Memoirs of Aramis, Book 2

The Memoirs of Aramis, Book 2

Preface

You will find the first 44 chapters in the first book.

Aramis's second book of memoirs describes the period between the end of Alexandre Dumas's novel The Three Musketeers and the beginning of Twenty Years Later.
What did d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis himself do during these twenty years? What happened in France? The reader may be very curious, after all, we left our beloved friends in 1629, and we will meet them again only twenty years later, in 1649! Will we really never know what happened to them in their best years, when they were no longer incredibly young and naive, but not yet too old for active action? And is it really true that the trip to England for the Queen's pendants, breakfast on the bastion Saint-Gervais, the failed attempt to rescue Constance, and Milady's execution are the only glorious deeds of our glorious musketeers? Of course not! Read on about everything that interests you.

Chapter 45

I still need to write a few notes regarding the memoirs entitled "The Three Musketeers." After carefully reading a little over a third of these memoirs, you'll probably agree that, although they are signed by the Comte de la F;re, they were not written by Athos. They were written by Grimaud.
This intelligent and insightful servant simply idolized Athos. But this attitude toward him is downright obvious in some places. Of course, Athos kept almost no secrets from Grimaud, and it's also entirely possible that Grimaud gathered the material for this book by questioning our other servants, Planchet and Mousqueton. As for Bazin, he was so reserved and devoted to me, not only in business but also in keeping secrets about me even from his closest friends, that I'm quite certain he'll never tell anyone anything about me. That's why I sometimes appear in these "Memoirs" to be completely different from what I really was at the time.
To confirm my assumption, I copied several fragments onto separate sheets and showed them to Athos when the opportunity arose.
"My friend!" I said to him. "Is it conceivable that this text was written or dictated by you?"
"It's been so long since I've written or dictated anything that I feel like it never happened in my life, except for the will," Athos replied. "What text are you talking about?"
“Read it first,” I answered evasively.
Athos took the papers and began to read aloud.

"Of all d'Artagnan's friends, Athos was the eldest, and therefore should have been the least close to him in his tastes and inclinations."

"What is this, Aramis?" asked Athos, puzzled.
"Read on, read on!" I replied.

"And yet d'Artagnan clearly preferred him to the others. Athos's noble, refined appearance, the flashes of spiritual grandeur that sometimes illuminated the shadow in which he usually remained, his invariably even disposition, which made his company the most pleasant in the world, his caustic gaiety, his courage, which could have been called blind if it had not been the result of the rarest composure - all these qualities aroused in d'Artagnan more than respect, more than friendship: they aroused in him admiration."

"Where did you get that from and what does it all mean?" Athos was even more surprised. "Do you think I'm capable of praising myself so much, putting myself above my friends?"
“Read on, Athos, there are five more paragraphs here praising you and calling you a demigod,” I chuckled.
"I doubt anyone could have written this seriously about me," replied Athos. "If it's a joke, I don't find it funny, by God! Throw it away, or better yet, tear it up."
"This is a copy of one page from a book whose title states that its author is the Count de La F;re," I replied. "There is also a second page in the same vein."
"If the name Athos weren't here, I'd think you were referring to some ancestor of mine, but I had no ancestors named Athos!" Athos replied. "Therefore, this is a hoax. No decent man could exalt himself so, even if he seriously considered himself so. I certainly don't consider myself a demigod, and I wouldn't even apply a tenth of the epithets mentioned here to myself."
"Who could have written this?" I asked with a sly smile.
"The devil made me teach Grimaud to read and write!" Athos exclaimed. "It turns out that scoundrel was only feigning illness, so for the last three years he's been lying in his little room for two hours at a time! Damn graphomaniac! Just you wait, I'll teach you a lesson!"
"Don't get so worked up, Athos," I tried to reassure him. "Perhaps in a hundred or two hundred years, nothing will remain of you and me except these not always accurate and not entirely objective memories. We ourselves will certainly soon be gone. So let this work of Grimaud's remain at least the slightest reminder of who we were and what we did."
"But judging by these two pages, there's not a word of truth in it!" Athos exclaimed.
"Almost everything here is true, except that you could have written something similar about yourself," I replied. "However, I have carefully read the first third and intend to read it to the end, and also to provide this text with my comments and, perhaps, even corrections."
"Well, that's a worthy cause," Athos agreed. "But for God's sake, remove these two pages, tear them out and burn them, so that no one will think I could write such a thing about myself. And remove my name from the cover. Let Grimaud sign these memoirs with his own."
"What difference does it make who signs them, as long as they tell the truth?" I asked. "And who would read memoirs written by a servant rather than a nobleman?"
"You're right, Aramis, but who will read the memoirs signed with my name?" asked Athos. "And do we need anyone to read these memoirs?"
"Contrary to what is written in this book, I did glance at the end of it, and I have left some descendants," I replied. "To them I bequeath this work with my notes."
"How did you get this book?" asked Athos.
"You know who I am now," I replied. "Nothing that has anything to do with me, especially my past actions, can escape my attention. My people find these documents and deliver them to me, removing them from any storage facility, even the most secure ones."
"Are you sure there are no other copies of this book?" asked Athos.
“I’m absolutely sure, otherwise I would have them all,” I replied.

We parted, and I continued reading, from time to time becoming indignant at the impudence of Grimaud, who lied without mincing words.

Firstly, reading these memoirs, as well as mine, the reader might think that the musketeers had a lot of free time, and that all they did was start duels with the cardinal's guards, maim or kill each other in them, get drunk, gorge themselves in taverns, and flirt with pretty women from various classes.
I assure you, this is far from the case.
I must say that our Captain de Treville loved to repeat one phrase: "A musketeer without a mission is a potential violator of discipline." Therefore, he was very zealous in ensuring that every musketeer always had some kind of assignment, which, as a rule, required courage, determination, resourcefulness, and, of course, all the military skills, or at least some of them. We were soldiers every day, ten to twelve hours a day, and on days when we were on duty, even more, including night duty. But these actions were routine for us; they were familiar to every musketeer. Therefore, there is no point in describing this daily military labor.
I want to turn to the episode when all four of us went to London to get the Queen's pendants.
I was forced to flee Paris for a time for entirely different reasons. The Cardinal's bloodhounds were hot on my heels, and above all, Rochefort, who even wanted to kill me at Milady's insistence.
Telling my friends about this would have caused unnecessary problems, so I kept this information from them.
It is one thing to rush to carry out the Queen's order, another to run away from the Cardinal's spies, and quite another to try to combine both.
Realizing that d'Artagnan's proposed solution was quite favorable for me, and also realizing that Porthos would never agree to flee, while Athos might prefer to appear before the Cardinal to clarify any offenses he and his friends might have committed, and that d'Artagnan himself would act in exactly the same way regardless of whether the Cardinal's bloodhounds and the Cardinal himself had any personal grievances against us or whether they were pursuing us solely in connection with our mission, I decided not to burden my friends with unnecessary information. Besides, I didn't know that d'Artagnan had developed personal reasons for hating Rochefort and seeking a meeting with him. And if I had known this, I would have done all the more to facilitate his departure from Paris.

Chapter 46

We did indeed stop at Beauvais and lost two hours hoping Porthos would catch up. An ambush awaited us a mile from Beauvais. We decided to break through the ranks of soldiers who had previously pretended to be road workers. Fortunately, there were only a dozen and a half of them, or three for each of us, if you count our servants, who were also armed with muskets and fired back, so that each pair of servants was worth one of the King's musketeers. Our shots rang out first, and Athos and I hit the target, so two of our enemies immediately appeared before God. D'Artagnan, not yet accustomed to firing at fellow citizens at point-blank range, wounded the enemy directly in front of him in the right shoulder, thus depriving him of the opportunity to fire. I regret that Athos and I shot to kill, because, after all, they were our fellow citizens, and it's not their fault they chose to serve the Cardinal. We should have shot at the right shoulder, not the chest. But at the time, we weren't thinking about that. Our servants fired at our enemies' legs, since they didn't dare kill nobles, unmistakably recognizing these enemies, so ineptly disguised as road workers, as the Cardinal's guardsmen. They, of all people, were hard to fool, since none of the guardsmen were doing anything road workers usually do, and it was clear that a shovel, a crowbar, and a pickaxe were completely unfamiliar tools to them.
We were almost saved by the unanimity with which we galloped toward the enemy almost simultaneously, Athos leading the way. We were also fortunate that , although our enemies had their muskets almost at the ready, they were not in a fighting position, whereas for us, snatching pistols from our saddlebags was no problem, as these saddlebags were extremely well-organized. D'Artagnan was a thousand times right when he warned us to keep our pistols loaded and to take flintlock-fuzed ones, which allowed us to use them almost instantly, although this did create a certain risk of misfire. It seems one of our servants misfired, but nevertheless, having disabled at least five of the attackers, we almost broke through them, but, to our great chagrin, we saw Mousqueton fall from his horse, apparently seriously wounded. A few seconds later, I felt a stinging blow to my left shoulder, and almost immediately felt my shirt grow warm and cling to my body. I realized I was wounded, but tried not to show it, so as not to delay my comrades in such a dangerous place. Those who had ambushed us didn't give chase, as they had apparently had to lead the horses away and hide them. So, no matter how hard I tried not to collapse, the time seemed like an eternity, and my strength was waning with each passing minute. Finally, when we were already safely away from our enemies, I felt I could no longer remain in the saddle, and as soon as I saw a suitable tavern by the road where I could stop and ask for help, I took the liberty of telling them of my wound and the impossibility of continuing to ride with my comrades.
"Aramis!" cried Athos. "Why didn't you speak up? You've lost so much blood!"
"I tied the wound with a bridle as I walked and slipped a handkerchief under it," I replied. "When I did it, the idea seemed appropriate, but now, alas, it no longer helps."
"Damn it!" cried d'Artagnan. "We wasted two hours waiting for Porthos; we could have wasted five minutes bandaging you."
"Who knows?" I objected. "Perhaps these five minutes won't be enough for you to complete our mission."
As it turns out, I was right. If we had lost that precious time, d'Artagnan would not have met Count de Wardes, who would have sailed for England before him, and our entire mission would have failed. A little blood is worth the sacrifice for victory, so I still believe I did the right thing.
My friends entrusted me to the care of Bazin, who called for a servant. Two servants from the inn responded to his call, and together they carefully unhorsed me, carried me into the inn, and installed me in a comfortable room. I paid the innkeeper for his efforts and three days' lodging in advance, which allowed Bazin and I to find comfortable accommodations. As our credit dwindled, I paid the innkeeper for two or three more days in advance, which delighted him, so we wanted for nothing. Wishing to reward me for such kindness, since guests usually never paid in advance, the innkeeper took to engaging in obsequious conversation with me, from which I learned that he was very sympathetic to the Jesuits. I remembered my promise to myself to try to join the Jesuit Order, and I decided to take advantage of this opportunity to learn more about them, as I was incapable of any other action until my wound healed, which would take a considerable amount of time—at least three weeks, I believe. Fortunately, the innkeeper summoned a fairly skilled surgeon, who treated my wound with undiluted wine and applied a bandage with some ointments or powders. The wound was a thorough one, and the bone was not damaged, so there was no need to remove the bullet.
So, having recovered a little, I was able to allow myself to gradually find out what the Jesuits were like from the inside, since I already knew everything that could be learned from them from books.
"Are you interested in the Jesuits?" the innkeeper asked in an ominous whisper, waiting for Bazin to leave on business.
“Actually, I plan to become one of them,” I answered simply.
"Shh!" the innkeeper exclaimed. "Although this Order exists entirely legally, membership is not widely advertised. We are expected to display modesty."
"Well, of course!" I thought. "You've already told almost every guest you meet that you're a member of this order only because he pays you for three days' lodging in advance!"
Little did I know then that this advance payment would be one of my best investments. The innkeeper himself was a minor figure in the order, but he had taken such a liking to me that he agreed to invite a very influential Jesuit, Father Benedict, abbot of the Amiens Jesuit monastery, to speak with me. His name was probably quite different, but that's what he introduced himself to me as. Of course, Father Benedict wouldn't have come to meet me simply at the request of a simple innkeeper, but the innkeeper—I think his name was Julien—was subtle. First, he invited a priest from Montdidier, also a Jesuit. I impressed this priest with my theological discourses. He, in turn, invited Father Benedict to see me.
I immediately realized that Father Benedict was far from being as simple as he pretended. He was one of the Order's most active figures, though not particularly high in the hierarchy, yet he exerted considerable influence due to his remarkable intellect, proactive stance, and almost fanatical devotion to the Order. I decided to make every effort to impress him, and I didn't regret it. My tactic was to discuss the theological dissertation I was ostensibly planning to write. Father Benedict was receptive to the idea and eager to become my theosophical mentor, a request I eagerly accepted.
Since I already knew Latin perfectly and was well-read in the subject, I proposed the topic of whether clergy of lesser rank should bless parishioners with one or both hands. This was, of course, only a lead, but I had already become intrigued by the existing disagreements on this topic in various sacred texts , and I understood that with sufficient persistence I could easily extract a wealth of material for this research and write a dissertation that would serve as the key to entry into the highest hierarchical circles of the clergy. Having defended such a dissertation and secured the necessary financial support, as well as recommendations from influential nobles, one could even hope for the rank of bishop, though, of course, not immediately and not as easily as I describe here. With about ten years of dedication, success could have been achieved, but I had no intention of devoting myself entirely to this endeavor, so I set myself a deadline of two or three times that length, which ultimately proved entirely justified.
So we communicated while I was healing my wound, Father Benedict visited me regularly, Bazin brought me books from the library of the Amiens monastery, so that the first draft of the dissertation was written by me in just two weeks.
During this time, d'Artagnan managed to return from his trip, having completed his mission of returning the Queen's pendants, after which, as I remember, he discovered that Constance Bonacieux had been kidnapped, guessed that this had happened at the instigation and instigation of her husband, and realized that he could not cope with this matter without the help of his friends.
I would be pleased to think that d'Artagnan had decided to retrace his steps to England, to gather the friends he had lost on his first journey, solely for the joy of seeing them all and offering them aid if they needed it. But my mind is accustomed to seeing with pragmatic precision the true reasons for all the actions of people that it occurs to me to analyze. Had it been another d'Artagnan, a little older, even a year later, the d'Artagnan with whom we had walked shoulder to shoulder through La Rochelle, through the danger of being poisoned by Milady's wine, had he been the one with whom we found the dying Constance, and the one with whom we carried out our cruel but just judgment on that monster, Lady Winter, I do not doubt for a second that he would have considered finding us and even, if necessary, giving his life for either of us, from the very moment circumstances separated us. But at that moment, he was merely a young man in love with Constance and extremely ambitious, whom Athos had twice allowed to believe he was the leader of our foursome. He was the youth who, he believed, had managed to inspire three more experienced and senior comrades with his idea of saving the Queen's honor—warriors already scorched by battles and the glory of successful sorties against the enemy, a reconnaissance raid, and the storming of a fortress. When Athos called d'Artagnan the smartest of us, he was, of course, joking, intending to encourage him and at least somehow raise him to our level, a sentiment with which we fully agreed. Indeed, we liked this young man because of the determination with which he sided with us in the skirmish with the Cardinal's guards, and because of the success of his sword. He was awkward and appeared naive, overly proud, and at times even cocky in some of his actions, but this suited him; it was par for the course for ambitious young noblemen from worthy but impoverished Gascon families. In those days, being a poor Gascon nobleman was quite prestigious, as our late King Henry IV, his closest ministers, and de Tr;ville himself were all such at first, and all of them achieved unprecedented, or at least very great, heights.
So our young Gascon went to collect his lost friends along the road where he had lost them, and it seemed he had already found Porthos, and next on that list was me.
We were just having conversations on theological topics, which interested me only as a bridge to the Jesuit Order, but I feigned enthusiasm and complete interest in front of Father Benedict and a priest from Montdidier named Father Jacques de Porcu. This priest, unfortunately for himself, did not know any Latin, which he was afraid to admit, so it gave me indescribable pleasure to insert Latin into our conversation, adding such turns of phrase as “you, of course, remember that” or “as you undoubtedly know.” Once I even said: “Didn’t you just use this beautiful saying the other day?” After that I said: “ Noli te nitidior videri quam tu videri , sed timere Aliis doctor videri ." After this I added: "But this seems to be from Seneca?"
Poor Jacques nodded and said that it was quite possible that this was precisely what he had recently recalled, although he could no longer remember on what occasion.
I glanced at Father Benedict. He, of course, knew perfectly well that de Porcu didn't speak Latin. He wanted to laugh, but seeing my serious face and Father Jean's stupid, obsequious smile, he decided that perhaps the poor fellow had already understood some of what I'd said.
He agreed with me with the utmost seriousness and continued the discussion. It seemed to me that d'Artagnan understood what I had said and began stroking his mustache to hide his grin.
I realized that the conversation needed to be wrapped up as quickly as possible, and I tried to steer our ship of theological dreams from the waves of theological debates as quickly as possible into some quiet harbor of peaceful recognition of the erudition of all interlocutors, encouraging them with the high goal of their planned accomplishments for the glory of the Lord.
The landing from heaven to earth was carried out as softly as possible, after which I parted from my spiritual guests, without wasting any effort on seeing them off, due to the fact that my injury still relieved me of the obligation of such hospitality.
I decided to have some more fun at d'Artagnan's expense and pretended to be a saint who had completely decided to renounce earthly cares and devote himself to the Catholic Church. If only Athos and Porthos could have seen the sour expression on d'Artagnan's face as he listened to all this! I was rolling with laughter at him, but it was a valuable lesson, since I had long ago decided that thoughts and emotions are precisely what should be carefully hidden from everyone, and that the best cover for true emotions is a mask of opposite emotions, or at least very far removed from the truth.
I think that if it had been thirty years later, d'Artagnan would have easily seen through me, but that young man, who then barely knew me, succumbed to this trick and decided that he could lose in me a friend and a musketeer, who would be taken away from him by some holy monastery.
D'Artagnan played his trump card against me. He stopped by my apartment and had a letter for me from Marie de Chevreuse herself. This letter interested me greatly, as Marie and I had already entered into the same relationship that King Henry IV and his royal wife, Queen Margot, had long enjoyed. From lovers who occasionally allowed ourselves to offer advice, exchange information, and be allies in plots, we had become, first and foremost, allies in plots, who knew each other well enough to have decided almost never to deceive each other, and, out of habit, to occasionally allow ourselves to return to being lovers for a change. Chevrette's letter interested me because of the importance of its contents regarding the balance of power on the political front, the intrigues being hatched and their backgrounds, but Marie skillfully disguised such reports as love letters, and used such subtle hints to the essence that only a perceptive reader like me understood the meaning of such letters, whereas any spy of the cardinal would not attach any importance to this letter and would not see in it anything other than a love letter.
D'Artagnan solemnly handed me Maria's letter and remained completely confident that he had just returned the musketeer to duty, having kept him from the pernicious idea of becoming an abbot.

Chapter 47

Grimaud, in his memoirs, signed under Athos's name, paints Buckingham in overly glowing terms. No wonder, since he knew him only through Athos's words! And Athos always speaks of people either well or not at all—that's just the way he is.
You will not learn from these memoirs that the death of King James I was widely attributed in England to Buckingham's poisoning, because the King had lost the affection which had raised him to the very pinnacle of power in the kingdom, while his son, Charles, then only a prince, had already developed the same or even greater feelings for him.
Perhaps this is slander and libel. I can't say for sure. But such rumors don't arise out of nowhere.
I will only say that no one could have done such a thing to the King of France. For many reasons. No matter how deeply Louis XIII attached himself to any of his favorites, he never handed over to any of them such enormous power that such a thing could have happened. Moreover, none of his favorites were ever so self-critical or attentive to the King's treatment of them to sense in time that the ground of impunity was slipping from under their feet. None of them had the foresight to retire honorably; they all considered themselves masters of the situation to the end.
If Buckingham really did manage to spot the clouds on the horizon in time, if, sensing danger, he removed the King and placed his son on the empty throne, thus preserving his own power, then I must admit that he acted like the most clever and far-sighted politician in Europe of all those I know.
I'm ready to attribute this baseness to him, perhaps unfairly, since I don't hide the fact that I don't love him even now that he's gone. I was jealous of Chevrette's affections for him and haven't forgiven him. He had countless Chevrette's, and he could have had even more, if he'd only wanted them. By taking her from me, he robbed me of almost all of what little I had, without enriching himself in the slightest. However, I understand that the decision in this matter was Maria's own, and that she was the initiator of their affair, but he might not have accepted this feminine "selflessness" of hers as readily as he did, thereby offending even my other enemy, Count Holland!
Forget this lyrical digression; I will describe only the events, although I do not promise that I will not accompany them with my own assessment.
What I read next in Grimaud's notes left me with mixed feelings. At first, I was close to anger, and I would have been if I hadn't, through long effort, accustomed myself to the fact that such feelings as anger, jealousy, envy, and despondency are the greatest sins, leading directly to Hell. I learned not only not to express these feelings outwardly, but also not to give in to them in reality, not to allow even the slightest trace of such feelings to enter my being. This was probably one of the significant reasons why the Lord allowed me to linger so long in this world and does not hasten my arrival in the next. One should not confuse these two different states. Anyone who experiences one of these feelings but does not show it allows it to corrode them from within, just as seawater corrodes an iron barrel. The one who does not allow these feelings to even arise remains pure and fresh, like a barrel filled with the best olive oil.
So, I do not feel anger when reading Grimaud's notes, only because I am me, and anger will never take away from me even the smallest fraction of my soul, even for the shortest time.
The second feeling I experienced while reading Grimaud's notes was amusement. This intelligent and businesslike-looking lackey, it turns out, had read Moli;re and other writers and poets. That's where his passion for writing came from! Of course, he had access to Athos's entire magnificent library, and since, as I've already mentioned, Athos himself ordered Grimaud taught to read and write, for which he forked out the money for a tutor from Blois, then, ultimately, Athos himself sowed the seeds of this multi-volume pamphlet for us musketeers, so it would only be fair for the name of the Comte de la F;re to remain on the title page of such a farce. In any case, it's not I who will correct this falsification, believing that by virtue of my position I have enough responsibilities already. I had hoped that reading this multi-volume work would give me pleasure and relaxation, but I had not expected to have fun, noting the inaccuracies and inconsistencies of this book, as a small child has fun, seeing for the first time in his life how a puppy tries to catch his tail, or how a little mouse tries to jump out of a huge bottle of olive oil, into which he fell through thoughtlessness.
The magnificent horses d'Artagnan received from Buckingham were a gift from the enemy. It was fortunate that the cardinal hadn't learned of them. We couldn't have pretended they were spoils of war, since no battle had yet begun. The dim-witted Grimaud apparently believed we lost them because we were revelers, immoderate gamblers, and possessed of a thousand other faults rumor ascribed to French musketeers and Hungarian hussars. Not all musketeers and hussars were such, only members of the maintenance platoon, in other words, the quartermaster platoon. It was their responsibility to purchase the horses and equipment, including saddles, harness, blankets, saddle pads, and everything else. These idlers received from their captain funds for the appropriate purchases and accompanying documents, allowing them to scour the city unhindered in search of the best goods, which they did, but they were not looking for goods, but for adventure. With sizable sums of money in their pockets, they would spend them on women of low social standing, after which they would try to make up for the shortfall by playing cards or dice, hoping for luck. Naturally, they would often lose, after which, to avoid disgrace, they would duel as many soldiers from rival regiments as possible, preferring a heroic death to dishonor. Thus, the musketeers provided similar services to the quartermasters of the cardinal's guards who had stolen money and lost at cards, preferring to be dispatched to the next world by the stroke of a musketeer's sword rather than by the hangman's noose. The cardinal's guards also provided similar services to the thieving musketeer-quartermasters. However, such cases were so few that it is not worth mentioning them, but memories of them did a disservice to public opinion about the musketeers and guardsmen.
So, the expensive English horses had to be gotten rid of, as this English breed was famous in France, and at that time almost all the nobles were the best connoisseurs of horses. An expensive saddle could have been custom-made or purchased, even if its English origins were obvious; the story of its acquisition could have been rooted in obscurity, and this would not have bothered anyone. But the appearance of four magnificent English horses in the hands of three poor musketeers and one even poorer guardsman would have been tantamount to admitting that we were being supported by the English government or some English nobleman. I can hardly believe that Buckingham was so stupid as not to realize this, but to suppose that he intended this act to cast suspicion on us, that we had sold ourselves to England as spies, is utterly inconceivable. After all, we could have defended ourselves against the accusations by revealing the Cardinal's spies' true origins. In any case, not knowing us, he might have expected such a thing! Most likely, he simply didn't think of it, and the horses were already in France, so all he had to do to give them to us was give d'Artagnan the password.
Each of us considered it indelicate to point out d'Artagnan's oversight, sparing his pride. When the young Gascon told Athos that these horses were supposed to identify us on the battlefield, Athos realized he had done the right thing by getting rid of both horses at once. There was absolutely no point for people who concealed their true names under pseudonyms, especially Athos, to facilitate the recognition of enemy troops on the battlefield.
All of us, Athos, Porthos, and I, came to the same decision: the horses had to be disposed of immediately, either for money or for nothing. Noblemen like us couldn't sell such horses without revealing ourselves and their origins. Proof of ownership was required in a bidding war, so the best option was to stake them in a game. That's what Athos did. He knew d'Artagnan wouldn't let him sell the horses, and besides, Athos wasn't the type to sell a gift from a friend. Self-interest wasn't Athos's style. I couldn't claim to have lost the horse, as an abbot shouldn't gamble. Nor could I attempt to sell it. Fortunately, the innkeeper, a Jesuit, arranged things so that the dealer who bought the horse from me, through the innkeeper rather than from me, would provide a complete guarantee of secrecy, so that no living soul would be able to find out who exactly sold him this magnificent animal. Naturally, these conditions significantly reduced the price of the transaction, but I remembered the saying that the donor is not held accountable for the value of a gifted horse.
Porthos did the same. He didn't make any special demands, so he negotiated a better price for his horse. The difference, however, was immediately converted into food and wine, after which it disappeared into the magnificent gullet of our kind giant, in order to establish a temporary state of complete harmony in his stomach, having first delighted his taste buds and sense of smell. Porthos's gastronomic pleasures at the cost of the horse, whose end we witnessed and shared with him, gave Athos reason to joke that we were eating horse meat. Having eaten Porthos's horse, we didn't regret it in the least, and only d'Artagnan lamented his misfortune. But he was wrong. He wanted to please his friends with his gift, and he did. He wanted us to ride our steeds with ease and confidence on the battlefield, and we achieved this by replacing our horses, as this was far more pleasant than having to explain to Richelieu's interrogators in the dungeons how we acquired the purebred English horses destined to win prizes at Chester and even Newmarket. Such horses could only have belonged to the late King James I, and only Buckingham or Charles I could have gifted them after his death.
D'Artagnan couldn't have known this, but any of us, including the Cardinal and his Musketeers, all noblemen, couldn't have failed to know it. Even less could poor Grimaud have known it. Therefore, the story of how we got rid of the horses is as far from the truth as possible. The true price of these horses was twenty, even thirty times greater than stated in Grimaud's memoirs, but selling such horses was as difficult as, say, selling the Palais-Cardinal or the Tower.

Chapter 48

The inconsistencies and absurdities in the story of how d'Artagnan met Milady, approached her one night disguised as Count de Wardes, had an affair with her maid, Kitty, and was then invited to a rendezvous with Milady under his own name, where he became so languid that he decided to recount all the twists and turns of his deception, shielding de Wardes, bear as little resemblance to reality as the images of idols made by the ancient Scythians bear to the true face of God. Our d'Artagnan, like any Gascon, recounted this story over the course of two or three decades during friendly drinking bouts, enriching it with ever more colorful details—something forgivable in any aging soldier who recalls his youth with less of the voluptuous nostalgia experienced by great former ladies' men. By inventing various plot twists, mostly involving declarations of love from all sorts of beauties, as well as reciprocal declarations from the storytellers, they themselves begin to believe them. Falling in love with Constance, chasing the favor and highest marks of affection from Milady and her maid, Kitty—that was entirely in the spirit of d'Artagnan. The youthful ardor that makes one believe that one loves the woman one sees before one more than life itself is entirely excusable, and it sometimes leads to extremely rash actions. But the absolute lie lies in the fact that our illustrious d'Artagnan discussed such actions with Athos, receiving from him from time to time either condemnation or approval, or even unobtrusive advice. Combined with the assertion that Athos never gave advice to anyone unless asked (which is the absolute truth), all these inconsistencies make this part of Grimaud's memoirs utterly fantastic. I can only guess at the sources from which Grimaud drew his romantic ravings, which he himself never knew.
The truth is simpler and more boring. D'Artagnan recognized Milady as the woman Rochefort had met by chance, speaking with. Following her, he attempted to gain the trust of her maid, Kitty, and succeeded so successfully that she offered him every proof of her affection almost immediately after he expressed his desire, despite little hope of success. However, a nobleman's conquest of his maid was always quite common, so if it surprised d'Artagnan, it was only because of his youth and inexperience. Had Kitty been a little wiser, she would have first investigated the financial side of the matter, and upon learning that the tall, brash, and slender Gascon was penniless, she probably wouldn't have been so accommodating. After all, she could hardly count on marrying a nobleman, even the poorest Gascon. Kitty herself confided all of Milady's secrets to her lover, unaware that he was extracting them in order to find his missing mistress. But d'Artagnan wasn't as vile as Grimaud's memoirs portray. He didn't sneak into Milady's bed deliberately disguised as the Comte de Wardes. Nor was he so foolish as to, having achieved such success with the substitution, then spill the beans to his deceived victim. It was much simpler. He was busy pacifying Kitty, while Milady sent a letter to de Wardes, which was never delivered. There was no door from Kitty's room to Milady's, much less a partition so thin that any conversation would have been audible. Milady herself would never have allowed such a thing. Of course, Kitty lived in rooms nearby, but not in such close proximity that she could spy on her mistress and eavesdrop on her conversations during their nighttime trysts, which were not uncommon. Milady arranged these meetings late at night and in complete darkness, not because d'Artagnan had so demanded in a forged letter on behalf of the Comte de Wardes, intending to replace him. Milady herself feared that her lover would inadvertently see the brand on her shoulder. This explained the complete darkness in her bedroom during all their meetings. That evening, she was expecting de Wardes, but our young Gascon, heated up by his vehement declarations of love for Kitty, made such a noise that Milady, hearing a man's voice, assumed de Wardes had arrived. So she rang the bell, summoning Kitty to escort de Wardes to her bedroom. Poor Kitty couldn't admit there was no de Wardes. But she couldn't say the man's voice had come from her bedroom! So she herself suggested that d'Artagnan visit Milady disguised as de Wardes, complain of illness, and confine themselves to a brief conversation before leaving the room.
This is precisely what d'Artagnan had promised to do, and he honestly intended to do exactly that. He felt no love for Milady at that moment, and was hunting her solely to find Rochefort, and through him, Constance Bonacieux.
The shameful truth, perhaps for d'Artagnan, is that he couldn't resist Milady's gentle voice and her caressing hands. However, the same would have happened to any of us. I even believe that if Athos had been in his place, he wouldn't have resisted either. Years of hatred are easily melted in a man's heart by a woman's gentle voice and tender hands and lips. He could have resisted only if he despised her. But Athos never despised her. He continued to love and hate her all this time. Thus, our fine young Gascon was able to count Milady among his few conquests of youth and ardor, of which, as far as I understand, there were very few at that time, perhaps only two – first Kitty, then Milady. He hadn't yet exchanged proofs of love with Constance, which, incidentally, explains his ardor and passion for this generally decent lady—in whom, incidentally, I saw nothing special, viewing her merely as a means by which Marie de Chevreuse and Queen Anne satisfied their whims, and Rochefort and Milady carried out their revenge. She had the misfortune of becoming a plaything in the hands of men stronger and more determined than she could have imagined, which is mistakenly called a plaything in the hands of fate.
So, d'Artagnan, under the guise of Count de Wardes, possessed Milady, without any intention of doing so in advance, and in no way planning such an outcome.
Lord Winter's younger brother, Edward Winter, had met Milady in London and fallen so in love with her that , when she declared she wished to live in Paris, he converted his real estate into cash, transferred it to French bankers in his own name and hers, and arrived in Paris, where he acquired extensive estates and arranged for them to be united into a marquisate called Brinvilliers. Thus, the Marquis de Brinvilliers I mentioned was the very same marquis who intended to kill me, believing me to be the lover of his wife, Milady. Milady had masterminded the whole affair, knowing that I was an excellent swordsman and an equally outstanding marksman. I have already described this above. The Marquis's brother was thus Lord Winter, whose death Milady desired with all her heart, so that she could become the heir not only of her husband but also of his unmarried brother. Her impatience stemmed from her fear that Lord Winter would marry and produce a male heir. Lord Winter was the eldest brother, so the bulk of the family fortune had gone to him. It seems that, being in Paris on business related to his brother's funeral and the settling of his affairs, since the Marquis had appointed him executor, Lord Winter naturally didn't seek a wife among noble and beautiful French women. But since some time had passed since the Marquis's death, the mourning period had ended, and Lord Winter was preparing to sail for London. Milady understood that if her brother-in-law departed for London, she would no longer be able to carry out her plans, and his wealth would slip away forever. That's why she was furious to learn that d'Artagnan hadn't killed Lord Winter in the duel that had conveniently broken out between them. And yet, she had placed great hopes on it. If not Lord Winter, then at least d'Artagnan himself, the culprit behind the failure of her mission to London regarding the pendants, one of them was bound to die. The fact that not only had they not killed each other but had even become friends infuriated her. She would have preferred for these two to end their duel like the mythical Kilkenny cats, who, according to legend, fought fiercely and mercilessly until only their tails remained.
In connection with these cats, I now recall one episode that occurred around the same time.
Cardinal Richelieu, who loved both cats and chess, once compared one of his chess games with Rochefort, also a chess enthusiast, to a fight between Kilkenny cats. The game ended with only two kings remaining on the board.
“As a chess player, Count, you achieved a draw, but as a politician you lost miserably ,” Richelieu said then, leaning back in his high chair.
“I don’t understand you, Monseigneur,” answered Rochefort.
"That's why you'll never become a diplomat," the cardinal continued. "If you were going to try to achieve a draw, you could at least have left me your horse. The outcome would have been exactly the same, but I wouldn't have been so upset. And if you don't cause upset to someone far above you, or at least minimize it, then, believe me, you only gain from it."
“I thought that chess…” said the embarrassed Rochefort.
"Is this just a game?" Richelieu continued. "My friend, it can't be just a game with someone who holds your well-being and your very life in his hands. Don't even think of beating the King, or even of drawing the game."
“I have never played chess with His Majesty,” replied Rochefort.
"Of course, and you never will, because you failed the test," Richelieu laughed. "Do you think I didn't notice the knight fork you placed on the fifty-second move, hoping I wouldn't pay attention? I thought I'd test how far you'd go with your audacity. You failed the test, Rochefort."
"Woe is me!" exclaimed the Count.
"Don't be upset, Count," the cardinal reassured him. "Your place is where your talents will shine best and be most useful. Shuffling around the King's anteroom and giving in to any game, not just chess, is not for you. I have occasionally offered the King certain noble young men of impeccable appearance, whom I believed to be infinitely devoted to me, in order to strengthen my position and theirs. But my choices have not always been successful. Regarding you, I have once again become convinced today that you are not suited to the role of royal page or falconer, but I need you as a special assignment officer, and you fulfill that role admirably."
"So I haven't become the new de Chalais?" asked Rochefort. "Perhaps that's for the best?"
After these words, the cardinal looked very attentively and respectfully into Rochefort’s face and thoughtfully nodded his head.
Something in de Rochefort's face reminded him of a young man, noble, of considerable rank, slender, handsome, and very courteous.
"Fran;ois de Barrada," Richelieu recalled his name. "That's just what we need. However, relying on one is very dangerous. We must find others."
Fran;ois de Barrada was presented to King Louis XIII by the cardinal and took the place of the king's favorite, which had been vacated by the execution of de Chalais.

So, d'Artagnan found Milady and managed to get into a fatal quarrel with her. This lady also sought my death, but for entirely different reasons. If she had known that Athos was hiding behind her ex-husband, the Comte de la F;re, she would certainly have wanted to kill him too. So by that time, the only one of us who could be safe from her treacherous attempt was Porthos.
Grimaud reports that d'Artagnan accidentally discovered a brand in the form of a lily on Milady's shoulder and told Athos about it, and also showed him the ring he had given her, which Athos recognized as his family jewel, given to Milady on her wedding day.
This is not entirely true.
Milady did indeed give d'Artagnan a ring, but for entirely different reasons. She knew the Comte de Wardes well; she had fallen in love with him. It seemed to her that the voice of the man who had entered her bedroom and called himself the Comte de Wardes did not match the voice of the one she loved. But she could not verify her doubts by lighting candles, for she was afraid her guest would notice the brand on her shoulder. She felt a primal fear of this revelation, after such a revelation had nearly cost her her life. Having made a rule to make love only in complete darkness, she was afraid to deviate from it. Therefore, she decided to give her lover a ring and make him promise to wear it always. In this way, she wanted to be sure that her guest was indeed the Comte de Wardes. In the darkness, she mistakenly took the wrong ring from the drawer of her bedside table. She had intended to give him a completely different ring, one that was graceful enough but didn't bear the sinister imprint of events she couldn't recall without shuddering. She wore Athos's ring to fuel her hatred for him, so that her desire to avenge herself by dealing with him would never cool. This ring had one sharp edge, with which she had cut the rope with which Athos had hanged her, so the ring was also a talisman, symbolizing the protection Hell had granted her from the vengefulness of her earthly enemies. She would never part with it under any circumstances.
Having mistakenly given Athos's ring to d'Artagnan and discovering this mistake in the morning, Milady was deeply distressed and hoped to exchange it for another at their next meeting.
It so happened, however, that Athos saw the ring on d'Artagnan's hand and immediately recognized it. There was no doubt. D'Artagnan was forced to explain the ring's origins, without going into the details of how this meeting had been arranged, which, incidentally, Athos was not interested in.
Athos asked his young friend if he had noticed his beloved's shoulder, to which d'Artagnan replied that the meeting had taken place in complete darkness.
"On whose initiative was this agreement reached?" Athos asked, looking closely at d'Artagnan's face.
D'Artagnan was embarrassed. He remembered that he had taken advantage of the darkness himself, so he shouldn't have protested this turn of events.
“It was a mutual decision,” he answered sheepishly.
"Now you're lying to me," Athos said sadly. "Just think what women can turn excellent men into!"
"Forgive me, Athos!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, blushing. "The initiative came from her, and I merely took advantage of it."
“In that case, my friend, you must at all costs make sure that you can look at her left shoulder by the light of at least one candle, or better yet, by the light of the sun ,” said Athos with extreme seriousness.
"And what am I supposed to see there?" d'Artagnan inquired.
"I pray God you don't see anything unusual on her shoulder," Athos said softly. "In that case, I'll buy you five bottles of the finest Burgundy. And you'll call me an old bore whose imagination was fueled by a mere pebble."
"But I don't mean to insult you, Athos!" d'Artagnan protested.
"I only ask that you calm my unforgivable suspiciousness," Athos answered softly. "Can you do that for me?"
“But how?!” d’Artagnan exclaimed, but, looking at Athos’s serious face, he stopped short. “I’ll try. I promise. I’ll do it.”
"Do it as quickly as possible, my son ," said Athos, pressing d'Artagnan to his chest. "Otherwise, my heart will ache for you forever."

This was the first time Athos called d'Artagnan his son. He didn't do that often. Very rarely. Not as often as one might conclude from reading the notes of the brilliant visionary Grimaud.

Chapter 49

Of course, the campaign against La Rochelle was Richelieu's personal affair, but only a superficial "thinker" like Grimaud could write: "Richelieu knew that by defeating England, he would thereby defeat Buckingham; that by triumphing over England, he would triumph over Buckingham; and, finally, that by humiliating England in the eyes of Europe, he would humiliate Buckingham in the eyes of the Queen." Of course, all this was true, and of course, we have said precisely this more than once in our conversations, but it is also true that the Cardinal did not undertake this campaign to humiliate Buckingham, or even to triumph over the Queen. He was not the kind of man to send his fellow citizens to war for the sake of his own petty victories. He consciously sacrificed himself entirely to the interests of France, which he placed far above even the interests of the King. However sacred Louis XIII may have been to him, the dynasty of the Kings of France itself was far more significant, so much so that he even managed to inspire the King to make personal sacrifices for the interests of the dynasty and the state, something Mazarin never managed to do for Queen Anne or Louis XIV. Proof that the cardinal would have given his life for France without hesitation is that even in his grave illness, on his deathbed, he continued to work and make the greatest decisions for the good of the country, not asking fate for a few hours of peace and comfort to rest. Even his favorite pastime—stroking his beloved cats—was simply a form of reflection for him, preparing for responsible and important decisions. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about, since I have all the documentation he wrote personally or dictated, if not in the originals, then in copies, and it fills ten cabinets. I treasure this documentation as a collection of priceless thoughts and testimonies of my time. I'm not sure that France will ever possess such a rich legacy of these documents as I do, since I certainly have no intention of bequeathing to her all those documents for which the copies or originals are not available in the state archives of Paris.
Of course, Richelieu was completing his efforts to create a united and strong France, which was hindered by the stronghold of the Huguenots, ready at any moment to open ports for the landing of the British or the fleet of any other state unfriendly to us, with the goal of weakening our influence on the western coast.
The entrance from the sea had to be securely closed. I'm delighted to find this idea in Grimaud's writings, and I congratulate him on it, as it suggests that not all of our valuable thoughts, freely expressed in conversation, without the slightest embarrassment in front of our servants, went unheeded. But Grimaud is undoubtedly mistaken in his belief that the true stake in the campaign against La Rochelle was Queen Anne, and that this stake was being played out between Richelieu and Buckingham.
He understands this matter as if Kings Charles I and Louis XIII never existed, but only their prime ministers, who decided everything in their respective states at their own discretion. There is a grain of truth in this assertion, but not the whole truth. Had Louis XIII wanted to eliminate Richelieu, he would have done so with ease. Therefore, although Richelieu was guided by lofty goals unrelated to personal well-being, to achieve them, or even to have any influence on their formulation, he was obliged to ensure his influence on French politics. This explains his extreme attention to circumstances that could create the danger of his physical or political elimination. However, the times were such that the political elimination of a figure of such significance would inevitably have been followed by his physical elimination.
D'Artagnan was the first of us to reach the battlefield, traveling there as part of the troops led by the Duke of Orleans. Since the King's health prevented him from going, we, the King's Musketeers, remained for some time in Paris.
Overall, Grimaud described quite accurately the events that happened to us during the siege of La Rochelle in 1627-1628.
By this time, Fran;ois de Barrada had already been dismissed as a favorite, and his place was taken by Claude de Saint-Simon, who, as Grimaud correctly described, delivered sixty enemy banners captured as trophies to Paris. All the losses on both sides have been accurately calculated, so there is no point in discussing them here.
It must be said that Barrade was exiled to his own estate not for the grave sins that could not be concealed, but for minor flaws that irritated the King. Louis became so infatuated with the handsome young man that, considering he was already far from his first or second favorite, comparisons began to be made increasingly between the King and Henry III, and the Huguenots even went so far as to say that since the Italian sin had spread to France, the reformist heresy would soon spread there as well. Indeed, with each new favorite, the King's circle of depraved pleasures expanded, which inevitably became known, since the King's court was teeming with spies not only from the Cardinal but also from the Queen Mother. So those of Louis's sins that the Queen found it advantageous to conceal were spread as rumors at the Cardinal's direction, while those of his that cast a shadow on the monarchy as such, and which the Cardinal did everything he could to cover up, were spread as gossip and pamphlets at the direction of the Queen Mother, deeply hurt by her perceived insufficient position, which simply humiliated her. Barrade's greatest flaw was his extreme susceptibility to gossip of the most vile kind, which he passed on to the King. He mostly relayed gossip, fueled by the Queen Mother's imagination regarding Queen Anne. While it had some basis, it certainly wasn't on the scale reported to the King. Poor Anne of Austria couldn't even look at a man at court without being immediately declared lovers, or at least accused of being in love with him. Even Montmorency and many others were thus labeled lovers. The Queen, it must be said, was anything but. Her only fault before the King was that an heir had not yet been born. More guilty than she was the King himself, and his lovers, including Barrade himself, but this fault was truly great, allowing many to despise her behind her back, even though she constantly prayed to God for the grace she desired and offered sacrifices to many saints. Perhaps those who claimed that the birth of an heir required not God, but someone closer and of lower rank, were right. And since the King was failing in this matter, the Queen would have been better off asking for help from those who could provide it to a far greater degree than God, who apparently was not inclined to repeat his miracle of the immaculate conception, apparently believing that one such event was sufficient for all time to come. Saint-Simon's advantages over Barrada were that he was a superior hunter, knew many stories about hunting, was up-to-date on all the latest news in the field, knew the qualities of a hound, was an expert on falcons and falconry, and skillfully blew a hunting horn without drooling. Naturally, with such virtues, he pushed Barrada into the background, after which the unfortunate man was banished from sight.
Returning to the description of the Musketeers' lives during the siege of La Rochelle, I repeat once again that Athos would never have written what the scoundrel Grimaud wrote. Without a twinge of conscience, he reports: "As for the Musketeers, not being particularly busy during the siege, they were not kept under strict guard and led a cheerful life. This was all the easier for them, and especially for our three friends, since, being on friendly terms with Monsieur de Treville, they often received special permission from him to arrive late at camp and to arrive there after the fires had been extinguished."
He thought that if he had written simply "musketeers" instead of "gentlemen of the musketeers," no one would recognize his style. Why did he think we weren't particularly busy during the siege? Even in peacetime, the musketeers strictly and conscientiously serve to protect the King and carry out his personal orders. It was no wonder the King, who loved and hated the Cardinal at the same time, feared losing him but also feared becoming completely dependent on him, boasted that he would always find a way to deal with Monseigneur the Cardinal in the person of Monsieur de Tr;ville. It is also true that in the end, the Cardinal prevailed, at whose instigation de Tr;ville was sent into honorable retirement, but that happened later, much later. Now, however, the musketeers were needed, and not only the King himself but also other nobles resorted to their services, with the King's consent. So we were never idle, and sometimes we were entrusted with the most dangerous and responsible tasks, requiring not only combat skill and courage, but also a cool, calculating mind, remarkable ingenuity, and excellent observation. I've already described how we were previously sent on reconnaissance missions. Now, knowing of our ability, de Treville assigned us similar tasks, which we carried out with honor. I repeat, describing the daily grind of war is a tedious task, and reading about it is doubly tedious, which is why I will not recount it here on these pages. What Grimaud considered idle loafing and a cheerful life was sometimes merely a disguise, for de Tr;ville knew full well that among the common soldiers and even among the Cardinal's guards there could be enemy spies or simply Huguenot sympathizers. After all, this war involved citizens of the same country, so some of the soldiers could have relatives in La Rochelle. As for the Musketeers, their loyalty was certain. De Tr;ville was as confident in us as he was in himself, knowing each of us not only by name but also by the families from which we came, reinforcing his opinion of us with the memory of our exploits, among which duels or skirmishes with the Cardinal's guards hardly occupied any significant place. In this regard, one should not trust the recollections of Grimaud, to whom such duels seemed the height of nobility and courage, and practically the only occupation of the Musketeers. If that were the case, the musketeers and guardsmen would have long ago exterminated each other. During the war, duels were extremely intolerant, even on the part of the King and de Tr;ville, who had shown leniency a couple of times during peacetime, fueled by pride in the honor of a military unit whose formal leader was the King himself.
The fact that the Musketeers remained loyal to the King during the siege of La Rochelle is no small matter! Most of the Musketeers came from Gascony, like de Tr;ville himself, or from neighboring provinces that were traditionally Huguenot. The siege of La Rochelle was one of the final clashes between Catholics and Huguenots. The Cardinal, the head of French Catholicism, recruited his Musketeers primarily from provinces where Catholicism was the traditional religion. Therefore, one might have expected the Musketeers to be sympathetic to the La Rochelle cause . But this did not happen, because de Tr;ville himself was a devoted servant of the King and raised us to be equally loyal servants of His Majesty. It is not surprising, then, that Richelieu's mistrust of the Musketeers. But this mistrust was unfounded, which forced him to change his mind about us. His gesture of presenting the open commission of lieutenant of the king's musketeers was, of course, premeditated; he very cleverly improvised on the fly and slipped in his proposal in the form of exchanging one open document for another. But more on that later.
Grimaud's remark about "d'Artagnan standing guard in a trench" sounds ridiculous. Trenches aren't used for guard duty; they're not headquarters or ammunition depots, gentlemen. They fire at the enemy from a trench, while the enemy fires back at those entrenched in the trenches. Servants whose place would have been in the front lines of the infantry languished as footmen to the musketeers, allowing them to shift almost the entire burden of military battles onto their masters, reserving for themselves only the functions of supplying provisions, caring for horses, serving as squires, and orderlies. However, to be fair, I will say that our servants were able, when the opportunity arose, to fight no worse than soldiers and even almost as successfully as officers and nobles, but they used the sword as if it were a pot-holder, or a scythe, or a shovel, while they were quite well trained in shooting muskets and pistols, and the musketoon even mastered such an exotic form of martial art as throwing a lasso.

Chapter 50

The story of how Athos extracted from Milady the Cardinal's receipt, granting forgiveness for any act committed by the bearer of this receipt, and how Athos identified Milady as his ex-wife, Anne de Beyle, Countess de La F;re, is told quite accurately because Athos recounted it in detail to his friends, and Grimaud, of course, heard it. But Grimaud naively writes that Milady hesitated to admit to the Cardinal that Athos had taken this paper from her by force, fearing that the Count would inform the Cardinal that she bore the brand of a thief on her shoulder. Firstly, Grimaud was wrong to assume that Richelieu did not know this. Secondly, he was even more wrong to believe that for such a trivial reason the Cardinal would refuse the services of a rather clever spy and bring her to trial. For what? After all, the branding was a punishment in itself! By suffering this punishment, Anne de Beyle had already settled accounts with justice for the sins that preceded this event, and the sins that followed were the sins she committed in the Cardinal's service! If she had to fear punishment from the Cardinal, it was only for the murder of her husband, the Marquis de Brinvilliers, and her maid. This sin still had to be proven! The attempt on my life, several attempts on d'Artagnan's life—all this meant nothing in the Cardinal's eyes. After all, he said he wished it were as easy for him to deal with Milady's enemies as with his own! After all, he called d'Artagnan's life insignificant! No, of course, Athos could not harm Milady by revealing her brand. This could only drive her from high society, where she moved and felt like a fish in water. And the Comte de Rochefort would not have turned his back on her, that I know for a fact. Yes, the brand exposed her as a thief, or even a prostitute, but tell me, in all honesty, are prostitutes truly deprived of the opportunity to associate with people who call themselves noble? Are men so persistent in excluding them from their society? And what, after all, did this brand mean? In India or Burma, New Zealand, or Polynesia, a woman might voluntarily get a tattoo, simply as a form of body decoration. And such a tattoo could very well be in the shape of a lily. Milady could easily conceal the brand with such a tattoo. And the law didn't prescribe further persecution of such individuals; they were merely shunned, close association with them was avoided. Tell me, pray tell—a brand on the shoulder! If the brand were intended to permanently banish the person branded from society, it should not be placed on the shoulder, where it can be easily hidden under clothing, but on the forehead, on the cheek, or at least on the neck.
Moreover, Grimaud forgot that at their last meeting, d'Artagnan himself had seen this brand, only he had not seen it by chance, but in fulfilling a promise given to Athos, which consisted of trying to look at the left shoulder of the noble lady with whom he had become close thanks to flirting with her maid, Katie.
It happened like this.
Milady, as I already wrote, gave d'Artagnan a ring. And although she mistakenly gave him the wrong ring, the purpose of the gift was to see it on de Wardes's hand and confirm that it was he who had come to see her. She also extracted from d'Artagnan, that is, from the imaginary de Wardes, a promise to wear the ring constantly. Naturally, Milady then tried to meet de Wardes, either to see the ring on his hand and be reassured that it was indeed he, or to avoid seeing it and be convinced that someone else was deceiving her, posing as de Wardes. She succeeded, and she was convinced that her suspicions were correct.
She decided to expose the false de Wardes, and since a new meeting had been arranged at their last rendezvous, all her preparations boiled down to preparing and hiding a long, sharp, narrow-bladed knife, called a stiletto, at her belt. She placed two loaded pistols on the windowsill behind the curtain and trembled as she awaited the arrival of the stranger who had dared to possess her, posing as de Wardes. Before killing him, she resolved to look into his face and see the fear of death there, so that she could fully savor her revenge.
When d'Artagnan came to her, she whispered to him: "Wait a minute, my dear, I'll be right there."
After this, she pulled the cord, after which the thick curtains on the windows parted and the room was illuminated by four candelabra, which had been lit in advance and hidden on the windowsill behind these thick curtains.
Seeing d'Artagnan, Milady exclaimed in surprise, as she hadn't expected to find him, her sworn enemy who had disrupted her plans on her trip to London. A malicious smile stretched her thin lips, and her beautiful face turned hideous.
"What a pleasant surprise!" she exclaimed, aiming the barrels of both pistols at him. "I will have the double pleasure of killing you. First, I will take revenge on you for my failure in London, and second, you will pay for the insult you inflicted on me by deceiving me!"
"You may miss," d'Artagnan replied contemptuously. "Or you may not, but either way, you'll have to explain to your servants the appearance of a man's corpse in your bedroom."
Milady only paused for a moment, as the problem had not occurred to her; at that very moment d'Artagnan drew his pistol from his belt, as Athos's warning had led him to expect a trick from this lady.
"I may only have one pistol, but I won't miss even if you manage to wound me ," he said. "Besides, I don't care about your servants or the questions they'll ask. The pistol in your left hand is useless because you can't aim properly with it, so throw it away."
Milady glanced absently at her pistol in her left hand. d'Artagnan fired, hitting, as intended, the pistol in Milady's right hand. The weapon was knocked from her grasp, causing her wrist an unexpected pain. With a cry of pain, Milady dropped the pistol from her left hand to clutch her right. At that moment, d'Artagnan leaped toward her in two leaps, like a young leopard, and seized both her wrists in his strong arms.
"You are in my power, madam!" he said. "Have no fear! I will leave now and will not harm you in any way, but first I must do one more thing."
With these words, he let go of Milady’s left hand, jerked the lace peignoir off her left shoulder, and directed his gaze at her shoulder.
Seeing the brand, he dropped Milady's other hand in surprise. Anne de Beyle immediately jumped back two steps and snatched her stiletto from her belt.
"You scoundrel!" she cried. "I'll kill you! No one must know my secret! You will have no mercy!"
"Really?" exclaimed d'Artagnan. "Fencing with stilettos? That's more my style!"
After this, he pulled his dagger from his belt, which, although it was half the length of Milady’s stiletto, was four times more dangerous in his hands than the cold weapon of the enraged Anne de Beyle.
Milady retreated in impotent rage and began to slowly sink to the floor, her shoulders shaking convulsively as the sobs that overwhelmed her filled her.
D'Artagnan hadn't expected this. He felt sorry for this defeated woman, pitiful and defenseless in her humiliation.
He put away his dagger and intended to approach and reassure her, but Milady was waiting for nothing else. Her tears were yet another pretense. She attempted to stab d'Artagnan with her stiletto, and would have succeeded if d'Artagnan's old father hadn't taught him to dodge blows delivered at the most unexpected moments from any direction. Before he could even comprehend what was happening, the agile Gascon, with a movement of his left elbow, practiced through constant practice, deftly parried the stiletto and grabbed Milady's wrist.
"That's it, my dear!" he said. "I see you haven't calmed down yet!"
With these words, he threw her forcefully onto the bed, after which he picked up her two pistols and stiletto from the floor and threw them out the window.
"I hope there are no more weapons in this room ," he said. "However, I won't be coming back here again."
After this, he resolutely kicked the door, knocking out the flimsy bolt, and left Milady's house.
D'Artagnan told me all this, and I believe him, though everyone knows Gascons love to boast, recounting their battles, whether against men at arms or against women in other types of combat. But the sincerity of d'Artagnan's story is guaranteed by the fact that he told us all this not to boast, but as we analyzed Anne de Beyle's actions before making the difficult decision to rid the world of this devil in female guise.
So, of course, I must return to the story of how Athos took from Milady the Cardinal's open paper, an indulgence without specifying the offense or the name of the person who committed it.
Any reader will find an inconsistency here.
Indeed, several times before, Athos had asserted that if Milady were alive and had decided that d'Artagnan was her enemy, then our friend was in grave danger. He had also privately said that, as long as Milady was not dead, he wouldn't give a single penny for his life, adding, however, that he wasn't particularly upset by this, as he had grown cold to life and expected nothing good from it. Milady was, indeed, extremely dangerous due to her absolute unscrupulousness in the means she used to achieve her ends. We recall that she hired assassins and sent poisoned wine disguised as gifts from friends. Only a stroke of luck in both cases saved d'Artagnan from death. No one and nothing prevented Milady from repeating her assassination attempt as many times as necessary to bring the matter to an end. How can one explain Athos's complete reassurance about Milady as he took the paper from her, saying, "And now that I've pulled out your teeth, viper, bite me if you can"? Did he really think he'd rendered her harmless? Of course not.
But he knew Milady would go to England to force Buckingham to end the war. This was done on Richelieu's orders and for the good of France. Athos saw Frenchmen dying on the battlefield, shooting at Frenchmen, and that England bore responsibility for this fratricidal war.
Yes, my friends. In the person of Buckingham, England was doing evil to us, the French. England incited and fueled religious strife in every way possible, fomenting separatist sentiments in the west of the country. It sought to use a section of our people against the rest, to weaken and ruin both. The Great Cardinal opposed this, and Athos could not help but understand and agree with his policy. That is why he said to Milady: "Whether you kill or commission someone to kill the Duke of Buckingham is of no concern to me: I do not know him, and besides, he is English." This is not the way an ordinary, peaceful citizen and Christian should have spoken, but it is the only way a military man, a musketeer, a soldier fighting on the side of France against England, could reason with regard to the leader of the country with which he was at war. Athos understood that Milady could not tell the Cardinal that she had so easily lost the document he had painstakingly given her, not because she feared being exposed for the brand on her shoulder, but because Richelieu, like any politician, disliked losers, which she had become as a result of the purely moral defeat Athos had inflicted on her. Having come to the Cardinal as a loser, she could not count on his support. A defeated card is thrown out of play, a cut piece is removed from the chessboard; the Cardinal would not spare an exposed spy, especially one who had handed over documents that should never have been handed over under any circumstances. He would strike her from his ranks, after which she would never recover. Athos understood this. A man who has lost the favor of the powerful develops an aura of failure; everyone begins to avoid him like a leper, as if fearing that his bad luck will spread to them too. Milady's only option was to carry out the Cardinal's instructions and then seek his support, which he would offer to the victor but would certainly refuse to the loser. It was no accident that he treated even d'Artagnan, as he did all of us, enemies who demonstrated sufficient strength and independence, with respect, as we have seen, while he treated even those who had broken, surrendered, and submitted, like Monsieur Bonacieux, with nothing but contempt.
While fighting against the Cardinal, we, without noticing it, were imbued with ever greater respect for him, while, while assisting the Duchess de Chevreuse in her numerous intrigues, I gradually lost that freshness of perception of her beauty and attractiveness, which had considerably faded in my eyes as a result of the dishonesty of the game she was playing in the interests of the Queen against the King and the Cardinal, and also sometimes in the interests of the Cardinal against the Queen and Monsieur, and in her own interests against the whole world.
To conclude the story of d'Artagnan's love affairs, I'll add that I assigned Milady's maid, Kitty, to Camille de Bois-Tracy, a decision she never regretted. Kitty was Milady's dutiful servant, but not loyal enough, for she was well aware of Anne de Beyle's cruelty and immorality, so she sought every opportunity to find more worthy employment. Camille was the complete opposite; she was kindhearted and sincerely loved her new maid. She was subsequently taken in by the Duchess de Chevreuse. I'll tell more about Kitty's fate later in my narrative.
Now I return in my thoughts to the time of the siege of La Rochelle.

Chapter 51

You've come across mention in Grimaud's notes of the dam built by Richelieu, of course. Let me remind you.
The first time it is mentioned is in the description of Monsieur Bonacieux's meeting with Cardinal Richelieu. Bonacieux was brought before the cardinal for interrogation, sitting, neither alive nor dead, fearfully awaiting his fate. At this time, the cardinal bent over a map of the dam. Here is what Grimaud writes: "And the cardinal bent with the greatest attention over the map of La Rochelle, unfolded, as we have already said, on his desk, and began to draw on it with a pencil the line of the famous dam, which, eighteen months later, closed access to the harbor of the besieged city." I fear the reader did not remember these remarkable lines, but I am grateful to Grimaud for inserting this delightful turn of phrase into his fantasy. He wanted to emphasize that even then, eighteen months before its construction, the cardinal had already developed its plan in the most minute detail. I fear, unfortunately, that this plan matured later and more hastily, which does not make it any less great.
The dam is mentioned a second time in a remark I make, supposedly complaining about my poor meal because it was a fast day and there wasn't even any decent fish to be found at the inn. Here are the words attributed to me by the great visionary and equally great chronicler Grimaud: "They say that the dam the Cardinal is building is driving all the fish out to sea." It is mentioned twice more in Grimaud's memoirs. But Grimaud's fantasies about my dismissive mention of this dam almost upset me. If I hadn't made it a rule not to be upset, I would have been genuinely upset by this. Could I, a soldier, a musketeer, leading the battle against the enemy, and, incidentally, someone with a keen interest in fortification, engineering, sapping, and artillery, speak so dismissively of such a vital undertaking as constructing a dam to prevent the enemy from receiving reinforcements, weapons, provisions, and other essentials? Richelieu had practically deprived the inhabitants of rebellious La Rochelle of any support from the sea; they had no rear at all. A sea blockade, a land blockade—and now they were completely surrounded, so the only outcome of this war was obvious: the complete defeat of La Rochelle.
To strategists of all times and all nations, I would offer the most important conclusion from everything that happened then in La Rochelle. If your enemy is supported by a foreign state, or a bloc of foreign states, you will never defeat them until you deprive them of that support . It is impossible to wage war against an entire coalition of states on a small patch of your own or neighboring territory. The first step is to cut off all lines of communication between this rebellious patch of land and those who, in comparison, have immeasurably greater resources and a vital interest in supplying and resupplying this rebel, day and night, continuously and tirelessly, with food and ammunition, and, if necessary, even sending in mercenaries, volunteers, and even your own regular troops if victory begins to smell. Cut this lifeline, and then you will take the rebels bloodlessly and for sure. Leave this artery intact, and the war will never end. Casualties on both sides will mount, achieving nothing. Otherwise, you'll have to fight not only your own rebels but all the states that support them, including across straits, seas, and even oceans . Richelieu understood this better than anyone. This dam gave us victory. Without this dam, Louis XIII's generals, obsessed with military glory and marshal honors, would have sacrificed as many soldiers in this insignificant war as it took to elevate themselves and achieve a victory that would be resounding, pompous, bloody, and merciless on both sides. There are no fortresses that wouldn't surrender if surrounded, but there are also few that couldn't hold out against an attack from one side, given effective support from the other. Therefore, there are no impregnable fortresses and no easily accessible fortresses, but there is a strategy of the victors and there is a strategy of a protracted, fruitless, one-sided siege .
Cardinal Richelieu's Great Dam may have saved our lives, mine, and those of Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan. Therefore, I will allow myself to dwell on this matter.
Grimaud writes in his memoirs what he himself, of course, could not have formulated had he not read half of it in one of the many books in Athos's library, combining it with fragments of our conversations: "Although La Rochelle was tightly encircled, although the success of the siege, thanks to the measures taken, and especially the dyke that prevented boats from entering the besieged city, seemed certain, nevertheless the blockade could have dragged on for a long time, to the great disgrace of the King's troops and the great displeasure of the Cardinal." This is only part of the truth. If not for the dyke, the siege could have dragged on not just for a long time, but indefinitely, and without result—that's what he should have written.
But what can you expect from him, and what can you expect from him, from Grimaud? After all, in another place Grimaud writes of himself: "The poor fellow has reached the point where he has almost forgotten how to speak." What can you say? It would be better if he forgot how to write! He writes that one of the soldiers skewered a goose on his sabre to roast it! An unprecedented stupidity that could have cost him his life! Is a sabre really a spit? In other cases, a spit can certainly be used as a weapon if there is no other way, but using a weapon as a spit is too much, because it means hopelessly ruining a vital weapon! After such use, the sabre will cease to be a sabre, but will turn into a strip of disgusting iron that will bend and dull; it is impossible to fight with such a weapon. If I ever saw one of our servants using a sabre like that, I'd send him packing, but not before giving him a good thrashing and withholding any wages he might be owed. And this applies not only to my servants, but to those of my comrades as well. Grimaud must have been mad when he wrote that. Fortunately, he never did anything of the sort, or he would have suffered greatly. He truly held Athos's weapon in such reverence that he wouldn't have dared even run a fingernail across its blade, much less impale a goose or a capon on it. So did he really think nobles could handle their weapons like that? I'd be indignant if I were capable of such sinful acts, even in my own mind. And another thing: is it possible that d'Artagnan called sappers "diggers"? Dear old, gray-haired scribbler Grimaud! What a ridiculous writer you have become!
So, about the siege and capture of La Rochelle. The origins of this long-standing conflict date back to the birth of Protestantism; the gradual accumulation of mutual hostility was exacerbated by insults inflicted on both sides, then by crimes, and ultimately by murder . The confrontation escalated on the night of August 23-24, 1572, the infamous St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, which finally divided France into two irreconcilable camps—the Catholics and the Protestants. The decisive and brutal actions of Charles IX, inspired by Catherine de' Medici, his mother, the Dowager Queen, and the Guises, led to the physical extermination of a huge number of French Huguenots, who, incidentally, had gathered in Paris for the wedding of their leader, Henry of Navarre, to the King's sister, Margot. The Huguenots believed in the establishment of peace and their own safety, which allowed them to be dealt with almost no Catholic casualties. Huguenots and their families were dragged from their beds to be killed, attacked in the middle of the night in groups with overwhelming numbers, armed with every weapon they could get their hands on. Their wives and children were murdered without even a chance to dress, so that they appeared before God that same night, most of them naked and bearing numerous wounds, evidence of the cruelty of Catholics enraged by bloodshed and impunity. This night became a byword, remembered by the few Huguenots who survived it for the loss of their friends and loved ones, and it remained in the memory of generations as the most shameful night for Catholics. Since Henry of Navarre himself miraculously escaped, and later became King Henry IV of France, he tried to reconcile the Catholics (which he himself became, having converted to the Catholic religion for the sake of reconciliation of the parties and, mainly, to secure his rights to the crown of France) with the Huguenots, by issuing the Edict of Nantes, giving the Huguenots the right to carry out their religious rites in their place of residence, with the exception of Paris and some other large cities of France.
The war between the remaining Huguenots and the predominantly Catholic portion of the country took the form of long and bloody wars spanning the reigns of Charles IX, Francis II, and Henry III. Only Henry IV was able to put an end to this fratricidal conflict with the aforementioned Edict of Nantes. Whether by mistake or design, Henry IV also granted the Huguenots the right to maintain their own troops to defend their lives and rights. The Huguenots received several large cities in France, which consequently became definitively Huguenot, as all Catholics left them. Sovereignty gave birth to separatism, and separatism developed to extremes. Ultimately, the sovereign, initially non-belligerent part of a powerful country was transformed into territories that felt completely opposed to the rest of the country, as a result of which they were willing to enter into the most unexpected alliances with anyone, as long as it was against their own country and their fellow citizens of a different faith. This was quickly exploited by our immediate neighbors, as neighboring states are always antagonists unless they are satellites or colonies, or staunch allies forced to become so for the sake of mutual defense against even stronger and more aggressive neighbors on the other side. Naturally, the first such antagonist was England, and it was with England that the Huguenot separatists conspired. A real danger arose that we would lose these territories, along with their ports, coastline, fortresses, and the portion of the fleet assigned to these ports. If this process were not countered, we could ultimately lose access to the sea and our sovereignty, which was already in grave danger due to the hostile encirclement of the two Habsburg states, which had practically encircled France.
After the assassination of King Henry IV by the religious fanatic Ravaillac, the fragile truce collapsed. Ravaillac's hand was likely guided by a more powerful one. Suspects, not without reason, included the King's wife, the Queen Mother Marie de' Medici, as well as her favorite, Concino Concini, Marshal d'Ancre. Also among the suspects was the Duke of ;pernon, against whom the Marquise d'Escomant testified , but she was ignored and subsequently disappeared altogether. Since the aforementioned nobles, led by the Queen, came to power as a result of this event, the investigation into the murder was conducted only for show, and Ravaillac was dealt with cruelly, and onlookers standing closer to him during this cruel reprisal claimed that Ravaillac asked to be given the floor so that he could expose his accomplices, but this only led to the torture being intensified, and it was ordered that his cries of desire to make a terrible confession be drowned out with a drum roll.
The confrontation between the Huguenots and Catholics entered a new, violent phase. The Catholics were dissatisfied with the Huguenots, openly accusing them of murdering the King. The Huguenots, however, suspecting the hand of the country's leading Catholics and sensing a new wave of oppression, blamed the Catholics and became even more embittered. As a result, even those who had hoped to live in good harmony with the Catholics became extreme separatists, and their cities formed a kind of state within a state. They received a wide range of support from Spain and England, as these neighboring states were extremely interested in weakening our country and hoped, if not to snatch territory from it, then at least to weaken it as much as possible. Dynastic marriages, as a result of which both kings' spouses were sisters of the French King Louis XIII, did not help either.
The confrontation escalated and reached the point of open military confrontation. Languedoc rebelled, and then La Rochelle.
It must be said that the coastal islands and fortified ports are strategic assets of particular importance. These include the islands of Belle -;le , Quiberon, Noirmoutier-en-L'Isle, Yeu, and R;, as well as, of course, the ports, the most significant of which is La Rochelle.
After Louis XIII captured the fortresses of Saumur and Thouars in April 1621, which surrendered without resistance, the army moved on. The city of Saint-Jean d'Ang;ly was taken within two weeks, its walls razed, and the townspeople stripped of their privileges. The siege of Montauban was unsuccessful; the King's army was forced to retreat due to an epidemic that saved the city from being ravaged by His Majesty's troops. We musketeers participated in these campaigns, as I already reported in describing our reconnaissance expedition.
The rebellious cities were home to nobles who led the Huguenots. The Duke of Rohan ascended to the throne in Languedoc, making the fortress of Anduze his main residence, while his closest associate, the Duke of Soubise, settled in La Rochelle. Due to its advantageous geographical location, La Rochelle became the most important Huguenot stronghold on the Atlantic coast, from where their troops regularly launched raiding expeditions against the cities of Poitou. Unbeknownst to us then, the County of La F;re suffered greatly from these raids, causing significant financial losses to Athos personally.
This state of affairs, of course, did not suit King Louis XIII. The royal army drove the Huguenots out of Guienne, capturing all their towns. At the walls of Montpellier, the irreconcilable de Rohan and de Soubise negotiated. In accordance with the Assembly's decision, the King ordered the Protestants to raze all the fortifications of their cities and granted them amnesty. But the prisoner in Montpellier The peace turned out to be only a short respite.
Upon assuming power, Richelieu undertook a series of actions aimed at capturing Castres in Languedoc and the Isle of R;, located at the mouth of La Rochelle harbor. Richelieu declared the suppression of the Protestant rebellion a priority for the kingdom.
France received the support of Holland, while the rebellious La Rochelle received the support of England, so that at this point it was not just France’s struggle against the seizure of its ancestral territories, but a military clash between the most influential states of Europe on foreign soil, with foreign hands, which was paid for, mainly, with foreign lives , that is, with the lives of the French on both sides.
States that engage in internal conflicts are undoubtedly fomenting war, which could escalate into a war between many states, something I strongly condemn. It would have been better for us not to resort to the aid of the Dutch, provided, of course, that the separatists did not resort to England. Well, in this sense, England bears its share of responsibility for the sacrifices that resulted in this internal war , and Athos was certainly right in not interceding for Buckingham, the de facto leader of England at the time.
The cardinal rented ships from Amsterdam to capture La Rochelle. It should be noted that the Pope had previously authorized alliances with foreign Huguenots to fight their own, so in this regard, Richelieu did not deviate one iota from the Catholic Church's position, as expressed in a decree of one of the pontiffs. However, a debate began in the Amsterdam city council over whether Catholics should be allowed to preach on Protestant ships. It was decided to ban the preaching, but Dutch ships ferried French soldiers to La Rochelle. The Dutch helped because they were allied with France. in the fight against the two Habsburg empires – the Holy Roman Empire and Spain.
Buckingham convinced Charles I to support the Huguenots of La Rochelle in their struggle against France, which he considered a personal struggle against Richelieu for a place in Queen Anne's heart. Charles dispatched eighty warships to the Huguenots. In June, Buckingham landed six thousand troops on the ;le de R;, a stone's throw from La Rochelle. It should be noted, to be fair, that although the island belonged to the Huguenots and was heavily fortified, its inhabitants did not join the rebellion, but merely expressed sympathy and moral support for the La Rochelleans.

Chapter 52

However, my memoirs become boring even for me when I get too carried away with the presentation of political and military events, forgetting about the main characters, my friends and enemies.
Subsequent events are closely connected to the activities of Milady, Anne de Beyle, Lady Claric, also known as the Marquise de Brinvilliers, the Countess de La F;re, and much more. It is this lady whom La Rochefoucauld calls the Countess of Carlisle, as she used this name several times, disguising herself as the name of an acquaintance, after first convincing her not to make a fuss about it.
To avoid further confusion, a few points need to be clarified. Grimaud mistakenly refers to Lord Winter as the elder brother of My Lady's late husband. If he were the elder brother, then Lord Winter would have been the title given to My Lady's son, Mordaunt, born of that marriage after the death of her husband.
Let me correct the inaccuracies that Grimaud made.
His works contain a chapter entitled "A Brother and Sister's Conversation," which raises at least two questions for the reader regarding certain inconsistencies with previously presented information. Indeed, we already know that Milady had a son, and that is precisely why she was concerned about leaving him a sufficient inheritance, which is why she wanted to get rid of her husband's brother. Grimaud doesn't mention any direct attempts to accomplish this until this chapter, writing only that she was upset that d'Artagnan did not kill Lord Winter in a duel. The reader might be left with the false impression that Milady encouraged d'Artagnan to kill Lord Winter in a duel, offering herself as a reward for the murder. But the murder in question was not Lord Winter's, but the murder of Count de Wardes! This could hardly serve as a basis for Lord Winter's claims. Perhaps he might be angry with her for the fact that, as it turns out, she had already been married, which didn't stop her from marrying his brother. So Lord Winter's accusations that My Lady had already twice attempted to kill him are groundless, and he got them from a letter I wrote! So, was I wrong to accuse My Lady of attempting to murder Lord Winter?
Perhaps Milady is not as bad as Grimaud's memoirs claim?
I feel obligated to explain. Milady tried to kill d'Artagnan twice (by hiring soldiers and sending poisoned wine). Milady shot at me. Milady persuaded d'Artagnan to kill de Wardes. She regretted that Lord Winter did not die in a duel with d'Artagnan. But where are her direct attempts to kill Lord Winter?
I'll just say that they did happen. I know this for a fact. But you won't find it in Grimaud's notes. So, I was right when I told Lord Winter that Milady had already tried to kill him twice. But Grimaud's notes don't make that clear, so I'm offering my comments here.
In the chapter "The English and the French," Grimaud writes the following about Milady and d'Artagnan's conversation: "She told d'Artagnan that Lord Winter was not her brother, but only her husband's brother: she had been married to his younger brother (sic!), who had died, leaving her a widow with a child, and this child was Lord Winter's sole heir, unless Lord Winter married." The reader learns from this message that Milady was married to Lord Winter's younger brother.
In the chapter "A Brother and Sister's Conversation," Lord Winter allegedly tells My Lady, "I have judges ready who, if need be, will deal with a woman so shameless as to have crept into the marriage bed of my elder brother (sic!), Lord Winter, while her husband was still alive, and these judges, I warn you, will hand you over to the executioner, who will make one shoulder like the other." So, in this case, Lord Winter refers to My Lady's late husband as his elder brother.
Seniority in noble families, as a result of the law of entail, is a very important aspect of inheritance law. The inheritance was not divided equally between brothers; almost everything went to the eldest brother. Therefore, Lord Winter could not have made a mistake in conversations of this kind, just as Milady could not have. If she had married her eldest brother, her husband would have been called Lord Winter, she herself would have been called Lady Winter, and after her husband's death, the next Lord Winter would have been his legitimate son, that is, the son born of this marriage. The man referred to in Grimaud's memoirs as Lord Winter would thus have been a usurper until he contested Milady's marriage to his brother, but that was precisely what he had no intention of doing, according to these memoirs. We read in Grimaud's words addressed by Lord Winter to Milady: "Oh, believe me, if my brother's memory were not sacred to me, I would have you rot in some state prison or sent to Tyburn for the amusement of the mob! I will remain silent, but you too must endure your imprisonment without complaint." So, having learned from the letter I composed on behalf of d'Artagnan that Milady had a first husband, a Frenchman who is still alive, Lord Winter was given the opportunity to challenge her inheritance rights, thereby legally claiming the title of Lord Winter, having inherited it from his elder brother. But he is reluctant to do so out of respect for his brother, so as not to tarnish his name. But excuse me, in that case it would appear that he himself is a usurper, for if the elder brother leaves behind a son, then the title of lord should pass to him by inheritance, as should all of that brother's property. Readers who find a discrepancy between My Lady's statement that her husband was the younger of two brothers and Lord Winter's assertion that he was the elder would be more likely to believe Lord Winter than My Lady, and they would be mistaken. For if Lord Winter, and not My Lady, were correct, then that man could not call himself Lord Winter. Fortunately, I do not need to resolve this problem logically, since I know the truth that explains all the inconsistencies in these statements. Of course, My Lady was married to Lord Winter's younger brother, so the question of her husband being called a lord never arose, just as the question of her son also becoming a lord could not have arisen until Lord Winter himself, her brother-in-law, died childless, or at least without leaving at least one son.
If Milady's husband had been the eldest son, he wouldn't have been called a marquis, as he would have been an English lord. He was the Marquis de Brinvilliers, and would only have become Lord of Winter upon the death of his elder brother. The marquis's inheritance amounted to just over a million livres. Milady should have been called the Marquise de Brinvilliers, and her son Mordaunt, the Marquis de Brinvilliers, but things didn't work out as she planned. The marquis suspected Milady of adultery, and when his blonde wife gave birth to a dark-haired son, the marquis, also a blonde, began to seriously consider how nature could play such tricks. After studying some biological works, he confirmed what he already knew: that he was not Mordaunt's father. He undertook a small investigation, and since his money allowed him to hire several detectives, he also learned the name of Mordaunt's father, a low-born swindler. He also learned, to his great chagrin, that this swindler was far from the only man receiving from Milady what he alone should have received as a legal husband. He also learned that Milady had a previous husband, from whom she was not divorced, who was most likely still alive, though in hiding, apparently under a disguise. The reason for this was likely a quarrel between the spouses, which resulted in him hanging her and abandoning his home. However, Milady escaped thanks to a fortunate set of circumstances. It was said that the rope was weak, so Milady almost immediately slipped from the noose, but her husband did not pay attention to the noise in the house, since he was extremely excited by what was happening, collecting at that time only the most dear to his heart family jewels before his disappearance, and thought that this noise arose, apparently, as a result of the fall of some shelves or cabinets.
Upon learning of these shocking facts, the Marquis immediately made a will, leaving the title of Marquis and half his fortune to his second cousin, John Foster, who lived in London. He naturally did not bequeath the title to his brother or his future children, as such a title was of no use to Lord Winter, and the Marquis's fortune was insignificant compared to that of his elder brother. Thus, he left one million livres and the title of Marquis to his second cousin, a relative on his mother's side, and only half of his fortune—one million livres—to his wife and her son. While not recognizing Milady's son as his own, he nevertheless decided that it was improper to dispossess his own wife, even if she had been so dishonest with him as to bear a child by her lover.
The Marquis sent a notarized copy of his will to London to his elder brother, whom he appointed as his executor. Another copy was kept in France by a notary. He also sent a letter to the ecclesiastical court, requesting consent for a divorce. The Marquis was furious, since even divorce in England at that time did not allow for a second marriage, and if it did, such a marriage was considered illegal, with an exception only for the King. The Marquis, who passionately desired to leave an heir, was thus devastated by the news that his son was not, in fact, one, but the product of his unfaithful wife's affair with some pathetic adventurer.
Unfortunately for himself, the Marquis was so overcome by his grief that he blurted out everything to his wife in a fit of anger, expressing his pain and blaming her for his own misfortune. He also informed her of the measures he had taken against her and her illegitimate son.
Milady initially tried to justify herself, but when the Marquis presented her with evidence of her infidelities, named all her lovers, and also said that she had married him illegally, since she had a French husband, she objected that, as far as she knew, her first husband had drowned in a pond.
Then the Marquis made another mistake.
"I know for a fact that he's alive, but so that you have no doubt, I'll find him and present evidence of his survival to the church court!" he cried out heatedly. "Perhaps then I'll get not only a divorce, but also the right to marry some honest woman who will be faithful to me and bear me my own children, not a bastard from her lover!"
"Marquis, I have been slandered!" Milady replied despairingly. "Give me a chance to justify myself. No later than the day after tomorrow, I will provide you with proof of my honesty and expose those who have provided you with false evidence of my alleged infidelities."
The Marquis was overcome with doubt, since Milady knew how to pretend to be an innocent victim of circumstances very skillfully.
"Well, I'll be waiting for your justification, and if you can justify it, I'll offer you my most sincere apologies ," he said. "But not until this evidence is presented to me."
This quarrel was the Marquis's undoing. Milady understood that the Marquis's evidence of her infidelities was indisputable, while she herself was unable to refute it or justify herself. She had promised to justify herself for only one reason: she needed time to rid herself of her husband. She spent a day preparing for the murder, trying to arrange everything so that nothing would expose her. On the eve of the appointed day, she poisoned the unsuspecting Marquis, as well as her maid, who had overheard part of their conversation and could testify that the couple had had a heated argument the previous day. Milady then made it look as if a robbery had taken place in the house. She herself, having set the house on fire, hid with her son in the house of her lover. Her plan was for the judges to initially decide that the Marquis had been robbed, and that the robbers had killed him and his wife.
Later, when she was convinced that no one suspected her of murder, so she could return without risk and claim her share of the inheritance, she returned and declared that her husband had sent her to the spas for treatment, which explained her absence, and that the woman whose charred body was found in the marquis's house was his mistress. This allowed her to gain the sympathy of the investigators and judges and easily receive the marquis's inheritance, but not his title for her child, since the will made by the marquis was legally binding, having been made according to all the rules and witnessed by a notary.
Naturally, Milady considered herself robbed, since she had hoped to receive two million and the title of marquis for her son.
So she turned her attention to her late husband's elder brother, devising a plan to seize his inheritance and title, which only required that he die in such a way that not a soul could blame her for his death.
Milady's first attempt to kill Lord Winter was carried out with the help of Rochefort. Milady complained to Count Rochefort about Lord Winter and asked him to intercede on her behalf. She accused him of holding her responsible for his brother's death. Rochefort agreed to challenge Lord Winter to a duel, but did so in a very noble manner. He wrote him a letter explaining his indignation.
Lord Winter came to the duel with two English seconds.
"First, I must say, Count, that your challenge is accepted, and I would have the honor of fighting you ," he said. "But since this duel could end in either your death or mine, I would not wish for any misunderstanding to remain between us that could never be resolved if one of us were to perish. You are defending the honor of your acquaintance, which is certainly admirable. But I am defending the good name of my brother, who deprived his supposedly legitimate son of half his inheritance and his title. This may seem cruel. Therefore, take a look at this letter from my brother, written shortly before his death, and the document attached to it."
Rochefort bowed, took the papers offered to him and examined them carefully.
"Honored sir ," he said after he had finished reading, "my attitude toward this duel has changed. I do not wish for your death, believing you acted entirely within your rights. Since I made the challenge without sufficient grounds, you are free to choose your weapon, since I recognize you as the offended party."
"I have no intention of killing you, nor do I intend to die, but I believe the duel must take place," Lord Winter replied. "I believe there is no need for our seconds to fight each other, as is customary in cases of grave insults. I will be satisfied if we fight to first blood."
The duel was conducted with extreme delicacy, with both combatants sparing each other, but a fight is a fight. At first, they merely made tentative lunges and parried each other's attacks, but after a quarter of an hour, this wore them out, and each decided to end this absurd rivalry. Count de Rochefort intended to wound Lord Winter in the left arm, but at the very moment he executed this maneuver, he felt the cold of the steel just above the elbow of his left arm. Nevertheless, he managed to pierce Lord Winter's left wrist.
The opponents appreciated each other's fencing skills and fortitude, declared a draw, and parted as friends. Rochefort learned something interesting about Milady, which he intended to use to protect himself from her in case she hatched any plot against him. I learned this completely by accident.
The Comte de Ronchamp informed me of this in a letter. Milady had reproached de Rochefort for failing to fulfill his promise to kill Lord Winter, but the letter was mistakenly delivered not to the Comte de Rochefort, but to the Comte de Ronchamp, a friend of the late Marquis, whom I had met following the mistake of the Marquis believing me to be the cause of Milady's adultery. Ronchamp felt it necessary to warn me of the treachery of his late friend's widow, who was also plotting to kill her brother-in-law. In the same letter, de Ronchamp added a postscript: "This is at least the Marquise's second attempt to eliminate her brother-in-law in order to inherit his fortune. Beware, Monsieur d'Herblay, this woman will stop at nothing to deal with her enemies, and you, as far as I know, are among them."
Grimaud was unaware of this, but apparently believed he had described these attempts in his memoirs. This is not entirely accurate. She indirectly influenced d'Artagnan's intention to challenge her brother-in-law to a duel, but there was no direct attempt to kill Lord Winter this time. Seeing d'Artagnan, whom she encountered on the road, looking displeasedly at Lord Winter, Milady tried to be as polite as possible to her brother-in-law, in order to further anger d'Artagnan and arouse his jealousy. Noting to herself that he was already sufficiently enraged, she hastened to disappear, leaving the two men alone to allow their quarrel to escalate into a duel.
Investigating Milady's case much later, I also became interested in why Milady didn't marry Lord Winter himself, who was much wealthier than his younger brother. The answer lies in the fact that she simply never had the opportunity to meet him, and after she met his younger brother and made him fall in love with her, she knew from the first glance that Lord Winter would never consider his brother's fianc;e or wife a potential love object. To him, she was merely a relative, not a woman to fall in love with or to covet.
From that very moment, she decided it would be a good idea to become a widower and then turn her attention more closely to her brother-in-law. However, she soon realized that a man like Lord Winter would always see her only as a relative; he would consider such a marriage incestuous. So, for her, the most intriguing thing was that Lord Winter was unmarried. She then decided to become his heir at the first opportunity, and from that moment, Lord Winter's life was in danger.
In the same chapter of Grimaud's memoirs, we can read that Milady was Buckingham's mistress. Grimaud writes: "Milady rather feared that her previous misdeeds in England had come to light. Buckingham might have guessed that she had cut off the two diamond pendants and sought revenge for her petty betrayal; but Buckingham was incapable of committing any violence against a woman, especially if he believed she had acted under the influence of jealousy." Jealousy only arises between lovers, so it is clear that Grimaud is hinting at a connection between Milady and Buckingham. Grimaud is right. But Milady introduced herself to Buckingham as the Countess of Carlisle, a countess who actually existed and was friends with Milady. The Countess was unknown to Buckingham, but rumors of her beauty prompted Buckingham to write her a letter inviting her to a small dinner. The Countess understood what this meant, and she wasn't one of those ladies who would necessarily refuse or be indignant at such proposals. The problem was that she couldn't keep such a meeting that evening, and besides, her husband was rather jealous. The Countess shared her doubts with her friend, and they devised a Beaumarchais-esque prank. Milady proposed that she would appear before Buckingham disguised as the Countess of Carlisle and seduce him, after which they would together expose the Duke as a womanizer chasing after every skirt. Milady took advantage of this opportunity not to humiliate Buckingham, but to get closer to him, since she was already the Cardinal's spy and understood perfectly well that her value would increase manifold if she were to become close to the chief arbiter of English politics. This is what she did, after which she confessed her innocent prank to the Duke. She explained her actions by saying she was in love with him. The Duke laughed with her, and they met many more times afterward, but the Duke jokingly called her the Countess of Carlisle, which suited Milady just fine, as she saw it as an opportunity to keep her name out of the limelight in high society, preserving a greater opportunity for all sorts of intrigues in the future.
So, in England, My Lady could count on the friendship of Lord Winter, who was unaware of her plans to send him to the next world, as well as the friendship of the Countess of Carlisle and her husband, the Earl of Carlisle, and the increased attention of Buckingham himself, who, however, almost immediately forgot about his mistresses as soon as they disappeared from the horizon. My Lady understood that the Duke had guessed who had cut the two diamond pendants from his suit, since it was quite possible that only she had come close enough to him to do so. She prepared a tearful speech about how she sensed the approaching separation, the inevitability of a forever parting, and decided to leave herself at least this modest reminder of the Duke. She was confident that the Duke would believe her and forgive her.
Lord Winter, warned by our letter, arrested Milady immediately upon her arrival in England and entrusted her guard to Lieutenant Felton.

Chapter 53

If I hadn't already realized that Athos's supposed memoirs were written by Grimaud, the chapters describing our actions at the siege of La Rochelle would have convinced me completely. Just read the account of how we dined under enemy fire in the bastion of Saint-Gervais, and all doubts will evaporate. Judging by the description, we would not have accomplished this heroic feat if not for Grimaud. But first, I'll quote the previous chapter. Note that Athos trained Grimaud to obey without words, and Grimaud understood him perfectly. Nowhere is there any mention of any misunderstanding on Grimaud's part, although I can recall at least ten instances where Grimaud did something completely different from Athos's request, which elicited the most lively laughter, since a gesture that clearly indicates a request for another bottle of champagne could never be interpreted as a request for mustard. And when Grimaud walked around with the mustard and saw the goblet Athos was handing him, his surprised and guilty expression evoked such laughter that it was impossible to suppress it. Grimaud's gesture to shut up and shut his mouth was interpreted by poor Grimaud as meaning he should close the window or the door to the room. When Athos pointed to his cloak, hinting that he wanted Grimaud to hand him over and help him dress, the obtuse servant grabbed a brush and began dusting it, which provoked Athos's rage and a fit of mirth from us. Incidentally, this mirth protected Grimaud from a slap, which Athos would otherwise have surely given the less-than-savvy servant. However, after several months of training, Grimaud truly began to understand Athos's gestures perfectly and learned to respond to them just as well. It could be said that Athos and Grimaud invented a special sign language. But no one objective, except Grimaud himself, would ever characterize Athos and Grimaud's communication as successful, at least during the siege of La Rochelle. Grimaud, among other things, doesn't explain why Athos forbade him to speak. The fact is, Grimaud had previously been extremely talkative, which prompted our friendly teasing of Athos. We assumed that Athos, despite his gloomy nature, had chosen a servant who entertained him with idle chatter and ramblings, like a buffoon. Athos countered that he disliked Grimaud's chatter as much as we did, and made a bet with us that in less than a month he would completely wean Grimaud off his talkativeness, so much so that he would even give him orders by signs and would also receive all the necessary information from him. The stake in the bet was that if we lost, then all three of us would have to...
Anyway, that's beside the point. Athos won the bet, you fulfilled his demands, and I have to give Athos's sense of humor credit, we looked ridiculous. I'll never wear a woman's dress again! Damn it, I let the bet slip. Never mind, this isn't a book for idiots who use this information to mock us. On to the point.
So Grimaud lied about perfectly understanding Athos's unspoken instructions. Far from it.
Further in the text, as you recall, Athos bet the musketeers would spend a whole hour in the Bastion Saint-Gervais, where they would also have breakfast. If you read the subsequent descriptions of these events carefully, be honest: did you get the impression that the musketeers were only chatting and eating breakfast, while Grimaud carried out the entire operation almost single-handedly? He collected guns, fired back at the enemy, and finally arranged the corpses of the soldiers killed earlier in this bastion, posing them in picturesque poses as defenders of the bastion, and placed weapons in their hands, thereby effectively delaying those attempting to attack the bastion. Meanwhile, Grimaud managed to serve the musketeers, feeding them dinner, which he personally carried in a basket, pouring them wine. He himself was content with only a small portion of the feast, which Athos deigned to allow him to "grab a loaf of bread, two cutlets, and a bottle of wine." What precision! Clearly, Grimaud wasn't entirely satisfied with such a meager meal, since he remembered every detail.
Moreover, Grimaud conveys the Musketeers' speech rather crudely. Just think of Athos's line: "You are stupid, friend Porthos!" Could Athos really have spoken so rudely to his friends? That's how our servants spoke to each other, teasing each other but not taking offense, since among commoners, crude jokes at each other's expense are perceived as a sign of trust and friendship, whereas among nobles such a thing is unacceptable. In Grimaud's dialogues, we often address each other informally, which is never the case.
I can't help but note Grimaud's next line: "Meanwhile, the royal army, oblivious to the worries of its one and only true leader, led a merry life. There was plenty of food and money in the camp; all units vied with one another in daring and various amusements. Capturing spies and hanging them, organizing risky expeditions to the dam and the sea, initiating the most reckless undertakings and carrying them out with equanimity—this is how the army spent its time, and what helped it while away the days, long not only for the Rochellais, tormented by hunger and agonizing anticipation, but also for the Cardinal, who so stubbornly blockaded them."
This description makes the king's army look like a riotous bunch of idlers, drunkards, card and dice players who found amusement in catching spies and hanging them. This is a blatant slander, for which I would stab any nobleman who would dare speak so of the King's Musketeers or even the Guards. The truth is, each of us understood how fleeting our lives could be, cut short at any moment by a stray bullet, cannonball, grapeshot, or even a simple stone dislodged by a cannonball. Our feigned indifference to our fate, which we sometimes concealed even from ourselves, could in no way be called fun. We had no time for games or drinking, for, as I have already said, de Treville often said, "A soldier without a mission is a potential violator of discipline, and in wartime, a potential criminal." So we were never left without assignments. And these assignments were dangerous. Furthermore, if we were talking about the four of us, danger threatened us not only from La Rochelle but also from behind, which was far more frightening. Our enemies were Milady, who could send assassins after us even though she herself was in England at the time, as well as Rochefort, and, worst of all, Cardinal Richelieu. The Cardinal alone was enough to make our lives unbearable. The Cardinal could simply send us into the hottest part of the battle, even on a completely pointless operation. We could not question orders or refuse to carry them out, especially when they were orders issued by the Prime Minister of France, the de facto commander-in-chief of the French army. If he had said, "Athos, Porthos, Aramis, d'Artagnan, go and die beneath the walls of La Rochelle!" we would have been forced to do so, and we would have tried to take as many enemies as possible with us to the next world, nothing more. I don't think we would have even had time to write a final farewell to our loved ones, and that was never done in such cases. The fact that the Cardinal didn't give us such an order, so clearly demonstrating his hostility towards us, only proves that he possessed a considerable sense of justice, respected us as brave and honorable opponents, but did not consider us enemies. Yes, I make a distinction between these concepts. Enemies are fought to the end, regardless of the ethics of their methods; opponents are defeated only in fair combat, in a battle of skill, intellect, and even sometimes in a confrontation of nobility. We would have refused to carry out the Cardinal's order only if he had ordered us to arrest the King or de Treville. In that case, we would have arrested him. If his order had been directed against France's enemies, we would have carried it out, since de Tr;ville himself would have confirmed it, which we, of course, knew, since the cardinal was in command of the military campaign.
Here's another interesting example of absurdity in Grimaud's memoirs. He describes how "the cardinal left home accompanied only by Cahuzac and La Houdini;re, leaving without any purpose, simply to take a drive." Richelieu never did anything without a purpose. Every minute of his time was dedicated to a purpose. The Cardinal never strolled. If he went somewhere, he had a clear goal. It's another matter that he could present his movements as a purposeless stroll. But they are not the same thing. Of course, Richelieu had a goal, and it was, at the very least, to inspect the state of affairs at the front. Grimaud goes on to report: "Leisurely climbing the hill, he saw, not far away, behind a hedge, seven men lying and basking in the rays of the sun, which rarely shone at this time of year, with empty bottles scattered around them. Four of these men were our musketeers, prepared to listen to the reading of a letter one of their number had just received. This letter was so important that they had left the cards and dice spread out on the drum for it."
We had retired to discuss the important news from Paris and decide on our next steps. The cards, dice, and wine were a distraction, so that if anyone asked what we were doing, we could say we were taking advantage of the free time to celebrate d'Artagnan's promotion to the Musketeers. However, "free time" for soldiers during battle is almost a mythical concept. Sometimes, after a particularly difficult sortie or a bloody battle, we might be rewarded with an hour or two of rest and recuperation. But wartime is no time for picnics, drinking, dice, or cards. Only the simple-minded servants would conclude that the life of a musketeer during wartime consists of endless picnics, drinking bouts, games, and banquets. When it comes to catching spies and amusing themselves by hanging them, this is common slander. As a rule, spies were caught by those whose job it was. We weren't part of the squad that hunted down spies and deserters. Nor were we their executioners. So we didn't catch spies or execute them. If the Cardinal or the King wanted an execution to be carried out publicly, it was mandatory to attend. This could only happen if a deserter or traitor was being executed as a warning to the soldiers with whom he served. Since there were no such people among the Musketeers, we never witnessed the hanging of a spy during the entire siege of La Rochelle. I imagine our servants took advantage of their spare time, which they also had very little of, to amuse themselves once or twice by witnessing such an execution. It so impressed poor Grimaud that he decided to describe something similar in his memoirs, giving free rein to his imagination.
When we gathered to read the letter I'd received, we'd arranged it so that we were simply sitting at a picnic, with empty bottles, dice, and cards scattered around. Our three servants were supposed to warn us of the arrival of strangers.
Naturally, it was Grimaud who first noticed the Cardinal's approach, and he couldn't miss the opportunity to mention it in his memoirs. He warned us with the cry, "Officer!" For this, he earned a reprimand from Athos, and when it became clear that it was Richelieu, Athos, after the Cardinal's departure, reprimanded Grimaud for being too late in warning us of the strangers' approach. By communicating both these facts, Grimaud protested Athos's contradictory demands, trying to do so as delicately as possible, without directly accusing Athos of injustice. But this injustice of the master toward his servant simply stands out from this description. Poor Grimaud thus belatedly responded to the insult inflicted upon him. I admit that Grimaud was a magnificent servant, so for several decades he did not show that he was offended, and served his master faithfully and truly, but still he could not resist and squeezed a barb into his text addressed to Athos.
Well, such barbs only make the memoirs more lively.

Chapter 54

Grimaud reports that I referred to Marie de Chevreuse as Agla; Michon in my letters. This isn't entirely true. I called her Marie Michon, as she introduced herself to me the first time we met. But at a time when she was particularly wary of the Cardinal's spies, she asked me to change her name so that no one would guess to whom the letter was addressed. Thus, Marie Michon became Agla; Michon. Incidentally, note that in the second book of his memoirs, entitled "Twenty Years Later," the same author, Grimaud, uses the name Marie Michon to refer to Athos and the Duchess de Chevreuse herself. Grimaud was so inconsistent and inattentive, you can believe me, I'm not mistaken about her real and fictitious names.
Grimaud then describes with relish how he was forced to eat a letter from Agla;e Michon, washing it down with a glass of Bordeaux. He rarely had the opportunity to taste such excellent wine, so a full glass of it was excellent compensation for the inconvenience of eating the letter. From his description of this event, one gets the sense that he would gladly repeat such an appetizer, provided he could have a second glass of this wine. Well, Grimaud was no drinker, but he knew how to appreciate a good wine. Athos knew this. I'm not convinced that if I offered Bazin a similar appetizer and drink, he wouldn't have vomited afterwards. Perhaps we should come up with a name for Grimaud's talents for shredding and destroying paper. Perhaps the stylus could call him Shredder ? An excellent name for a servant with such talents!
However, he is truly talented as a romantic writer. Who would have thought it? The description of how Milady seduced Felton from the true path and instilled in him a hatred of Buckingham is worthy of becoming a masterpiece of adventure literature. Athos's library is truly a magnificent school!
Apparently, it was precisely this fascination with this fiction that led Grimaud to believe that Milady was married to Lord Winter's elder brother. But even if her account had been accurately conveyed, we know it was entirely fictitious. So, to provoke Felton's indignation, she could easily have added the detail that Lord Winter was her husband's younger brother, making the treacherous actions attributed to him even more vile and understandable. After all, it would seem that Lord Winter was complicit in his brother's death, as he had a direct interest in inheriting the family estate, that is, the most significant share of the inheritance that his supposed elder brother had previously received.
Here, of course, everything doesn't add up. The younger brother couldn't have received this inheritance if his elder brother had a son. Milady herself allegedly didn't tell Felton that she had borne a son by her husband, since that wouldn't fit with her theory that he died before he could avenge her dishonor. But in fact, she did bear this son. So, I maintain once again that Grimaud got everything mixed up regarding the seniority of the Winter brothers.
I must say that the words Milady spoke to Felton to seduce him will never be known, as they were spoken between the two of them, and there were no witnesses to their conversation. Milady, of course, never reported this conversation to anyone, and Felton never confessed on the matter. Puritans don't confess.
I suspect Grimaud borrowed the ideas for his creation from some adventure novel. The description of Milady's days in captivity, as well as her escape, are simply the fruit of Grimaud's wild imagination. The dialogue is beautifully written, and the idea that Milady moved Felton to pity by telling him of her cruel persecution at the hands of Buckingham and Lord Winter is admirable. Of course, if Milady had told Felton that Lord Winter was her late husband's younger brother, his crimes would have acquired both motive and treachery. But Milady could hardly have taken such a serious risk. After all, Felton could have made inquiries, and Lord Winter himself could have informed him that Milady was the widow of his younger brother, not his elder. Establishing the truth would have been easy, and Milady would have lost her trust.
Moreover, Grimaud paints Lord Winter's hatred and contempt for Milady far too boldly and in too rich a tone. There was no basis for this at the time. If Lord Winter had known that Milady had murdered his brother, her husband, he would have had her executed; in that case, he would not have treated her so gently, as described in Grimaud's memoirs. If he didn't know this—and he couldn't have known, since I didn't tell him, he simply had no way of knowing—then how can one explain so many inconsistencies? Not long before, Lord Winter had been on excellent terms with Milady, calling her his sister and Lady Claric, and had even introduced d'Artagnan to her as his savior, who had refused to kill him in a duel despite having every opportunity to do so. And now he suddenly speaks of her baseness and treachery in such vivid terms, as if he had personally experienced it and been convinced of it. Could it really be that Lord Winter, having departed for England, received only a short letter from a man he barely knew, completely trusted him, and became Milady's jailer and accuser, no longer calling her Lady Clarick but Charlotte Buxton? From Grimaud's perspective, all nobles unconditionally trusted nobles. But was he reading between the lines?
Let me remind you that the only reason he had for changing his attitude toward her was my letter, which read: "Twice you nearly became the victim of your close relative, whom you consider your heir, since you are unaware that she married in England after already being married in France. But the third time, that is, now, you may perish. Your relative left La Rochelle for England this night. Watch for her arrival, for she harbors monstrous plans. If you wish to know for certain what she is capable of, read her past on her left shoulder."
I don't think a warning of this kind warrants such a series of statements, containing contempt, hatred, mistrust, accusations of pretense, and much else besides. Lord Winter could only have taken note of her intention to kill him and, let's say, because Planchet had verbally warned of the danger to the Duke of Buckingham, feared the same outcome. In that case, he would simply have ordered her taken into custody and not released until the situation was clarified. It would have been strange, then, for him to intend to release her on the condition that she travel far away. After all, there would have been nothing to stop her from returning! Keeping an eye on her would have been an unaffordable luxury, as it would have required the deployment of several soldiers and officers, especially at a time when, I remind you, a war was raging. It would have been far simpler to keep her locked up until all the circumstances were clarified. This is precisely what Lord Winter actually did. He simply locked her up and assigned Felton to manage the small staff necessary to guard her, provide her with food, and meet her other needs. He, of course, provided her with no confidante. Moreover, there was no escape involving a saw to cut through the bars, a rope ladder, or other romantic trappings of pulp fiction. The truth is, Lord Winter was still unaware of Milady's ability to deceive people, lure them to her side, and ensure their compliance with her dastardly plans. Had he known this, he would have simply changed the guards every 24 hours, since her plan would have been impossible to carry out in 24 hours. So Milady's escape wasn't due to any exceptional skill or strength on the part of Felton, who sawed through the bars and carried the prisoner entrusted to his guards up a rope ladder. It was simply because Felton, possessing sufficient authority, simply led Milady out of the castle and onto a ship. There was no trickery involving sawing through the bars or throwing a purse of gold on the ground. Such a purse would certainly have been noticed by guards passing under the windows of the prison tower, and they would certainly have noticed the rope ladder hanging from the tower, even if it hadn't reached the ground by several feet. If guards are guarding a tower from the outside, they're also keeping an eye on the window of the tower where the prisoner is confined. I understand, however, that Grimaud read this story of the escape by rope ladder from de Sully's memoirs, which Athos had. These memoirs recount the escape of Henry of Anjou, with the help of Henry of Navarre, from the palace of the Queen Mother, Catherine de' Medici. He may have drawn on other romantic books as a source for his fantasies. I was particularly amused by the passages where Grimaud describes Milady's thoughts, the expression she made when she thought no one was watching, what Felton thought, and so on. Of course, Lord de Winter wasn't so prudent, not yet fully understanding the depths of his sister-in-law's wickedness. He merely placed her in a locked room, believing he had done everything necessary for his own safety and that of Buckingham. Felton wasn't forbidden from communicating with her, since Lord de Winter had no idea of Milady's treachery, her talent for seducing and befriending someone she had never seen before. It's also clear that, having read the message that he could read his sister-in-law's past on her left shoulder, he tried to understand this cryptic allusion. He hinted in Felton's presence that My Lady had something on her left shoulder that would shed light on many circumstances. My Lady, who hadn't expected it, was horrified and couldn't hide her feelings at that moment. Lord Winter, noticing her horror and embarrassment, guessed that it was probably the mark of a thief or prostitute and didn't seek confirmation. The reason for this was that he still accepted her as his relative and sole heir. It's completely inexplicable, however, that Lord Winter didn't demand that My Lady give him his brother's son to raise. That's precisely how noblemen act in such cases. If he considered My Lady unworthy, that should have been reason to try to take his nephew away from her in order to provide him with a proper education and provide for his life. This is what Lord Winter should have done out of respect for his brother's memory, and not what he said he would not make a scandal about her marriage being invalid because she had already been married in France to some French nobleman, unknown to him, who was still alive.
So, the confusion in Grimaud's account of these events is such that I have had to shed some light on them. Lord Winter, not considering Milady particularly dangerous, simply placed her in custody, without bothering to warn his officers of Milady's treachery, as he himself was still unaware of it. Milady, taking advantage of the opportunity to communicate with Felton, convinced him that she was the victim of a conspiracy and slander, blaming Lord Winter and Buckingham for everything . Felton simply released her, taking advantage of his position as commander of the guard. An angry Lord Winter sent Felton to the front with the army, which was precisely what Felton had wanted, as it would be easier for him to meet Buckingham there and kill him. It's all so simple, and we know so little of the details of these events, that it would hardly be possible to recount the situation in several chapters and so many pages. As for speculation, that's definitely not for me. In these memoirs, I'm writing strictly about what I know for certain. The Felton case remains murky for me, so I've already laid out everything I know for certain, with all truth and consistency.
Regarding the fact that Lord Winter first calls her Lady Claric and then Charlotte Buxton, while Athos subsequently, without any apparent reason to the reader, calls her Baroness Sheffield, I can offer the following explanation. Lord Winter's brother was Claric Winter, Baron Sheffield, who, upon arriving in France, acquired the lands that formed the Marquisate of Brinvilliers. Accordingly, this brother was called Sir Claric Winter, Baron Sheffield, Marquis de Brinvilliers. In England, a wife is considered one with her husband, to the point that any of her husband's names can be applied to her. So, if her husband's name was Sir Claric, then she could be called Lady Claric. Feeling sympathy for his younger brother's widow, Lord Winter called her by her brother's name, that is, Lady Claric. When he received news that she was plotting murder, he called her by the name by which she introduced herself to his brother upon their first meeting: Charlotte Buxton. Athos called her Baroness Sheffield after her second husband, and he could have just as easily called her Marquise de Brinvilliers, but Athos chose to use her English married title rather than her French one, as according to French law she should have been called Countess de La F;re. Calling her by that name would have been most unpleasant for Athos.
Grimaud also made a mistake regarding the name "Milady," by which we called this woman. In his memoirs, he first reports Rochefort's thoughts: "If only that scoundrel doesn't see Milady." I've already noted that Planchet can read the minds of the people he met in his life, and it's worth laughing at. It's impossible to convey other people's thoughts in memoirs. If you invent these details, then you're not writing memoirs, but a novel.
We encounter this word later in the stage direction: "'Remember...' cried Milady..." How Grimaud could have known about the dialogue that took place between Milady and Rochefort remains anyone's guess, as at the time Grimaud hadn't even met d'Artagnan, and d'Artagnan himself was elsewhere, unconscious, and didn't hear the conversation. So, if Grimaud knew people's thoughts, is it any wonder he knew everything they said?
The third time we encounter this name in Grimaud's memoirs comes from d'Artagnan himself. He calls her by this name without any justification, for he had never heard Rochefort call her that! D'Artagnan himself then informs de Treville that the stranger called this lady "Milady," but, as we see, he did not call her that. Here Grimaud made a mistake. Indeed, of course, Rochefort called her that in his presence, meaning Grimaud forgot to describe the dialogue that took place between Milady and Rochefort, which d'Artagnan witnessed. This monologue took place, and d'Artagnan perhaps only demanded satisfaction from Rochefort because the count's unflattering comment about the color of his horse was made in Milady's presence, precisely in the hope that she would laugh at the young man along with him.

Chapter 55

Let me say a few words about Constance Bonacieux. In Grimaud's memoirs, we meet two different Constances. The first Constance is before our trip to England. In fact, only d'Artagnan ever made it to England. She, as we see, is a rather stern married woman who keeps d'Artagnan at a distance. Perhaps he hasn't yet earned her gratitude and love? And what about the fact that he snatched her from the hands of her kidnappers? He single-handedly dispersed the four Cardinal's spies who had tied her up. Isn't that enough? Our young Gascon then passionately declares his love, after which he not only promises to obey his lady unconditionally in everything, but also keeps his promise, as he guards her on her way to Buckingham, then guards them both, after which he promises not to follow her—a promise he keeps, though it was a bit of a struggle. At the same time, Constance speaks to him from a condescending position, demands obedience and does not promise anything concrete in return, evading his persistence.
At their next meeting, she yields to his protestations of devotion and, somewhat hesitantly, entrusts him to England with a letter to the Duke of Buckingham on the Queen's behalf. D'Artagnan asks her, "I will return having earned her gratitude, but will I also earn your love?" In response, Constance merely blushes, indicating she hasn't made a definite promise. They address each other informally, and Madame Bonacieux denies reciprocating her feelings, so nothing proves to d'Artagnan that she loves him, other than the rather insignificant fact that she resorts to his help when she has no one else to turn to.
After his successful return, Constance also made no promises. They had two brief encounters, where she also didn't confess her love for him, and they barely even conversed, so they hadn't grown any closer during that time.
Regarding their first meeting, Grimaud reports: "The day before, they had only briefly met at the gatekeeper's, Germain, where d'Artagnan had summoned her. The young woman was in such a hurry to convey to the Queen the joyful news of her messenger's safe return that the lovers barely had time to exchange a few words." Their second meeting consisted of Constance leading d'Artagnan, without a word, to a room where he had the pleasure of seeing and kissing the Queen's hand, after which a surprisingly brief dialogue ensued between him and Constance:
"You! At last!" cried d'Artagnan.
"Be quiet!" said the young woman, covering his mouth with her hand. "Be quiet and go back the way you came."
"But where and when will I see you?" cried d'Artagnan.
"You'll find out from the note you'll find at home. Go, go!"
“With these words, she opened the door to the corridor and escorted d'Artagnan out of the office.”
Doesn't it hardly resemble a conversation between two lovers? He cried out twice, she covered his mouth and escorted him away.
The letter continued as follows: "They wish to thank you warmly on their own behalf, as well as on behalf of another person. Be at ten o'clock this evening at Saint-Cloud, opposite the pavilion adjoining the house of Mr. d'Estr;es. K.B."
The date, as you know from Grimaud's memoirs, never took place. Consequently, neither did the confession nor the intimacy, which, even in cases of mutual love, doesn't always occur, only if nothing stands in the way. Only after such intimacy can a couple call themselves lovers, and even then, they generally avoid such a pragmatic title. If such intimacy never occurs, they speak only of their love, and the man calls his lady his beloved, but certainly not his mistress. Any number of letters can only confirm this status of a beloved woman, but does not make her a mistress.
What do we read in Grimaud's memoirs when he describes the conversation between Constance and Milady, whom she naively considers to be a victim of the cardinal, and therefore her friend and comrade in misfortune?
Milady guessed and voiced her guess out loud: “You were d’Artagnan’s mistress!”
After some hesitation, Constance replies: "Well then! Yes, madam! So, are we rivals?"
Seriously? A married woman who had no sexual relations with a young Gascon, but merely trusted him by entrusting him with the delivery of some diamond pendants, now readily agrees to be called this young man's mistress? The fact that he saved her from four spies who were committing violent acts against her—I don't mean sexually—didn't make her accept his declarations of love favorably. But the fact that he delivered a dozen diamond pendants for another woman, even the Queen, even at Constance's own request, immediately made her his mistress? I beg your pardon—not immediately, but after she was kidnapped again, and after her knight did absolutely nothing to find and free her, but went off to gather his three friends, whom he had lost while carrying out her errand. Perhaps you'll say he did much to save her? Then tell me what exactly, and how did it end? By what results could Constance have realized that d'Artagnan, sparing no life, had rushed to save her? As far as she could tell, the Queen had interceded for her out of gratitude for a service rendered to her, and nothing more. However, if she had learned at what cost he had obtained information about her, it would hardly have contributed to improving her affection for the young Gascon. After all, d'Artagnan had truly become Milady's lover. I don't blame him in the least, but women view such adventures differently, even if they are the only means of saving themselves.
It must be said that in these inconsistencies Grimaud also completely revealed his authorship of these memoirs.
His fantasies initially portrayed Constance as more stern than she actually was, and when he described her last days, old Grimaud (you understand that he wrote his memoirs in his old age) became emotional and added color to Constance's love for d'Artagnan. Well, I don't blame him for this, but, as I have noted more than once in these pages, I strive to present the truth and nothing but the truth. However, I also acknowledge the fact that Grimaud's voluminous work has conveyed our adventures in detail and almost accurately, and, in any case, I do not set myself the task of rewriting the history of these months, since it is written quite accurately and in detail, except, of course, for those points to which I draw the attention of those who, who knows, may yet read these pages.
Grimaud should have been more careful in recounting the dialogue between Milady and Rochefort, which he had invented entirely. Milady asks Rochefort to convey some information to the Cardinal, after which she also says the following: "Tell him that of these four men, only two are to be feared: d'Artagnan and Athos; tell him that the third, Aramis, is Madame de Chevreuse's lover; he must be left alive, we know his secret, and he may be useful to us; and as for the fourth, Porthos, he is a fool, a coxcomb, and a simpleton, and not worth even paying attention to."
I must correct Grimaud. Milady was unaware of my alleged relationship with the Duchess de Chevreuse, as she had no way of knowing. We concealed it very skillfully, which was unusual for the Duchess. Marie's liaisons with Count Holland, with Buckingham, with the Prince de Marsillac, later known as Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld, even with Buckingham himself, were known to many, but only thanks to the talkativeness of these particular lovers. But no one knew of my affair with her, as I kept it a secret, and even my friends, Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, for a long time only guessed that I knew a lady at court, whom I called Marie Michon, later Agla; Michon, and described as my cousin the seamstress. Even if my friends guessed who hid behind these names, they accepted my version unconditionally and didn't try to provoke me to open up or find out my friend's name. Likewise, no one at court ever suspected Marie's affair with Athos, which produced Raoul, whom Athos raised and made Viscount de Bragelonne. Moreover, as I have already mentioned, I had meetings with Camille de Bois-Tracy, and, I confess, I sometimes provided a kind of spiritual guidance to some of my parishioners, and even occasionally yielded to their insistent desire to receive from me not only spiritual grace but also proof of my utmost respect for them and my unconditional recognition of their femininity and beauty. I cannot say that such meetings were a burden to me. I gratefully accepted their expressions of divine grace, to which I was fortunate to be a partaker, believing that the commandment of Our Lord, "Be fruitful and multiply," should be accepted with reverence and not neglected the duty He laid upon us with these words. In any case, I made a determined effort to ensure that if my parishioners intended to multiply, I did everything within my power to ensure that, after that, everything depended on the will of the Lord. Most of my parishioners were young women who were not receiving their full share from their aged husbands, so my efforts merely enabled the birth of infants destined to become wealthy noblemen, to the delight of voluptuous old men who possessed the desire to leave offspring and sufficient capital to enter into an unequal marriage, but insufficient strength to bring this intention to a happy end. I believe they should be grateful to me for the fact that their lineage has not died out.
Therefore, I believe Milady's alleged statements about me are erroneous. It would hardly have been possible for her, even if she had known of my affair with Marie, to convey such information through Rochefort. She would have kept the news to herself, to personally report it to Richelieu, who was very interested in such connections. Moreover, Grimaud didn't know what Milady certainly knew: that Richelieu himself had several very intimate encounters with Marie, which allowed her to subsequently escape unscathed from the uncovering of any conspiracy. However, she paid a price for this: these conspiracies were uncovered with her help. Let me remind you that she strove with all her might to be a valuable informant for both the Queen and her supporters, as well as for the Cardinal, choosing at her own discretion what information to share with one side or the other in a way that would only lend weight to herself and her reports, without disrupting that exquisitely delicate balance of love and hatred that Queen Anne, Cardinal Richelieu, and King Louis XIII cherished for her. I confess that my love for Marie, too, was tinged with hatred and irritation, but it was the kind of love one does not voluntarily abandon. Marie's lovers, like flies in honey, were unable to abandon their bait, yet they derived the keenest pleasure from being held captive in such sweet captivity. Milady could not have planned to exploit me and my connection with Chevreuse. If the Cardinal had needed a connection with Chevreuse, he would have only needed to recall his own relationship with her. After all, this lady had even managed to make not only the Cardinal fall in love with her when he was still just a bishop, but also the King himself, albeit only platonically. No, of course, Richelieu didn't need intermediaries to communicate with Marie.
As for Porthos's characterization as a "fool, a coxcomb, and a simpleton" who "isn't even worth paying attention to," that, too, isn't the slightest bit true. Milady couldn't have formed the superficial opinion of Porthos that Grimaud puts into her mouth, nor a deeper impression, simply because she wasn't familiar enough with him to describe him in any way other than as a "large and extremely strong musketeer," since that's exactly how he appeared upon first meeting him. I'll defend Porthos with all my heart. He was a man of the kindest soul, not from stupidity, but consciously. He loved to show off in beautiful suits, but does that prove his stupidity? If so, then all courtiers are stupid, and they're all coxcombs. He was never a simpleton. At the very moment when I thought he would die through my fault, he understood everything, and, it seemed to me, he understood it much earlier. Lest my heart be tormented by irreparable guilt, he laughed it off, saying that since I had acted out of selfishness, he would certainly forgive me, because he understood, considering selfishness an inherent and ineradicable trait of every human being. One would have to possess a heart as enormous as Porthos's to find such an easy excuse, even though Porthos himself was not selfish in the slightest. I would in no way call the desire to become a baron or a duke selfish; it's vanity, without which there are no military men. Porthos would be a bad man if he aspired to nothing at all. So, Grimaud is wrong again in these passages.
Next, I noticed the description of how Milady was led to execution by Grimaud and Mousqueton.
Milady allegedly told them: "I promise each of you a thousand pistoles if you help me escape! But if you betray me into the hands of your masters, then know this: I have avengers nearby who will make you pay dearly for my life!"
Since these memoirs are written by Grimaud himself, we should trust his retelling of this phrase, unless his memory fails him. But the author goes on to report: "Grimaud hesitated. Mousqueton trembled all over." After this, Athos, on Lord Winter's advice, replaced the servants with Planchet and Bazin. Could Grimaud really have written such a confession about himself, that he hesitated, considering whether to accept the bribe and save Milady? It's a trap for the unintelligent. Grimaud decided to add a little black paint to his self-description in order to conceal his authorship. He failed.
A superficial reader might attribute his hesitation to the reward offered for his betrayal. But Grimaud was never a traitor; he was devoted to Athos with all his might. A more discerning mind might attribute his hesitation to Milady's threats should the ransom fail to materialize. But those who know Grimaud and Mousqueton, as I do, will reject even this explanation. I can reconstruct the original text of this sentence, which Grimaud himself later deliberately shortened to conceal his authorship. Indeed, when he enthusiastically described the dialogue between Milady and Felton, he gave his imagination free rein, unafraid of his authorship being revealed. Here, too, he realized that if he described the reasons for Grimaud's hesitation, the reader might ask, "How did the author know the reasons for it, if the author wasn't Grimaud himself?"
For this reason, he abridged the text. In the original version, and I have no doubt, it was written like this: "Grimaud intended to report this entire conversation to Athos, but he hesitated, since Athos had forbidden him to speak unless absolutely necessary. He therefore hesitated between simply ignoring these words, and perhaps not telling Athos something important, and reporting them verbatim and being reprimanded by Athos for daring to open his mouth when Athos had neither asked him nor allowed him to speak. He glanced at Mousqueton, hoping that he would report the conversation to his master, since no one had required him to remain silent. At that moment, Grimaud saw that Mousqueton was trembling all over, probably torn by indignation at Milady, who had dared to offer him a bribe and threaten him with violence, trying to force him to disobey the orders of his beloved master."
It may sound strange, but our servants were practically family to us. They were devoted to us, absolutely, of course, and I never had reason to doubt it. Mousqueton, of course, could afford to steal a few small coins from his master, but is there a servant in the world who would never do that? But I suspect that Porthos himself occasionally left a few coins in plain sight for Mousqueton, believing that giving small change to a servant without a good reason was unseemly, since a nobleman like himself should give only gold, and in those days he didn't have enough gold coins to allow himself to gratuitously reward Mousqueton with even a single pistol on top of his salary. The Picard Planchet also had a certain acquisitive streak, but he wouldn't have robbed his master of even a single penny, and this acquisitiveness manifested itself only in his attempts to find additional income that wouldn't interfere with his duties as d'Artagnan's servant. Bazin, my dear Bazin, was devoted to me from head to toe, for he saw in me a future bishop, a cardinal, even a pope, perhaps even God himself, so he believed sincerely and even fatalistically that all he had to do was obey me in everything and follow me, without further concern, and that in that case he would be assured of paradise both on earth and in heaven. As for Grimaud, he adored Athos, if only because he knew he was a true count who had taken it into his head to spend a while as a simple musketeer. He was quite content to be the poor musketeer's only servant, especially knowing that in time he would become the majordomo of a noble count.
So, Grimaud, you failed to deceive me! That less-than-flattering self-description didn't deceive me. I still know that these memoirs were written by you, even if influenced by studying certain historical accounts and consuming dozens of adventure novels, which replenished your mind, which longed for philosophical conversations and was deprived of them by the whim of your master, the Comte de la F;re, who preferred you to remain silent and soundless. Well, he raised you to be a shadowy figure, but one whose soul seethes with the passions of an unrecognized writer.
Grimaud, my dear old comrade, servant and friend of my dear Athos, when it comes to gold and diamonds, your imagination knows no bounds. In your descriptions, we musketeers lose pistoles by the thousands, then are penniless, and then throw away money again, purses full of gold! In your descriptions, we pick the pockets of Englishmen killed in duels and spend the money we find on them as we see fit, yet without a penny to pay for our lodgings or food in the taverns! All we do is drink, play cards, debauch, and fight duels! Where and when have you ever adequately described even one battle, of which there were many, in which we displayed remarkable bravery, but, more importantly, resourcefulness, dexterity, and skill? During these moments, you, our servants, sat in the trenches, or at best handed us loaded muskets, reloading them behind cover. A few times you had to fire yourselves, but rarely. And, I must say, not very accurately. This, I agree, is not your fault, since you did not have the opportunity to practice shooting as often as we did with enviable regularity. No one allocates either gunpowder or bullets for training servants. Perhaps this is in vain. Perhaps our detachment then should have been counted not at four musketeers, but at eight warriors? Who knows? You were our orderlies, not our partners in battle. Therefore, Grimaud's descriptions concern our daily life more than our battles.
These memoirs of Grimaud's paint a very one-sided picture of us, but I won't edit them. I'll simply point out, as I promised, the biggest errors.
Milady demands that Rochefort give her all his money. He allegedly had five hundred pistoles at the time, and, if Grimaud is to be believed, he gave her the entire sum without question. She allegedly had the same amount on her at the time. Wonderful! What was Rochefort left with? How did he manage to reach La Rochelle from B;thune without a single sou? Perhaps he decided to starve on the road? And not feed his horse? And not give him water? And not spend the night? This is ridiculous, really! Milady thus ended up with a thousand pistoles! That's fifteen pounds of gold! How did she travel with them? Where did she hide them? In her bodice?
Athos, who allegedly picked the pockets of the Englishman he killed in a duel, even though he ordered the gold found to be given to the victim's servants, still didn't commit a particularly noble act. Grimaud didn't know that duelists usually got rid of any burdens that would hinder them before a duel. This Englishman should have given the gold to his servants for safekeeping before the duel. If he hadn't done so, he could have been suspected of intending to use it as protection from a sword thrust. Well, no one forbade wearing a medallion on the chest or carrying a cigarette case in the pocket and hoping it would protect one; it sometimes happened, but extremely rarely. A purse full of gold will hinder rather than help the fight. Of course, Athos's opponent knew this, which is why he didn't have any gold in his pockets. The victors had the right to take the vanquished's weapons. That's what Athos did. He took the sword, then his opponent's servant, also an Englishman, unfamiliar with French customs, asked if the victor would also like to take the vanquished's gold, to which Athos replied in the negative. From Grimaud's perspective, it looked as if it were his own stupidity, as he described it. He only remembered that Athos gave the gold to the servant, although he could have kept it for himself. Therefore, he writes that Athos found the gold on the body of the Englishman he had killed and gave it to the Englishman's servants. Grimaud only remembered that Athos refused the money of the Englishman he had defeated; his memory failed to retain the details of this incident, so he made up the rest, and made up a very poor guess.
I write about this because at the end of Grimaud's first book, called The Three Musketeers, Athos pays the executioner with a purse of gold, which the executioner accepted but immediately threw into the river, because he believed that Milady's execution was a matter of his honor and should not be paid for.
Well, it is written beautifully, but not a single line is correct.
This gold was found in the cottage where we found Milady. We couldn't help but search the cottage, as Milady was the Cardinal's spy. Furthermore, we hoped to find additional evidence against her, or information that might be useful in our fight, if not against the Cardinal, then at least in defending ourselves against him. The gold was found, but of course it wasn't a thousand pistoles, only a hundred. Grimaud had exaggerated the amount by exactly ten times. Athos gave half of this money to d'Artagnan so that he could commission prayers for the soul of God's servant Constance Bonacieux. He paid the other half to the Executioner. The Executioner asked that they be taken and that memorial masses be said for the soul of Charlotte Backson. He said this while Milady was still alive.
"No, no, you won't kill me!" My Lady screamed. "I have a son! Lord Winter, you won't leave my son an orphan! He's your nephew! He's your dear brother's son! Are you really going to make the little one an orphan?!"
Lord Winter grew gloomy.
“I have never heard of your son’s existence, my lady,” he replied. “How old is he?”
"He's just a baby!" Milady exclaimed. "He'll be lost without me!"
"I will order the funeral masses from my own funds, and all your funds will go to your son, if he exists," Lord Winter replied. "But he will not be able to inherit my brother's titles, since your marriage is invalid, as you were already married here in France."
 "Madame, I grant you a divorce ," said Athos. "Monsieur the Executioner of Lille will seal this decision. Beyond the grave, you will no longer be Countess de la F;re; remain Lady Winter, if that is your wish."
After these words he turned his back to her.
The executioner threw the gold onto the sand, my lady jumped to her feet and ran away, but her feet got stuck in the mud, she stumbled and fell, after which she rose to her knees and, raising her head, saw that the executioner was standing right in front of her, drawing his sword.
"All is lost," she said in despair. "I'm lost! Well, cut it down!"
And she threw back her long hair to the top of her head, presenting her bare neck to the executioner.
She was luckier than poor de Cinq-Mars. The executioner of Lille severed her head with a single blow, so she didn't suffer as long as Louis XIII's defeated favorite.
After this, the executioner wrapped Milady's body and head in his cloak, threw two heavy stones into it to sink the body, and then tied the cloak in two knots, one corner to the other. He placed this burden in the boat with sufficient care, bordering on reverence. After the execution, the body of the deceased was to be treated with due respect. The executioner gently lowered his gruesome bundle into the river, which received it and carried it to its muddy bottom.
I saw Mousqueton pick up the purse of gold and, not having pockets of the appropriate size, put it in Grimaud's pocket. Grimaud didn't object.
To our servants' credit, I must say that they actually used at least half of this sum to commission memorial prayers for Milady's soul. Athos added to this sum all the money he had at his disposal at the time.
Our servants divided half of the money raised by Musketon among themselves.
I can't blame them. We musketeers so often forgot about their needs and left them to fend for themselves, while also burdening them with the responsibility of caring for us, that when fate sent them an income, we pretended not to notice. That's life.
So, Milady was finished.
The Comte de Rochefort, whom Grimaud sometimes mistakenly refers to as the Chevalier de Rochefort in his notes, didn't learn this from us. When he tried to arrest d'Artagnan, which we prevented, he said that one way or another we must still proceed to La Rochelle, which is where we were headed. There, we would inevitably fall under the power of Cardinal Richelieu, who would then arrest all four of us. D'Artagnan admitted his arrest and asked Rochefort only that we—Athos, Porthos, and I—be his escorts. Rochefort had no choice but to agree to these terms, since we were outnumbered and the force was on our side.
I must also say a few words about the patent for the post of lieutenant of the king's musketeers, issued to Richelieu d'Artagnan without indicating the name of the person for whom this patent was intended.
D'Artagnan successively proposed this patent to Athos, Porthos and me.
Athos refused, saying it was too little for the Comte de la F;re, but too much for Athos. Porthos refused, citing his intention to leave the service and marry a wealthy widow, Madame Coquenard. I refused, citing my intention to become an abb; and part with my musketeer's cloak. That, at least, is how Grimaud describes it.
But it must be remembered that this patent was signed by Cardinal Richelieu.
It should also be remembered that the King's Musketeers were subordinate to Captain de Tr;ville and were considered to report directly to the King, with de Tr;ville merely acting as his enforcer. Consequently, such warrants could only be issued by the King, upon de Tr;ville's recommendation. Richelieu could only issue a warrant for the position of lieutenant of the Cardinal's Musketeers.
Yes, I remind my readers that although we called them the Cardinal's Guards, their proper name was the Cardinal's Musketeers, while we were the King's Musketeers, Musketeers who wore blue cloaks with silver fleurs-de-lis.
That very moment when Richelieu "made" d'Artagnan a musketeer after our breakfast on the Bastion Saint-Gervais, the situation was different. Richelieu merely proposed to the King that d'Artagnan be made the King's musketeer, after which the King ordered de Tr;ville to prepare the corresponding patent and signed it.
The patent signed by the cardinal was for the office of lieutenant of the cardinal's musketeers, a musketeer who wore a red cloak with large silver crosses on the back and chest.
Of course, all three of us understood this, but we didn't want to disappoint d'Artagnan. When he was arrested on Richelieu's orders, we feared we'd never see him alive again. The news that the Cardinal had issued d'Artagnan an open commission as lieutenant of the Musketeers could only mean one thing: the Cardinal had recruited our friend into his service, pardoning him only on the condition that he become lieutenant of his Musketeers, the Cardinal's Musketeers, and don the red cloak with crosses.
Athos, looking at this document, thought, most likely, the same thing that I thought, and most likely the same thing that Porthos thought.
And I thought this: "Poor d'Artagnan! You had to choose between death or serving the Cardinal! Well, you made the right choice! But the Cardinal gave you an open patent! If any of us agrees to write our name here, the Cardinal will grant the same patent for you, d'Artagnan, since he has already made his decision regarding you. But he wants to ensnare not only you, but us as well, or at least one of us. But that will not happen! I would rather become a monk."
That's what I thought.
Athos, I suppose, thought the same, but decided to become a count rather than a monk, since a countship awaited him in the glorious city of La F;re. This city was so significant that Henry of Navarre himself besieged it to claim it as his own. So Athos was noble enough and wealthy enough to be able to end his service with de Tr;ville in an instant.
Porthos actually preferred marriage to serving the cardinal.
D'Artagnan himself, during his first conversation with the Cardinal, told him that by the will of fate, all his friends were friends of the King, all his enemies were friends of the Cardinal, so that fate itself had made the choice for him.
Grimaud writes that Athos included d'Artagnan's name in the patent, thereby deciding the question of this choice once and for all.
Grimaud doesn't know that Athos put a huge blot on half of Richelieu's signature and also spilled the entire patent with the wine we were planning to celebrate the appointment with. Red wine, mind you!
"Forgive me, d'Artagnan!" Athos exclaimed. "You see what my addiction to wine can lead to! My hands are shaking. I've ruined the document. But never mind, I'll undertake to correct this misfortune. Tomorrow I'll go to de Treville and ask him to rewrite this patent in your name and obtain His Majesty's signature on it."
Athos placed such an emphasis on the words "His Majesty's signature" that d'Artagnan understood absolutely everything.
"Athos!" he cried. "Don't slander yourself! I understand perfectly well the disgrace from which you have just saved me! Indeed, it is unbecoming of me to accept mercy from one who has brought so much evil to me and my friends! I would rather never be a lieutenant than become the cardinal's lieutenant!"
"That's why I avoid court," replied Athos, "because the intrigues of all these dukes, ministers, and cardinals around the King are such that you won't even notice how you'll find yourself dancing to their tune! I'm glad, d'Artagnan, that my hand trembled and that this document is spoiled, but I believe Captain de Treville will understand me correctly. This evening you will have another patent in place of this one."
After this, Athos casually rolled up the patent and put it in his pocket.
Indeed, that same evening, Athos presented d'Artagnan with a patent signed by the King.
"Athos, you are a sorcerer!" d'Artagnan exclaimed. "Why don't you stay in the Musketeers for at least another year or two? If you don't wish to serve under me, which I understand and accept, then at least serve as my mentor and deputy for a while?"
"I don't need it, d'Artagnan, but I see you do," Athos replied. "Well, I'm prepared to remain a musketeer for a while longer, but only until you yourself realize that you can easily do without my advice. And not for a single day longer, mind you!"

Athos fulfilled his promise to the letter. In 1631, he resigned from the King's Musketeers and returned to Blois.

Chapter 56

The first volume of Grimaud's memoirs, entitled "Memoirs of the Comte de La F;re" and subtitled "The Three Musketeers," begins with an account of the events of 1625, the first Monday in April of which d'Artagnan left for Paris. The volume concludes with a description of the events of 1628: on October 28, 1628, La Rochelle signed its capitulation, and on December 23, the King returned triumphantly to Paris. Further, it is noted only that Athos served under d'Artagnan until 1631, another three and a half years after the events on the Lys River, where Milady was executed by the executioner who had lost her brother through her fault.
If Athos had written the memoirs, he would have described at least something of those three years, for he loved d'Artagnan like a son, and he certainly would have cared deeply about how he grew from a young trainee into an experienced lieutenant in the king's musketeers. Grimaud held no interest in these events, so he left them out.
I must fill this gap as best I can. If I were writing these memoirs, I would stop where Grimaud left off, since at the beginning of the winter of 1628, the four of us separated, and only Athos remained with d'Artagnan for another three and a half years.
I was not supposed to know what happened to them, or what happened at the King's court, since, if Grimaud's memoirs are to be believed, I had become a monk.
This is what Grimaud says about me: "Aramis, after a trip to Lorraine, suddenly disappeared and stopped writing to his friends. It later became known through Madame de Chevreuse, who told two or three of her lovers, that he had taken monastic vows in one of the monasteries in Nancy. Bazin became a novice."
This is precisely what I would like to be thought of, but it is absolutely not what I actually did, so I will write about it in more detail than about the three years described by Grimaud, to which I have merely added a few comments in the form of a dozen chapters, which I have compiled into Book Two.
This is illogical, given that Book One contains forty-five chapters, but it is entirely logical given that Book One recounts events that have not been described by anyone else, while Book Two merely supplements and corrects the events of those turbulent three and a half years, which have already been described generally well. However, readers are likely puzzled by how the events described in this book could have spanned three and a half years, if all they involved were our duel, which evolved into a duel with the Cardinal's guards, d'Artagnan's journey to London, d'Artagnan's love affair with Milady, our brief participation in the siege of La Rochelle, our return to Paris, the trip to the B;thune monastery, and the pursuit of Milady, as well as her execution and return to La Rochelle. Each of these events takes up a couple of weeks at most, and even if d'Artagnan's journey could have taken several months, we know that his journey lasted ten days, since the Cardinal informed the King that the ball was scheduled for twelve days later, d'Artagnan left only the following day, and he returned the day before the ball.
Such is human memory. It remembers only the most significant events, ignoring all others. But in Grimaud's description, the action unfolds rapidly, each subsequent action a direct consequence of the previous one, leaving the reader with the impression that the events took place over the course of two or, at most, three months. Where, then, could three and a half years come from?
Frankly, I was surprised myself when I read all this, at such a discrepancy, since my memory had also missed much of what happened to us in those times.
As I've already said, the description of our service—convoy and guard duties in peacetime, and the most ordinary soldierly duties in wartime, including heroic battles and, if necessary, death in combat on the commander's orders—has indeed been omitted from these memoirs, but I don't think such descriptions would have greatly enriched them. Fortunately, none of us were killed, although orders to go into battle without sparing our lives came frequently, and we carried them out faithfully. Take, for example, d'Artagnan's attack on the bastion of Saint-Gervais with a small detachment. It was a true feat, about which, incidentally, Grimaud says almost nothing. However, I may recall a few more details of our life and our exploits at that time and describe them later, but I make no promises to myself, and I especially don't promise them to my readers.
Now I want to pay some attention to the person of Milady, who will then disappear forever from the pages of my memoirs, but her place will soon be taken by her son, the illegitimate Mordaunt, born to her by a rootless adventurer, and passed off by her as the legitimate son of her husband, Baron Sheffield, Marquis de Brinvilliers.
Incidentally, Lord Winter was never Baron Sheffield; Grimaud is mistaken about that. His younger brother held that title in England, while in France he preferred to be called the Marquis de Brinvilliers. Don't be surprised by this, since our illustrious Porthos was actually called Baron du Valon de Pierrefonds de Bracieux.
I will also tell you the reasons why the unfortunate Marquis did not use his English title in France.
But even more so, I consider it my duty to explain why I did not accuse Milady of trying to kill me, and also why Athos tried to kill Milady after he saw the brand on her shoulder.
I agree that learning that you, Count de la F;re, married for love, against the wishes of your family, a girl you considered innocent and honest, only to discover you married a thief or even a prostitute—that's a profound disappointment. I also agree that a nobleman of such rank has absolute power within his county, even over the lives of his subjects and even over the life of his wife. But such notions are long gone, and without sufficient justification, taking the life of a wife, even one not as honest and innocent as you believed, would be extremely unfair, and Athos has always been the embodiment of justice.
In Grimaud's telling, this place remains dark, and Athos's actions lack a convincing motivation.
Indeed, when a criminal was branded, she was then released. That is, branding was sufficient punishment for the crimes she had committed, after which she should no longer be prosecuted. If she had been subject to additional punishment, she simply would not have been released. And if she was not supposed to be released, she would not have been branded.
One can, of course, note Athos's profound indignation at having sullied his family's honor with such a marriage. Marrying a woman far beneath her husband isn't all that damaging to a family's honor, especially if the marriage can be ended. It would have been enough to send her to a convent or obtain a divorce, and Athos's honor would have been saved.
Moreover, as Grimaud reports—and this is the absolute truth—Charlotte Backson was branded not by a French court order, but at the instigation of an executioner who was mortally at odds with her. It was illegal, no matter the motive, no matter the crime she had committed. Branding is only done by court order. What the executioner did, according to the law, constitutes a crime against Milady's person, a violation of her rights, an act of violence. So, formally and legally, Milady was right when she claimed (according to Grimaud) that the branding was dishonest. It was not undeserved, that's true, but it was also illegal. If she had deserved it and a court with the authority to impose such a punishment had recognized it, then it would have been done legally, by court order, but no such sentence was passed on her.
So, it turns out that Athos acted unjustly, since, firstly, Milady shouldn't have been branded; secondly, even if the brand had been imposed by a court sentence, it wouldn't have given him the reason or justification to execute her, as the brand itself was already a punishment; and thirdly, as Cardinal Richelieu rightly asserts, "you have assumed the powers of judges, not considering that those who are not authorized to punish and nevertheless punish are murderers." Thus, from the statements in Grimaud's memoirs, it follows that Athos is a murderer, even if an unsuccessful one, but his act should have been classified as such, if we are to speak of his hanging Milady, even though she managed to escape and survive. Would Athos really have written such memoirs, accusing him of such crimes, without offering any justification other than the fact that Milady had a brand on her left shoulder? Of course not.
So Grimaud knew only part of Milady's story, and he told only what he knew. He hadn't delved into the legal subtleties out of ignorance.
Grimaud's naivety even goes so far as to mistake the address "Milady" for Charlotte Buckson's proper name. He didn't realize we were calling her that simply to conceal our identity should anyone overhear us. True, this appellation arose naturally, as d'Artagnan had originally called her that, unaware of her true name, but after we realized who she was, we used it solely for security reasons.

So, Milady's story... Athos conducted his own investigation, and he shared his results with me.

Charlotte Backson was born the daughter of innkeeper Michel Munier, and Munier was her real maiden name. This innkeeper and his wife, Jeanne, were engaged in robbery, but they did it so discreetly that for a long time they managed to remain unpunished. Little Charlotte Munier actively participated in this business. If her parents spotted a wealthy guest traveling alone or with a single servant, her mother would send Charlotte to engage the traveler in conversation, trying to extract as much information as possible. For information about the traveler's destination, their next stop, and especially what valuables they were carrying and hiding, little Charlotte received a reward in the form of candied fruit or sweets, and sometimes she was given something from the belongings of the murdered man, especially when she was a little older. The girl was quite attractive and quick-witted, with the appearance of an angel and the ability to impersonate one. She learned to provoke the traveler to frankness, telling him stories about her doll in a gentle voice, flashing her piercing blue eyes, fluttering her eyelashes, and also showing the traveler her “treasures” in the form of shards of colored glass.
"Uncle, my doll Louise has a dowry!" she said. "Look, these are emeralds, beryls, sapphires, and diamonds!"
Feigning the holy naivety of a child, she showed the traveler the shards of glass, praising them as if they were real jewels, and putting her finger to her lips so that the guest would not blab to anyone about such “countless riches.”
"Just don't tell anyone about these treasures," she whispered into the ear of the languid, rich old man, her wet lips barely touching his ear. "Could you tell me the best way to hide these treasures from robbers? Just don't tell anyone, not even my mother and father, because they don't suspect that my doll Louise is such a rich girl. If you tell them, they'll take my treasures and give them to the poor or take them to church, as they always do."
The trusting traveler grew to trust the girl and her kind parents, who so generously gave alms. He began to joke with the girl and suggest various ways to hide the treasure better. Often, these methods coincided with those the traveler himself had chosen. One suggested sewing it into a hat, another – hiding it in a shoe heel, a third – keeping it under a pillow.
"You're laughing at me, Uncle!" Charlotte said finally. "You don't know what treasure is, and you probably don't know how to hide it properly. Have you ever held a coin worth more than ten sous?"
The guest would smile and show Charlotte a real gold coin. The girl would open her eyes wide and express genuine delight, and begin to converse with the guest, feigning the utmost respect and devotion, as if she had never seen such money before. This flattered the wine-sodden guest, who would sometimes pull out a real diamond or even a whole purse of gold, after which, pleased with the effect, he would hide it back, while Charlotte would note where the valuable item or purse had disappeared.
After the parents received a full report of the traveler's wealth from her, they would decide whether attacking him was worth the risk. Sometimes, the couple decided the risk was too great and abandoned their plan to kill and rob the traveler.
One time, when Michel said, "No, it's too dangerous!", Charlotte started to act up.
“Oh, please, Daddy!” she begged. “Kill that kind man! I liked the ring he showed me! I tried it on, it fits this finger! I want it to be mine. Please, please, Daddy, Mommy, kill that kind man so that the ring can be mine!”
Zhanna hugged her daughter, kissed her on the head and calmed her down.
"Very well, my dear daughter ," she said. "If my lovely Charlotte wants this ring, she will have it, I promise you!"
Just before the wealthy guest's departure, the Munier couple gave the traveler and his servant tea laced with a decoction of poisonous herbs that took a while to take effect, while little Charlotte fed the travelers' horses herbs that would knock them unconscious within an hour of being consumed. The traveler then left the courtyard.
Charlotte's parents would chase after the traveler, soon overtaking the carriage with its sleeping horses and travelers, now slumbering forever. The carriage was immediately taken to a special hunting lodge deep in the forest, where the couple dismantled it. Every nook and cranny was searched for hidden money or jewelry. The information Charlotte provided greatly aided the successful search. The remains of the carriage were burned in a furnace to leave no evidence. The horses were sold to gypsies from a neighboring village.
For a long time, the Munier family's crimes remained a secret, but one day, Michel Munier inadvertently decided to sell one of his diamond rings, fetching fifteen hundred pistoles. The ring was bought by a dealer in the city and later seen and identified by one of the murdered traveler's heirs. An investigation ensued, and the Munier family was exposed, but the judges didn't consider that nine-year-old Charlotte could be implicated in her parents' crimes. Under a different name, she was sent to the B;thune convent to be raised.

Chapter 57

Charlotte took with her to the convent the small "trinkets" she claimed her wealthy godfather-uncle had given her. She feigned such innocence and exploited her angelic appearance so skillfully that it didn't even occur to the investigators to compare the "trinkets" in Charlotte's jewelry box with the list of valuables belonging to people who disappeared in various years near the area where the Munier family's inn stood.
It’s true that the box no longer contained the beautiful amber rosary beads, but Charlotte didn’t regret them!
When she first saw them at Father Martin's, who was staying at their inn, her eyes lit up. It seemed as if the sun shone in every bead of the rosary! Kind Father Martin allowed the lovely, curly-haired girl to play with the beads, even though it was somewhat of a violation, as rosaries were sacred objects that children were not supposed to play with. Charlotte, overjoyed, kissed old Father Martin on the cheek, causing him to melt and glow with happiness. He stroked the girl's head and kissed her snow-white hands.
"I want those rosary beads!" Charlotte declared to her mother that evening. "Kill that kind man and give me those rosary beads."
"No, that won't happen!" the mother objected sternly. "He's a priest, and I won't take such a sin upon my soul!"
"I want these beads, or you're not my mother!" Charlotte cried. "I won't love you if I don't get these beads!"
At this, Charlotte stamped her foot and pouted.
“Stop it!” the mother objected. “Do you want us to be broken on the wheel?”
“Let them break me on the wheel, but I want to get these beads,” Charlotte objected.
The mother angrily slapped her daughter, after which Charlotte burst into tears and hid in the far corner.
The mother's heart sank.
"Daughter, forgive me!" the mother exclaimed and hugged the crying Charlotte. "Don't cry! You'll get these beads."
"Mommy! You're the best!" Charlotte replied, hugging her mother.
But deep down, Charlotte harbored resentment and hatred for her mother. Even though she received the rosary the next day, and, noticing blood on one of the beads, wiped it away with her finger, carefully examined each bead, and then, satisfied that the rest were clean, happily tucked the rosary into her dress pocket, she still glared angrily at her mother when she wasn't looking and whispered to herself, "I won't forget that slap."
When two investigators came to the tavern to search, Charlotte took out the amber rosary beads from her box, which she was already quite tired of, and casually threw them under the bench.
Investigators soon found the beads.
"Well, well!" one of them exclaimed. "But those are Father Martin's rosary beads! Those scoundrels killed him too! They didn't spare a holy man! I'll have that pair broken on the wheel."
"Don't touch my wife!" Michel exclaimed. "She knew nothing! I killed Father Martin, I alone. She was visiting her sister that day!"
“Well, that means they’ll only break you on the wheel, and they’ll just hang her,” the investigator replied.
"Men are such weak creatures!" Charlotte whispered to herself, looking at her father with disdain. "The self-sacrifices their foolish love makes them make! I would never do such a thing!"
No one heard her, as she spoke only with her lips. She tossed the rosary beads to punish her mother for the slap, and was somewhat disappointed that her mother would only be hanged. She didn't harbor such hatred for her father, but at that moment she despised him, so she didn't regret it at all.

On the day that Father Bertrand took her to the monastery, the carriage in which they were riding passed by the Place de Gr;ve, where a crowd of people had gathered.
"What's going on there?" Charlotte asked Father Bertrand.
“Nothing special, my child,” answered Father Bertrand and pulled the carriage curtains.
“No, I want to see!” Charlotte objected, yanking the curtains open. “What is this? It’s Mother! And Father!”
"Poor child!" Father Bertrand said, full of sympathy. "How unfortunate that we should be passing through here at this moment! May God protect you!"
With these words, Father Bertrand crossed Charlotte and crossed himself.
“I have the right to watch my parents die,” Charlotte said firmly.
She was interested to see how her mother would dangle on a rope, and how her father’s arms and legs would be cut off, after which his head would be cut off.
“I won’t allow this,” Father Bertrand said firmly and pulled the curtains again, after which he ordered the coachman to quickly turn onto some street.

Having brought Charlotte to the monastery, Father Bertrand asked the abbess to be as attentive as possible to the girl.
"She comes from a dysfunctional family ," he said. "Be careful with her; you'll need a lot of patience to raise her."
“I will do everything as it should be, don’t worry, Father Bertrand,” the abbess replied.
She assumed Father Bertrand was asking for more tenderness and care for the convent's newest pupil, when in fact, Father Bertrand meant that this child already showed some vice tendencies, or at least an unhealthy interest in executions, surprising in such a young child. He meant that these imbalances in upbringing should be corrected through proper treatment. Although he was a kind man, he was not a particularly good speaker, so he remained misunderstood.

Charlotte quickly became friends with Elizabeth de Beltham, the daughter of a noble family who had been given away to be raised by her when the Belthams were forced to temporarily leave France. She noticed a magnificent diamond-encrusted medallion depicting the Virgin Mary.
"What a wonderful thing!" Charlotte exclaimed.
Elizabeth allowed Charlotte to examine the locket from all sides.
Charlotte showed ten of her rings and said:
"If I die, these rings will be yours. I bequeath them to you."
"What are you saying!" Elizabeth exclaimed with emotion. "What are you talking about? Why did you suddenly have to die? You're so young!"
"I believe that best friends should bequeath to each other the most precious things they have," Charlotte said firmly. "You are my best friend. Therefore, I bequeath to you all my rings."
"Then I will do the same," Elizabeth replied. "I have no rings, but I do have this locket, and I bequeath it to you."
Charlotte hugged Elizabeth tenderly and kissed her on the cheek. She was happy.
Six months later, she feigned illness. Elizabeth never left her bedside.
“I want to immediately formalize with the notary a will of my rings to you, my dear Elizabeth,” she said in a weak voice.
The abbess refused to call a notary, but Charlotte insisted, and then the abbess said that she would certify Charlotte's will herself.
Charlotte was so anxious about this will that the abbess had to formally draw it up and hand it over to Elizabeth.
Touched, Elizabeth immediately wished to make a similar will regarding her medallion, which the abbess also certified and presented to Charlotte.
After a few days, Charlotte began to recover.
No one ever guessed that her entire illness was a performance for Elizabeth and the abbess.
Six months after these events, Elizabeth suddenly began to feel very ill. Two days later, she died. No one knew that two hours before her illness, Charlotte had given her friend a cold drink laced with potions known only to her.
Thus, Charlotte became the owner of a magnificent medallion studded with diamonds.

Chapter 58

Charlotte's talents were increasingly revealed, aided by her self-education in the criminal arts.
The fact is, the abbess possessed a vast library, inherited from her deceased elder brother, a broad-minded nobleman. Charlotte had been taught to read and write so that she could read moral and spiritual books, and she successfully pretended to read only such literature. Possessing a brilliant memory and quick wit, she easily spotted particularly striking passages in the pages of spiritual books, read only those, and memorized them on the first reading. This allowed her to display her erudition and save a great deal of time on such books. She used all the time thus freed up to read adventure novels and even court reports, which were in the library of the abbess's brother. The abbess herself never properly reviewed this library, which was, of course, a grave mistake.
Reading these books, young Charlotte Munier discovered a treasure trove of examples of how to defraud others and become their heirs, condemning them to death. She also carefully studied and memorized the methods of murder.
One Christmas Eve, when Charlotte was already thirteen years old, the convent girls, whose future life did not include serving the Lord, decided to secretly tell fortunes about their future groom, without the knowledge of the nuns and the abbess.
"There's no need to guess!" said Mademoiselle de Fert;. "It's perfectly clear that the best groom will go to Annabelle de Lernu, for she is the most beautiful."
Young Mademoiselle de Lernu blushed with pleasure, but Charlotte cast a malicious glance at Mademoiselle de Lernu, and then at Mademoiselle de Fert;.
“The best groom will be mine ,” she said quietly but confidently, so that everyone present heard her.
Confused by her words, the young girls abandoned the idea of fortune-telling. It sounded like a prophecy of misfortune that was destined to befall Mademoiselle de Lernu, since everyone knew that among the pupils were two beauties—Charlotte and Anabelle—and Anabelle, by all accounts, was more beautiful than Charlotte.
Two months later, Mademoiselle de Lernu died of some mysterious illness.
The Mother Superior, having learned from Mademoiselle de Ferta that Charlotte had so bizarrely predicted that she would remain the most beautiful of the pupils, became concerned. She recalled the incident with Elizabeth de Beltham. The Mother Superior decided to test her doubts, and during lunch, when all the pupils were in the dining room, she searched Charlotte's nightstand and discovered books from the library that horrified her. The Mother Superior had no idea such books could be contained in the library inherited by the convent from her late brother. She ordered all such books confiscated and consigned to the flames. The discovery of the books greatly perplexed the Mother Superior, who could not help but connect it with the two mysterious deaths. That same evening, she wrote a letter to Father Bertrand, sharing her concerns regarding Charlotte's upbringing.
A week later, a reply arrived in which Father Bertram, sharing the Mother Superior's concerns, proposed transferring her to another monastery with stricter rules of upbringing and where Charlotte would be more closely supervised. A month later, Father Bertram arrived at B;thune Abbey and took Charlotte away. Thus, she became first a novice and then a nun at the Benedictine Convent of Templemar, and Father Bertram registered her under a new name, Charlotte Buckson, hoping that by breaking with her former name, Charlotte would also break with her criminal tendencies.
At this monastery, the services were conducted by priests from a nearby monastery. They usually avoided contact with the nuns and novices, but Charlotte noticed a handsome young priest, Jean, who caught her eye with his rich, rich voice, pleasant, well-proportioned face, and slender, strong figure. This tall monk seemed so devout that he didn't even glance at the nuns. Charlotte found it difficult to attract his attention, especially since opportunities for doing so were few. These difficulties only incited her; she set herself the goal of making him fall in love with her, without any specific goals in mind, simply for the fun of it. She didn't fall in love with him herself, but she considered him a handsome young man, whose lover she wouldn't be ashamed of. If she had fallen in love with him, perhaps nothing would have worked out with him, but since she was completely indifferent to him, and her initiative was fueled only by the excitement of solving a difficult problem, she thought through her every gesture, every glance, every inadvertently dropped word, using the methods of seduction that she had studied from the frivolous novels in the library of the mother superior.
The seductive methods, combined with Charlotte's heavenly beauty, her angelic voice, her artistic talent, her calculating mind, and her cold heart, bore the desired fruit. The young priest, Jean, was initially extremely embarrassed, but then he became intrigued by Charlotte. She gave him cause for vague hopes and dreams, which she immediately snatched away, displaying extreme modesty and innocence, demonstrating a purity of intention and an almost childlike naivety, combined with the beauty of a young woman and with those utterances bordering on decency that only the most depraved can afford, or those who are absolutely pure in soul, who attach no hidden meaning to their words that could be taken as innuendo were it not for their certainty in the innocence of the girl uttering them.
Jean lost his head after falling in love with Charlotte. He renounced his calling, decided to take off his priestly habit, leave his service in the monastery, and devote himself to secular life. For the sake of Charlotte, he would have agreed to descend into Hell forever.
To further garner the naive Jean's sympathy, Charlotte adopted the noble name Anne de Belle. This name was inspired by the memory of Annabelle, whom she had once poisoned. She loved absolutely everything about her, including her resonant name, and for this she hated her even more. Thus, Charlotte became the self-proclaimed noblewoman Anne de Belle.
Charlotte skillfully fueled Jean's passion with frequent but short encounters, in which only their breaths and lips merged, but in which both preserved their innocence due to the lack of time and opportunity to reward each other with the most intimate proofs of mutual love.
"What must I do so that we can finally be united forever?" Jean asked, trembling with love.
"Dear Jean, my dear!" Charlotte replied passionately. "I want the same thing! But we can't be together, since we have no means of support outside the monastery! If only we had wealth!..."
"How can we get rich?" asked naive Jean.
“I don’t know,” Charlotte said sadly. “If only we had the same golden cups, rings, chains, crosses, and medallions that are kept in the monstrance!”
Jean was deep in thought. Charlotte skillfully guided his thoughts toward robbing the monastery, and Jean finally made up his mind, believing the plan was his own.
For the joy of possessing Charlotte, Jean looted the monstrance, removing treasures worth fifty-two thousand pistoles, which he naively agreed to sell at a pawnshop in Lille for ten thousand. The pawnshop owner identified almost all the items from the Templemar monastery and suspected foul play, as Jean, in addition, demonstrated a clear lack of understanding of the value of the items he had brought. The pawnshop owner avoided problems with the Catholic Church, represented by the monastery's clergy, since, due to his nationality, he needed, if not patronage, then at least leniency from the Church. Therefore, he told Jean that payment would be made the following day, allowing him to leave with his valuables, and immediately notified the abbot of the Templemar monastery and the judicial authorities about the suspicious client.
Charlotte, fearing that Jean would take the money for himself and disappear with it, came to the pawnshop with him, where they were both arrested.
Grimaud is mistaken when he claims that the executioner of Lille was supposed to brand criminals. A priest's brother cannot be an executioner, and an executioner's brother cannot be a priest. The executioner's trade is hereditary, and members of this family do not become priests. Those who could become priests do not voluntarily become executioners.
The man who called himself the Lille Executioner was, in fact, one, but that happened later, as an exception to the general rule. I have a handwritten letter from this man, Jacques Derthier, describing these circumstances. So I'll simply transcribe it here.

"Dear Mr. Abbot d'Herblay!
At your request, I will tell you what I know about the person you ask me about, Charlotte Backson, alias Anne de Beyle.
I, Jacques Derthier, the elder brother of Father Jean, was a Catholic judge in the city of Lille, presiding over crimes against the faith. It was my duty to judge Jean and Charlotte, accused of stealing valuables from the Templemar monastery. Given the gravity of their crime, I had to sentence both to imprisonment and branding. Jacques was tried under the name "Father Jacques Nigel, priest of the Benedictine monastery of Templemar." His real name was not mentioned in the case, as he did not reveal it, introducing himself as Jacques Nigel—a name he had given upon entering the monastery out of modesty. So no one objected to me, his brother, presiding over the trial, since no one knew of our relationship. In effect, by passing this sentence, I had to brand my own brother. It is terrible, but I became my own brother's executioner, not physically, but indirectly. It was as if fate, which had prepared this terrible fate for me as an executioner, had foreseen my future downfall and, as a first step, had forced me to become a legal executioner, so that I could later become one physically. I was supposed to pronounce this terrible sentence on my own brother, but I could have refused, citing my inability to judge my brother impartially. However, I feared that another judge might impose a harsher sentence, including the death penalty. So I concealed from the other judges that I was Jean's brother and pronounced the sentence—ten years in prison with branding.
But Charlotte managed to seduce the jailer and escape, after which she ensured that Jean could also escape. The jailer was sent to the galleys.
The investigation began. The investigator who arrived from Paris initially claimed that the prisoners had been guarded too laxly, which had allowed the criminals to escape. He argued that they should have been kept under closer supervision, meaning in a more secure prison. He claimed that the sentence handed down was too lenient, and therefore became interested in me, since I was presiding over the trial. He easily discovered that Jean was my brother, which allowed him to accuse me of bias and of obstructing the investigation, obstructing the proper conduct of the trial. He also suspected me of orchestrating the escape of both criminals . Since the charge of concealing my relationship was justified, all the other charges brought against me seemed certain to the judges hearing my case. I was stripped of my priestly rank, and, of course, the right to participate in trials, let alone preside over them and pass sentences. I was left without a profession and without a position, but that wasn't enough. I was accused of orchestrating an escape and sentenced to serve the same sentence I'd given my brother Jean. If they'd had any evidence against me, I, too, would have been sent to the galleys, like the jailer.
Upon learning of this, Jean voluntarily surrendered to the authorities, demanding my release. But the authorities arrested him and had no intention of releasing me. This became known to my poor brother Jean, who, upon learning of this misfortune, hanged himself in his cell with a rope twisted from strips of cloth into which he had torn his own clothes. Another investigator from Paris arrived to investigate this incident and, under the circumstances, since Jean had voluntarily surrendered himself to the authorities and since there was no incriminating evidence in the case, he believed I could be released. However, he confirmed the deprivation of all rights and expulsion from all positions. I was left without a position, without a job, and without a livelihood, since my home and money had also been taken from me the day I was sent to prison.
At that very time, the executioner of Lille died, and in despair, passing the market square where various notices were posted, I saw that the city authorities were in need of an executioner. The executioner was provided with squalid housing at the city's expense, but I had none, so this was my salvation. I was quite skilled with a sword and an axe, so I decided to accept the offer of work. Thus, I became the executioner of Lille. With trepidation, I looked at the brand that had once branded my brother, and which should have branded the woman who had seduced him. Now this brand was one of my tools. I dreamed that this brand would also mark her, the culprit of all my misfortunes and the death of my dear Jean.
Perhaps Fate, which had so cruelly treated my poor brother and me, had taken pity and granted me an opportunity for revenge. The said Charlotte, having learned of the true value of the treasures stolen from the monastery, decided to seduce another monk into stealing them a second time. But the monk denounced her, she was arrested again, and it fell to me to brand her. I confess, I felt genuine satisfaction in carrying out this revenge with my own hands. If I could, I would have strangled her, but she was sentenced to only ten years for the first offense, plus two more for attempting to seduce the monk into a second theft.
She once again managed to seduce the jailer and escape. This time, she didn't try to win his love, as the authorities had assigned her an old and experienced guard who disliked women and, frankly, no longer had the physical capacity to love them. Charlotte realized her previous method was no longer viable and decided to appeal to his pity. She tore all her clothes and wove them into a rope, but instead of hanging herself like my poor brother, she feigned a suicide attempt, arranging it so that when the jailer brought her dinner, he saw her, completely naked, holding a rope in her hands, trying to tie one end to the window bars.
Apparently, the old man, though powerless, was lustful. The scene he saw struck him, recalling biblical scenes or perhaps ancient paintings. He was filled with both pity and senile lust for Charlotte. Taking off his jacket, he placed it over Charlotte's shoulders and tried to calm her, but the pretender wouldn't calm down until he promised to arrange her escape. And so it happened: she escaped, wearing clothes procured for her by the lustful old jailer, who had been imprisoned for five years after receiving forty lashes.
After this, as far as I know, Charlotte married a nobleman, the Count de La F;re. She succeeded because she pretended to be a noblewoman, renting a decent house for a short time and acquiring decent clothes by selling jewelry, apparently inherited from her parents.
Jacques Derthier .

There's only one inaccuracy in this story. The jewels Jacques Dertieu describes weren't inherited by Charlotte's parents, but rather a gift from them for her assistance in plotting horrific robberies and murders.

Chapter 59

The Count de la F;re, our dear Athos, truly believed Charlotte to be a noblewoman and fell in love with her, succumbing to the charm of her beauty, captivating voice, and refined manners, acquired during her upbringing in two monasteries. Discovering by pure chance a brand on her shoulder, he locked her in one of the rooms of his luxurious home, entrusted two servants to guard her and provide her with the bare necessities of life, and he himself undertook a detailed investigation into the cause of this brand.
He began his search with the executioner, since the brand, as he easily discovered, pointed to the city of Lille. The executioner told him the same thing he later wrote to me in the letter I quoted in the previous chapter. Athos went to the Benedictine monastery of Templemar, where he learned new details about Charlotte Baxson's life. There he also learned that Father Benedict had brought her to the monastery. He also found Father Benedict, who told Athos the story of Charlotte Munier, beginning with her childhood. Athos spent a large sum of money to buy back several objects that he considered essential for his conversation with his wife.

Arriving at his estate, Athos entered the room where his wife had been languishing all this time.
"Madam, you have cruelly betrayed my trust and forever disgraced me, covering my entire family with an indelible stain of dishonor ," he said. "I can only thank fate that our brief union did not manage to culminate in the birth of a joint heir to my family."
“Count, you have been cruelly deceived!” Charlotte cried. “Listen to me! I will tell you the whole story of how I came to bear this accursed brand. I am innocent, I swear it! I am pure and innocent! I am the victim of a treacherous scoundrel who kidnapped me and tried to take me by force, but when he realized I would not give myself to him, but would rather die, he tied me up and placed this vile brand on me, taking revenge on me for my honesty and inaccessibility. Believe me, Count! I am not lying!”
"A most interesting story, madam ," said Athos with a bitter, ironic smile. "I might perhaps believe you, if it weren't for the numerous testimonies that prove you to be a miserable liar, in addition to being a thief and a murderer, an accomplice to monstrous crimes and the perpetrator of no less monstrous atrocities."
“Everything you could have been told about me is slander!” Charlotte protested passionately. “Many dreamed of possessing me, so many pursued me, and when I refused them, they became my enemies. I have so many enemies among the men I refused! Are you really going to hold that against me? My honesty and modesty, which led to so many men hating me! They turned my life into hell, and I hoped it was all over because I met you! After all, I love you, Count!”
"Tell me, Charlotte, where did you get this medallion that you sold to impress me by posing as a noblewoman?" asked Athos, placing a diamond-encrusted medallion depicting the Virgin Mary on the table.
"It's a gift from my good mother, Countess Backson!" Charlotte replied.
"There is no such countess, and never was," Athos replied. "I knew the family of the Marquise de Beltham. This locket is their heirloom. There's a matching one that I bought from them. It's exactly the same, depicting the Savior, and similarly adorned with diamonds. Here, take a look. So you still insist that your locket was a gift from your mother, the Countess of Buxton?"
"Okay, I confess!" Charlotte replied. "I bought this locket with money my parents left me, and I really liked it, but later I was forced to sell it. Are you really going to hold it against me for buying something I liked with my own money?"
"Elizabeth de Beltham was so young when you poisoned her to get hold of this locket," Athos said sadly. "My parents showed me her portrait. A very sweet and lovely girl, she was kind and intelligent. About your age. She would have been eighteen now, then. But she died before she was ten. You killed her."
“No!” Charlotte cried. “This is slander! Libel! I am not guilty of anything!”
"Look at this mirror, madam!" said Athos. "Whom do you see in it?"
"What nonsense!" Charlotte objected. "Everyone knows they see themselves in the mirror!"
"And I thought that in this mirror you would have seen poor Annabelle de Lernu ," said Athos. "After all, she looked at herself so often in that mirror her mother gave her. She was a very beautiful girl, and could have become an equally beautiful woman, but, unfortunately for her, she met you, and so she died at the age of thirteen, five years ago."
"This is slander, libel, it's not true!" Charlotte objected again heatedly.
"Look at this monstrance," Athos continued. "It contains the finger of Saint Augustine. It is entirely made of gold and adorned with sapphires, emeralds, pearls, and beryls. You convinced poor Jean to steal it and other jewels worth fifty-two thousand pistoles."
"Fifty-two thousand!" Charlotte couldn't help but admire, but then she caught herself. "I've never seen this thing, or any of the other things you're talking about, and I don't know any Jean!"
"It's all a lie, madam, nothing but a lie ," said Athos in an even darker voice. "Say at least one word of truth!"
"I love you, Count, and it's true!" said Charlotte.
“If this is true, and if you love me, then confess your crimes, tell me the truth about it all,” answered Athos.
"I have told you the whole truth, Count," Charlotte replied. "I have been slandered, I know nothing of what you have just told me, I did not see these things, my conscience is clear, I did not commit the terrible crimes you speak of."
"So you continue to lie ," said Athos, nodding to himself with a bitter grin on his face. "For your theft, you should have gotten twelve years in prison, of which you only served two weeks. For your murders, you should have been hanged."
"No, no! It's not my fault!" Charlotte screamed.
"Be silent, madam, I have not yet said all," Athos continued. "So that you might become the owner of this lovely ring, your parents murdered a most sweet, kind old man. For this ring, a young man with green eyes and black curls, who treated you to a sugar cockerel, was killed. This ring was taken from the finger of a forty-year-old woman who called you a 'lovely child' and gave you a tortoiseshell comb. This ring cost the lives of a young girl and the young man accompanying her, who compared you to an angel. Shall I continue?"
"No, no, no! It's a lie, it didn't happen!" Charlotte continued to deny.
"Don't worry, madam, Charlotte Munier, is that your real name, I believe? Your parents, Michel and Jeanne Munier, were already punished for these crimes, but you, due to your youth, were not charged with these murders, although, incidentally, you knowingly assisted them by mixing sleeping herbs into the horses' feed and finding out where the doomed travelers hid their valuables, is that correct?"
Charlotte remained silent, unable to deny it any longer. She was horrified by how deeply Athos had probed her past life.
“Don’t worry, madam, you won’t be hanged ,” said Athos at last.
"Yes, Count!" Charlotte rejoiced. "You won't betray me, will you? You won't tell anyone? I'll do anything for you, anything you want, just don't betray me!"
"The gallows is not a threat to you, since you deserve to be broken on the wheel," Athos said grimly, laying the amber rosary beads on the table. "I know for a fact that if it weren't for your stubbornness, your parents wouldn't have decided to kill the priest. Your mother admitted it. So the punishment your father suffered for you should have been applied to you."
“No!” Charlotte screamed in despair. “No! No! I don’t want to! It’s not my fault.”
"Well, let's leave aside your childhood crimes ," said Athos. "Your father took the blame and denied your mother's confessions. You were still so young, though, admittedly, that age is old enough for the justice system to charge you with such a serious crime as participating in the murder of a priest. But let's assume that this is forgotten. Then the only punishment you deserve is the gallows. Do you agree with me, madam?"
"I know nothing, I understand nothing, I can't speak, leave me alone, sir!" Charlotte replied, as it occurred to her to feign insanity.
"This night, madam, you will spend in prayer, as I have," Athos said dryly. "You will be escorted to the family chapel, where you will pray to the Almighty for forgiveness for your sins. In the morning, a priest will come to you so that you can repent of all the crimes you have committed, after which you will receive unction, and I will give you a drink similar to the one you prepared for your best friends, Elizabeth de Beltham and Annabelle de Lernu. However, the drink I give you will be more gentle. Your friends died in agony, fading away for several days, but you will simply fall into a peaceful sleep and appear before your Creator, unless He deems it necessary to send you straight to Hell. You will do so voluntarily, I hope, or I will force you to drink it."
“Perhaps we will drink it together,” Athos thought then.
“Okay, I agree,” Charlotte said with feigned submission, realizing that arguing with the Count was useless and hoping that the night would provide her with an opportunity to escape.
She obediently walked into the family chapel, knelt before the crucifix, and began to pray.
Athos closed the doors, locked them and, ordering his servant Pierre not to let Charlotte out under any circumstances, went to his study, where he also devoted the night to prayers for forgiveness for Charlotte de La F;re.
The next morning, Athos went to the chapel to make sure that Charlotte had prayed all night and had not chosen to devote that time to sleep or other worldly pursuits.
He found the door wide open. Pierre lay on the chapel floor, his skull fractured, in a pool of blood. Next to him lay a heavy crucifix, which Charlotte, probably after much effort, had managed to tear from the wall where it was held by four nails. Charlotte herself was nowhere to be found.
Without a word, Athos headed to the stables, chose the fastest horse, grabbed a long whip, and galloped after the fugitive. Since Charlotte knew little about horses, she chose the most beautiful horse, but not the fastest or the most durable. A couple of hours later, Athos caught up with the fugitive , tied her with his whip, gagged her with his handkerchief, and brought her back to his house.
"You refused to atone for your sins, preferring to commit another murder ," he said in a dark voice that sent shivers down Charlotte's spine. "I will not say to you, 'Die in peace,' madam. I will say to you, 'Go to Hell.' I will not give you the last word. Everything you could say in this world, you have already said. Save your eloquence for your meeting with Satan."
After this, Athos climbed onto a stepladder, took a heavy candelabra from a ceiling hook, and tied a whip to it. He made a noose at the other end of the whip. Athos hurried as if every extra minute of Charlotte's stay on Earth threatened humanity with new misfortunes. At this moment, he truly felt it. He was so hasty that he neglected to check the strength of the thin end of the whip, neglected to soap it to ensure the noose's slip, and neglected to ensure Charlotte's hands were untied, since he had to untie them to use the whip for its new purpose. He also neglected to take certain other measures that any executioner would know, but which even a refined aristocrat like Athos hadn't suspected.
Hastily, as if afraid to change his mind, he hauled Charlotte onto the stepladder, placed the noose around her neck, and kicked the ladder out from under her feet. Then, without even glancing at the result of his handiwork, he slammed the door to the room where Charlotte was writhing on the rope and ran out of the house. He intended to drown himself in the nearby pond.
Reaching the pond, he dove head-on into the deep, dark waters, fully clothed. The water covered the noble count, and in his ears he heard the ringing silence of the water, occasionally interrupted by a dull gurgle. His heavy boots dragged him to the bottom. But his instincts prevented him from drowning. He didn't want to swallow the murky, foul-tasting water; after a few seconds, it pushed him to the surface. Athos closed his eyes and tried to dive again, but again couldn't bring himself to breathe underwater, allowing his lungs to fill with the disgusting liquid. After two or three more attempts, he began to feebly paddle toward the shore with his arms, then emerged and fell face down on the slippery, wet grass. He lay there for an hour or two, completely unaware of the morning chill, despite the fact that all his clothes were soaked. Finally he got up and wandered off, not knowing where.
On the road he met a sergeant of the royal troops accompanied by two soldiers.
“Young man!” exclaimed the sergeant. “You’re extremely lucky! I see things aren’t so good for you if you spend your mornings bathing in your clothes and rolling in the mud! Lost your money at cards? Your mistress cheated on you with your best friend? Your uncle left his inheritance not to you, but to your cousin? No problem! Enlist in the king’s army. The army will take care of you! You’ll have everything but problems. You’ll forget about your mistress, your gambling debts, your inheritance, and all your other troubles.
"Could they kill me if I follow your advice?" Athos asked gloomily.
"We're not children, and we understand that an army is an army, but that's unlikely," the sergeant replied good-naturedly. "The King's soldiers don't meet their end as often as they say. Any duel is far more dangerous than serving in the King's army."
“Then it doesn’t suit me,” Athos replied.
"Wait, young man, don't be so quick to refuse!" the sergeant hastened to clarify, matching Athos's gaze. "I forgot to say that one of the essential joys of the army is the thrill of playing with death, which is so nerve-wracking that it constitutes the unforgettable charm of military service."
"Which troops have the highest mortality rate?" asked Athos.
"In wartime, everyone does, and in peacetime, like now, the King's Musketeers," the sergeant replied. "But to join the Musketeers, you have to be a nobleman and be an excellent fencer, shoot a pistol and a musket, and ride a horse."
“It’s all here,” Athos answered indifferently. “Where should I sign?”
“Here and here,” the sergeant replied. “When can you arrive at the assembly point?”
“Immediately,” Athos replied.

Chapter 60

Lord Winter was trying to find Milady's son, as she claimed he was his brother's son, making him his nephew. In this search, he learned many new and unpleasant things about his sister-in-law. I informed him of her attempts to lure me into a duel with the Marquis de Brinvilliers in order to leave her a widow. She chose me only because she knew I was equally skilled with both a sword and a shot, so a disastrous outcome for her husband would have been the most likely outcome, whatever the choice of weapon.
Since the duel never took place, or rather, it took place in a non-fatal manner, since all the misunderstandings were easily cleared up, she decided to take revenge on me and tried to kill me. I've already described this, as well as the chance incident that saved my life. I introduced Lord Winter to Count Ronchamp, who was a friend of the Marquis de Brinvilliers. Count de Ronchamp was considered a friend of the Marquis's family, so he knew a little better about some of the circumstances of the last months of his life.
This yielded several names and addresses to which Lord Winter dispatched his hired detectives. He discovered that Milady had conceived a son by a certain adventurer named G;rard Duchot. This adventurer, it seemed, also engaged in robbery in the night streets of the outskirts of Paris. He himself had no love for Milady, as he had at least half a dozen mistresses in various parts of Paris. It sometimes happens—women with the most seductive appearance remain cold to noblemen, but are inexplicably passionate about the dregs of society, possessing a repulsive appearance and a vile character. Duchot boasted that with his ferocious face and enormous knife, he instilled "deadly fear" in the lonely passersby he encountered, so that in most cases they prefer to part with their wallets without further ado. That's what he called himself – Duchot the Dead Fear. Apparently, in honor of his father, Milady christened her son Mordaunt. ("Mort daunt" is French for "dead fear" – translator's note).
Lord de Winter had obtained overwhelming evidence of the lack of kinship between his brother and Milady's son. Nevertheless, since he had rashly promised Milady to take care of her son, he decided to preserve Mordaunt's right to inherit Milady's fortune, which she, in turn, had inherited illegally from her husband, the Marquis (since the illegality of such a marriage could easily be established from the marriage documents, which Athos retained only because he had neglected to destroy them, being more preoccupied with the destruction of Milady and himself). Her inheritance of the Marquis de Brinvilliers' fortune was also illegal because, based on Lord de Winter's investigation, it was established and proven that Milady herself had dispatched her second husband, and in such cases, of course, a murderer cannot inherit. Recognizing the injustice and unreasonableness of such a favor to Milady's son, Lord Winter nevertheless carried it out, taking the necessary steps to establish guardianship over him and hiring a wet nurse, tutor, and governor for the child. He thus did everything to ensure that this illegitimate child, conceived by his daughter-in-law with a lowly adventurer, would be raised and educated as befits the legitimate son of an English nobleman. Subsequent events revealed how mistaken this decision was, but I believe that even if Lord Winter had known that his kindness would be repaid with base ingratitude—that he was raising his future murderer—he would nonetheless have done for Mordaunt exactly as he did, since for Lord Winter, fulfilling a promise was a duty from which evasion was unacceptable.
I should briefly describe the period covered by this book. On June 22nd, 1627, if I'm not mistaken, the Count de Bouteville-Montmorency and his second, the Count de Chapelle, were executed for participating in a duel. They had fought the Marquis de Beuvron and the Marquis de Bussy d'Amboise on the Place Royale on May 12th of that year. The Marquis de Bussy d'Amboise was killed in the duel, and the Marquis de Beuvron fled to Italy, escaping punishment for the duel. This clearly demonstrates that dueling was an extremely dangerous undertaking, even for those skilled in swordsmanship, as even the victors were put to death. Thus, Cardinal Richelieu managed to achieve his goal: skirmishes between nobles still took place, but secretly, in remote places, without unnecessary witnesses, and most importantly, the victors no longer received the honor of a dashing warrior, but the shame of a criminal and a shameful death, as did the vanquished, if they remained alive.
In light of this brutal policy for duelists, I must clarify the description Grimaud deigned to give of the method of settling scores d'Artagnan employed against the lovely Madeleine, the owner of the Hotel de la Goat. Of course, d'Artagnan could boast of having inflicted two stab wounds on the impudent Swiss who had attempted to court his beloved while d'Artagnan was away at war. Grimaud forgets that d'Artagnan is a Gascon, and that his father, accompanying him to Paris, gave him advice that was sound for the time of Henry IV, but completely inappropriate for the reign of Richelieu. The advice to challenge anyone to a duel, using any excuse, in the time of Louis XIII and Richelieu was tantamount to advising one to head straight to the Place de Gr;ve to lay one's head on the block. The grounds for a challenge to a duel are not the same as a challenge, since bullies should think a hundred times before placing themselves outside the law and giving the Cardinal and his bloodhounds a legal basis for sending them straight to execution.
The challenges to duels and the duels themselves took place in approximately the same way as d'Artagnan had done.
"My friend, would you like to take a few fencing lessons from me in the fresh air?" asked d'Artagnan.
— I drink about saklat , that 's fam flies off "Get a few lessons from me," replied the Swiss, convinced of his advantage, since he was almost a head taller than d'Artagnan and considerably broader in the shoulders. "I 'll knock you down like an impudent little duck !"
"First, I'll impale you on a sword like a beetle on a pin, but that, of course, is within the bounds of a fencing lesson," replied d'Artagnan. "I beg your pardon in advance if, by pure chance, I inadvertently injure your arm or shoulder during our lesson, but training must be as difficult as combat, otherwise it's not training, but empty fun!"
- I bring this to the shed. I'm afraid I 'll probably accidentally injure myself , since I'm not very good at careful fencing , the Swiss replied.
“I must remind you, fatso, that we are not planning a duel, but merely want to stretch our legs a bit and teach each other a few moves in the hope that this will be useful to both of us in the service of His Majesty ,” d’Artagnan said with a grin, twirling his mustache.
- Of course , I will teach you how to fence faster. "Lofty and more decisive," answered the Swiss.
"Well, that's what we agreed on!" d'Artagnan replied, and dramatically said goodbye to his rival.
At the meeting, the conversation went something like this.
"I hope you brought enough bandages ," d'Artagnan said. "It seems a bit dark here, so I'm quite afraid I might accidentally inflict a few light wounds on you through carelessness. I pray to God they won't be fatal."
- That's exactly what I wanted to say , fam , my half-life. "A master of fencing," the Swiss replied and decisively went on the attack.
There were no seconds.
D'Artagnan always commented on his attacks as if he were actually giving a fencing lesson.
"Notice the inadequate protection of your forearms ," he said. "That's unseemly, because with such a weak defense, your opponent could easily inflict a very painful wound. Not with a direct attack, of course, but, for example, like this. Oh, my God! Please forgive me, I only wanted to show you that a small feint allows me to completely unprotect your left forearm, and now you see what a shame, I accidentally wounded you right there!"
"Der Toffel !" the Swiss replied. "I'll pierce your face in just such a place!"
"It didn't work, as you see, my dear, because you only thought I was defenseless!" d'Artagnan objected. "You see, you should have made two feints first, like this, like this, and like this! Damn it! I accidentally made three feints and, through carelessness, wounded you in the right arm. Please forgive my clumsiness!"
"Short face rasperi !" exclaimed the Swiss. " Fly me ! I'm not wet ! " to go through this fencing lesson with such wounds.
"I am extremely sorry to have been so careless," replied d'Artagnan, removing his hat and bowing to his adversary. "I will send you your servant with your things, since you are leaving the Hotel des Goats this evening. I recommend the Hotel des Cats et les Balls on the Rue Montrogeuil. The food is good there, the prices are reasonable, the landlady is pleasant, and has the advantage of not having among her friends the lieutenant of the king's musketeers. If you should fancy having a few more fencing lessons from me, I am always at your service. But don't come for me yourself; send a more intelligent boy instead, otherwise I might think you've come to see Madeleine, not me, and in that case our fencing lesson might take place at the hotel the very moment I see you there." I assure you, in such a situation, I'm so clumsy that I could forget that we're just having a lesson and inadvertently injure you so seriously that you'll need not a doctor's help, but a priest's advice. That would be extremely unfortunate for me.
At this point, d'Artagnan would cease his exercises in elegant literature and head to the "Goat," from where he would dispatch the servant and the uninvited guest's belongings. To the chagrin of the departing Swiss, d'Artagnan, in an effort to expedite his departure, took it upon himself to help the servant pack his things and get ready himself. However, since he believed his hands had already been sufficiently exercised that evening, he primarily helped with his feet, and the technique he employed could most accurately be described as a kick. With this miraculous measure, he expedited both the Swiss's packing and his servant's departure, and the latter instance of his miraculous kick greatly contributed to the servant's swift passage through the hotel doors.

Regarding Queen Anne's letter to the Duke of Buckingham, I was able to find out the following.
This is how Grimaud describes the Queen's letter:

"My lord! I implore you by all I have suffered for you and for you since I have known you—if my peace is dear to you, cease your extensive armaments against France and put an end to the war. Even out loud, everyone says that religion is only the apparent cause, while secretly they assert that the true reason is your love for me. This war could bring not only great disasters to France and England, but also misfortunes to you, my lord, which will make me inconsolable. Take care of your life, which is in danger, and which will become precious to me from the moment I am no longer forced to regard you as an enemy.
"Yours faithfully, Anna."

The text of this letter is not entirely accurate, as it is based on an oral account by Lord Winter. I learned from the Duchess of Chevreuse that, at the same time that Bazin conveyed the Queen's letter from us, through her, about the plot to assassinate Buckingham, she received a secret message from Cardinal Richelieu, delivered to Paris by the Count of Rochefort, who instructed him to deliver it to the Queen through La Porte, who, although he was Anne of Austria's personal valet and largely assisted her intrigues, even against the Cardinal, was also a relative of Richelieu on his mother's side and did not dare to act too often against his powerful relative. So, La Porte conveyed the following letter to the Queen.

"Your Majesty! As Your Majesty's most humble and devoted servant, and having been appointed by the will and highest confidence of Your Royal Spouse to the position of First Minister of France, I humbly request that you carry out one of the greatest deeds for the benefit of France and the Royal Dynasty, and I hope for a favorable response to my humble request.
I beg you to write a letter to the Duke of Buckingham, asking him not to come to the aid of the rebellious city of La Rochelle and not to aggravate, by doing so, the temporary, as I hope, differences between our two countries, which have led to an unfortunate temporary rupture in diplomatic and trade relations, which, to my deepest regret, are even escalating into military confrontation. Our army defends exclusively the interests and borders of our state, resolving internal problems, overcoming the separatism of our border provinces, and has no intention of invading neutral territories, much less the borders of our neighboring states. We would be forced to regard England's support for the rebellious city of La Rochelle as direct military interference in our internal affairs, which could inevitably lead to a serious war between our kingdoms. This is all the more regrettable when we remember that the wife of King Charles I of England is the august sister of King Louis XIII of France, your august husband.
For these reasons, I beg Your Majesty to persuade the Duke of Buckingham not to take such obviously unfriendly steps as supporting the French Huguenots in their unjust struggle against the legitimate government and against their own King.
I am convinced that you will find the words to persuade the Duke of Buckingham not to allow aid to the rebellious city of La Rochelle from the sea, which aid would only contribute to the intensification and deepening of the military conflict, would lead to many unnecessary casualties on both sides, while I am convinced that victory in any case will remain with the troops of His Majesty the King, Your august spouse.
Your letter will not go unnoticed, given the utmost respect for your august person that the aforementioned Duke of Buckingham undoubtedly holds for you, something he has so eloquently expressed on numerous occasions, and has backed up his statements with actions that only a man so carried away by his feelings of rapture could perform, so much so that some of his actions could even be described as extreme and excessively impulsive. I am confident that your word will be perceived by him as a command, the failure to comply with which is intolerable, which allows me to assume that your influence on the destinies of many French citizens and your opportunity to save many lives should not go unused in this great hour of trial that has come for all of France, when we must all rally around His Majesty King Louis XIII, your august husband, to prevent consequences even more dire than the loss of our kingdom's vital port and fortress, La Rochelle.
I humbly ask you to try to persuade Monseigneur the Duke of Buckingham to abandon the idea of providing military aid to the rebellious city of La Rochelle, and also to abandon the idea of helping this city with the supply of goods, including food, weapons, gunpowder, resin, metals and other goods of strategic importance for the defense of the fortress city.
I have learned from reliable sources that discontent with the Duke's policies is brewing within England itself, a dangerous threat to his survival, and that a significant and influential group has set itself the task of eliminating the Duke of Buckingham should he provide military or other assistance to the rebellious fortress city of La Rochelle. I suspect that such a cruel and unthinkable crime, if committed, would cause you, Your Majesty, great grief, as indeed it would cause us all. The surest way to avoid this tragedy would be to influence the Duke through words and persuasion, so as to persuade him not to aid the fortress of La Rochelle.
If my words did not seem convincing to you, and your doubts about the appropriateness of such a letter have not been completely dispelled, I ask you to take my word for it that this will save not only France, but also England, and will keep our states from a bitter war. Such a good deed will be counted in heaven for you, I speak to you as your confessor and as a cardinal, the representative of the Pope.
I send you my blessing and best wishes, and I humbly hope that this letter will be correctly interpreted by you, and that you will keep secret the letter setting out this humble request of mine from all prying eyes, and it would be even better if this letter were completely destroyed after you have read it.
I remain devoted to Your Majesty and Your august Husband, King Louis XIII,
Cardinal Richelieu, First Minister of France."
 
The Queen wrote a letter to Buckingham as follows:

"My Lord! I have seen signs that my opinion is not entirely indifferent to you, and therefore, counting on your giving due consideration to my request, I implore you with all that is dear to you and beseech you as Queen and as a woman: do not contribute to the widening of the military conflict between my husband and the rebellious city of La Rochelle; cease your extensive armaments for the benefit of these rebels, and, consequently, against France and against me personally. I beg you to put an end to this senseless war. This war could bring not only great disasters to France and England, but also misfortunes to you, my Lord, which will make me inconsolable, since I know from my own sources that a crime is being plotted against you within your own borders, and a new Ravaillac is already choosing the day and hour to end your life, which, believe me, is precious not only to you. Take care of your life, which is in danger and which will become even more precious to me from the moment when I am no longer forced to see you as an enemy.
"Yours faithfully, Anna."

As you can see, the Queen didn't write about anyone gossiping behind her back about a languid relationship between her and the Duke. And how could she possibly have written such a thing?

Another mistake Grimaud makes is that in the second book he writes the following about d'Artagnan: "Athos infected him with his proud dignity, Porthos with his ardor, Aramis with his elegance. If d'Artagnan had continued to live with these three people, he would have become an outstanding man."
To interrupt this verbal flow, I must immediately state that the subjunctive mood here is erroneous: d'Artagnan became an outstanding man without any "ifs", because even King Louis XIV himself unconditionally acknowledged this.
Grimaud goes on to report: "But Athos was the first to leave, retiring to his small estate near Blois, which he had inherited; Porthos was the second to leave, having married his prosecutor's wife; and Aramis was the last to leave, to be ordained and become an abbot." Apparently, Grimaud's memory failed him when he wrote these lines. Here is what Grimaud himself wrote in the last chapter of the first part of his memoirs: "D'Artagnan accepted the rank of lieutenant granted to him. Porthos left the service and married Madame Coquenard the following year: the coveted chest contained eight hundred thousand livres." In the same year, that is, in 1628.
Further: "Aramis, having made a trip to Lorraine, suddenly disappeared and stopped writing to his friends." Yes, I stopped writing to them, so our communication was interrupted in that same year, 1628.
Further: "Athos served as a musketeer under d'Artagnan until 1631, when, after a trip to Touraine, he too left the service under the pretext of having received a small inheritance in Roussillon. Grimaud followed Athos."
So, Athos remained with d'Artagnan for over three more years, and Grimaud himself was with Athos. Why on earth does Grimaud write that Athos was the first to leave him? Could it be that his memory had failed him so completely that he had forgotten the entire three years his master spent in the Musketeers, serving under d'Artagnan?
I think Grimaud simply didn't want to talk about those years. Since he attributed the authorship of these memoirs to Athos, he should have understood that Athos himself shouldn't have allowed such a contradiction.
Moreover, calling Athos's estate a "small estate" is a bit much! Athos himself called it that, jokingly, of course. If you doubt it, pick up a map of France and find the county of La F;re at the confluence of several branches of the Oise River. Five hundred years ago, La F;re became part of the holdings of the powerful de Coucy family, which defied the kings of France. The head of the de Coucy family ordered the construction of a castle and powerful fortifications. In 1595, La F;re was mentioned in the chronicles of the Wars of Religion, which described how King Henry IV besieged the city, then occupied by the Spanish. After two years of unsuccessful siege, the King decided to employ the method that Hercules used to clear the Augean Stables. To do this, he took advantage of La F;re's unique location amidst the branches of the Oise River. By order of Henry IV, the riverbed downstream was dammed, flooding the city, forcing it to surrender. The family of the Comte de La F;re reconciled themselves to the King's authority and recognized him as their sovereign. The Count's father had been a humble servant to the King, showing the utmost respect for royal authority, and bequeathed the same to Athos. However, Athos interfered so little with the lives of the peasants, whom he rightfully considered his own, granting them complete freedom of action, that Grimaud might never have discovered that the boundaries of the County of La F;re extended far beyond those within which Athos preferred to reside amidst the countryside, enjoying the beauty of nature and the scents of a blooming garden.
So, Athos wasn't one of the first to leave d'Artagnan; on the contrary, he served alongside him for over three more years. Since I promised Athos I'd make the appropriate corrections, I'll have to tell you about those three years.
By the way, I will also tell you about the fate of the servant Katie, who, as you remember, was in love with d'Artagnan , and he also reciprocated her feelings, and whom, at his request, I placed with Camille de Bois-Tracy.

But first, I'd like to tug at old Grimaud's forelock for this sentence, which follows those I've already quoted. Grimaud reports: "And d'Artagnan, who had always imagined his future inseparable from that of his three friends, found himself alone and weak; he lacked the resolve to pursue a path on which, in his own opinion, he could achieve anything only if each of his friends yielded to him, so to speak, a little of the electric current with which heaven had bestowed them." To write of d'Artagnan that he was alone, weak, indecisive, and unable to achieve anything is to slander him. He achieved everything he strove for, and it is not his fault that he was not always appreciated by those he served. Let me remind you that human achievement is measured not by the gratitude others show them, including those for whom they accomplished their work, but by what they themselves have done for others. In this sense, d'Artagnan surpassed us all and most of his generation. I would not have begun writing these memoirs if I did not believe this to be true. With some incomprehensible fifth sense, he always distinguished very subtly what was permissible and what was unacceptable from the standpoint of universal human morality, which is even higher than divine morality. He did not kill needlessly or without reason, but only in fulfilling his military duty. In this sense, he absorbed Athos's lofty morality and developed it to an even greater degree of perfection. This did not happen immediately, of course, but was particularly clearly manifested in his actions, both committed and deliberately not committed, toward the man held alternately in the Bastille and in the fortress of Pignerol, wearing an iron mask. I will also tell about this not only what we and our servants are privy to, and not only what is known only to us four, but unknown to our servants, but also what no living soul knows except me.

In the year following the events described in this book, that is, on January 15, 1629, a solemn meeting of Parliament was held in the presence of the King.
His Majesty forced Parliament to agree to a limitation on his powers of remonstrance—that is, the regulations through which Parliament attempted to curtail royal authority and influence the King's decisions on crucial matters. The Code drawn up by Michel de Marillac was discussed. This "Michaud Code," as it was contemptuously called by all those dissatisfied with it, declared the reforms that had begun, carried out at Richelieu's insistence. Not all of this Code's provisions were implemented, but some, embodied through additional decrees from the King, bore fruit, primarily in strengthening the King's absolute power by ensuring the subordination of the highest nobility to him, including princes of the blood, dukes, and peers, who until then had considered themselves special, not directly subordinate to the King, but rather possessing certain special rights, powers, and intrinsic value. Through Cardinal Richelieu's decisive actions, the noose of forced submission gradually tightened around the throats of these princes and dukes. Those unwilling to submit and humble themselves became fewer and fewer, and the most disobedient of them inevitably faced the Bastille, while outright treason against the King could now lead to the harshest trial, which could even sentence traitors to death. The era of the benevolent Henry IV, who forgave traitors, remembering their past services or simply their high position, was rapidly ending. The era of absolutism was beginning, in which a significant distance developed between the King and all others due to the strengthening of his power and the weakening of everyone else's. Since the King fully and consistently accepted all of Richelieu's proposals, it is fair to say that the era of Cardinal Richelieu's colossal concentration of power had begun. The King's leniency extended only to Queen Anne and Monsieur, Duke of Orleans, the King's brother. All others were just that, all others, and the leniency toward these two constant instigators of conspiracies was explained by Cardinal Richelieu's leniency toward them, and a third person, the Duchess de Chevreuse, was also secretly included on this list. True, Richelieu, this great and wise politician, regularly reminded everyone that all his efforts were directed solely for the good of the King, France, and the dynasty, and that he cared nothing for his personal interests or well-being. He was, however, concerned with preserving this personal power for as long as possible, solely so that he could accomplish everything he had planned and everything within his power for France and the King.
Thus, any conspiracy against Richelieu was automatically interpreted as a conspiracy against France; criticism of the cardinal or disobedience to him became effectively tantamount to treason. Those who wished to serve the King or Queen while avoiding what could be considered service to the cardinal found themselves in an extremely difficult position. D'Artagnan himself found himself in such a predicament.

Chapter 61

I'd like to remind you of Milady's maid, Kitty. She, as you know, was in love with d'Artagnan , who by no means rejected her protestations of affection. He spent several nights with her, convincing himself that he did so solely to get closer to Milady and extract from her information about the whereabouts of his beloved Constance. What an amazing thing ! A young man falls in love with a married maid, the wife of an inexpensive innkeeper, who never confessed her love to him, but decisively disdains the love of an unmarried maid, a charming girl who is head over heels in love with him, makes no secret of it, is devoted to him, and has no flaws whatsoever. Such things happen, truly, but not so seriously, not so deeply.
A young, healthy man cannot help but appreciate mutual love and be drawn to unrequited, hopeless love! Mind you, I'm not saying anything about d'Artagnan's likely preference for the noble and beautiful Milady, since, as we know, she was a hypocrite and an extremely vicious woman, a criminal. But while d'Artagnan didn't know all this, she must have been quite attractive to him.
What do you want? Youth and strength! Surely they must manifest themselves somehow! None of us four were averse to women, but Athos, having been burned by his first and true love, was wary of becoming attached to any of them and often expressed rather dark thoughts on the subject of women in general. He simply collected aphorisms that ridiculed women in one way or another, but never showed any negative feelings toward any woman he encountered—no contempt, no arrogance, no hatred, not even deliberate indifference. Remember that he addressed the wife of the shopkeeper and innkeeper, Constance Bonacieux, as "Madame," and he said it in such a way that even if he had addressed the Duchess in the same way, she would not have considered it an insult. He also turned to Mademoiselle de La Valli;re even at the time when he knew that she had ruined the life of his beloved son Raoul.
I must inform my readers that Grimaud had a very poor understanding of noble titles and, as I have already noted, was unable to evaluate or compare the incomes of different people, mistaking false glitter for true wealth and failing to notice true values. This is precisely why he assumed the Comte de la F;re was poor, since Athos himself had always treated his estate with rather condescending and disdainful regard, while he considered Porthos fabulously wealthy, failing to notice that most of his luxuries were not as expensive as Porthos tried to make them out to be. Indeed, Grimaud would not have distinguished a mahogany table crafted by a master craftsman, covered in exquisite carvings, from a beech or oak table crafted by a simple carpenter. For him, the massiveness of furniture was a sign of its importance. He considered Porthos's silverware, sparingly gilded here and there, to be opulent, while the elegant goblets of Italian masters, some of which came from the workshop of Benvenuto Cellini, were considered ordinary tableware because they didn't hold much wine. He couldn't tell an expensive painting from a cheap imitation, a valuable antique book from a common pulp novel, the finest Chinese porcelain from the cheap imitations of the porcelain makers of Avignon, Beauvais, or Savigny. Grimaud didn't understand that Porthos always wanted to appear richer than he was, as his famous baldric, gilded only on the front, should have indicated, while Athos always wanted to appear considerably poorer and more modest than he was, as he was embarrassed by his nobility. Porthos wore massive gold rings, not worth a tenth of the price of the elegant ring on Athos's hand, adorned with a large, pure diamond or emerald. Porthos, the eldest son, inherited almost everything his parents could leave him, but it was so meager that he was barely able to adequately equip himself for service in the Musketeers. He left his family estate, Valon, to his steward, who was also responsible for providing for Porthos's amiable mother, Madame du Valon, to whom Porthos wrote tender letters once a month and feared anyone would find out. Grimaud portrays Porthos as a serene card player and landsknecht, while Porthos sent money to his mother at every opportunity and, moreover, considered it impermissible to touch the estate's income, believing himself obligated to adequately support his mother, Madame du Valon. Concealing his filial tenderness, he carelessly reported that he had lost a considerable sum, since bragging about how much a musketeer could afford to lose was one of the most common boasts. The fact is, our Captain de Treville used to say that a musketeer shouldn't be rich, since a rich musketeer can't be a brave musketeer. Therefore, Porthos preferred to boast of his extravagance, his enormous losses, portraying himself as a man completely uninterested in money, pretending that the noble duchesses in love with him were only thinking about showering him with their family jewels. The fact is, Alphonse's position as a man kept by his mistress wasn't as shameful in those days as it became in the final years of Louis XIV. Porthos thus wanted to appear worse off than he actually was, and he sometimes succeeded. In any case, he managed to fool Grimaud.
Poor Grimaud sometimes writes that d'Artagnan or I would rummage through our pockets and desk drawers in the vain hope of finding even half a pistole, while at the same time throwing purses of gold left and right. Of course, nobles never counted their money in the presence of their servants. But each of us always knew exactly how much money was in each purse, and for ease of calculation, we sometimes carried several purses with us, each containing a specific amount needed for the most urgent expenses. If we ever tossed a purse on the innkeeper's table without even looking inside, saying, "Innkeeper! Dinner for four, and quickly!" "And feed our horses, and take care of our servants!" we understood that the amount in this purse corresponded to the needs we had voiced, plus a small tip of a tenth or twentieth of this amount, so that the innkeeper would be more efficient and not serve bad wine and bad food. You really couldn't count out coins in front of the innkeeper! The fact is that innkeepers often made a living by robbery, so taking out all your money in front of them to count out the necessary amount would have been imprudent. After all, the trade of Milady's parents was not at all uncommon in the times I'm writing about, and is still common in the provinces today.
I must say that Grimaud sometimes completely errs in his descriptions of the expenses of even the highest nobility. When he writes that Fouquet displayed vases full of diamonds at his receptions, and that each of his guests could scoop as much as they wanted, he presents lackey's tales as fact.
I recall a famous episode from the time of Henry IV. One day, Bassompierre was playing with Henry IV, when the King suddenly noticed that among the pistoles laid out on the table, there were half-pistole coins. The minimum bet was one pistole, so these coins were too small for such a game. Naturally, they came from the pocket of the King, who was one of the poorest Kings of France of all time. Bassompierre rashly said, "It was Your Majesty who wished them to pass for pistoles." As soon as he said this, he realized he had made a mistake, but the King did not hesitate to object. "No, it was you who wished it," replied Henry IV. "Indeed, it must have been my oversight! I beg your magnanimous forgiveness!" - answered Bassompierre, after which he raked all the half-pistols from the table, of which there were more than forty, laid out the same number of pistoles, and threw the half-pistol coins out the window to the pages and footmen.
to throw twenty livres out the window—the cost of a good workhorse or a road horse , or twenty pounds of bread—but no musketeer would have thrown away such a sum, which amounted to half his monthly salary, on trifles. Moreover, I believe Bassompierre also factored this amount into his servants' wages. A fine gesture in the presence of the King certainly didn't preclude this.
Queen Marie de Medici was wrong when she commented on this episode with the following words: "Bassompierre plays the King, and the King plays Bassompierre." After all, she was from a wealthy family and could afford to throw gold around, although she never did. What could one expect from Henry IV, who could never pay his servants what they deserved? If he had been rich, would he have married Marie de Medici? Never! After all, he sacrificed his family happiness for the royal treasury. If we look closely, I believe he sacrificed even more: he lost his life because of this Queen, and he also did not leave his son on the throne of France. His sons were considered bastards, even though he had made them princes and dukes, while the Queen's bastard ascended the throne as Louis XIII. That's why, in the conflict between the King and the Queen, we sided with Queen Anne. After all, Queen Anne was the true daughter of the King of Spain, a princess by birth, the sister of the King of Spain, while Louis XIII was the son of Marie de Medici, who couldn't boast of being a princess by birth.
Louis XIII was certainly richer than Henry IV, but not so rich as to squander his wealth. Louis XIV had been forced to economize from childhood; the stingy Mazarin hadn't spared him sufficient funds. Of course, Fouquet had millions, and despite my friendly feelings toward him, I can't help but admit that a man who had become so rich as Superintendent of Finances must have realized that being richer than the King was not only indecent but also dangerous, since it was perfectly clear that his wealth had been acquired at the expense of the treasury. His predecessors weren't more honest than he, but they were smart enough to hide the wealth they had acquired while serving the King as Superintendent of Finances. If you're going to rob the King to the point of becoming richer than him, at least hide it! Fouquet didn't always hide it, but he certainly couldn't afford to hand out diamonds left and right. He simply didn't have them in such quantities, at least not in excess. Especially considering that the cunning Colbert had first ensured Fouquet's complete ruin before deciding to arrest him. Fouquet understood this and sensed that he didn't have long to represent a personage greater than the King. He had to economize. Of course, he gave expensive gifts even when they were unacceptable luxuries, when he could barely afford them, but he did so only to those he needed, essentially buying their friendship and loyalty. He simply forgot the simple rule already outlined by Machiavelli. One should never give everything one can; favors should be limited, restrained, as we restrain a spirited horse to prevent it from outrunning other horses. Any treasury will sooner or later be empty if more is drawn from it than is put into it. A repeated gift of the same amount is no longer perceived as a favor, but as due compensation for labor, and if the next gift is even a trifle smaller, it will be perceived as an insult, as disfavor, as punishment. Therefore, if the first favor is excessive, the recipient will quickly consider its value equal to or even greater than that sum, and will expect more, and even demand it. Thus, those who have received favors quickly become offended, after which they easily defect to the enemy. If, however, the favor is far less than a given sovereign can afford, but is accompanied by the promise of a greater favor, then one can be sure that the recipient will not betray, at least until they receive the next gift or the next reward they eagerly await. Mazarin knew this. For this reason, Mazarin triumphed where others would have failed. As for Richelieu, he was generous to his friends and merciless to his enemies, which proves that he didn't consider Queen Anne, the Duchess de Chevreuse, or even us—Athos, Porthos, d'Artagnan, and me—his enemies. He was willing to win us over, but he understood that we couldn't become his servants and wouldn't want to be his friends, so it was enough for him that we loyally served the King and maintained as much neutrality toward him as possible. The Cardinal achieved this with great skill, granting d'Artagnan an open commission as lieutenant of the King's Musketeers. And although, as I said, Athos, Porthos, and I consistently declined the honor of having our names added to this commission, d'Artagnan agreed, but in essence, he received another commission, signed by the King. The cardinal was informed of this, and when he heard it from his secretary, he furiously threw down the chessboard, on which the pieces were arranged after an unfinished game . He sat down in his favorite armchair, picked up one of the many cats that filled his palace, and began thoughtfully stroking it, gradually calming down.
Finally, his face took on its most radiant expression, he tenderly kissed the cat on the nose and again began to dictate his notes to the secretary.
I know very well the reason why the cardinal calmed down.
He realized that our views were unchanged, that we were not being cunning, but openly stood by our position of faithful service to the Queen and the King, refusing to serve him.
He saw us as disobedient people, but ones whose actions could be calculated in advance. An enemy whose actions and motivations you fully understand is no longer dangerous . Richelieu saw us as people far removed from intrigue, and he wasn't afraid of such people. He even intended to use us for his own purposes, because if you have people whose moves you can calculate, they can be used very effectively for a wide variety of purposes .
He was absolutely right about my friends.
But he was mistaken in thinking that I, too, was so simple that my actions could be calculated many steps in advance. He equated me, Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, perceiving us as nothing more than "these four." He failed to recognize us as four distinct musketeers, each with his own character, his own strengths and weaknesses. Even we ourselves couldn't figure each other out; we revealed new and previously unknown traits in each other. Perhaps, however, I am mistaken in counting d'Artagnan among such people. If he didn't know something about one of us, all he needed was a thread, a hint, a clue, and he invariably learned everything he wanted—and he wanted to know everything about us. As soon as he saw Raoul, he instantly realized that he was Athos's son. He understood that I would never fully become an abbot or a priest, that I would never renounce my militancy; I could only be a musketeer-abbot, or an abbot-musketeer, but not just one. Having tracked me and the Duchess de Longueville, he immediately guessed the relationship that had developed between us. He quickly figured out that it wasn't the Duchess who was providing Porthos with money, but the solicitor's wife. When Grimaud describes how d'Artagnan, on his way to see Athos seventeen years after their separation, expected to see a hardened drunkard, he simply gave free rein to his imagination. I discussed this with d'Artagnan later. He simply dropped an awkward remark in Grimaud's presence: "Dear Athos! I'm glad to see you in good health! I see from your face that you lead an extremely healthy lifestyle!" "After all, if you had continued drinking the way we sometimes did during our musketeer years, it couldn't help but affect your health. I must admit that I, too, have hardly touched wine in recent years."
From this phrase, Grimaud invented an entire three-page dialogue about how d'Artagnan, on the way to Athos, discusses with Planchet his premonitions that Athos has become a decrepit drunkard who is not fit for any serious work.
D'Artagnan never uttered a single ill word about his friends, much less Athos, in any conversation with anyone else, and especially not in front of servants. Grimaud might just as easily have slandered Athos, claiming he'd spoken ill of his father, or that Porthos had spoken disdainfully of his elderly mother. For d'Artagnan, Athos was practically a saint. Grimaud noticed that d'Artagnan's relationship with Planchet had become much closer over time, taking on a friendly tinge. D'Artagnan's manner became less lordly and commanding, and more pleading and respectful. He even sometimes seemed to seek Planchet's advice on matters in which the inveterate shopkeeper and city dweller knew more than a military stalwart like d'Artagnan. This irritated Grimaud, who hadn't become the close companion to Athos that Planchet had become to d'Artagnan. Grimaud forgets that Athos had a multitude of servants, while d'Artagnan didn't even have a single one, not counting the orderlies assigned to his duties. In his own way, Athos deeply loved Grimaud and trusted him in everything, but this was the love of a master for his servant, while d'Artagnan demonstrated to Planchet the respect of an officer for a bourgeois. This is why Grimaud invented that vile dialogue between Planchet and d'Artagnan, where they discussed Athos and argued that there was no point in even going to him, and that even if he accepted the offer to return to duty, it would not be the best outcome. Also, the reason for this unworthy dialogue, which Grimaud inserted into his memoirs, is the deep-seated resentment he felt towards the Gascon for having unwittingly contributed to La Valli;re’s establishment at court as the mistress of King Louis XIV, which caused a serious heartache to his beloved Raoul de Bragelonne.
Grimaud adored Raoul so much that he even referred to the viscountship deeded to him by Athos several times as the County of Bragelonne. Remember how Porthos says that Athos is being showered with one county after another; he's already the Comte de la F;re, so he has to inherit the County of Bragelonne as well.
The reason was that Athos was the eldest son of his grandfather's junior branch, and the County of La F;re had been severely reduced when it was divided among family members. When Athos left his home, he knew the estate would not go to waste, as his younger sister, Ad;le, lived with him. When he decided to die, he left his entire estate to his sister, so he wasn't overly concerned with how their shared estate was faring. But fate decreed otherwise. In 1631, Ad;le died of a fever without heirs, and Athos reclaimed his own estate. When his childless uncle, Jean-Eug;ne, Vicomte de Bragelonne, also died a year later, Athos inherited this viscountcy as well. These acquisitions did not please Athos, as he loved his sister Ad;le, though he never admitted it, and his memories of his uncle were the warmest. His uncle, Jean Eug;ne, Vicomte de Bragelonne, was close to the court of Henry IV and told Athos much about the former King, as well as Athos's father and grandfather. It was Uncle Eug;ne who instilled in Athos a respect for royal authority and the noble demeanor that always made him look like a prince, without doing anything to achieve it and without caring in the least about the impression he made on others.
At a banquet where the Duke of Orleans lamented Richelieu's complete control over his august brother, King Louis XIII, Monsieur de Chavigny, believed to be Richelieu's illegitimate son, also told a humorous story about the cardinal. The Duke of Orleans laughed and said, "And you, son?" precisely repeating the words of Julius Caesar to Marcus Brutus. Indeed, in his youth, Richelieu had been very close to Madame Bouthillier, the mother of Monsieur L;on Bouthillier, Count of Chavigny de Buzan;ay, Baron de la Gr;ve et d'Antibes, who belonged to the Bragelon family. This lady brought fortune to the family by introducing her husband, who later became Superintendent of Finances, to the Queen Mother. She also secured for her son-in-law the post of coadjutor in Tours. Judge for yourself the influence and wealth of the Bragelon family! I've already reported that one of the Bragelonnes received the Bishopric of Lusson from his relative , Armand du Plessis de Richelieu , when Richelieu himself became a cardinal. He didn't get it for free, of course. But still, Richelieu, being a relative, didn't overcharge.
It must be said that Richelieu entrusted the father of the Count de Chavigny with many different delicate assignments and diplomatic missions, and was also Superintendent of Finance, but Leon not only inherited this position, but also became Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Grimaud completely baselessly describes this man—a member of the Bragelon family on his mother's side, I remind you—as the jailer of the Duke of Beaufort. Chavigny was too noble for such a role. Chavigny was a friend and prot;g; of Cardinal Mazarin, a member of the regency council during the young Louis XIV, initially an active supporter of Mazarin, and later, after falling out with him, becoming an active member of the Fronde. You'll find Chavigny in Grimaud's notes as the jailer of the Duke of Beaufort, the grandson of Henry IV. You'll probably conclude from this that Beaufort was guarded by a relative of the Comte de la F;re. You'll even wonder whether Athos exploited this connection to arrange the Duke's escape. Family ties meant much in our youth, much more than they do now, as I write these lines. Well, you've probably guessed why Grimaud easily secured a position as one of the Duke de Beaufort's guards, what kind of recommendations he might have received, and from whom. I can only say that your guesses are partially correct, but everything was done so carefully that no shadow of suspicion could fall on Athos.
I consider it appropriate here to relate the reasons why I left the Musketeers. It was at this very time that I decided to become a Jesuit. I had already noted that two Jesuits greatly contributed to Richelieu's rise. I also accidentally learned that some influential men in France had acquired their influence through the involvement of this mysterious society. Even de Luynes, whom many suspected of sympathizing with the Huguenots, was appointed to the King's service with the help and assistance of the Jesuits. Appointments to the highest and most influential positions at court were not made without their approval; without the support of this influential society, one could not become a cardinal, let alone a bishop. The Jesuits did not manifest their power openly; they possessed it, and they used it.
Jesuit power could not be won through squabbles, any more than it could be acquired through valiant military service. It was something entirely different—it was the power of intellect and concrete action, the power of painstaking and purposeful action. Just as a beaver slowly and surely builds a dam, damming a small stream, creating a pond of unprecedented size, dwarfing the small hole an elephant can dig to reach water, so the Jesuits, acting gradually and quietly, created their own states within states and decided the fate of the world. Kings, shedding the blood of thousands upon thousands of their own citizens and those of neighboring states, attempted to shift the borders of their own states. But sometimes these efforts were in vain, and sometimes, instead of acquiring foreign lands, they lost part of their own. Meanwhile, the Jesuits, educating and recruiting ever-increasing numbers of young men who were prepared to wage war if necessary, secured peace without open warfare. If they killed anyone, it was only those who had to be eliminated in the name of their higher purpose, and they did so in such a way that no one could suspect anything, and no one could accuse them of it. I would compare secular power to an incompetent woodcutter who, in order to get rid of a tree that was bothering him, would beat his hands until they bled, blunt his axe, after which the tree he was attacking would fall in the wrong place, causing more damage than profit, whereas I would compare a Jesuit to a skilled gardener who cuts two or three roots of an unnecessary tree, after which it dries up and turns into dust, and who throws two or three seeds into the ground, after which, over the years and years, huge trees grow in the right place, stronger and more robust than those they themselves felled.
I began to study the personality of Ignatius Loyola and became fascinated by him. This man, whose motto was: "Become all things to all people in order to win all people."
Beginning with simple charity and the spread of Christianity, he acquired an influence that even the Pope had never had. However, five-sixths of the influence the current Pope wields for the papacy was acquired by Ignatius Loyola and his followers. The Jesuits went unnoticed at first, but they noticed everything worth noting and subjugated it without violence, attracting privileges and positions in the ecclesiastical and even secular hierarchy, the highest of which, not counting the offices of kings and princes, could no longer be attained without their support.
Ignatius Loyola never set himself unattainable goals, although the goals he set would have seemed impossible to many. And he accomplished every task this great man set himself, achieving every goal, precisely by following the plan he had devised. Having set himself the task of winning the minds of future generations, he became the best teacher of theology, then sought out, trained, and recruited the finest educators in Europe into his community. Gradually, he acquired enormous authority with the Pope, securing a decree that all Catholic schools would staff their departments with the active assistance of the Jesuits. Just fifteen years after his idea was conceived, Ignatius Loyola controlled all the best universities in Europe, all higher ecclesiastical education, and there was no other kind of education at all. Convinced that winning the best young minds in Europe was not enough—he also needed to attract the best warriors—he accomplished this task.
I see the potential of this movement. If and when not a single monarchy remains in all of Europe, the Jesuits' influence will still remain and grow, even if their Order no longer officially exists. This would only mean that the Order has gone completely underground, that's all. Monarchies admire the past, while the Jesuits look to the future.  That's why I became a Jesuit.
As a Jesuit, I understood that I mustn't lose sight of my friends. I tried to learn everything about d'Artagnan, and to that end, I persuaded Marie to send Kitty to him. I tried to learn everything about Porthos, and to that end, two solicitors in Madame Coquenard's office were on my payroll, and when she decided to close her law firm, they became servants at the Valon estate.
Regarding how I learned about Athos's affairs, I will write a little later.

Chapter 62

The Jesuit Order was originally founded on the principles of equality, but life itself forced a reconsideration of these principles. By the time I became interested in this organization, it had a strict military hierarchy, with a general at the very top and a duty of complete and unconditional obedience from all members to their superiors. Furthermore, many provisions were secret, but it was no secret that, by the highest decree of the Pope, the orders of the Order's superiors were considered more important than any orders from representatives of secular authority. This meant, for example, that if an officer in the Jesuit Order received an order from his Jesuit superior that contradicted an order from a superior army officer, he was obliged to obey his superior within the Order, even at the cost of military or state treason. This, of course, had its own logic. After all, the army is a secular power, while the Order is a divine, higher power. What an officer of the Order commands, the Pope wills, and what the Pope commands, God wills. Having become imbued with this ideology, I realized I was taking a step beyond the state, beyond the fatherland, joining something greater, higher, more significant than secular power, as if ascending several steps directly to the Lord.
But I must confess that it wasn't religiosity that pushed me into the arms of the Order. Having realized its power, I understood that it was important and useful not only in heaven, about which I might still have some justifiable doubts, but also on sinful Mother Earth, and regarding this real power, I no longer had any doubts.
I was also impressed by the fact that, initially, one of the Order's most important goals was caring for the health of women with the lowest social responsibilities, as well as, in the long term, eradicating the institution of prostitution itself. However, this eradication was planned not through the extermination of fallen women, but through their transformation, purification, and return to the bosom of God, as happened with Mary Magdalene. Another important task of the Order was the eradication of moral decay in monasteries, and again, primarily in women's monasteries. It must be admitted that if it were necessary, for the glory of God, to confine large numbers of women within monastic walls, then it would be necessary to occupy their minds, bodies, and souls with activities that were elevated and at the same time so self-sufficient that they could turn them away from sinful thoughts and, especially, from sinful acts. And this second task, in my opinion, was not an easy one, but extremely noble. The main thing was that whoever succeeded in such a task would gain colossal experience, which would enable them to get along easily with social women, which appealed to me for obvious reasons. By this time, I had already understood how important women are in shaping the world order, how crucial it is for any man, if not to control them or exploit their potential, then at least to avoid falling into their traps and avoid any chance of accidentally making an enemy of them .
So, I decided to become closer to the Jesuits, to join the Order, and I was also determined to keep close tabs on my friends. I can't swear that I was guided solely by friendship in this decision, but if anyone were to accuse me of being guided solely by selfish feelings, they would be wrong. My feelings of friendship were strong; I would have been only too glad for any success of any of my friends; I wasn't jealous of their fame, wealth, power, or success with women. But I considered these three to be perhaps my only spiritual treasure, an achievement, an investment in the future—not so much material as moral. At the same time, to be completely honest, I can't swear that I wouldn't, on occasion, have sacrificed the interests of any of them for my own gain. I confess I was more selfish then than I later became. The day of my moral transformation was the day of our meeting on the Place Royale, when, at Athos's command, I broke my sword to avoid accidentally crossing it with d'Artagnan or Porthos. Athos's speech and the oath he swore, as well as the oath we all swore after him, with the exception of Porthos, who simply burst into tears, changed my soul from "before" to "after." At that moment, I felt, finally and irrevocably, how dear these three friends were to me. I truly would have sacrificed my life for any one of them. I heard from Athos something I had never known, something I had never considered, but which I agreed with without the slightest hesitation. Kings and princes come and go, but our friendship is the most precious thing we have, and it will remain forever. He is right! Kings, princes, women, rulers and subjects—they can all betray. "Friends also betray," you might say, and you'd be wrong. If a friend betrayed you, then you simply didn't have a friend. Look within yourself and ask yourself: were you a friend to them, one who wouldn't betray you under any circumstances? If you weren't such a friend, then you can't demand such friendship in return, and therefore, what you had wasn't friendship, but friendship. But friendship doesn't betray; it simply ceases to be friendship. And if you were betrayed by someone you trusted completely, it demonstrates not your stupidity, but your nobility, since you trusted that person more than they deserved. And thinking better of someone than they deserve is certainly not stupidity or meanness. Although among Jesuits, it's customary to believe in many but trust no one, which is something I also adopted.
For example, Count Rochefort was a friend to me when we shared common goals. Fouquet was also a friend to me, whom I called a friend both in person and behind his back, but I could never compare his friendship with the friendship of our four. Perhaps the friendship that arose between the four of us had never existed on this sinful earth before us, and never will after us. I even thought that none of us would ever have acted as Judas did toward Christ, nor would we have repeated Peter's denial. Any one of us would have thrown ourselves on the cross in place of a friend. It was some kind of special religion, and even something higher than religion. It was asceticism.
But all this happened after Athos's speech, which, in its impact on us, was comparable to Christ's Sermon on the Mount, and even more so, since Judas and Peter had heard the Sermon on the Mount, yet one of them betrayed Christ, and the other denied him three times. I'm not joking. If the King or the Cardinal had sentenced my friends to execution and said, "Whoever here is a friend of Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan, come out to be executed with them!" I would have gone out and joined them. But that's "after," not "before."
Since I am writing this not for anyone to read, but for myself, for memory, it is difficult to suspect me of lying.
If these three were alive now, and if I were offered the chance to die with them, or to die so that they might live, I would do so with joy and would consider this moment the happiest of my life. If you like, I have become a fanatic of our friendship, which the Lord has granted me alone to preserve in my parched heart, since I will now be able to see my friends only in the next world, and it will not be long before we meet again, for, God knows, I have lingered too long in this world. For what? I think, only to finish these notes, and then come what may! And yet I began writing my first book when they were all alive. But I write so slowly. And sometimes I burn what I have written and start over. Besides, I have not yet described the death of each of my friends. Everything in its time. Perhaps I will do so, if I have the spiritual strength for it. I cannot think about it calmly. So, I must write and try to describe everything I still remember, without thinking about whether anyone will read it. I have entrusted this to myself, and I will fulfill this assignment.
Perhaps it is only for this purpose that the Lord maintains within me the spark of life, and this task determines its remaining duration. In that case, I must hasten, for I have no intention of artificially prolonging my days and months, the feeble decay of an old man, clinging to life when my dear friends, I believe, are already tired of waiting for me in the next world. I can just picture my three friends, having already filled my cup with heavenly wine, waiting for me to arrive to share a toast with them to the Four Musketeers! You say they don't drink wine in heaven? Nonsense! What kind of heaven is that, then?
But let me return to 1628. I decided that it wouldn't hurt d'Artagnan to resume his meetings with Kitty, and it wouldn't hurt me to receive some information from her about my friend's life, what sorrows hindered his heroic life and glorious career, or what joys befell him. I wanted to know this so that I could, as best I could, help him cope with his troubles and share his joys. I voluntarily took on the role of an old mother who, having sent her sons into the world, eagerly seeks out every sign of her children and sends them her blessing, placing a cross in the direction in which she last saw them. Yes, I had become sentimental, but only with regard to my three friends. Perhaps this happened because Maria forbade me to think of my two children as my descendants, and I obeyed her command so completely that I almost truly believed I had nothing to do with their birth. A different understanding came later, much later.
As for Madame Camille de Bois-Tracy, I was happy with her, very happy, but I abandoned that romantic love because I didn't feel the same thrill in her presence that I always felt with Marie. Madame la Duchesse de Chevreuse knew how to make her love and hate, to experience a cycle of such intense emotions that any peaceful, tranquil love seemed like a puddle compared to the raging ocean. With Camille, I was bored, and boredom can kill any love. With Marie, I constantly fought for my feelings, like a sailor on a wrecked boat fighting for his life against twenty-foot waves, waiting for the ninth wave. Loving Marie was hard, but not loving her was impossible.
I did not wish such love on anyone, but I did not seek anything else for myself and would not wish for anything more peaceful and happier.
I came to Maria to talk about Katie.
After those proofs of love with which our rendezvous began, we, as always, proceeded to a late dinner, which could also be called an early breakfast, for dawn was already breaking on the horizon.
"My dear, how did you like my prot;g;e Katie?" I asked.
"Do you want to take her for yourself?" Maria asked playfully.
"I was thinking that perhaps it would be a good idea to return her to d'Artagnan," I replied. "The poor fellow has lost his beloved, and Katie, as far as I remember, was head over heels in love with him."
"Was, you say?" asked Maria. "Love spoken of in the past tense isn't love at all. Can love end if it's true?"
Maria looked at me with her childishly naive look, which she knew how to portray, and I once again agreed with her, although she, of course, was wrong.
"Besides, the question isn't whether she loves him, but whether he loves her?" Maria continued.
"I'm at peace with that!" I exclaimed. "After spending almost six months with you, she's certainly picked up at least a little something from you, and you easily win the hearts of the men you like!"
"You're being impudent, you rascal!" Maria said, playfully fuming and lightly slapping my arm. "However, I agree that under my careful tutelage, Katie has been transformed. She's no longer the simpleton maid who falls in love with the first moustache and beard she sees. Now she can stand up for herself and, if necessary, seduce a gentleman worthy of her."
"A mustache and a goatee!" I mimicked. "You don't know d'Artagnan at all if you try to describe his virtues with such disparaging comparisons. I'd say iron muscles, a swift sword, and Gascon pride, as well as, of course, noble honor."
"My poor Aramis!" exclaimed Marie. "Such ardent admiration for a young man? Have you, by any chance, joined the camp of the late Henry III and the living Louis XIII?"
"No, madam!" I replied dryly. "It's just genuine male friendship, without the slightest hint of what you're hinting at!"
"Don't be offended, Ren;!" Maria cooed tenderly. "I'm just kidding. I like to see you angry, but only for a little while and not in earnest. Don't be offended! Please forgive me! Do you want me to earn your forgiveness?"
“I’m not sure you’ll succeed ,” I said in a deliberately offended tone, anticipating what her mercy might be like and what kind of evidence of repentance she would provide me.
“Well, if you don’t want to, then I don’t see what else I can do here ,” said Maria, pretending to want to leave the cozy apartment we were renting.
"No, wait!" I said. "I'm not at all angry with you, but I'm curious what you were going to offer me in order to, as you said, earn my forgiveness!"
"Oh, you little rascal!" Maria replied coquettishly. "Very well, so be it. I'm returning Katie to you, although I've already become deeply attached to her. She's truly a delightful girl, though a simpleton. Just promise me that you'll return her to me after the charm of her first love for your Gascon has faded, she's bored, and wants to return to the happy life she led with me."
"Why do you think she'll get bored with d'Artagnan, and why do you call your life with her fun?" I asked.
"How could it be otherwise?" she asked. "A life full of danger, promising both unprecedented rise and unprecedented fall—what could be more fun? And isn't that better than being one of the many lovers of a soldier who could be struck down at any moment by an enemy bullet or a swordsman's blade?"
"You're killing me, Maria!" I cried.
"The truth always kills someone or something," the Duchess replied. "Okay, I'll send her here to you, and you can deal with her yourselves."
“Are you leaving already?” I asked.
"Of course! What else would I do here?" was the reply.
“You promised some special favor,” I hinted.
"Me?" Maria asked with feigned surprise. "When was that?"
"You said you could earn my forgiveness!" I reminded him.
"Just look how cleverly he's twisted everything!" Maria exclaimed, turning to the candelabra on the ceiling. "He insults me by taking my favorite maid, and then he demands that I do him some special favor in exchange for his forgiveness! Perhaps you'll come down to earth and finally realize, you wretched abbot, that it's you who must earn my forgiveness?"
“Well, so be it, I’m ready to admit my guilt ,” I said, realizing that arguing with a woman you love is madness .
“I’ll think about what punishment to assign to you,” Maria announced proudly.
"So you're jealous of Katie!" I exclaimed, trying to make her a little angry, which suited her very well.
"Me? Jealous? Katie? Of you?!" Maria said in a tone as if I'd told her I could raze Mont Blanc or drink the Seine. "Who do you think you are?"
“So much the better!” I said.
"So you have the audacity to be glad that I'm not jealous!" Maria exclaimed. "It follows that you don't love me at all and don't want me to love you."
"Duchess, come on!" I gave in. " I agree in advance with everything you've said and will say, and I apologize in advance for any faults you assign me ."
With these words I kissed her right hand, after which I immediately received the left one for the same purpose and kissed it too.
"Very well ," said the Duchess graciously, slapping my hand again. "Oh, I'm being incredibly lenient with you! God will punish me for this! Katie will be with you in an hour."
After these words, Maria disappeared behind the curtain covering the doors of our love nest.
 
Chapter 63

“Katie, my dear, I have something good to tell you ,” I said to Katie, Marie de Chevreuse’s maid, when she came to see me.
“I’m listening to you,” Katie said modestly.
“You no longer have to fear Lady Winter’s revenge, so you don’t have to constantly stay in the house of your new mistress, the Duchess de Chevreuse,” I said, hoping for a joyful reaction.
"Is the mistress sending me away?" Katie asked, outwardly remaining calm, but I noticed signs of anxiety in the trembling of her lips and the way she clutched her handbag with her fingers.
"Not at all!" I replied. "You'll just have more freedom now, so you'll be able to see the Chevalier d'Artagnan."
"See him?" Katie asked indifferently. "Why? He doesn't love me."
“Didn’t he tell you about his love?” I asked in surprise.
"He only said that so I could help him gain access to Milady Winter," Katie replied. "He told me he needed Milady only to rescue a certain worthy woman from captivity, but I realized he loved that woman more than anything in the world. I also noticed that he only pretended to be indifferent to Milady, but in reality, he seemed quite favorably disposed toward her as well. I was the last person he ever thought of. He wouldn't have even considered me if it weren't for his passion for that woman and his extraordinary interest in Milady."
“That’s all in the past,” I replied. “That lady is no more.”
"You've already told me," Katie replied with feigned indifference. "My lady has left for England?"
"My lady has departed much further," I replied. "She is now in a place from which there is no return. At least until Archangel Gabriel blows his trumpet."
"Really?" Katie perked up. "Is my lady dead?"
At these words, good Katie folded her hands in prayer and began to whisper the Angelus Domini. As abbot, I made the sign of the cross over her and blessed this prayer.
"So, you and I have sung the last verses for her and can forget about her former existence ," I said. "As I have already informed you, you have nothing more to fear."
"But the lady about whom the Chevalier d'Artagnan showed so much concern is, I suppose, now finally free?" asked Katie.
"Let's say the Angelus Domini together in memory of the servant of God Constance ," I said. "She deserves our grief more than Milady."
"This lady died too?" Katie exclaimed, clasping her hands again in prayer.
“It is not good to rejoice at the death of another, my dear, but I forgive you this sin, since both of these deaths are to your advantage, because now Monsieur d’Artagnan is free ,” I said.
"How terrible," whispered Katie. "To gain access to the heart of a loved one through two deaths. Would I dare take advantage of such circumstances? Perhaps d'Artagnan's love brings misfortune to those he loves."
"You are right about poor Constance, my child," I agreed. "But your former mistress's misfortune was entirely her own fault. She suffered the deserved punishment for the death of the unfortunate Constance, whom she poisoned."
"Did Monsieur d'Artagnan really avenge his beloved's death so decisively?" asked Katie. "Did he raise his hand against the lady? Or was she executed by court order?"
"You're both right and wrong ," I said. "D'Artagnan was among those involved in her death, but he never laid a hand on her. She was executed by a sentence, but that sentence was more divine than human, and although it was pronounced by people not empowered to administer that judgment, the highest judge in the state recognized their actions as legitimate and pardoned them in advance, even before they committed it, and subsequently confirmed it."
"You speak in riddles ," said Katie.
"I don't recognize you, my child ," I said. "You were such a merry and cheerful girl, and now you've become so sensible and serious! And when did this happen? The moment I told you that you could try your luck and try to win over the Chevalier d'Artagnan."
“Unrequited love will not bring me joy, because he may give in to my persistence, but only because of the death of those he loved more than me,” Katie said sadly.
"You were prepared to engage in an unequal battle with your former mistress, risking everything, including your life, and you weren't deterred by the fact that your chances were slim. And now, when you hold all the cards, you're giving up the fight for your happiness?" I asked, surprised.
"It's not quite as simple as you make it out to be," Katie countered. "I fought for a moment of triumph when I thought it was the best thing in store for me, and then—come what may. Now that, as you say, my rivals are dead, I must consider whether I should become his mistress, or even something less than a mistress, when it might be easy, but also pointless? After all, his heart is broken! Will he be able to love?"
“I propose that you become the healer of his heart and soul ,” I said, not understanding why my proposal was not met with any enthusiasm.
"And what gratitude do you expect from me for this offer?" Katie asked dispassionately.
"Absolutely none!" I lied.
"So you're saying the way to his bed doesn't go through yours?" Katie asked, visibly livening up.
"No, absolutely not!" I objected sincerely. "I'm not attacking your honor! I have a lover, as you probably know!"
“Yes, I know that, and I also know from her that you, Monsieur d’Herblay, do nothing without your own interest,” answered Katie.
I blushed at her words.
"So that's the reason for your coldness when you heard you'd be able to see d'Artagnan," I said thoughtfully. "Don't be afraid, my child. I'm not a pimp or a matchmaker, and I'm certainly not a scoundrel who lures girls into his bed by force or cunning, or who takes advantage of their desperate situation to do so."
"So you don't want me," Katie nodded. "What do you want then? For me to spy on him? I warn you that I will never do anything that would harm the Chevalier d'Artagnan, even if he completely neglects me! Even if he harms me."
In this involuntary impulse, Katie was once again the Katie I knew before. She revealed her passions. It turned out she suspected I would demand caresses of the most intimate kind, or even order her to spy on d'Artagnan to his detriment. So she tried to appear indifferent to a topic in which I expected her to be far more interested.
“I admit, you’re almost right about the second part of your suspicion ,” I said. “But I have no intention of spying on my friend. I only want him to be happy. I’d very much like to know everything about him, not as an enemy or a rival, but as his best friend, so that I could come to his aid when he needs it, since I know he’ll be too proud to call me until he still has hope of dealing with the problem on his own. I wouldn’t want to be unaware of the dangers that threaten him. I’d like you to be his guardian angel, and for me to help you with this, if necessary, when masculine strength, dexterity, and determination are required. We’ve saved each other’s lives more than once, and that’s not something you forget. After all, you understand how dangerous service in the ranks of the king’s musketeers is. And we, his friends, will no longer be by his side.” I'm leaving to become an abbot, Porthos is getting married and leaving the Musketeers, Athos has also expressed his intention to leave the Musketeers, but I hope he'll remain close to our friend d'Artagnan for a while longer . I'm worried about him and would like to have a reliable and kind friend by his side, which I consider you to be.
I spoke so eloquently that I even believed every word I said, especially since there was more truth in my words than deceit. By God, kind Katie almost made me abandon the idea of simply spying on d'Artagnan for my own selfish purposes, and limit myself to the very goals I so vividly described to Katie.
"Well, if you're not joking, then your offer is truly noble and very flattering to me ," said Katie, this time, it seemed, cheerfully and carefree. "But he's a musketeer! He doesn't need a maid, and I don't know how to do anything else. And he'll hardly want to marry me. I'm not even sure he'll let me live next door to him. So I can only hope for occasional meetings!"
“Whether they will be rare or frequent depends only on you, my child ,” I said. “But explain to me, what do you really want?”
“I want to remain the Duchess de Chevreuse’s maid, if what you have told me is true, and the Duchess does not drive me away ,” said Katie.
"Really?" I was surprised. "For what purpose?"
"If you truly wish to give me a chance to win the heart of the Chevalier d'Artagnan, I know only one way ," said Katie. "D'Artagnan can only love an independent girl, not one who will come to him and hang on his neck. The Duchess pays me enough for me to rent several rooms, even an entire floor in a modest inn. I will rent one or two rooms to the Chevalier d'Artagnan, and he, I hope, will take notice of me, since he will be forced to communicate with me once a week about the rent. Then I will see if he loves me."
"You know d'Artagnan quite well!" I exclaimed. "But why did you decide that he would want to move to a new apartment?"
"His former lover was, if I'm not mistaken, the owner of the inn where the chevalier was staying?" asked Katie.
“Yes, that’s true, I admit ,” I said.
"This lady, as far as I heard, was married, and her husband was also the owner of this apartment?" Katie continued.
"You are well informed!" I exclaimed.
"When you love, you remember everything you learn about the person you love," Katie replied simply. "I don't think the Chevalier would be happy living in the house where his beloved lived, paying rent to her widower ex-husband. He would be equally irritated by her grief over the loss, her gaiety if he was consoled, and her indifference, if he showed it."
"I'd give you a doctorate in psychology if I had the right!" I marveled. "And how come I didn't think d'Artagnan might want to move out of his apartment?"
“It’s enough that I thought about it,” Katie said modestly.
"So, we've agreed ," I said. "I'll talk to the Duchess, she'll keep your position but give you more freedom, we'll find you some rooms to rent, and you can offer two of them to d'Artagnan. All your ideas seem delightful to me."
"Monsieur d'Herblay," said Katie firmly, "I understand your desire to be informed of all your friend's affairs, but I do not share it. Everyone has the right to privacy and to the secrecy of all their affairs, except those they themselves wish to disclose. Therefore, I promise you nothing other than that I will tell you about the Chevalier d'Artagnan only what I deem necessary, and only when I deem it appropriate. It is possible that I will never tell you anything. And that is the most likely outcome. Are these terms acceptable to you?"
It seemed to me that this simpleton was no longer as simple as I had believed before this conversation with her. I expected her to throw herself on my neck and be endlessly and eternally grateful for the opportunity to see d'Artagnan, but she had me wrapped around her finger and did everything her way.
Why do some noble ladies behave like simpletons, while some women of common rank have much more dignity than would be sufficient for any noble lady?
Disarmed, I kissed Katie's hand. I still don't understand why I did it. Apparently, it's not just birth that makes a lady noble. Even if she can't boast of noble birth, but possesses a sound mind and a kind heart, her dignity and position can be placed almost no lower than any other noblewoman. At least, that's how it seemed to me then, and perhaps I still think so.

Chapter 64

Meanwhile, the siege of La Rochelle was coming to an end.
On Richelieu's orders, our engineers and sappers surrounded the city with a moat reinforced by eleven forts and eighteen redoubts. The surrounding fortifications were completed in April 1628 and manned by a 30,000-strong army.
Four thousand workers built a seawall a third of a mile long to block access to the sea between the city and the harbor. This stopped all shipments of weapons, ammunition, and food by sea. The first seawall was destroyed by waves during severe weather. A new seawall was erected on a foundation made from sunken old ships filled with rubble. Royal artillery was stationed on the seawall, which destroyed English ships attempting to supply the rebellious city.
On the Isle of R;, the English attempted to storm the small Fort Saint-Martin but were repulsed. Small boats managed to occasionally supply the fort, despite its blockade by royal troops. With Buckingham's death, support for the rebels ended. The final English assault was repelled, with heavy losses. The English retreated, forcing the city to capitulate on October 28, 1628. Under the new peace treaty, the Huguenots lost their territorial, political, and military self-government. They were deprived of possession of fortified areas. All of La Rochelle's fortifications were slated for demolition, including the memorable Bastion Saint-Gervais, but since La Rochelle had become a fully Catholic city, Richelieu canceled the destruction of the seaward fortifications, rightly believing they might still be needed to deter the English. For some time the Huguenots still retained the freedom of religion guaranteed to them by the Edict of Nantes.
Meanwhile, in Languedoc, the troops of the Prince of Cond; were fighting Henri de Rohan. In September 1628, Rohan, suffering one military defeat after another, initiated secret negotiations with Spain. As a result, he succeeded in creating an anti-French coalition consisting of England, Spain, Savoy, and Lorraine.
After Louis XIII had solemnly entered the conquered city and was convinced that the siege had ended in the complete defeat of the Protestants, he returned to Paris satisfied, and with him returned the lieutenant of the king's musketeers, d'Artagnan.
As Kitty had predicted, he wanted to move out of Monsieur Bonacieux's and asked all his friends if they could help him find another apartment. Since I had been the one to offer him rooms in Bonacieux's house, he turned to me first. I replied that, fortunately, I knew a suitable address for the simple reason that they were rented by a lady well known to both him and me. D'Artagnan was very surprised, but agreed to inspect the rooms. I pleaded a busy schedule and apologized for not being able to accompany him, then gave him the address. I confess I would have very much liked to see his surprise when he recognized Kitty as the landlady, but I realized that my presence could spoil everything. Kitty did not tell me anything about this first meeting, so I cannot share any details of this scene. I only know that d'Artagnan reigned in two small rooms on the top floor. He initially intended to limit himself to one room, but Katie said the price of two rooms would be only a quarter of the price of one room, and our musketeer relented. Since all outstanding wages had been paid to the participants upon their return from the military campaign, d'Artagnan generously paid for the apartment for six months in advance and promised Katie to make regular payments thereafter. This was the first and last payment he made. Over those six months, Katie managed to strengthen their relationship so much that our brave lieutenant began to feel like the rightful owner of everything that belonged to her, something she had no objection to, as she herself was the first property on that list.
Our Gascon probably wasn't the best husband, especially since this relationship wasn't sanctioned or legitimized by the Church, save for my condescending consent—and I was, after all, an abbot. But I dare say Kitty didn't feel disenfranchised, and d'Artagnan never gave her cause to complain about his lack of spirit in demonstrating his respect, reverence, and love. However, Kitty, as I suspected, had me fooled, for she told me absolutely nothing about him, save that I knew my friend's address and could visit him at any time, unannounced or uninvited. I also knew that I could always count on his sword. If I had challenged Satan himself to a duel, he wouldn't have refused to be my second. He would have crossed swords with him himself, had I needed it.
By the way, Katie named her hotel "The Goat" in honor of Marie de Chevreuse.
In April 1629, a truce was concluded between France and Savoy. At the same time, an agreement was concluded between France and England, directed against Spain. In July, the Empire concluded a separate peace with Denmark, which had lost the war. In September, Louis XIII temporarily reconciled with the Queen Mother. A little later, in September, Richelieu managed to make Sweden our ally. To this end, he facilitated the Treaty of Altmark between Sweden and Poland, with the assistance of his cunning diplomat, Baron de Charnay, who was sent for this purpose. With these actions, Richelieu freed Sweden from problems related to Poland, which allowed him to increase pressure on the Empire. In October, Spanish troops attacked us in Mantua. In November, Richelieu's representative, Louis Deshays de Courmenin, traveled to Moscow for negotiations, where he secured permission for our merchants to trade in Moscow, Arkhangelsk, Novgorod, and Pskov. He also received a promise from the Tsar of Moscow to enter the war against Poland to prevent it from again attacking Sweden, which Richelieu intended to use as his main weapon against the Empire. These successes in Richelieu's foreign policy, as well as his previous successes in domestic policy, which allowed him to pacify the Huguenots, paved the way for him to ascend to the pinnacle of power. In November, Richelieu became the chief minister of state, and by December, he had set out on a new campaign toward Italy.
Meanwhile, Monsieur, the King's brother, continued to plot, as did his mother and Queen Anne. Marie de Chevreuse was one of the most active participants in these plots. The year 1630 began with a reconciliation between the King and his brother, and ended with one, but between January and December, many events occurred that did not contribute to peace between them.
During this period, Marie de Chevreuse often retreated to her husband's castle in Dampierre. It must be said that she easily traversed all of France when necessary, as she could travel not only by carriage but also on horseback , for which she wore men's clothing. It's worth remembering that in 1626, she fled potential punishment for intrigues to Lorraine, where she became close with Charles IV, Duke of Lorraine. However, she always gravitated toward conspirators, and the Dukes of Lorraine have always been the most notorious conspirators, believing that their nobility gave them a claim to the French throne. I dread to think what might have happened if their relationship—that is, the relationship between Marie de Chevreuse and Charles of Lorraine—had gone far beyond personal relations and led to the formation of a new political alliance against the King. Only a man like Richelieu could have resisted such an alliance.
I admired Mary, was amazed by her activities, feared for her, and for myself, and for the King, and loved her even more because of this.
During these two years of which I am now writing, the shadowy activities of various parties led to a profound shift in power in France. The hidden drivers of these actions were not only the party of the Queen Mother, the party of Queen Anne, and the party of Richelieu; the active involvement of the Jesuit Order must also be taken into account. I learned some important information from Marie and used it to win the trust of my new spiritual friends. No, this was not betrayal. I merely learned from Marie what she herself had devised regarding the two parties between which she skillfully maneuvered. If Marie herself shared some information with Richelieu, eliciting useful information from him, which she then shared with Queen Anne, then I adopted her approach exactly. By learning certain information from Maria, not intentionally but inadvertently, I used it to adjust my actions within the Order, and by learning about the Order's intended actions, I sometimes restrained Maria herself from rash steps. I am convinced that I twice saved her from death, although I never bragged about it to her. I did this not so much for her as for myself; she was dear to me, and I did not want her to fall. I must also remind you that our alliance with Maria was never political; I was not a member of her party, although I occasionally assisted her in her affairs, and she helped me make some important connections. I never bound myself by promises of political loyalty to her, keeping her secrets, or assisting her intrigues. Our complete mutual trust was based on the fact that we both perfectly understood each other's interests and also understood that neither of us would sacrifice our own.

I remember one conversation in which Maria presented herself to me not just as a duchess who occasionally amused herself with intrigues and political games, but as a profound politician, which she had never appeared to be in anyone’s eyes.
I remember the conversation began with me wondering why France didn't stop fighting, first on one of its borders, then on the other.
"Henri, do you play chess?" Maria asked.
“No, I prefer games that don’t require as much mental effort as this intricate Indian game,” I replied.
"Cards and a landsknecht?" Maria asked dismissively. "Are you afraid to occupy your mind with thought?"
"That's not it," I objected. "I often have to strain my mind for other things, so if I play, it's only to give it a rest."
"Are your intellectual pursuits focused on interpreting thousand-year-old Latin texts?" Maria quipped. "Are you hoping to write a comprehensive, hundred-page commentary on some St. Augustine and earn a theological chair for it?"
“Not quite so,” I objected and blushed, because she almost guessed.
"Listen, Henri," Maria suddenly said. "You're a soldier, an officer! You're supposed to think strategically!"
“I am no longer a soldier, but only an abbot,” I objected.
"Don't lie to me, and certainly don't lie to yourself, Ren;e!" Maria cried.
She called me Henri or Ren; depending on whether she saw me as a lover or an intellectual interlocutor.
“I actually resigned from the Musketeers ,” I said.
"You can quit the Musketeers as often as you like, but you will never quit the Musketeer in yourself, in your heart!" Maria exclaimed passionately. "If that weren't the case, you wouldn't be of interest to me!"
“And what follows from this?” I asked.
"Politics or war are also a kind of chess, or rather, chess is a simplified game that contains elements of both," Maria continued. "Only on this board are pieces arranged not in just two colors, but in dozens and even hundreds of different colors and shades. But there's no fundamental difference. Each group, united by its colors, desires victory for itself, and, consequently, defeat for everyone else. Its best bet is to decapitate the enemy, but if that's impossible, it tries to first take the best position, controlling the most important squares on the board. The more squares you control, the stronger your position. And a strong position sometimes replaces a strong army. You may not have enough troops, but if your few troops are in a better position, you can defeat an enemy even if they outnumber you."
"And what analogy do you see here in French state affairs?" I asked, vaguely anticipating her answer.
"The European countries jealously watch the entire European board," she replied. "As soon as France eases its grip on a square, all its neighbors immediately begin to take action to establish their own control over it. You can only cede a square if you gain control of a more important square in exchange. Better yet, cede nothing, only gain, even if only a little, so that no one can take it away from you."
"And who are the players on this huge chessboard?" I asked.
"Everyone!" Maria exclaimed. "France, England, Italy, Spain, Portugal, Denmark, both Hollands! I can't list them all! But that's not enough!"
"What else?" I asked.
"Each country is also a kind of chessboard," Maria persisted. "On our board, the main players are the Queen Mother's party, Richelieu's party, our Queen Anne's party, Monsieur's party, the princes' party, the Dukes of Lorraine's party, and a few others."
“And the party of the Order of the Friends of Jesus,” I thought.
"Sometimes parties form alliances to destroy a common enemy," Marie continued. "The Queen Mother sometimes supports Monsieur and our party against the Cardinal, but more often than not she takes his side, since he was very handsome in his youth, and there were even some love affairs between them, perhaps quite serious ones. Now a perfect opportunity has arisen to sow discord and mistrust between them forever."
"Really?" I was surprised. "On what basis?"
"The Queen Mother wants to marry her youngest son to her niece, which will naturally strengthen her power. Monsieur himself is in love with Marie de Gonzaga, daughter of the Duke of Nevers; he has even begun to seriously discuss the upcoming marriage with her," Marie continued. "Of course, heirs born to Marie de Gonzaga will have less of a chance of succession to the throne than heirs born to a Medici niece, and if the marriage takes place without the King's permission, there will be no chance at all. But Gaston is in love. Our wonderful Queen Anne is capable of thwarting the Queen Mother's plans for Gaston's marriage to her nephew. We have agreed that our lovebirds can move to the Spanish Netherlands, where they will legally marry."
"But that would be treason!" I exclaimed.
"If the King doesn't forgive his brother, and that will only matter if the King has a male heir in the very near future, as His Majesty's health is a matter of grave concern," Mary countered. "If the King passes away, then Monsieur will be the first claimant to the crown, and no one will dare challenge his marriage. In that case, France's alliance with the Spanish Netherlands, and therefore with Spain—that is, with both Habsburg Empires—will create a new balance of power due to new, strong alliances throughout Europe."
"So, what follows from this?" I asked.
"It follows that the Queen Mother, who is eager to bring France closer to both Empires, is not interested in such an alliance at such a price in this case, but is far more interested in Monsieur marrying her niece, even if it won't further the aforementioned alliances to the same extent!" Marie exclaimed. "Richelieu views these issues from the standpoint of state interests, Queen Anne sees Spain as a state ruled by her brother, and therefore desires a rapprochement with her, the Queen Mother desires Gaston's marriage to another Medici, and Gaston himself desires a marriage to Marie de Gonzaga. Naturally, the matter cannot end to the satisfaction of all parties. The side whose aspirations are unsuccessful will feel slighted and offended. There are many sources of conflict here, levers for dividing and conquering." It may also end up that even if one of the parties achieves that everything goes according to its wishes, it will still lose a friend, partner and ally in the form of the other parties, and therefore ultimately lose.
"What is your current advantage, madam?" I asked.
"The Queen Mother can no longer be our ally who would intercede for Queen Anne, but she may still be quite useful to us as an opponent of Richelieu," Marie replied triumphantly. "We will set Marie de Medici at odds with her son Gaston, set her at odds with Richelieu, and set Gaston at odds with the King and with Richelieu, as a result of which the King will be forced to make peace with Queen Anne and with me, lest he be left alone—that is, almost alone, if you count his beloved Richelieu, whom he has truly hated for a long time, but will not admit it because he needs this cunning politician. Perhaps we will be able to remove him from the board. Fewer pieces, more space!"
"You set them all against each other, let's say, what next?" I asked.
"Then the Queen Mother will go into permanent exile and will never again interfere in the affairs of state," Marie replied. "This will end the Medici's power in France, hopefully forever. And then we will begin working to establish the rule of Queen Anne and those who will side with her in France. If Gaston is obedient, he will join this circle; if not, he too will go into exile. But as long as Richelieu remains in power, we need Gaston."
I looked closely at Marie, who so easily, in her dreams, controlled the fate of two royal figures, one of whom was the crowned Queen and mother of the current King, and the other his brother and sole heir, Monsieur, the official Dauphin! If the King died today, the state would fall into their hands, since no one would consider the childless Queen Anne as they did. And so Marie plots to eliminate these two most important figures in the state, to elevate Anne of Austria and, through her, to elevate herself! Not to mention the Cardinal, Richelieu's first minister! And she sees the redrawing of the borders of European states, the formation and dissolution of alliances between various monarchies, as the instrument of her plans, and her main instrument of action – intrigue! Suggest an idea to one person, ridicule someone's intentions or support someone's plans, help one action to happen and provide at least a slight obstacle to another event, and now things are going the way you wanted, and you become a central figure in power.
"And how does the Pope view all this?" I asked, since back then I had mistakenly linked the Pope's policies and the Order's policies as a single whole.
"The Pope is concerned with strengthening the power of Catholicism, and of course, with strengthening the power of the Holy See," Maria dismissed. "His Holiness already seems to regret Richelieu's promotion to cardinal. I've heard that, to strengthen mutual understanding between France and the Vatican, which is currently almost nonexistent, a representative, a certain Cardinal Giulio Mazarin, will be sent to France."
“What kind of man is this?” I asked.
“I don’t know that yet, but I think we’ll find out very soon,” Maria replied.

Chapter 65

Two weeks after d'Artagnan returned to Paris, I sent him a short letter with the following content.

"My dear friend! I have finally discovered the name of the stranger to whom you owe the loss of your letter of introduction. I will tell you his name when we meet. He, as you know, is not only involved in the two abductions of the lady you mourn, but has also caused us other troubles, at the direction of the person who gave you one open letter in exchange for another. I anticipate that you will wish to speak with him, in which I am prepared to act as a second interlocutor, if one is required. Be at the entrance to the Palais Cardinal at seven o'clock this evening; I believe you will see him. Your friend, Aramis."

I sent this note with Bazin.
An hour later, Bazin returned with the next letter.

"Dear Aramis! I am extremely grateful to you for taking such a lively interest in my affairs. Indeed, a conversation with this gentleman has been too long delayed. Await news. Yours faithfully, Artagnan."

You probably thought I'd misrepresented d'Artagnan's signature, forgotten the aristocratic "d" before his name? You're wrong! That's exactly how our friend signed his letters. If you don't believe me, check the archives; they contain several of his official letters.
D'Artagnan, of course, had not forgotten his intention to fight at all costs with the stranger from Meung, who had stolen his letter of introduction to de Tr;ville. While I carefully, and therefore leisurely, made inquiries of those who should know about this stranger, our Gascon went directly to de Tr;ville to persuade him to reveal the stranger's name, since de Tr;ville had let slip at their first meeting that he guessed who they were talking about. Monsieur de Tr;ville flatly refused to give any information, as he realized it was a duel, and he did not wish to see his officers executed on the Place de Gr;ve for violating the edict prohibiting duels.
D'Artagnan met Count de Rochefort at the place and time I indicated to him.
"Sir, please stop and give me a few minutes!" he exclaimed, seeing that Rochefort was paying no attention to him and intended to go about his business without slowing his pace.
“It’s you, Mr. Gascon nobleman!” exclaimed Rochefort. “What’s your name again? D’Armenthal? D’Argenson? D’Armagnac? Wait a minute, I think I remember! Your name is Dard D’oignon! Mr. Onion Dart!”
"I see you know my name from the letter you stole, and yet you pretend not to remember it!" replied d'Artagnan, his eyes sparkling. "Isn't it time you introduced yourself so I know for whom to order the last rites tomorrow?"
"Oh, Mr. Impudent!" Rochefort exclaimed. "I see you're threatening me? Have you already forgotten how your threats ended in Menge?"
"I'll make you swallow every word you say before you breathe your last!" cried d'Artagnan. "If you intend to escape now without giving your name, you'll get what you deserve!"
With these words, he tore the glove from his left hand with his right hand and hit Rochefort in the face with it, after which he threw the glove at his feet.
"Is that so, Monsieur d'Artagnan?" Rochefort said, lowering his voice to a loud whisper and brimming with anger. "Keep in mind that I am not a weak woman, and I will not allow myself to be slaughtered like a lamb! I am in a hurry now, but tomorrow at six o'clock in the morning I will be at your service in the Tournelle Park. Come with a second."
"Your name?" asked d'Artagnan. "In case you forget to show up, I don't want to rely on luck, which only brings us together when you're in a hurry!"
"Don't worry, I'll be there," Rochefort replied, picking up d'Artagnan's glove from the ground where it had been thrown as a pledge of challenge. "As you see, I've accepted your challenge, and I'll return this glove to your lifeless body. A little advice: don't come to our meeting on a yellow mare."
After these words, Rochefort burst out laughing and, abruptly turning his back on d'Artagnan, resumed his journey in the direction he had been heading. He was confident that the Gascon would neither shoot him in the back nor pursue him with a sword, as he already knew full well of his nobility.
"A name, damn it!?" cried d'Artagnan. "I want to know who I'm about to cross swords with!"
"Count de Rochefort!" the count said haughtily and abruptly and hurried away.

An hour later d'Artagnan was with me.
 "Aramis, I invite you to be my seconds in my duel with Count Rochefort ," he said. "At last I learned his name. I abandoned the idea of inviting Athos, because he is sentimental, and I intend to finish Rochefort this time!"
"You are absolutely right, my dear d'Artagnan, but tell me, for God's sake, do you really intend to kill him tomorrow?" I replied, simultaneously asking my own question.
"What could possibly stop me from doing that?" d'Artagnan asked in surprise.
"Killing him is not enough," I objected. "You could have killed him for stealing your letter of introduction, although, after all, it didn't cause you any trouble, and, besides, thanks to it, you met three magnificent musketeers and entered their circle of friends, didn't you?"
"That doesn't change the dishonesty of his actions," d'Artagnan snapped. "Besides, I need revenge for more than just the letter!"
"Exactly, my dear friend!" I continued. "After all, he deserves not one death, but several, whereas by killing him tomorrow you will punish him only once, which is what you would have done if he had only stolen your letter. But he stole something more from you!"
"You're right, damn it!" d'Artagnan agreed. "But is it really possible to kill a man several times?"
"Of course, you can only kill once, but you can make someone suffer not once, or twice, but many times," I replied. "Look here."
I took a piece of dry soap and began to draw with it on the dark purple waistcoat that I was wearing.
"A thrust into this place, even five inches deep, won't be fatal, but it will be extremely painful ," I said, making crosses and circles. "You can also thrust here, here, and here. Your opponent will spend at least a month, maybe a month and a half, healing from such wounds. He'll be mad with rage at being bedridden and unable to immediately avenge his humiliation. And after he recovers, he'll certainly challenge you to a duel in the hopes of a rematch. The only question is whether you're cool enough to inflict deep wounds in one of those places and make him suffer, instead of immediately expiring from one of those wounds I know you're capable of inflicting on almost any fencer in Paris."
This “almost” seemed to hurt our Gascon quite a bit.
"I will wound this scoundrel where I want, and when I want!" d'Artagnan answered decisively.
"But you've never fought him and don't know his hand!" I objected. "I'd recommend trying, but if you find it too difficult, kill him by any means necessary, even Athos's famous blow to the throat."
“So that he’ll immediately breathe his last?” d’Artagnan objected. “Considering that I’ve been hunting him for months? Considering that he kidnapped Constance twice? Considering that it ultimately led to her death? Don’t try to persuade me, Aramis! I’ll kill him three, four, five times! He’ll suffer, recover, and then be sent back to the hospital bed from the wounds I’ll inflict on him in the same place! Which of the places you mentioned is the most painful?”
“This,” I answered, pointing to one of the crosses on my clothes.
I do not disclose this place to the readers so that they do not use this knowledge to the detriment of their opponent.
“It is decided, I will wound him in this place in three duels in a row, and then in the fourth duel I will kill him ,” said d’Artagnan.
His voice was even and calm. It seemed the thought of Rochefort's torment somewhat alleviated his longing for Constance.

The next morning, Rochefort appeared for a duel with a member of the Cardinal's guard, whose name I've forgotten. I wrote the name down on a scrap of paper before crossing swords with him, but that same evening I gave the piece of paper to the Church of St. Augustine, along with ten pistoles, ordering a funeral service for the servant of God who had borne that name until that day.
D'Artagnan inflicted a deep wound on Rochefort in the very place I had pointed out to him as the most painful.
"Count, we have resolved our differences regarding letters that certain people are in the habit of reading without actually being the ones to whom they are addressed ," he said to Rochefort, who was pressing his hand to his wound. "It will take you at least a month to recover, but I will send you, through my servant Planchet, a marvelous balm for wounds, according to my good mother's recipe, which, applied to your wounds, will help you get back on your feet much faster. I hope that within three weeks we will be able to discuss several other matters still unresolved between us. I am speaking of the kidnappings of Constance Bonacieux, of which there were two, both of which you orchestrated, and also of your abandoning the poor girl in Milady's arms, knowing she would not escape alive."
It seemed to me that d'Artagnan spoke these words with less hatred towards Rochefort than when he exchanged a few words with him before the first duel.
“It is difficult for me to argue with you,” replied Rochefort, “since the wound you have inflicted on me is extremely painful, but we will meet again.”
"I have no doubt!" replied d'Artagnan.
After this, he called Planchet and ordered him to bandage Rochefort and take him wherever he asked. For this purpose, d'Artagnan had prudently ordered Planchet to hire a small carriage beforehand.
We hugged d'Artagnan and parted, since it was unsafe to leave the duel site together.

That same evening I wrote the following letter.

"To the Lord Coadjutor of the Order of the Friends of Jesus, Count Etienne de Lyon.
Your Holiness! As I promised, the life of Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort is not in danger, but he will remain wounded for at least three weeks, as agreed upon between us.
I recall that you require the Count to carry out certain tasks in the interests of the Order, and I believe it will be easier to use him once he has been somewhat tamed by receiving a similar wound one or two more times. After that, I will have a proper conversation with him, and within six months he will be reconciled with my friend and ready to serve our purposes. Knowing the Cardinal's character, who enjoys punishing the victors but is also prone to sentimentality regarding those who suffered in his service, I am convinced that his sympathy for the Count de Rochefort will only grow from pity and compassion, especially if he is convinced that his best spy was wounded three times while carrying out his orders. I remind you of your promise that my friend will not be prosecuted for the duel, which took place at his initiative. I hope that this condition will be fulfilled with particular care, since you will still see that the living d'Artagnan is much better than the dead d'Artagnan, and I, for my part, vouch for this with everything I can vouch for.
Sincerely yours, Abb; d'Herblay, Assistant of the Order of the Friends of Jesus."

The incident with the three duels between d'Artagnan and Rochefort was the only time I managed to trick d'Artagnan. In all other situations, he saw through my tricks perfectly.
I'm not angry with him for this. And may his soul forgive me for this minor manipulation.

Chapter 66

“Come in, assistant,” a voice came from behind the door, and I entered.
The room was quite spacious, with bookcases covering every wall, containing a total of no less than twelve thousand volumes, if they were arranged side by side. A thin little man of about fifty-five sat at a large desk, dressed in a rather elegant, yet simple and unadorned maroon suit. This, I knew, was the Coadjutor of the Jesuit Order, the Reverend Father Etienne de Lyon. On the desk lay several books and an open notebook, covered in tiny handwriting, the language unfamiliar to me. It didn't look like hieroglyphs, but it wasn't a Latin language either. It was the same cipher I now know perfectly, but which I had modified so much that even experts in this cipher couldn't decipher my notes, whereas I read them with the same ease as if the text were written in French. However, then I would not have been able to make out a single word in these notes.
"So, Monsieur d'Herblay, through your efforts, as you claim, the life of Monsieur le Comte de Rochefort was saved, but he is seriously wounded?" asked the coadjutor.
"Exactly, Holy Father," I replied. "The wound isn't so much dangerous as it is painful. Such wounds aren't forgotten; they ache, and the people who receive them suffer, but they don't lose their mobility."
"Couldn't a lighter wound have been enough?" asked the coadjutor.
"Based on your instructions, I saw no other way to resolve this conflict," I replied. "D'Artagnan would never have given up avenging the death of his beloved, nor any other wrongs inflicted on him by the Comte de Rochefort. Only a serious wound inflicted on his adversary could have cooled his ardor, even temporarily. If I had abandoned this plan, then a chance encounter between them, resulting in the Comte's death, could not have been ruled out. If we needed Rochefort, the abscess had to be lanced as quickly as possible and with a result that would satisfy everyone."
"You did not dare sacrifice your friend out of affection ," the coadjutor said, not asking, but affirming. "The Holy Church does not deny such feelings, but you must understand that service to the Order must be above all human attachments, sorrows, grievances, or joys. You have striven to serve the Lord, and therefore any worldly affairs, earthly sorrows and joys, must not distract you from your primary goal—promoting the prosperity of the Holy Catholic Church. You may love, be friends, lead a secular life, but at the right moment, you must obey only us."
“I will remember this, Holy Father,” I answered with humility.
"What, other than friendship, motivated your request that our Order ensure your friend's release from punishment for dueling?" the Coadjutor asked dispassionately.
“Friendly feelings were my main motive…” I began.
"Learn to answer the question posed directly and without beating around the bush," Father Etienne interrupted, without any irritation, but with a certain impatience. "I didn't ask you what the primary feeling was; that's clear to me. Answer the question. What, besides friendship, guided you?"
“A sense of duty and a sense of justice,” I answered.
"Those feelings again ," the coadjutor said with a sigh and a wince. "A servant of the Order must have only one feeling—a feeling of devotion to the Order. You must perceive any order from a superior as a command from Christ himself, and nothing else. Did Abraham remember his father's affection, and did he reflect on a sense of duty and justice when the Lord demanded that he sacrifice his own son Isaac?"
“I admit you are right, Holy Father,” I lied.
"And you agree with my words?" asked the coadjutor, looking me intently in the eyes.
“I perceive your words as a command from Christ himself, so I don’t consider myself entitled to think about whether I agree or disagree,” I replied with a little feigned enthusiasm, realizing that overacting in such a performance is even worse than underacting .
"Even if you lied now, it's better than arguing with me ," the coadjutor said with satisfaction, addressing himself more than me. "If you disagree with me in your heart, but act as the Order demands, that's enough for the Order. Wouldn't you consider it advisable to recruit one of your friends into the Order? That Gascon d'Artagnan? The Count de la F;re? Or perhaps Monsieur du Valon?"
“It’s absolutely impossible ,” I said.
“Nothing is impossible for the Order,” the coadjutor answered calmly.
“My apologies, I meant to say that it’s inappropriate,” I corrected myself.
“Explain yourself,” demanded Father Etienne, looking at me with his sharp, soul-piercing gaze.
“D’Artagnan is too hot-tempered, too passionate, he will not allow anyone to command him except the King and the representatives of his authority, such as, for example, de Treville, de Cond;, de Turenne, de Schomberg and, in a sense, de Richelieu,” I answered.
"In a sense?" What does that mean? the coadjutor asked in surprise. "Explain yourself."
"While unconditionally recognizing the authority of the First Minister of France, as well as the spiritual authority of the Cardinal, d'Artagnan will not submit directly to Monsieur Richelieu unless he is certain that the order comes from the King or is in the spirit of the King's orders. He will go to his death in battle on Richelieu's orders, but will not spy on anyone on his orders."
“You forgot to name one more person whose orders your friend obeys unquestioningly,” the coadjutor said with a smile.
"Are you talking about the Queen?" I asked.
“Yes, now the list is complete,” Father Etienne nodded.
“He will obey the Queen even if he knows that the King would not approve of such obedience, and even if he might be threatened with the Bastille or death for it ,” I said.
"Excellent!" exclaimed the Coadjutor. "We need such people, but not as members of the Order, of course. We can guide their actions slightly when necessary. You did the right thing in ensuring his life."
With these words, Father Etienne wrote a few letters in his notebook. I'm convinced he wrote down d'Artagnan's name, but he did so using symbols that, as it seemed to me at the time, were insufficient to record it without errors or gaps.
Since there was a pause, I continued.
“The Count de La F;re will be equally incapable of blindly obeying the Order, for he obeys only the call of his own heart and his cold mind, in which the main place is given to the concepts of noble honor and the honor of his family ,” I said.
“Well, in fifteen, or perhaps twenty years, we shall have business in England for which such a noble man may be of the utmost use ,” said the coadjutor, making fresh notes in his notebook.
“As for England, I can recommend you Lord Winter, with whom all four of us are quite closely acquainted ,” I said.
"I will remember that too," replied the coadjutor, making more notes. "Wasn't it his daughter-in-law you executed on the banks of the River Lys?"
"You are perfectly well informed, Holy Father," I replied. "Her guilt lies in the fact that..."
"No need, I know," replied the coadjutor, and wrote nothing down this time. "What do you say about Monsieur du Valon?"
"He's a man of exceptional kindness, possessing superhuman strength, who, for the sake of his friends, would repeat all twelve labors of Hercules, not just once, but three times ," I said. "But his mind shouldn't be occupied with the Order's ideas; they're too confusing and unclear for him. With him, things are much simpler. He needs to be turned against the enemy and pointed out to those who must be crushed first, after which the deed will be done."
"It seems you treat him like your personal bodyguard, or even a watchdog?" asked the coadjutor.
"That would be too presumptuous, Holy Father," I objected. "He decides for himself whose side to take, but fortunately for him, he has never faced a difficult choice, since all his friends, all of us, have always fought on the same side."
"That's wonderful, Monsieur d'Herblay, but what do you think he'll do if his friends take sides? Have you ever thought about that?"
“I don’t allow such a situation, Your Holiness,” I answered naively.
"And in vain!" objected the coadjutor. "You yourself told me that your friends are guided by principles that are far removed from the fundamental idea by which you yourself will henceforth be guided, until you receive, perhaps, a blue envelope."
The blue envelope was the name given to a letter that informed a member of the Order that he had been expelled from the society and therefore no longer had any rights or privileges, but he still had the obligation to keep secret everything he had learned during his time in the Order.
“I think that no one can predict the behavior of Monsieur du Valon in such a situation,” I answered after some thought.
"Remember this, Monsieur d'Herblay, once and for all," the Coadjutor said without emotion. "The Order of the Friends of Jesus never predicts anything. The Order manipulates events so that the event that comes to pass, from a multitude of diverse events, the probability of which is approximately equal, corresponds to the interests of the Order—that is, the interests of the General of the Order, who can only be judged by the Pope, and over the Pope there is only the judgment of God. We here on Earth merely assist God in establishing the order that He prescribed for us humans in His sacred books and which He pointed out in His sermons to the holy apostles."
At each mention of the Pope, the Lord and the Apostles, the coadjutor made the sign of the cross over himself with a confident and automatic movement.
“I will remember this, Holy Father ,” I said.
— When joining the ranks of the Order, you must realize that the orders of the Order's superiors are much more important for each member than the orders of representatives of secular authority, no matter how high they stand.
"I understand, Holy Father ," I said. "Does this also extend to the very heights of secular power? Will I be able to disobey the orders of the highest dignitaries?"
"A head that sits high is farther from the people and, perhaps for this very reason, closer to God ," the coadjutor said thoughtfully. "But this does not mean that such a head hears God's voice better. Closeness to the Lord in this case may mean a much closer encounter between this head and the Lord in the afterlife than this head itself assumes."
“I’m afraid I don’t quite understand ,” I said modestly, although I fully understood the coadjutor’s hint.
"I mean the scaffold," Father Etienne snapped. "Kings who act against God's will are not as far from the scaffold as they might think. Just remember Mary Stuart."
“But Mary Stuart was executed by a Protestant Queen, while Mary herself was more of a Catholic,” I was surprised.
"Protestant, Catholic, what's the difference, really?" Father Etienne grumbled. "All people are God's creations; all religions worship the same Lord, perhaps calling Him by different names. It's not at all about which church certain parishioners attend, what prayers they read, or in what language, but whose interests they serve. As for this Stewart... Her head is not the last of her kind, which will rise higher than its owner imagined. God sees all and forgives not everything; He forgets nothing, neither evil nor good. Follow the path of service to God that you have chosen, young man, and you will never regret it. You have already been told, of course, about the degree of obedience that our Order demands of its members. You must be like a corpse. Indeed, a corpse. So bequeathed to us by St. Ignatius of Loyola." Your eyes, your senses, your muscles and sinews—all of this no longer belongs to you. You will be controlled not by your soul, but by the soul of the Order, and you will become an obedient executor of its will, the will of the General of the Order, that is, the will of Christ Himself. Do you understand this?
“Yes, Holy Father ,” I said. “My decision is firm and final, and I hope I never deserve a blue envelope.”
“Well, Monsieur d’Herblay,” Father Etienne concluded. “I am pleased with the conversation. The information you provided also completely satisfies me; it fully corresponds with the information we received from other sources. Therefore, you have been accepted to the first level and can now rightfully call yourself by the name you signed in your first letter. You are no longer a candidate assistant, but an assistant of the Order. When you are needed, you will be found. You will be told what to do. Now, absorb the knowledge you will find in the list of books given to you. You must master it within the next few years. I have been informed that your memory allows you to memorize what you need almost three times faster than everyone else. This is a useful skill.”
The coadjutor nodded, indicating that the visit was over, I bowed, said goodbye and left his office.
Stepping outside, I breathed in the crisp autumn air with pleasure. It was as if I'd escaped a musty hole. But it wasn't the quality of the air in the prelate's office, which was by no means stale or tainted by any disgusting miasmas. The very atmosphere of the office, the coadjutor's stern, imperious, and cold gaze, prevented me from breathing deeply. Freed from the watchful gaze of this imperious man, I felt myself enjoying life, which seemed to have paused in the presence of this Jesuit.
I decided I'd chosen the right path, but I wouldn't surrender myself completely to this Order. I'd remain an unnoticed pawn while the other pieces on this chessboard battled each other, striving to become a queen. I asked myself, what was the price of my future career? I wasn't prepared to renounce my earthly feelings. I wasn't going to be a corpse. But I could easily pretend to be one for the time being.
At that time, I had no idea that my friends would be more precious to me than all my careers, all the Orders in the world, or even all the women in the world. For women cheat, but friends never do. However, of course, I won't give up on women either, and if I have children, I will do everything possible and impossible to give them a brilliant education, wealth, and arrange their lives in the best possible way. Even then, I dimly understood that I had to join this Order and pretend to be a simple functionary, unquestioningly subordinate to all my superiors, to be outwardly an obedient corpse, but to preserve myself for myself and for my friends. I saw this Order as a convenient ladder for ascending to where others clamber as if on a sheer wall, fall, and die. They are free to express their feelings, and for this, they are deprived of a direct path to the top and a solid foothold. I will conceal my feelings and display humility and obedience, which will ensure my safety, confidence, and success. I can step down this ladder at any moment. The blue envelope is not the end of my life. But I will do everything in my power to ensure that this envelope passes me by, or comes to me as late as possible, that is, at least when I have sufficient social standing and sufficient wealth. The Jesuits do not take revenge on their former members unless they have betrayed them. I had no intention of betraying anyone, but a pawn that doesn't aim to be a queen is not fit even for the role of a simple pawn. I believe Father Etienne understood me perfectly; he was well aware that my obedience was not entirely sincere, it was limited in its scope. He saw that I could not give up friendship and did not demand it of me.
"Well," I decided, "life promises to be interesting! Let's see what surprises it has in store for me! At least I won't be able to complain about boredom."

Chapter 67

At this very time, the focus of intrigue was Marie Louise de Gonzaga, daughter of the French Duke Charles de Nevers of the House of Gonzaga (and from 1627, also Duke of Mantua) and Catherine de Mayenne (niece of the Duke of Guise). Since she was related to the Duke of Chevreuse, you can imagine how Chevrette played an active role in her fate.
The idea of becoming related to the King's younger brother became obsessive for Maria. She already had a very warm relationship with him. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that this relationship wasn't just warm, but downright passionate, physical. Maria wouldn't surprise me with any new discoveries regarding the number and variety of those who unwrapped the gifts of supreme passion with her, as is usually done at night and in private, while Chevrette was capable of doing so during the day, and in the presence of witnesses or even assistants.
Marie de Gonzaga was, as they say, ripe for marriage. She was raised by her father's sister, the Dowager Duchess of Longueville, another relative of Chevrette. This aunt could have taught her niece anything! Love and intrigue alike.
Thanks to the assistance of her aunt and Chevrette herself, a brilliant match was looming before the girl! Indeed, Monsieur, aka the Dauphin, Gaston d'Orl;ans, brother of King Louis XIII—what more could one dream of?
I've already said that this marriage was completely unacceptable to the Queen Mother, who had hoped to marry her youngest son to her niece, also a Medici. Had that happened, she would have been the third consecutive Medici queen! Praise be to God that it didn't happen! But the matter between Gaston and Maria Gonzaga was, as they say, a sure thing, since the prospective spouses had already agreed and exchanged vows of mutual love.
The Queen Mother took the most decisive action: she ordered Marie de Gonzaga kidnapped and hidden from Gaston. In this plot, she remained an accomplice to her formerly beloved, now hated, Cardinal. This marriage would also disrupt Richelieu's plans, who feared the bride and groom would flee Paris. Acting in concert, the Cardinal and the Queen Mother arranged for Marie to be kidnapped. Richelieu imprisoned her in the Ch;teau de Vincennes, and then transferred her to a convent.
The cardinal's fears regarding Gaston were fully confirmed. At the end of August 1629, Monsieur, offended by the King's refusal to grant him command of the Italian army (an entirely reasonable decision), and angered by the justifiable reprimands he regularly received from his older brother and the sovereign, who was displeased with Gaston's dissolute and debauched lifestyle, crossed the border and took refuge in Lorraine. The Duke of Lorraine, of course, welcomed Gaston as one of his own and gave him an extremely warm welcome, aware of the significant trump card he had wielded in the game of power. Oh, those Guises!
Lengthy and grueling negotiations began. The flight abroad of the official heir to the throne, the Dauphin, was outright treason! The Cardinal tried to resolve the matter peacefully. And it's true: a bad peace is better than a good quarrel!
Having obtained a host of additional privileges and advantages for himself, Gaston returned four months later and made peace with his brother the King, which is how 1630 began, as I have already noted.
Naturally, he returned extremely angry with Richelieu, mistakenly considering him alone as the cause of all his troubles, without taking into account the contribution of his own mother, Marie de Medici, to these troubles, since in reality the main driving force behind all these events was the Queen Mother.
One of the conditions of the agreement was that Gaston would renounce Marie de Gonzaga, in exchange for being freed from the intolerable tutelage of Cardinal Richelieu. The corresponding agreements were signed, and both documents were handed over to Bellegarde for safekeeping. It was at this point that the King was forced to appoint Richelieu as his first minister, partly as a concession and compensation for the loss of his influence with Monsieur. As a result, Richelieu received a personal guard no smaller in number than the King's own. The Cardinal, now occupying a luxurious palace called the Palais Cardinal, even hosted a reception there for all three of His Majesties—the King, the Queen, and the Queen Mother—where a theatrical performance was given. Among the new authors supported by Richelieu, the young Norman Pierre Corneille first appeared. Richelieu continued to displease everyone, including the King. Some condemned him for fighting the Protestants, others for being too loyal to them in this struggle; some for managing almost all matters of state, others for not being in charge of everything in the state; they hated him both for being more of a warrior than a prelate, and for being a prelate, not a warrior. Some hated him for one thing, others for another, but they all hated him, and all could not get along without him. In this ambivalent and illogical attitude toward Richelieu, the King outdid everyone else. He was the one who most often voiced his displeasure with the cardinal in his absence, and the one who most often praised him in his presence. Louis XIII threatened exceptionally often, in the presence of the Queen Mother, Monsieur, and the Queen, to rid himself of the all-powerful cardinal's tutelage, and never took a single step to diminish his power even by an iota. The King could not do without Richelieu, and this was what irritated him more than anything else.
When Queen Anne suffered another miscarriage, the King remarked that his wife's womb was as dead as a cemetery. This second miscarriage revived the hopes of all who considered themselves close to the throne, most notably Gaston d'Orl;ans. It was not lost on Monsieur that the King's health could fail at any moment. Indeed, the King soon fell ill, so severely that it seemed nothing could save him. He took to his bed, receiving his closest relatives one by one, and begging their forgiveness for any offenses he had unwittingly caused, if any. Among those to whom the King apologized was Queen Anne, but not Marie de Chevreuse, whom he hated, perhaps also because he had been too much in love with her in his youth but had not gotten what he wanted from her . Finally, Richelieu's brother, the Cardinal of Lyon, administered extreme unction to the King and fully prepared him for his meeting with the Lord. The entire court waited in suspense, awaiting the outcome of these tragic events, and it's no secret now that not all of the King's closest relatives would have considered this outcome tragic, and perhaps there was none at all. Even the Queen Mother, I now believe, would easily have been consoled, had her eldest son died, by the thought that her younger and undoubtedly more beloved son would have ascended to the throne in his place.
Madame du Fargy, Tal;mant des R;aux's aunt and Keeper of the Queen's Wardrobe and Jewels, appointed to this position in place of Chevrette, had already sent a courier to Gaston to inquire about his attitude toward the prospect of marrying Anne of Austria, whom she already considered the Dowager Queen. Marie de' Medici was already distributing court positions in her own way; the Keeper of the State Seal, Marillac, was eyeing Richelieu's position, hoping to become Prime Minister in his place; and his brother, the Marshal, volunteered to personally assassinate the cardinal, in order to rid everyone of his person, just as Marshal d'Ancre had been eliminated. However, not all of Richelieu's enemies supported the idea of his physical elimination. After all, he was a cardinal, not just a cleric, but one of its most senior representatives! Bassompierre proposed life imprisonment, and the Duke of Guise, a relative of Chevrette, proposed exiling the cardinal to Rome. Chevrette wisely remained silent, not taking part in the discussion of methods for eliminating the cardinal, which demonstrated her intelligence, experience and foresight, which I cannot but acknowledge.
On the morning of November 30, the ringing of church bells in Paris announced the King's miraculous recovery. One can only imagine the bitter disappointment that simmered in the hearts of those who had based their plans on the new monarch! Richelieu, who had been barred from the sickbed and who didn't know whether the King was still alive or dead, could only guess from the changed attitude he could observe. Just the day before, all the courtiers, upon meeting him, had tried to pretend not to notice him, to quickly abandon him, to leave him in splendid isolation. Now, however, they bowed to him again, inquired about his health, and tried to engage him in conversation even when there was nothing to discuss except the weather and the King's health.
The Queen Mother and Queen Anne went on a pilgrimage to Notre-Dame-de-Gr;ce on ;le Barbe to thank the Virgin Mary for the miraculous recovery of their son and husband. I imagine they had not only prayers of thanksgiving but also sins that would have been useful to atone for during this pilgrimage.
The King was still weak from his illness, softened and kind. He again asked his mother and wife for forgiveness, promising to heed their advice in the future, which he believed he would indeed do. Both Queens resolutely demanded the Cardinal's resignation. Louis advised the Cardinal to reconcile with the Queen Mother. Richelieu complied, feigning repentance, friendship, and obedience.
This sweet, fleeting scene was short-lived, of course. Both knew each other too well to believe their friendship was genuine. However, Richelieu had more pressing matters than confronting the Queen Mother. He immersed himself in foreign policy, throwing himself headlong into resolving relations with Italy. He managed to conclude peace and avoid a clash at Casale, as reported by the then virtually unknown Cardinal Giulio Mazarin.
The Queen Mother held a lavish celebration at the Luxembourg Palace to celebrate peace with Italy, although the real reason for her triumph was the promise to finally be rid of Richelieu, whom she had wrested from the King, from her son who had barely recovered. To dictate terms to a son who had nearly died and was still not fully recovered—how maternal!
Richelieu again noticed that at his approach, the courtiers dispersed from him as if he were a leper. Queen Anne was then surrounded by Madame du Fargy, Madame de Lavaux, and the Duchess de Chevreuse. They were all celebrating their victory over Richelieu.
Madame de Lavaux is the same dwarf Queen Anne received as a gift from her aunt, Isabella Clara Eugenia, ruler of the Netherlands. She received a large willow cage covered with a blanket, which, she was told, contained a magnificent and intelligent parrot that could speak compliments in many foreign languages. Hidden within the cage, the dwarf greeted the Queen in Spanish, Italian, French, English, and Dutch. The Queen, incredulous that a parrot could do such a thing, pulled back the blanket, revealing an extremely small woman beneath. This diminutive woman was accepted into the staff, married the Queen's servant, Monsieur de Lavaux, demonstrated resourcefulness and obedience, and earned the Queen's favor. The fashion for dwarfs that arose at court subsequently led to the appearance of the Preval family at court; both spouses were dwarfs and enjoyed great favor, and completely in vain, as I will tell later, since Mr. Preval played his negative role in the history of the Iron Mask.
After the events described above, came those three fateful days, the last of which remained in the history of France as the “Day of the Fools.”
On the first of these three days, November 10, the Queen Mother, convinced the King would soon dismiss the Cardinal, dropped her fa;ade of affection and declared to Richelieu that she had lost all trust in him and was stripping him of all the positions he held in her household. He ceased to be head of the Queen's Council, superintendent, and chief almoner in her name. The Queen Mother also stripped all of Richelieu's relatives of their positions. Convinced that she had convinced her son to do the same to the Cardinal, she decided to strike him first, expecting similar action from Louis XIII .
The next day, November 11, she locked herself in the Luxembourg Palace with the King, discussing plans to strip Richelieu of all his positions. She described the Cardinal's treachery to the King, hinting that Richelieu had sought special favor with Queen Anne, citing du Fargy's testimony. Richelieu himself, who attempted to infiltrate this meeting, was, of course, refused admission.
There can be no doubt that she herself believed these rumors, which is why the Queen Mother's hatred of Richelieu in this case was intensified not so much by concern for the honor of her daughter-in-law, but by the rage of an abandoned lover.
After waiting for Marie de Medici to come out, Richelieu said to her: “I am sure, Your Majesty, that you were talking about me.”
In response, the Queen Mother defiantly confirmed this and unleashed a furious invective against him. Richelieu knelt before the Queen and, with tears in his eyes, asked for his resignation. The feeling of complete victory did not calm the Queen; she shouted even louder and cursed him with words completely inappropriate for a cleric, a prelate, or a cardinal. Only abandoned women can curse their former lovers or husbands with such language, which is precisely what happened in this case.
Louis XIII , unable to bear such a scene, ordered Richelieu to leave.
Richelieu considered that his game was lost, because the King went to Versailles, while making it clear to the Cardinal that he should under no circumstances join him.
But at that moment, Cardinal de Lavalette approached Richelieu, laid a friendly hand on his shoulder, and said: “Go to the King and don’t leave him alone, this is your chance.”
The Queen Mother's mistake was that, having knocked everything she wanted out of her son, she considered herself the winner and perceived her victory as final and irrevocable, whereas Louis XIII was far from being the kind of person for whom any decision could be final and could not be revised.
While the Queen Mother celebrated her victory, surrounded by Marillac, who fancied himself prime minister, his brother the Marshal, and her other henchmen, Richelieu meekly listened to all the complaints of Louis XIII . The latter, having finished listing the grievances and grievances, decided to soften the impression somewhat and began to recall the great cardinal's merits. To his surprise, he began to understand how petty and insignificant all the grievances were, and how insignificant they were compared to the great merits, which were far more numerous, each of which made the grievances of both Queens and even the personal grievances of the King pale in comparison to such concepts as statesmanship, necessity, and expediency.
Meanwhile, Richelieu began to make requests of the King, not for personal gain, but for how His Majesty should proceed in the future when addressing various state matters. Richelieu made no excuses, but rather gave brief and practical instructions on foreign and domestic state policy, as well as finances, the army, and personnel decisions. The King couldn't help but agree that all this advice was extremely useful, but he also realized that he was incapable of carrying out even a small part of these instructions on his own, let alone remembering them. The King realized that Richelieu's enemies were simultaneously the enemies of France, while the Cardinal's friends were also friends of the state. He realized that the only way he could remain King without cluttering his head with problems he couldn't solve was to keep Richelieu at his side in the very position of First Minister to which he had recently been appointed by the King.
"You are the most devoted and humble servant I can find in the entire world ," the King finally said. "I am extremely grateful to you. Continue to serve me as you have served me before, and I will protect you from any of your enemies' schemes."
Richelieu not only didn't collapse, but rose even higher. That's why November 12th went down in history as the Day of the Fooled. Richelieu's enemies celebrated their victory on the very day of their final defeat. The night before, Marillac had been arrested and demanded to return the state seals. In the morning, the court camarilla learned that Richelieu had spent the night at Versailles and returned from there, accompanying the King. The courtiers hastily left the Luxembourg Palace, now avoiding the Queen Mother as if she were a leper.
That morning, Marshal Marillac's brother was arrested and subsequently beheaded. A wave of persecution and punishment descended upon the conspirators. The Duke of Guise was exiled. Bassompierre faced life imprisonment. Before his arrest, Bassompierre had managed to throw into the fireplace some six thousand love letters he had carefully preserved, most of them written by the Princess de Conti, though not all of them were from her. Bellegarde was also exiled, confident that, as a comrade of Henry III , no disgrace would ever touch him, and that undeserved favors would be showered upon him, as if by a duty passed down from one king to another.
Queen Anne's entourage also suffered its share of disgrace. Madame du Fargy was sent away, as were the de Lavaux couple, who were also separated and condemned to live apart. The Spanish ambassador, Mirabel, and his wife were expelled. From now on, they are only allowed into the Louvre during official ceremonies. Anything Spanish is persecuted. Even ten-year-old Fran;oise Bertaud, the future Madame de Motteville, was expelled from the Louvre for speaking Spanish to the Queen.
At that time it seemed to me that France was lost, that evil and dark forces had won.
But Father Etienne invited me back. The reason for his invitation was my close connection with Marie de Chevreuse, who was of interest to the Order, which was using all its secret resources to most effectively influence the development of political processes in Europe.
This time, the Coadjutor deigned to give me a brief lesson in the Order's politics. I believe he already saw in me not just a blind executor, but perhaps also an organizer, not just a pawn, but also a figure, appreciating in me not so much my obedience as my agile mind and ability to quickly find solutions to various complex situations, such as my idea of allowing d'Artagnan to wound Rochefort but not kill him.

Chapter 68

"The Order does not condemn you, Chevalier d'Herblay, for opposing Cardinal Richelieu's plans ," the Coadjutor said at their next meeting. "You and your friends acted on instinct, inspired by the idea of saving Queen Anne's honor. This is noble and, to a certain extent, even commendable. In fact, you succeeded in saving the Royal Couple's marriage, and the Holy Church, as you understand, stands for the preservation of every marriage contracted before God, and the marriage of the King and Queen even more so."
I nodded but remained silent, as I felt it would be inappropriate to say anything in response.
"Cardinal Richelieu's rapid rise to power is currently to our advantage, but we also need the restraining factor of the Duchess de Chevreuse, who, as you understand, is actively recruiting the Queen, Monsieur, princes, and dukes into her circle," Father Etienne de Lyon continued. "To control political events, we need various levers, pulling in opposite directions. We can support the side whose actions are aimed at the outcome we most desire. Those we assist will not feel our support; they will attribute it to luck or providence. No one will consider our opposition to be the deliberate action of any force, dismissing their failures as simple misfortune. Politicians think that Fortune is fickle, sometimes turning her face toward them, but turning away from them, whereas Fortune's true name is the Order of the Friends of Jesus." Yes, we take on the role of this pagan goddess for those who, as they mistakenly believe, are vested with political power. They think they make policy and govern the country. Let them continue to think so.
I listened attentively, without interrupting or interjecting, since the holy father had not yet asked me anything.
"The Cardinal was an ardent supporter of the Pope during the two years he waited to receive his cardinal's cap," the coadjutor continued. "As soon as he got what he wanted, he imagined himself independent of the Holy See and began to oppose the unification of the Catholic world. Well, for France, perhaps, this is expedient, but for Europe—not entirely. But we are examining all the possible consequences of the strengthening of certain states, and at the present time we believe that the strengthening of the two Habsburg Empires is premature, and perhaps the time when this would be desirable will never come. We currently adhere to the view that the lack of coordination and certain contradictions among the various European countries will create the best conditions for ensuring the Holy See's control over them in the sphere of Catholicism, in the realm of the spiritual victory of the cause of Christ. We, as you probably know, already even have our own states in the New World and many other places. Europe, for our part, will serve as a kid glove for our iron fist." The appearance, visibility, and gentleness will be ensured by the diverse actions of the governments of various countries, while the unity of the idea of accepting Christ will be ensured by our discreet leadership. We should also pay close attention to the Ottoman Empire and the countries of Africa. This is where the efforts of our preachers should be directed, in order to gain spiritual authority over these lands as well. However, this great undertaking will not be accomplished quickly. It was much easier for us to establish Christianity in the New World, since the primitive paganism encountered by our conquistadors there was easier to transform and adapt to the idea of Christianity than the religion that had become entrenched in Muslim countries, capable of resisting our apostles of faith for a very long time and successfully. We have a lot of work to do with these countries. First, we need to establish friendly relations with them. We can even use the Ottoman Empire to rein in those Christian countries that stray from the right line, that deviate from the Papacy to such an extent that intervention, not moral or educational, but political or even military, is required. For such subtle influences, we need the ability to influence both sides. Your Duchess will be needed to restrain Cardinal Richelieu, and your Comte de Rochefort will be invaluable in restraining the Duchess and Queen Anne herself. Today, I entrust you with nothing other than to be careful in your relations with the Duchess and to remember all ideas and requests that come from her. I emphasize that I do not demand information from you; you will not betray your friendship or love, but you yourself must take into account all the information that comes to you in order to act most effectively to fulfill my instructions, or the instructions of the person who will convey the Order's orders to you in my stead. We don't break the morals of our Order's members. We attract them to us. And we always and in everything help them. You've probably already heard the founder's main principle?
“Become all things to all men, that you may gain all men,” I said humbly.
"Absolutely correct!" Father Etienne agreed. "I see you haven't wasted your time and have thoroughly studied the books assigned to you."
“I can recite from memory any passage from the main book that…” I began.
"Very well, very well, I believe you," Father Etienne replied. "Later. For now, I entrust you with the preservation of the life and liberty of the Duchess de Chevreuse. I hope such a task does not conflict with your convictions and personal preferences. I don't ask, because I know the answer."
I smiled and nodded.
“I do not require you to report to us the dangers that may arise for her as a result of her overly adventurous undertakings,” the Coadjutor continued. “You yourself will decide how dangerous her ideas are for her personally. If you see that you need to intervene, correct her actions, or restrain her from taking action, do so as you see fit. If you require our help, you will receive it. But if you fail to cope with the task assigned to you , if the Duchess de Chevreuse dies, even if it is not the slightest fault of yours, you will be expelled from the Order. You must also ensure the life and freedom of the Comte de Rochefort. This is your task for the coming years, as long as Cardinal Richelieu lives. Other assignments may come, but this assignment will not be revoked, I repeat, as long as Richelieu lives. It is for approximately twelve years. That is all. Go.”
I bowed and left. This conversation took place in 1630. How could Father Etienne have known that Cardinal Richelieu had exactly twelve years to live?

So, the Queen Mother went into exile in the Spanish Netherlands. There, she met the previously exiled Madame du Fargy and other disgraced oppositionists, forming a foreign circle with them to combat her own son. Monsieur, the King's brother, fled France again. He first went to Lorraine, that is, to its capital, Nancy, to see Charles IV of Lorraine, a close friend and relative of Marie de Chevreuse, then to Brussels. He made several trips from Nancy to Brussels and back, seeking the support of all potential allies. He was prepared to achieve the throne with the support of his neighbors, whose loyalty he secured with promises of territorial concessions. Acquiring or strengthening power in one's own country through territorial concessions to neighbors should, of course, be strongly condemned, for in such a case, after a few such adventures, nothing would remain of France. But when have such considerations ever stopped adventurers from trying to seize what does not belong to them at the cost of giving up part of what they lay claim to?
This foreign circle of oppositionists found ardent sympathy in both Marie de Chevreuse and Queen Anne herself. This brought them even closer together, and because Marie knew all the weaknesses of her royal friend, she continued to exert a powerful influence on her.
The Queen and the circle of exiles maintained the closest epistolary contacts. Chevrette organized the mail forwarding, creating a whole staff of secret assistants for this purpose, including myself. But all our secrecy, as well as the clumsy, primitive allegories in the letters, did not prevent Richelieu from being aware of this voluminous correspondence. I believe that some of the letters, copied, reached Richelieu's desk from Chevrette herself, thus buying herself guarantees of life and the inviolability of her rights and property in the event of the failure of yet another conspiracy. It all resembled a feverish game of forfeits in the company of close friends, relatives, and former lovers. Indeed, the King himself was once in love with Chevrette, and, it seems, deeply so, and the Cardinal was not spared this cup, and I suppose he managed to sip his due share of reciprocity from this inexhaustible vessel of lust. The Queen was also Chevrette's friend in many ways, which modesty prevents me from elaborating. I would not be mistaken if I included Gaston d'Orl;ans in this list, as well as the Prince de Marsillac, later known as Fran;ois VI , Duke of La Rochefoucauld, who appeared at court at that time and who, by the way, was quite a good writer. I recall that his literary debut was a self-portrait, which he wrote in words and was distributed in a collection compiled in the salon of Mademoiselle de Montpensier. This La Rochefoucauld crossed my path more than once, first by ingratiating himself with the Duchess de Chevreuse, then by forming some sort of liaison with the Duchess de Longueville, and finally by flirting with Madame de Lafayette. I regret not having challenged him to a duel and killed him. I know he wanted the same for me. Once, he even lay in wait for me with his armed servants, intending to catch and kill me like some thief, but fortunately, this happened when d'Artagnan and his Planchet were searching for me, intending to draw me into an adventure Mazarin had proposed. Grimaud recounted this episode in his second book. La Rochefoucauld's mercenaries and servants had taken the wrong scent, mistaking d'Artagnan for me. By the time they realized their mistake, I had already taken steps to hide from them and later join my friend. The conspirators, realizing their mistake, abandoned d'Artagnan and went their separate ways. I was grateful to my friend for my miraculous escape from the clique of murderers, but, of course, I could not accept his offer to become a Mazarinist. However, all this happened much later, nineteen years later, and in the meantime, the future La Rochefoucauld, under the name of Marsillac, irritated me with his persistent courtship of Marie de Chevreuse, which he later described in his memoirs as a simple but tender friendship.
Since I'm listing Marie's lovers, I should also include Charles de L'Aub;pine, Marquis de Ch;teauneuf, Keeper of the State Seal. This man was more than twenty years older than Marie and me; he held the post of Keeper of the Seal from 1630 to 1633, effectively serving as Minister of Justice. He began his career at court as a page in the retinue of the Constable de Montmorency and also served under Henry IV.
In 1609, Henry IV appointed him his ambassador extraordinary to Holland and Brussels. As Chancellor of the King's Orders, in 1620 he served as ambassador to Germany along with the Duke of Angoul;me and the Count of B;thune, then to Venice. In 1626, King Louis XIII entrusted him with an extraordinary embassy to the Valtelline to secure ratification of the Treaty of Monson by the League of Grisons and the Swiss corps. Ch;teauneuf achieved only a very partial agreement with the Swiss cantons. The King of France then rushed to Venice to assist Etienne Aligre in the Seigneury of the Venetian Republic and to vindicate the treaty signed with the Spaniards. In 1629–30, he again became Ambassador Extraordinary to London, before becoming Keeper of the Seals from November 14, 1630, to February 25, 1633, when he was imprisoned for ten years for his connections with Marie de' Medici and for unscrupulous political dealings. I am writing about it in such detail so as to put it out of my mind and not return to it, although, in fact, that will not be possible, since I intend to describe two conspiracies—the Chevreuse conspiracy of 1633 and the "Major" conspiracy of 1643. Ch;teauneuf participated in both, was exposed in both, and was punished for both.
He should learn from Gondi's coadjutor, Monsieur Retz, who ultimately achieved a cardinal's hat through his efforts. This man reminds me of myself, both in appearance and in the agility of his mind, his successful intrigues, and perhaps even his attitude toward beautiful ladies. I have been angry with the coadjutor many times, and on two or more occasions I was ready to challenge him to a duel and kill him, but it was always over the ladies, and such outbursts of anger are easily forgotten, leaving no lasting hatred in the soul. I remembered him because of his famous phrase about how one should plan one's actions so that even in the event of defeat they bring more benefit than harm. This refers, of course, to Gondi's own benefit. In this, he was unrivaled! I believe that if it weren't for him, there would have been no Fronde in France. But then again, if it weren't for him, it wouldn't have been reconciled and subsequently suppressed. He aroused this popular fury against Mazarin and, to some extent, against the Queen, and he helped pacify it. I wouldn't want him as an enemy, just as I wouldn't want him as a friend. He was sometimes an ally, sometimes an adversary, but never as seriously as it might seem. He lived playfully, and achieved his goals playfully, and he didn't care that hundreds and thousands of commoners laid down their lives for his games, believing they were fighting for their freedom and independence. In reality, they were merely pulling chestnuts out of the fire for him, burning their own fingers, and feeling reverent gratitude to him for it. However, I will tell you about Coadjutor Gondi, the future Cardinal de Retz, later. I will return to 1632.
So, Ch;teauneuf, another admirer of Marie de Chevreuse. In early 1632, Marie drew him into her intrigues. Yet just two years earlier, as English ambassador, he had spoken very poorly of her. But he came, he saw, he lost. Forgetting his venerable age of fifty-two, he fawned over her like a boy. And, of course, he facilitated the correspondence between Queen Anne's circle and that of the Queen Mother and Monsieur in exile.
The entire correspondence was known to Cardinal Richelieu, who convinced the King that it was aimed not only at overthrowing the cardinal himself, but also at overthrowing the King. Madame du Fargy's explicit proposals that Queen Anne, left a widow, marry Gaston were proof of this assertion and incriminating evidence against Queen Anne.
Marshal Marillac, as you recall, was beheaded on May 10, 1632. The King demonstrated to everyone the price that even the highest-ranking statesman could pay for treason, which should have served as a warning to all, but apparently this warning was not enough. Duke Henri II de Montmorency, godson of King Henri IV, the admiral who cleared the Isle of R; and Ol;ron of Huguenots, who received the title of Marshal of France for his victories over Henri de Rohan's Huguenots in Languedoc, where he succeeded his father as governor with very broad powers, the commander who in 1629-1630 successfully operated against the Savoyards in Piedmont, captured Commander Doria, and took Saluzzo (once promised by the King to his father), foolishly joined Gaston d'Orl;ans's rebellion against Richelieu. This proved his undoing. More precisely, his wife's influence was his undoing—he was neither the first nor the last . Indeed, it was under the influence of his wife, an Italian from the Orsini family, who was also a cousin of Queen Marie de' Medici, that he joined the rebels and granted the rebellious Gaston refuge in Languedoc. True, Bishop Albi Alphonse II d'Elben also contributed to this decision, but would he have been able to persuade the marshal to betray the King without his wife? Thus, the unfortunate Montmorency was defeated in September of that same year by Marshal Schomberg, loyal to the King , near Castelnaudary in a mere half hour. Montmorency himself, seriously wounded, was captured by the royal troops. The Parliament of Toulouse found him guilty of treason and sentenced him to death. It's worth noting that Montmorency's sister was the wife of Henri II de Bourbon, Prince of Cond;, who from 1589, after the extinction of the Valois dynasty and the accession of Henri IV to the throne, until the birth of the King's eldest son in 1601, was the first prince of the blood and heir presumptive to the crown. So Montmorency himself stood quite high, and the loss of such a head was no small matter.
Richelieu explained to the King that, in the event of victory, Montmorency intended to create an independent principality on the Italian-French border. And the division of France was what Richelieu fought most resolutely against. Richelieu supported his explanations with copies of intercepted letters. The sentence was carried out in Toulouse; all of Montmorency's titles and estates were confiscated, although they were later claimed by his sister's husband, the Prince of Cond;.
The execution of Marshal of France Montmorency marked the complete victory of Richelieu, the primacy of the King's power over all other authorities in France.
This finally made even Queen Anne tremble before the King and Richelieu, and tempered the ardor of Gaston and the Queen Mother. They were made to understand how serious the consequences of such conspiracies could be, even for them personally.
Richelieu also learned that the Marshal wore a bracelet with a medallion containing a portrait of Queen Anne. This cast an additional shadow on the Queen. She was forced to defend herself with vows and tears, insisting that she had never had any intrigue in Montmorency. She even more fervently insisted that she had never even considered marrying Gaston d'Orl;ans. She was forced to admit that she found him repulsive. One only had to compare the handsome Gaston with the other courtiers to understand that "repulsive" was not the word for him. Why would he be "repulsive" to her? However, this explanation satisfied the King, since he himself apparently considered his younger brother precisely "repulsive."
In deciding to execute the Marshal, Richelieu didn't even consider the fact that during the King's illness, when the Cardinal's fate hung in the balance, Montmorency was one of the few who offered him aid and support. Incidentally, Ch;teauneuf also put his stamp on the sentence, saving his own skin, thereby "rewarding" the son of his former boss, since, as I recall, he began his career as a page in the retinue of Constable Montmorency, the father of the executed Marshal.
So, Marshal of France Montmorency was executed, thus putting an end to this illustrious dynasty, whose peak of influence was during the reign of Henry II . This cruelty toward such a distinguished nobleman was, of course, blamed on Cardinal Richelieu, prompting Marie de Chevreuse and Queen Anne to hatch a new conspiracy. They didn't abandon the idea of removing Richelieu; they simply decided to proceed more cautiously from now on. Holy simplicity! Each of them hoped for personal salvation, no matter the outcome, through small informational favors to the all-powerful cardinal, so any plot they hatched was doomed from the start, since under these circumstances it would have been impossible to hide anything from him.
Marie assembled a new circle of conspirators from all those who had been part of the previous circles and who had survived without losing their freedom, adding the Marquis de Ch;teauneuf. Count Hollande, the Chevalier de Jars, Montagu, and many others were involved. The Keeper of the Seals, the Marquis de Ch;teauneuf, was seduced by the prospect of amorous conquests over Marie de Chevreuse and also had very serious ambitions within the new power structure. He believed that by removing Richelieu, he would become the first minister of France.
Richelieu, at forty-seven years of age, was a broken old man, owing to his poor health, which fueled the ambitions of young and zealous nobles, in addition to the poor health of the King and the absence of his son, as a result of which the rebellious Gaston d'Orl;ans was listed as the Dauphin, the official heir to the throne.
Meanwhile, Richelieu tried to influence Marie de Chevreuse not only with threats but also with love letters, of which she had accumulated about fifty. Chevrette forwarded all of these letters to Ch;teauneuf with a note stating that the First Minister, as was clear, was seeking her love, but that this was not the kind of First Minister she wished to yield to. The hint was clear. Chevrette promised Ch;teauneuf the position of First Minister, and with it, herself. The rapprochement between Ch;teauneuf and Chevreuse was no secret to Richelieu, who had spies everywhere. It's possible that Marie herself attempted to blackmail the Cardinal, or perhaps confided in him part of her plans, expecting reciprocal favors should the whole scheme fail.
I continued to act as Chevrette's close confidant, occasionally passing her notes, trying to conceal my identity even from those whose loyalty, as Maria assured me, I could be sure of. I understood that God protects those who protect themselves, and I tried to keep as much of the shadows as possible and distance myself from all these intrigues. At the same time, I truly did protect Maria from any reckless moves, as much as I could, for she was a woman with a mind of her own, practically uncontrollable.
At this very moment, the cardinal fell gravely ill. The conspirators rejoiced that nature itself would complete the work they had begun. D';pernon, who was visiting the cardinal at the time, abandoned the idea of killing or arresting him, as he found him in such a deplorable state. He believed Richelieu would die any day now. However, a local physician operated on the cardinal, and Richelieu soon recovered, to the profound disappointment of all the conspirators.
The Queen, meanwhile, toured several cities, which was anything but a pleasure trip. She wanted to make sure that the leaders and citizens of these cities loved and supported her more than the Cardinal, and perhaps even more than the King. If she didn't receive such evidence, she hoped to change the situation through her personal charm. In several cities, she succeeded, a fact that immediately became known to Richelieu and, consequently, to the King.
As a result, on February 25, 1633, Ch;teauneuf was arrested and imprisoned in the Angoul;me fortress for ten years. Chevalier de Jars was sentenced to death, but as he stood blindfolded on the scaffold, he was told his execution had been commuted to imprisonment in the Bastille. The Duchess de Chevreuse was once again exiled to her estate in Dampierre; Queen Anne, of course, was once again scolded and pardoned. Marie, disguised as a man, managed to meet the Queen at the Val-de-Gr;ce monastery, after which she was exiled to one of her estates in Touraine. To d'Artagnan's chagrin, Marie also took Kitty with her, as she had not only become accustomed to using her as a maid but had also drawn her into her intrigues. During her last meeting with the Queen, which the King had permitted, Chevrette agreed on the means and means of their correspondence. I was one link in this correspondence. The other was Mademoiselle Marie de Hautefort.
This Marie de Hautefort was the second tender love of King Louis XIII , the first, if you remember, was Marie de Chevreuse when she was the Duchess of Luynes.
But the King's love brought her nothing but his respect and, perhaps, the fawning of his courtiers, whose delicate noses were quick to detect the direction of royal favor. Louis XIII , unlike Henry IV , knew only how to idolize the ladies he adored and sigh for them, never going beyond a tender handshake or a paternal kiss on the forehead. Such love was not what Mademoiselle de Hautefort had the right to expect. Having fallen in love with the fourteen-year-old Marie de Hautefort, Louis XIII merely wanted to see her as often as possible and admire her beauty and innocence. He forced Queen Anne to accept her grandmother as Keeper of the Wardrobe and Jewels, replacing the escaped, rebellious Madame du Fargy, who had been sentenced to death in absentia. Marie de Hautefort herself became a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, making her presence at court inevitable. Tired of the King's sighs, Mademoiselle de Hautefort decided to try her luck at befriending the Queen. A key role in attracting Marie de Hautefort was played by the Prince de Marsillac, who had appeared at court at that time—the same Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld I've already written about. He simply courted her, as he had Marie de Chevreuse. This didn't shock anyone at the time. However, who needs to say it? After all, I was quite friendly not only with Marie de Chevreuse, but also with Camille de Bois-Tracy. This La Rochefoucauld was a bird of my feather. It’s no wonder that at one time we intended to kill each other!

Chapter 69

At the very moment when I was thinking about how to arrange a certain matter and regretted that Porthos was in his estate of Valon, two very familiar knocks of incredible force were heard at the door, after which the one who knocked on them, without waiting for an answer, opened them and entered to me.
"Porthos!" I cried, hugging him and carefully preventing him from returning the hug, which could have broken my ribs. "I'm damn glad, especially since I was just thinking about you!"
"That is most gratifying to hear, my dear Aramis!" replied Porthos. "And if it is true, and not merely a figure of speech, then it is doubly gratifying to hear!"
“Believe me, Porthos, it’s true, but I confess that I thought of you, regretting that I wouldn’t be able to get your help at the very moment when I really need it,” I admitted honestly.
It's hard to be cunning with a man as sincere as Porthos, though sometimes it's necessary. But speaking frankly with him is a sheer pleasure.
"Then I'm three times as glad to see you again, and if we're talking about a duel, then four times as glad!" exclaimed Porthos. "It's been a while since I've drawn my sword, and I confess, when I dropped in to see you, I thought perhaps we could rekindle the old ways?"
"Providence itself has sent you to me, since we are indeed talking about a duel ," I said. "But this is an extremely delicate matter."
"I don't like that word," Porthos replied, sitting down with a flourish on the sturdiest chair in my house, the only one that could withstand such treatment, and we both knew it. "Delicacy isn't my thing, you know that! Where anyone else could pass between two chairs without touching them, I'd knock over both, taking the table with me!"
“The delicacy of this matter is that I need to kill two people who know about it, so they will avoid meeting me, and if our paths do cross, they will behave extremely politely, so a challenge to a duel will be very difficult,” I explained.
"I understand," said Porthos, scooping up a handful of nuts and candied fruit with his enormous hand and popping a mouthful that would have taken me three weeks to devour, drop by drop. "You, like our dear Athos, will never take the easy way out, as d'Artagnan and I do. You need to exchange a few words before you draw your sword. We, however, prefer to draw our sword first, and then, believe me, any words always lead to the same result."
"What can I do? You know I'm half a priest, and every time after a successful duel—and I've never had any others—I order a mass for the repose of my adversary, or a prayer for his recovery, and then I go to the confessional," I replied. "To speak to the confessor, I absolutely must convey to the confessor those very words of insult that, as a nobleman, I simply couldn't bear. Otherwise, the confessor—you know how steeped in prejudice they all are—will never grant me absolution."
"I confess I'm not as familiar with confessors as you are, Aramis. The last time I went to confession... Let me think... I remember, never!" Porthos replied, bursting into laughter. "Just kidding, I occasionally attend this dreary event, but I do so reluctantly, and try to forget about it as quickly as possible. It reminds me of my childhood, when my kind mother scolded me too often for breaking the arms and legs of the boys I had to fight. It's a pity she wasn't like Monsieur de Treville, who only praised me for my strength! All those admonitions about measuring my strength against the strength of my opponent's bones simply drove me to despair. What kind of fight is it if you can't have a blast?"
“You are absolutely right, dear Porthos, and I will give you this opportunity if we can figure out together how to do it as delicately as possible ,” I said.
"There you go again!" Porthos grumbled, picking up the vase of nuts and candied fruit and emptying the remaining contents into his mouth. "Tell me, in order, everything you have the right to tell me, and don't say anything you don't have the right to tell me."
"It's very simple," I began. "We must eliminate two of Richelieu's cipher clerks, since they intend to decipher several letters intercepted by his spies, among whose senders and recipients is the person whom, as you know, our friend d'Artagnan has already saved from an imminent scandal, and you and I were also initially involved in this trip."
"This is a worthy cause!" exclaimed Porthos. "If I were you, I wouldn't stand on ceremony. If I were a confessor, I'd absolve you of this sin in advance, even before you commit it!"
"I'm afraid the Lord won't approve of the confessor himself in this case," I smiled. "These people, with the Cardinal's help, have been assigned to a certain church as librarians, so they are, in a sense, servants of God."
"Pah!" Porthos said contemptuously. "Fighting monks! It's like catching a scrawny boy and breaking his legs! No pleasure, only disgust and self-loathing! After all, they've probably never even held a sword before?"
"Don't worry about that," I replied. "They're both former cardinal's guards, battle-tested, with strong, powerful arms and such skill in this matter that we won't have to blush for crossing swords with them."
"That's good!" Porthos said approvingly, looking longingly at the empty nut vase.
"Listen, Porthos, I think I've thought of something ," I said. "You arrived on horseback, I suppose?"
“Of course!” replied Porthos, pointing to his boots with gilded spurs.
"Excellent! We'll head to a suburban inn, where our cipher clerks are sure to stop, as they're currently en route to Paris, returning from a secret trip ," I said. "We'll have to wait two hours or so for them, but that's for the best. We'll have time to make all the necessary preparations."

On the way I outlined my plan to Porthos, which he liked.
The "Little Mermaid" inn was truly the only place on this route where travelers could grab a quick bite while their horses were watered, fed, and groomed. It wasn't too far from Paris, but the smells from the kitchen were so enticing that we had no doubt the travelers we were expecting would want to rest and refresh themselves there before the final leg. Only a few people were dining there, but that didn't bother us for now; we headed straight to the innkeeper.
"I'm renting your entire inn for four hours, starting next hour ," I said to the innkeeper. "There's to be no one else in the premises except those I choose to invite."
"But these people haven't finished their dinner yet," the innkeeper objected, but at the sight of the hefty purse he realized my offer was extremely advantageous for him. "I'll sort it all out! In an hour, my entire inn will be at your disposal."
"And one more thing ," I said. "I need the sturdiest chair in your establishment." "I'm buying it from you."
"Will this chair suit you?" asked the innkeeper, bringing out a sturdy oak chair.
"Excellent!" I replied, having tested its strength. "Shorten its legs by ten inches."
The owner, who had been paid enough, did not argue and fulfilled my demand.
An hour later, the dining room of the Rusalochka Tavern was transformed. All the tables were pushed together and covered with a single tablecloth, upon which adorned the most delicious dishes, an abundance of food enough to feed ten people.
Bazin and two other assistants hired by the inn were stationed on the road leading to the inn. They stopped all travelers and informed them that the Little Mermaid Inn was currently closed and advised them to go to the nearest inn along their route. If the travelers were heading to Paris, they recommended the Fat Shepherd Inn; if they were traveling from Paris, they directed them to the Cock and Hen. I described to Bazin the travelers to whom he should not give this warning.
Porthos had been sitting on a shortened chair before the laid table the entire time, and, as per my instructions, had made only a slight mess, emptying a couple of bottles of wine and cutting off only two legs from the roasted pig. Everything was to look as if Porthos's feast had only just begun and was in full swing.
As soon as I saw two horsemen approaching in the distance, similar to those we were waiting for, I knocked three times on the window of the tavern to warn Porthos, and I myself disappeared around the corner and went to the slightly open window of the tavern to listen to everything that was happening inside.
The riders dismounted and, unable to find anyone to hand over the reins to, tied their horses to the hitching post, which apparently caused them some displeasure. This was part of my plan.
"Master!" exclaimed Chief Cryptographer du Perrage, whose voice I immediately recognized. "Bring us a good supper and some fine wine! We're damn hungry from the journey! And take care of our horses, damn you!"
Porthos, delighted that he could finally begin a serious meal, immediately stuffed his mouth, biting off a good portion from the side of the pig, which, fortunately for Porthos, was not yet cold.
Since the owner did not appear and did not answer, as had been planned and paid for by us, the second companion, de Gravue, a little younger and much more impatient, also began to call the innkeeper.
"Hey, master, damn you! Is there anyone here or is there no one?!" he exclaimed, not paying the slightest attention to Porthos, who, thanks to the sawn-off legs of his chair, looked like a short, fat man.
His resemblance to an ordinary bourgeois caught by hunger on the road was lent by certain changes in his appearance, which I persuaded him to make for the benefit of our cause. I tousled his beard and mustache, instructed him to drape a shapeless doublet lightly over his clothes, concealing his muscular shoulders and arms. Furthermore, he sat, as I had instructed him, with his elbows tucked into his sides, making his arms appear shorter than they were. It looked as if a plump bourgeois had decided to enjoy a private meal.
Porthos, as I had taught him, mumbled something inarticulate, continuing to devour the piglet, generously pouring horseradish over it and washing it down with wine.
"My dear fellow!" du Perrage addressed Porthos in a condescending tone. "Could you tell us where the master has disappeared to? We're damn hungry!"
“Eof fwafwif ne vfayofva,” answered Porthos, without stopping chewing.
"What, what?" both guests asked at once.
Porthos raised his right hand, palm forward, as if calling on the guests to wait a little, after which he chewed and repeated his phrase.
“This inn is not for rent ,” he said, trying on a pheasant leg.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed du Perrage. "For what reason could a host refuse dinner to his guests?"
“Because the entire tavern has already been booked for an extremely important meeting between two very important people,” Porthos answered with importance.
"Forgive me, please, we didn't know," du Perrage replied politely, holding back de Gravue with a gesture and hand. "Could you at least tell us the names of those two important people who are to blame for our lack of dinner? Perhaps they'll share some with us, for a fee, of course! After all, as we can see, there's enough food here for ten!"
“You don’t need to know the name of the first person, since you see her in front of you ,” said Porthos, poking himself in the chest with a pheasant leg.
"Let's say," du Perrage replied, hiding an ironic smile. "I hope the second person is no less important than the first?"
"Exactly," replied Porthos. "This person is no less important at today's meeting than the first, and the meeting would be a waste of time if not for her."
"You won't tell us the name of this person?" du Perrage insisted.
“I would have told you if I knew,” answered Porthos.
— How can you say that you will have an important meeting between two people if you don’t even know the name of the person you are going to meet?
"Why the hell do I need his name?" Porthos asked in surprise. "I'm already making this appointment, and I don't need to know his name."
"But, excuse me, there's no one here!" du Perrage continued his interrogation, already losing patience, but his curiosity demanded he complete the interrogation.
"This person ," said Porthos, pointing with a pheasant leg, of which almost nothing remained, to the piglet lying on the platter before him. "I intend to bring this meeting to its logical conclusion, that is, until this person has nothing left to offer me."
"So you intend to communicate with this person alone?" asked de Gravue, his mouth already watering at the sight of the crispy skin of the piglet, the smell of which pleasantly irritated his nostrils.
"Why alone?" Porthos asked, surprised. "Almonds, truffles, asparagus, gherkins, tomatoes, and potatoes will also be participating in this meeting, and the Bordeaux family will preside over the meeting."
With these words, Porthos pointed to half a dozen bottles of Bordeaux to his right.
"Will you allow us to join in this delightful conversation with such pleasant gentlemen?" asked du Perrage with a smile, hoping to join in the meal by playing along with the joke of the fat little bourgeois he had seen in Porthos.
"I would be delighted, gentlemen," Porthos sighed. "But the terms of the rendezvous are agreed upon in advance and cannot be adjusted. You'll have to find another inn."
"Well, look here, you idiot!" du Perrage fumed. "Either you share your food with us, or I'll make you swallow this piglet whole and then I'll gut you!"
"It seems your gall is running high," Porthos said innocently, continuing his meal. "I wouldn't advise you to get so angry, venerable traveler. With a gallbladder like that, fatty foods are contraindicated for you."
With these words, Porthos popped the second pheasant leg into his mouth, sent a goblet of Bordeaux after it, and returned to the piglet.
"Monsieur du Perrage, allow me to teach this scoundrel a lesson!" exclaimed de Gravue.
"I'll do it myself!" du Perrage retorted. "Listen, fatso! Either you'll show due respect to the two noblemen who've decided to dine in this tavern, or…"
"Or what?" Porthos asked, emptying another goblet.
"Or I'll make a sieve out of you!" exclaimed du Perrage, grabbing the hilt of his sword.
"I've heard something like this before, and more than once," Porthos replied calmly, spearing two truffles with his fork and popping them into his mouth. "And you seem to be very hot-tempered!"
"You scoundrel!" exclaimed du Perrage. "I'll make an escalope out of you!"
De Perrage tried to strike Porthos, but he instantly grabbed the attacker's right hand with his left hand and squeezed it with such force that the attacker cried out.
"I take it you want to fight ," Porthos said with undisguised pleasure. "I don't mind if it happens right now, but not in the tavern, of course."
After these words, he rose from his low chair and threw off his ugly doublet. Beneath it, the newcomers discovered the semi-military attire of a nobleman. Du Perrage and de Gravue were horrified to see Porthos's enormous figure, a head taller than each of them and half as broad in the shoulders.
“You…” was all du Perrage said. “You are a nobleman?”
"Why do you doubt it?" asked Porthos. "My second will be here any minute."
"Damn it, we've been outsmarted, it's a trap!" du Perrage exclaimed angrily.
“If you apologize to me and to the person with whom I had a rendezvous, I am ready to forgive you ,” said Porthos magnanimously, pointing his hand at Piglet.
"Apologize to a piglet?" du Perrage exclaimed in horror.
“You interfered with our rendezvous and refused to leave us alone, therefore you have insulted us both ,” said Porthos and smiled.
“But he is not a nobleman, and besides…” du Perrage objected.
"He was destined to become part of the nobility," Porthos countered. "And it's not his fault you prevented him from doing so."
“So, a duel is inevitable,” du Perrage said resignedly.
"It is inevitable, gentlemen, if you do not wish to satisfy my demand," agreed Porthos. "And here is my second!"
At that very moment I had already opened the doors of the tavern and was standing in the doorway.
"Monsieur d'Herblay!" whispered du Perrage in despair. "So that's it! That's what all this circus with the pig was about!"
"You can still refuse the duel if you accept my friend du Valon's offer," I replied condescendingly. "However, in that case, I can't promise you that I won't write a pamphlet about how du Perrage apologized to a piglet and send it to two or three publishers."
"Damn you, d'Herblay!" exclaimed du Perrage, throwing his glove on the floor to indicate his acceptance of the challenge, and leaving the inn.
De Gravue followed him out, and then Porthos and I followed them.

“If you are hungry, gentlemen ,” I said, “and that might prevent you from fighting us, we propose that you dine with Monsieur du Valon and me before we proceed to the duel.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to kill on an empty stomach,” du Perrage replied coldly.
“I prefer to do this on a full stomach,” Porthos replied.
"I deeply regret, gentlemen, that we must kill you ," I said. "A meal may postpone this event for a while, but if you wish to cancel it, you will have to resign your service to His Holiness Cardinal Richelieu and leave France forever. If you give us your word as a nobleman that you will leave France without setting foot in Paris, Monsieur du Valon and I are prepared to forget this little misunderstanding between you and him, as well as the incident with the piglet."
"To arms!" cried du Perrage. "I have not retreated before the Huguenots, the Spaniards, or the English, and I will not retreat before you."
“It is very sad to kill a compatriot,” I objected, drawing my sword.
"We'll see who gets the better of us!" exclaimed du Perrage, making the first lunge in my direction.
"Really?" I exclaimed. "Well, defend yourself!"
Our swords glittered in the setting sun. Du Perrage was a fine warrior. I felt sorry to kill him.
"Porthos, don't kill your enemy until I've dealt with mine!" I shouted, going on the offensive.
“That will be difficult,” Porthos replied. “Can I at least wound him?”
“As much as you like!” I replied.
Since my opponent was a fairly good swordsman, there was even a moment when I almost regretted my decision to spare his life, as my own was in grave danger. Still, I managed to knock the sword out of du Perrage's hands and placed my own at his chest.
 "Listen, du Perrage, I repeat my terms again ," I said. "Either you give me your word as a nobleman to leave France this very day, or I will return your sword to you, and this time, I swear, I will kill you."
"Fight to the end!" replied du Perrage.
“Well, you made that choice yourself,” I replied.
With the toe of my foot I tossed his sword in his direction, he picked it up and rushed at me again.
The battle was long and fierce. This time, both combatants were determined to dispatch the other. Finally, my sword did what it was destined to do. I pierced du Perrage's heart, the other end protruding three inches from his back.
He couldn't even utter a final "Forgive me" to the world. I crossed him and headed toward Porthos, who was playfully parrying de Gravue's blows and trying to find the right spot to inflict a wound.
Porthos's opponent, as I warned, was also a very good swordsman. He managed to inflict a few scratches on Porthos, but Porthos returned the favor, wounding him in the left shoulder.
"Surrender, de Gravue, you are one against two!" I shouted at him.
"You'll kill me anyway!" de Gravue replied, continuing to deliver furious blows to Porthos, who parried them with extraordinary skill.
"I won't kill you, on my word as a nobleman, if you accept our terms!" I exclaimed.
"Very well, I surrender!" exclaimed de Gravue, breaking his sword. "Your terms?"
"I should gouge out your eyes and cut out your tongue ," I said. "I need you to stop serving Richelieu as a codebreaker. But I'm prepared to accept, as I've already said, a nobleman's word that you'll leave France immediately."
"I promise to go to Lorraine and remain there as long as Cardinal Richelieu lives," replied de Grave. "Will that promise satisfy you?"
"Quite," I replied. "Let's go and finish what Monsieur du Valon hasn't yet had time to eat."
"Do you think he'll keep his promise?" Porthos whispered to me as de Gravue hurriedly disappeared through the inn door.
"He's not so dangerous alone," I replied. "Without du Perrage, he won't be able to read those very letters that worry me. Besides, time is on our side. If he doesn't read them within the next two months, they'll lose their relevance. But that's unlikely."
When we entered the tavern, de Gravue had already begun to communicate closely with the piglet.
"You, gentlemen, will not regret your decision ," he said. "I will not break my word, and besides, I was only a workhorse for Monsieur du Perrage. Without him, I would not be able to decipher a single letter written in the Queen's cipher, even in six months."
"I know about that," I lied, pouring him a full goblet of Bordeaux. "Don't worry, there's no poisoned wine here! Would you like me to sip from your goblet?"
"But we are nobles!" de Gravue objected. "How can I doubt your word if you don't doubt mine?"
With these words, de Gravue drank the wine I had poured in one gulp and returned to the piglet.
"I like him ," said Porthos. "That was a fine swordsmanship! It's been a long time since I've encountered such a clever opponent! When Richelieu dies, come to me in Valon. I'll give you a cushy job with a good salary and excellent board."
"Agree, de Gravue ," I said. "Monsieur du Valon's cook is better than some princes'. I should know that!"
“I would like the position of librarian ,” said de Gravue.
"I don't have a library ," Porthos said, emptying his goblet. "Well, I'll have to get one. Provided we fence at least occasionally."
He looked kindly at de Gravue and smiled at him paternally.
“But not until Richelieu dies ,” I said, and, recalling the words of Father Etienne de Lyon, I added, “That’s in about twelve years.”

After dinner, we informed the innkeeper that a would-be guest named du Perrage had bequeathed him his horse and saddle, as well as his purse, on condition that he would bury it with due honors.

Chapter 70

Count de Ronchamp informed me that, on behalf of Lord Winter, he wished to speak with me. I arranged a time, and we met.
"Dear Chevalier d'Herblay!" said the Count. "You undoubtedly remember that lady, the Marquise de Brinvilliers, through whom we met, and that is perhaps the only thing for which I am grateful to her. There are, you know, people who can do only one good deed in their entire lives—die. And I consider this lady one of those people."
the Marquis de Brinvilliers's illegitimate wife , who at various times also bore the names Anne de Beyle, Lady Claric, and Lady Winter," I prompted. "We called her Milady."
"Have you had any contact with her?" the Count asked in surprise. "I thought she intended to kill you and even tried to do so once or twice?"
"Exactly so, my dear Count," I replied. "She intended to kill me, as well as my friends, and she intended to kill one of them somewhat more persistently. But, fortunately, she did not succeed. And that very good deed you speak of, she finally accomplished—that is, she died. True, I confess, I and my friends, as well as Lord Winter, helped with this."
"There's no point in pitying this lady, after all, she ruined my best friend ," said the Count. "To poison her own husband! What could be more monstrous?"
"Oh, she ruined more than just him ," I said. "Her first husband also had evidence of her many crimes. I'm afraid we'll never know the full list of her crimes, but what we do know for sure is more than enough. However, to sort out her sins is the work of Satan. She vanished without a trace, I assure you."
"Not at all!" the Count exclaimed. "And that's precisely why I wanted to see you. She left quite a noticeable mark. The fact is, she had a son."
“Yes, I remember ,” I said. “There was talk of something like that.”
“This child, according to the laws, can claim recognition as the heir of my friend, the Marquis de Brinvilliers, but I have irrefutable evidence that he is not his son.
“I have irrefutable evidence that even if the said child were the actual son of your friend the Marquis de Brinvilliers, he could in no way be considered his legitimate son, and therefore the question of his inheritance of the Marquis’s fortune cannot be resolved positively.
"Really?" the Count was surprised. "I didn't know that!"
“This marriage was illegal, since she was married to another man, a noble Frenchman, who, as far as I know, is still alive,” I replied.
"This is a completely unexpected circumstance!" exclaimed the Count.
"Exactly," I agreed. "However, if you are acting on behalf of Lord Winter, who already knows about this, then it seems to me that you too should have been informed of it."
“I suppose Lord Winter did not have the opportunity to describe to me all the aspects of this matter, since he wrote me only this.
With these words the count handed me a letter.
“But this letter is addressed to you!” I objected.
- It concerns you as well, so I ask you to read them.

I opened the letter and read the following.

“Dear Count de Ronchamp!
Knowing from my dear, late brother, who rightfully used the title of Marquis de Brinvilliers in France, that you were his closest friend, and I hope you remain so even after his death, I address you with an unusual request. As you know, my brother's death is shrouded in mystery, but your information regarding the perpetrator of this misfortune, this crime, is confirmed by the evidence you presented to me during my last, brief stay in France. I must confess to you that, since it would be difficult to punish the perpetrator of this treacherous murder for this and many other crimes through the law without casting a shadow on our family, I was forced to employ another method of ensuring justice. Judge me as you see fit, and as your heart dictates, but I do not repent of my actions, and I believe the punishment was entirely appropriate to the crimes, or perhaps did not atone for them, so Satan will have something to do with her lost soul. At the same time, I carelessly took upon myself the obligation to care for the son of this criminal woman, and although I understand that this child has nothing to do with my family, since his real father was some unknown adventurer, I would still like to fulfill my promise. I ask you to arrange for a search for this child, for which I am sending you a letter of credit covering the possible expenses of this undertaking. If the money sent proves insufficient, I ask you not to hesitate to request an additional sum. My search is aimed at saving this child from the pernicious influence of his father, with whom he is likely being raised. If this boy is raised by his father, I shudder to think what he will become when he grows up. Perhaps four of your compatriots, named the Comte de la F;re, the Chevalier d'Herblay, the Chevalier du Valon, and Captain d'Artagnan, will assist you in your search.
If you discover anything about this child, please let me know immediately, as I truly want him to grow up to be a well-mannered man and a useful member of society. Naturally, he should not be informed of his mother's fate. I would not consider him a relative and would be satisfied if he had a different name, but I would like him to have everything he needs for a happy and honest life, provided, of course, that he does not follow in his mother's disastrous path, that is, a life of crime.
If this child is brought up in the spirit of his mother and actual father, an adventurer and a robber, I will renounce any relationship with him, which in fact is not there.

Sincerely yours
"Lord Winter."

"Do you now understand the position I find myself in?" asked the Count. "Since I saw your name among those four Frenchmen, and since we are well acquainted, and I dare to hope that you consider me your friend, just as I consider you, I hastened to meet you and discuss this letter."
"My dear Count, of course I consider you a friend and am ready to help in any way I can," I hastened to assure him. "The only trouble is that I have no idea how I could help you in this matter."
"You, as I see, know more about this lady than I do," the Count objected. "You know that she was married before she married the Marquis, and that the marriage was valid, since her first husband is alive, and you also know of the many crimes she committed."
"It's all very simple, Count!" I replied. "Her first husband was my friend, the Count de La F;re mentioned in this letter. From him I know this lady's history, and I also know how she ended her days, but that gives no clue as to where to look for her son, or even under what name he lives."
"Well, it's much less than I expected, that is, nothing at all," replied the Count. "For my part, I have found out a few things, but it does little to resolve the matter as Lord Winter desired."
After this, Count Ronchamp told me what I've already related above. The detectives hired by the Count established that the father of Milady's son was an adventurer and robber named G;rard Duchot, who began by robbing unwary shoppers at fairs, but then found such income insufficiently regular and insignificant. He then began attacking wealthy bourgeois and even noblemen who had the temerity to wander the streets of Paris's outskirts at night. To better evade justice, he never committed robberies on the same street two nights in a row, moving from the western to the eastern outskirts, from the northern to the southern. In each such location, he had his own refuge, where he paid the dishonest owners of dens of vice with stolen or plundered goods.

Since Count de Ronchamp had little to add to his story, I think it appropriate to relate here what I learned much later, but it will be convenient to state it here and now.

As I discovered, Milady had a strange fascination with criminals, who reminded her of her childhood. Scoundrels capable of murder for a pearl pendant or two gold earrings torn from their victims' ears seemed genuine to her, while she looked down on true nobles with disdain, as second-class citizens incapable of amassing their own capital and relying solely on what they inherited from wealthy parents. She was convinced that every wealthy family built its fortune through heinous crimes, and for this reason she considered those who squandered their parents' money to be insignificant and worthless, while she saw true heroes in those who laid the foundations of their own and their children's future wealth. Therefore, she despised men like the Comte de la F;re, the Marquis de Brinvilliers, Lord de Winter, and the Duke of Buckingham. She had a soft spot only for those who rose from the very bottom, penniless. She also despised military service. She viewed men like me, Athos, Porthos, and d'Artagnan merely as means to her ends, or as obstacles to them. She liked the Comte de Rochefort precisely because he had nearly six brothers, sired by his father in his third marriage. He himself, born in his first marriage and the unwitting cause of his mother's death in childbirth, was always the unloved son in the family, hearing nothing but reproaches from his stepmother about the high cost of his upkeep. Since the Comte de Rochefort's father gradually came to regard his eldest son as a burden, the young count was forced to seek his fortune in Paris, relying solely on his own resourcefulness. After a couple of successful raids against the Spaniards, he attracted the attention of Cardinal Richelieu, who first hired him as a page and then offered him a handsome salary for carrying out the most delicate and dangerous missions. In other words, Rochefort became Cardinal Richelieu's personal spy, acting on behalf of the cardinal himself or Father Joseph.
Milady met Rochefort in a rather curious way. Her friend, G;rard Duchot, had targeted a wealthy nobleman, the Chevalier de S;gur. He had tracked him down and knew in advance that the Chevalier de S;gur would be passing along the Quai des Orf;vres the following day, carrying a considerable sum of money. For this information, he paid the Chevalier's servants ten pistoles. Duchot told Milady to meet de S;gur and distract him with conversation, allowing him to kill him with a dagger thrust into his back, as he knew the Chevalier was a skilled swordsman. Milady did just that. She addressed the Chevalier with a question and smiled kindly. De S;gur, flattered by the attention of such a beautiful stranger, answered her question, and a long and frivolous conversation ensued. The Chevalier, at that moment, saw no one else around him. It was at this moment that he received a dagger stab in the back.
"Finally, Gerard!" said Milady. "I'm tired of waiting for you! Any more and he would have pounced on me with his advances. Take his wallet quickly and we need to get out of here!"
"Excuse me?" an unfamiliar voice came from the darkness.
"Gerard?" Milady cried. "Oh, my God, it's not Gerard! Gerard, help! There's a murderer here!"
"Calm yourself, madam, I am not the murderer," replied Rochefort, for he was. "I am a representative of the Lord's judgment; I merely carried out the sentence passed upon this man by the highest court."
"What are you saying?" Milady asked in horror, gradually realizing that this man in the black mask had no intention of harming her.
"Not every punishment is carried out in broad daylight and by the judges' order, but nevertheless, I acted in accordance with the highest orders ," Rochefort said. "And you, as I understand it, are the accomplice of a common night robber? You may take this unfortunate man's wallet; it is of no interest to me."
Milady immediately realized that the matter was far from being as simple as it might seem, that it was a political assassination, and that the man who committed it might be quite influential, so that he could be of use to her.
"What nonsense you're talking!" Milady exclaimed, sounding like an offended princess. "I desperately need his purse! I, too, acted on the highest orders, but since a weak woman can't rid society of a scoundrel like this on her own, I had to hire a desperate young man. Here he comes. Gerard, you're too late! The deed is done, disappear, we'll talk later!"
The black shadow that had just appeared from around the corner immediately disappeared, as if it had never been there.
"Gerard?" Rochefort asked. "So on whose instructions were you acting?"
"Since I merely spoke to this man, and you stabbed him to death before my eyes, wouldn't it be better if you were the first to tell me on whose instructions you were acting?" Milady retorted haughtily.
“I cannot tell you this, since it is not my secret, and good-bye to that ,” said Rochefort.
"Well, at least I can tell you this!" Milady replied proudly. "I was commissioned to eliminate this man by the great Cardinal Richelieu himself, and I am grateful for your help. Now, farewell."
"Cardinal Richelieu?" Rochefort asked. "Well, well."
"What surprises you?" asked Milady.
"But I have never met you before among the people in the service of His Eminence!" replied Rochefort.
"That only goes to show how much the Cardinal values me," Milady replied proudly. "Such matters as mine are not entrusted to the likes of me. I only took on this matter today because of its extraordinary urgency."
"Apparently, for this reason, this case was entrusted to two executors at once," replied Rochefort. "Well, madam, farewell."
"You should address me as 'Milady,'" Milady clarified. "Farewell, I hope forever!"

When Rochefort disappeared, Milady called Gerard to join him in searching the dead man's pockets, after which Duchot, who did not disdain to strip the dead man of every last thread, tied a heavy stone to his feet and threw the body into the Seine.

When Rochefort informed Richelieu that the task of eliminating the dangerous English spy Chevalier de S;gur had been completed, he asked for what purpose the unknown lady calling herself Milady had been brought into this matter.
"What Milady?" Richelieu asked in surprise.
"She referred to your order!" Rochefort replied.
After this, he recounted to the cardinal all the events of that night.
"Find me this lady," the cardinal ordered. "I must see her and speak with her."

This was precisely what Milady had been counting on. Rochefort had met her by chance at a social gathering, and she, of course, would not have recognized him if he hadn't spoken to her, as she couldn't see his face, but she remembered his voice.
"My lady, even though you deceived me, it does not lower your standing in my eyes!" he said. "The Cardinal really enjoyed your sweet joke, and he invites you to meet him."
The meeting took place and Milady was accepted beyond her regular duties as a secret spy for Cardinal Richelieu.

I learned all this much later through people from the Order, when I had the opportunity to learn secrets that should have died along with those who knew them.

So, G;rard Duchot was Milady's lover and Mordaunt's father. That was all the Comte de Ronchamp knew at the time. Neither he nor I managed to find this mysterious Duchot. The fact is, he had managed, by posing as someone else, to become a nobleman in the eyes of the world. To do this, he used the documents and money of an officer he had killed, who was returning from military service to his estate to accept the inheritance of his deceased parents. This officer was an orphan, had been absent for quite some time, and in appearance he vaguely resembled G;rard Duchot. Therefore, G;rard decided, having covered up the traces of the murder, to impersonate this officer and try to take his place, to seize his estate, which, although rather modest, still entitled him to a title of nobility. So G;rard Duchot disappeared from Paris, settling on a small estate in Burgundy, where he also took his son Mordaunt. But Gerard didn't want to raise his young son, so he sent Lord Winter an anonymous letter about the whereabouts of his supposed nephew. Lord Winter sent men to retrieve Mordaunt and bring him to London under the guardianship of three men hired by Lord Winter.
Soon, Gerard Duchot arrived there, disguised as a French nobleman. He gained the trust of the people caring for young Mordaunt, began taking him for walks frequently, and gradually gained an influence over him whose power and destructiveness Mordaunt's tutors had never suspected.
Through his conversations and personal example, Duchot raised Mordaunt to his liking, instilling in him a disdain for human life, cruelty, determination, and a stubborn determination to achieve his goals. More than any other trait, he nurtured in Mordaunt a thirst for revenge against those who had killed his mother, Gerard's mistress, Lady Winter, Anne de Beyle, Lady Claric, the Countess de La F;re—but in reality, merely Charlotte Munier, a simpleton who had assumed a noble title. In other words, Gerard Duchot raised Milady's son to be a criminal. Gerard Duchot appropriated and bore the name of a certain nobleman, a name I will reveal later.

Chapter 71

Since Queen Anne was the brother of the King of Spain, it's not surprising that she corresponded actively with him and took his problems, and sometimes even his requests, to heart. After all, he remained in her homeland, so through him, she corresponded with both her homeland and her childhood.
I wouldn't hold this against her, but her correspondence was extremely extensive. I've already mentioned that her correspondents included Mirabel in Brussels and Olivares, who received her correspondence through him. Among those with whom she also corresponded were Duke Charles of Lorraine, who received letters through Chevreuse in Touraine, and Marie de' Medici in exile, with whom Madame du Fargy organized the correspondence. In England, her letters were received by Count Holland and Montagu. All these people hated Richelieu and offered advice on how to deal with him, as well as all sorts of assistance.
If the King was most concerned that the Queen might be unfaithful to him through this correspondence—which, by God, is odd, since the King had long since ceased to be interested in Anne of Austria as a wife—then Richelieu accused her of treason, and he wasn't entirely wrong. Indeed, she was seeking ways to overthrow the Prime Minister, and, in any case, she didn't reject such projects, primarily those of Monsieur, Marie de Chevreuse, Catherine de Medici, and du Fargy, which, among other things, also resulted in the removal of her royal husband from power.
I myself was as inconsistent in these intrigues as La Porte. We assisted her in her correspondence, even as we defended France from foreigners with arms in hand, since we separated the integrity and unity of the state from the question of unquestioning obedience to the cardinal. The cardinal, who ruled the country at the time, seemed unconcerned about the support of the majority of the aristocracy. He was satisfied with his own confidence in the correctness of all his actions. Perhaps he was right, since I have acted in exactly the same way in recent years.
Naturally, our feelings were entirely on the Queen's side. The King, after all, was sometimes so rude and so blunt that he was unwilling to show the Queen any affection, let alone even a shred of delicacy.
After the French army inflicted yet another defeat on the Spanish, he organized riotous celebrations in honor of such victories and forced the Queen to dress up, demanding that she be cheerful and publicly display her joy. Naturally, her heart was heavy, for each time it was a defeat for her fatherland and her brother personally; it was a victory for the cardinal and her unloved husband.
Who was there to support her?
First, I conveyed Chevrette's letters to her through La Porte or Mademoiselle de Hautefort. Yes, the young lady-in-waiting who had captured her husband's imagination was, oddly enough, one of her few allies. Why did the Queen trust her? I cannot say! Among those she could have trusted completely were Lieutenant d'Artagnan of the King's Musketeers, the Comte de La F;re, myself, and, of course, Porthos. But she apparently feared that we might betray her. I do not know the reasons, but I believe that Richelieu, well aware that we could prove extremely powerful to her, hastened to undermine her confidence in us, probably through some slander. The Cardinal was a master at ruining reputations. For the same reason, we kept a low profile, believing that no amount of justification could restore a lost reputation, especially if you don't know what you're actually accused of, or, worse, if you're not accused of anything at all, but simply shunned like a leper. This was the main reason Athos decided to resign from service and withdraw from court. A noble soul, he was extremely sensitive to hypocrisy and mistrust. Despite having every right to occupy the highest positions at court, he kept a discreet and discreet post, and when certain signs revealed he was unwelcome at court, he decided to retreat to Blois.
At this very time, the Queen had a new friend at court: Giulio Mazarin. He had recently been elevated to the rank of prelate, serving as papal envoy and ambassador extraordinary. One of Mazarin's goals was to impress Cardinal Richelieu and become his assistant. He succeeded so well that Richelieu introduced him to the Queen, after first asking her consent with the words: "You, Your Majesty, will like him, for he is so like Buckingham!"
The Queen really liked him because he was looking for peace and was known as a peacemaker, which is what she also desired with all her heart.
But Richelieu had an unenviable characteristic, a twist of fate. Everyone he promoted, everyone he favored, betrayed him. However, he repaid almost everyone who promoted him, except Father Joseph, in kind, so there is justice under the sun. Richelieu was betrayed by his prot;g;s, apparently as punishment for betraying de Luynes and the Queen Mother. This applies least of all to Mazarin, since he merely managed to befriend the Queen without attempting to further widen the gulf between her and Richelieu. All the great cardinal's other prot;g;s betrayed him in far greater ways.
Mazarin brought a curiosity to Paris: a carriage with glass windows. This allowed one to admire the views even in bad weather, without the slightest risk of getting one's face dirty from rain or mud, or exposed to dust. Paris was delighted.
At this very time, Richelieu noticed that the King's attitude toward Saint-Simon had cooled. Indeed, their relationship was more akin to friendship than his relationship with de Luynes and other favorites. But friendship ends when it ceases to be reciprocated. Louis XIII had become weary of Saint-Simon ever since the latter had made several unfortunate mistakes.
In July 1634, the King was strolling with Saint-Simon through the forest confiscated from Montmorency. They encountered charming young ladies in a clearing, brought there by one of the zealous courtiers for the King's mild amusement. Saint-Simon decided that these ladies were of the most accessible kind and engaged them in a frank conversation about how he would like to spend the rest of the evening with them. This greatly angered the King, who was known for his extreme restraint in regard to such treatment of ladies, although he did tolerate similar behavior with his favorites, using them as pages.
On another occasion, Saint-Simon, knowing that the King was still in love with the young Mademoiselle de Hautefort, offered his help to arrange everything in the best possible way and bring this love to a happy, mutually pleasant, and extremely intimate relationship. This proposal also irritated, annoyed, and even angered Louis XIII . In his eyes, Saint-Simon had insulted both Mademoiselle de Hautefort and the King's feelings for her.
"Don't you ever dare suggest anything like that to me again!" the King exclaimed.
"Your Majesty, I only wanted to please you!" Saint-Simon tried to justify himself.
"I am the only one who can want here," the King replied sharply. "And if you are not capable of understanding what I want, then at least you are obliged to know what I do not want and never will want!"
After this, Louis XIII suspected that Saint-Simon's proposal was based on his confidence that such a thing was achievable, which greatly diminished Mademoiselle de Hautefort's standing in his eyes. The king lost both his platonic love and his favorite; both became repulsive to him.
The attentive Richelieu orchestrated a favorable presentation of Mademoiselle Louise de Lafayette to the King, having already thoroughly studied the King's predilections and tastes. This lady was the complete opposite of Mademoiselle de Hautefort: modest and pious, gentle and obedient, chaste, like the King himself. She became the ideal sympathetic listener, to whom the King could now pour out his troubles and grievances. While listening to long and tedious complaints about the world, she pretended to find the conversation entertaining, able to spot wit or resourcefulness even where none was to be found. She knew how to laugh so convincingly that Louis himself subsequently found his own remarks witty and apt. They cooed sweetly in the Queen's bedroom, and one day Mademoiselle Louise de Lafayette was so enthusiastically amused by one of the King's jokes that the bedchamber attendant had to change the sheets. One of the ladies-in-waiting decided to rescue the favorite and declared that the stain was caused by having a lemon in her pocket, so the stain was simply lemon juice. The offended Queen ordered La Porte to smell the stain to make sure it wasn't lemon juice. Lafayette was embarrassed, the King was annoyed, and the Queen was elated at the opportunity to humiliate her favorite.
Meanwhile, the Queen, raised at the Spanish court, was spending money faster than necessary. The Superintendent of Finance reported to the Prime Minister that the treasury could soon be empty.
"Are you saying we're starting to run out of money?" Richelieu inquired.
"That would be all right, Your Eminence," the superintendent replied. "The problem is, they've stopped starting!"
“Well, next time Her Majesty demands payment of her bills, explain this to her,” Richelieu replied.
The queen wanted not only to live lavishly but also to pay pensions to all her former servants and friends who had lost their incomes due to Richelieu's fault. This was, of course, an excessive desire.
Having received a refusal, Anne of Austria came to Richelieu to express her grievances.
"Your Majesty is completely wrong to believe that the refusal to fulfill your perfectly just demands comes from me," the cardinal retorted, as if nothing had happened. "On the contrary, I have assured Monsieur d'Agouges in every way that all your expenses must be paid promptly and in full. Allow me to speak with him again."
After this, Richelieu ordered the Queen's bills to be paid.
A few such misunderstandings, skillfully orchestrated by the cardinal, allowed him to remove the chief treasurer d'Agouges without hindrance and replace him with his faithful man, Monsieur de Chavigny.
At the same time, a spy named Clausel was exposed. Richelieu ordered a particularly thorough investigation of his connections with Savoy, Spain, and England, and the discovery of all connections leading from Clausel to Queen Anne.
While trying to please the Queen, not abandoning the idea of becoming her lover, Richelieu simultaneously entangled the Queen in a web of spies, compiling a dossier on her with which he could compromise her in the eyes of the King. The information he gathered seemed insufficient; it subsequently became outdated, and Richelieu could see from the King's occasional statements that the information he had gathered would not have been sufficient to persuade the King to ask the Pope for a divorce, after which the Queen would have been sent to a convent. The King would easily have forgiven the Queen for her treason, and Richelieu had no evidence of adultery. All that remained was the accusation of infertility, which became an increasingly serious problem for France with each passing year, and especially for Richelieu, as Louis XIII's health was constantly a source of concern, and the accession of Gaston d'Orl;ans would have meant a return to the reign of the Queen Mother, Marie de' Medici.
Although the King had already clearly demonstrated dislike and even contempt for the Queen as his wife, he continued to publicly display his highest favor for her as a royal queen, and, moreover, as the daughter and sister of the Spanish kings. Therefore, when the King was forced to briefly leave Paris for a military campaign in Picardy, the Queen remained there as the capital's ruler and head of the Royal Council, demonstrating the King's utmost trust in her, a trust she was, of course, unworthy of in matters of politics.

Chapter 72

Of course, I was no longer so naive as to pass on Chevrette's letters to the Queen, or the Queen's letters to Chevrette, without first inquiring about their contents. While Marie had previously allowed me to read the letters she sent her a couple of times before her disgrace, so that I could be convinced of the purity and nobility of her actions, she subsequently limited herself to merely retelling their contents, handing them over to me sealed. This, naturally, alarmed me. When I realized that those who thoughtlessly allowed themselves to be drawn into her intrigues, trusting her completely, without carefully examining what they were getting into, ultimately end up losing, which could cost them their freedom and even their heads, I decided that not all of Marie's requests were so innocuous that they should be carried out with complete trust. My position as a servant of God, that is, as a member of the Order, directly obligated me, firstly, to be aware of all the dangers that might threaten her personally, in connection with the special assignment to protect her, and secondly, to be aware of everything that could be ascertained regarding the most important political events in the state. So, I opened the letters without hesitation, for I had been taught to do so so delicately that after resealing them, no one would suspect that they had been opened. Naturally, I never made copies of them; I merely memorized their contents.
I can now reproduce one of these letters from memory.

"Dear Chevrette! Here it is, an interesting case when I have finally, at least temporarily, freed myself from the petty guardianship of two people. One of them, as you know, has every right to interfere in my private life, but does not do so, neglecting his marital duties. However, he interferes in my relations with my relatives, which I did not give him the right to do. The second, as you understand, is the most intolerable. It is precisely his duty to look after the welfare of the state, and he could reproach me for corresponding with my brother and other relatives, but he is much more interested in being confided in my personal secrets, and, as you know, he passionately desires to become one of my most intimate personal secrets. God, save me from such a fate! Even in my dreams, I would not wish to have anything closer to him than to my confessor. However, I won’t tell my spiritual father everything about myself, especially not to such a spiritual father!
I've digressed, though. I wanted to tell you that I've temporarily gained not only freedom, but also power! Yes, I'm now the head of the Royal Council and the ruler of the capital. My husband has departed for Picardy. Imagine the uproar among the council when His Eminence announced my husband's will! One of them even protested: "What? The Queen? To head the King's council? Is it even conceivable to allow a woman into the King's council?" Incidentally, His Eminence defended me, objecting: "Is the Royal Council a bathhouse, where women are forbidden from entering?"
It must be said, everyone there fawns over the Cardinal, the Prime Minister and master of the Royal Council. And the upstart who attempted to object simply mistakenly believed that Richelieu himself would oppose this appointment. When His Eminence unconditionally supported the King's decision, he was the first to applaud the Cardinal. It's high time they realized that my husband doesn't make any political decisions himself. All his decisions are the Cardinal's decisions, which he merely voices! So I'm convinced that the idea of entrusting me with power in Paris and the Council during Louis's absence undoubtedly came from Richelieu. I'm also certain that he did everything possible and impossible to ensure that I knew he was the one to take credit for this. In this way, this ridiculous suitor in a red robe wants to demonstrate to me that both my rise and my fall depend on him alone. All this is being done to persuade me to do something I don't write about, and you know perfectly well what he's after! Never! Do you hear me? Never! No, no, no. My God, even if I liked some man, then even then... No! I can, of course, sympathize with someone, wish him happiness and success. I won't hide the fact that Buckingham was dear to me, and I still mourn him and pray to God for the repose of this mad, but deeply sympathetic nobleman. However, this is not the feeling called love; you know, my deep sympathy for this unfortunate duke would not have moved me to betray my husband. As for Richelieu... By God, it's ridiculous and disgusting, vile and repulsive. I want to get rid of him, I want him out of my life, and yet he forces his presence on me and even makes such disgusting hints that he would be happy if... What do I care what is required for his happiness? I do not want it for him. As a Christian, I certainly wish him to achieve everything he deserves, but what he is achieving is not included in this list and never will be.
My God, Chevrette, my dear, you wrote that you've hatched a plan to put this presumptuous courtier in his place. I beg you, get to work on it quickly, if it has any chance of success.
In the meantime, I will enjoy this temporary, yet almost complete, power that has fallen upon me! My God! I am almost free! I say "almost" because you know that the Cardinal has not left me without being surrounded by spies of all kinds. I know that I can only rely on you, La Porte, and two or three others, although I am no longer so sure of them. How terrible it is to trust no one! Sometimes I don't even trust the mirror, the bed, or even my own pillow. What if it reports to the Cardinal in the morning how many tears I shed into it and with what name I fell asleep? Know then that I whispered only two names—your and his. I whispered: "Chevreuse! Deliver me from Richelieu!" However, all this is no longer a secret to him. He knows I don't want to see him, and that seems to make him appear before me more often than he should! I embrace and kiss you, my dear! Love me and pray for me, the poor, abandoned Queen, torn away from all she loves and surrounded by all she hates!"

Of course, I'm giving this letter as a translation from the code agreed upon between the Queen and the Duchess, since the Queen used certain proper names to refer to herself and other nobles, so her letter appeared to be an ordinary letter from one private individual to another. When their code was cracked, she invented another, but they were all naive. Naturally, if they were using the names of the main characters of some widely read play by Corneille or another author who reinterprets ancient stories in a modern style—and these plays are known to everyone—calling herself Ximena, Sabina, or Camilla, the Queen would not be deceiving anyone.
So, this letter contained nothing new or concrete, merely the usual complaints from the Queen, offended by the Cardinal's intrusive tutelage and the King's neglect, who thought she had temporarily gained real power, which, of course, was not the case. She was nominally allowed to head the Royal Council, but, of course, no one allowed her to make any decisions.
Having delivered the letter to its destination, I headed to a gunsmith named Marin Le Bourgeois.
"Hello, Mr. Marin!" I said to him. "I would like to order a special type of pistol from you."
"You've come to the right place, my dear sir," the master replied. "My workshop makes the best pistols in France, and even the best in all of Europe!"
"I know that, Mr. Marin," I replied. "But I need something even better."
"Better than our best pistols?" Le Bourgeois asked in surprise. "What could that be?"
"Listen, my dear master, I'd like you to improve the pistol's lock ," I said. "Current pistols require too many actions before firing. They're not suitable for real combat."
- What do you propose, sir?..
“Call me Aramis,” I replied.
“Yes, Monsieur Aramis,” replied the master. “What do you propose, Monsieur Aramis?”
"You see, Master ," I said, "I represent a certain company that needs a large number of improved pistols. We will place a large order with you. Let's say a hundred pistols to start, and in the future the count will increase to several hundred and perhaps thousands. But this pistol will have to be of a completely different design."
"Very curious!" exclaimed Mr. Le Bourgeois.
— Yes. First of all, to the shortcomings of the existing design. As you know, a great advantage of the best pistols is that instead of lit tinder, they use a pyrite stone for the fuse, which creates sparks. This is great, but the pyrite wears out very quickly. After each new shot, you don't know whether the next one will be successful or a misfire. Replacing the pyrite after each shot is a hassle, and in combat, downright impossible. Therefore, in any real fight, after the first shot, you can't count on a second shot.
"All this is true, Monsieur Aramis, but the design of the pistol you criticize contains the ideas of many geniuses of many times!" objected Monsieur Le Bourgeois.
"So, we need new geniuses, and you'll find them and attract them to your work," I continued. "Try to find another stone that would produce a spark no worse than pyrite, but would be stronger. Try, I don't know, flint, maybe, or something else."
"Your proposal is understandable, we'll look," the master agreed. "But the search requires money, and the results won't necessarily satisfy you."
"You'll receive two thousand pistoles immediately for your research, with no obligation to provide a finished solution, only to collect and systematize all your ideas in this direction ," I said. "And another eight thousand pistoles if these two thousand enable you to create a new design that satisfies us."
"I continue to listen to you with growing interest, Monsieur Aramis!" exclaimed the master, rubbing his hands.
"We don't like having to use a key to wind the trigger," I continued. "The key gets lost very often. And borrowing it from a comrade during a fight is impossible. We need a different spring, a stiffer one, so that simply cocking the hammer is enough to fire a shot."
“In that case, it would take a fair amount of force to cock the hammer,” the master objected.
"Any soldier has enough strength," I dismissed. "Besides, if you sharpen the flint at the right angle, maybe you can strike a spark even with a moderate blow. I need to find some materials and work on the design."
“I already understood and remembered that,” the master responded.
“We need a pistol that can fire at least two shots per minute ,” I said.
"How do you like the idea of a double-barreled pistol?" asked the master.
"I'm familiar with such designs," I replied. "The barrels are positioned one below the other, the triggers are the same, and the grip is oriented along the same axis as the barrels, ending in an egg-shaped thickening. To fire a pistol like this, you have to twist your wrist. Aiming is very difficult in this case, and the recoil causes the shooter's wrist to hurt after a dozen shots. No, that won't do. Consider placing the barrels next to each other. You can make two different trigger mechanisms. Then the shooter can fire two shots at the same time, or with very little time between them. It will be a good weapon. You can place the barrels one above the other, but then you'll have to make the triggers at different heights. That's inconvenient. In fact, to shoot equally accurately from both barrels, you have to learn to aim differently."
"Two barrels in a pistol, positioned side by side, is a good solution!" the master replied. "But such a pistol will be heavier than a regular one."
"You can shorten the barrel and drill holes in the handle to lighten its weight," I replied. "I'll give you a month to complete your research. After that, I'll listen to your proposals, and if I like them, I'll leave you the promised eight thousand pistoles for the development of the entire design."
"Very well, Mr. Aramis ," said the master. "Do you have permission from the First Minister to order such a large quantity of weapons?"
“I don’t have such permission, and I don’t intend to get it,” I answered softly.
"But in that case, you can only order a few pistols for your own use," the master objected. "Otherwise, I must either refuse to fulfill such a large order or notify the Ministry of Armaments myself of this order and request the proper permission."
“This order comes from our common commanders,” I replied and made the signal for the members of the Order.
"Your order will be carried out in the best possible way," the master replied. "Naturally, no information will be sent to the ministry. Your answer has completely convinced me. I would have carried out the order even if you hadn't paid me anything."
"Thank you, I know that," I replied. "But saving money isn't a priority right now. And you're bound to have expenses."
"Where can I find you if I have any questions?" the master asked.
I left my address with Monsieur Le Bourgeois, along with two thousand pistoles, and said goodbye. This was a very good investment for the Order's capital. Although the pistol designed by this master still misfired on average once every eight to ten shots, this was still half as often as all other designs. The new pistol was far more reliable than all previous ones. The Order intended to commission two thousand pistols from the master, but in 1634, the master, unfortunately, died. Investigations conducted by the Order revealed that the death was due to natural causes. The master took some of his manufacturing secrets with him to the grave. His apprentices were unable to produce pistols of the same quality, although, of course, some of the design secrets eventually became public knowledge. Thus, the Order received only one hundred and fifty examples of these new pistols. They were used only in exceptional cases, but they were quite effective. The master's greatest secret was how he managed to make shallow spiral cuts inside the barrel, which caused the bullet to spin, fly straighter, and not tip over. I suggested this idea to him, based on the rifling bullets Athos had introduced me to. To this day, I can't figure out how he made those marvelous barrels. I had six of these pistols, which I retained as the organizer and director of this development. The Order was pleased, and I moved up to the next level in its hierarchy.

Chapter 73

What followed was a series of events that first brought the Queen her greatest humiliation, then her greatest triumph. Her humiliation consisted in the fact that the full force of the Cardinal's spy and investigative apparatus was unleashed on her for the most trivial reason. The Cardinal sought to uncover every action, every letter, and even the intentions and thoughts of anyone he might consider his enemies. And he might have considered all of France, including the King, his enemies. Understanding the truth of the saying that "a fish rots from the head," Richelieu decided to strike the most powerful blow at the head of the conspiracy, the Queen herself, subjecting her to humiliating interrogations, searches, accusations, and isolation.
By mid-1936, the number of letters intercepted and copied by the Cardinal's spies, reports from spies, and other direct and indirect evidence had finally convinced Richelieu that the Queen actively hated him and supported all those who supported her with hopes of all sorts of favors should she succeed in eliminating the hated First Minister. This, of course, is not about the letters I forwarded.
Richelieu decided to obtain definitive evidence that would incriminate her in the King's eyes, such as letters written by the Queen herself, which would irrefutably expose her plots not only against Richelieu but also against the King, or at least against his policies—that is, against France. Richelieu understood that the King would easily forgive the Queen's hatred of the Prime Minister, since he himself disliked him greatly, which did not prevent him from relying entirely on him and entrusting him with the most difficult tasks.
He did everything possible and impossible to set a trap for the Queen. He attempted to recruit Buckingham's former servant, Ogier, whom the Queen knew and trusted. However, Ogier did indeed send the cardinal copies of letters and even, it seems, one or two genuine ones, but only those that contained nothing incriminating. So the appearance of his betrayal of the Queen and loyalty to the cardinal only served to strengthen Anne of Austria's position, testifying to her innocence.
The cardinal also tried to approach La Rochefoucauld, but he pretended not to have any contacts with anyone, including the Duchess de Chevreuse. This was a lie, of course.
But the Cardinal was determined to crush the Queen. He no longer trusted her promise to provide him with the most important information about conspiracies. He remembered that ever since the exposure of the Chalais conspiracy, when it was revealed that he had suggested Monsieur abandon his marriage to Mademoiselle de Montpensier so that, after the "removal" or even elimination of the King, he could become King himself by marrying Anne of Austria, Louis XIII had believed the Cardinal that not only the Duchess de Chevreuse but also Queen Anne herself were aware of Monsieur's plans. From that very moment, the King had always suspected that Anne and Chevrette had harbored such plans and had not abandoned them. Always seeing his wife as someone who hated or despised him, he had never trusted her again, except in recent years, which will be discussed later. The King believed that she dreamed of his death and marriage to Gaston d'Orl;ans. For this reason, he himself began to dream of getting rid of her, but he was deterred by her high birth and the respect for a marriage sanctified by the Church. The King's piety kept him from divorce, but it could not force him to live a full family life with someone he considered an unfaithful woman, which she was not yet. The Order arranged for Father Caussin, who held the position of Coadjutor in the Jesuit Order, to be assigned to the King as his confessor. At the same time, the Order instructed me to assist Father Caussin in every way and to obey him in everything.
At the same time, the Order recruited Mademoiselle de Hautefort. She, of course, being a woman , did not join the Order, but another way was found to influence her, so that she completely obeyed orders, unaware of their origin.
The Order did not want to remove the Queen or increase the Cardinal's power, who had already gained control of almost all of France. The Cardinal was weakening the Catholic states and waging his own war against Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands, and Savoy. The Order did not welcome this. But the struggle against England was pleasing to the Order. The Cardinal was needed, but he had to be restrained.
Meanwhile, the Queen often used completely random courtiers for her correspondence. No one dared refuse her, so she even sent letters to Chevrette through the Archbishop of Bordeaux, who, on his way to his home, had to pass through Tours, where Marie was staying at the time. The letter was then passed on to Marie by the Archbishop of Tours, who, at eighty years old, was also madly in love with Chevrette, despite his clerical rank. The Queen's letters were numerous, and not all of them were intercepted by the Cardinal, and those that did reach him still did not incriminate the Queen in any significant way.
The Queen, surrounded by the Cardinal's veneer in her own palace, was forced to write her letters at night, when everyone was asleep, even the spies assigned to her. The spies were cunning, but their cunning was sometimes too subtle. For example, one of the ladies-in-waiting pretended to be engrossed in reading a Book of Hours, holding it upside down. When the Queen was unable to answer letters at night, she was forced to pretend to retire to prayer during the day, using this time to write or read received correspondence.
Lately, the Queen had begun frequently retreating to Ville-de -Gr;ce under the pretext of praying at the Abbey of Saint-;tienne. The Abbess of the Abbey, Louise de Millet, known as Mother Saint-;tienne, was very sympathetic to the Queen and provided her with every opportunity to write letters in private and to read the correspondence she received. Ville-de -Gr;ce became a sort of postal hub for the Queen. Her page, La Porte, assumed the functions of secretary, cipher clerk and decipherer, and keeper of seals and ciphers. His secret stash also contained sympathetic ink, grilles for reading encrypted letters, chemicals for developing secret writing, and other paraphernalia of a conspirator.
In early August 1637, I believe it was the ninth, the King, on the advice of the Cardinal, summoned the Queen. Anne of Austria, awaiting the arrival of several letters from her relatives and disgraced friends abroad, decided to linger in Ville-de -Gr;ce, so she excused herself by citing that her luggage was too unpacked and that packing would take too long. Indeed, in those days, palaces and castles didn't keep furniture, clothing, dishes, and other utensils permanently; all of these items followed the residents as they moved from one place to another. The King and Queen continued to do the same until noblemen like Fouquet and Mazarin realized that, when living in two or more houses, it was much easier to move from one residence to another lightly, with everything they needed in each palace. Afterward, everyone else adopted this fashion.
Richelieu convinced the King that the Queen had more compelling reasons for disobedience than unpacked luggage. The accumulated copies of the letters, insufficient in themselves, combined with the Queen's inexplicable disobedience finally had the effect on Louis XIII that Richelieu had sought. The King grew suspicious and ordered an investigation.
The unsuspecting Queen departed for Chantilly on August 12, while Laporte went to meet Monsieur de Latibaudi;re des Azots, who had been instructed to deliver the Queen's letter to the Duchess of Chevreuse. This Poitevin nobleman was one of the Cardinal's spies, who, on Richelieu's instructions, delayed the letter's delivery for several days, citing important matters that supposedly kept him there. He therefore asked Laporte to hold onto the letters for a few days.
La Porte decided to visit Monsieur de Guitaut, who had returned wounded from battle, to inquire about news from the front. That evening, as he was leaving de Guitaut's, La Porte was stopped by a carriage at the corner of Rue Coquilliers and Rue des Grades-Augustins, blocking his path. Four burly guardsmen pushed the poor man into the carriage, which then took him to the Bastille.
La Porte was searched, and a letter intended for the Duchess de Chevreuse and other lesser letters were confiscated. After this, all his personal belongings, even his clothes, were taken from him, and he was placed in a punishment cell, where there was nothing but a bed and a chamber pot.
Father Etienne, my previous superior at the Order, immediately learned of this and arranged for Monsieur La Porte to have a cellmate from among those responsible to the Order. A whole spectacle was staged for this purpose. That same evening, several prisoners attempted to escape from the Bastille; gunfire erupted, the prisoners were captured and placed in solitary confinement, so that all the cells were occupied. That same evening, a certain Madame de Herc brought her son, demanding that he be detained so that, supposedly, "he could grow up and gain some sense." The mother accused her son of freethinking and backed up her demand with a letter signed by the Prosecutor General, which stated that this gentleman was to be kept in the Bastille for as long as Madame de Herc deemed necessary, after which he was to be returned to her at her first request. The commandant had no choice but to place Monsieur de Erck in the same cell where La Porte was placed.
Monsieur de Herc informed La Porte that, despite a search of his house in Ville-de -Gr;ce, his hiding place had not been found, meaning that the cipher instruments and particularly important letters that could incriminate him and the Queen were still there. La Porte was horrified to realize that, in addition to the ciphers and seals, his hiding place contained a whole series of libels against the Cardinal, any one of which would be enough to send him to the scaffold. The fact that the hiding place had not been found naturally reassured La Porte somewhat, but to his chagrin, the following day he was summoned for interrogation and subsequently placed in another cell. Madame de Herc, of course, took her son away the very next day.
The Cardinal ordered another man, Hercule de Sauchezu, to be placed with La Porte, allegedly accused of disrespecting the cabinet. This de Sauchezu savagely berated the Cardinal and tried in every way to portray himself as a supporter of the Queen. But he overplayed his hand; La Porte guessed he was one of Richelieu's spies, so he remained silent, feigning sullenness and taciturnity.
La Porte's interrogation was conducted by Judge Leroy de Lapotrie. This man simply adored his profession and possessed a true gift for acting, so he skillfully feigned empathy, sympathy, and sincerity.
Lapotrie lamented the poor treatment La Porte received, promised to make things right, and said that the Queen's page had ended up in the Bastille due to a misunderstanding, which would, of course, be immediately corrected, but first some formalities had to be settled, so that in the interests of a speedy release, Monsieur La Porte needed to try to quickly recall in detail all the letters the Queen had sent and received in the last six months, and also to recall all the addressees, and to recount the contents of these letters.
"If the whole matter depended on me, my dear Monsieur de La Porte, I would release you immediately!" said Lapotrie. "But the matter is already underway, the warrants have been signed, the reports have been drawn up. Believe me, the easiest way for you is to report everything we already know, and we already know most of it, believe me. In that case, I myself will sign a petition for your speedy release. You will be returned everything that was taken from you during the search, and I even believe you will be given some compensation for the inconvenience caused."
“If I am arrested by mistake, I should prefer that the mistake should clear itself up, after which, as you assure me, I should be released,” replied La Porte.
"That's all true, of course, but this case will take at least three months, maybe more!" Lapotrie objected. "Unfortunately, the warrant bears the Prime Minister's seal, and I'm even afraid that if we don't stop this case within the next 24 hours, it will also receive His Majesty's visa. Then you'll be considered a state criminal, and such cases aren't resolved in less than a year. You'll probably be released, but then not in two or three days, but in a year, or perhaps even two, or even longer."
"How much later?" La Porte asked.
"Let me count," Lapotrie answered readily. "Trial, appeal, cassation, retrial..."
Lapotrie moved his lips almost silently and bent his fingers.
“Wait a minute… I think I’ve taken everything into account ,” he said finally. “You will be released after… After… Yes, yes. Exactly! You will be released… Never.”
With these words he looked at La Porte with such a radiant smile as if he had informed him of a win of a hundred thousand livres.
"Well, that's a perfectly acceptable time," La Porte replied, returning his tormentor's equally radiant smile. "That suits me. I'll wait."

Chapter 74

The next day, de Lapotrie ordered La Porte to be taken to a special interrogation room.
"Do you know, Mr. La Porte, what these objects are used for?" he asked the prisoner, gesturing with his hand at the numerous devices invented by the Holy Inquisition.
"Do you know, Monsieur de Lapotrie, what was the maiden name of the late mother of His Eminence Cardinal de Richelieu?" La Porte asked in turn.
“Her name is La Porte,” de Lapotrie answered dispassionately.
"Exactly," La Porte confirmed. "I am related to the Cardinal..."
"I know," Lapotrie interrupted. "The Cardinal sadly told me that many of his relatives often fail to live up to his expectations, so it was in vain that he extended his protection to them in his youth. He has resigned himself to the thought of losing some of them for the good of the state and the monarchy."
"I know the Cardinal doesn't care much for his relatives," La Porte replied. "If that weren't so, I wouldn't have to mourn my late goddaughter, Constance Bonacieux."
"His Eminence has had to sacrifice family feelings for the King, even for those closer to him," Lapotrie replied indifferently. "You won't impress me with that. So let's discuss these magnificent devices. This one, for example, is called the 'Spanish Boot.' After wearing it, you'll be able to wear shoes much smaller than you currently wear, though not without some pain. However, I'm merely speculating. No one who tried on these boots has ever needed any other footwear. We don't release cripples. If a confession has to be extracted from you with the help of such devices, you'll never have a chance to leave here. For the sake of the peace of the state, we must not alarm the people with evidence of methods for loosening the tongues of France's enemies."
“You don’t have to continue, I can guess the purpose of all these devices,” La Porte replied.
"The funniest thing is that your martyrdom is completely pointless," Lapotrie continued. "Her Majesty has already told His Eminence the contents of absolutely every letter written to her, as well as every letter she has received over the past six months. So you can safely tell her the same. This will only help the cardinal trust her and spare her unnecessary unpleasant conversations, and you from more than unpleasant interrogations, the end of which, I think, you will eagerly await, even if that end means the death penalty for you."
“I don’t think His Majesty would approve of the torture and execution of Her Majesty’s faithful servant ,” La Porte said doubtfully.
"He won't approve, of course, since he's very kind to his subjects," Lapotrie agreed. "But he's not called Louis the Just for nothing. For him, justice is paramount. And justice demands that traitors be executed. So, reluctantly, he'll sign such a sentence."
“If you have any proof of my treason against the King or France, show it to me,” La Porte objected.
"His Eminence has deigned to grant you the opportunity to save your life, and even your position and your fortune, but only through sincere repentance ," Lapotrie said. "If I provide you with proof of your treason, your confession will not be necessary, and you will have no chance of salvation."
"But why do you suppose I know the contents of the letters the Queen wrote?" La Porte asked.
“You passed them on to their intended destination,” Lapotrie replied.
“But they were sealed,” La Porte objected.
"By you," Lapotrie clarified. "After all, you served as the Queen's secretary, cipher clerk, and personal postman. While as a postman you might not have known the contents of the letters, as a secretary you must know all the letters dictated to her, and as a cipher clerk you are simply obliged to know the contents of those letters that were encrypted."
“But Her Majesty did not order all letters to be encrypted,” La Porte objected.
"Okay, we'll limit ourselves to telling us the contents of only those letters you personally encrypted," Lapotrie agreed. "By the way, why did the Queen need to encrypt them?"
"These letters were destined for the Queen's relatives living in other countries," La Porte replied. "Her Majesty did not want her private family affairs to be exposed if the letters fell into the wrong hands. Isn't the Queen allowed to correspond with her brother or her aunt? And doesn't she have the right to take measures to ensure that family conversations don't become the property of idle gossip?"
"So, you agree to let us know the contents of those letters you encrypted?" Lapotrie repeated.
“If, as you say, Her Majesty has communicated to the Cardinal the contents of all her letters, then I have no objection to also communicating the contents of these letters ,” said La Porte.
“I’m listening to you ,” said Lapotrie, dipping his pen in the inkwell and preparing to write.
"You misunderstood me," La Porte clarified. "I meant that if the Queen had told the Cardinal the contents of the letters, then I could perhaps recount the contents of those letters, but only to the Cardinal, and only in the Queen's presence, and only after she had confirmed that she was no longer making a secret of it and agreed to my telling it to the person to whom she had already recounted it all."
Lapotrie threw the pen down on the table in anger.
"Le Mange!" he exclaimed.
A guard entered the door.
“Take Mr. La Pot to the punishment cell,” Lapotrie said dryly and left the interrogation room.

La Porte was awakened during the night and, before he could fully recover, was led into a carriage that traveled to the places where executions were carried out. Since, under Richelieu, state criminals were often executed at night during wartime to avoid unnecessary crowd unrest, La Porte had every reason to suspect he was being taken to his execution. The carriage first passed the corner of the Church of Saint-Paul, then the Cemetery of Saint-Jacques, then the Place de Gr;ve and the Cross of Trahoir. Each of these ominous places made La Porte's heart beat faster and his forehead tingle. Yet, after the carriage passed the last of these ominous places without stopping, La Porte realized that he might not yet be executed today. The carriage's journey ended in the courtyard of the Palais Cardinal, the cardinal's palace. The Prime Minister decided to interrogate his relative himself.
In the room where La Porte was escorted, Richelieu himself was seated in a soft armchair; on his left sat the keeper of the seal, Chancellor Pierre Seguier, Duke of Vilmore; on his right sat the Secretary of State Sublet de Noyer, who was a member of the Jesuit Order, something about which Richelieu was not aware.
 
"Monsieur La Porte!" exclaimed Richelieu, practically throwing himself into the prisoner's arms as if he were his best friend. "I am glad to see you as my guest, but I am saddened by the circumstances that have brought us together at such a late hour, here and now."
"I cannot answer in the same way, Mr. First Minister," replied La Porte. "I believe you are about to ask me questions which I fear I cannot answer without violating my official duties as Her Majesty's page, and without overstepping the bounds of acceptable modesty in regard to the august personage, respect for whom forbids any mortal from inquiring into matters of which Her Majesty has not deigned to inform anyone of her own free will."
"That's all true, my dear La Porte, that's all true!" Richelieu agreed. "But you forget that there is the will of His Majesty the King of France, against which the will of Her Majesty the Queen means nothing."
"So the questions you're going to ask me come from the King?" La Porte asked.
“Exactly so,” the cardinal confirmed.
“In that case, my answers are intended only for the ears of His Majesty, and I am ready to answer him in the absence of other witnesses,” replied La Porte.
"Think of such foolish devotion from one who doesn't even think of cherishing you!" Richelieu sneered. "Listen, La Porte. They found only five hundred livres on you. Is that your entire fortune? All you've earned in Her Majesty's service?"
“That was, indeed, the greater part of my fortune to date, but I serve not for the sake of money, but for the honor of serving my Queen,” La Porte answered with dignity.
“A man like you deserves more, no doubt, and if we come to an agreement, I am prepared to take you into my service with a much higher salary, counting from the day of your arrest in the Bastille ,” said Richelieu, smiling radiantly.
“I am forced to decline such a flattering offer, Your Eminence, since I am already in the service of a person occupying a somewhat higher position than you,” La Porte replied, realizing that he might be signing his own death warrant.
"Are you mistaken in thinking you've assumed a position with the Queen without my permission?" Richelieu chuckled. "Are you mistaken in thinking the Queen is more powerful than the Prime Minister? Listen, Mr. Postman, Cipher Clerk, Secretary, and Valet to the Royal Family, you know nothing about politics, so don't bother trying to. If, as you say, the Queen occupies a higher position than I do, let her order your release, an apology for what you've suffered, and, most importantly, that you not be treated as I intend to. We'll see how successful she is."
"I didn't mean actual power," La Porte replied, turning pale and sweating. "I merely said that Her Majesty is the embodiment of the monarchy, along with His Majesty, and that all others are merely their subjects."
“Your amendment is accepted,” Richelieu said peacefully. “I do not renounce my title as Her Majesty’s subject, nor His Majesty’s, but my duty, the duty of the First Minister of France, is to defend the monarchy, to protect the interests of the King, and ultimately to protect the Queen herself from herself, and from the rash actions she might commit under the influence of her so-called companions, who would lead her into conspiracies that could end disastrously even for her. Because, as you understand, the august marriage has not yet lived up to its primary purpose. His Majesty still has no heir. The Kingdom cannot exist under the constant threat of it passing into the hands of Monsieur, since the Queen Mother would effectively return to power. Do you want a new Marshal d’Ancre for France? Do you want a change in political course toward subordinate and allied relations with Spain and the Netherlands? Do you want the country to split?” The secession of La Rochelle, Lorraine, Navarre? Do you want a final break with Savoy? Is that what you're after? Do you want our islands and coastline to go to England and Spain, while the borderlands go to our warlike neighbors?
“I only serve my Queen,” La Porte said quietly.
"Then serve her, do for her what His Majesty and I are trying in vain to do for her own good!" exclaimed Richelieu. "Persuade her to repent and renounce her attempts to interfere in politics once and for all! Her duty is to love the King and bear princes and princesses. And yet she is plotting with that schemer de Chevreuse!"
“It is not my destiny to lecture Her Majesty,” La Porte answered modestly.
"Of course," replied Richelieu. "But wasn't it your duty to keep the Queen from taking rash steps to the detriment of the King?"
"I cannot know what harm will be done to His Majesty the King by Her Majesty the Queen continuing to communicate with someone dear to her," La Porte replied evasively. "Do I have the right to prevent the Queen from communicating with her brother, mother-in-law, brother-in-law, and cousins?"
"So you confirm that the Queen corresponded with the King of Spain, the Queen Mother, Monsieur, Henrietta of France, and the Duchess of Savoy?" Richelieu said happily.
“I didn’t say anything like that, I just said that the Queen, in my opinion, has the right to family feelings and to express them,” La Porte quickly corrected himself.
"Listen, my dear La Porte," Richelieu said, his voice soft and conciliatory. "After all, a subject's duty requires you to obey the King's orders. And His Majesty has ordered you to tell him what Her Majesty Queen Anne has already told him and me. You should simply confirm her confession with your testimony, which will ease both your lot and Her Majesty's."
"I can't confirm what I know nothing about," La Porte persisted. "In order to confirm what the Queen said, I must know exactly what she said, and, furthermore, I must be absolutely certain that that is what she said. That is, I must hear about her, what exactly she told the King and you, in order to confirm it."
"And you believe such confirmation can mean anything?" Richelieu asked with a grin. "Under these conditions, you can confirm any lie; you might as well simply tell me: 'I confirm everything Her Majesty says and deny everything she denies.'"
“This is precisely the formulation I would like to offer you, for lack of a better one,” La Porte meekly agreed.
"I'm not satisfied with this formulation!" Richelieu shouted irritably. "The King is not satisfied with this formulation, do you hear? His Majesty King Louis XIII wishes to hear from you not such a general formulation, but a detailed list of everything his dear august wife the Queen wrote and encrypted with your help—where exactly, what exactly, when, to whom—do you understand me?"
"I understand you perfectly, Your Eminence, but you must understand me too," La Porte persisted. "I cannot slander the Queen."
"Nobody's asking you to slander," Richelieu interrupted. "Tell the truth."
"I've already told you the truth," La Porte replied stubbornly. "I have nothing to report, since I don't know what the Queen said, and everything she didn't say didn't happen, since I completely agree with her opinion on the matter."
“Take this idiot back to the Bastille,” Richelieu snapped, and signaled that the interrogation was over.
Sublet de Noyer came out of the door and invited the convoy, which took La Porte out and took him back to the Bastille.

Chapter 75

The Cardinal entered the King's presence.
"Your Majesty, La Porte's interrogation has yielded nothing so far ," he said. "I'm saying it's only for now. I'll force him to tell me everything he knows, but to do that, I'll need to search the Saint-;tienne monastery and interrogate the abbess."
“I don’t understand you, Cardinal!” the King said angrily. “You promised to obtain proof of the Queen’s guilt. I even authorized her interrogation. Chancellor Seguier, I believe, was persistent enough. The Queen told me everything, if I’m not mistaken. The letters you intercepted don’t in the least expose her as a liar. She corresponded with her relatives and friends, but nothing she wrote to them deserves the mistrust I showed her, or the persecution that fell upon her and all those who assisted her in this correspondence. All these are insignificant details of her personal life. I admit, she spoke unflatteringly of you, Cardinal, but she has the right to her own opinion, which I, of course, do not share. Now you want me to allow your investigators to burst into the monastery and interrogate you? And besides, why should I interfere in these affairs of yours? Who, after all, is the First Minister and the Cardinal?” You or me? If you, as Prime Minister, must deal with the abbesses of the monastery, couldn't you, as Cardinal, at least spare me from interfering in church affairs? Act on your own if you deem it necessary, but don't involve me. I want to know the truth and I give you complete freedom to discover the whole truth. But don't ask more of me!
"You are absolutely right, Your Majesty," the cardinal replied with feigned humility. "But I believe I expressed myself imprecisely, which is probably why you misunderstood me. I merely meant that I am prepared to apologize to Her Majesty and admit that all the agencies subordinate to me were completely mistaken in bringing accusations against her. It appears that the Queen was, indeed, merely exchanging letters with her family on entirely innocent matters. Believe me, Your Majesty, that I desire nothing more than to completely and definitively clear your august spouse, Her Majesty the Queen, of even the slightest accusation, to offer her my most humble apologies, and to atone for the unpleasant moments of conversation with Chancellor Seguier that she experienced. But to achieve this, it would be extremely desirable to obtain definitive proof of her innocence, which requires reviewing the letters and drafts kept in the monastery of Saint-;tienne."
"So you care about the Queen?" the King asked with disbelief and some disappointment.
"I am always, hourly and minutely concerned for the Queen's welfare, Your Majesty!" Richelieu responded enthusiastically, without batting an eyelid. "If my duties as First Minister sometimes force me to be persistent in investigating the possible actions of even the most important and significant individuals, the results of which could pose a danger to France, then I always regret the measures that must sometimes be taken. And this is especially true when I have to ask unflattering questions of members of your, Your Majesty, august family. You know with what regret I had to learn of the deplorable actions of your venerable mother for the state! Even more sacred to me is the person of His Highness Monsieur and Her Majesty the Queen." And if circumstances force me, as you can see for yourself, I have to conduct thorough investigations, however, now that I am completely sure of her innocence, I would with a light heart and with joy in my soul complete the matter of finally clearing her good name from the slightest suspicion.
"So, the Queen is innocent," the King concluded with undisguised disappointment. "You just need to prove it definitively. But isn't your conviction enough?"
"My conviction is quite sufficient for the case to be dropped and for an apology on my part," Richelieu agreed. "But I would like the apology to be offered in the name of the civil service, and indeed in your name, Your Majesty, but only on the basis of actual evidence of her innocence, so that there would be no grounds later for retracting this apology and again wasting my soul with baseless suspicions against Her Majesty."
"An apology on my behalf?" Louis asked. "Are you sure that's necessary? There really must be good reasons for it. Very well, I'll send Seguier to the monastery of Saint-;tienne. Perhaps then an apology on my behalf won't be necessary."
"That would be unfortunate, Your Majesty, but we must not rule it out," Richelieu replied. "It is absolutely possible that some new letters, or drafts of them, or even the key to the cipher of some letters, will be found."
“Go ahead,” the King agreed in a more upbeat mood.
“The monastery is not subject to secular authority in such delicate matters,” Richelieu clarified.
- So accompany Segyo, since I believe the abbess will obey the cardinal?
"That would lend such a visit an overly official air," Richelieu retorted softly. "It would be better if he were accompanied by Monsieur de Gondi, the Archbishop of Paris. The visit could be presented as a completely routine inspection."
"Good!" the King exclaimed impatiently. "I will send Gondi along with Segyo. That's all, I hope?"
"Your Majesty was not celebrated as Louis the Just in vain!" the cardinal replied flatteringly.
"Yes, I am!" the King agreed proudly, his mood having improved considerably.

The Mother Abbess denied everything, even under threat of excommunication. This led Richelieu to suspect that Gondi had warned her of the impending visit. This, of course, was the case. Archbishop Gondi, in order to divert suspicion from himself, feigned extreme persistence and even deposed the Mother Abbess, immediately appointing a new abbess from among the more compliant nuns. S;guier and his men discovered only old and insignificant letters and drafts from the Queen.
Richelieu then handed Seguier a copy of a previously intercepted letter from the Spanish ambassador, the Marquis de Mirabel, and told him to report it as having been found in the monastery. The text of this letter left no doubt that it was a reply, implying that the Queen herself had also written to Mirabel, a far more serious offense than corresponding with the Duchess de Chevreuse. Indeed, the Queen had no right to communicate with the Spanish ambassador, as she was thereby usurping her husband's authority over foreign policy, as such letters could only be sent in the King's name or on his instructions, on behalf of those to whom such authority had been granted. The Queen was in no way the person to whom the King had entrusted the conduct of official policy toward Spain. Therefore, such a letter incriminated her. The copy had been so skillfully made that the Queen believed it to be her genuine letter. She therefore snatched it from the chancellor's hands and hid it in her bosom, believing that this place was inaccessible to all, as even the King would not dare touch the Queen's breast without her permission. However, Seguier, intoxicated by his temporary power, which allowed him to interrogate and search the Queen herself, used the fire tongs to extract the letter from the Queen's bodice and searched all her personal belongings. The Queen was shocked by such unceremonious treatment, which would have been unthinkable for a royal person in Spain, and she fainted, or, more likely, feigned it. She then lay in bed for two days, feigning a fever, not touching food, and refusing to receive anyone. During this time, the cardinal's bloodhounds rummaged through all her closets, chests, and boxes. All her servants were interrogated.
Only then did the Queen realize she had fallen for Richelieu's trick, for if she had denied knowing about the letter, it would have been revealed to be merely a copy. Her attempt to hide it in her bodice betrayed her, as it proved that such a letter existed and that she knew about it. Almost all of the Queen's servants and friends who had not yet been captured hastened to leave her, to avoid the risk of pursuit. Only de Brienne, de Tr;ville, de Guitaut, de La Rochefoucauld, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, and myself remained with her. The rest were either captured, far away, or had hastened to escape. To the Queen's credit, it must be acknowledged that she was far more concerned for her friends than for herself, as she was almost entirely unconcerned about her own fate. Monsieur de Brienne explained to her the full gravity of the situation. The King, having learned of her behavior regarding the copy of Mirabel's letter, was once again filled with suspicion and hostility toward the Queen. Brienne warned the Queen that the King was seriously considering annulment, after which the ostracized Anne of Austria could be sent to the fortress of Le Havre, which would effectively be a prison sentence no better than confinement in a convent. Some even speculated that the King intended to marry the Cardinal's niece, Madame de Combalet, for whom he had felt a strong attraction in his youth.
The Queen decided on extreme measures. She summoned the bailiff, Lehar, and in his presence, placing her hand on the Bible, swore that she had never written any political letters abroad and had never entered into any conspiracy with anyone. This was a lie, of course, but who would have dared tell her so? Monsieur Lehar was ordered to convey this sworn confession to the Cardinal and inform him that the Queen had used her servant exclusively for correspondence with her friend, the Duchess de Chevreuse. The Queen informed her confessor, as well as the King's confessor, Father Caussin, a Jesuit and my immediate superior within the Order, for transmission to the King that Cardinal Richelieu had orchestrated all her persecution solely out of hostility toward her, stemming from accumulated grievances. The Queen did not dare inform the King that Richelieu had proposed an intimate relationship with her in order to produce an heir to the throne. But she recalled the occasion when the Cardinal had tried to strike up a conversation with her right on the road to the Tuileries. A year earlier, his carriage had met the Queen's. Richelieu had greeted the Queen respectfully and asked her to stop for a short conversation. The Queen had rejected the offer, saying that if the Cardinal wished to speak with her, he should make an appointment at her convenience; right now, she was rushing about her business. The Cardinal had been displeased and seemed offended. Now, however, he was bringing up his grievances and taking revenge for her lack of friendliness.
The Queen's Master of the Horse, Monsieur Patroclus, also interceded for her. Father Caussin pleaded with the King, arguing that even if the Queen were guilty of anything, she had already more than atoned for it with the suffering she had endured during this investigation. But Richelieu was not appeased. Through Monsieur Legras, he conveyed to her that he did not believe her oath, as it contradicted the reliable information he had.
The Queen invited the Cardinal to meet and explain frankly what he wanted from her.
Richelieu came to her accompanied by two of his closest associates, secretaries of state and members of the royal council. The first was L;on Bouthillier de Chavigny, Baron de la Gr;ve et d'Antibes, and the second was Fran;ois Sublet de Noyer. Neither of them was a member of the Jesuit Order, but I know the conversation that took place between them.
“Your Majesty, in the presence of these two gentlemen, whom your august husband has instructed to testify that my words come from him and are in full accordance with His Majesty’s orders, I am authorized to propose to you, in the name of the King, terms of reconciliation,” Richelieu began.
"Is that so?" the Queen exclaimed. "Since when are family matters resolved by such a grand embassy? I've already resigned myself to the fact that the King doesn't deign to visit me very often, leaving me to wonder why he ever married me when his only interest in me as a wife is those few visits, which serve only to express his displeasure with me!"
The cardinal fell silent and bowed his head, feigning polite attention.
At that moment, the Queen was overcome with horror. She realized that by asking, "Why did you marry me?" she had touched on a topic that should never have been broached. For if the Cardinal replied that the King had married so that the Queen would bear him heirs, then, given that after twenty-one years of marriage she had still not produced a Dauphin, the King might well ask for an annulment of this barren marriage. If the conversation had gone in that direction, no one would have taken into account that the King himself hadn't particularly tried to achieve success in this area. They would have recalled her two miscarriages, especially the first, which had occurred due to her carelessness, and then, along with those suspicions that were now gaining the force of accusations, the King's intentions, which de Brienne had warned her about, could have begun to come to fruition.
“I hope, Your Grace, that you have come to give me some good advice on how I should behave so that the King would want to grace me with his visit more often,” the Queen said immediately, and her face lit up with a false, radiant smile, which she bestowed on all three of her visitors in turn.
"That's precisely why we came to you, Your Majesty," the cardinal replied. "His Majesty is very displeased with your correspondence with unfriendly countries, but he would very much like to make peace with you and forgive you, and to this end he offers you to listen to his terms of reconciliation."
"Conditions?!" the Queen asked haughtily. "So I'm condemned and must beg for forgiveness?!"
“Note, Your Majesty, that it was not I who said this, but if you yourself characterized the situation in this way, I do not dare argue with you,” the cardinal replied softly.
Anna once again realized that she had fallen into a trap that she had set for herself.
“I will listen to what my husband has told me to tell you, although I would prefer to hear it from his own lips,” the Queen said peacefully.
“Your husband, His Majesty King Louis XIII, has ordered me to convey to you that he is prepared to forget everything and forgive you, provided that you admit your guilt and promise to comply in future with the light restrictions that His Majesty is pleased to impose on your correspondence.
"So, I have no choice!" the Queen replied, resuming her tone of injured innocence. "The King claims I'm guilty, and I can only admit it. Well, then, I admit it, for I swore on the altar never to contradict my husband when I married him. True, I didn't imagine I'd be forbidden from having friends or communicating with my family. But I admit that I'm guilty of having friends and corresponding with my brother."
"I said that you must confess and confess to everything, Your Majesty," the Cardinal retorted softly. "That is the King's demand. You have not confessed to everything the King already knows. His Majesty knows that you corresponded with your brothers, who are waging war against His Majesty. Perhaps you communicated information that you considered insignificant, but anything the Queen may know is of the utmost importance to the enemies of France and the King. During the war, you simply should not have corresponded with the leaders of states at war with us, regardless of your family ties to them." By marrying the King of France, the Princess of Spain became Queen of France, your subjects here in France, your sovereign here in France, and your duty as a subject and as a spouse and as Queen is to be guided exclusively by the interests of France in all your actions which may, as a result of or against your will, cause injury to France or give advantage to a country in military conflict with France.
“Ask everyone to leave except you, Your Holiness, so that we can discuss all the circumstances in more detail ,” the Queen said at last.

Chapter 76

"Speak, Your Majesty ," said the cardinal, when his two companions had left. "I am all attention."
— First, Your Eminence, tell me everything you would like to say, I will listen to you attentively, I promise.
"Your Majesty, your husband, King Louis XIII, has authorized me to obtain your written promise that you will no longer write abroad with any information or make any requests ," Richelieu said. "He will henceforth regard such actions not only as actions aimed at undermining the political sovereignty of France, but also as outright disobedience, that is, rebellion against his royal authority. You will no longer be able to plead that you did not imagine that such letters could cause any harm to the kingdom."
"Is that all?" the Queen asked, trying not to show any emotion, as she hadn't yet decided whether it would be better in the circumstances to feign righteous anger or to present herself as an innocent victim.
"Without relying entirely on your promise, His Majesty intends to take measures to make impossible any correspondence between you and any foreign citizens without his knowledge of the contents of this letter and his approval of its dispatch," the cardinal continued. "However, His Majesty's good advice is that you refrain from such correspondence altogether. Knowing that you used a cipher for some of your letters, His Majesty does not insist that you give him the keys to this cipher, but he warns you that if you write even a single, even a single line, ciphered letter, he will return to the matter and demand that you show him the ciphers in your possession, so that he may read not only this letter, the appearance of which I strongly caution you against, but also those letters that are currently unread but are available in copies, and some in original form." His Majesty relies entirely on your word that the contents of these letters are entirely innocent, but warns you that if you disobey, he will be forced to verify whether this is so, using the most decisive methods.
At that moment, the Queen recalled my message, conveyed to her through the Duchess de Chevreuse, that I had killed Cardinal du Perrage's most skilled codebreaker in a duel, and she silently thanked the man who had done it—me. Naturally, she didn't know it was me, since it's not customary to boast of such feats. Moreover, caution compelled me to be modest, for I couldn't entirely rely on my secret being kept if anyone other than Porthos and Marie knew it. And even without that, there was still the second duelist, de Gravue, who could have revealed it.
"These ciphers have been lost," the Queen replied. "They were invented by Marie de Chevreuse and me solely to prevent our little feminine secrets from suddenly becoming the property of immodest men. Believe me, Cardinal, there is nothing reprehensible in the encrypted letters, but there is much that the King would not wish to read under any circumstances, as it would offend his natural modesty regarding those little feminine secrets that distinguish a woman's nature, her physiology, if you will. So I am happy that the King will not read these letters and his modesty will not be harmed, but I regret that I will not be able to prove my words by handing over these ciphers to some modest woman who could read them and fully confirm my words."
"I believe you completely, Your Majesty," the cardinal lied without batting an eyelid, confirming his words with a gentle yet respectful smile. "The order banning encrypted correspondence comes from the King, and I cannot cancel or change it. Therefore, if this order is violated, the King orders you to act as he promised in his warning, and I believe he will find people who will solve the problem of the lost codes."
"Are you threatening me, Your Eminence?" the Queen asked in a calm, even tone that didn't quite match the nature of her question.
“I am explaining to you the essence of the King’s order,” Richelieu replied in an unctuous voice.
"Why are you pursuing me, Your Eminence?" the Queen asked wearily. "Do you want to get from me something you will never get? Is that all there is to it?"
"I would also like to discuss this with you, Your Majesty," the cardinal replied, his face expressing relief. "I know someone has spread a rumor that I am seeking your special favor. This rumor has reached the King."
"Can I shut everyone's mouths?" the Queen asked with cold contempt. "Am I responsible for the conjectures that spring from their overheated heads?"
"Can I understand your words to mean that these rumors do not originate with you?" the cardinal asked.
"How could you allow me to spread such vile gossip about myself?" the Queen flared up.
“They could have spread not directly from you, but by your indulgent permission,” the cardinal persisted.
"You mean to say that I might hint to one of my ladies-in-waiting that I would like to have my good name slandered by evil tongues?" asked the Queen with a tired smile.
"Could you perhaps forgive someone too talkative for such immodesty?" asked the cardinal.
"Enough!" cried the Queen. "I could not invent such a rumor about myself, nor could I spread it. And if anyone who calls himself my friend, and whom I have always considered my friend, spreads such rumors, he is no longer my friend, whoever he may be."
"I expected no other answer, Your Majesty," the cardinal replied, not entirely sincerely. "Forgive my question, but I was forced to ask it, since these rumors reached me through people sensible enough and knowledgeable enough for me to ignore them. I won't name names, but they are highly respected people, such as, for example, Patroclus, or Father Caussin, or, say, La Rochefoucauld. I'm not naming these people, I'm simply saying that those who repeat these rumors inspire no less respect and trust than the individuals listed."
"You are killing me," the Queen sighed. "There was a time when I myself would have thought that this was exactly what you were after, but I would never have allowed this secret to go beyond my suspicions and doubts."
"May I also be assured that you have never complained to His Majesty about me?" the cardinal asked. "I do not mean only the accusations mentioned."
"Oh, Your Eminence!" the Queen exclaimed angrily. "How can I not notice that you are persecuting me? I am not surprised by the rumors you speak of, since it is obvious to any lowly maid in the Louvre that you are taking revenge on me for something, looking for an excuse to punish me, turning the King against me. I live in an atmosphere of constant scrutiny, suspicion, reproach; I feel myself being watched at every step! Did I, a Spanish princess, ever imagine that the fate of the Queen of France would be so unenviable? That I would not have the freedom to choose my friends, to communicate with my family and loved ones, even by letter? Can I be happy in such hell? It seems to me that the Queen of France is the most disenfranchised woman in the Louvre, and perhaps in all of France.
"Your Majesty, let me assure you that this is far from the truth, and very far from the true state of affairs," the cardinal objected. "You are the most important person in the Kingdom after the King, but you have the power to become even more important, and you know it."
"You speak of the birth of an heir," the Queen replied wearily. "It seems I will never live to see that happiness. God has turned his back on me, as has the King."
"If the King has turned away from you, then God has no role to play, since you are not the Virgin Mary, and the Dauphin, long and vainly awaited, is not Jesus Christ," the Cardinal countered. "It is hardly reasonable to hope for the miracle of an immaculate conception, so it would be better to limit ourselves to wishing for a vicious conception, if I may use that term. However, who would dare call the Queen's union with the King vicious for the birth of the Dauphin? Heaven has sanctioned this marriage, and Heaven expects from you the same as all citizens of France. As helpful as prayers asking God for the birth of a Dauphin may be, these prayers must be supported by natural means, fulfilling the Lord's commandment, ' Multiply and multiply.'"
"You're still saying the same thing," the Queen said sadly. "His Majesty hasn't honored me with courteous visits for a very long time. Moreover, even when such visits do occur, they usually produce no results."
"Have you ever considered, Your Majesty, the events that almost inevitably await France in the very near future if an heir does not appear within the next two years?" the cardinal asked. "Indeed, we may not even have those two years. A year and a half, no, a year. Exactly a year. That's how much time I can give you to finally resolve this problem."
"You, Your Eminence, dare to set me a deadline in a matter in which only the Lord, as you yourself know, is sovereign, and no one else?" the Queen exclaimed, looking at the Cardinal with a mixture of horror and admiration.
"Listen, Your Majesty!" exclaimed Richelieu, with a passion that bespoke a politician of the highest order, and not a prelate in love with the Queen. "We, the King and I, are creating a new type of state; we are creating a France that will be great for centuries. It will be the most brilliant state in Europe, and Paris will rightfully be considered the capital of the world. Can't you see that without a decisive hand governing the entire state, France is doomed to be torn to pieces? Your late father-in-law, King Henry IV , the great King Henry IV , who was forced all his life to watch as various princes, great and small, princes of the blood and princes of foreign origin, dukes and cardinals, forming short-lived alliances, undermined and plundered the country?" These alliances fell apart not only due to their own defeats, but far more often because of their own victories, as the temporarily united avaricious aggrandizers united as easily against a common enemy as they disunited in attempts to snatch a bigger piece for themselves, bringing the state to a state of complete collapse, poverty, and near-anarchy. Is it possible to reconcile a situation in which the King is forced to enter his own capital by force? Or a situation in which this same capital must be taken by a protracted siege? These terrible but never-ending civil wars, religious strife, provincial rebellions, behind-the-scenes games and intrigues of everyone—all this led to the King being forced to borrow money from his courtiers for the most urgent needs! What has royal power become? Mere appearances! And what is a state without strong royal authority? Nothing! Would you like France to suffer the fate of petty fragmentation, like some Germany, where every elector fancies himself King, but in reality, they are ruined nobles with a patch of land and a band of bandits ready to pillage under their leadership? A country where only the eldest son inherited whatever little remained in the family, while younger sons were forced to become abbots or mercenaries to support themselves? Is that the kind of France we need? And what will happen to the kingdom if your august husband passes away without leaving a son, a Dauphin? You know it yourself. The heir to the throne is considered to be Monsieur, the current official Dauphin, Gaston d'Orl;ans. He cowardly fled abroad and from there is plotting numerous intrigues to undermine the power of his brother and King, hoping that he will die as soon as possible, freeing the throne for him! If I believed that you hoped to marry him after your husband's death...
"No! No! Never! This proposal is criminal, such a suggestion is madness, and the very thought of it is repugnant to me!" the Queen exclaimed with feeling.
"I know, Your Majesty," Richelieu replied softly. "I might have doubted your words earlier, but believe me, I believe you. But I cannot vouch for His Majesty. Perhaps he suspects you of this intention, and perhaps for this reason he does not wish to see you?"
"Oh my God, what nonsense!" Anna exclaimed. "What stupidity? How could such a thing be possible?"
"Look what comes of all this," the cardinal continued calmly. "The King is forced to suspect you of such intentions because you have not produced an heir for him. And for this very same reason, he neither visits you nor makes any effort to ensure that an heir is born to you, Your Majesty. What must this inevitably lead to?"
"Oh, I'll never be a mother!" the Queen said doomedly.
“You must become the mother of the future King,” Richelieu replied, emphasizing the word “must.” “You must do everything, even against the King’s wishes, to ensure that an heir appears. Only then will this vicious circle be broken. You must bear a son , or better yet, two sons, one after the other. The younger one will be a spare. But there must be only one Dauphin, and This must be your son , Your Majesty!
"But don't I want the same thing?" cried the Queen.
"Your Majesty, there is no time," Richelieu continued, as if not noticing the Queen's final words. "The King is ill, very ill. Thank God he is still alive, but we cannot hope that the Lord will grant him many more years. How long he has left, no one knows, but if the Lord grants him another six or seven years, it will be His greatest mercy."
"Six or seven?" the Queen asked in horror. "You think so?"
"I know that, Your Majesty," the Cardinal replied dryly. "And I also know that I will not outlive it. I will go before then. Who will you be left with, Your Majesty? With Gaston, with your mother-in-law Marie de Medici, and with your father-in-law's bastards, these legitimized princes?! They will all be vying for the crown of France, and you will not be able to hold it! At best, you will be thrown into a convent! And at worst..."
"You say terrible things, Monsignor!" cried the Queen.
“Remember what happened to Henry III ?” asked the cardinal. “What happened to Henry IV ? Clements and Ravaillacs are still around in France! And not only there. Just remember Buckingham! Nothing can stop a fanatic’s knife aimed at a royal personage unless that personage ensures her own safety, gaining the support of the most important nobles and protecting herself with a strong company of bodyguards at every ceremonial outing! And all this can only be achieved by one! Power must be unquestionably legitimate. No one should doubt the monarch’s right to the throne he occupies. By ‘no one,’ I don’t mean fanatics, but those individuals who exert at least some influence in the state. All the nobility must bow to the King’s unquestionable right to pardon and execute anyone who disobeys him. Only then is this power worth anything.” Leave the throne of France without a son for the King, and you leave France immersed in long and bloody civil wars. There must be one heir to the throne. This is the fundamental principle of stability. One and only one, unquestionable, universally recognized. And for this to happen, it must be the King's son, a boy, and it is highly desirable that he be mature enough by the time the burden of power falls upon him. But even if he does not reach maturity by this tragic event, his very existence changes many things. If the King dies and the Queen gives birth to a son no later than nine months after his death, then this son is considered the King's son and the throne goes to him. This is possible. But only if the Queen has powerful support, such as a prime minister. Someone strong, authoritative, holding all the reins of power in his hands. Someone like me. But I am not destined to outlive your husband. My health is even worse than his. We are two aging men who hold all power in our hands; we could pass away at the same time, or with a short interval, one after the other, but I believe I will be the first. Therefore, you must produce an heir sooner than nine months after the King's death. Much sooner. As soon as possible . And you already have very little time left. That is why I did not say "desirable," I said "you should," "you must." There is no doubt about it. An heir must appear no later than a year from now. I will not give you more time, because fate will not give you more time.
"But how can this be accomplished?" asked the stunned Queen.
"As you know, there are two paths to this," the cardinal replied. "The path dictated by duty and heaven must work. But if it doesn't, you are left with another path. You suspected me of intending to assist you in solving this problem."
“I didn’t say that,” the Queen objected.
"First of all, they're talking about it in the Louvre, and it doesn't matter where these outrageous rumors originated," the cardinal replied dispassionately. "I won't be able to help you solve this problem unless I'm completely cleared of such suspicions. You need my help and my friendship, but first you must help me clear myself of this suspicion. After all, if the King suspects me of such intentions, he will never trust me to watch you."
"Oh, my God! What are you saying?" the Queen exclaimed.
"I am telling you what you need to know," the Cardinal replied calmly. "For you know very well that when the King dies and his Dowager Queen announces her pregnancy, she is subjected to such strict surveillance that, if she is not pregnant, she will have no way of having her claim subsequently confirmed! If the King has not left his seed in the Queen before his death, no one will be able to do so, for the controls will be extremely strict. And above all, of course, this will be ensured by the King's brother, who is destined to inherit the crown in the event of a false pregnancy. Thus, the Queen will be surrounded by the strictest control, I would say the most severe control."
“I understand the need for such measures,” the Queen said sadly.
"But if the King visits the Queen, and she then announces her pregnancy, won't the same thing happen?" the Cardinal asked, silently looking the Queen in the eye.
“You are saying that…” the Queen said and suddenly fell silent, deep in thought.
"I'm saying that I undertake, by my authority, to arrange for the King to pay you a gallant visit no later than within the next three, no, two months, " said Richelieu. "You, for your part, must make every effort to ensure that this visit has the desired consequences for all. But if these desired consequences do not occur, then at least a meeting will take place that will leave the King with no grounds for doubting the paternity of the unborn child. Then, it seems to me, these events can and should be initiated with the assistance of another person worthy of this honor, who will not be able to subsequently reveal such assistance rendered by him."
“You say terrible things, Cardinal,” whispered the Queen.
"Terrible things will happen if the King dies childless," Richelieu dismissed the Queen's words. "I'm talking about real things now, about what you must do for the good of France. Now consider who could perform four crucial tasks in this undertaking. First, who could arrange for the King to pay you a gallant visit in the next two months, given that he is currently completely unwilling to do so, dividing his affections between his former favorite, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, and his emerging favorite, Mademoiselle de Lafayette?"
“It seems impossible to me,” said the Queen, barely audibly.
"I undertake to arrange for the King to place his pillow next to yours," Richelieu replied. "Who else can arrange that? That was my 'first .' Second, who can arrange for the right person to meet with you for the time necessary to resolve the problem should His Majesty's actions prove unsuccessful?"
“There is no such person,” replied the Queen.
"And finally, thirdly, who can remove this man and place him where he can no longer tell anyone about the mission he carried out?" the cardinal asked.
“I believe that only you can do this, Your Eminence,” the Queen replied.
"And please note that this person, who may be entrusted with such a responsible mission, must not be a random person," continued the inexorable Richelieu. "This person, in my opinion, must have the right to sire the future King of France. Forgive me, Your Majesty, for calling a spade a spade. He must be a prince of the blood. The son of your father-in-law, King Henry IV . His eldest son."
“But his eldest son is Louis XIII ,” the Queen objected.
"Oh, how mistaken you are, Your Majesty!" exclaimed Richelieu. "I'm speaking of the eldest son. But not necessarily born in wedlock. However, certainly born specifically to Henry IV ."
"Oh, my God, how terrible this all is!" cried the Queen.
"You would feel differently if you knew that your mother-in-law, the Queen Mother Marie de Medici, once committed the very act you described as so terrible," Richelieu replied. "You can believe me, since I know of it firsthand. I assume you are aware of the relationship I had for some time with your mother-in-law, Queen Marie? The very best. Such a relationship where such things are not hidden, since between people in such relationships nothing remains hidden."
The Queen was almost in a fainting state from these words.
“Listen, Your Majesty,” Richelieu said quietly and clearly. “Your husband is not the son of King Henry IV . He does not know this and will never know, God willing. But it is in your power, yours and yours alone, to ensure that your son is the grandson of King Henry IV . In this case, justice will prevail. Formally, he will be the son of Louis XIII and on this basis will have every right to the throne of France, but in fact, he will be the son of the eldest son of King Henry IV , whom our good late King Henry IV intended to legitimize and to whom he intended to leave the throne and crown of France. You will simply restore justice, and you will not need to start intrigues or stage a coup. The crown will be returned to the family of the great King Henry IV . Everyone will bow before you, unaware of this feat. All of France, and I first among them, will praise you for the birth of the long-awaited Dauphin. On this day, I will kiss your hand with trepidation, the hand of the new Queen Mother.
“You can kiss her right now,” said the Queen, extending her diamond-studded right hand to the Cardinal.
“I am not yet worthy of this,” Richelieu objected and respectfully knelt before the Queen.
"What should I do?" asked the Queen.
"To sign a penitential document that I will draw up to appease the King," the Cardinal replied. "Furthermore, to dispel any doubts the King may have had regarding the suspicion that I sought your special attention and encroached on your honor, so that I would not lose his trust."
"It will be done!" cried the Queen.
"Also, I beg you, Your Majesty, to express your constant dissatisfaction with me, complain to the King about my excessive guardianship, and convince him that you feel uneasy in the presence of the numerous spies with whom I have surrounded you. Only then will the King trust me to protect your honor and innocence after the event that could have led to the death of the heir to the throne. For my part, if you fulfill these conditions, I promise that in less than two months the King will honor you with a visit."
"Do you promise me this?" asked the Queen.
"I will do so even if it means burning my palace, the Palais Cardinal, to the ground," the Cardinal replied. "Furthermore, I will give you Spanish wine, which will put even a prude like His Majesty into a romantic mood and make him remember his marital rights. Even if he doesn't complete the deed, he will sleep the happy sleep of a baby, and in the morning he won't be able to be sure whether he has fulfilled his marital duty to the end or, as usual, neglected it. This will be enough for him to acknowledge the heir as his own. The rest will depend on you. So don't forget to complain at every opportunity about my excessive overprotection."

After these words, Richelieu bowed to the Queen and left with the most respectful air.
The Queen thought for a long time. All this time, her face was filled with a variety of emotions, from horror to delight. Finally, she rang the bell, ordered her undressed, and lay down to sleep, where she fell asleep almost immediately. Her sleep was peaceful and long.

Chapter 77

The Cardinal dictated a draft of the Queen's confession, which she rewrote with feigned indignation in the presence of the two aforementioned individuals, deleting the phrase about her actions contradicting her promise to the King. This "confession" stated that the Queen admitted to corresponding with her brother, the Cardinal-Infante, with the Marquis of Mirabel, and with Gerbier, the English resident in Flanders. Since correspondence with the Queen Mother, Gaston d'Orl;ans, and the Duchess of Chevreuse was not mentioned in this confession, it could be concluded that this correspondence was not held against her.
Specific communications were mentioned which were said to be disagreeable to the King, namely, Mirabel's information about the agreement between the King and Lorraine, and the Queen's expressed regrets that France was moving closer to England instead of being an ally of Spain.
At the end of the document, the Queen promised never to make such mistakes again, after which the King made a postscript that, by virtue of this confession, he forgives the Queen and wishes to completely forget this misunderstanding, and also intends to live with the Queen as a good husband and a good King.
After signing the document, the King and Queen feigned joy and embraced, each likely cursing the other inwardly. An unpleasant surprise was the inclusion of a note, written, of course, by the Cardinal, but signed by the King. It stated that the King forbade the Queen to correspond with anyone without his knowledge and consent. Henceforth, all letters from the Queen were to be sealed by the Chamberlain, the Keeper of the Queen's Wardrobe and Jewels. After the King had read them, the chambermaid was forbidden to carry writing materials for the Queen. The Queen was also forbidden to go to a convent without the King's permission, and the Keeper of the Jewels and Wardrobe was to follow the Queen wherever she went. Of course, both the King and Queen knew she was the Cardinal's spy.
There were also postscripts stating that the Queen should be aware that if she failed to keep her promise, wrote to or ordered anyone to write to other countries, or received correspondence from them, she would thereby forfeit the pardon the King had granted her with this document. The Queen was also forbidden to correspond with the Duchess of Chevreuse or any intermediaries delivering letters to her. Among these were Mr. Kraft and Mr. La Rochefoucauld, since the King knew nothing of me. It seems inexplicable, at first glance, why the Cardinal did not include the Archbishop of Tours in this list. I believe he decided to leave certain channels of communication for the Queen that he could maintain under his complete control, rightly believing that if the Queen were deprived of all known channels of communication, she would find new ones, whereas if she were left with less reliable ones, then, should she decide to break her promise, she would use precisely these channels, believing them to be undisclosed.
This once again demonstrated the cardinal's cunning and intelligence.
After signing this agreement, the Cardinal again told the King that the Queen had made incomplete confessions, and that it would be advisable to re-examine La Porte and the abbess of the monastery of Saint-Etienne, since the testimonies of all three differed significantly.
The abbess confessed to everything demanded of her, but La Porte requested that the Queen write him a letter of authorization for a confession, and that he be informed of exactly what he was to confess. The cunning courtier chose a formula that suggested he didn't understand what he was supposed to confess to, but was prepared to confess in advance to whatever the Queen ordered him to confess to. Naturally, a confession made in such a form would have no meaning or effect.
La Porte tried to protect the Queen even at the cost of his life, and the Queen wanted to save La Porte even at the cost of her humiliation.
Richelieu again ordered La Porte to be brought to him for interrogation, and showed him a letter signed by the Queen, in which she urged him to tell the Cardinal the whole truth about all the questions that Richelieu would ask him.
"Don't ruin yourself, Monsieur La Porte," the Cardinal said softly. "You see for yourself that the Queen has confessed everything, and for the King to fully believe her confession, all that's needed is confirmation—that is, for you to report the same. The paper has already been signed declaring the King's pardon of Her Majesty; all that remains is empty formalities."
"But you're asking me to save myself by revealing something about the Queen that will destroy her!" La Porte objected. "After all, if we're talking about her actions, which she's not held responsible for, then they probably don't interest you. For my part, I don't see what I could possibly reveal that would require an investigation."
"But you promised to confess everything if you received the Queen's permission to do so!" Richelieu exclaimed. "I'm showing you such permission, signed by the Queen. If you don't confess, you're breaking your own promise!"
“But I asked the Queen not only to allow me to confess, but also to tell me what exactly I should confess to,” La Porte persisted.
Truly, it takes nerve to argue so persistently with Richelieu or to feign stupidity so skillfully. Naturally, Richelieu lost his patience.
"Is it true that Mademoiselle de Hautefort instructed the Marquis de La Rochefoucauld to organize the Queen's escape to the Netherlands?" Richelieu asked, looking La Porte in the eye.
La Porte did not expect such a turn of events, because even if such questions had been raised, he had heard nothing about it.
"That certainly never happened!" exclaimed La Porte.
The cardinal laughed and ordered La Porta to be taken away.
"Do you know what just amused me, Le Mal?" he asked the secretary. "The conviction with which La Porte refuted the assumption I made to him! You, of course, can't guess why it seemed funny."
“No, Monseigneur, I have no idea,” agreed Michel Le Mal.
"I remembered how one baron, doubting that all his numerous children were really his, said to his wife: 'You know, Marie, it seems to me that Pierre doesn't look like me at all. Did you have him from some neighbor?' - 'Oh, no, no!' exclaimed Marie. 'Pierre is precisely your son!'"
Michel Le Mal grinned and tried to look intelligent.
"I want to say that the fury with which La Porte denied that very last question I asked him gives him away completely, and I understand perfectly well the specific instances in which I asked him questions that contained assumptions he denied less vehemently," the cardinal concluded. "His reaction to my questions was better than any confession. Now I know everything. Absolutely everything I wanted to know about this matter."
"May I ask, Monseigneur," Le Mal replied. "Did you consider the possibility that the Queen might flee to the Netherlands?"
"The Queen has an aunt, Clara Eugenia, in the Netherlands," the cardinal replied. "She's the ruler of the Netherlands, as you know. Such an escape could provide her with refuge and a perfectly comfortable and peaceful life. She could have planned something like that."
"But couldn't she plan this in the future?" asked Le Mal.
“No,” the cardinal answered confidently. “Not now.”

It must be said that La Porte was facing yet another intense interrogation. This one was entrusted to Monsieur Laffema, who would have been willing to crush the poor fellow's feet or knees, or perhaps both, since he had the equipment for it. But fortunately, Mademoiselle de Hautefort handed me a note detailing exactly what the Queen had confessed to and informed me that this note should be delivered to La Porte in the Bastille. The note contained the Queen's confirmation that she permitted, and even commanded, La Porte to confess to the same thing. I used the same tactic I described earlier: a man was temporarily placed in the Bastille who found a way to pass the note along a chain of command, which also included a guard belonging to the Order. La Porte read the note and destroyed it by swallowing it. He pretended to be a little stubborn, but did not push the interrogation to the extreme. Pretending to be afraid that he would be tortured, he stated everything that he had to state, according to the Queen’s command.
"How simple it all is!" exclaimed the cardinal, as Laffema placed the interrogation report on his desk, each page signed by La Porte. "I thought this fellow would continue to be stubborn. So I was wrong about him; he seemed much stronger to me. Well, leave him alone. In the Bastille, of course. Let him just sit there for a while, and come to his senses. We'll let him out a little later. Broken-spirited men are useful to us in freedom."
"So he's not guilty?" Laffema asked.
"Remember, Laffema," replied Richelieu. "There is not a single innocent person today who can be said with certainty to remain innocent tomorrow. We have only prevented one crime, prevented one conspiracy, but we have not eradicated crime as such, nor have we prevented all conspiracies that may arise in the future. Since you and I know that La Porte can be broken, it is better for us to have him among the potential conspirators. But for him to be able to return to that camp, we must keep him in the Bastille for another five or six months. Seven would be better. Otherwise, he might not be accepted back if we release him too hastily. In fact, among the nobles who surround the Queen by her personal choice, there are no innocent people, only those who have not yet been exposed."
Poor La Porte remained in the Bastille for another seven months, though his confinement wasn't particularly onerous, especially compared to the first two weeks. The concessions made to him made his stay there considerably easier. Porthos once said to himself that he wouldn't be upset if he went to Hell: it was hot and uncomfortable, of course, but the company there was much more cheerful than in Heaven. The same could be said of the Bastille in those days. Since La Porte was no longer confined to solitary confinement, his fellow sufferers, brightening his time, were pleasant, noble, and educated people. Among those who shared their cell was Monsieur de Chavaille, the chief of police in Isersch, who had been convicted of dissension with the governor of his province. He amused himself by keeping a diary, or writing memoirs, or something similar. He infected La Porte with this passion. La Porte also shared his leisure time with the Count d'Achon, who was guilty of plotting to take the Cardinal's niece hostage in exchange for Montmorency. He didn't save Montmorency, since he failed to capture his niece, but ended up in the Bastille, where he devoted his enforced leisure to studying mathematics. So those who say that Richelieu greatly contributed to the development of science in France are certainly right, and the Count's example confirms this. In these memoirs, La Porte reports that among his cellmates was Monsieur Charles d'Angin du Fargy, the former ambassador to Spain, who gave La Porte lessons in drawing and perspective. If this is true, Richelieu's contribution to painting should also be acknowledged. However, it seems to me that La Porte got something wrong, since du Fargy was arrested much earlier, in 1635, and imprisoned not in the Bastille, but in the Ch;teau de Vincennes. However, I cannot rule out that for some reason he spent part of his time in the Bastille.
Also in the Bastille at the time were Count de Kramay, Bassompierre, Marshal de Vitry, Monsieur de Vautier, and even the Duke de La Rochefoucauld, who spent eight days there. Incidentally, La Rochefoucauld was there through no fault of his own, and although I personally found him extremely unpleasant, I'm glad he was released soon.
The story with the Book of Hours let him down.
For this story to be understandable, I must make a short excursion into earlier events to explain what connected the Duke de La Rochefoucauld and the Duchess de Chevreuse.

Chapter 78

The fact is, Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld was overly friendly with the beauties who served as the Queen's ladies-in-waiting. Among them, two stood out, with whom, it seems to me, he developed a very friendly relationship. And I don't even count Marie de Chevreuse. The first was Mademoiselle Fran;oise de Barbezi;res de Chemreaux, a young, lithe, and quite charming woman, and if she had been married, I myself would have taken a closer look at her. But only the King, a suitor, or a fool could flirt with Mademoiselle. Since I don't consider La Rochefoucauld a fool, and it is also reliably known that he was neither the King nor the suitor, his behavior is simply incomprehensible to me. It must be admitted that young men who are quite intelligent in all other respects often become dullards when it comes to pretty women .
Of course, one stupidity leads to another, even greater. Mademoiselle de Chemreau introduced La Rochefoucauld to Mademoiselle de Hautefort. To understand the predicament La Rochefoucauld found himself in, it's worth remembering that Mademoiselle de Hautefort was once a favorite of the King and was effectively his official favorite, albeit without the privileges that many ladies-in-waiting dreamed of. The King didn't waste his masculine ardor on this favorite, but merely languidly admired her from afar, which didn't stop him from being jealous of her not only with men but also with women. Therefore, an acquaintance, and especially a trusting relationship with such a lady, could only be safe for the Queen, though I wouldn't vouch for that either. For the sake of completeness, I'll add that Mademoiselle de Chemreau was the Cardinal's spy. La Rochefoucauld's third passion was Marie de Chevreuse, who, as is well known, was a friend of the Queen, and who for a time later aroused the passion of the King and the Cardinal, but more recently had aroused only their indignation. Such was the Duchess; she left no one indifferent. Those who fell in love with her but were not honored by her feelings often began to hate her, and besides, she gave the King and the Cardinal all too frequent cause for this. Such was the circle of ladies friendly to him that La Rochefoucauld found himself in, despite the fact that Chevrette was in Tours, on her estate, while both Mademoiselles were with the Queen.
The Cardinal's investigation of the Queen's correspondence with foreign officials coincided with a war with the states with whose ambassadors and rulers Anne of Austria had exchanged letters. This made her guilt obvious. Richelieu exploited this to compromise the Queen. The reason he needed to compromise her is clear from the preceding discussion: before clay can be molded, it must first be thoroughly kneaded , so that it is pliable and retains the shape given to it .
At this time, the state's de facto fragmentation became apparent, even describable as "polyarchy," proving Richelieu right in his desire to establish the King's absolute power by diminishing and even eliminating the authority of princes, marshals, and dukes. Indeed, the marshals were more concerned with personal glory than with solving the common problems posed by the war. And since the fighting had to be conducted along almost the entire border, a single commander was insufficient. Ch;tillon and Br;z; competed with each other in their successes. La Rochefoucauld, who briefly participated in the fighting, was dismissed from the army for unseemly speeches against the Cardinal. Upon arriving at court, he felt the King's dislike, and his arrival coincided with the King's dismissal of Mademoiselle de Hautefort. The reason for this dismissal was Saint-Simon's indecent proposal, as I've already written, as well as the rise of a new star at court in the person of Louise de Lafayette. But La Rochefoucauld perceived this dismissal as the King's desire to spite him personally. How infected are some people with a sense of their own grandeur? Would the King really reject someone he truly liked simply because someone else liked her? Even if La Rochefoucauld was known in those days as the Prince de Marsillac! In these matters, for any King, only he and the object of his passion exist.
At this very time, the Cardinal gave many reasons for discontent, so that all his enemies gradually began to unite again, with the goal of his physical elimination, since they no longer believed that the King would agree to simply remove him from power.
There were also those who suggested that de Treville arrest the cardinal, to which de Treville replied that he would immediately carry out this if he received an order from the King, and from no one else.
The Duchess de Chevreuse was in exile in Tours after the opposition, led by Monsieur, then still at court, conspired to assassinate the Cardinal. After the conference in Amiens, such an opportunity presented itself perfectly. The King departed first, but the Cardinal lingered for another half hour. He found himself surrounded by his enemies, who dreamed of nothing but assassination. Among them were the two princes, Saint-Ybard, Montr;sor, Varicarville, and, of course, Monsieur. La Rochefoucauld was among them. They all suddenly realized that the Cardinal was effectively at their mercy, for he was alone against them all. In such a case, they agreed to act on Monsieur's orders. But Gaston d'Orl;ans gave no sign of action, so the Cardinal calmly left the unfriendly company and vowed never to act so rashly again. No one ever understood why Gaston d'Orl;ans didn't give the signal to deal with the cardinal. Some suggested he was timid, others chalked it up to lack of insight, but my own view is that Gaston was working both ways. He was wary of the cardinal and was providing him with information. He understood that if there was no assassination attempt, he would lose nothing, but if there was an assassination attempt and for some reason it failed, he might not be forgiven.
The Duchess de Chevreuse was exiled to Tours. The Queen spoke highly of her in conversations with La Rochefoucauld, and also praised La Rochefoucauld himself in letters to Chevrette. This served to bring them closer together. La Rochefoucauld, meanwhile, received permission to visit the army to participate in military operations and return to court to fulfill social duties. This, I believe, was achieved through the efforts of the Queen, whose intercession was still significant at the time. Thus, La Rochefoucauld became a courier between the Queen and Chevrette, and a friend to both.
When the events described above occurred, resulting in the Queen's writing materials being confiscated and her promise to cease correspondence, Richelieu, in order to rein in and intimidate the Queen's overly active supporters, spread a rumor that the King was seriously considering such a step as annulment of the marriage and the subsequent imprisonment of the Queen in one of the fortresses, presumably in Hypres. At the same time, the Queen, who had also heard of these servants, even before her decisive conversation with the Cardinal, was frightened and, indeed, asked La Rochefoucauld if it would be possible to arrange her escape to Brussels, accompanied only by Mademoiselle de Hautefort. La Rochefoucauld was delighted with such a commission, although, in fact, no commission had yet been issued. Whatever the dangers, the plan was so audacious that La Rochefoucauld apparently became giddy with the prospect of happiness. Did he imagine that he would eventually marry the Queen, or at least enter the circle of the Dutch ruler's most intimate friends, or some other such nonsense? God knows!
Instead of ruling out any discussion of the matter, he indicated that he was willing to consider the possibility.
The Queen's conversation with the Cardinal the following day changed everything. Furthermore, Madame Marie-Madeleine de Vinero, Duchess d'Aiguillon, Cardinal Richelieu's maternal niece, interceded on her behalf. She naturally believed her intercession was decisive, since no one but the Cardinal himself knew all his cards in the game.
So the tension between the Queen and the Cardinal subsided, leaving only the visible hostility that the Cardinal asked the Queen to express in public towards him.
The queen was only concerned about the fate of her friend, Marie de Chevreuse. Indeed, she remained in limbo. She was forbidden to write. The Duke de La Rochefoucauld received a warning that he was forbidden to see the Duchess de Chevreuse or correspond with her.
The Queen and Chevrette had agreed on a signal in case of danger. It was agreed that if the Duchess received a Book of Hours in a green binding, it would mean there was no danger, but if she received a Book of Hours in a red binding, it would mean the danger was extremely grave and the Duchess should seek refuge as quickly and decisively as possible.
The Queen begged La Rochefoucauld to warn Chevrette that there was no danger. La Rochefoucauld could not see her or correspond with her under penalty of imprisonment in the Bastille; there seemed to be no way out of this situation. La Rochefoucauld didn't dare contradict the Queen and inform her that he could not fulfill her request. It would likely have been easier for him to end up in the Bastille for the rest of his life than to refuse the Queen's request. Moreover, La Rochefoucauld himself would have been happy to exert a beneficial influence on the fate of the Duchess he adored.
So, La Rochefoucauld ordered a book of hours in a green binding to be sent to the Duchess. Mademoiselle de Hautefort notified the Order of this. Father Etienne ordered the book of hours to be replaced with another, this one with a red binding.
Many years later, I realized how wise Father Etienne had been. Indeed, the Cardinal had reassured the Queen and wanted to get his hands on the Duchess de Chevreuse. He wanted to imprison her in the Bastille, confront her with La Porte, and, if necessary, with the Queen. The appearance of complete friendship and affection for the Queen, which he displayed in his last conversation, did not in the least exclude the possibility that he would have been ready at any moment to annul the marriage, since for him, the birth of an heir to Louis XIII was the highest priority in those years, and if the Queen had shown disobedience, he would have removed her without the slightest regret, like a chess player removing a felled opponent's piece. It was unacceptable to him to hand over the throne to his sworn enemy, Gaston of Orleans; to prevent this from happening, he could have entered into an alliance not only with the Queen, whom he had once loved, and whom, probably for this very reason, he strongly disliked, unable to bear her refusal, expressed in an extremely contemptuous manner, and repeatedly; I am convinced that the Cardinal would have made a deal with the Devil himself, if such a thing were possible, just to prevent Gaston from reaching the crown of France.
So, Richelieu was eager to get his hands on the Duchess de Chevreuse for a thorough interrogation, so he convinced the Queen that the Duchess was absolutely innocent and could therefore return to court. The Queen decided to bring Marie back with the help of a green-bound book of hours, but Father Etienne ordered the Duchess to be removed as far from France as possible.
As a result, the Duchess quickly gathered all her jewels, dressed herself in men's clothes, which suited her so well, took with her only her maid, Kitty, who, as you remember, had once been in love with our friend d'Artagnan, and the two ladies in men's suits galloped away from Paris, to Spain.
On the way, she stopped by the eighty-year-old Archbishop of Tours, who adored her, and left with him all her correspondence with the Queen and other important figures. She hadn't dared destroy it, but had also wisely decided not to take it with her. She asked him to hide it away and show her the best route to Spain. The Archbishop, originally from B;arn, had many relatives near the Spanish border. All night , the amorous prelate painstakingly wrote instructions on how best and safely the Duchess should travel to Spain, whom to turn to for help, where to stop for the night, and how to avoid getting lost along the way.
These were extremely useful and valuable instructions for travelers like Chevreuse and Katie, both of whom had no experience of long horseback riding through unfamiliar places.
Maria hid these instructions in the pockets of her men's clothing. Meanwhile, the Archbishop remarked that her attire was too conspicuous, and that they would attract unnecessary attention in the terrain they were about to travel through. He suggested that she and Katie wear other attire, more suitable for long horseback rides and less likely to attract the attention of onlookers.
Maria thanked the archbishop with a kiss on the forehead and hurried to change into the clothes provided. She was in such a hurry that she forgot to take the prelate's instructions from the pocket of her robe, remembering them only when it was too late to return. Unsurprisingly, the ladies got lost and took a completely different route than the venerable archbishop had instructed them to follow.
This led them to Roche-Labeille, located between Tulle and Angoul;me, where there wasn't even an inn. They decided to ask the priest for hospitality. They knocked on the door and heard the answer: "Come in! The door is unlocked!"
A dim lamp burned in the priest's bedroom. A man, whom the travelers mistook for the priest, was already lying on the bed. After informing him that two travelers needed a bed for the night, the Duchess was told there was only one bed in the house, and if the young traveler would be content with half of it, while his servant could comfortably sleep on a chest in the next room, Maria decided to indulge in her own style of mischief. The priest's voice struck her as youthful and pleasant, and she glanced at the profile of the man lying on the bed, seeing noble features in it.
She decided to seduce the priest, finding it ridiculous that such a prank would send the Holy Father, despite his long, righteous life, to Hell. Through him, she decided to take revenge on all clergy, and especially on the cardinal, because of whom she was forced to abandon her estate and ride all day long to who knows where on horseback.
This unusual night was remembered for a long time by both of them, since, as it seemed to Maria, the priest did not really resist his fall into sin and turned out to be a passionate, strong and skillful lover, so that she even regretted that he was a priest and she was a fugitive, and there was no hope of a repeat of this night.
The man whom the fugitives took for a priest was Athos, and I believe that on that night he no longer hated or despised women so much, since this meeting left only pleasant memories for him.
Ah, I'm not at all jealous of Chevrette's relationship with Athos, because if I were, I'd have to see enemies in too many noblemen, starting with the King and the Cardinal, as well as the King of Spain, the Duke of Holland, Buckingham, La Rochefoucauld, and... Enough! I'm not writing these memoirs to list Chevrette's lovers, and, by the way, she had two other husbands at different times!
However, Maria did not have children with all of her lovers.
But that night led to the birth of Raoul, Vicomte de Bragelonne.
He was like a son to all four of us. Why was he? No, he wasn't, but of course he still is. More on that later, though.
So, Chevretta left for Spain.
Meanwhile, the cardinal summoned her to Paris with a letter. The Duke of Chevreuse replied that his wife had left Tours without informing him of her destination or the time of her absence.
The Cardinal was furious. He accused the Queen of corresponding with her and of ordering her to leave and disappear. The Queen denied everything, and in this case, she was being sincere.
The cardinal sent a convoy led by Monsieur Vigne, who was supposed to catch up with the duchess and return her home, and then escort her to Paris, not as a prisoner, but as a guest.
He still hoped they would catch up with her. But the horsemen sent in pursuit learned from the Duke that Maria intended to visit the Archbishop of Tours, who believed the assurances that it would be best for Maria to return before she reached the borders of Spain. He detailed all the instructions he had given Maria.
Naturally, Monsieur de Vigne and his escort, in pursuing Marie and her companion, took the route the travelers were supposed to have taken, not the route they actually took. Consequently, their pursuers failed to catch the fugitives, and all inquiries about them yielded nothing. The Cardinal therefore suspected that the Duchess was deliberately covering her tracks and that she had simply outwitted him. He lashed out even more forcefully at the Queen, which caused Anne of Austria to become deeply offended by the Duchess, and from that day on, their tender friendship suffered its first crack.
Meanwhile, the Duchess sent her jewels from the Spanish border to La Rochefoucauld, enclosing a letter asking him to keep them for her in case she were able to return to France, or to keep them for himself in case fate prevented her from doing so. La Rochefoucauld, not even considering the latter outcome, decided to carefully preserve all of Marie's treasures for her.
The cardinal learned of everything except Marie's jewels. He summoned La Rochefoucauld for questioning to account for his actions. La Rochefoucauld took full responsibility, admitting to feelings for the Duchess that went beyond friendship and that he had mistakenly sent her a red-bound Book of Hours, which had alarmed her and forced her to leave Tours. La Rochefoucauld genuinely believed that the binding's color was the wrong one, due to someone's mistake.
La Rochefoucauld's confessions landed him in the Bastille, but not for long. As I've already said, he was released after eight days. Surely the cardinal couldn't keep the duke and prince in the Bastille for long just because he sent a book of hours to the duchess he idolized!
Thus, the Jesuit Order temporarily removed the Duchess de Chevreuse from France and unwittingly contributed to the birth of Raoul, the future Viscount de Bragelonne.

Chapter 79

When La Rochefoucauld was released, he was brought to Rueil to the Cardinal, who expected to hear from him words of apology for his misdeeds and words of gratitude for his release. The insolent La Rochefoucauld uttered neither, according to his memoirs, which he himself wrote. But I don't believe them , since the Cardinal testified that he received from the Duke everything he expected. And how could it have been otherwise? Could La Rochefoucauld have been sure that even in the event of his insolent behavior he would be released and that even his property would remain unharmed? Of course not. No one who dealt with Richelieu could be sure that after a conversation with him they wouldn't end up in the Bastille or another fortress, not even the Queen. And those who had committed significant offenses could be sure that they wouldn't face execution, either secret or public, at the Place de Gr;ve or some other sinister spot, of which there were at least four in Paris.
I'm writing my own memoirs right now, so I know for a fact that the author's actions in his own memoirs are impeccable: he always displays courage, nobility, and prudence. This is because our minds don't allow us to blame ourselves too much for our actions and thoughts. I'm talking about mentally healthy people now. Therefore, our consciousness seeks out justifications for every action, every thought, and portrays us not as we would appear to an impartial witness, but as we would like to appear to those we care about. Therefore, one should not trust any memoirs at all, at least insofar as the author describes his own actions, motives for them, and his own feelings. That is, one should not believe everything the author knows best and from personal experience. He presents all this with an exaggeration of his own merits and nobility and a belittlement of the merits and virtues of everyone else. La Rochefoucauld is no exception. La Rochefoucauld himself, of course, was questioned about his rendezvous with Richelieu by everyone he called his friends: the Queen, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, and the Duchess de Chevreuse. And, of course, he embellished his answers in his accounts of this rendezvous. And an embellished self-story, told at least three times, replaces true memories in the mind, completely and forever.
But I know the truth. La Rochefoucauld abjectly apologized to the Cardinal for his indiscretion and begged forgiveness, promising and vowing never again to do anything that might displease His Eminence and His Majesty, and, if in doubt, to consult the Cardinal. This was tantamount to a promise to denounce ; nominally, Richelieu recruited La Rochefoucauld as his informant, as he tried to do with everyone. On these conditions, and only on these conditions, was the Duke of La Rochefoucauld released to the four winds of the earth.
The cardinal, the Duke believes, was unaware of the Chevrette's jewels, entrusted to him for safekeeping. I beg to differ with this recollection of La Rochefoucauld.
No message had ever been sent in France from or to those on the cardinal's special list without the cardinal knowing about it. This shipment was of particular interest to the cardinal for both reasons. The cardinal not only knew about it, but also had an inventory of the jewels and their appraisal, and these jewels were carefully examined to determine whether they contained any secret markings. The medallions were opened, the rings examined under a magnifying glass—one of those made by Galileo Galilei in 1624 for his occhiolino, a small microscope, but which he rejected, and they were purchased by Ferdinand de' Medici and subsequently given to Richelieu. So La Rochefoucauld was wrong to believe that the Chevrette treasures were a secret for Richelieu.
La Rochefoucauld's exaggerated tales of his own bravery, selflessness, and nobility found a warm response in the hearts of the Queen, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, and the Duchess de Chevreuse, who heard them a little later. Mademoiselle de Hautefort, in particular, offered such undeniable "evidence of her esteem and friendship" for him that La Rochefoucauld himself admitted that, in light of these testimonies, he already found his misfortunes "even too richly rewarded." In other words, he received the very same evidence of her trust that even the King himself had not claimed, and the possibility of which de Saint-Simon had hinted to the King, as a result of which the King rejected both Saint-Simon himself and subsequently Mademoiselle de Hautefort, since that monarch could only love with worship. Our King should have taken the Virgin Mary as his wife; he would have made a wonderful old man Joseph, protecting the virgin from men and admiring her innocence and purity.
So, La Rochefoucauld received his "reward" from Mademoiselle de Hautefort, and the Duchess de Chevreuse, for her part, proved that she was no less grateful to La Rochefoucauld. He himself writes about this: "She exaggerated what I did for her to such an extent that the King of Spain visited her the first time when news arrived of my imprisonment, and the second time when he learned of my freedom." It must be said that I know the reasons for the King of Spain's visit to Chevrette, but the reason could have been the one the Duke writes about. If any man ever visited Chevreuse for a purpose other than my own, it was either her husband, a eunuch, her son, or King Louis XIII . As for how the Duchess de Chevreuse rewarded him for his imprisonment, I won't speculate, for I know exactly how she tends to reward men. And even if La Rochefoucauld writes twenty times in his memoirs that he and the Duchess were bound by friendship and nothing more, I'll simply shrug and say, "Well, then, in La Rochefoucauld's language, such a relationship is called 'friendship,' which doesn't prevent such 'friendship' from occasionally being the reason for a christening."
So, La Rochefoucauld, released from the Bastille, went to Verteuil for three years, where he considered himself an exile. Richelieu apparently considered him one of his own among the conspirators, while La Rochefoucauld himself, in his memoirs, at least sympathizes with the conspirators. The truth lay somewhere in between. Indeed, if all those who considered themselves conspirators against Richelieu had actually been so, they would have overthrown him five or six times over. However, they failed to consistently accomplish this even once, so loose was their community, so contradictory were the aspirations of each of them.
Meanwhile, as I've already mentioned, Richelieu decided to replace one of the King's favorites with another, having become convinced that Mademoiselle de Hautefort had fully sided with the Queen. He managed to present Mademoiselle Louise de Lafayette, whom I mentioned above, to the King's advantage. This mademoiselle struck a powerful chord with the King. Her almost childlike spontaneity, which the King found endearing, including the amusing episode with the "squashed lemon," paved the way to the heart of this lover of purity and innocence.
Lafayette, indeed, not only made the King fall in love with her, but she fell in love with him. She was perhaps the only woman in Louis XIII's life who truly loved him. Her feelings were genuine, so much so that, firstly, she wished the King happiness even if it were without her participation, and secondly, she refused to report to the Cardinal any information about her meetings with the King, especially what Louis said to her and how he reacted to certain of her words. She, I repeat, sincerely found the King's most boring speeches interesting and amused herself on those rare occasions when the King chose to make a joke, one that was trivial and witless. The King was, of course, delighted, but Richelieu was not satisfied with this situation. Besides, he had promised the Queen that in the very near future the King would honor her with his active attention.
Through the Cardinal's efforts, both participants in this strange platonic flirtation finally came to the conclusion that Louise's removal to a convent would be beneficial to everyone. This was indeed the case. The King, in tears, prepared to visit Mademoiselle de Lafayette at her convent. They conversed through the bars for three hours. This scene between the favorite Louise and King Louis reminded me very much of another scene between another favorite Louise and another King Louis, which took place a quarter of a century later. Truly, history repeats itself, first as tragedy, then as farce. If for King Louis XIII this meeting could be called a tragedy, since it was the only and final meeting before the favorite's final departure to a nun, then for King Louis XIV, such meetings before each "final" departure of Louise de La Valli;re to a convent became almost farcical, a comedy of masks. Moreover, Louise de Lafayette sincerely loved the King, whom no one else loved, and dedicated herself to God so that she would remain a virgin forever for the King's sake, whereas Louise de La Valli;re bore Louis XIV five children, two of whom survived to adulthood. Louis XIV legitimized all five and passed on to them his surname of Bourbon. Therefore, the phrase, "Sire, leave me and return to your wife!" was sincere in Louise de Lafayette's mouth, but in de La Valli;re's... Judge for yourself! It was blackmail, exactly the same as Richelieu's, when he asked the King for his resignation with the sole purpose of preventing the King from granting it . But with La Valli;re, this blackmail worked successfully several times, and then eventually failed. When La Valli;re last told Louis XIV to leave her in the convent and return to his lawful wife, Louis only half-heeded her, leaving her in the convent and returning to Mademoiselle Fran;oise- Attenais de Tonnay- Charentes . Indeed, pretentious persuasions don't always work as those who utter them hope. Sometimes they work as they should. I already recalled how one of Henry IV 's recipients of an award uttered the traditional phrase, "Sire, I am unworthy of such a high honor!" But the King, instead of replying, "No need to be modest, you deserve it," replied, "I know, but my nephew begged very much on your behalf!"
So, Louise de Lafayette begged the King to return to the Queen and live with her in good harmony, as befits a married couple. The King promised this absentmindedly, with no intention of following this helpful advice. But in any case, he left Louise de Lafayette in the convent. This is why it is generally believed that this is precisely what she wanted from the King with her words. Although, I still believe that she uttered them to once again demonstrate to His Majesty how pure she was, how lofty her aspirations, how divine and angelic she was, in the hope that the King would not dare part with such a charming mademoiselle and would immediately rescue her from the convent. I think this is indeed the case; Louise de Lafayette outdid herself, as did Louise de La Valli;re later. So, apparently, I was wrong when I wrote about her that she sincerely loved Louis XIII . But I won't scribble down what's written; let it be as I wrote it. I don't want to correct it, and I'm simply too lazy to rewrite a whole page. After all, I'm not writing this for publication, but for myself. Can I change my mind while writing this? Who's going to stop me?
Of course, Louise made these pleas to the King at Richelieu's instigation, who couldn't force her to spy, but could persuade her to guide the King onto the true path, one that was important to the state. But she did so in the hope that the King would act contrary to these persuasions. Her hopes were dashed. And this very same request came from the other camp, from Father Cossin, a Jesuit.
But the cunning Cardinal wasn't satisfied with just these instructions given to Louise. He also ordered her to detain the King for at least three hours. The Cardinal placed complete trust in a black magician who, by gazing at the sun through a smoked glass, as well as using other observations, could predict storms quite accurately. This time, he predicted the storm for the evening of December 5, 1637. Thus, the Cardinal knew with absolute certainty that the King would have to return home, caught in the storm. All those accompanying Louis were the Cardinal's men and had strict instructions, which were that the King was to stay overnight at the Louvre with the Queen at all costs. Furthermore, Captain de Guitaut of the Guard, a sympathizer of the Queen, had received corresponding instructions, but not knowing that these instructions came from the Cardinal, he believed them to be from de Tr;ville.
The King had barely left the monastery when a monstrous storm erupted. Instead of calming the horses, the drivers provoked them into a display of nervousness, dropping several torches into a puddle. The King considered it all a terrible omen: the horses tugging at their harnesses, the torches extinguished by gusts of wind and rain, and water pouring into the carriage through the loose leather curtains. At that moment, the King was met by Captain de Guitaut of the Guards, accompanied by a small escort, who offered him the use of the Louvre, a stone's throw away, for the night.
The King agreed that the journey to Fontainebleau would be unnecessarily tiring and long. Furthermore, he feared the possibility of catching a cold, which would have been entirely undesirable, as Louis XIII's health was already in poor condition. So, the King arrived at his wife's palace. But it would not have been Louis XIII to apologize for the unexpected visit and ask for overnight accommodations from his wife, who was practically in exile and whom he had not visited in a long time. The King decided to demonstrate that he had made this nocturnal visit simply because it pleased him to do so.
The couple dined together in the presence of curious courtiers from both sides, who were surprised by this unexpected event and wondered what had caused it and what its possible consequences might be. The Queen recalled Richelieu's promise and was surprised at how faithfully he had fulfilled it.
“Your Majesty honours me with such an unexpected surprise as your long-awaited visit ,” said the Queen.
“I know,” the King said dispassionately, putting a spoonful of the delicious p;t; into his mouth and washing it down with some excellent wine, the very same one the Cardinal had spoken of and a dozen bottles of which he had thoughtfully sent to the Queen.
"I regret that I won't be able to treat you to your favorite poppy seed roll with walnuts, hazelnuts, and candied fruit," the Queen continued. "But this dessert will be ready by morning; I've already made arrangements."
"Excellent!" exclaimed the King. "And for today I'll content myself with a creamy blueberry souffl;."
The Queen realized that she had won a small victory: the King would stay overnight even if the storm immediately died down.
Fortunately, the Louvre lacked a second bed worthy of a king, but the Queen's bed was ample, perhaps even too spacious, so the servants placed the Queen and King's pillows on the shared bed, thus becoming a marital bed, without asking any questions. Even if the King had intended to sleep in a separate bed, he considered it beneath his dignity to issue further orders on the matter. However, Queen Anne was quite seductive in those days, and the Cologne water and the right wine completed the task. The King happily lay down next to the Queen. Anne gently stroked his hand, and he almost automatically returned her affection, after which all the necessary steps for the conception of the Dauphin were finally completed by both parties.
Anna considered herself victorious and offered prayers to the Virgin Mary and all the other saints she could think of that this meeting would lead to the birth of an heir.
The next morning, the King received his favorite dessert and departed for his palace without wasting words of love. He was far more preoccupied with the upcoming hunt.
Two weeks later, the Cardinal secretly appeared before the Queen for a meeting on a matter of the utmost importance. The Queen, who continued to outwardly display her hatred for Richelieu, did not object to the meeting this time and did everything possible to ensure that no one knew about it.
“Your Majesty, you could see for yourself that I keep my promises ,” said the cardinal after the usual displays of respect and greetings.
“Your Grace, I have nothing to reproach you for,” the Queen agreed.
"So, when can we announce to the people the good news of the Dauphin's conception?" asked Richelieu.
“I’m afraid not this time,” said the Queen sadly.
“So, the best of all plans has failed, and a second such opportunity may not present itself, so it is necessary to move on to implementing the backup plan ,” the cardinal said.
“I can’t!” cried the Queen. “It’s impossible! I’m afraid! It’s ungodly, it’s a sin!”
"Madame, why didn't you warn me that you preferred to end your days in Le Havre?" Richelieu said calmly. "You probably won't be particularly pleased to learn that Louis XIII will receive the Pope's consent to the dissolution of your marriage and the conclusion of another union, which, I hope, will facilitate the birth of an heir no later than eighteen months from now. From there, from Le Havre, you will be able to send prayers to the Holy Virgin for the granting of an heir to His Majesty. Incidentally, Mademoiselle de Lafayette has every chance of returning from the convent to…"
"Wait!" said the Queen . esto es terrible . Pero debo estar de acuerdo con esta propuesta.
“It’s not so terrible , and you won’t regret agreeing,” the cardinal said calmly. “Cesar, Duke of Vend;me, the eldest son of King Henry IV , who is currently in love with your friend Marie, Duchess of Chevreuse, is convinced that she has made an appointment with him tomorrow evening. He is convinced that the Duchess reciprocates his feelings, and will secretly arrive from Spain for this purpose. It is agreed that the Duchess will wear a mask, and the appointment will take place in complete darkness. This mask is to be worn by the one who comes to see the son of Henry IV tomorrow, and this is a bottle of the favorite Cologne water used by the Duchess of Chevreuse. Tomorrow at ten o’clock in the evening, a carriage will arrive for the lady who decides to meet Vend;me and will take her to elegantly furnished rooms not far from here, where Cesar Vend;me will arrive at midnight.” The lady who has already agreed in writing to a meeting with C;sar Vend;me —that is, in Vend;me's opinion , the Duchess de Chevreuse—made him promise to let her go before dawn. The carriage will wait for this lady all night. I advise her not to linger after the meeting has taken place. No one will know about this meeting between C;sar de Vend;me and the Duchess de Chevreuse or whoever comes in her place. Never. Not even the Duchess de Chevreuse herself. As for the Duc de Vend;me, he has already given a written promise to keep this meeting secret. The smell of Cologne water will completely convince C;sar de Vend;me that the visitor was indeed Marie de Chevreuse, and no one else. So, I leave the mask and the Cologne water here. In the next room is the wardrobe in which the Duchess de Chevreuse could have appeared for this meeting. It would be good to burn it in the fireplace after this meeting. A lady who decides to accept such a meeting may refuse it at any moment. No one will enforce these instructions; the carriage will proceed to the meeting place even if no one boards it, and will return at four o'clock in the morning, whether anyone returns or not. But if a woman's voice asks the coachman to leave earlier, this order will be carried out. Therefore, most likely, even I will not know for sure whether anyone took up this offer or not. You can send a lady-in-waiting in your place and thus play a joke on C;sar de Vend;me and me. In any case, I will believe that this is exactly what will happen. If this lady-in-waiting is fortunate enough to become pregnant by the eldest son of King Henry IV , I believe she can be proud of it for the rest of her life. As for your pregnancy by the King, I have heard nothing and know nothing. Perhaps you've made a mistake, perhaps you're already pregnant? I will pray to the Lord for this, I hope with all my heart that this is indeed the case, and I don't intend to return to this topic until we are all informed of the wonderful news in your name. I wish Your Majesty good luck in any event, and I assure you of my sincere respect and deepest esteem. You constantly complain that I surround you with my spies. I admit that this is true. By the Holy Sepulchre, no one will spy on you tonight. Allow me to take my leave.
After these words, the cardinal bowed respectfully to the Queen and left.
The queen approached the table where the cardinal had left a silk mask and perfume. She opened the bottle of Cologne water and recognized the very perfume Marie de Chevreuse had so loved. C;sar Vend;me would undoubtedly mistake the woman who allowed him to cuddle her in complete darkness, her face hidden beneath a silk mask, for Chevrette.
The Queen's heart began to beat wildly.

Chapter 80

Just shortly before these events, the Gazette , a regularly published magazine since then , announced on January 30, 1638, to the people of France that there was hope of the birth of a Dauphin, for the Queen was in labor.
The entire nobility, headed by princes, dukes, marshals, cardinals and other high-ranking nobility, hastened to express their delight and hope that expectations would be met.
The Queen trembled at the thought of another miscarriage. This time, she demonstrated exceptional prudence; any imprudence was ruled out. The King was pleased, although this had not yet significantly improved the relationship between the spouses. But two years later, His Majesty finally deigned to fulfill his marital duties once again with sufficient zeal to ensure the birth of Philip. Thus, the Cardinal's wish for the Queen to bear an heir, or preferably two, was fulfilled. However, Fortune sometimes fulfills requests so intricately that the birth of two boys occurred... However, more on that in its time and place.
Noticing that the Queen's brow was occasionally clouded by some secret thoughts, the Cardinal, under the guise of spiritual guidance, visited Anne of Austria.
"Your Majesty ," he said after the usual greetings, "I am delighted that the Lord has blessed your marriage and I hope the baby will be a boy. Prayers for this blessing will be held regularly in all churches dedicated to your patron saint, the Virgin Mary."
"Your Grace, I'm afraid..." the Queen whispered. "The King... After all, he..."
"Your Majesty has absolutely nothing to fear," Richelieu said softly. "The only thing you might be concerned about is a somewhat prolonged pregnancy, perhaps two or three weeks. But that's nothing!"
“I know, and yet…” the Queen said sadly.
"You will drink the contents of this phial on the morning of September 5th or the evening of September 4th ," the cardinal said. "The child will be born on September 5th, either during the day or late in the evening. This potion will not harm either him or you. It will merely hasten him slightly. You know your husband. He believes in numbers and omens too much, and is quite good at counting; in any case, he will calculate the nine-month period accurately. If the child is born on September 5th, not a day earlier or a day later, the King will have no doubts. I have interpreted your fears correctly, haven't I? You are afraid of a protracted pregnancy, are you not?"
“Your Grace, thank you,” the Queen replied, taking the bottle.
"You can be absolutely sure that this drink will not harm your health, I give you my word on that," the cardinal added. "The word of Cardinal Richelieu."
"I believed you even without such assurances," said the Queen, and her voice sounded more calm and joyful. "You are saving me again."
"Absolutely not!" the cardinal objected. "I have done absolutely nothing, and am not doing anything. I merely brought you some tonic medicine, which you will need to bolster your strength before the birth. I said and did nothing else. Now, allow me to take my leave."
"Give me your hand, Duke!" said the Queen.
For the first time in her life, the Queen addressed Richelieu as Duke, a title he was rightfully entitled to, but one that denoted neither priestly rank nor court office, but rather Richelieu's dignity. It was a special address, similar to the one she had once given to Buckingham.
Richelieu knelt down and gallantly kissed the hand of Anne of Austria.
“Your Majesty, I assure you that I bow before you and will always be happy to serve the King and you,” the prelate said gallantly, after which he left, leaving the Queen in a state of bewilderment and admiration.
"What a man!" Anna whispered. "And how I couldn't understand him all this time! However,..."

I find it difficult to say what this “However ” thrown at her could mean.

The King also expected the birth of the Dauphin and had no doubts about his paternity. To those who spoke of the Queen's pregnancy as a grace of God and a miracle, he replied that God can and does undoubtedly perform miracles, but it should hardly be called a miracle that a husband, sharing a bed with his wife, produces a child for her.
The King attributed the long absence of children to the Queen, and the pregnancy that occurred solely to himself, as his own personal achievement.

On the evening of September 4th, the Queen drank the contents of Richelieu's bottle.
A few hours later, on the night of the fifth, contractions began. The King ordered fireworks to be prepared so that the people could properly celebrate the birth of the Dauphin. If it were a daughter, the fireworks would be slightly shorter.
As soon as the labor began, the King became nervous and refused to attend. He was only informed of its progress.
For some reason, he decided that childbirth could be difficult and dangerous for both the mother and the baby.
“If there are problems, save the child ,” he told the midwives, once again demonstrating his more than cool attitude towards the Queen.
During the Queen's pregnancy, Louis XIII returned to his forgotten favorite, Mademoiselle de Hautefort, since he had already forgotten about Louise de Lafayette, and he rejected Mademoiselle de Chemreau, who was offered to him by the Cardinal, knowing that she was in the secret service of Richelieu.
“It may well be that fate has in store for you an elevation you cannot even imagine ,” the King once said to Mademoiselle de Hautefort, hinting that if the Queen died in childbirth, then he might perhaps marry her.
However, he spoke these words not for her, but for himself. Louis was pleasantly moved by the idea of remaining a widower despite having an heir to the throne. This was the reason for his coldness toward the pregnant Queen and his disdain for her condition.
When the King was informed that a boy had been born, his joy knew no bounds; he immediately entered the bedroom where the birth had taken place and examined the baby with pleasure, making sure, first of all, that it was indeed the Dauphin.
He didn't pick him up; he hastened to announce that it was time to launch fireworks into the sky, so that good subjects would know of the most significant event of the year for France. He never returned to the Queen's bedroom.
Everyone present at the birth, including Madame de Hautefort and the King, hurried to enjoy the fireworks display, except for two midwives, one of whom was to care for the Dauphin and the other for the Queen. The first midwife took the baby to his wet nurse, Madame de L'Agiroudi;re, while the second midwife remained to wash the Queen.
Anne of Austria felt completely abandoned by everyone. They didn't even show her the baby. At that moment, she felt a bitter resentment that echoed with a strange pain in her stomach.
"Your Majesty!" the midwife exclaimed. "I think the labor isn't over yet! You have another baby!"
The midwife took the second baby, wrapped him in a towel and wanted to hand him over to the wet nurse, but noticed that there was no one in the bedroom except her and the Queen.
Having placed the baby on the bed next to the Queen, she rushed out of the bedroom in alarm, preparing to tell the whole world that the Queen had given birth to twins.
But as soon as she opened the doors, she ran into the cardinal.
"How is Her Majesty?" the cardinal asked the midwife.
"Twins!" the midwife exclaimed joyfully. "The queen has given birth to two boys!"
"What?" the cardinal asked, immediately clamping his hand over the midwife's mouth. "Quiet, quiet, no need to shout like that. Show me the baby."
Entering the bedroom and seeing the child, the cardinal immediately gave orders.
“Stay here, don’t let anyone in except me or His Majesty ,” he said and followed the King.

Louis XIII stood on the balcony with Mademoiselle de Hautefort and admired the colorful fireworks.
"My people rejoice at the birth of my son!" he said proudly.
"Your Majesty, please accept my congratulations ," said the cardinal. "There is something you need to know. I beg you for a word."
Mademoiselle de Hautefort submitted to the Cardinal's stern gaze and, having made a curtsy to the King, left the balcony.
"Your Majesty, the Lord loves you very much ," said Richelieu. "He has given you His gift in abundance."
"What are you talking about, Cardinal?" the King asked cheerfully.
"I'm saying that instead of one Dauphin, the Queen gave birth to two," Richelieu whispered. "But we mustn't tell the people this. It must remain a secret."
"In secret?" the King asked in surprise. "Why in secret? Aren't two heirs better than one?"
"Two heirs to the throne are certainly twice as good as one," the cardinal agreed, "but only if there is no doubt about seniority between them. A second heir born nine months or more apart is highly desirable. But a second heir born immediately after the first presents a serious problem, Your Majesty. Which of them will be destined to be considered Dauphin? Both? Or just one of them? If one, which one? If both, what will be the outcome?"
"What will this lead to, Cardinal?" asked the King.
"To civil war," the King replied. "To a bloody and protracted civil war, until one of your sons overcomes the other. Can we allow brother to turn against brother, for the citizens of France to wage war against each other without knowing exactly which of the two contenders to support?"
"My God, you are saying terrible things, Cardinal!" exclaimed the King, who had already allowed himself to address Richelieu in this way three times.
“I say them in order to warn, and to prevent something like this from happening in reality,” replied Richelieu.
“How can you prevent this?” asked the King.
"Only one way," the cardinal replied. "The second prince must be hidden from everyone. First of all, from the princes of the blood, and, of course, from Monsieur."
“This needs to be thought about,” the King replied.
“You can think about this as much as you like, Your Majesty, but if you agree to my proposal after you announce to everyone the birth of the second prince, this thinking will no longer have any meaning, since the mistake made will be impossible to correct.
"A mistake, you say?" the King asked worriedly.
“A terrible mistake,” the cardinal confirmed.

Ultimately, the second infant was entrusted to a trusted couple, and everyone except Richelieu quickly forgot about him. And it seems they truly did. The Queen found it painful and embarrassing to recall, and the King, it seems, didn't care at all, as he forgot about it easily, immediately and forever, without the slightest doubt or remorse.

Chapter 81

On the occasion of the Dauphin's birth, the King gave Monsieur six thousand ;cus. This money was intended to assuage his disappointment at losing his official title as Dauphin, meaning he was the first in line to the throne of France in the event of the King's death. Now this child stood between him and the throne. He still had a faint hope of serving as regent for the young King if the child died, which, of course, was not so sweet. Richelieu deeply regretted not being able to see Gaston's face when he learned of the Dauphin's birth; he missed out on the satisfaction of seeing his sour expression. The king's son was christened Louis the God-given, and the Pope himself became his godson.

Even before the Dauphin's birth, on March 27, 1638, the King unexpectedly promoted the eighteen-year-old captain of the guards, appointing him Master of the Wardrobe. This young man, the son of Marshal d'Effiat, had been recommended to him by Richelieu as a man of impeccable taste in fashion. Of course, the Cardinal was well aware that the King preferred handsome young men to young women, for whom he felt only a timid awe, and even then, only a limited number, and such feelings were extremely short-lived. The Cardinal had once promoted the career of this young man's father and therefore hoped that the young man would be doubly grateful to his benefactor, so that as Richelieu's prot;g;, he could help strengthen Richelieu's influence with the King. The Cardinal began to be irritated by the idea that young women with uncontrollable whims and political biases could instantly ruin all his efforts to strengthen the state.
This young man's name was de Cinq-Mars. Incidentally, he was a distant relative of our Charles d'Artagnan, through his mother, Montesquiou. In my memoirs, I will also mention another man named Cinq-Mars, the commandant of the fortress of Pignerol, and then of the Bastille under Louis XIV. The Cinq-Mars I'm writing about now is Henri Coiffier de Ruz;, while the commandant of the fortress was B;nigne Dauvern de Cinq-Mars. They weren't even related.
Naturally, before Richelieu recommended this Henri Coiffier de Ruz; de Saint-Mars, son of Marshal d'Effiat, to the King, he had expressed his gratitude for the future favor and agreed to regularly report to the Cardinal all the details of his conversations with the King. And, of course, Saint-Mars forgot his promises as soon as he felt his influence over the King had become even stronger than Richelieu's. This was all the more unbearable for the Cardinal, as he had built his power over decades and based it on the greatest mental effort, the comprehensive education he had received, his excellent memory, and painstaking work, as well as the truly Machiavellian cunning necessary to avoid the numerous pitfalls on the road to success. Henri de Saint-Mars, however, received everything simply for his appearance and youth, for being pleasing to the King. Indeed, when the King admires you, all of Paris admires you, and it doesn't matter that it's simply for your appearance. In such a case, it's easy to be pleasant and courteous to everyone, since no one will spoil relations with the king's favorite. But even this proved difficult for him. He quickly imagined that all the blessings that rained down upon him were not only truly deserved, but also decided that they were too few for him.
The King adored Cinq-Mars as he had never loved anyone before or since. He was literally in love with him, groveling before him to seek his favor, showering him with money, positions, and all manner of gifts just to lift his spirits, despite the country's financial situation, exhausted by numerous wars, being catastrophic.
At first, de Cinq-Mars considered himself a godsend, a gift for the King; then he began to consider himself a godsend for all of Paris, all of France; then, of course, he began to believe that all of France existed solely for his pleasure. Incidentally, he was just as insolent, effeminate, and selfish as Buckingham, and achieved everything in exactly the same way. In other words, de Cinq-Mars was the French Buckingham under Louis XIII , the same "page" that Buckingham himself had been under James I and Charles I.
Thus, realizing his influence over the King, Saint-Mars became even more capricious. The King made one concession after another, and Saint-Mars finally decided to completely end his dependence on the cardinal, as this dependence had become a burden. He decided to become not only the King's close friend and favorite, but also a relative of the ruling family, joining the dynasty of European monarchs.
Meanwhile, the King's affections for Madame de Hautefort had begun to cool, a development that Richelieu also contributed to, as he saw her take the Queen's side and gradually become less effective as his informant. Confident that his new favorite would replace Madame de Hautefort and keep him informed not only of the Queen's affairs but also of the King's, which was far more important, Richelieu himself facilitated Madame de Hautefort's dismissal. It must also be taken into account that the King never divided his affections among many, so having developed an insatiable attachment to de Cinq-Mars, he almost immediately cooled toward Madame de Hautefort. Richelieu finished her off by refusing her request to appoint her grandmother as governess to the then-unborn Dauphin, proposing Madame de Lansac, his completely devoted informant, for the position. The King knew that the Queen had established a friendly relationship with Madame de Hautefort and that he greatly disliked Madame de Lansac, so he happily agreed to this arrangement. Anything that vexed the Queen pleased the King, and the time when she was expecting the Dauphin's arrival was no exception. The Queen was not free to choose her children's nannies and governesses. The Cardinal appointed them based on personal loyalty, so some were inattentive, one of whom nearly made the Dauphin lame by carelessly changing his diapers, another nearly infected him with scabies. The Cardinal removed the Queen's last loyalists, such as Madame de Cens;, and assigned the de Brassacs, also his prot;g;s, to her care. All of this was staged as if it had been done by the King's decision.
The King's tender friendship with de Cinq-Mars further distanced him from the Queen. At nineteen, Cinq-Mars had already become Grand Master of the Horse, while the previous favorites, Barrada and Saint-Simon, had only reached the rank of First Master of the Horse. The Grand Master of the Horse was traditionally called "Monsieur le Grand," denoting the extraordinary importance of the position. To purchase this position from its previous occupant, de Bellegarde, Louis XIII spent four hundred thousand ;cus from the treasury, which was sorely needed for military expenses. The King also occasionally bestowed considerable sums on Cinq-Mars, without any particular justification, ranging from six to eighteen thousand francs, simply to lift his spirits. Superintendent of Finances Claude de Bouillon was horrified by the orders for these sums, but they had to be paid. Moreover, Cinq-Mars's father, Antoine Coiffier de Ruz;, Marquis d'Effiat, himself held the position of Superintendent of Finances until 1631, when, having received the rank of Marshal of France, he was sent as commander-in-chief to Alsace, where he fell ill during the campaign against Trier and died the following year. So it was difficult for de Bouillon to refuse the son of his predecessor, but utterly impossible to refuse the King, who was adamant about the money for gifts to Cinq-Mars and would not agree to any savings. If only he had been even a quarter as generous with his wife, the Queen of France! The King tolerated the whims of this spoiled youth, who took money, accepted positions, and felt no obligation, accepting it all as a given. At night, taking advantage of the King's sleep, Saint-Mars would rush to Paris, where he indulged in pleasures, carousing with friends and passionately embracing Marion Delorme, whom waggoners had already begun to nickname "Madame Major" behind her back. In this situation, Monsieur Major was frankly bored by the entertainment the King arranged for him; he grew drowsy, bored with hunting—Louis XIII's favorite pastime . He would fall asleep in broad daylight, just when the King wanted to see him and declared his need for him. Unaware of his favorite's nocturnal adventures, the King reproached him for his laziness. The King was so offended that he complained about him in letters to the Cardinal, using the tone a small child would complain to his mother about a friend or brother who was insulting him, and almost the same words.
The King was so distressed by de Saint-Mars's outbursts of melancholy and caprice that, on Christmas Eve 1639, he even decided to place his pillow next to the Queen again, as Louis XIII , this grown child, constantly needed sympathy and at least some comfort, and he was hesitant to take a new mistress, still attached to this capricious favorite. However, even in this case, the King, one might say, heeded the advice of the capricious favorite, who, hoping to rid himself of the King, advised him to visit the Queen at Christmas. From this brief encounter, on September 21, 1639, Philippe was born, the King's next son, whose birth destroyed all hopes of Gaston d'Orl;ans ever assuming the French throne. Richelieu, of course, rejoiced.
The presence of two official heirs to the throne allowed the King and Queen to relax and no longer worry about dynastic interests, which somewhat eased the tension between them. The Queen focused her thoughts on Philippe, with whom she found it easier to communicate than with her eldest son, since the cardinal and his prot;g;s showed slightly less obsessive concern for his upbringing.
The Queen wasn't jealous of the King's relationship with Cinq-Mars, and she was grateful to him for having been able to facilitate Philippe's birth. Cinq-Mars sometimes managed to improve the King's mood, for which the Queen was also grateful. Gradually, she began to treat him like an ordinary member of the family, establishing a friendly relationship with him based on her hatred for the Cardinal. It must be said, however, that after the birth of the Dauphin, the Queen's hatred for the Cardinal noticeably subsided, but was replaced by fear, which gave rise to a new form of hatred—a hatred born of cowardice. The Queen understood that the Cardinal held her secret, even two secrets. The first could discredit her before the King, the second—before all of France, although this second secret was not her fault, but her misfortune. Anne of Austria could not forgive the Cardinal for rejecting Louis's brother, who was named Louis-Philippe. Therefore, her hatred for Richelieu returned with renewed vigor.
That's why , when Cinq-Mars casually remarked that the Cardinal was terribly tiring him and he would be glad if he were dismissed, the Queen paused, then shared the news with the Duchess de Chevreuse. Marie immediately formulated a new plan and proposed it to the Queen.

Chapter 82

Chevrette received the following letter in 1641.

“Dear Aglaya!
Pumpkins don't keep well in this heat. Both types of pumpkins in my garden are so shriveled that not only do I suspect it, but even my neighbors are saying they won't last until spring this year, although no one knows which of the two types, the long or the round, will rot first. The order in which I prepare them will, of course, greatly influence the menu I'll have in my kitchen.
If the round pumpkins are cooked first, then the long ones will define the smells in the kitchen in the spring. Of course, my head cook will air out the kitchen in any case, but the big question is who will create the menu for the harvest festival, and whether there will be a common choir at this festival, or just one soloist. And if there is a choir, it's important which voices will predominate and who will be the soloist. It's crucial now that the choir, if it is formed, consists of baritones, not just basses. I would like to hear a mezzo-soprano, and, of course, a single soprano, which , as you know, I could never listen to with my eyes open, but always turned my whole being to the sound.
I'm very worried that the round pumpkins will be the first to dry out. That would ruin the entire menu; if the long pumpkins take a week, or even two or more, to keep, the kitchen would be in disarray. The cook is demanding orders. If the pumpkins aren't sorted in the next week or two, it will be too late, since I can't expect the round pumpkins to last more than four to six weeks.
Pumpkin, as you know, pairs well with honey, which is included in many recipes, as well as with wine. This recipe was created by the gardener, but fortunately, the head chef no longer feels grateful to him, and he has told me three times that he would gladly throw away all the gardener's recipes along with him, or even fire him, even without a pension. I think we can trust him and try to use him to rein in the gardener. No one else except the chef has created as many bouquets for the table as this last one, and he alone possesses the agility to select flowers from the flowerbed, since both the gardener and the caretaker are currently suffering from colds bordering on fever. The chef wants to create the menu himself; he wants to buy his own album for recording the menu; he ordered a binding for it in Nevers, although he shows no interest in having the binding embossed. I'd assume he chose the binding in Paris, if I believed he even made such purchases himself. He's established complete harmony and a commonality of orders with the bookbinders: they offer embossing, and he approves. Apparently, he seeks a similar kind of commonality with the Nevers bookbinders. Well, these are exorbitant conditions, but considering the price of these bindings, it might not be so expensive. That's what he's counting on. Combine his culinary talents with the proper presentation of the menu, and the result will be a level of customer service that could, in the future, rival the best kitchens of Paris and Tours. But I believe we can and should promise him support in this endeavor if he helps build an inn on the site where the gardener has neglected things so much that thorns have grown. I wrote "help." That's wrong. Let him build the inn himself; you and I won't leave the kitchen. Women should be the ones to create recipes and show them to men, and men should help them stoke the stove and, if necessary, gather firewood. That's how I was raised in my native village in the South. I need the best pumpkin recipe, so create it, because you know how to make such things.
I hug you tenderly and kiss you everywhere, your faithful friend, Agatha."

Using the metaphor I invented to ensure that the letters were not encrypted, the Queen wrote and Mary read the following.

“Dear Maria!
The Cardinal is ill, as always, and so is the King, but this time both are so seriously ill that everyone expects them to die, though no one knows which of them will appear before the Almighty first. The order of their deaths will, of course, greatly influence who will inherit all power in France.
If the King steps down first, then Richelieu will be able to do things his way. Of course, my eldest son will be King in any case, but the big question is who will be regent, and whether it will be a sole regent, or whether a regency council will be created. And if there is a council, then who will sit on it and who will lead it matters. It is crucial now that the council, if it is created, be composed of people loyal to me, not my enemies. I would like to see you on it, and, of course, other people dear to my heart, loyal to me not for rewards, which, as you know, I could never bestow, but simply for who I am.
I'm very afraid that my husband, the King, will be the first to pass away. In that case, everything is lost if the cardinal survives him by even a year, much less two years or even more. There's no time left. If the cardinal isn't removed within the next six months or a year, it will be too late, since I can't hope the King will live more than two or three years.
The King, as you know, has a new favorite, Cinq-Mars, who has officially received the highest ranks and positions. The Cardinal facilitated his advancement, but fortunately Cinq-Mars no longer feels gratitude toward him, and he has told me three times that he would gladly send the Cardinal into retirement, or even to prison, or even to heaven. I think we can trust him and try to use him to remove the Cardinal. No one else has as much power as he does, and he alone possesses both power and health in the kingdom, since both the King and the Cardinal are terminally ill. Cinq-Mars has his own ambitions: he wishes to marry Princess Marie-Louise de Gonzaga, although he apparently bears no love for her. I would assume he is in love with Marion Delorme, if I believed he could love anyone but himself. He has established complete harmony and a shared affection with her: she loves him, and he also loves himself. Apparently, he's seeking a similar alliance with Marie-Louise de Gonzaga. Well, that's an exorbitant ambition, a misalliance for a princess, but considering his position, wealth, and influence, it could well turn out to be a misalliance for him. That's what he's counting on. Add her nobility to his power, and the result is a mixture that could threaten me, you and me, in the future, Marie. But I believe we can and should promise him support in this marriage if he helps us overthrow Richelieu. I wrote "help." That's wrong. Let him overthrow him himself; you and I have no right to risk ourselves like that. Women should conceive great things and guide men toward them, and men should implement them and, if necessary, die for them. That's how I was raised at home, in Spain. I need a detailed plan of action; draw it up, for you know how to do such things.
I hug you tenderly and kiss you everywhere, your faithful friend, Anna."

Chapter 83

Times were hard for Richelieu. His chief aide, Father Joseph, had died. Also, unable to bear the extreme stress of the extraordinary expenditures the King was incurring for his favorite, the Superintendent of Finances, Monsieur de Bouillon, had died. The King's serious illness and the equally serious illness of the Cardinal combined to create a general sense of impending change. And as both illnesses dragged on, those waiting began to lose patience. All who were dissatisfied longed for at least some change, vainly believing that any change would bring something better. If the people ever experience joy under an absolute monarchy, it is only for the time when the Dauphin is born or when they bury their sovereign or their temporary servant. The joy of the Dauphin's birth had passed, the joy of the Cardinal's death was still only a foretaste, and many began to lose patience.
The first to lose patience were the Queen, the Duchess of Chevreuse, and the King's favorite, de Saint-Mars. However, the King, too, emotionally desired the Cardinal's death, but he didn't show it, since he intellectually understood how undesirable such a development was.
But none of this would have happened if the King hadn't spoiled Cinq-Mars. He repeatedly sided with his favorite on issues the cardinal considered insignificant and conceded, such as the favorite's next promotion and the right to attend meetings of the royal council. Cinq-Mars had decided to marry Marie de Gonzaga, but he lacked the nobility to do so. If he had become constable, duke, peer, or prime minister, such a marriage might well have become a reality. Cinq-Mars remembered that de Luynes had been constable. Richelieu had opposed the appointment of this still very young man to such a high position. Cinq-Mars was convinced that if not for Richelieu, he would have achieved his goal. Moreover, if the cardinal had been deposed, the position of prime minister would have become vacant, and if the cardinal had been assassinated, his duchy would also have become vacant, since Richelieu, of course, had no direct heirs, only nieces.
The Cardinal didn't believe the Queen had renounced her involvement in the plots against him. To test this, he ordered a letter supposedly from the Duchess, obtained through his own channels, to be given to her. By this time, I had already informed Maria that the Cardinal had established a system for forging letters from her, a method he had, incidentally, already used long before. It was with a forged letter that he lured Buckingham to France. The amorous nobleman, despite the Queen's assurances that she had not summoned him, nevertheless used this pretext to visit Paris, secure a meeting with the Queen, and left only after receiving Anne of Austria's diamond pendants as a pledge of her special regard for him.
So, I reminded Marie of the possibility of such forged letters, and she warned the Queen about it in one of her secret letters. Therefore, the Queen understood perfectly well that no letters from Marie should arrive through channels unknown to her. So, after Madame de Brassac informed her that a letter had arrived for her from the Duchess de Chevreuse, the Queen played her part masterfully.
"For what purpose and by what means does this woman dare to write me letters?" the Queen exclaimed with feigned indignation. "I think I've suffered enough because of her! I don't want to hear anything about her, and I won't read a single word from her. Consign all her letters to the fire immediately, without even notifying me of their arrival. It would be far better if she herself consigned them to the fire before sealing them and sending them to me. She compromises me in the eyes of the King and the Prime Minister. Never remind me of her again!"
Madame de Brassac bowed and withdrew, returning the letter to the Cardinal.
"Have you read it?" asked Richelieu.
“Your Grace, Her Majesty did not even deign to take this letter in her hands, ordering that she not be reminded of this woman anymore,” Madame de Brassac replied, showing the unbroken seal on the letter.
“Very good ,” said the cardinal, taking the letter and throwing it into one of the drawers of his desk.
The Queen chose as her companion the Princess de Cond;, sister of Montmorency, wife of Richelieu's relative in law and mother of Louis II de Bourbon-Cond;, Duke of Enghien, who was engaged to the Cardinal's niece, Claire-Cl;m;n;e de Maillet-Br;z;, whom he later married.
The entire court noticed that the Queen seemed to have reconciled with Richelieu, and the Cardinal himself understood that there were reasons for this. Those unaware of the true reasons assumed the Cardinal had made concessions because Anne of Austria's position had been greatly strengthened by the birth of her two sons. The mother of the King's two sons could not be treated the way the Prime Minister could treat the Queen, who, after twenty-one years of marriage, had produced no heir.
The Cardinal asked the Queen to feign hostility toward him, but in reality to make peace, but, of course, things turned out quite differently. The Queen outwardly displayed obedience and humility, though inwardly she was not reconciled to his interference in her life, which she perceived as unacceptable tyranny.
Having become related to the royal family through the marriage of his niece to the Duke of Enghien, Richelieu allowed himself to act in a manner completely unbecoming of the family. He wrote the play "Myriam," whose title character he condemned for loving a foreigner. He explicitly described this love in the play as criminal. The allusion to the Queen and Buckingham was obvious to everyone, so staging this play at the court theater in front of all the nobility was too bold an attack, even for the Prime Minister.
This play soured the Queen's mood, especially since the lead actress was Saint-Amour, known for her immoral behavior. Trusting her to play such a role at a performance given in the Louvre was simply a mockery. The King took particular pleasure in informing the Queen of all his victories over Philip IV , the Queen's brother.
"Sire, this news both pleases and saddens me," the Queen replied. "I am certainly proud of you, my King and husband, but I am saddened by the military defeats of my brother and my homeland."
"You need not worry about your brother, madam," the King replied. "Your brother regularly achieves victories that I simply haven't told you about."
"Really?" Anna was surprised. "What victories are you talking about?"
"About victories over your best friend, the Duchess de Chevreuse!" exclaimed the King, finding this joke very witty. "I know for a fact that your brother, the King of Spain, receives from your friend all the favors a man can receive from a woman! It seems she has made it her goal to turn the heads of all the monarchs of Europe!"
Having said this, the King realized he had gone too far. Mary, of course, deserved this remark, since she had betrothed Buckingham, Charles of Lorraine, and now the King of Spain. Considering that Louis XIII himself had once been in love with her, it could be said that Mary had been in the beds of the rulers of England, Lorraine, and Spain, and had almost been in the bed of the King of France. However, I cannot guarantee that the "almost" was appropriate here. After all, in the time of de Luynes, all four "slept under the same blanket," as those who knew how to notice and draw conclusions later gossiped about them. So this phrase was extremely unfortunate, for with it Louis added himself to the list of monarchs conquered by Mary.
The ambiguity of this phrase did not escape Anne of Austria.
But she pulled herself together and said in an even and calm voice.
"Sire, I have already told Madame de Brassac, and I also asked you to convey this to the Cardinal, and I tell you the same ," she said. "I do not wish to hear anything about this woman. And it really seems strange to me that in the times when I wished to communicate with her, I was forbidden to do so, and now, when I do not wish to know anything about her and do not even want to hear her name, I am reminded of her daily, and am forced to hear things about her that I should not hear.
“Of course, we will never again allow this intriguer not only to the court, but also to Paris,” the King replied, thinking at the same time that this would be a glorious revenge on Mary for her intransigence towards him at the time.
Louis believed that de Chevreuse, who had refused to become his favorite in every sense of the word, was deliberately having affairs with virtually any nobleman, solely to further irritate the King. If he no longer loved her, he was jealous, and he was terribly jealous. Marie exuded such ardor and such a powerful attraction that even the prude Louis considered a sexual relationship with her not shameful, but desirable, alluring. It became a kind of morbid passion, which he had to carefully conceal and which he could only combat with feigned contempt and inner rage.

Chapter 84

"Monsieur le Guerre ," I said, finding de Saint-Mars at one of his nights of drinking, after which he intended to visit Marion Delorme again, "I must give you a letter from a good friend of yours, and I will give you some advice of my own, if you care to hear it."
“I don’t know you, sir, so I don’t ask your advice,” replied de Saint-Mars. “Who is this letter from?”
"The signature and seal will tell you everything," I replied. "Perhaps, knowing who this letter is from, you'll feel more trust in the person who delivered it. I'll wait while you read it. The sender insists that you don't keep it, but return it through me. It's a matter of the utmost importance."
Saint-Mar snatched the letter from me, quickly opened it and read it.

"I don't understand anything!" he said. "This letter was sent by the Duchess de..."
"No need for names, sir!" I interrupted him. "Sometimes even walls have ears. Let's call her Marie Michon. It's enough that you've verified from the signature and seal that it was sent by someone who, as you know, doesn't write about trivial matters."
"But I didn't understand a single line!" objected Saint-Mars. "What does this nonsense about falconry, about a boar, a deer, a wild boar, and also some nonsense about wardrobe, wigs, carriages, and liveries have to do with me?"
"This uses a circumlocution that isn't a code, but rather transforms the original text of the letter in such a way that it can't be used as evidence against its writer or its recipient," I replied. "I can give you the key, but it would be easier if I were to transcribe it for you, and you could follow the text. Then next time, it would be easier for you to understand which people and terms are encrypted in a similar letter. But first, let's go into the garden and stand in the open, so we can be absolutely sure that no one is hiding in the bushes or behind the bench, trying to eavesdrop on our conversation."
“Well, please translate it,” Saint-Mars replied and handed the letter to me.
We walked into the garden and stopped near a low bed of fragrant flowers, pretending to enjoy its aromas. The garden was bright enough for me to read, and Saint-Mars, glancing at the letter, could understand the allegories and note the correspondence between what I was reading and what was written.
“So, here it is written the following ,” I said and began to read, replacing the allegorical terms with their original meaning.

"Mr. Chief! This is the Duchess of Chevreuse writing to you, who, as you know, was a friend of the Queen's and, believe me, remains her closest confidant. We have learned that you, like all of us, supporters of Her Majesty, resolutely condemn the methods of stifling French freedom and establishing absolutism with which the Cardinal has been tormenting the kingdom for many years. We have tried many times to put an end to this evil, but fate has not favored us. However, now, with your help, if we can count on it, the Cardinal can be neutralized. He must be removed from power. But knowing his treachery, knowing that even in the most hopeless situations he can obtain a "last meeting" with the King, where he can once again sway him and turn him against all honest and worthy men who care only for the good of France and the prosperity of the monarchy— those who are loyal to their Queen and, of course, to the King, but who do not consider it necessary to submit to the tyrant, the strangler of liberty, the executioner of many worthy men, Cardinal Richelieu. Therefore, the Cardinal must be overthrown. For the matter to be fully successful, it is necessary to win over the King's brother, Gaston d'Orl;ans, as well as the Duke of Bouillon, Prince of Sedan. Since Sedan is an independent state, it can serve as a refuge in case of defeat and a stronghold in case of success. We undertake to win over these individuals, as well as many other worthy and influential nobles, in other words, the cream of the French nation. I can also promise the support of Spain, Lorraine, Savoy, Sedan, and several other neighboring states, as well as support or at least neutrality from England and the Netherlands. All of Europe suffers from Richelieu, and all of it would be happy to be rid of him, but France suffers most from him, and therefore ridding the state of the hated cardinal is the responsibility of the French. If you agree to act, I will send you my plan through the person who delivers this letter to you. I ask you to return it to him, as this letter must be destroyed, otherwise it could harm the one who wrote it and all those mentioned in it. Sincerely yours, Duchess Marie de Chevreuse."

"Well, if I understand anything about allegory, it may indeed be exactly what you read, but I'm not completely sure of that," Saint-Mars replied. "How can I be sure that your translation corresponds to the original?"
- Turn the letter over, Mr. Chief, and read what is written on the back.
Saint-Mars turned the letter over and read the following:

"This letter is written with allegory and a few other devices, but whoever gives it to you will be able to easily read it to you in its original form. Trust him, he will not lie a single word when translating it. Yours, Marie de Chevreuse."

"Indeed, this postscript is not encrypted!" exclaimed Saint-Mars. "The Duchess highly recommends you. Therefore, I will agree to listen to your advice, although I do not promise to follow it. Speak then."
“Monsieur le Grand ,” I said, “by virtue of the oath I gave to Her Majesty, I carry out her every will, and due to other circumstances important to me, I obey the Duchess de Chevreuse in almost everything. I have translated her letter to you exactly, without adding or subtracting a single word, and without introducing my own interpretation into a single sentence. However, I know all too well all these people who are plotting yet another new conspiracy, and I know no less well the one against whom it is being plotted. Believe me, the conspiracy is doomed to failure. I do not recommend you take part in it. If you refuse to participate, the conspiracy will not take place, or, in any case, the conspirators will not return to the idea of it for at least a year or two. That is enough to change everything. I know the state of the cardinal’s health; in a year or two he will be gone from natural causes. Just wait, and everything you seek will come to you on its own.”
"How strange!" exclaimed Saint-Mars. "You act like one of the most important figures in the conspiracy, and yet you dissuade me from participating in it! Is this not a provocation orchestrated by the cardinal?"
“I can’t answer that either positively or negatively,” I replied. “I never rule out provocation when dealing with the Duchess de Chevreuse. However, this lady is quite impulsive, and provocation requires not only a cold heart and a sober, calculating mind, but also restraint and patience. The patience of Prometheus and the fortitude of Tantalus, I would say. The Duchess does not possess these virtues. But she could have been used blindly. This is another reason for caution. If you verbally convey your negative answer to the Duchess, I will consider you not only the most handsome and fortunate young man at the French court, but also the wisest and most prudent.”
"So, you brought me a letter implicating me in a conspiracy, and then you immediately try to persuade me to abandon it?" asked Saint-Mars.
"People often do things that defy simple explanation," I replied. "Have you ever fought a duel with a man you deeply admire, or, conversely, defended the honor of a lady you're more than indifferent to? I too find myself in the same situation, where my convictions dictate one course of action, while cold reason convinces me of another. I have been and am in the Queen's camp, a supporter of hers and an opponent of Richelieu. But my voice is too weak to be heard by those who formulate tactics. While I agree with the strategy, I disagree with the tactics, and my disagreement will not cause me to betray my principles or abandon my friends. However, I warn everyone against an outcome I can predict with complete certainty. Thus Socrates knew with certainty that the citizens would condemn him, but this certainty did not cause him to retract his words. Likewise, I know that the conspiracy is not timely now, but if it takes place, I will help it.
"You have explained your position to me, sir," replied Saint-Mars. "Forgive me for not addressing you by name; you did not tell me."
"Call me d'Alameda," I replied. "It's not my real name, but it's best for everyone."
“Well, Monsieur d’Alameda,” replied Cinq-Mars, “perhaps you can afford the luxury of waiting for the Cardinal’s death. The Queen, too, can probably endure it. But I wish to marry the woman the King might well have wooed me, if I were to receive a few additional favors for the services I have rendered, am rendering, and will continue to render to France. The King would have granted me this, I am sure, if not for the Cardinal. I, like you, am well aware that the Cardinal does not have much time left, that death has already sharpened its scythe and is approaching him. But the King is in no better position either. If the King dies first, the Cardinal will place his prot;g;s everywhere, and reduce me to nothing. No, I cannot allow that. I will not forgive myself for having swept the Cardinal off the table like a cup, for my power is currently such, and it is comparable to his, and even greater in some ways.” I will not forgive myself, I say, if after the King's death the Cardinal takes from me everything I have, even my life itself, when now I hold his life in my hands. I will repent for not having taken advantage of the opportunities fate has given me to finally secure my position at the level I rightfully deserve.
"Well, I understand," I replied. "You didn't take my advice, but you did take the Duchess's suggestion. I'll convey this to her, rest assured. You'll soon receive a detailed plan of action, and you can either accept it or reject it. Until then, I recommend you carefully weigh everything again and consider my advice."
“Everything has already been decided,” Saint-Mars answered confidently.
"You're sacrificing too much, believe me ," I said. "In the hope of gaining less than you might lose. The stakes aren't equal. I wouldn't advise you to do that. Think about it some more."
“Ah, you speak of my position?” Cinq-Mars said languidly. “For you, perhaps, the fear of parting with this position is a great risk, but for me, I assure you, it is of no importance. I am ready right now to return to the position I occupied before the King became friendly with me. I myself have told him so more than once. Yes, yes, I said so: ‘I am ready at any moment to become a simple de Cinq-Mars, Your Majesty, I do not in the least fear such a change and will even, perhaps, be glad of it.’ Do you know what the King answered me? He said: ‘Forgive me, my dear friend, do not be offended with me and do not insult me by leaving me!’” That’s how it is.
"Perhaps you misunderstood, sir," I clarified. "When I spoke of what you were risking, I was not referring to your positions."
"What else am I risking besides that?" Saint-Mars asked haughtily. "Money? I value that even less!"
“You are risking more than just your positions and money,” I objected.
"What else?" asked Saint-Mars. "Freedom?"
“With my head,” I answered.
"The King will not execute me!" exclaimed Saint-Mars. "He loves me. Even if he puts me in the Bastille, he himself will rush there for me no later than an hour, two at the most. Execute me—his Saint-Mars? Unthinkable! You know the King very little."
"You don't know him well enough," I replied. "And one more thing. I know the cardinal well enough. Think it over again carefully."
“There’s nothing to think about, everything has long been decided, and it’s been decided once and for all,” answered Saint-Mar.
I bowed and, putting the letter in my pocket, left the garden, where our conversation had already begun to attract the attention of Mr. Chief’s drinking companions from his nightly feast.

Chapter 85

The next day, Cinq-Mars met with Louis de Fontrailles, Marquis de Marestan, a close friend of Cinq-Mars and a member of Monsieur's employ. Despite his physical limitations, Fontrailles was an extremely charming man; his interlocutors would soon forget his hunchback and short stature the moment he opened his mouth and began his intelligent yet pleasant discourse, delivered in a velvety baritone. I'll admit, intelligent discourses are rarely pleasant, and pleasant discourses are rarely intelligent, but this was precisely Fontrailles's special talent: he managed to combine these two incompatible qualities in his conversation.
“Louis, I invite you to join my cause ,” said Saint-Mars.
“I am always and in everything with you, my friend,” replied Fontrai, “but caution compels me to clarify what exactly we are talking about?”
“I want to do the King a favor,” Saint-Mars replied.
“This matter is worth any effort, and I will support you if you tell me what this service consists of and what my role in it will be,” replied Fontray.
“This service will consist of me ridding His Majesty of His Holiness ,” Saint-Mar said with a grin.
"If His Majesty had been so eager to get rid of His Eminence, he probably would have done so long ago, wouldn't he?" Fontray questioned.
“He is afraid to raise his hand against a priest, against a cardinal, he fears that the Pope will excommunicate him from the church,” answered Saint-Mars.
"Could you please tell me the source of such detailed information about His Majesty's concerns?" Fontray asked.
“He told me about it himself when I suggested that he get rid of this tyrant,” Saint-Mars answered serenely.
"If so, please clarify, my friend, did the King give you a direct order to eliminate the first minister, or are you merely interpreting his hints?" Fontray persisted.
"Do you want to hear the King's exact words?" asked Saint-Mars. "If you please. The King said, 'God, how tired I am of the Cardinal's constant patronage? I hope the Lord takes him away soon!'" Saint-Mars lied without batting an eye.
"What happened next?" asked Fontray.
“I replied that if the King is not pleased with one of his subjects, he can easily be removed,” Mr. Chief continued to lie.
"Is that so?" Fontray was surprised. "What did the King say to that?"
“He said that Richelieu would emerge from any prison, from any place where he could be hidden, to which I replied that no one had ever managed to emerge from the grave,” continued Saint-Mars, almost believing his own lie.
"You allow yourself to make some rather bold statements when communicating with His Majesty!" Fontray admired.
"No one would call me a coward!" Saint-Mars exclaimed proudly, completely missing the point of Fontray's remark. "I can speak freely with the King on any topic."
"And to these words the King replied to you that he feared the Pope's condemnation?" Fontrai asked.
"Exactly!" Saint-Mars continued to fantasize. "He said he would have ordered Richelieu's execution long ago if he hadn't feared complications with the Pope. And then he added that if some misfortune were to befall Richelieu by God's will, it would be a blessing for all of France."
"My friend, are you mistaken?" Fontray asked doubtfully. "As far as I know the King, he couldn't say that."
"How do you think he could have responded to my words?" Saint-Mars asked with a laugh.
"He would say it would be happiness," replied Fontrailles. "Simply happiness, but not 'happiness for all of France.' Because by 'happiness,' His Majesty means happiness for the King, not happiness for France."
"I just remembered exactly what he said: 'That would be happiness!'" Saint-Mars corrected himself. "I added the words about all of France on my own, since, unlike His Majesty, I do not separate my happiness from the happiness of France."
"My friend, never say such words to anyone but me, and never say them to me again!" Fontray said softly. "In this short conversation, you've already uttered four phrases, any one of which could get you a whole head shorter!"
"I'm not afraid of that!" Saint-Mars waved his hand confidently.
"It's easy for you not to be afraid, but I have to be!" Fontray chuckled.
"You too, have no fear," Saint-Mars said serenely. "If you agree that the King will do me no harm, then rest assured that I will always intercede with the King and for you."
"I meant something quite different," replied Fontrailles. "I said that you are a tall, slender youth who would remain so even without a head, whereas I am a short, dwarf who, without a head, would look not like a man, but like a cabbage stalk. So, I especially should be wary of losing my head!"
"What difference does it make what someone looks like without a head!" Saint-Mars burst out laughing. "No creature can live without a head."
"You're mistaken, my friend," Fontray countered with a smile. "Some worms can grow a new head; a cockroach can live without a head for a week, a frog for two hours, a chicken for five minutes."
"How do you know that?" Saint-Mars asked in surprise.
"From the books in Monsieur's library," replied Fontrailles . "Certain African insects called praying mantises can make love and leave offspring without a head."
"Making love is a wonderful pastime for pilgrims!" Saint-Mars burst out laughing. "By the way, you don't need your head when making love, and I suspect that no one in love uses it. It's not for nothing that they say a man in love has lost his head in love! And to engage in procreation is only possible if you've truly lost your head!"
"Isn't it because you also lose your head from time to time that you visit Marion Delorme?" asked Fontrailles.
"Oh, no, I'm not losing my head, because I'm not going to marry her!" Saint-Mars objected.
"But, apparently, you would agree to marry Mademoiselle de Chemreau?" asked Fontrailles.
“Mademoiselle Chemro is sweet, I won’t hide it,” replied Saint-Mars, “but she doesn’t suit me.”
"It doesn't suit you, huh?" Fontray asked, surprised. "And I thought you were in love with her?"
"In love?" the Chief asked. "Perhaps so. But do we marry those we fall in love with? After all, I'm in love, to some extent, with Marion Delorme, and with a dozen other women I enjoy spending time with."
"So, you'll never get married?" Fontray chuckled.
“On the contrary, I will marry, and very soon, but not Mademoiselle de Chemreau,” objected Saint-Mars.
"Who is this lucky woman?" asked Fontray.
“Of course, Maria de Gonzaga,” Saint-Mars answered proudly.
“The Cardinal will not allow this,” Fontray replied.
"The Cardinal will soon be gone," Saint-Mars declared confidently. "I will decide what is good and what is bad for France."
"Let me know when that happens," Fontray replied. "I'll congratulate you on the occasion."
"When I eliminate the cardinal, all of France will line up to congratulate me on this event," replied Saint-Mars. "But I will not care about them. For me, the only true friends will be those who support me before this event occurs."
"How could you doubt my support, my dear friend?" asked Fontray. "Of course, I will support you in all your endeavors. Wasn't that the very statement I made that began our conversation today?"
“But you seem to be hesitating,” Saint-Mars said doubtfully.
"Of course I'm afraid, and I've explained my reasons to you, I think, convincingly enough," Fontrailles replied. "Do not blame your allies for wavering, for those who swing like a pendulum never stray too far from their goal, whereas those who abandon you without hesitation, or even betray you, are far worse. And they, of all people, will never return to the cause they swore to serve."
"But you're not like that?" Fontraya Saint-Mar concluded.
"I'm not like that," Fontray agreed. "I may hesitate, but I don't betray."
"Your hand, Fontray!" exclaimed Saint-Mars.
"A handshake isn't enough before such a matter," Fontray countered. "Let's embrace like brothers, and then whatever happens, happens."
"Well, I've attracted another man to my cause," thought Saint-Mars. "Through him, I'll get Monsieur's support."
"We have to be extremely careful with this Saint-Mars," thought Fontray. "He really is capable of doing such a thing that we'll all lose our heads!"
"So you'll talk to Monsieur?" Saint-Mars asked.
“I talk to him several times a day,” Fontray replied.
"And you will convey to him my proposal regarding the cardinal?" asked Saint-Mars.
"I'll do better," Fontray replied. "I'll put you in touch so you can present your proposals to him yourself, and I promise he'll hear you out."
"Wonderful!" exclaimed Saint-Mars. "This is really much better!"
“I’ll let you know the time,” Fontray replied.
"The sly one! He wants to remain pure!" thought Saint-Mars. "Well, I'll pretend to be very pleased with the results of the conversation, but when Richelieu is gone, I'll remember that he hesitated and didn't go all the way with me!"
"Fool, I really could lose my head like that!" thought Fontrailles. "But I can't contradict the Lord Chief, the King's favorite! Perhaps the King really has decided to get rid of Richelieu? That would be glorious. But not by my hands, because if this cup passes him by, then everyone involved will have a hard time!"
"Do you promise me Monsieur's favor?" asked Saint-Mars.
"You don't have to worry about that," replied Fontrailles. "There has never been a single conspiracy against Richelieu that Monsieur hasn't supported."
Saint-Mars and Fontray bowed and each went their separate ways.

Chapter 86

Louis d'Astarac , Vicomte de Fontrailles , a diplomat and memoirist, an active participant in the anti-government conspiracies against Cardinal Richelieu, was a cautious but resolute man. He knew that many plots against the cardinal had failed simply because the conspirators lacked the resolve to follow through when the moment demanded. This is precisely why he exercised caution, fearing that the matter would end in mere talk, whereas Richelieu, having exposed yet another conspiracy, would certainly not limit himself to edifying speeches. If Cinq-Mars had said, "In a week we will assassinate the cardinal," Fontrailles would have decisively supported him, but upon hearing the words, "I propose that you join me," he did not see the determination that would compel him to join immediately and without hesitation. Monsieur was more proactive, but only in words.
“Your Highness, the Master in Charge wished to speak with you,” Fontray informed Gaston d’Orl;ans.
“I have nothing to gossip about with this upstart, Richelieu’s prot;g;,” Monsieur replied with contempt.
“He is plotting to overthrow the cardinal and is looking for allies in this matter,” Fontray replied.
"Is this serious, or is it just empty talk?" Gaston perked up.
"I can't say that ," Fontray said, shrugging. "If I were sure his plan would be carried through, I would join him."
"Cinq-Mars is plotting against Richelieu? How amusing!" exclaimed Monsieur. "We must support him! Have you agreed?"
"As soon as I realize this is serious, I will definitely give it to him," Fontray replied. "For now, I've only promised to introduce him to you."
"What makes you doubt the seriousness of this intention, if he has already expressed it?" Gaston inquired.
"Only those who are desperate in their situation, who have nothing to lose, or who are desperate by nature, go to the end," Fontrailles replied. "The Master in Chief is neither of those. He has much, so much. He has something to lose. And he's not a fanatic. I fear he's simply seeking further favors from the King and will abandon his plans as soon as he receives them."
"What kind of concessions is he seeking?" Gaston asked.
“He let it slip that he wanted to marry Maria Gonzaga ,” Fontray said.
"How long he's started striding!" Monsieur exclaimed indignantly. "How dare he? I hope he doesn't rip his pants with those strides! A boy, a youth! Isn't it enough for him to be called Chief? He's decided to join the family? The King won't agree to that, Richelieu won't agree to that, she herself won't agree to that—in other words, no one will agree to that!"
“Your Highness, he is counting on becoming constable, or prime minister, or a peer, and then, perhaps, Maria Gonzaga will look at this marriage differently,” replied Fontrailles.
"Saint-Mars? Constable? Is that even conceivable?" exclaimed Monsieur.
"Your brother the King dotes on him," Fontrailles reminded him. "If he really does want to get rid of Richelieu, he'll be grateful to him once the matter is over. So such a development is entirely possible."
"This cannot be allowed!" Monsieur objected.
"Of course, Your Highness," Fontrailles agreed. "But tell me, to what extent does the cardinal bother you?"
"In the highest degree, Fontray!" Gaston exclaimed. "He's a nuisance to me in everything! I'd pay a great price to have him removed!"
“In that case, all you have to do is encourage Mr. Chief in his intention to obtain the post of Constable of France and take Maria Gonzaga as his wife ,” said Fontrailles.
"The price for getting rid of the cardinal is too high, excessive!" Monsieur objected.
"I'm not saying we should actually facilitate this," Fontraille clarified. "Just don't contradict him, listen calmly to his dreams, pretend you don't object to his plans. Just don't promise anything."
"Well, I think I'm ready to agree to that," replied Monsieur. "But tell me, Fontraille, could you kill the cardinal yourself?"
"I'd probably agree to be the next Vitry and rid the King of Richelieu, just as Vitry rid him of Marshal d'Ancre. And be rewarded for it. But I don't want to be the next Jacques Clement! If I were to kill the Cardinal, after which everyone else would turn against me and the King would execute me, I wouldn't agree to that. However, I'd be quite happy if de Cinq-Mars killed him. The King would probably forgive him, and maybe even praise him!"
“Well, I think I’m ready to talk to Mr. Chief,” Monsieur said quietly.

Chapter 87

Fran;ois Auguste de Thou was a different kind of man. He was an educated and intelligent nobleman, a brilliant soldier, and a very capable lawyer. It seems to me that Saint-Mars didn't even bother to inform him of what he had gotten him into. The poor fellow trusted his friendship too much.
When, in January 1642, Monsieur, Bouillon, and Cinq-Mars decided to form an alliance with Spain, promising a radical change in foreign policy after the overthrow of the cardinal, they thereby placed themselves outside the law. Cinq-Mars didn't even inform Auguste de Thou of this, believing he didn't need to know.
Monsieur sent Fontrailles to Madrid to negotiate. Spain helped recruit and pay the army led by Gaston d'Orl;ans, which he sent against his own brother and his country. The Duke of Bouillon provided Sedan as a refuge for the conspirators. Monsieur promised Spain the return of all its fortresses.
Fontrailles conveyed to the Spaniards that Monsieur promised to respect and uphold all the rights of the King and Queen. It was obvious to everyone that the King was hopelessly ill and his throne would soon become vacant. The Dauphin was still too young to be crowned, and Monsieur could count on serving as regent under him, that is, becoming the de facto ruler of France. As for the Queen, the promise made to Spain that an alliance with Spain would in no way undermine her was nothing more than a foolish farce. After all, Anne of Austria was a Spanish princess, the daughter of the previous King of Spain and the sister of the current King. Naturally, an alliance between France and Spain could in no way infringe on her rights.
The Spaniards knew how to read between the lines. The guarantees for the Queen, written into the draft treaty, indicated to the Spaniards that the Queen had a hand in drafting it, while the guarantees for the King demonstrated that its authors had heeded the Queen's desire to preserve her own rights by preserving the King's (after all, her position in France rested solely on this marriage) and to save face in the event that the treaty became known to the King. And it would have been, had the plan succeeded, but the King remained alive.
However, it should also be noted that no treaties with any state could be concluded or even discussed by anyone except the King of France himself or his prime minister, and no signatures on any treaties could be valid as long as the King lived. Consequently, this treaty could only have any validity in one of the following cases: the natural death of King Louis XIII , the assassination of this King, or his violent removal from power, for example, by taking monastic vows. But even this is not enough. After all, in the event of the King's death, the question of a new government would first have to be resolved, and only then could this new government conclude international agreements. In other words, as long as Louis XIII lived, this treaty was a usurpation of his rights, and in the event of his death, it usurped the rights of his heir. Gaston could sign such a treaty only if he was completely certain that, as a result of the conspiracy, he, and no one else, would direct French policy. Even the existence of a draft of such a treaty, which Gaston read and let go of without tearing it up, was already treason, a conspiracy, a plot for a coup d';tat.
Such a treaty was null and void while the King lived, and exposed those who drew it up and those who approved it as having attempted to assassinate the King himself, and not just the Cardinal.
I can't imagine that Monsieur didn't understand this. By drafting this treaty and stipulating guarantees for her, he equated the Queen with himself as a rebel and conspirator.
Moreover, let me remind you that the Queen promised the King and the Cardinal not to interfere in politics under any circumstances, not to enter into correspondence with any foreigners, otherwise, in the event of a violation of this promise, she would automatically revoke the King’s pardon granted to her.
The appearance of the draft of this treaty was the actual beginning of the de Saint-Mars conspiracy.
I had the opportunity to read this document, but I chose not to. It happened like this.
I received a handkerchief with a single knot, which meant that I was to pick up a letter for Marie. Usually, such letters were delivered to me by Madame de Hautefort, and after her, by other faithful servants of the Queen. To receive the letter, I went to a house on the Rue de Vaugirard. We didn't risk leaving letters in a designated place, but passed them from hand to hand. I wore a black velvet mask, believing that God protects those who protect themselves. To ensure that no stranger would appear in my place, we used a system of passwords and symbols that we exchanged when meeting. I immediately recognized the lady who came to deliver the letter to me this time. After all, I had often been on duty at the palace; I was perfectly familiar with the Queen's figure, gait, gestures, manner of speech, and voice. I would have recognized her unmistakably by one ear or a few curls of her hair. So the blue and silver velvet mask she also wore couldn't fool me. But I immediately realized that I should not show that I recognized the Queen; I needed to talk to her as if she were an ordinary noble lady.
"Sir, are you the gentleman whom Marie Michon called Monsieur d'Alameda?" asked the Queen.
"Yes, madam," I replied. "And you are a messenger from her cousin? How should I address you?"
We called the Queen Cousin Marie Michon.
"Yes, I am her cousin's messenger," replied the Queen. "Address me as 'Madam.'"
"Madam, have you brought a letter for Marie Michon?" I asked.
"Yes, but not only that," replied the Queen. "I would like to speak with you at her cousin's request. She knows you as a faithful and devoted friend, a faithful friend of the Duchess de Chevreuse and a loyal subject of the French Queen."
“That’s all true, I am indeed the Queen’s faithful servant,” I replied.
“Ms. Kuzina asked me to ask you a few questions to find out your opinion on a case in which you are certainly an expert ,” she said.
“You flatter me, I’m an ordinary musketeer and a bit of an abbot, but I’ll try to answer your questions,” I replied with a bow.
This bow gave me away. The Queen realized that I had guessed who she was.
"Oh God! I'm so careless!" she cried out involuntarily.
“Don’t worry, madam, you are in no danger here, and anyone who tries to even look at you without due respect will be immediately killed,” I replied.
“So, you’ve figured me out ,” she said, and sank down exhausted into the chair that I immediately offered her.
The messengers who came before her only delivered the letter and immediately left, so they did not sit in the chair.
"I ask you to explain this to me ," the Queen said after a few minutes of silence to gather her courage. "I have friends, or allies, call them what you will. Our thoughts are united now, and therefore we understand each other perfectly."
I simply bowed, showing that I was going to listen but not interrupt.
"Today, my main enemy is someone who can deprive me of many of my legal rights, and is already doing so through his influence with my husband ," she said. "Defending myself against him is my inalienable right. And if the only way I can defend myself is by depriving him of the power my husband has imprudently entrusted to him, then I, apparently, have that right. And in this struggle for myself, I can and should, of course, enter into alliances with those who pursue the same goals as me."
I bowed again and continued listening.
"But after our first common goal is achieved, other goals will remain," the Queen continued. "The main question is who will use the results of this action and for what purposes."
I remained silent, and there was a pause, indicating that the Queen was waiting for my answer.
“Will you allow me to answer, Your…” I asked and stopped short, because I didn’t know if I could call her Your Majesty.
"Yes, I give you permission to answer, Mr. d'Alameda," she replied. "You may simply call me 'Mistress.'"
"My lady ," I said, "the question, of course, is who will be regent for the young King if and when Louis XIII passes away. I understand that Monsieur will claim to be sole regent, which is absolutely unacceptable. And we, your friends, will not allow this. This will be the second part of our joint efforts, should the first be successful. For this contingency, there is an additional plan, which is quite reliable."
"You say this 'if' of yours as if you were not at all convinced that the first part of our plan will succeed?" exclaimed the Queen. "Do you really doubt its success?"
“Life has taught me, my lady, to doubt everything that is not certain,” I replied.
"Then perhaps you doubt the existence of our Lord?" the Queen asked in horror, crossing herself.
“I said that I doubt what is not certain,” I clarified. “The existence of the Lord is certain, so I do not doubt it.”
"Very well," the Queen calmed down. "You're not an atheist, but your strange phrase almost convinced me otherwise. So, you're not convinced of success, but you haven't refused to assist us?"
“I will assist in all my mistress’s plans,” I replied.
"You don't find them criminal, I hope?" asked the Queen.
“I find them quite justified, since I know that the King signed an order in the event of his death to hand over both princes to the care of Cardinal Richelieu, that is, to take them away from their mother,” I replied.
The Queen shuddered at these words and it seemed to me that her hands began to tremble.
"Any mother has the right to resist such an action, to ensure that her children aren't handed over to her enemy to be raised to hate her," I continued. "To try to send your enemy to heaven before your spouse—that's so natural in this situation! How can one condemn such an aspiration?"
"Yes, yes, you are right!" exclaimed the Queen.
“But from the legal standpoint…” I said.
"From a legal perspective?" the Queen asked.
“We must all be extremely careful, my Lady ,” I said seriously.
"Can I count on your help and support, Mr. d'Alameda, if I have to confront my brother-in-law?" the Queen asked.
"My life belongs entirely to you, Your Majesty, and I can vouch for the lives of my three friends as I would for myself!" I exclaimed passionately.
The Queen did not notice that I addressed her as "Your Majesty", she was so excited.
"Tell me, sir, do you believe in the success of our enterprise?" she asked.
“I will do everything for success ,” I said.
"That's not an answer," the Queen insisted. "You believe in success, you say?"
"There are too many people involved in this matter," I replied, "so I doubt it can remain a secret for long from the one it's aimed against. And in that case, such forces will be gathered against us that we won't be able to resist. I'd prefer to act with a small but reliable force."
"How small?" asked the Queen.
"If Your Majesty had ordered me to destroy the cardinal, he would have been destroyed, and for that, the three friends I already mentioned would have been enough. The four of us would have accomplished this task better than the entire Spanish army, led by Gaston d'Orl;ans."
"Would you raise your hand against a priest?" she asked.
"A priest who wears armor and weapons is not particularly immune," I replied. "We would raise our hand against a commander, a military leader. It's not a sin."
“But he led the French army, and you took an oath,” the Queen said doubtfully.
"We swore allegiance to the King, and since spouses are one before God, we also swore allegiance to the Queen," I replied. "Neither I nor my friends ever swore allegiance to Cardinal Richelieu. If she to whom we swore allegiance demands that we raise our hand against someone to whom we did not swear allegiance, that demand will be fulfilled."
"Thank you, Mr. d'Alameda, I will remember your words," replied the Queen. "Now I must go. But first, would you like to read the letter I wish to convey through you?"
She took out a sealed letter and handed it to me.
"I would ask the exact opposite favor of you," I replied, taking another, slightly larger envelope from my desk and placing the letter inside. "Allow me to ask you to seal this outer envelope with a simpler seal, if you have one. And allow me not to read the contents of this letter. I already have a good idea of its contents, but for our common safety, the fewer people who can quote even a single line from it, the less danger there will be for everyone involved in its writing."
The Queen chose one of her rings as a seal, I dropped wax on the envelope and the Queen placed one of her rings on it.
“I will deliver this letter to Marie Michon and both seals will remain intact ,” I said.
“Thank you, sir ,” said the queen and left the room.
In the next room she was met by two ladies-in-waiting, who had been waiting for her all this time, and they escorted her to the carriage.

Chapter 88

After the page reported to the Queen that the Duke de La Rochefoucauld was requesting an audience, Anne ordered that he be invited immediately.
"Your Majesty ," said La Rochefoucauld after he had made the traditional greetings and his usual exaggerated compliments. "I have some good news to tell you!"
"I am extremely happy when my friends bring good news," replied the Queen. "Speak then."
“I have shown myself to be a very successful commander in recent battles ,” said the Duke.
"If these battles had been waged against my enemies, it would have been good news indeed," replied the Queen. "But they were waged against my homeland!"
"Forgive me, Your Majesty, I was tactless," La Rochefoucauld said, catching himself. "I consider the good news not the cause, but the consequences; allow me to report them."
“Well, if the consequences are not as sad as their cause, I will gladly listen to them and be happy, if not for myself, then at least for you,” Anna answered.
"I've been offered the post of brigadier general!" exclaimed La Rochefoucauld.
“Well, I’m glad that you will receive a promotion, after which you will be able to defeat my brother’s troops even more successfully ,” the Queen said sadly.
"But a higher position will also provide me with more substantial opportunities!" exclaimed La Rochefoucauld. "Should you require military assistance, I can provide it with a larger number of soldiers!"
"Tell me, Duke, who exactly offered you this new position?" asked the Queen.
“The one who is in charge of all the positions, the first minister,” La Rochefoucauld replied.
“That is to say, my enemy,” replied the Queen, nodding her head as a sign that she had supposed so.
"But in the end it doesn't matter so much from whose hands I take this position, but how I can make use of it!" exclaimed La Rochefoucauld.
"Will you really, having received this position from Richelieu, use it against Richelieu?" asked the Queen.
“I didn’t think about that,” La Rochefoucauld said absentmindedly.
"The Cardinal wants to be regent for my young son in the event of the King's death," the Queen replied. "And he wants to deprive me of all support from my friends in advance, buying them off with new positions that won't cost him a penny."
"Your Majesty! Do you really think I can be bought? That by offering me high positions, the cardinal could force me to defect to your enemies?" La Rochefoucauld said heatedly.
"If you accept this position, then you simply cannot be ignoble to the cardinal," the Queen replied.
“But Saint-Mars rose to prominence thanks to the cardinal’s patronage, which does not prevent him from plotting to eliminate him, not only from his position, but also physically,” objected La Rochefoucauld.
"Do you consider such behavior morally acceptable?" the Queen inquired. "After all, you are not Cinq-Mars. I am forced to enter into an alliance with him, but that will not make me respect him as I respect you, Duke. So, do you consider such treachery, such betrayal, permissible?"
“Richelieu deserves such betrayal, since, as I know, he himself did exactly the same thing to the Queen Mother, Marie de Medici,” replied La Rochefoucauld.
"That's not what I asked," the Queen replied. "I asked whether you consider such behavior unacceptable for yourself as well?"
"Of course, I'm not capable of such baseness," La Rochefoucauld lied. "I couldn't be ungrateful to a benefactor. But I believe this position isn't a gift, but a reward for merit, so the cardinal isn't really such a benefactor."
"Does it matter whether it's a gift or a reward?" the Queen asked. "By accepting the reward, you will also acquire the moral imperative to be grateful. Not everyone acts as their inner morality demands, but I hold a different opinion regarding you, Duke, and therefore I fear I could lose you if you begin accepting rewards from the Cardinal. I need you. I admit that very soon I will require protection from both the Cardinal and others claiming the regency."
"Are you talking about Monsieur?" La Rochefoucauld asked carelessly.
"Monsieur is our ally against the Cardinal, and we must all stick together and support each other," the Queen hastily retorted. "But we don't know how this will all end. I would count on your friendship and assistance more if you didn't accept any rewards from the Cardinal."
“I promise you, Your Majesty, that I will refuse the proposed position tomorrow ,” said La Rochefoucauld, trying in vain to hide his disappointment.
"I thank you, Duke," the Queen replied. "To my great regret, I am unable to compensate you for the loss of this position, which was almost yours, but perhaps the time will come when you will not regret this choice."
"I'm happy just to have done something nice for you," La Rochefoucauld replied. "I'm ready to sacrifice even more. Why, anything, even my life itself, if you only ask."
"Your life is of use to us," the Queen replied. "Especially now that you have made this sacrifice."
“In that case, I will not put it off until tomorrow, and today I will immediately let the cardinal know that I do not accept the position from his hands,” replied La Rochefoucauld.
“Okay, Duke, go ahead,” the Queen approved of his words and dismissed him with a wave of her hand.

The cardinal absentmindedly stroked the cat sitting on his lap and looked attentively into the face of the Duke of La Rochefoucauld.
"So, Duke, you resolutely refuse the position of brigadier general," he said thoughtfully. "I didn't expect such scrupulousness from you. Remember how you thanked me for getting you out of the Bastille. Yes, yes, I did get you out, since it wasn't me who put you there, but your own actions against the King."
La Rochefoucauld broke out in a sweat.
“I don’t think I’ve earned this position enough yet,” La Rochefoucauld timidly objected.
"There is a war going on, Duke," the cardinal said firmly. "Surely you won't refuse to return to the battlefield?"
"Such a refusal would be rightly called cowardice by anyone," replied the Duke. "But no one would say of Duke Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld that he is a coward!"
"Of course, Duke, of course," the cardinal agreed. "But this means that you agree to continue fighting at a lower rank than the one offered to you, even though you understand perfectly well that in this case you will have less opportunity to be of use to France."
“I believe that there are those more worthy than me ,” said La Rochefoucauld.
This lie was doubly painful for him, since he himself did not believe his words, and he understood that the cardinal did not believe him.
 “It is not proper for military personnel to refuse promotion to a higher rank during military operations, since this smacks of desertion ,” the cardinal said.
"I demand to be sent to the battlefield immediately!" exclaimed La Rochefoucauld, realizing that his choice was limited: war or the Bastille.
"Of course, Duke, who could refuse such a reasonable request?" Richelieu agreed. "You remind me of an old incident. I offered four musketeers an open commission for the post of lieutenant in the king's musketeers. Three of the four musketeers, one after another, refused my flattering offer, knowing full well they were doing themselves harm and making an enemy of me. But the fourth agreed to accept the commission, although he outwitted me. He deliberately botched it, after which he persuaded his captain, Monsieur de Treville, to reissue it for him, so that he would be indebted for this promotion not to me, but to him.
"Your Eminence, I refuse this position not because you offered it!" La Rochefoucauld protested passionately, but this lie did not deceive the cardinal.
"I never said that," the cardinal retorted softly. "And since you say so, I have no doubt that you would have refused such a promotion even from the King. This is a great pity, since before your words I had intended to inform you that this position was offered to you, in truth, not by me, but in the name of the King, and the patent would certainly have been signed by the King, and I was merely acting as a humble herald of this good news for you."
La Rochefoucauld remained silent in annoyance.
"Yes, that's right, the position was offered to you by the King, and you'll undoubtedly disappoint him by refusing it when I hand it over to him," he continued. "But since you've already said yourself that you'd refuse the position even if it was offered by the King, this discussion is over. I won't detain you any longer. You can return to the army tomorrow. It's not too late, though..."
"Isn't it too late?" La Rochefoucauld asked.
"Yes, it's not too late," Richelieu confirmed. "You can leave for the army today."
The cardinal stroked the cat with particular tenderness and returned his gaze to his papers on the table, making it clear that the audience was over.

Chapter 89

“Your Majesty, we must go to Catalonia ,” said Richelieu.
"We are both ill, Cardinal," the King objected. "We won't make it."
“If the Lord decides to take a life, he will take it from someone lying in bed, and if he decides to save it, he will save it on the battlefield,” the cardinal replied.
"That's all true, of course, but will we have enough strength?" asked the King.
“It is not we who will need the strength, but the horses that will be harnessed to our carriages ,” said the cardinal.
"You haven't ridden in a carriage for over a year now, Cardinal, and only travel in a sedan chair to avoid the jolting!" exclaimed the King. "Are you really going to ride in a carriage? What happened in Catalonia that we both must go there?"
"The Catalans rebelled against Madrid's rule, after which the rebellion was brutally suppressed, though not completely," Richelieu reported. "Madrid's forces in Catalonia were weak, and the Catalans again pushed back the Spanish troops and proclaimed a Catalan Republic. If they are not helped, the conflict will drag on, and God alone knows when and how it will end. With our help, Catalonia can finally be ours. It would be unwise to miss such an opportunity."
"Perhaps you are right, Cardinal, but why should we go there in person?" asked the King. "After all, we have someone to put at the head of the army. Take Cond;, for example, or Gaston, or at least Gondi, or de Beaufort."
"Are you proposing to hand over command of the army to one of those who has already proven themselves capable of rebelling against you, Your Majesty?" the cardinal asked. "That would be tantamount to your abdication. All any of them dreams of is leading an army, threatening the peace of the state. No, that's impossible; it would be better for us to lose all dreams of Catalonia."
“Then why don’t you go alone, Cardinal?” asked the King.
“If the Lord takes my life during this campaign, the army will be left without a leader, and any prince will be able to lead it with the very consequences I fear,” the cardinal objected.
"Well, I'm not asking you why I shouldn't go there alone," the King sighed. "I don't wish to lead an army alone. However, I can take the Master Chief with me."
"I would rather give up Catalonia, Roussillon, and perhaps even Lorraine, than trust Cinq-Mars with our best army," said Richelieu. "He will demand the title of constable before setting out for Catalonia, or after the first victory, and you, Your Majesty, will not be able to refuse him. And victories there will be easy ones."
“You don’t like Mr. Chief so much,” said the King.
“I love only you, Your Majesty, and this is the only feeling that guides my actions,” the cardinal replied and bowed respectfully.
"Frankly, I'm starting to get tired of this arrogant and capricious young man," the King said thoughtfully. "He goes off somewhere at night, and during the day he's always sleepy and bored. He's always arguing with me. What's more, he simply bullies me. As if I owe him anything! No, I don't argue, he's a good man, of course, but he's already becoming a burden to me. So, you say there's unrest in Catalonia?"
"An uprising against the Castilians for Catalan independence has begun, and many Castilian officials have been killed," the cardinal announced. "We can take advantageous positions on the Iberian Peninsula, closer to its central part. The rebels have proclaimed an independent Republic and sent a letter to you asking for protection and a protectorate. I have prepared your affirmative response; it should be signed here, Your Majesty."
"So, are we going to Catalonia?" the King asked, signing the document without looking at it. "And the Queen and the princes will remain in Paris?"
“ Yes, Your Majesty, the Queen and Monsieur will remain in Paris, as for the princes, it would be better for them to remain in Vincennes during this troubled time under the care of Monsieur de Chavigny,” replied the cardinal.
Chavigny was a prot;g; of the cardinal, who had been friends with his mother. Some even speculated that Richelieu was his true father.
“Well, if you have thought it all out so well, Cardinal, I approve of your plan ,” the King said with a sigh.
The King, however, hoped that he would have some fun and feel better on the journey. But the main reason he agreed to Richelieu's plan was the Cardinal's fear that he himself might die on the journey. The thought of such a possibility warmed the soul of Louis XIII , who knew how to genuinely rejoice in the misfortune of others and stoically endured the cruelest blows that fate dealt even to his closest friends and servants, including their untimely deaths.
"So you believe, Cardinal, that Catalonia could become part of France?" the King asked finally.
“I consider this highly desirable and quite probable, and if we undertake this expedition now, it will become inevitable, Your Majesty,” replied Richelieu.
"Well then, we are going," the King concluded. "Tell the army to gather for the march."
With this cunning move, Richelieu placed the young princes under the supervision of Chavigny. The Queen and Monsieur were left without an army and without heirs to the throne, meaning they lacked any legal or military backing should they need to seize complete power in the state. Thus, if the King died during the campaign, Richelieu had every chance of remaining sole regent and, therefore, could have become the absolute master of France.
If the Queen had also gone to Vincennes, she would have remained the sole mistress of her children for that time, while in Paris, Cond;, one of Richelieu's most dangerous rivals, would have ascended to the throne. In the Queen's presence, this brother-in-law of the cardinal could not claim any real power.
However, the Cardinal had positioned his pieces in this manner only to maintain peace in the state while he secured Catalonia's protection militarily, with the aim of later annexing it to France by political means. But this opportune arrangement of his pieces filled Cinq-Mars with panic. No matter how little he understood politics, he couldn't help but realize where all this might lead. So even if the Cardinal hadn't considered a regency in the event of the King's death, Cinq-Mars, Monsieur, the Queen, Fontrailles, and even the composed and level-headed de Thou understood that the situation, should the ailing King die, would be too favorable for the Cardinal and too unfavorable for all his opponents.
Cinq-Mars decided to speed things up and began spreading rumors that Richelieu was indeed plotting to permanently separate the Queen from the young princes in order to become Regent. He invented fictitious details to support his theory, in order to push the conspirators to more decisive action. In a panic, the Queen approved the agreement with Spain, albeit only verbally, but that was enough. Cinq-Mars and Fontrailles began negotiations with Spain without informing de Thou, and they also prepared everything for the Cardinal's assassination, concealing these preparations not only from de Thou but also from the Queen, Bouillon, and Monsieur.
All the conspirators lied to each other. Cinq-Mars lied to Fontrailles and Monsieur, claiming the King had hinted unambiguously that he wanted Richelieu eliminated. Monsieur, realizing that Anne would not believe such an unreliable source of information as Cinq-Mars, lied to the Queen, claiming he had heard similar statements from his august brother.
"Is the removal of the cardinal really possible?" the Queen exclaimed. "Has my husband finally given his consent?"
"Would I even mention this if it weren't so?" Monsieur asked in response, so immersed in his role that he was beginning to believe what he himself had dreamed up. "The King's wishes are certain, so this time everything will work out. Fontrailles has already taken the treaty you were pleased to approve to Spain."
Anne felt her palms grow sweaty. She was overcome with utter terror. She knew from experience that no secret in France remained hidden from the cardinal, and if this agreement became known, Richelieu would use it to permanently deprive her not only of the opportunity to see her sons but also of her freedom. This was a sure path to divorce and Anne's imprisonment in a fortress or a convent.
“Monsieur, … Gaston, you must promise me never to tell anyone about this letter ,” she said almost in a whisper.
"Don't worry, Your Majesty, Madame de Saint-Georges won't betray us ," Gaston said. "Besides, she didn't even hear me."
Madame de Saint-Georges was a young lady assigned to the Queen by the Cardinal, although the Queen had already become quite close to her, as she had done in her time with Madame de Hautefort and with some other ladies whom Richelieu wanted to make his spies, but the Queen, with her characteristic charm, inclined them to sympathy and friendship.
“One can never be sure of that,” replied the Queen.
"Listen, Your Majesty, you could have simply written a message to your brother, couldn't you?" Gaston continued. "Have you maintained any relationship with your brother?"
"Saint-Mars recently asked me this very same question, and I answered him the same way I will answer you. The King has forbidden me to maintain contact with him, and therefore I do not maintain it," the Queen replied.
“But in our common cause, preliminary agreement on our future actions with your brother would be extremely useful ,” said Monsieur.
"In our business? Our actions?" the Queen asked. "Dear Gaston, you know I love you like a brother and agree with your opinion on most matters, but I don't yet know, and I don't want to know, anything about any 'our affairs' that would require me to break the promise I made to my husband and the King."
"But you yourself admitted that Richelieu's removal would be a blessing!" Gaston said passionately in a loud whisper.
"If by the will of God or the will of my august husband the First Minister were to be removed, I would accept it with gratitude, that's all," the Queen replied. "But any will of God and any will of my husband and the King, I will accept precisely that, with gratitude. Any. I simply cannot do otherwise."
"Even if the cardinal takes your children away from you, establishes guardianship over them with the help of his people, and becomes the sole regent for the young King?" Monsieur asked in a low, angry whisper.
“The Lord sometimes sends us trials, caring about us, about our good, because only by enduring trials here on sinful earth, in this world, can we, perhaps, earn a better share in the world to come, in heaven,” Anna said in a humble tone.
Gaston realized that the Queen was afraid of getting involved in another conspiracy, although she wished him success with all her heart.
"Your Majesty, I understand ," he said. "I fully approve of your position, but allow me and your other friends to ensure that the Lord is more lenient toward you and does not send you trials that are very difficult to bear." "And forgive us, your devoted friends, for the fact that, in order to resolve this task of assisting the Lord, we will likely have to enter not only into preliminary negotiations with your august brother, but also sign some mutual obligations or at least reach an agreement of intent, which would be desirable for all parties in this matter."
"Ah, Gaston, my dear, I understand nothing of what you have just said," replied the Queen. "I can only tell you that while my husband and King have sufficient power to forbid me from communicating with my brother, I have no power over you, and I have no intention of forbidding you from communicating with anyone you choose."
Gaston looked meaningfully into the Queen's eyes, then kissed her hand.
"How lucky my brother is to have such a sensible and obedient wife!" he said, either with irony or admiration, or perhaps both.
"Thank you, Gaston," replied the Queen. "I need not remind you that I consider you one of my best friends, and that I always wish my friends good luck in all their endeavors."
Gaston bowed his head slightly, just as much as Monsieur should bow before the Queen, and left.

The Queen didn't sleep that night. When you wake up in the middle of the night and can't fall back asleep, the minutes drag on tediously. Only five minutes will pass, and it will feel like half an hour. Half an hour will feel like two hours, and a sleepless night will drag on forever. If you can't sleep, you can get up and pretend the night hasn't begun yet, or is already over, but the Queen couldn't afford such a luxury, because if she didn't sleep that night, both the Cardinal and the King would know the next day, and the questions about the reasons for her insomnia would be endless.
The Queen couldn't sleep for fear. If during the day, during her conversation with Gaston, she had feared she might end up in the Bastille, now at night she felt as if she were halfway to the scaffold. The Cardinal could execute princes of the blood; he had proven that. What would stop him from executing the Queen? Reason told her it was impossible; in peacetime, such a thing would spark a war with Spain, but Spain was already at war! And no matter how much reason assured her she wouldn't face such a punishment, the fear wouldn't go away. And besides, wouldn't being imprisoned for life in the Bastille, or some other fortress, or a monastery—wouldn't that be the same death, only slower and perhaps more painful?
The Queen broke out in a cold sweat at the thought that Madame de Saint-Georges had overheard every word of her conversation with Monsieur. Of course, she had shown loyalty and friendliness toward the Queen, but wasn't that how a Cardinal's assigned spy should behave? What if she had already reported this conversation to Richelieu, word for word, that very evening? Would she survive until the following evening at liberty?
Restful sleep still eluded her. The Queen found the bed, pillow, and blanket uncomfortable. She tossed and turned, but couldn't fall asleep; even the slightest sounds frightened her. She was in a panic.
In the morning she herself came to the cardinal.

"How touching, Your Majesty, that you have come to visit me and inquire about my health!" the cardinal said in a weak voice, so that it was impossible to tell whether he was actually weak or just pretending. "Thank you, Your Majesty, and don't forget to visit your ailing husband as well. Your visit will give him strength, just as it has given me."
"Your Grace, I will pray to the Lord for you," Anna replied. "And for the King. I didn't come just to inquire about your health. I have something to tell you."
The cardinal motioned for all the servants to leave.
“It seems that Your Majesty wishes to ask me for something ,” said Richelieu, and he put on a gentle smile.
“Perhaps so,” answered the Queen, gathering her courage.
"It is a double blessing not only to be honored with your visit, but also to have the opportunity to please you by fulfilling your request ," said Richelieu. "Speak then, I am listening."
“This request is of such a nature that I beg Your Grace to be careful during the journey on which, as I have heard, you are about to embark ,” said the Queen.
"The Lord has already numbered my days," the cardinal replied. "I understand that I don't have much time left. So should I fear an enemy bullet if I didn't fear it in my younger years, when I had something to lose?"
"Sometimes an enemy's bullet is not as dangerous as a dagger from the side you least expect ," said the Queen.
“So you came to warn me, Your Majesty ,” said Richelieu and nodded gratefully.
"Once upon a time, a certain confessor not only reconciled me with my husband, but also helped me in an important state matter ," said the Queen. "You, one might say, saved my life, Cardinal."
The Cardinal looked closely into the Queen's eyes, waiting for her to continue her words.
“Well, today I have repaid the debt, and perhaps I am saving your life by telling you to be more careful on your journey ,” said the Queen.
"Well, of course ," Richelieu said in a quiet, tired voice. "They're all impatient. Well, there won't be long to wait. But they, as far as I can tell, don't want to wait. Who is this new de Vitry?"
"Your Grace, don't ask me to tell you something I know absolutely nothing about," the Queen replied. "I simply want you to know for certain that I have had no evil intentions against you, that I have not incited anyone to do anything, and that I have not signed any letters, nor approved any letters, nor even read them."
"So there is a letter from Monsieur to the King of Spain ," said Richelieu. "Well, I expected that. Your Majesty, you may rest assured that I have never held you guilty of anything, I have always defended you before His Majesty, and I am convinced that I have acted correctly. And now I assure you in advance that whatever happens in the near future, the investigation will not concern you, since, as I see from your words, you strictly observe the promise you gave to His Majesty not to write any letters to your brother, not to send any messengers, not to receive or read any letters from him."
"I strictly observe it," the Queen replied, looking at the image of the Virgin Mary and devoutly crossing herself. "No writing, no reading, no sending messengers."
“In that case, you have nothing to fear,” replied the cardinal.
“I am not afraid for myself, but for you,” answered the Queen.
“If a draft of such a letter fell into your hands,” said the cardinal, “what would you do with it?”
"I would not touch it!" the Queen exclaimed hotly. "And if I did pick it up, it would only be to tear it into little pieces without reading it!"
"If such a draft should fall into your hands, it would be best if you brought it to me ," said the cardinal. "To deliver it to the King, of course."
exists for some reason , and if so, then I have nothing to do with it,” the Queen replied.
"Thank you, Your Majesty," the cardinal replied. "I beg your pardon, but due to my illness I was forced to receive you in bed, and now I cannot rise to bow and see you off."
"So, take care of yourself, Your Eminence!" said the Queen and left the cardinal.

"Now he won't be able to say that I didn't warn him," thought the Queen, walking away from the Cardinal. "If the plot fails, I can always say that I warned the Cardinal about everything, and for that reason alone, I never took part in it."
"She's caught up in a conspiracy and is afraid it will be revealed and all the conspirators will be executed," thought Richelieu. "She came for an indulgence, and I gave it to her. Oh, if only I could get a copy or a draft of this letter!"

After this visit, the Queen could rightfully call some of her friends devoted friends. For that is what they became.

Chapter 90

The Count de Rochefort entered the cardinal's study. Richelieu was reclining in bed, soft silk-lined pillows propped up under his back, a trapezoidal table above his feet, and three cats nestled on the bed nearby.
“Monseigneur,” said Rochefort, bowed and began to await orders.
Richelieu crossed himself over de Rochefort and began coughing. This didn't frighten any of the cats, proving that coughing was a normal occurrence for the cardinal.
"Count, you will go south ," he said. "Take ten men. First, stop in Pau. If you find no trace of Fontray there, you will continue on. If necessary, you will go to Spain, first to Zaragoza, and then to Madrid itself. This envelope contains addresses along your route and the names of people from whom you can obtain the information you need. Also here is a letter certifying your authority and a pass to Spain.
"Should I find Fontray?" Rochefort asked. "Arrest him or kill him?"
"I don't care. You can arrest him, you can kill him, or you can let him go, but just get me all the papers he has on him. But first, keep an eye on him, so he doesn't get rid of them if he feels persecuted."
“All papers found on him will be delivered to Your Grace,” Rochefort replied.
“Pay special attention to the treaty with Spain or the secret protocol, or at least the draft of this document,” Richelieu clarified.
"Do you need the original?" Rochefort asked.
"That would be ideal, but in a pinch, I'll be satisfied with a copy of it. If you find any encrypted documents or any notes, even the most innocuous ones, bring them to me. Also, any other items found on him. It could be anything—a ring, a handkerchief, a glove, a brooch, a button. I repeat, anything. Anything could be a password."
"In order to search Fontray so thoroughly, I would have to kill him ," said Rochefort. "You have no objections to that, Monseigneur?"
"I told you, deal with him as you see fit, but if you catch him only in Spain, be extremely cautious," the cardinal replied. "If you obtain a document proving Monsieur's conspiracy with Philip IV , King of Spain and brother of our august Queen, you can neglect all other inquiries. This letter or draft treaty is the highest priority. Everything else is important only if you fail to obtain such a document."
“I understand you, Monseigneur,” replied Rochefort.
"As soon as the contract, or at least a copy of it, is in your hands, your only task will be to deliver this document to me as quickly as possible," the cardinal continued. "You will receive travel money from the treasurer. I will not detain you."
Rochefort took the envelope, bowed and left.

Meanwhile, I needed to go to Tours to see Marie de Chevreuse, and, of course, on the way I dropped in at Blois, hoping to see Athos.
I won't describe the beauty of the road or how I reached the Count's castle. Grimaud, in his memoirs, which I've already recalled many times, calls this castle a white house. Well, buildings that should be called castles can, of course, be called that simply, but I remember well that Athos lived not in a white house, as Grimaud writes, but in a white castle. And what kind of a name is this, "White House"? Nothing serious can be called "White House."
The castle was magnificent and surrounded by a beautiful garden, it was clear that Athos was prospering.
At the entrance to the garden, a thin man sat on a bench of openwork cast iron with an oak seat, carefully polishing a magnificent sword, which I immediately recognized. I would have recognized the man, too, had his face not been hidden by the brim of his hat. But since I was riding horseback, accompanied by the faithful Bazin, we had already attracted the man's attention, so upon our approach, he laid down his sabre, stood up, and, removing his hat, bowed deeply to me.
"Welcome, Chevalier d'Herblay!" he said. "I'm glad to see you, my dear Bazin!"
"Grimaud!" I cried, delighted at this meeting almost as much as if I had met Athos himself. "I hope the Count is at home?"
“He’s at home and waiting for you,” Grimaud replied.
Bazin dismounted and embraced Grimaud. At that moment, Athos appeared on the threshold.
“Forgive me, my dear friend, for not coming out to meet you, as I was a little slow in changing my clothes ,” he said, running up to me.
We hugged.
"What am I hearing? Did you change your clothes before my arrival?" I asked in surprise.
“My shirt was a little dirty, so I couldn’t appear before you like this,” Athos replied with a smile.
Athos not only changed his shirt, he was completely dressed as if for a holiday.
“We have often seen each other in clothes stained with blood, wine, road dust, or even all of these things combined,” I replied.
"Yes, that's true, and fortunately, it wasn't our blood most often," Athos replied. "But let's go inside! The table is already set! Grimaud, feed Bazin and have our friends' horses taken care of."
Thus Athos called Bazin his friend. He became very sentimental. Grimaud merely nodded silently and set about the tasks the Count had assigned him. He had begun them earlier, however, because he knew exactly what Athos would tell him to do in this situation.
We entered the house, where I saw a young, neatly dressed woman who, upon seeing me in the company of Athos, immediately went out through another door.
“Count, I congratulate you ,” I said.
"With what, my friend?" asked Athos.
"We all knew you as a man who avoided women, and now I see there's a woman living in your house ," I said. "I'm genuinely happy for you."
"You have reason to be happy for me, but this woman is not what you think," Athos replied without a hint of offense or irritation. "She is the former wet nurse, now nanny, of an orphan whom I intend to raise and educate. I have arranged guardianship over him. The wet nurse became so attached to him that she refused to part with him even after her services were no longer needed."
"A child? You, Count?" I asked, surprised. "And you're the guardian? Well, that's not bad either; it's family, after all."
"Yes, you're right, Aramis, it's family," Athos agreed. "My life has found meaning. Now do you know why I had to change my shirt?"
“Not exactly,” I replied. “I’ve never had to babysit.”
“I was teaching my pupil Raoul the basics of fencing, and he managed to cut it in two places with the tip of his sword,” Athos said cheerfully, his face beaming with happiness.
“How old is he?” I asked.
“He was born in 1634, he will soon be eight years old,” answered Athos.
"Will you show it to me?" I asked.
“Unfortunately, it won’t work out. He asked me for permission to go to the neighbors ,” said Athos.
"You're letting such a young boy ride a horse alone?" I asked in surprise.
“Nothing will happen to him,” Athos replied. “He’s a superb horseman, he has a fine horse, and this is a quiet place. In any case, he can take care of himself. Besides, Blaisois is with him. He’s my new servant. But why are we standing here? The table is set! You’re probably hungry from your journey. Let’s continue our conversation at the table.”
Athos's table was set with exquisite dishes and adorned with equally exquisite wine. If this feast was to celebrate my arrival, I was extremely flattered; if Athos ate so sumptuously every day, I could only rejoice for him. At that time, I still had a good appetite, so for the first ten minutes we simply devoured the food, occasionally accompanying this activity with a few sips of excellent wine.
When dessert was brought, Athos looked at me kindly and said.
"Whatever brings you to my house, I am extremely glad to see you!" he said. "Remember that my house is always open to my friends."
“I know about it, Athos, but perhaps I will soon become a very dangerous guest,” I replied.
"Whatever you undertake, I approve of your actions in advance, and no matter what crime you commit in the eyes of the Cardinal and his justice, I will never disown you, so what need is there to say?" Athos replied. "Even if hundreds of the Cardinal's guards are pursuing you to arrest you, you can always find refuge with me. I will not allow anyone to arrest a friend like you, and I will defend your freedom with my sword to the last drop of blood."
I couldn't resist and hugged Athos.
"I know about this, Count, but I hope it won't come to that," I replied. "I may serve our Queen too loyally, which could cause a final quarrel between me and the Cardinal."
"So, are we, all four of us, gathering again to serve the Queen against the Cardinal?" asked Athos. "Why didn't you bring d'Artagnan with you? Or does his duty as lieutenant of the King's Musketeers prevent him from joining this enterprise?"
"No, my friend," I replied. "This time I can handle the task myself, and if I needed help, I would, of course, turn to d'Artagnan, and Porthos, and you, dear Athos, but at the moment it is not required. Besides, you have a child on your hands. How can I tear you away from such important and pleasant concerns?"
“Don’t worry about that, my friend, I can easily entrust Raoul to my servants, and I can go with you if necessary,” Athos replied.
"No, no, my dear friend, my job is easier done alone," I replied. "These days I'm just a simple postman."
"The road to the seamstress Marie Michon's estate passes through Blois," Athos replied with a smile. "Well, I'm grateful to her for the pleasure of meeting you. And not only for that."
“Oh really?” I was surprised. “Have you met her?”
"You could say that," Athos replied. "But it's a long story. Someday, perhaps, I'll tell it, but right now it's premature."
"Should I give her your regards, Count?" I asked with a smile.
"No, don't," Athos replied. "I don't think she remembers me. Our meeting was such that I didn't have the honor of introducing myself to her. She unwittingly did me a favor, but she probably no longer remembers it. It would be inappropriate to talk to her about it now."
"Well, the times are such that it would really be better for you, Count, not to maintain any acquaintance with her," I said. "Even I've been very cautious about that lately. Perhaps these times will soon change, but for now the situation, I'd say, is unpredictable."
"I told you, my dear Aramis, that I would support you in any undertaking you undertake, but perhaps I would not advise you to participate in every undertaking," said Athos. "Perhaps it would be better for you to keep aloof from the grandiose plans of an active seamstress?"
"I entirely agree with you, Athos, but I'm already involved in this matter, and I can't leave it without casting suspicion on myself," I replied. "And suspicion is worse than a direct accusation, because you can answer an accusation with a sword in your hand, whereas suspicion discredits you without you even knowing it."
"A truly noble man, among whom I undoubtedly count you, answers only to his own conscience," Athos replied. "So don't worry about suspicions. Just ignore them."
“Thank you for the lesson, Athos, that’s exactly what I try to do, but it doesn’t always work out,” I replied.
“You are probably in a hurry, but I hope that you will spend the night with me and be able to continue on in the morning ,” said Athos.
“Dear Athos, thank you, this coincides with my plans,” I replied.
We strolled through the garden, chatted about all sorts of abstract things, recalled our exploits and our duels with the cardinal's guards. The evening passed magnificently.
Before falling asleep, I thought about what kind deed Chevrette could have done for Athos without bothering to meet him.
The next morning, before saying goodbye to Athos, I decided to find out something.
"I was extremely glad to see you, dear Athos, happy and prosperous ," I said. "This pupil of yours has a very beneficial effect on you. Perhaps I should adopt an orphan, too?"
“If the Lord gives you a sign to do this, then by all means obey his command,” answered Athos.
"How did the Lord show you this path?" I asked. "Was this child dropped off at your castle's doorstep?"
“Not quite so,” replied Athos. “This child, three months old, was abandoned to a poor priest in the village of Roche-Labeille, located between Tulle and Angoul;me. A week later, I was passing through the village and stopped in to see the priest, who told me the story. I inquired about the child’s whereabouts, and the priest replied that he had given him to a peasant family to be raised, who already had three children. I visited the family, saw the poverty in which they lived, and realized that these good people would be burdened by an extra child. So I gave them some money and offered to give him to me to raise. They, fortunately, agreed, since they had not yet become attached to him, and they also decided that a fourth child, especially not theirs, would be too much of a burden. So I brought him home to Blois, where he has lived for almost eight years.
"You've always been a man of great spirit and kindness!" I exclaimed. "I will indeed consider following your example. But only if I'm expelled from the abbots."
We both laughed at my joke, hugged each other, and we, Bazin and I, rode off in the direction of Tours.
I promised myself to stop by the village of Roche-Labeille, located between Tulle and Angoul;me, find the local priest, and question him about this child. Something told me he had some connection to Marie de Chevreuse, who, I believe, passed through this village during her hasty escape.

Chapter 91

Leaving the Palais Cardinal, Rochefort hurried toward the Cardinal's Guards barracks. After taking only ten steps, he heard a shout from behind.
"Don't be in such a hurry, Monsieur Rochefort! Don't make me chase you again!"
Rochefort glanced back and saw Lieutenant d'Artagnan of the Musketeers. Six Musketeers stood a little further away, about ten paces away. They were watching this scene attentively, but it was clear they had been ordered not to intervene without good reason. The very presence of these witnesses prevented Rochefort from ignoring this appeal and dismissing the man for whom he harbored a bitter hatred, a hatred that was undoubtedly mutual.
"You again!" Rochefort said in a tired voice, full of hatred.
"I'm glad you've stopped calling me those offensive names only an angry father would use against an errant boy ," d'Artagnan said. "I'd like to remind you that our communication was terminated on my initiative due to certain health problems that arose as a result of our pleasant conversation. I've given you time to recover so that we can continue our elegant meeting. Would you be so kind as to continue it? I see that your health has been fully restored and gives no cause for concern!"
"I'm in a hurry on important business," Rochefort objected. "We'll meet later."
"Begging your pardon, my dear Monsieur Rochefort," replied d'Artagnan. "As I've noticed, you're always in a hurry, every time we meet, so I can't hope that you'll never be occupied with urgent matters. Furthermore, you've proven time and again that the important matters you're rushing to accomplish are precisely the kind of matters that I find extremely important in preventing you from completing."
"This time my affairs are truly of the utmost importance," Rochefort replied. "They cannot be delayed by your petty squabbles."
"Maybe kidnapping a defenseless woman or poisoning her treacherously is a small matter for you, but for me, believe me, it's no small matter at all," d'Artagnan retorted heatedly. "Be so kind as to follow me; it's not far. It won't take us more than half an hour, and we'll spend two-thirds of that time on a pleasant stroll."
“I have to take a walk in the opposite direction, so there will be no conversation with you today,” Rochefort replied and intended to continue on his way.
"Know that I expected this!" said d'Artagnan in a loud voice.
At that very moment, six musketeers headed towards Rochefort with very quick steps.
Rochefort considered it improper to flee. Although a large number of guardsmen were usually found near the Palais Cardinal, at this early hour there were practically none nearby, and those who might have heard him and rushed to his aid would have been difficult to overcome with six musketeers and their lieutenant, renowned as the finest swordsman in France.
"I see that you pursue me with a tenacity worthy of better causes," Rochefort said wearily. "Are you threatening me with violence? Here, near the Palais Cardinal?"
"My friends only wish to ask you not to leave me before we finish this pleasant conversation," d'Artagnan replied. "They will only intervene if anyone tries to hinder us."
"If I set a time and place for our conversation now, will you leave me alone?" Rochefort asked.
"No, Monsieur Rochefort, I won't let you go," d'Artagnan replied. "I've been looking for an opportunity that has only now presented itself, for two months now, since you've been well for some time now. Despite our agreement to continue our conversation, you've been extremely clever in avoiding it. I can't wait, damn it. The unspoken things are eating away at my soul. I still have many arguments left for our unfinished argument."
"You won't give me a reprieve?" Rochefort asked, anticipating the answer to this question.
“Not a minute longer than is necessary to reach that fragrant garden with its superb meadow to which I invite you,” replied d’Artagnan.
“The cardinal will execute you,” Rochefort said calmly.
"If our conversation ends as I hope, I'm even prepared to let him do so," the Gascon replied. "If it doesn't, he'll simply have no one left to execute. Make up your mind, Monsieur Rochefort, or these six musketeers will confirm what I'll be saying on every corner of the Louvre: that Count Rochefort is a coward who, having once received a wound from me, began to hide from me like a coward, avoiding good man-to-man talk with swords in hand, as befits true soldiers."
Rochefort realized that if he tried to avoid the duel, that's exactly what would happen. The Cardinal could, of course, protect Rochefort from swords and slander, but even he couldn't protect him from disgrace, for which there were such compelling reasons. And the loss of honor was unacceptable for a nobleman, even for such a nobleman as Count Rochefort.
“Let’s go, but hurry,” he finally answered.
"At last!" d'Artagnan exclaimed joyfully. "How many unnecessary words we had to waste on persuasion!"
Needless to say, d'Artagnan crossed swords with Rochefort and inflicted one of the most painful wounds, which again confined Rochefort to his bed for two months. Had d'Artagnan's sword deflected even a quarter of an inch, Rochefort might have been immobilized for life. His right leg would never have been able to serve him again; at best, he would have been confined to a wheelchair, such as the poet Scarron invented for himself many years later. But d'Artagnan had mastered the basics of anatomy, so the wound he inflicted on Rochefort this time, too, caused extreme discomfort and intense pain, but did not threaten the count's life.
"We will meet again for a final conversation, Monsieur le Comte ," said d'Artagnan, stepping on Rochefort's sword near the guard, whereupon its blade snapped with a clang. "Our two conversations have been so enjoyable to me that I deeply regret that the third may be your last." "My good advice to you: buy a sword at least two inches longer, and practice fencing daily as soon as you recover."
After this, d'Artagnan bowed to Rochefort, turned, and walked away, accidentally stepping on Rochefort's hat, which was lying nearby. In any case, no one who might have seen it could have claimed it was done intentionally, since d'Artagnan didn't seem to be looking at his feet at all as he walked away from his fallen adversary.
If such a person who could have observed this scene had been nearby and had had excellent hearing, he would have been able to hear the strange words that d'Artagnan uttered extremely quietly:
- Be patient a little longer, Constance, my dear, soon we will close this account completely.
This is why the Count de Rochefort failed to carry out the Cardinal's instructions and was unable to travel to Spain to obtain the preliminary treaty drawn up by Gaston for the King of Spain or to make a copy of it. Monsieur de Fontrailles was not attacked by the Count de Rochefort.

Chapter 92

Cinq-Mars almost believed he could overthrow the cardinal. He considered his marriage to Marie Gonzaga a foregone conclusion. He had managed to establish a brief friendship with her, and they harbored tender feelings for each other. But if he was sensible enough to neglect his feelings for Mademoiselle de Chevreau for the sake of ascending through marriage to Marie Gonzaga, then Marie herself was sensible enough not to agree to the marriage until Cinq-Mars had achieved the position of First Minister or Constable of France, which would have made him one of the most distinguished nobles in the kingdom.
In this situation, Saint-Mars showered Marie with love letters, but he also found time to write to Mademoiselle de Chevreaux, which were no less passionate. It's clear from this that Saint-Mars truly loved neither of these women, since a true lover doesn't split his soul into feelings for two or more objects of passion. He also sent Mademoiselle de Chevreaux promises of marriage, apparently keeping her in reserve. Well, some men leave behind several widows, who only discover at their husband's coffin that they weren't the only ones, so is it any wonder Saint-Mars had two fianc;es? Perhaps he had more, who knows? No one has ever found out.
I must admit, Cinq-Mars had someone to learn from in this multifaceted approach to women. His former benefactor and now sworn enemy, Cardinal Richelieu, was no different. Indeed, the cardinal was a very amorous man; there were times when he felt less like a cardinal than a duke, less like a spiritual figure than a man. His love for his nieces went beyond family feelings.
The Cardinal's niece, Marie-Madeleine, the Marquise de Combalet, married at the behest of her uncle, who wanted to marry de Luynes, and always had an overly affectionate relationship with him. After de Luynes's death, the marriage lost all significance for the Cardinal, but after her husband, the Marquis Antoine de Combalet, was killed at the siege of Montpellier, Marie-Madeleine remained noble, wealthy, and free, after which she simply moved in with her uncle in the Palais Cardinal. Why did she do this? Certainly not to care for his numerous cats. I would say that the Marquise de Combalet herself became her uncle's favorite cat, and she was quite content with this role. In fact, the Queen Mother's jealousy of the Marquise was not the least of the reasons for the rift between her and Richelieu. This example demonstrates how difficult it is to combine courting one woman for a career with courting another for love. This example, however, taught de Saint-Mars nothing, as he declared his love to two women simultaneously. I don't blame him for this; I can understand it, but doing it epistolarily was extremely foolish. Personally, I always declared my love only to the woman I saw in front of me at the time.
I must explain the reason I did not recommend Cinq-Mars to join the conspiracy. The fact is, I didn't believe him. Indeed, he assured everyone that the King wanted the Cardinal's resignation, even his death. If he could have gotten the King to resign, that's exactly what he should have done. The fact that he didn't prove he couldn't, and that was the only reason he started the plot. But if so, he must have realized the King would be displeased with the Cardinal's murder, and any other "removal" would have been beyond the power of all the conspirators combined. No one could compromise the Cardinal in the King's eyes, so there was no point in counting on it. Indeed, even the highly competent Jesuit, Father Caussin, had failed to achieve this.
Poor Father Caussin wasted his eloquence in trying to persuade the King to limit Richelieu's power, or even banish him altogether. While Father Caussin delivered his fiery speech, Louis XIII seemed to be listening attentively and in complete agreement. This inflamed the prelate's eloquence, who began to predict the torments of hell and responsibility at the Last Judgment for the Cardinal's cruelties, violence, and unrest in the country, and even dared to threaten that God's wrath would overtake not only the Cardinal but even the King himself. The pious Louis did not object; he agreed with Father Caussin in everything. When the prelate, exhausted by his speeches, believed in his complete victory, the King said:
"You are certainly right, Father, so repeat your words to the Cardinal! Let him come to his senses and change."
Father Caussin wasn't prepared for this; it was a dead end. It's one thing to whisper to the mighty what he'll deign to hear about your all-powerful rival, and quite another to say it to his face. It's far more difficult, more dangerous, and utterly hopeless.
Any accusation made to the cardinal's face was completely demolished by his arguments. This was the case this time, too. In a few words, maintaining complete calm and a semblance of dispassion, which made his words more persuasive, the Cardinal explained to the King that only those alliances he concluded were beneficial to France, and that all the states against whom these alliances were concluded were truly unfriendly to France, and that no negotiations with them would ever lead to a change in their position. Father Caussin offered only emotion and quotations from the Gospels, unsupported by facts, while Richelieu easily relied on facts, figures, names, and events. The confessor was disgraced and soon removed from the King's presence.
So, such an insignificant politician as Cinq-Mars certainly couldn't have exerted such strong influence over the King as to achieve the cardinal's bloodless removal from power. That's why he hatched a plot whose key event would be Richelieu's assassination. But the second key event was the actions of neighboring states in response to this assassination, so the preliminary treaties with Sedan, Spain, and Brussels were themselves treason.
It was enough for the cardinal to know that such treaties existed, or at least were being discussed, in the form of drafts that the parties had already exchanged. The cardinal would not have been a cardinal if he had contented himself with merely giving the corresponding order to Count Rochefort.
He, of course, no longer had such a clever spy as Milady, but he had other assistants with the most diverse talents.
Poor de Thou was brought into the conspiracy for only one purpose: to draw the Queen into it. She continued to distrust Cinq-Mars, who was taking the King from her, and Monsieur, who was likely claiming the regency. It was natural for her to fear a trap in this situation. De Thou was a man of wide education, intelligence, talent, and experience. But the fact is that he merely confirmed to the Queen that he was a friend of Cinq-Mars and sympathized with his endeavors, while in reality he didn't even fully understand the full depth of the conspiracy, its goals, methods, and other details.
None of them understood that the King loved to dream of Richelieu's disappearance, but he always clutched him with both hands when decisive and intelligent action was required. Therefore, Louis XIII would never have agreed to the cardinal's dismissal.
Incidentally, Brienne, who acted as intermediary between de Thou and the Queen, acted exactly as I had acted as intermediary between Chevreuse and Cinq-Mars. He relayed to the Queen the requests of his cousin de Thou precisely, after which he urged the Queen not to grant them under any circumstances.
At the same time, the Queen acted extremely illogically, although her actions could be explained by her own aspirations. She wanted to protect her children from the influence and power of Richelieu, as well as from the influence and power of Monsieur. Therefore, she was prepared to enter into coalitions with each of them against the other. A coalition with Cinq-Mars did not seem reliable to her. Through de Thou, she contacted the Duke of Bouillon, recommending that he accept the command of the Italian army. Bouillon hesitated, fearing that a prolonged absence from Sedan could simply cost him his command. Furthermore, he neither understood nor shared the fears of all the conspirators in the event of the King's death, believing that a coalition consisting of the Queen, Monsieur, Monsieur le G;n;ral, de Thou, Fontrailles, and other supporters of the Queen was strong enough to defeat Richelieu. He overlooked two factors that were well known to all participants in this coalition. Firstly, the cardinal was two heads smarter than all of them put together, and he was perhaps the only one who understood politics. Secondly, he had a vast network of spies and guards, meaning he knew what was happening in the state and could influence it; he had both the knowledge and the power.
Thus, on January 27, 1642, the gravely ill Louis XIII , accompanied by the equally ill cardinal, troops, and his nobles, including Cinq-Mars, de Tr;ville, and d'Artagnan, set out for the Catalan pass. At the same time , Fontrailles, disguised as a priest, headed for Madrid. Rochefort, bedridden, did not dare inform the cardinal of his impossibility of fulfilling his mission, so he dispatched de Cahuzac and La Houdini;re in his place, accompanied by ten guards, explaining to them, at his own risk, the entire nature of the task entrusted to him. The queen obtained from the king the right to remain with the children in Saint-Germain at least until April.
Two sick men move slowly, each requiring a gentle regimen of travel, so the Cardinal saw little of the King during this campaign. He was only able to see him four times: at Fontainebleau, Lyon, Moulins, and Norbonne. Meanwhile, Monsieur le Guerre remained constantly by the King's side, using this opportunity to denigrate the Cardinal in the monarch's eyes. The Cardinal was consoled by reports from his loyal Sublet de Noyer that the King was not particularly interested in such gossip, as well as by information on all military operations provided by Captain of the Guards Abraham Faber, the future Commandant of Sedan, Marshal of France, and inventor of the method of sieging fortresses using parallels and trenches.

The end of the second book

(To be continued)