for his improper conduct toward you. Is that enough for Your Majesty to trust me?”
“I believe you already know, Monsieur, what Don Gonzalès de Cordova wrote to my daughter-in-law. Gaston will tell you what his sister Christine wrote to him. Gaston?”
The Duc d’Orléans held out his letter to the Comte de Moret, inviting him to read it. The count took it and did so.
The Princess Christine wrote to her brother reasons why it was best to give her father-in-law, Charles-Emmanuel of Savoy, possession of Mantua and Montferrat rather than allowing the Duc de Nevers the legacy of the Gonzaga, as the duke was no friend to Louis XIII—while the heir to the Duke of Savoy, her husband Victor-Amadeus, was brother-in-law to the King of France.
The Comte de Moret returned the letter to Gaston with a friendly salute. “What do you think, brother?” asked the latter.
“I am no politician,” replied the Comte de Moret, smiling; “but as regards the family, it certainly sounds reasonable.”
“And now, for my turn,” said Marie de Médicis, presenting to the Comte de Moret her letter from the Duke of Savoy. “It’s only right that you know the contents of what you were carrying.”
The count took the sheet and read the following: “Do everything possible to prevent the war in Italy—but if, despite the efforts of our friends, war is declared, be confident that Susa Pass will be defended vigorously.” That was, ostensibly at least, all the letter contained.
The young man bowed before Marie de Médicis with every mark of profound respect. “Now,” said the queen mother, “it remains for us to thank our young and able messenger for his skill and dedication, and promise that if we succeed in our projects, his fortune will follow ours.”
“A thousand thanks to Your Majesty’s good intentions, but as soon as devotion sees the hope of reward, it is tainted by calculation and ambition. My own fortune is sufficient to my needs, and I ask little personal glory to justify my birth.”
“Then,” said Marie de Médicis, while her daughter-in-law presented her hand for the Comte de Moret to kiss, “any such obligations are ours alone. Gaston, give your brother your love. But quickly: when midnight strikes, he must be out of the Louvre.”
The count sighed and took one last look around. He’d hoped that the same guide who’d brought him here would lead him to the exit.
With a sigh of regret, he gave up that hope. He saluted the two queens, and then, somewhat agitated, followed the Duc d’Orléans.
Gaston led him to his own apartments, where he opened a door to a secret staircase. “Now, my b
rother,” he said, “receive my thanks once more, and believe in my sincere gratitude.”
The count bowed. “Is there a password?” he asked. “Something I need to say to escape?”
“None. Just knock on the window of the Swiss Guards and say ‘Household of the Duc d’Orléans, night service,’ and they’ll let you pass.”
The count took one last look behind him, sent his most tender sigh toward his unknown guide, then went down two flights, knocked on the window of the Swiss Guards, spoke the necessary words, and immediately found himself in the courtyard. Then, as one needed a password to enter the Louvre but none to leave it, he crossed the drawbridge and found himself again at the corner of the Rue des Fossés-Saint-Germain and the Rue des Poulies. There waiting for him were his page and his horse, or rather the page and the horse of the Duc de Montmorency.
“Ah,” he whispered, “I’ll wager she’s less than eighteen and ravishingly beautiful. Ventre-saint-gris ! I think I must conspire against the cardinal if that’s the only way to see her again.”
Meanwhile, Gaston d’Orléans, after making sure the Comte de Moret had made it safely into the courtyard, returned to his chambers, locked himself in his bedroom, closed the curtains to ensure that no prying eyes could see him, and, taking the letter from his sister Christine from his pocket, held it with trembling hand over the flame of a candle.
Slowly, under the influence of the heat, in between the lines written in black, new lines appeared—written in the same hand, but traced in secret ink, now appearing in yellow and red.
These newly revealed lines read: “Continue your apparent courtship of Marie de Gonzague, but secretly reassure the queen. It is only upon our older brother’s death that Anne of Austria can assume the crown—and if she does not, my dear Gaston, then with the support of Madame de Fargis and Madame de Chevreuse, she must find a way to be, if not queen, then regent.”