It was one of the picturesque moments in Richelieu’s life. At the dawn of a March day, under torrents of rain and hail, he forded the swollen river Dora at the head of his cavalry. The infantry crossed by a narrow bridge. Horse and foot were alike in a bad humour, after many days of forced marches in terrible weather by mountain and plain. They cursed their leader freely enough as he splashed through the ford and caracoled on the farther bank, armed to the teeth and escorted by pages and guards. Little trace of the ecclesiastic in that handsome general officer, his worn face under a feathered hat, a steel cuirass on his body, ready to share in all the hardships of his discontented men. In his Memoirs Richelieu has nothing but good to say of the soldiers, whose insolence, according to others, vexed him at the time. “The poor soldiers did their duty gaily,” he writes. But the next day all grievances were forgotten. In snug quarters at Rivoli, drinking the Duke of Savoy’s good wine and devouring his stores, the men were shouting merrily, “Vive le grand Cardinal de Richelieu!”
He was too wise to advance against Spain and Austria, leaving Savoy and Piedmont to attack him in the rear. His next move really decided the war. He swept back towards the mountains, took Pinerolo after a short siege, and seized on several strong frontier places, the gateways of the Alps between Dauphiné and Piedmont. Once more, as in earlier centuries, “France held the keys of Italy.”
The war dragged on through the summer; its history must be read elsewhere. The Court moved to Lyons, and Richelieu met the King at Grenoble early in May. Together, in a short and easy campaign, they conquered Savoy. Chambéry opened its gates on May 15.
The extreme unhealthiness of the season—plague raging in Northern Italy—prevented Louis from personally taking the command of his Italian army. From St. Jean de Maurienne he and the Cardinal watched the course of events, while sending the Duc de Montmorency across Mont Cenis with troops to reinforce the marshals in command at Pinerolo. The combined armies made fresh conquests and behaved magnificently; but the great heat and the ravages of disease were enemies as formidable as Spaniards and Imperialists, who on their side held doggedly to their objects and gained at least one tremendous success. The storming of Mantua by the Emperor’s troops on the night of July 17 was a crime against civilisation. Art treasures never to be replaced were lost and destroyed in the sack of the old Gonzaga palace on its gleaming lake, a shrine of Renaissance beauty since the days of Isabella d’Este.
Immediately after this catastrophe Charles Emmanuel of Savoy died of despair at the loss of his towns and provinces. His son, the husband of Madame Christine of France, was more alive to the wisdom of an alliance with Louis XIII. An obstacle was thus removed from the path of the peace negotiations, which went on in spite of active war all through the summer and the early autumn; the chief agents in them being Père Joseph, at the Diet of Ratisbon, and a young Italian diplomat in the service of the Pope, named Giulio Mazarini.
When, late in October, the war ended with the retirement of the Austrians and Spaniards, the relief of Casale, and the restoration of Mantua to Duke Charles, it seemed as if Richelieu’s triumphs abroad and at home were signal and complete. And yet, at this very time, he was on the edge of destruction.
CHAPTER VI
1630
Illness of Louis XIII.—“Le Grand Orage de la Cour”—The “Day of Dupes.”
Louis XIII., always weak in health, suffered seriously from the pestilential air of that summer. In August he rejoined the Court at Lyons, where he fell ill of fever and dysentery, and the Cardinal, hurrying back from Savoy, found his royal master almost in extremity. By the end of September, after seven bleedings in one week, the case was given up as hopeless. Louis received the last Sacraments, the whole Court believed him dying, and a swift courier summoned Gaston d’Orléans from Paris. That “blind and frivolous instrument of the enemies of the State” became suddenly a personage of the very highest importance.
Richelieu, as he watched his dying master, was probably the most deeply troubled man in all the distracted Court. “He saw,” writes M. Martin, “his power crumbling, his life threatened, his work, even dearer to him than life—his work, hardly sketched out, on the brink of destruction, his country falling back into the abyss from which he had raised her.”