“And that might be too,” replied Cinq Mars: “your Majesty to command, and we to execute.”
The King took no notice, but went on with what he had himself been saying: “There is Cinq Mars looks like a noble prince, and Fontrailles like a wily minister, and I—— I believe,” he continued laughing, “I have left myself no place but that of secretary.”
“Alas!” said Cinq Mars with a deep sigh, “alas! that there should be any man in your Majesty’s dominions more a king than yourself.”
Fontrailles and the King both started; and the Conspirator internally pronounced “All is lost,” while Cinq Mars himself, who had spoken without thought, only felt the imprudence of his speech when it was beyond recall.
“Cinq Mars! Cinq Mars!” cried Louis, “that is a daring speech;—but I know it proceeded from your love for me, and therefore I pardon it. But I will tell you that no man is more a King in France than I am.”
“I crave your Majesty’s gracious pardon,” replied the Master of the Horse. “If I have offended your Majesty, it was from love for you alone that I spoke. My words were bolder than my thoughts, and I only meant to say that I could wish to see my Monarch show himself that great King which he naturally is. I would fain see the staff of command withdrawn from one who abuses it.”
“Cinq Mars,” answered the King, “that staff is in my own hand. It was but lent, my friend; and it is now resumed.”
The Master of the Horse paused for a moment, not exactly certain how far he could rely upon the King’s good humour, which he had already tried so incautiously, and turned his eyes towards Fontrailles, as if for counsel.
“Speak, Cinq Mars,” said Louis, seeing his hesitation, “speak boldly, and fear not; for I fully believe that all your wishes are for my service, and I would fain hear the voice of those that regard me with affection, rather than for their own interest; and one of these do I hold you to be.”
“Your Majesty does me justice,” replied Cinq Mars. “Let me not offend you then, when I say that the power you lent is scarcely resumed while the title under which it was enjoyed remains. The Cardinal Duke of Richelieu, my liege, is still Prime Minister of France. He has still all the power (though not exercised), the revenues, the offices. Our soldiers are fighting at his command, our provinces are governed by his creatures, our high posts are filled by his friends. He has an army for his servants, and more than the riches of a prince. Why not—oh, why not, Sire, break the enchanter’s wand that gave him so much sway, and sweep away the hordes that prey upon the State, like swarms of flies upon a slain deer? Why not direct the operations of your troops yourself, and let the armies of France be the armies of the King, and not of Richelieu? Why not chase from your councils a man who has so often abused the generous confidence of his Sovereign, and make him disgorge the ill-gotten wealth which he has wrung from the hearts of your people?”