1636: The Cardinal Virtues (3 page)

Chapter 3

August, 1635

Near Paris

Before the sun reached its height, the royal party was on the king’s road to Fontainebleau. The queen and king rode in a luxuriously appointed carriage, escorted by two dozen members of the King’s Musketeers, and followed by carriages bearing gentlemen and ladies of the royal courts. The fresh air of late summer was a welcome change from the smoke and stink of Paris.

Anne had a complex work of needlepoint in her lap to which she gave scarce attention. Louis’ breviary lay beside him on the seat.

“This is very pleasant,” Anne said. “Just the two of us . . .”

“Yes,” Louis answered. He stretched his legs out, almost touching the hem of his queen’s long skirts, then hastily pulled them back. “I feel as if a weight is gradually lifting from my shoulders. And you?”

“I’m not sure that’s what I meant.”

“Is there some other meaning I should divine?”

“I . . . no,” she said. “No. But we have rarely been in so quiet a setting. Alone.”

He narrowed his eyes. “This—this sounds like an amorous advance.”

Anne looked down at the needlepoint: a half-finished depiction of the blessed Saint Clotilde, the mother of King Clovis, who helped bring the light of the Gospel to the Franks. She was just starting to pick out the little church she held in her hands.

Queen
, she thought to herself.
And soon, if God wills it, queen mother.

“I meant nothing of the sort. And if you are offended, I most humbly beg pardon—but this is no circumstance for me to bow low and curtsey.”

“It is not necessary.”

“I thank Your Majesty for his magnanimity.”

“Are you mocking me, my lady? Is this—is this another jest, another opportunity to remind me of what kind of husband I am?”

“No. Of course not.”

He was armed with a severe reply, but hesitated. Anne’s face was a mask of civility, but somewhere in her expression he could see the face of the young princess he had taken as his wife more than twenty years ago.

“I think it is I who should beg your pardon,” he said, and laid his hand on his breviary, but did not take it up. “During my time on the throne I have had many hands turn against me: nobles and churchmen, high and low, men and, and women. It is like being strapped to a Catherine’s wheel.” He drew out a lace handkerchief and coughed delicately into it.

“It is as I read in a play,” Anne answered. “
La tête couronnée dort à l’œil ouvert
. . . ‘the crowned head sleeps with one eye open.’ In English it reads, ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.’”

“The English are clever with words, madame. Not as clever as the French by half, but still clever. And in this case they are on point.”

“I was given a translation of this play by the cardinal. He took quite a fancy to it. He is deficient in many things, but he is clever beyond doubt. Look at what he has arranged for us.” She smiled, and then laughed briefly: not the sharp, cruel laughter that had so often troubled Louis, but a soft, musical sound.

“The four of us . . .” Louis began, and trailed off. Anne knew who the fourth one was: Giulio Mazarini, the one who now styled himself
Jules Mazarin
, just as he had done in the up-time world, her ally in the future when she became regent for the young king upon the death of this one.

And in this world—her lover? At least for now, with royal sanction he was her partner by this arrangement.

“Yes, my king?”

“The four of us will always have a bond,” he said at last. “We do this for France. I tell myself that, that it must be done. It makes you more of a queen, rather than less. It is just as we discussed months ago; and yet, and yet now we stand on the precipice of this event and I confess myself somewhat faint.”

“I remain your queen, Sire. As long as you wish it.”

“I have never wished otherwise.”

“Never?”

“You have my word as your king and your husband. Is that sufficient?”

She knew that he was not telling the truth—or, to be generous, that he deceived himself that it was true. After she miscarried the first time; after the intrigues that had associated themselves with her, the lonely and neglected queen of France; at the Day of Dupes, when she was certain she would be sent back to Spain—yes, she was sure that he might have put her aside as his father had put aside his first wife because
Paris is well worth a mass
. In the course of twenty-one years she believed the opposite: that he had wished often and most fervently that she was
not
his queen, that she had never
become
his queen, that there were a hundred other diversions more interesting and less threatening.

And now, at this
precipice
as he put it, he found himself faint, and spoke gallant words? Her Hapsburg temper made her want to throw the words back in his face.

That was not a choice.

“Quite sufficient,” she said.

In the needlepoint, Anne thought she recognized a faint smile on Saint Clotilde’s face.

Château de Saluce

The royal party halted just before dark at the Château de Saluce, deep in the Forest of Senârt south and east of Paris. They had followed the king’s high road across the Meuse over the bridge that Louis’ father Henry IV had fortified early in his reign; from there the land gave way to rolling hills and a deep forest, its greens showing the first hint of browns and oranges, a sign of the coming change of seasons.

Senârt was a royal preserve, managed by foresters in service to the king and, lately, watched by troops loyal to the cardinal. Highwaymen and robbers had long since found more fruitful hunting grounds, but the veteran musketeers made sure that no one even approached. The chateau was a hunting lodge enhanced with creature comforts: it was hardly the Louvre—or Fontainebleau, for that matter—but it was a long way from rustic either. The troops dismounted first and made the place secure; servants and courtiers entered next, so that when the king and queen alighted from their carriage all was ready.

Louis and Anne parted in the entrance hall to refresh themselves from the trip, and reunited at a dinner laid on by the staff. After the first few courses, the poet Corneille—one of Richelieu’s
cinq auteurs
, patronized by the court—appeared to declaim verses in praise of truth and love and virtue.

The queen, placed to the king’s right, whispered, “will the gentleman be accompanying us to Fontainebleau?”

“I had thought to send him back to Paris tomorrow,” Louis replied. “Is he to your liking?”

“He preaches like a Calvinist and prances like a fine horse,” Anne said. “I would rather be purged than hear him in the palace.”

“My physician could—could certainly oblige you, madame,” Louis said. “But I shall dispense you from the obligation. Monsieur Corneille will part from us tomorrow.”

“I shall say additional prayers for you, Sire.”

“Thank you.”

Corneille completed his current verse and offered a deep bow to the royals. Louis made an indulgent gesture with his hand, making the poet beam. Anne merely gave Corneille a frozen smile.

◊ ◊ ◊

The queen retired first by the king’s leave, her ladies escorting her from the dining hall. As this progress was intended to portray a romantic retreat by king and queen, Louis made a great show of kissing Anne’s hand and presenting her with a beautiful, perfect rose before she departed. Those of the court on hand for the scene gossiped to themselves, which made the king smile.

Louis went to his own chamber not long after. While he was preparing for his rest, there was a tentative knock at the door. Beringhien went to the door; after a moment he returned, bearing a folded sheet of foolscap which he carried to the king.

The faint perfume told Louis immediately who had sent it. His hands trembled slightly as he opened it and read the short note.

“Beringhien,” Louis said. “Who brought this note?”

“Madame de Chevreuse, Sire,” he answered. “She was most furtive.”

“Indeed.” He took the letter and tucked it into his doublet. “I can imagine.”

“Is there anything amiss, Majesty?”

“The queen requests my presence. She—she wishes me to visit her cabinet.” He stood in the middle of the room, arms hanging loosely at his sides. His valet was hesitant to speak; in the candlelight he could see a faint sweat on his master’s brow.

Finally Louis walked to the sideboard, where a crystal decanter and two goblets were laid. Beringhien moved to serve the king, but Louis waved him away. He poured wine into a glass, spilling some onto the table. He took a long drink.

“Shall I send word that you are not available, Majesty?”

“No—no. I shall go.” He walked slowly past, holding out the glass. Beringhien took it from him and watched as he went through the door and into the hall.

◊ ◊ ◊

As the king stood outside the queen’s chamber, he wondered to himself what Anne intended. There had been so many ploys, so many embarrassments, so many times that his discomfort and awkwardness had made him an object of ridicule among her ladies. He had thought that this progress was evidence that in the end Anne was truly what she had said—the queen of
France
: not his tormentor, not an estranged, bitter, childless Spaniard. He couldn’t be wrong—could he? Not after all this?

He knocked at the door. Madame de Chevreuse opened it, a candle in her hand.

“Majesty,” she said, bowing. “The queen will be so happy to see you.” She beckoned him within. He hesitated, then crossed the threshold. The duchess closed the door behind him and gestured toward the bedroom. There were no ladies in sight; the sitting-room was empty. Madame de Chevreuse handed him the candle, bowed again, and withdrew into the shadows.

He knew what was intended as he took the candleholder in his hand. He felt like walking away; he felt like running. He was sweating and shivering: and even if there was no one watching while he stood there.

Then he realized that this was a test as well. If he walked away from this, everyone would know and the deception they’d planned at Fontainebleau would be seen as a transparent lie.

If this was one last act of spite by his queen, then he would have to accept it and play it to the end.

He walked slowly toward the bedroom. In the dim light, he could see the queen of France alone on her bed, waiting.

Paris

The cardinal was not amused.

Pierre Corneille was a thorough courtier and accustomed to swings in a patron’s mood, whether king or cardinal; he kept his eyes averted and did not speak.

Richelieu paced back and forth, leaving the poet to stand uncomfortably before him.

“You’re quite sure?”

“It is without doubt, Eminence. The king left his chambers and made his way to those of the queen.”

“Unattended.”

“He was only accompanied by the duchess, Eminence. She brought him the note.”

Richelieu extended his hand. Corneille reached within his doublet and drew out the scented page. It had been a trifling thing to slip in and purloin it. The distracted king and his dullard valet would probably not even notice it was gone.

Corneille handed it to the cardinal, a slight odor of the queen’s scent wafting up from it. Richelieu did not seem to take notice other than a slight wrinkling of his patrician nose. He opened it and scanned its contents.

When he was done he flourished it in front of the poet. “Do you know what this means?”

“I am not sure, Eminence.”

“It means—ah.” Richelieu made as if to toss it aside, thought better of it and lowered his hand. “It means that our lady queen continues to be the same devious soul she has always been. She seeks to seduce him. Seduce him! Mother of God. I cannot imagine.”

“Eminence, the king went willingly to her chamber—”

Richelieu held his hand up.

“Do you question our sovereign?”

“No, of course not, but . . .”

“But?”

Corneille’s experience as a courtier gave him the intuition to know when his tongue had outrun his good sense. He realized that this was one of those times. One false word, one improper inclination and . . .

“Nothing, Eminence. Nothing at all. I ask your indulgence if I have spoken out of turn.”

Richelieu did not answer; he made him stand there at least a minute longer than was necessary. Corneille enjoyed being one of the favored poets at court—but as always, there was no doubt that it was as easy to lose that position as it was hard to gain it in the first place.

“You have a mission, Monsieur Corneille. You will ride to Fontainebleau and present yourself to Monseigneur Mazarin and with my compliments deliver a note which I shall compose. You will be sure to do this right away, before the royal party arrives.”

“But—Eminence—they are due to arrive there this night.”

“Then you should undertake to find a fast horse, monsieur. And you should depart at once to fulfill this mission.”

Fontainebleau

From the window overlooking the courtyard, Jules Mazarin watched for the approach of the royal procession.

By the late afternoon light he opened and reread the letter from Cardinal Richelieu that the foppish poet Corneille had delivered a few hours earlier. The poet had ridden all night from Paris to Fontainebleau to bring it. Exhausted, Corneille had come into the palace looking for him: he made sure to be found in the chapel, assuming the proper air of sanctity and humility. He didn’t know how much Corneille knew about the reason for Mazarin’s presence here at the palace, but there was no reason to cause further idle gossip. Now, he assumed, the poet was in some tavern in Melun recovering from the stress that the cardinal had imposed on him.

Richelieu’s letter was considerate. Ruthless, but considerate.

There is some possibility that the king lay with his queen last night. There is also some possibility that our monarch will have become so discomfited by her approach that he may be unwilling to proceed. I will not pretend that it makes our task and your position any easier. Indeed, it may make it quite perilous.

It only slightly reassured him to think that Richelieu was concerned for his welfare. But His Eminence was two days’ ride away, and wouldn’t be subject to summary prosecution should the king’s mood turn against their plan.