Cardinal de Richelieu

by Eleanor C. Price

On that fatal morning, the Bishop of Luçon was paying an early visit to a distinguished doctor of the Sorbonne, one of the rectors of the University. The news reached the two theologians by means of a third, who brought it from the Palais de Justice. M. d’Ornano, one of the conspirators, had been sent there direct from the Louvre to inform the Parliament of what had happened: such a precaution was necessary, for Paris was already in an uproar. Rumour cried in the streets that the young King had been wounded, and by the hand of the Maréchal. The shops were hastily shut and crowds were pouring towards the Louvre, to meet the news that the King was well and the Maréchal dead. Then Paris burst into acclamations of joy.

For the Bishop of Luçon the event was of the most serious consequence, but he wasted neither time nor words in lamenting his patron.

“I was the more surprised,” he says, “as I had never foreseen that those who were near the King would be strong enough to design such an enterprise. I immediately quitted the company of that doctor, famous both for his teaching and his virtue, who did not forget to say quite à propos what I might have expected from a man of his learning—as to the inconstancy of fortune and the uncertainty of all that may seem most settled in human life.”

On the Pont Neuf, as he drove home, the Bishop met his friend M. du Tremblay, full of the news, who told him that the King was inquiring for him. Before presenting himself at the Louvre, he sought out his terrified colleagues, Mangot and Barbin, who feared the worst for themselves and for him. It was agreed that they should go one by one, the Bishop first, to receive His Majesty’s commands.

It was the first really alarming crisis in Richelieu’s life. There is no doubt that so clever a man must have expected something of the kind, must have known that the favourite’s tyranny could not last for ever. It was only a few days indeed since he and Barbin, having discovered that Concini meant to get rid of them and to replace them with more submissive Ministers, had privately offered their resignation to the Queen, who refused to receive it. Also, it seems, with a view to his own safety, Richelieu had made some advances towards friendship with M. de Luynes. But, for all that, the moment was dangerous. Both Court and populace were likely to turn against those who had owed their power to the dead Maréchal; various threats and warnings had already reached the ears of Barbin. For Richelieu himself, as he mounted the grand staircase of the Louvre, the signs were not exactly favourable. “I saw many faces of those who had caressed me two hours before, and who now did not recognise me.”

In the great gallery, crowded with courtiers and armed men, young Louis XIII. was standing on a billiard table, to be seen by all. There is a picturesque story that he cried out, on seeing the Bishop approach, “Eh bien, Luçon! me voilà hors de votre tyrannie!” Whatever the boy may have thought or said, M. de Luynes was not so impolitic as to make a mortal enemy of the most brilliant man in the kingdom. Mangot might be scornfully neglected, Barbin might be imprisoned—as they were—but Luçon seemed worth winning, or at least keeping in the balance till the King and his mother had arranged their differences.

According to Richelieu’s own account, the King spoke to him kindly—“saying that he knew I had always loved him (he used those words) and had taken his part on various occasions, in consideration of which he would treat me well.” M. de Luynes joined in, with protestations of friendship. But this was merely personal. When Richelieu tried to plead for his colleagues, who deserved the royal favour neither more nor less than himself, Luynes would not listen. He also replied very coldly to the Bishop’s request to see the Queen-mother, now strictly guarded in her own rooms.

He gave him to understand, however, that he was still of the royal Council, and advised him to present himself in the Council-chamber. Richelieu did so; but only to be treated as an intruder. The old Ministers, Villeroy, Jeannin and the rest, were already in their former places, and were deeply engaged in the business of reversing Richelieu’s policy; while sending despatches to all the provinces, to the armies, to the rebel princes and to foreign courts with the news that the King of France had at length come to his own.

It was a curious position for the late Secretary of State. After standing for a few minutes inside the door, speaking to one or two councillors, he thought it best to retire quietly, and went home to his house.

At the Louvre, shut up in her apartments, but still surrounded by her ladies, the Queen-mother lamented with hard, tearless passion—not the death of her favourite, which troubled her little, but the loss of her own authority. Fear of the future and of her son’s vengeance filled her mind, to the exclusion of every other human feeling. She had no pity to spare even for the miserable Leonora, her lifelong friend, who was seized by the guards immediately after her husband’s death, plundered of all her treasures and imprisoned, first in the Louvre, then in the Bastille, her son Henry Concini, a boy of thirteen, having been torn from her. The little Comte de la Pena, as they called him, was a pretty boy and a famous dancer. The Comte de Fiesque, the young Queen’s equerry, took him under his protection and brought him to her. Anne made him dance, fed him with sweetmeats, and kept him in her household till his fatal name condemned him also to prison. Some time later, he was set free and sent back to Italy.