"Not so," answered Richelieu: "I am not gracious. I was not formed so by nature. I can be kind, I think, to those who love me,—affectionate, merciful; but graciousness implies some tenderness, and I am not tender. Nay, not even tender to myself; for I declare to Heaven that, did I find in my own heart the weakness that would yield right and justice to prayers and tears and entreaties, I would pluck out that heart and trample it under foot!"
His tone was somewhat vehement, and his eye sparkled; but after a moment or two all was calm again; and he asked, even with a smile, "What think you, young gentleman, men will say of me hereafter?"
"I have neither wisdom, your Eminence, nor experience sufficient to divine," answered Edward; "neither can any one say till a period, I trust, far, far distant."
"You mean when I am dead," said Richelieu. "Who can say how soon that may be? How long can a poor human frame bear the labors, the anxieties, the cares that I undergo,—the struggle against factions, the struggle against oneself, the crushing out of sympathies, the resistance of all kindly feelings, the endurance of ingratitude, falsehood, treachery, the malice and the envy of the many, the undeserved hatred of not a few? Happy the monk in his cloister! happy the ecclesiastic in his chair! Miserable, miserable is the man whom either personal ambition, or idle vanity, or the desire of serving his country, leads to the thorny paths of state or places on the tottering pinnacle of power!"
"Thank Heaven!" said Edward, interested deeply, "there can be no chance of my ever having to verify the truth of what your Eminence says."
"Who can tell?" rejoined Richelieu. "I have seen many rise to high place with less opportunity than you. I myself,—did I ever think at your age of being seated where I am now? You have talents, daring, firmness. Ambition grows like a worm upon a leaf, destroying what supports it. The moth may have laid its egg in your heart even now; and in ten years hence you may be what you dream not. But let us talk of other things. I am sorry you have come here just now, young gentleman."
"May I presume to ask why, my lord?" said Edward.
Richelieu paused thoughtfully for a moment, and then raised his keen dark eyes to the young man's face. "To answer you fully I must say what ought to flatter you and what cannot do so. You have pleased me; you have high qualities which I esteem; I think you will be faithful to any one to whom you attach yourself; and you have talents and courage to serve him well. But your mind is not clear enough, your experience is too little, your prejudices too great, for you to judge sanely of acts which have lately been done here. In bidding you return after your late journey and see me before you went farther, I wished to gain you to my service,—not by bribes, not by promises, but by winning your esteem and showing you friendship; and I can be a good friend. What is it that passes over your brow? I thought so: you judge I can be a deadly enemy also. Sir, I tell you, on my life and on my faith, I know no enemies but those of France. I have endured much, but I have never struck a blow but for the best interests of my king and my country. Even that young man who perished yesterday, had he not warning sufficient? Had I not passed over follies without number? Had I not forgiven designs against my own power and life? They were nothing so long as the safety of France was not involved. But when his pertinacious treason went into schemes to bring foreign troops into the land, to overthrow a mighty policy, to thwart his sovereign's will, to shake his throne, ay, and, perchance to touch his life, what were mercy but folly? what were clemency but treason?"
"I presume not, your Eminence," said Edward, bewildered by a conversation so strange and unexpected, "to judge even in my own heart of your conduct in circumstances of which I know nothing. I will own that a great part of the scene I was yesterday forced to witness struck me with horror; but even now, as I passed the bridge, I said to myself, 'I know nothing of that young man's guilt or innocence; and the dreadful accessories of his death were certainly not of the cardinal's devising.'"