Richelieu: A Tale of France, v. 3/3

by G. P. R. James

The moment he was gone, Louis called to one of the attendants, and carefully shutting the door when he had entered, “François,” said he, “you are a silent, cautious man—I can trust you: Go to Monsieur le Grand Ecuyer, and, if he is alone, tell him, that France is a climate dangerous for his health, to betake himself elsewhere, and that speedily. But if there is any one with him, merely say, that the King feels himself too unwell to enjoy the pleasures of the chase to-day; but that he desires that his indisposition may not prevent the gentlemen invited from following their sport. But, François, watch well Cinq Mars’s return; find him out alone, and give him the first message. Only beware, that in it the King’s name is never mentioned. Do you understand?”

The Page bowed profoundly, but still maintained the same unbroken silence, and retired to fulfil the King’s commands. The presence of Fontrailles, however, prevented him from delivering the warning, until the Master of the Horse returned from hunting, when he found an opportunity of speaking to him alone. Such a caution, delivered by the King’s own Page, alarmed the favourite; and though it was by this time late, he sent a servant to see if the city gates were shut. The servant scarcely gave himself the trouble to inquire, but returning immediately, informed his master that they were. Cinq Mars stayed—and before the next morning, every avenue from Narbonne was occupied by the Cardinal’s guard.

CHAPTER XIII.

Containing a journey, a discovery, and a strange sight.

I HAVE known some persons in the world who, gliding quietly through life, have floated on upon the stream of time, like a boat on the waters of a broad and tranquil river, carried on by the unruffled tide of prosperity, and lighted to their journey’s end by the cloudless sun of happiness. And I have met with others, whose star seemed to rise in clouds, to hold its course through storms, and to set in blacker darkness than that which gave it birth. But long continued joy loses its first zest, and uninterrupted sorrow its first poignancy; habit robs even misery of its acuteness; and care that is long endured, brings along with it the power of longer endurance. It is the sudden transition from joy to sorrow, that is the acme of human suffering, adding the bitterness of regret for past enjoyment to all the pangs of present distress.

It was thus with Claude de Blenau. All his wishes had been nearly fulfilled; Hope had almost grown into certainty; Pauline was almost his own; when he was snatched from the bosom of joy and security to new scenes of misery and danger. The few last hours came back to his memory like one of those bright visions that sometimes visit our slumber, with every part so truly told, so faithfully drawn, that they become too like reality, and then, when our hearts are full of scenes that we have loved, and pleasures that we have lost, the pageant fades, and we find it but a dream.

When once he had torn himself from Pauline, the objects round him called forth little of De Blenau’s attention; and the carriage in which he was placed rolled on for many leagues, before he had sufficiently recovered his tranquillity even to think of the minor points of his situation. The moon, which at their departure shone bright and clear on the broad masses of the forest, had by this time sunk below the horizon; the darkness which had followed her decline had also passed away; the grey streaks of dawn had warmed into the bright blushes of the early morning, and the new-risen sun began to look over a dewy world, that awoke sparkling and smiling, as if for joy at his approach. But the scene which, at any other time, would have called up a thousand remembrances of the happy days and hunter sports of his youth, scarcely now roused him from the reverie in which he was plunged; and if he looked round, or spoke to the person who conducted him, it was merely to ascertain in what direction they were going, or what was the ultimate destination of their journey. Never before had he so completely abandoned himself to despondency; but as a second and third day passed, he began to recover from the first bitterness of his feelings, and endeavoured to draw from the Officer the precise crime with which he was charged, and what circumstances of suspicion had arisen against him. But no farther information was to be procured. The Officer continued firm in the same story he had told the Queen—that his orders were to conduct him to Tarascon, and that he was quite ignorant of the circumstances which led to his arrest. And with this De Blenau was obliged to be satisfied.

During the journey the Officer showed much civility and attention to the prisoner, though he took good care to place a guard at the door of his chamber when they stopped for the night, which was always at the house of one of those private agents of the Government, already mentioned, with whose dwellings the officers of the Cardinal’s guard were generally acquainted. After proceeding, however, for several days, he plainly perceived that nothing could be farther from De Blenau’s thoughts than any plan for making his escape, and, in consequence, the watch he kept over his prisoner became far less strict, which afforded the Count many opportunities of communicating freely with the persons at the various places where they stopped for horses or refreshment.

The arrest of Cinq Mars and several others, with the full restoration of the Cardinal’s power, was at that moment, in France, one of those topics of wonder and interest, which seem necessary from time to time to keep up the spirits of the gossiping classes of society; and though the good folks at inns and elsewhere found the appearance of a prisoner, escorted by a body of the Cardinal’s guard, to act as a great check upon their natural loquacity; yet, as the officer was somewhat of a bon vivant, and rather attached to his bottle, the awe inspired by his functions was not so strong as to prevent the news of the Grand Ecuyer’s misfortune from reaching the ears of De Blenau, who easily concluded that, from their well-known intimacy, suspicion had fallen upon himself.

The prisoner and his conductors at length began to approach that part of the country where the re-established Minister held his court, to which all his old retainers and friends were now flocking, together with many others, who, led by hope or impelled by fear, hastened to offer their servile adulation to a man they in general detested. The roads were thus thronged with people, and many a gay cavalcade passed by the carriage in which De Blenau was borne along, the horsemen looking for a moment into the vehicle out of curiosity, but quickly turning away their eyes again, lest they should be obliged to acknowledge some acquaintance with a person who had fallen under the Cardinal’s displeasure.