CHAPTER I.

THE GHOST OF CARDINAL RICHELIEU.

In a room of the Cardinal’s Palace of Paris, since known as the Royal
Palace, or, to retain the French title, the Palais Royal, there sat a
man in deep thought, his head resting on his hands. He leaned over a
table, the corners of which were of silver gilt, and which was covered
with letters and papers. Behind him was an enormous fireplace, red with
fire. Large masses of wood blazed and crackled on the gilded andirons,
and the flames shone upon the superb habiliments of the solitary
inhabitant of the chamber, while, in front, his figure was illumined by
a candelabrum filled with wax candles.

Gazing on that pale brow furrowed with thought, on that red simar–the
gorgeous robe of office–and on the rich laces, one accustomed to the
court of France in former days might have fancied, in the solitude of
the apartment, combined with the silence of the antechambers, and the
measured tread of the guards, that the shade of Cardinal Richelieu still
lingered in his accustomed haunt.

But such an one would have been mistaken. It was, alas! only the ghost
of former greatness. France enfeebled, the royal authority mocked at,
the nobles returning to their former turbulence and insolence, the enemy
within the frontiers–all bore witness that Richelieu was no longer
there.

But what proved more convincingly than all these things that the red
robe was not that of the old Cardinal was the solitude which, as we have
said, was like a phantom’s rather than a living being’s. No courtiers
thronged the corridors. The courts were crowded with guards. From the
streets below, a spirit of bitter mockery arose and penetrated through
the very windows of the chamber, which was shaken by the murmurs of a
whole city leagued against the minister. The sound, too, of incessant
firing was heard in the distance–happily without object or result
further than to show the guards, the Swiss troops, and the military
surrounding the Palais Royal that the people also had arms.

This ghost of Richelieu was Mazarin–Mazarin, alone, and feeling that he
was weak.

“‘Foreigner!’ he muttered, ‘Italian!’ That is the reproach they cast
upon me. With the same watchword they assassinated, hanged, and
destroyed Concini, and with the same watchword–if I were weak enough to
yield to them–they would destroy me, although they have nothing to
complain of, except now and then a tax or two. Fools! who know not their
real enemies. They do not see that it is not the Italian who speaks bad
French, but those who can make fine speeches to them in the purest
Parisian accent, who are their real enemies. Yes, yes,” continued the
minister, “these murmurs prove to me that the lot of favourites is
precarious. But if they know that, they ought also to know that I am no
common favourite. The Earl of Essex, it is true, wore a splendid ring,
encircled with diamonds, given to him by his royal mistress, whilst I
have only a plain ring with a cipher and a date. But this ring has been
blessed in the chapel of the Palais Royal. Therefore they will never
ruin me, as they would like. Let them shout, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ as
they will–it will still be my work to set them by the ears, for to-day
my partisans shall shout in the streets, ‘Long live the Prince de
Condé!’ while on the following day my followers shall be shouting in
every corner of Paris, ‘Long live the Parliament!'”

At the word, a smile of intense hatred swept over the face of the
Cardinal.

“The parliament,” he mused–“we shall soon see how to dispose of the
parliament. We have Orlans and Montargis. Oh! I will give it time
enough; but those who have begun with crying, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ will
finish by crying, ‘Down with all those gentry,’ every one in his turn.
Richelieu, whom they hated when he was living, and of whom they are
always talking now that he is dead, was even less popular than I am. He
was frequently driven from power, and still more frequently feared that
he should be. The queen will never discard me; and if I am obliged to
yield to the populace, she will yield with me. If I fly, she will fly;
and then we shall see how these rebels will get on without either king
or queen.

“Oh! if I were not a foreigner! If only I were a Frenchman! If I were
even merely a gentleman!”

The position of the Cardinal was, in truth, critical, and several recent
events had added to his difficulties. The people were actually in
revolt; for Mazarin had imposed the most crushing taxation, and the land
was in a state bordering upon bankruptcy. The Advocate-General Talon had
graphically described the condition of the French people in a single
phrase–“They have nothing that they can call theirs except their
souls.”

Their bodies had been claimed for the army and navy, both of which had
been very successful, especially in the Spanish war; but victories do
not yield food, and the people were beginning to feel the pinch of
hunger.

Nor was this all. The upper classes had risen against the rapacious
minister, who had favoured his own family in the most insolent manner.
Mazarin, too, had defied public opinion to the extent of selling no less
than ten new judgeships, and at a very high price.

In Paris, political affairs had become very agitated. On the seventh of
January of the year in which this talée commences, between seven and
eight hundred tradesmen had assembled in Paris to resist a new tax upon
house property. Ten of their number had been deputed to lay their
grievance before the Duke of Orléans, who, as was customary with him,
was seeking popularity. He promised them to use his influence with the
queen, and dismissed them with the ordinary expression of princes, “We
will see what we can do.”

A couple of days after, the judges of the Court of Requests, who
resented the appointment of the ten extra judges, had waited upon the
Cardinal, and had spoken with so much fearlessness and determination
that the Cardinal was astonished. However, he dismissed them royally,
using the same formula as that expressed by the Duke of Orléans, “We
will see what we can do.”

In order to _see_, a council of state was assembled, and d’Emery, the
minister of finance, was ordered to attend.

This d’Emery was greatly detested by the people. He was the son of a
banker at Lyons named Particelli, one of those clever Italians who
overran France in the seventeenth century. Particelli having become a
bankrupt, his son abandoned his Italian name for a French one–d’Emery.
Cardinal Richelieu had discovered young d’Emery to be a wonderful
financier, and presented him to Louis XIII., with a view to his
appointment in the ministry of finance.

“I am glad to hear you speak well of this stranger,” said the king, “and
that he is clever. I was quite afraid that you would have wanted the
appointment for that clever scoundrel, Particelli.”

“Sire, make yourself quite easy,” replied the Cardinal, “the Particelli
of whom you speak was hanged.”

“So much the better,” answered the king. “It is not for nothing that I
am called Louis the Just.” And he signed the nomination of M. d’Emery.

D’Emery never once let go his hold on the finance office, and after the
death of Louis XIII., he obtained, under Mazarin, who, as an Italian
himself, patronised Italians, the position of minister of finance.

This was the minister called upon to appease the angry Paris tradesfolk,
and the still angrier judges. He appeared before the council pale and
trembling, and explained his condition by the statement that his son had
been nearly assassinated the day previous, almost within the shadow of
the royal walls. He did not add that the mob had hissed him on account
of his wife’s vulgar display. This luxurious creature had been nobody in
particular before her marriage. She was the daughter of one Nicholas de
Camus, who had reached Paris with the proverbial ducat in his pocket,
and had become secretary of state. In the process he had acquired such
wealth as to enable him to divide nine millions of francs amongst his
children, whilst keeping forty millions to himself.

The fact was, that d’Emery’s son had run a great chance of being
suffocated; one of the rioters having proposed to squeeze him until he
gave up all the gold he had swallowed. Nothing therefore was settled
that day, as d’Emery’s head was not steady enough for business after
such an occurrence.

Other disturbances had followed this outrage.

Matthew Mole, chief president of the parliament, and esteemed equal in
courage to Condé and de Beaufort, had been insulted and threatened. The
queen, in going to mass at Notre Dame, as she always did on Saturdays,
was followed by more than two hundred women, requesting justice. The
poor creatures had no bad intentions. They wished only to be allowed to
fall on their knees before their sovereign, and that they might move her
to compassion; but they were prevented by the royal guard, and the queen
proceeded on her way, haughtily disdainful of their entreaties.

At length parliament was convoked–the authority of the king was to be
upheld.

One day, the king, Louis XIV., then ten years of age, went in state,
under pretext of returning thanks for his recovery from the smallpox, to
Notre Dame. He took the opportunity of calling out his guard, the Swiss
troops, and the Musketeers, and he had them arranged round the Palais
Royal, on the quays, and on the Pont Neuf. After mass, the young monarch
drove to the parliament house, where, upon the throne, he hastily
confirmed not only the edicts which he had already passed, but issued
new ones; each one, according to Cardinal de Retz, more ruinous than the
others–a proceeding which drew forth a strong remonstrance from the
Chief-President Mole–while President Blancmesnil and Councillor
Broussel raised their voices in indignation against fresh taxes.

The king returned amidst the silence of a vast multitude to the Palais
Royal. All minds were uneasy–most were foreboding–many of the people
using threatening language.

At first, indeed, they were doubtful whether the king’s visit to the
parliament had been in order to lighten or to increase their burdens;
but scarcely was it known that the taxes were even to be increased, than
cries of “Down with Mazarin!” “Long live Broussel!” “Long live
Blancmesnil!” resounded through the city. All attempts to disperse the
groups now collected in the streets, or to silence their exclamations,
were vain. Orders had just been given to the royal guard, and to the
Swiss Guards, not only to stand firm, but to send out patrols to the
streets of Saint Denis and Saint Martin, where the people thronged, and
where they were the most vociferous, when the Mayor of Paris was
announced at the Palais Royal.

He was at once shown in: he came to say that if these offensive
precautions were not discontinued, in two hours Paris would be under
arms.

Deliberations were being held, when a lieutenant in the Guards, named
Comminges, made his appearance, with his clothes all torn, his face
streaming with blood. The queen, on seeing him, uttered a cry of
surprise, and asked him what was going on.

As the mayor had foreseen, the sight of the Guards had exasperated the
mob. The tocsin was sounded. Comminges had arrested one of the leaders,
and had ordered him to be hanged near the cross of Du Trahoir; but, in
attempting to execute this command, the soldiers were attacked in the
market-place with stones and pikes: the delinquents all escaped to the
Rue des Lombards, and rushed into a house. They broke open the doors,
and searched the dwelling, but in vain. Comminges, wounded by a stone
which had struck him on the forehead, had left a picket in the street,
and returned to the Palais Royal, followed by a menacing crowd, to tell
his story.

This account confirmed that of the mayor. The authorities were not in a
condition to contend with a serious riot. Mazarin endeavoured to
circulate among the people a report that troops had only been stationed
on the quays, and on the Pont Neuf, on account of the ceremony of the
day, and that they would soon withdraw. In fact, about four o’clock they
were all concentrated about the Palais Royal, the courts and ground
floors of which were filled with Musketeers and Swiss Guards, and there
awaited the event of all this disturbance.

Such was the state of affairs at the very moment when we introduced our
readers into the study of Cardinal Mazarin–once that of Cardinal
Richelieu. We have seen in what state of mind he listened to the murmurs
from below, which even reached him in his seclusion, and to the guns,
the firing of which resounded in that room. All at once he raised his
head: his brow slightly contracted, like that of a man who has formed a
resolution; he fixed his eyes upon an enormous clock which was about to
strike ten, and taking up a whistle, of silver gilt, which was placed on
the table near him, he whistled twice.

A door hidden in the tapestry opened noiselessly, and a man dressed in
black stood behind the chair on which Mazarin sat.

“Bernouin,” said the Cardinal, not turning round, for, having whistled,
he knew that it was his valet-de-chambre who was behind him, “what
musketeers are there in the palace?”

“The Black Musketeers, my lord.”

“What company?”

“Treville’s company.”

“Is there any officer belonging to this company in the antechamber?”

“Lieutenant d’Artagnan.”

“A man on whom we can depend, I hope.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Give me a uniform of one of these musketeers, and help me to dress.”

The valet went out as silently as he came in, and reappeared in a few
minutes, bringing with him the dress required.

The Cardinal, in deep thought, and in silence, began to take off the
robes of state which he had assumed in order to be present at the
sitting of parliament, and to attire himself in the military coat, which
he wore with a decidedly easy grace, owing to his former campaigns in
Italy. When he was completely dressed he said:

“Bring Monsieur d’Artagnan hither.”

The valet went out of the room, this time by the centre door, but still
as silently as before; one might have fancied him an apparition.

When he was left alone, the Cardinal looked at himself in the glass with
a feeling of self-satisfaction. Still young–for he was scarcely
forty-six years of age–he possessed great elegance of form, and was
above the middle height; his complexion was brilliant and beautiful; his
glance full of expression; his nose, though large, was well
proportioned; his forehead broad and majestic; his hair, of a chestnut
colour, was rather frizzed; his beard, which was darker than his hair,
was turned carefully with a curling-iron, which greatly improved it.
After a short time the Cardinal arranged his shoulder-belt, then looked
with great complacency at his hands, which were very beautiful, and of
which he took the greatest care; and throwing on one side the large kid
gloves which he tried on at first, as belonging to the uniform, he put
on others of silk only. At this instant the door opened.

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said the valet-de-chambre.

An officer, as he spoke, entered the apartment. He was a man between
thirty-nine and forty years of age, of a small but well-proportioned
figure; thin, with an intellectual and animated physiognomy; his beard
black, and his hair turning gray, as often happens when people have
found this life either too gay or too sad, more especially when they
happen to be of a dark complexion.

D’Artagnan slowly advanced into the apartment. How perfectly he
remembered his former entrance into that very room. Seeing, however, no
one there except a musketeer of his own troop, he fixed his eyes upon
the supposed soldier, in whose dress nevertheless, he recognised, at the
first glance, the Cardinal.

The lieutenant then stood in a dignified but respectful posture; such as
became a man of good birth, who had in the course of his life been
frequently in the society of the highest nobles.

The Cardinal looked at him with a glance, cunning rather than serious;
yet he examined his countenance with attention, and after a momentary
silence, he said:

“You are Monsieur d’Artagnan?”

“I am that individual,” replied the officer.

Mazarin gazed once more at a countenance full of intelligence, the play
of which had been nevertheless subdued by age and experience; and
d’Artagnan received the penetrating glance like one who had formerly
sustained many a searching look, very different, indeed, from those
which were inquiringly directed towards him at that instant.

“Sir,” resumed the Cardinal, “you are to come with me, or rather I am to
go with you.”

“I am at your commands, my lord,” answered d’Artagnan.

“I wish to visit in person the outposts which surround the Palais Royal;
do you think that there is any danger in so doing?”

“Danger, my lord!” exclaimed d’Artagnan, with a look of astonishment;
“what danger?”

“I am told that there is a general insurrection.”

“The uniform of the King’s Musketeers carries a certain respect with it;
and even if that were not the case, I would engage, with four of my men,
to put to flight a hundred of these clowns.”

“Did you witness the injuries sustained by Comminges?”

“Monsieur de Comminges is in the Guards, and not in the Musketeers—-“

“Which means, I suppose, that the Musketeers are better soldiers than
the Guards.” The Cardinal smiled as he spoke.

“Every one likes his own uniform the best, my lord.”

“Myself excepted?” and again Mazarin smiled; “for you perceive that I
have left off mine, and put on yours.”

“Lord bless us! this is modesty, indeed,” cried d’Artagnan. “Had I such
a uniform as your Eminence possesses, I protest I should be mighty
content; and I would take an oath never to wear any other costume—-“

“Yes, but for to-night’s adventure, I don’t suppose my dress would have
been a very safe one. Give me my felt hat, Bernouin.” The valet
instantly brought to his master a regimental hat with a wide brim. The
Cardinal put it on in a soldierly style.

“Your horses are already saddled in their stables, are they not?” he
said, turning to d’Artagnan.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Well, let us set out.”

“How many men does your Eminence wish to escort you?”

“You say that with four men you will undertake to disperse a hundred low
fellows; as it may happen that we shall have to encounter two hundred,
take eight—-“

“As many as my lord desires.”

“I shall follow you. This way–light us downstairs, Bernouin.”

The valet held a light; the Cardinal took a key from his bureau, and,
opening the door of a secret stair, descended into the court of the
Palais Royal.