"I do not know," answered Edward, at once. "I only know that she is connected with the Prince de Soubise, and——"
"The same, the same," said his companion, interrupting him. "That is rather unfortunate; for neither Madame de Chevreuse nor the prince are in good odor at this court."
"The cardinal, I am sure," answered Edward, "is too generous to make a young girl who has never offended him suffer for the faults of others who have."
Monsieur de Tronson made no reply, but soon after left the young Englishman, merely saying, in a warning tone, "Remember: be frank."
Edward then proceeded to finish his toilet; and it cannot be denied that he felt more lightsome and at his ease in his new apparel. Still, he could not help revolving the coming interview; and, with that most foolish though common practice of us poor mortals in difficult circumstances, considering the answers he might make to questions which might never be asked. He would have given much for five minutes more of private conversation with Pierrot; but that worthy appeared no more, and for the simple reason that he was not permitted to leave the room to which he had been taken to breakfast. An hour thus passed in anxious and solitary thought, and then a man, in a black robe something like that of the verger of a cathedral, opened the door and summoned him to the presence of the cardinal prime minister. Edward answered nothing, but merely bowed his head and followed. He was conscious that he had felt some weakness; but, now that the all-important moment had arrived, he nerved himself to bear all firmly, and the very effort gave a dignity to his whole person which well accorded with the handsome and graceful dress he had assumed.
CHAPTER XVII.
We must leave Edward Langdale for some half-hour, and carry the gentle reader with us to another part of the old Chateau of Nantes. No one can venture to say that we have not adhered to him through good and evil with the tenacity of true friendship; but we must now either turn to a different personage and another scene, or embarrass our after-narrative with that most ugly beast, an explanation, which so frequently in romance and poem follows the most brilliant heroes and most beautiful heroines like an ill-favored cur.
In a fine long room with windows looking upon the Loire, about half-past ten o'clock in the morning, was a gentleman between forty and fifty years of age,—nearer the former than the latter period. The chamber was well tapestried, and furnished with chairs scattered about in different directions, and a large table a good deal to the right of the occupant of the room. A smaller table was close at his hand, covered with papers and materials for writing, which he was using slowly and deliberately, sometimes carrying his hand to his head as if in thought, and then again resuming the pen and writing a line or two. In person he was somewhat above the middle height, with straight, finely-cut features and hair very slightly mingled with gray. The face in itself was somewhat stern, and the small pointed beard and mustache gave somewhat of a melancholy look; but on that morning the expression was cheerful,—nay, even good-humored; and the hand that held the pen was as soft and delicate as that of a woman. His dress was principally scarlet, as that of a high ecclesiastic of the Romish Church; but above all he wore a light dressing-gown of dark purple trimmed with sable. Such was Richelieu as he appeared in 1627; and those who have been accustomed to associate his name with nothing but deeds of blood and tyranny might well feel surprised could they see the bland expression of that noble countenance, that smooth white hand, and, still more, could they look over his shoulder and perceive that what he was writing was no grave despatch, no terrible order, no elaborate state paper, but—some verses,—grave, indeed, but neither sad nor stern.
The door opened, and the cardinal laid down his pen. Monsieur de Tronson paused, as if for permission to advance, and Richelieu beckoned him forward, saying, "Come in, Mr. Secretary; come in. I am enjoying a space of leisure after so many busy and anxious days. Till one, I have little to do and less to think of."