“After his death,” continued the Cardinal, “from old wounds received at La Rochelle, your father and his lady, and his two sons, remained in Gascony. But your father, though less a fanatic than his own father, revealed unexpected realism. He was finally reconciled to the State. Moreover, he was reconciled to the Church.”
At this, Arsène could not restrain an irrepressible smile, which he conquered immediately. The Cardinal also smiled. But Louis, hovering in the shadows, the light and shade trembling over his tall black figure and white fixed face, did not smile.
“I am not a man to question the degrees of reconciliation,” said the Cardinal. “It is enough for me if a man professes reconciliation, and behaves himself as if from intense inner conviction. Conformity is the law of princes, but they do not demand that a man carry the conformity in his heart, so long as his actions are in accordance with the law. As for myself, the return of the du Vaubons was very gratifying.
I have found much pleasure in the present Marquis’ conversation, sprightliness and person, though I confess that I do not enjoy the frequent losing of large sums to him.”
“My father,” said Arsène, looking into the Cardinal’s smiling eyes, “is a gambling realist.”
“Ah, yes,” murmured the Cardinal, in appreciation. He was becoming more fond of Arsène each moment.
“His perfumes,” he continued, in a meditative voice, “have done an excellent service in scenting Paris, which long needed scenting. For that alone I admire him. Moreover, his performances—and you must admit, my dear Arsène, that they are indeed performances—have done much to enliven a Court which threatened to increase in dullness. Even more, they have distracted discontented minds. Circuses are still the best method of quelling exercises of the mind, which might be dangerous to the State.”
Arsène was silent. His premonition of danger was returning.
The Cardinal glanced affectionately at the pale Louis. “The Marquis brought his sons to the Church. Again, I am grateful. Louis is the most excellent secretary I have ever had. As for yourself, my dear Arsène, I have long determined that I must find a way to bind you to myself.”
“That is most generous of your Eminence,” said Arsène, whose color was disappearing. “But I dislike responsibility. I dislike discipline. I prefer the gay and carefree life, where I alone am master.”
“A happy life, this of yours,” said the Cardinal, fondly. “But you must remember, my son, that you are no longer very young. Nor do I believe I am mistaken when I suspect that there is in your nature no real love of irresponsible gamboling and continued heedlessness. I am convinced that you are not so reckless and frivolous as you would like us to believe. Men wear many masks, and the mask of carelessness and frivolity is the most profound of all.
“Yes,” mused the Cardinal, “you have begun to think, my dear Arsène. And there is a freshness and vitality in the thoughts of mature men who begin to think for the first time. They are done with the folly and incoherence of youth. A vital and living brain in the head of a man past his first youth is a valuable asset to the State. Or a dangerous one,” he added, softly.
“Monsieur le Duc is very astute,” said Arsène, ironically. “Or, rather, he flatters me.”
“Flattery,” reflected the Cardinal, “is the largesse of the prince. Nevertheless, I am not flattering you, Arsène. I am merely appreciating you.”
Arsène bowed. He caught a glimpse of his brother’s face, and it sickened him with melancholy and foreboding.
The Cardinal suddenly laughed aloud. “My dear Arsène, I love you! But, we are wasting time, even though the waste is delightful. I have asked you to come in order to make an offer. I am retiring my Captain of the Musketeers. I am offering you his post.”
Now all the color left Arsène’s thin dark cheeks. His black eyes, glittered under his drawn brows. He saw now, completely, in what danger he stood.
The Cardinal gently contemplated him. “You can perceive that I have the most utter faith in you, Arsène. You are a man of gallantry, of exhilaration, fearless, one of the best swordsmen in Paris You are a natural leader, and the men will adore you. Moreover, I suspect you are a disciplinarian. That reveals itself in your face. Two months or more ago, I should not have made you this offer. But, as I have said, there is a wonderful change in you. I admire and appreciate this change.”
Arsène remained silent. He rose. “Monseigneur will allow me to consider?” He was trembling, and bit his lip hard to quell its shaking. “It would not be an easy thing to abandon my carefree life. I must consider.”
The Cardinal waved his hand indulgently. “I beg you to consider, Arsène.”
“Monseigneur has my profoundest gratitude, both for the offer, and the consideration.”
The Cardinal’s teeth glimmered for an instant between his bearded lips. He inclined his head. “Gratitude is the first emotion of the noble man,” he observed. “I must ask you to give me your answer soon, Arsène. For I have decided upon a certain campaign—” He turned his bland face fully upon Arsène.
Then, it is true, thought the young man. The Spanish Woman has seduced him. He will attack La Rochelle.
“I have a fancy for activity again,” resumed the Cardinal. “First of all, I was a soldier. I shall lead the campaign, myself.” And he glanced at a mailed vest which lay on a chair near the fireplace.
We are lost, thought Arsène. But the thought did not paralyze him. A grim core of iron grew in his heart.
Then Louis spoke for the first time, in a hoarse voice: “Rest assured, your Eminence, that my brother will finally accept the offer you have so graciously extended to him. He could not refuse.”
Now he looked fully at Arsène, with all the hatred of a lifetime ablaze on his large white face, and all the danger, and all the fatal warning.
At this, in spite of his alarm and anxiety, Arsène could not restrain his amusement.
The Cardinal extended his hand to Arsène, who kissed it briefly. Then, after assurances of his gratitude, Arsène departed. Louis opened a door for him upon the quiet secret passage which led to the chamber, and Arsène passed through. He was surprised to see that his brother had followed him, closed the door behind him.
“You dare not refuse,” said the young priest, through clenched teeth. “You dare not refuse, for my father’s sake.”
“I dare anything,” replied Arsène, coldly, “But I have not yet refused. Be assured, Louis, that no threats or coercion on your part will change my ultimate decision.”
Louis breathed deeply. Deep red blotches appeared on his face. His hand groped instinctively at his side for a sword which was not there.
But Arsène forgot everything in his pity, and his remembrance of his father’s derision. He reached out and laid his hand on Louis’ arm. The young priest recoiled as at the touch of something indescribably unclean and loathsome. But Arsène, trying to find words, retained his grip.
“You think too much of our father, Louis. I love him. But I am not unaware of his worthlessness.”
“You dare to speak of him so!” cried Louis, beside himself. “To me!”
Arsène shrugged. He sighed, and withdrew his hand. He regarded Louis with compassion, but searchingly.
“You are changed, Louis. I have been much encouraged. There is some gentleness in you, some softness, perhaps. I thought this might presage that we could become friends.”
“I cannot be a friend of one who is the enemy of the Church!” Nevertheless, the young priest colored, and his eyes faltered as if in confusion.
“I am not your enemy, Louis,” said Arsène, gently.
Louis was silent. Yes, thought Arsène, he has changed. He is thinner, and seems consumed by a fever. A woman? That is incredible! A dawn of more understanding, more tolerance? That, too, is incredible. He has an effort in whipping up rage even against me. That is because his heart has been touched in some manner. What is it that touches a man’s heart most profoundly? A woman.
He was astonished a
t the conclusions of his own logic. However, he remained incredulous. What woman could finally possess that austere and glacial soul, that frigid blood, that mind which could feel only arctic tempests?
Again, he pressed Louis’ arm, and moved away, bewildered. He had gone several paces when Louis called after him. His voice was baleful, but Arsène again had the impression of conscious effort.
“You must not refuse, Arsène!”
CHAPTER XXIV
The Cardinal’s mood of exhilaration after Arsène’s departure remained in a kind of febrile and excited glow. When Père Joseph returned, after a discreet knock on the cabinet’s door, he was pleased to see his eminent friend so animated. Ever careful to observe the august amenities due to one of the Cardinal’s exalted position, his pleasure was so great, however, that he exclaimed fondly: “Ah, Armand-Jeanne, you seem exceedingly vital this morning!”
“My dear Joseph,” returned the Cardinal, stretching out his hands in affectionate greeting, “you came too late to hear an edifying conversation. That young Arsène de Richepin! I have put a flea in his ear. But I shall have him. I am sure of that. Then we shall have a little excitement in this dull Paris.”
Père Joseph smiled. His autumn-colored beard parted at the lips to reveal his excellent white teeth.
He turned to the Cardinal again, and now he no longer smiled. “I crave your Eminence’s pardon, but I have brought with me this morning the Bishop of the diocese of Chantilly.”
The Cardinal’s excited humor was quenched. He regarded Père Joseph with annoyance, and closed his eyes with an exaggeratedly weary expression.
“Why should I be annoyed with this rustic Bishop?” he said. “Dispose of him, Joseph, dispose of him. I confess that I am amazed at you.”
Père Joseph set his lips grimly. “I must crave, again, your indulgence, Monsieur le Cardinal. It is a matter of great importance. In truth, I requested the Bishop to come to Paris to consult with you.”
The Cardinal’s eyelids flew open with angered astonishment. “Have I nothing else to occupy my mind but the troubles and tribulations of a yokel Bishop? Is some wealthy lady of his diosese recalcitrant? Does a parishioner demand a place for his son? What is this nonsense?”
But Père Joseph was unmoved by this show of irascibility. He waited until the Cardinal further relieved himself of heavy sarcasm, then said somberly:
“Has your Eminence forgotten that the diocese of Chantilly contains the estates of the late Comte Renaud de Vitry, and are now in the possession of his son, Paul?”
The Cardinal, though still exasperated, was a little curious.
“I never forget anything, Joseph, so it is not necessary to assume surprise, nor to instruct me. I remember the Comte well. A devoted if eccentric Catholic. You have not come to tell me that Paul de Vitry is a Huguenot?”
Père Joseph’s somewhat wild and protruding eyes flickered with annoyance. He said, with deep and ironic courtesy: “Your Eminence is well aware of the activities of Paul de Vitry. We need not review this. But if his secret activities in Paris are reprehensible, his conduct on his estates near Chantilly are dangerous. But your Eminence must have heard rumors of this.”
“I have heard that he does not gouge his peasants,” replied the Cardinal, who wished to exasperate his friend, out of his perversity. “I have heard that he pays their taxes to the Crown, in order to keep them from starving. I have heard he mends the roofs of their huts, opens his grounds to them for hunting, settles grievances and crimes with justice, mercy and understanding. I have heard that he keeps their Church in repair, does not interfere with their religion though he no longer can be counted a devout Catholic, is gentle and generous to their priest, the old Père Lovelle, himself appointed by the Bishop. I have heard that he allows them to keep the major portion of their crops, their cattle and their fowl. No doubt, all this is reprehensible. Is this what you have come to tell me?”
Père Joseph rose. “I believe it is best for your Eminence to hear the Bishop himself,” he said, coldly. He nodded to Louis, Who had been listening with a pale grim smile, and the young priest opened the massive door and directed the guards there to conduct the Bishop of Chantilly into the Cardinal’s presence.
The Bishop was an enormously fat man, sleek in his black robes, very short of stature so that he was almost as wide as tall. His robes, stretched over his great belly and chest, glittered and shimmered. He waddled from side to side as he sidled obsequiously into the chamber, and so ponderous was his weight that the hewn floor vibrated with his tread. He had a huge, egg-shaped head, almost completely bald, with large outstanding ears like reddish-purple wings. His face, mottled and greasy with good living, glistened, the flesh tinted with all shades of ruddy red. Tufts of thick wiry hair, black and coarse, stood above little black eyes like hard beads, and his heavy mouth, set in an urbane and servile smile, was both sensual and cruel, and full of sly humor and false good temper. He had a short flat nose, set so deeply in the swelling flesh about it that the flaring nostrils were like holes in his face, a thing which made the Cardinal momentarily close his eyes in aristocratic nausea.
The Bishop wheezed, his breath was short and hoarse. The golden cross lay on the mound of his quivering belly, and so it blinked and winked as it caught the morning light. He bowed deeply before the Cardinal, who impatiently extended his delicate narrow hand. The Bishop reverently kissed that hand, and the Cardinal winced. He exclaimed: “Well now, my Bishop, what is this nonsense?”
But the Bishop was temporarily overcome with awe at being in the presence of this great and terrible prince of the Church. His eyes walled themselves at Père Joseph in trepidation and speechlessness. Even when Louis presented him with a chair, he stared at it helplessly, as though it were an object not familiar to him, and it was only when the Cardinal shortly commanded him to sit, that he fell into it. He had begun to tremble. He clasped his fat white hands across his belly as if to control its agitated quiverings. Beads of sweat burst out all over his great red countenance.
Père Joseph, perceiving that nothing would be accomplished in the light of the Bishop’s demoralization, and also perceiving that the Cardinal was fast losing what little patience he possessed, laid his hand encouragingly on the Bishop’s heaving shoulder. He smiled down at him reassuringly, and the Bishop regarded him with the importunate despair of a miserable human who appeals to a super-being for protection and help.
“Monsieur le Bishop,” he said, in his voice which resembled the soothing chords of an organ, “I pray that you speak briefly and quickly to His Eminence, who is anxious to hear what you have to say.”
The Cardinal snorted delicately, and regarded the ceiling with exaggerated patience. Then, his irascible humor returning with twinges of the vague pains that afflict the nervous, he directed his knitted brows and contemptuous eyes again upon the Bishop.
“Speak, man,” he commanded. “Speak, or begone.”
The Bishop sweated still more. His mouth fell open, but no sound came from it. Groaning internally, the Cardinal made his irritable voice quiet:
“I believe you have something of importance to communicate with me regarding your diocese. You have observed the crowds of those outside in the ante-chambers who await an audience with me. Therefore, you will be concise and rapid as possible.” He added: “If it is a matter of money, I will recall to you the fact that Madame de Collioure is a member of your diocese, and while not noted for her generosity, I am certain that it will take only coercion on your part to make her disgorge. What is a priest for? It is useless for you to come to me for assistance. Père Joseph administers these affairs, not I.”
“It is not a matter of old Madame de Collioure,” whispered the Bishop, hoarsely, more and more agitated. Then, remembering this obstinate old grand dame, he forgot his own fright in a measure. “Though I must confess that she is a harridan, and makes my life miserable with her inordinate demands and humors, and forces me to pay with blood for every centime. Moreover, she has the abbe
ss and the nuns with her. It is a petticoat rebellion, and one which I will not endure much longer with good temper and saintliness. But your Eminence will pardon me for the impudence of wearying him with my troubles,” he added, with returning fright at his audaciousness.
The Cardinal smiled. He recalled his own former troubles with high-tempered and obnoxious old ladies when he had been a young Bishop. But, he reflected, he had indeed been young and handsome, with an air, and the most vicious old dame had not been able to resist him. He had always had a way with women, he meditated.
He said, with more kindliness: “All this is very bad, and you have my sympathy, my dear Bishop. But this is not why you have come to consult me? Père Joseph assures the it is a matter of the most enormous importance,” and he shot his friend a truly malevolent glance.
“It was Madame de Collioure who insisted that I communicate with Père Joseph,” said the Bishop, faintly, wringing his hands.
“Ah,” said the Cardinal, with a still heavier glance at his friend.
“Her estates adjoin those of the Comte de Vitry,” continued the Bishop. He added, beseechingly, seeing the darkening look on the Cardinal’s face: “She declares she is in constant fear of her life, because of the impudence and arrogance of the Comte’s peasants. She asserts that she cannot sleep, for fear they will overcome the guards about her house, and rob and murder her in her bed.”
The Cardinal was amused. “This Comte de Vitry, then, feeds his peasants so well that they are bursting with high spirits?”