The Shade of Cardinal Richelieu.
In a splendid chamber of the Palais Royal, formerly styled the Palais
Cardinal, a man was sitting in deep reverie, his head supported on his
hands, leaning over a gilt and inlaid table which was covered with
letters and papers. Behind this figure glowed a vast fireplace alive
with leaping flames; great logs of oak blazed and crackled on the
polished brass andirons whose flicker shone upon the superb habiliments
of the lonely tenant of the room, which was illumined grandly by twin
candelabra rich with wax-lights.
Any one who happened at that moment to contemplate that red simar—the
gorgeous robe of office—and the rich lace, or who gazed on that pale
brow, bent in anxious meditation, might, in the solitude of that
apartment, combined with the silence of the ante-chambers and the
measured paces of the guards upon the landing-place, have fancied that
the shade of Cardinal Richelieu lingered still in his accustomed haunt.
It was, alas! the ghost of former greatness. France enfeebled, the
authority of her sovereign contemned, her nobles returning to their
former turbulence and insolence, her enemies within her frontiers—all
proved the great Richelieu no longer in existence.
In truth, that the red simar which occupied the wonted place was his no
longer, was still more strikingly obvious from the isolation which
seemed, as we have observed, more appropriate to a phantom than a
living creature—from the corridors deserted by courtiers, and courts
crowded with guards—from that spirit of bitter ridicule, which, arising
from the streets below, penetrated through the very casements of the
room, which resounded with the murmurs of a whole city leagued against
the minister; as well as from the distant and incessant sounds of guns
firing—let off, happily, without other end or aim, except to show to
the guards, the Swiss troops and the military who surrounded the Palais
Royal, that the people were possessed of arms.
The shade of Richelieu was Mazarin. Now Mazarin was alone and
defenceless, as he well knew.
“Foreigner!” he ejaculated, “Italian! that is their mean yet mighty
byword of reproach—the watchword with which they assassinated, hanged,
and made away with Concini; and if I gave them their way they would
assassinate, hang, and make away with me in the same manner, although
they have nothing to complain of except a tax or two now and then.
Idiots! ignorant of their real enemies, they do not perceive that it is
not the Italian who speaks French badly, but those who can say fine
things to them in the purest Parisian accent, who are their real foes.
“Yes, yes,” Mazarin continued, whilst his wonted smile, full of
subtlety, lent a strange expression to his pale lips; “yes, these
noises prove to me, indeed, that the destiny of favorites is
precarious; but ye shall know I am no ordinary favorite. No! The Earl
of Essex, ’tis true, wore a splendid ring, set with diamonds, given him
by his royal mistress, whilst I—I have nothing but a simple circlet of
gold, with a cipher on it and a date; but that ring has been blessed in
the chapel of the Palais Royal,* so they will never ruin me, as they
long to do, and whilst they shout, ‘Down with Mazarin!’ I, unknown, and
unperceived by them, incite them to cry out, ‘Long live the Duke de
Beaufort’ one day; another, ‘Long live the Prince de Condé;’ and again,
‘Long live the parliament!’” And at this word the smile on the
cardinal’s lips assumed an expression of hatred, of which his mild
countenance seemed incapable. “The parliament! We shall soon see how to
dispose,” he continued, “of the parliament! Both Orléans and Montargis
are ours. It will be a work of time, but those who have begun by crying
out: Down with Mazarin! will finish by shouting out, Down with all the
people I have mentioned, each in his turn.
* It is said that Mazarin, who, though a cardinal, had not taken such
vows as to prevent it, was secretly married to Anne of Austria.—La
Porte’s Memoirs.
“Richelieu, whom they hated during his lifetime and whom they now
praise after his death, was even less popular than I am. Often he was
driven away, oftener still had he a dread of being sent away. The queen
will never banish me, and even were I obliged to yield to the populace
she would yield with me; if I fly, she will fly; and then we shall see
how the rebels will get on without either king or queen.
“Oh, were I not a foreigner! were I but a Frenchman! were I but of
gentle birth!”
The position of the cardinal was indeed critical, and recent events had
added to his difficulties. Discontent had long pervaded the lower ranks
of society in France. Crushed and impoverished by taxation—imposed by
Mazarin, whose avarice impelled him to grind them down to the very
dust—the people, as the Advocate-General Talon described it, had
nothing left to them except their souls; and as those could not be sold
by auction, they began to murmur. Patience had in vain been recommended
to them by reports of brilliant victories gained by France; laurels,
however, were not meat and drink, and the people had for some time been
in a state of discontent.
Had this been all, it might not, perhaps, have greatly signified; for
when the lower classes alone complained, the court of France, separated
as it was from the poor by the intervening classes of the gentry and
the bourgeoisie, seldom listened to their voice; but unluckily,
Mazarin had had the imprudence to attack the magistrates and had sold
no less than twelve appointments in the Court of Requests, at a high
price; and as the officers of that court paid very dearly for their
places, and as the addition of twelve new colleagues would necessarily
lower the value of each place, the old functionaries formed a union
amongst themselves, and, enraged, swore on the Bible not to allow of
this addition to their number, but to resist all the persecutions which
might ensue; and should any one of them chance to forfeit his post by
this resistance, to combine to indemnify him for his loss.
Now the following occurrences had taken place between the two
contending parties.
On the seventh of January between seven and eight hundred tradesmen had
assembled in Paris to discuss a new tax which was to be levied on house
property. They deputed ten of their number to wait upon the Duke of
Orléans, who, according to his custom, affected popularity. The duke
received them and they informed him that they were resolved not to pay
this tax, even if they were obliged to defend themselves against its
collectors by force of arms. They were listened to with great
politeness by the duke, who held out hopes of easier measures, promised
to speak in their behalf to the queen, and dismissed them with the
ordinary expression of royalty, “We will see what we can do.”
Two days afterward these same magistrates appeared before the cardinal
and their spokesman addressed Mazarin with so much fearlessness and
determination that the minister was astounded and sent the deputation
away with the same answer as it had received from the Duke of
Orléans—that he would see what could be done; and in accordance with
that intention a council of state was assembled and the superintendent
of finance was summoned.
This man, named Emery, was the object of popular detestation, in the
first place because he was superintendent of finance, and every
superintendent of finance deserved to be hated; in the second place,
because he rather deserved the odium which he had incurred.
He was the son of a banker at Lyons named Particelli, who, after
becoming a bankrupt, chose to change his name to Emery; and Cardinal
Richelieu having discovered in him great financial aptitude, had
introduced him with a strong recommendation to Louis XIII. under his
assumed name, in order that he might be appointed to the post he
subsequently held.
“You surprise me!” exclaimed the monarch. “I am rejoiced to hear you
speak of Monsieur d’Emery as calculated for a post which requires a man
of pro