“I have talked with the king,” he said coldly, “and his majesty is not disposed to let this matter pass without a public example. The queen-mother and your highness cannot have equality with the king; neither can we close our eyes to these intrigues, which not only corrupt the loyalty of our great nobles but lay our affairs open to the court at Madrid. This realm cannot be ruled by two factions; one must fall. Naturally, his majesty is not disposed to be at the head of that one.”
“I do not believe that my brother intends any evil against me!” retorted the prince; but his face grew a shade paler, and his lynx-eyed adversary noted the change.
“There always comes a time when a king must sacrifice his feelings as a man,” he remarked dryly.
“Ah, yes—I remember that you made Louis do so in the case of Mademoiselle de la Fayette,” Monsieur retorted spitefully.
“And this being a far more serious matter demands a more serious remedy,” replied the cardinal, unmoved. “Is it natural, in making an example, that the most important man in a faction—the one in whose name all the treasonable correspondence is conducted—should be passed over with forgiveness while the lesser ones suffer? In a sense, that was the case when Henri de Montmorency lost his head, but your highness knows that it is not my way. I shall feel it my duty to advise his majesty to administer justice, and justice alone.”
The prince writhed under those pitiless black eyes.
“I have done nothing,” he said, weakening more and more; “it is all the fault of the others; I only listened—I intended no harm! Madame, my mother, is ever urging me to do something for her—to advance her cause. I am a dutiful son and an affectionate brother. Pardieu! monsignor, what can I do? Intercede for me with Louis, and I will furnish all the information you may desire—and I can furnish much, for they have been intriguing with Spain to compass your overthrow.”
There was a flash of triumph in Richelieu’s pale face, but he never removed his glance from Monsieur, who lay now in a miserable heap in his chair.
“It is possible that an arrangement can be made,” monsignor said coldly, opening a parchment and placing it on his desk with a pen beside it; “the king may again pardon your indiscretion if you sign the agreement drawn up some time since. It is simple; in the event of his majesty’s death—which God forbid—you will be cut off from the succession and will have no share in the regency.”
“Pardieu!” cried Gaston, in a burst of temper, rising from his seat and stamping his foot on the floor, “I will not sign it!”