I awoke betimes the next morning, but did not immediately arise. In fact, I welcomed the opportunity to thoroughly review my position and decide how best to steer my course. Here, then, was I, Jean de Brancas, poor in everything but spirit, who, the day before, had been tramping the streets of Paris friendless and well-nigh penniless, and who had even thought of the Seine as a last place of refuge. Since then, by the merest good fortune, which I had done little to merit, I had gained the friendship of Richelieu, the man in all the kingdom whom I most admired. I had been given entrance, if not to the society of Sceaux, at least to the Paris salon of Madame du Maine. I had met Mlle. de Launay, copies of whose witty letters had found their way even to Poitiers, where I had read them until I knew them by rote. I had been admitted to the secret of the Cellamare conspiracy, and this, I confess, rather stuck in my throat. Open combat and the bright flash of swords I would have welcomed gladly, but I had small relish for intrigue and conspiracy and the considerations which sometimes make it necessary to stab in the dark. And, in truth, I had little hope that the conspiracy would succeed, for it seemed founded on selfishness, and the French nation would forget its hostility to the regent once a Spanish army was on its soil. Yet it mattered not to me who was regent, Philip of Orleans or Philip of Spain, and I reflected that even if Richelieu fell, he would not fall far. He had shown me kindness and good will, and these I was determined to repay as best I could. At worst, I could lose nothing but my life, and the prize was worth the risk.
It was late when I arose, but Richelieu had not yet appeared, and I descended into the court, attracted by the busy life which I saw there. An army of servants was running hither and thither, grooming and exercising horses, cleaning harness, polishing the gilding on half a dozen coaches, sprinkling clean, white sand along the walks, sweeping and dusting the wide entrance, and doing a hundred other things which attested the care and attention given to every detail of the management of this great house. At one side of the court I was surprised to see standing a coach to which two horses were harnessed. The driver was on the box, and the equipage was apparently ready to take the road at a moment’s notice.
“Does M. le Duc go abroad this morning?” I asked of a man who was standing near.
“I really do not know, monsieur,” he answered, politely.
“For whom, then, is the coach waiting?” and I indicated it with a gesture.
He glanced at me in surprise.
“Monsieur must be new to the hotel,” he said. “Whenever M. le Duc is at home a carriage is kept waiting in the court, in case he might have use for it.”
I turned away with a new understanding of the character and resources of the remarkable man whose guest I was, and returned slowly to the great reception-hall, where Jacques was awaiting me. Richelieu himself appeared soon after, and I was relieved to find that his manner preserved the hearty cordiality of the night before. I had been half afraid—though I would not admit it even to myself—that the morning might in some way bring disillusion with it and send toppling the pretty castles which I had been building in the air. Breakfast was soon served. We lingered over the meal, during which I gave the duke a little history of my family, and noon was striking as we left the house.
“We go to the Café Procope,” said Richelieu. “It is in a new style which is becoming very popular, and I fancy we shall find some one there who can tell us the news of the court.”
We entered the carriage which was in waiting, drove out through the central gate, the army of lacqueys bowing on either side, and across Paris towards the Rue Saint Germain-des-Pres, where the café stood, and which it bade fair to render one of the most fashionable quarters of the city. The café had, as the duke said, inaugurated a new style, and there was only one other in Paris at the time, the Café de la Regence, whose name was sufficient of itself to keep my companion away from it.