Memoirs of Aramis, Book 3

The Memoirs of Aramis, Book 3

Annotation

The third book of Aramis's memoirs continues to describe the period between the end of Alexandre Dumas's novel The Three Musketeers and the beginning of Twenty Years After. The action of the second book ends with the beginning of the Cinq-Mars conspiracy against Cardinal Richelieu. Aramis and d'Artagnan unwittingly influenced the development of these events. We hope the reader will find it interesting to learn about the events that took place in France during this period. Alexandre Dumas left the four musketeers in 1629, after which readers meet them only twenty years later, in 1649! Read on to discover what happened to our musketeers between these two dates.
Chapters 1–44 can be found in the first book, and chapters 45–92 can be found in the second book.

Author's Preface

As I began working on the third book, I discovered several inconsistencies in the previously translated text. Apparently, the code used by the Chevalier d'Herblay to encrypt his notes was misunderstood in some places. For example, Chapter 90 stated that Aramis, during a trip to Blois, met Athos's ward, who was only eight months old at the time. However, the beginning of the third book contains a date from which we must conclude that this ward, Raoul, was born in the autumn of 1634. Since Aramis visited Athos during the Saint-Mars conspiracy, this places the year 1642, making Raoul seven and a half years old at that time. We suspect that the codebreaker mistakenly stated Raoul's age as "almost eight months," when in reality he should have been "almost eight years old," or more accurately, seven years and eight months. Accordingly, I had to return to the second book and make changes to the age of Athos's ward, as well as to the dialogue, which I slightly embellished with my writer's imagination. I tell you, my dear readers, it is much easier to write about sylphs and gobolds, fairies and mermaids. In this case, no reader or historian will accuse the writer of inaccuracies. Perhaps I should have abandoned this topic and started writing a collection of fairy tales, as I once did, but I became so engrossed in processing the memoirs of Aramis, who has become almost like family to me, that I cannot tear myself away from this work. It is decided that I will devote no more than half my days to this book, and I will try to use the other half more productively. And yet, this morning I took a clean sheet of paper, a new pen, and began writing the third book of Aramis's memoirs. We left off with Aramis visiting Athos on his way to the Duchess de Chevreuse, while d'Artagnan seriously wounded Rochefort in another duel, the King's favorite, called Monsieur le Chef, plotted the murder of Cardinal Richelieu and decided to enlist the support of Spain and Sedan, which the Cardinal learned of through his own channels, but he needed proof of Cinq-Mars's treason to overthrow him.

Chapter 93

Meanwhile, I didn't finish telling you about my trip to Marie de Chevreuse. I did, indeed, stop in the small village of Roche-Labeille, located between Tulle and Angoul;me. Finding the local priest, Father J;r;me, was easy. It wasn't hard for me to find common ground with him, since I'm also something of a clergyman.
After a mutually pleasant conversation on the topic of the immaculate conception and original sin, I casually inquired about the story of the baby.
“You know, Padre,” I said, “it just now occurred to me that I am in those places that a parishioner from Tours told me about with tears in her eyes about eight years ago.
"What did this parishioner tell you?" asked Father Jerome.
"Eight years ago or so, she told me a story that had happened to her, and it was still fresh in her memory. She told me that her crazy maid had stolen her infant child, a boy. This madwoman had imagined that her mistress's child was her own. Not only that, but she had also imagined God knows what else. This unfortunate woman claimed that, like the Virgin Mary, she had been granted the miracle of the Immaculate Conception, but also that she had given birth in a dream. Considering herself equal to the Virgin Mary, she decided that this child should be given to a priest to raise as a new Messiah. No one took the poor woman seriously; everyone thought her madness was completely harmless. But one day, she stole the baby and ran away in an unknown direction. A search was launched, and she was eventually found not far from your village, about ten kilometers away. The unfortunate woman lay unconscious on the bank of a stream, repeating, "It has happened! He is with a holy man!" Unfortunately, the baby was never found. She was placed in a hospital, and a month later she confessed to having abandoned the baby to a village priest. I never saw this parishioner again.
“So that’s it!” cried Father Jerome. “Now it all becomes clear to me. You see, in October 1634, I found a cradle on my doorstep with a baby boy, about three months old. In the cradle was a purse stuffed with gold and a note that read only: ‘October 11, 1633’. I didn’t understand anything, since I hadn’t spent the night at home that day. However, I later recalled that a traveler, a gentleman by appearance, had asked for my quarters. Since I had been called to the aid of a dying man, I offered him my supper and my bed, and then went where my duty took me. I returned only early in the morning; the gentleman had already left. In gratitude for my shelter, he left me ten pistoles. This sum was too large even for an inn, where he might have found greater comfort, but there is no inn in our village. I gave this child to a family who agreed to take him in. True, they already had three children of their own, but the money in the cradle solved that problem. I added the ten pistoles the nobleman left me, since, considering the payment excessive, I didn't touch it. I don't need to explain to you that clergy shouldn't provide shelter for money; I simply did a good deed by offering him my home for one night.
"That's a very interesting story, dear Father Jerome!" I said. "I'll try to find that parishioner and tell her that her son has been found after so many years."
"Unfortunately, the baby's story doesn't end there," Father Jerome replied with a mournful sigh. "If I'd known the child had parents and that they were grieving his loss, I would have launched my own investigation. But I thought the child was unwanted and the parents had simply decided to get rid of him."
"What happened next, Father Jerome?" I asked, even though I already knew the rest of the story.
“A week after these events, a nobleman came to us and began to question me about my life,” the priest continued. “I told him this very story, since for a moment it seemed to me that this was the very traveler who had spent the night with me on the day mentioned in this note. He asked me what had become of the child, and I took him to this family. He wished to take the child for himself. The adoptive parents were reluctant at first, fearing that the nobleman would demand the gold that had been left in the cradle with the baby, but the nobleman gave them another purse of gold, as he said, in gratitude for the care they had taken of the child during his stay. He took the child, and they immediately left with their thin servant, who seemed to be deaf and dumb, since the nobleman communicated with him through gestures.
"Thank you, Father Jerome, I'm beginning to understand that this was probably the child's father, since his description matches the husband of a parishioner of mine," I replied. "I'm very glad everything ended so well."
I said goodbye to Father Jerome and went to Tours to see Marie de Chevreuse.

Maria greeted me kindly.
"Henri, I'm glad to see you!" she said.
“Duchess, I have brought you a letter,” I replied and handed her the letter from the Queen.
"Duchess?" Maria asked. "Why so formal? Aren't we friends anymore?"
"We're more than friends, we're conspirators, bound by a common crime," I replied. "Our bond could easily become one of blood, and the chopping block and the axe are our crowning glory."
"Why such gloomy predictions, Henri?" Chevrette asked, pouting.
At such moments she was charming even at almost forty-two years old.
"It's simple realism," I replied. "We must take into account all possible outcomes of our undertaking."
“You call him ours, I like it,” Maria replied.
"Only because I was dragged into it," I replied. "I consider all this fuss unreasonable, since the cardinal is already one foot in the grave."
"But the King is also halfway there," Chevrette objected. "If the King gets there first, the Cardinal will have everyone under his thumb!"
"Nonsense," I objected. "But if the plot fails, that's exactly what will happen—the cardinal will bring everyone under his control."
"Why would it fail?" Maria asked.
"There are too many of you, and you all don't trust each other," I replied. "A good conspiracy is one in which the main players are few, but all of them are determined enough. In your case, there are too many people who consider themselves the main ones, and not a single one of them is determined. In the grand scheme of things, one person is enough to eliminate the cardinal. Where is your new Clement or Ravaillac?"
“The times of the Clements and Ravaillacs are over,” Maria answered sadly.
"These times will never end," I objected. "New Feltons and other fanatics will appear."
"But there are no such people in our ranks," Maria replied. "No one wants to lose their head."
"Exactly," I agreed. "No one wants to lose their head, so everyone puts everyone else's head on the line. I sense treason. It would be better to find one fanatic than to drag a dozen princes and dukes into the matter again, each expecting decisive action from the others. Why, for example, this preliminary treaty with Spain? Why let the Duke of Bouillon in on your plans? Do you want to inform all of Europe of your plans?"
“We want to enlist the support of all of Europe,” Chevretta replied.
“It’s useless,” I said. “If I were in charge, I would first eliminate Richelieu, and only then arrest Count Rochefort, Count Jean Galard de Brassac, Jacques Martin, Sieur de Laubardemont, Fran;ois Sitois, Fran;ois-Annibal d’Estr;es, Denis Charpentier, Gabriel de Lobespine, Marquise Fran;oise de Souvray de Lansac, Louis Ph;lypeaux de La Vri;re, Marquis de Ch;teauneuf, Viscount de Saint-Florentin, Bishop of Mandes, Sylvestre de Marsillac, Madame Combalet, Councillor of the Paris Parliament Ren; de Voyer de Paulmy, Count d’Argenson, …
"That's enough, Henri," Maria interrupted me, "I can make a similarly complete list myself. What next?"
"When Richelieu was assassinated, the King's verbal consent and decisive action by Cinq -Mars, backed by Monsieur de Treville's musketeers, would have been enough to arrest all his supporters. Paris would have been ours, France would have been ours. I mean the Queen."
"Yes, Henri, this plan is good, but what next?" asked Maria.
“The King should propose a new candidate for the post of First Minister,” I said.
“This candidate already exists – it’s Saint-Mars,” Maria answered.
“He might have been approved by the King, but he wouldn’t have been able to cope,” I objected.
"Then who?" asked Maria.
“De Tu,” I answered.
"But the King will not approve it!" Mary objected.
“He will approve if Saint-Mar asks,” I answered.
"And what's the point of Saint-Mar asking for de Thou?" asked Maria.
“The point is that then de Thou could persuade the King to make Saint-Mars Constable of France and marry him to Maria Gonzaga,” I replied.
"What next?" asked Maria.
“Only after this should the Queen have convinced the King to make peace with Spain, Savoy, Sedan, and cool relations with England…” I answered.
"It's beautiful, I must say," Maria agreed. "But our plan is also good."
"It's only good if the cardinal doesn't get ahead of you," I objected. "While you're busy with the contracts, the cardinal might arrest you all."
“You?” Maria asked again.
"You or us, what difference does it make?" I asked. "It doesn't change the essence of the matter. Extra papers, sent through half of France and half of Spain by couriers, to whom anything could happen along the way! It's too much of a risk. After all, these letters aren't even encrypted!"
"We can't send encrypted letters to the King of Spain!" Chevrette objected.
"Why not?" I asked, surprised. "One messenger would bring him a coded letter, and another, who would have to travel a completely different route, would bring the keys to this cipher. However, as I already said, all these preliminary agreements are premature. The cardinal should first be overthrown, and then this correspondence should begin."
"Your weapon is the sword, Monsieur Aramis, and our weapon is pen and paper," replied Chevrette. "Not everyone is a man, and not everyone can solve their problems with a sword and a musket!"
"But you, my dear, it seems to me, are also capable of wearing men's clothes, carrying a sword and a musket, and riding horseback, accompanied by an equally courageous servant, Katie!" I replied.
“How do you know?” Maria asked.
"Your friend La Rochefoucauld can be so talkative sometimes," I said. "By the way, does he know about the preliminary agreement? Do you trust him?"
"You are jealous, d'Herblay! " exclaimed Maria with a happy laugh. "You are jealous, therefore you still love me!"
"Does it matter?" I smiled. "I'll just say one thing. If it weren't for my attitude toward you, Maria, I doubt I'd have let myself get drawn into this conspiracy."
"But you seem to be completely devoted to the Queen, aren't you?" asked Mary.
"Not as selflessly as you think," I dismissed. "In that regard, d'Artagnan is far my superior. I'm willing to respect his loyalty and help him protect the Queen from the Cardinal, but I consider myself more of an enemy of Richelieu than a servant of the Queen."
"Who are you truly devoted to, Henri?" asked Maria.
"Love and friendship, Maria," I replied. "First of all, love, and that means for myself. But also friendship. I like my friends. They are ready to sacrifice their lives for each other, and for me too, so sometimes I think I would be ready for a similar sacrifice. Although, I'm not sure. I hope that fate will not demand such a sacrifice from me."
"So, love, but above all, love for yourself?" Maria asked ironically. "And I thought you..."
“What did you think?” I asked in a serene tone.
“The Jesuit Order,” Maria said, looking into my eyes.
"What – the Jesuit Order?" I asked, trying to hide my embarrassment. "You want to join it?"
"Don't pretend, d'Herblay!" Chevrette replied. "You know perfectly well that the Order doesn't accept women."
"Otherwise, would you have joined it?" I tried to joke.
“Perhaps,” Maria replied. “But you are already a member, aren’t you?”
- And you, my dear, it seems, had some adventure in the town of Roche-Labeille?
Maria blushed deeply.
"Let's not pay attention to idle gossip, my dear," I said in a conciliatory tone. "I would never believe everything they say about you. And besides, we are friends. So why don't you stop believing the various rumors about me?"
"I don't believe the rumors, I'm asking you straight out, are you a member of this Order?" Maria asked.
"As soon as I need to discuss this with you, I will immediately tell you everything you need to know about it," I replied. "As you probably know, the Order makes no secret of its members' identities, but it also discourages unnecessary speculation. It has nothing to do with the matter we are currently dealing with. Will there be a response to the Queen's letter?"
"Henri! Enough about business! Don't you miss your little Chevrette?" asked Maria.
"Of course I missed you, my dear," I replied. "But you know that before making love, I need to at least talk a little about politics or some secrets. Without that, I remain cold."
“Oh, Henri, I know what to tell you so that your coldness will disappear as if it had never been there,” Maria answered.
I felt again that magical attraction of this woman.
"What's the secret, Maria?" I asked playfully.
“Do you know who the Queen gave birth to on September 5, 1638?” she asked.
"Of course!" I exclaimed. "All of France knows it! She gave birth to the Dauphin, Louis the God-given, Louis Dieudonn;."
"You're mistaken, my dear!" Maria exclaimed, unbuttoning her bodice. "Well? Does this mystery excite you?"
"You bet!" I exclaimed, wrapping my arms around her waist and pressing my lips to her breast. "Speak!"
"She gave birth to twins!" Maria announced triumphantly. "Twin brothers, indistinguishable from each other! Even their birthmarks are in the same place! The second one was named Louis-Philippe, and Richelieu ordered him hidden."
“Maria, if this is true… You are magnificent!” I exclaimed. “How do you know that?”
"Nonsense!" Maria exclaimed, catching my excitement. "You wanted to ask something completely different!"
“What did I want to ask?” I whispered in her ear.
"You wanted to ask who else besides me, the midwife, the Queen, the King, and the Cardinal are privy to this secret, didn't you?" she whispered passionately in response.
“Who?” I asked, hugging her.
“Nobody…” Maria replied. “Nobody, except for you, Henri.”
"Oh, Maria, you're a delight!" was all I could answer.
That night until the morning flew by in an instant.

Chapter 94

The Cardinal, as I have already stated, had learned of the conspiracy, but he wished to obtain irrefutable proof of the treason of the Monsieur le Chevalier, since Richelieu could not afford to inflict such blows on his enemies from which they could recover.
Fontrailles reached Madrid without incident, thanks to the fact that Rochefort hadn't pursued him, and the Cardinal's guards, de Cahuzac, La Houdini;re, and ten of his guards, had been sent there for two days. The King of Spain wasn't as cunning a schemer as Richelieu or Mazarin; he received Fontrailles as if he were an official French envoy. He signed the draft treaty drawn up by Gaston d'Orl;ans, because he understood from the phrases inserted that it was also aimed at protecting the rights of his sister, Anne of Austria, and her children, who were the King of Spain's nephews.
The presence of an unknown Frenchman at court did not go unnoticed.
Monsieur de Pujol, who had found refuge at the Spanish court from Richelieu's wrath for failing two consecutive commissions, saw this as a golden opportunity. He immediately wrote to the cardinal about Fontrailles' arrival and expressed his suspicions that this nobleman was likely sent as a secret envoy of the lesser court, that is, Monsieur.
The cardinal received this message and replied to Pujol that his disgrace would be lifted if he obtained copies of the signed documents. Pujol felt betrayed, as obtaining these copies was impossible for him, as he had neither soldiers to fight nor the money to hire assassins. Bribing Fontrailles was out of the question, as this enterprise was a matter of life and death for him.
The day before receiving Pujol's letter, the Cardinal had received news from the Papal Nuncio at the Spanish court, who reported the same thing; and since Richelieu already knew that such negotiations were underway, and that a draft treaty had been sent to Spain, Pujol's message added nothing to the information he already possessed, but merely confirmed it, which made it certain.
Having no reason to doubt Monsieur's treachery, Richelieu would have extracted a confession from him had he not been on a military campaign at the time. He was dissatisfied with the lack of news from Rochefort. He instructed the Duc d'Enghien to select his most loyal officers in case of any unforeseen circumstances. This did not escape the attentive de Tr;ville, who guessed the storm was brewing and, surmising that it might threaten the Queen, warned his friends—Deszesart, Thiayade, Beaupuy, Lasalle—and, of course, d'Artagnan and me, of the need to be vigilant. I even considered summoning Porthos again. I had no intention of seeking Athos's assistance, as I could not bring myself to tear him away from his duties as guardian.
The Cardinal did not cease his active work, using Sabl; de Nauyer as his main confidant and executor, and he also called Chavigny to his aid, since he himself had become so weak that he could not even sign the documents he dictated.
Cinq-Mars also tried to recruit supporters, but at times his irritability was detrimental to the cause, as when, for almost no reason, he fell out with Brigadier General d'Espenane. I even think that if La Rochefoucauld, who had refused the rank of brigadier general at the Queen's insistence, had been in d'Espenane's place, Cinq-Mars might have fallen out with him too. Indeed, La Rochefoucauld was not known for his gentleness or restraint, and might even have challenged Cinq-Mars to a duel.
Upon learning of the Cardinal's critical condition, Saint-Mars resorted to a ruse. He persuaded the King to return to Paris, deeply convinced that the Cardinal lacked the strength to return to the capital.
For the Cardinal, this was truly a serious challenge. He decided to leave Narbonne and follow the King to Paris, also sending Chavigny to prevent Cinq-Mars from causing a final rift between the King and his first minister.
Faber informed Chavigny, who had arrived to see the King, that the King had noticeably cooled toward his favorite, Monsieur le Chef. The favorite was no longer allowed into the King's bedroom, but Saint-Mars, to prevent this news from leaking beyond the Louvre, was hiding in the dressing room, where he spent his time with a frivolous novel with even more frivolous illustrations.
The reason for this rift was Cinq-Mars's behavior. He refused to respond to the King's tender caresses, as the monarch's breath repulsed him. Rotten teeth can shape history in the same way. Had Cinq-Mars been more responsive, he could have twisted the King's strings to force the Cardinal's resignation. Cinq-Mars's actions were also inconsistent: he should have either finally dealt with the Cardinal already, or avoided the whole affair altogether and patiently awaited his demise. This young man would have had plenty of time to wait, if only he had the patience.
Moreover, Cinq-Mars began to play against his allies. He slandered Cond;, convincing the King that the prince wanted to kill the children of Louis XIII . He hoped the King would entrust these children to him, but the King acted differently – he handed them over to the care of Chancellor S;guier and Superintendent Bouthillier, both of whom were Richelieu's prot;g;s. Thus, Cinq-Mars, without intending to, strengthened the Cardinal's already strong position. Indeed, Cond; also had his sights set on a sole regency, so entrusting him with the young princes would probably not have been entirely wise.
Cond; also behaved provocatively. He demanded that the royal council meet at his home because he was ill, demanded that his future son-in-law, the Duke of Longueville, be admitted to the meeting, insisted that Chancellor S;guier yield his seat to the Duke of Longueville, and finally, quarreled with the first president of the parliament, Mol;, challenging him for the first seat in parliament. The king, upon learning of these conflicts, denounced Cond;, acknowledging his actions as improper.
Realizing how eager the princes of the blood were to become his children's guardians, the King realized the fierce struggle for the regency would unfold after his death, which meant the greatest danger for the young princes. All potential heirs to the throne would benefit from their deaths, so Louis XIII distrusted all the princes, including his own brother, Gaston. He ordered that the princes be constantly guarded by de Tr;ville's musketeers, no lower than lieutenant, and at least two in number. He trusted de Tr;ville and d'Artagnan the most, but since de Tr;ville was no longer young, my friend d'Artagnan was often one of the two musketeers guarding Louis and Philippe.
The clouds were gathering, everyone was expecting a thunderstorm.

Chapter 95

Fontray faced a difficult choice. He could choose various paths to delivering the agreement approved by the King of Spain to Monsieur, all of which had their advantages and disadvantages.
He could travel overland, for example, leaving Saragossa for Andorra or Pau. He could also cross the border by sea, traveling from Barcelona to Montpellier or Marseille. He could also travel from Bilbao to Bordeaux or La Rochelle. On any of these routes, he risked encountering the cardinal's spies, but even more dangerous, it could be a convoy, which he would be unable to combat. He could simply be captured and searched from head to toe.
Since Fontrailles couldn't stand sea travel, he chose the overland route. He decided to travel via San Sebastian, then through Bordeaux to Poitiers, from where it would be logical to head to Paris via Tours. But the route via Tours didn't appeal to Fontrailles.
"There will definitely be an ambush waiting for me there," he said to himself. "They will be looking for me near the Duchess de Chevreuse."
Having abandoned the trip via Tours, Fontray began to reason further.
"Should I turn off at Ch;tellerault on Loches, then onto Amboise, Vend;me, Ch;teaudun, Bounval, Chartres, and only then onto Paris?" he asked himself. "Okay, I'll get to Bordeaux, and then we'll see!"
The same questions arose for de Cahuzac and La Houdini;re. They couldn't know in advance which of the possible routes back to France Fontrailles would choose. The easiest way would be to catch him at the entrance to Paris. They thought that Rochefort would probably do just that, after mature deliberation. But Rochefort was nursing his wound, and Cahuzac and La Houdini;re were eager to show zeal.
They decided that one of the most likely crossroads where they had a chance to capture Fontrailles was the Canton of Celles-sur-Cher. Another such point was Tours. A third was Le Mans. Ambush points were also to be prepared at Courtonne, Pont-sur-Yon, and Pontevrard. Tours was deemed the most likely point for Fontrailles to pass through, as Fontrailles might decide to visit the Duchess of Chevreuse and then use her channels of communication with the Louvre. Cahuzac headed there. La Houdin;e decided to await Fontrailles at Pontevrard.
Thus, the cardinal's guardsmen took their own initiative in solving the problem. This maneuver was radically different from the method of carrying out the mission the cardinal had outlined to Rochefort. Indeed, while Richelieu had sent Rochefort directly to Madrid, Cahuzac and La Houdini;re decided to spread their nets throughout France at the main crossroads of the main roads to Paris.
This would have been effective if they were targeting a mere courier, but Fontrailles was far from stupid. He reasoned that the original treaty signed by Philip IV was too dangerous to be carried. But Fontrailles's reasoning went further. He realized that the document itself wasn't as important as the fact that it had been signed. Indeed, until the cardinal was deposed, the treaty could not be shown to anyone in France; anyone who did would be signing their own death warrant. However, since Philip IV had signed the treaty without making a single amendment, and the draft itself had been drawn up by Gaston of Orleans, no one was stopping Gaston from acting in the spirit of the treaty until the time came to fully utilize it. That time would only come after Richelieu's physical elimination, and not before. After this, it would be completely safe to have the said treaty in his possession, and, what's more, it would even become a highly valuable document. Therefore, the treaty should be preserved until better times, and Monsieur himself would only need to verbally inform him of its signing. However, Monsieur would have been satisfied with the information that it had been read and approved by Philip IV . After some thought, Fontrailles also realized that the mere announcement of the treaty's approval was not all that important to Monsieur. Indeed, such a treaty was extremely advantageous to Spain, so even at the drafting stage, Monsieur had no reason to doubt that Philip IV would agree to both approve and sign it. Consequently, for Monsieur, the only important information was the message that the treaty had reached Madrid and become known to the King of Spain.
"Is it worth risking your neck to deliver a document that no one needs when you can stash it away until better times, until a time when it's not only useful but also worth a pretty penny?" Fontray asked himself.
"My dear friend, Fontrailles!" he replied to himself. "I congratulate you on having conceived this happy thought on the French border! This treaty should be carefully hidden, after first making a copy, which is less valuable but also less dangerous to anyone who carries it!"
"And why do you need a copy, my dear Fontrailles?" he suddenly asked himself. "Simply because what's as clear as day to me might not be clear to Gaston d'Orl;ans! If I show up to him empty-handed, he might accuse me of failing to carry out my mission! It's decided, I'll make a copy. The Spanish King made some rather minor changes to the draft, but the presence of these changes will confirm my complete fulfillment of the mission."
"But, my friend, Fontray! Carrying a copy is just as dangerous as carrying the actual contract!" he continued his dialogue with himself. "If only the contract had been written in Spanish…"
"You're a fool, my friend Fontraille!" he replied to himself. "After all, if the treaty is written in Spanish, it will expose you as a Spanish spy even more! A treaty is a treaty, no matter what language it's written in, even Latin, it still exposes you!"
"Then perhaps the document should be called something else?" Mr. Fontray suggested.
"I like that better!" he replied to himself. "We should give this document a different title, and then no one will understand that it is a treaty between Monsieur and Philip IV."
After this, Fontray took a clean sheet of paper and wrote at the top: “Pedro Chalderon. “In this life, everything is true and everything is false.” A comic vaudeville in one act.”
After this, Fontray wrote five sheets of the play's text in Spanish, where at the end of the fifth sheet he wrote the following.

"Adele. Oh, my lord! Are you really asking me to draw up an agreement between the elves and the dwarves?
Alphonse: Yes, Adele, and the dwarves' proposals will be pleasant to you!

Fontray began the sixth sheet with the words “We, the dwarves, propose that the elves enter into an agreement with us,” after which he rewrote the text of the agreement in Spanish.
Having finished rewriting the contract, Fontray wrote the following on the next sheet:

"Adele. Are you sure, Alphonse, that such an agreement will mark the beginning of a new friendship between the elves and the dwarves?
Alphonse: Dear Adele, I have no doubt about it!
Adele: I'll sign this agreement if you ask me to dance.
Cheerful music plays, elves and gnomes dance, holding hands. The end of the vaudeville."

"Well, my friend Fontrailles!" Fontrailles said to himself. "This play is certainly very bad, the audience would fall asleep during its performance, but this document looks exactly like a bad play, and the name of Chalderon is known to everyone. Who can blame a famous playwright for writing a bad play, or some untalented imitator for using the name of a famous playwright and staging it in his own trashy vaudeville? This is not punishable by death, and no one would even give a prison term for such a thing! Although, perhaps authors should be punished for a bad play, but only by a ban on writing in the future. And I am just a bad impresario who cannot distinguish a masterpiece from a trashy vaudeville, who bought a vaudeville manuscript at a Spanish fair and hopes to stage it in his provincial theater.
Fontray wrapped the original contract in a piece of oxhide and placed it in a tin can, which he hid in a hiding place near an inn in San Sebastian. He had constructed this hiding place himself, removing two stones from the wall of an old house, discarding one, and covering the hiding place with the other, sealing the cracks with clay.
"Well, my friend Fontrailles, now you can safely return to France," he said cheerfully to himself. "No one will chop off your head for being interested in drama."

Chapter 96

Rochefort suffered greatly from the wound inflicted by d'Artagnan. But our good Gascon was a noble man. After inflicting a painful wound on his opponent in a duel, he always offered the vanquished foe a small jar of healing balm, according to his dear mother's recipe. For him, this was a ritual of sorts, a cleansing from sin, since not only the killing of a compatriot but even wounding one in a duel was, after all, condemned by the state. He did not change his rules in his duels with Rochefort either, and so the Count, who had firsthand experience of the balm's miraculous properties after their first duel, gladly and even with some gratitude accepted this traditional souvenir from d'Artagnan. Naturally, he used it immediately upon returning home, so within a week he was able to walk and decided to begin fulfilling the Cardinal's commission.
Having read the letters which had come to him from Cahusac and La Houdini;re, he consulted the map and decided that the measures taken by his messengers were insufficient, so he set out for Chartres, taking with him a dozen guardsmen.
With these dozen guardsmen, he tracked down Fontray and captured him, after which he ordered a search. To his surprise, he found nothing suspicious on him, but he did discover a bundle of suspicious papers in his saddlebag.
"Why do you need Master Chalderon's vaudeville?" he asked Fontray.
“My niece is crazy about fairy tales, I promised her to get the text of this fairy-tale vaudeville by Pierre Chalderon,” replied Fontray.
“We’ll sort everything out,” Rochefort replied, taking the papers for himself.
"But what will happen to me?" asked Fontray.
"You'll be taken to Paris and placed under house arrest," Rochefort replied. "Until all the circumstances are clarified."
Then, taking six guardsmen with him, Rochefort ordered the rest to escort Fontray to Paris, while he himself, together with his retinue, went to meet the cardinal.

The Cardinal, barely raising himself on his elbows in the sedan chair in which he was being carried back to Paris, greeted Rochefort.
"So, Rochefort, how did your expedition end?" he asked.
“Monseigneur, we didn’t find the treaty, but we did find this,” Rochefort replied, handing the cardinal a play in Spanish.
"What is this?" the cardinal asked in surprise. "A Spanish vaudeville by Pierre Ch;lderon? And why are you offering this to me?"
“That’s all we found at Fontray,” Rochefort replied.
"You found this at Fontray's?" the cardinal asked. "Interesting!"
He began to carefully read the document handed to him by Rochefort.
" Very curious!" he repeated. "But Pierre Chalderon didn't write vaudeville! And besides, he does have a play called 'In This Life, Everything Is True and Everything Is False.' But that's a completely different play!"
The cardinal leafed through the play further and, reaching the sixth page, began to read more carefully.
"Here it is!" he exclaimed joyfully. "Rochefort, you are a great man!"
Richelieu carefully read all the subsequent sheets, after which he discarded the last sheet of the “vaudeville”, adding it to the first five sheets.
“That’s all just the cover,” he said. “But what’s important is what’s in the middle. Have the scribe rewrite these pages, making the following substitutions. Write them down! Dwarves – replace with Spaniards, Dw;rgland – replace with Spain, elves – replace with French, Elverland – France, Ad;le – Gaston d’Orl;ans, Alphonse – Philip IV of Spain, Elverdronning – Queen Anne of Austria, Ungalf – Dauphin Louis, Elverk;nge – King Louis XIII , Gammelpr;st – Cardinal Richelieu, Hoverbr;ggom – Lord Chief, de Saint-Mars.”
The Cardinal continued to dictate, Rochefort took his notes.
"Also translate it into French," he said at the end. "Rewrite this too, by the way," he added, handing back the last sheet.
He thought how funny it would be to read about Gaston d'Orl;ans dancing with the King of Spain. The thought made him smile.
An hour later, the cardinal had the text of the treaty in Spanish and English. He set the last sheet aside and fell into thought.

The text of the agreement exposed Saint-Mars and Monsieur, but the special conditions negotiated for the Queen indirectly indicated her involvement in this agreement.
If he had given the King a copy in French, it would have been a greater blow to Cinq-Mars and Monsieur. The Queen could still have been exonerated from this whole affair.
If Richelieu had given the King a copy of the treaty in Spanish, it would have been a death sentence for the Queen. After all, it would have been so natural for her to write to her brother in her native language!
The Cardinal recalled his last conversation with the Queen.
He closed his eyes and leaned back against his pillows, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes.
After this, with trembling hands, he tore the copy written in Spanish into small pieces, which he scattered to the wind.

Chapter 97

I sat in the Mother Goose tavern, savoring a liqueur and nibbling on a candied cherry while waiting for Fontraille. Ten more musketeers were seated at different tables in the same tavern, all dressed like ordinary noblemen, but all carrying swords and muskets. Our task was simply to guard Fontraille on his way to Monsieur, unnoticed. I knew Fontraille would appear at this tavern, as had been arranged.
We had been expecting him for two days already, so the innkeeper had already taken a closer look at us and, perhaps, began to suspect something, but, however, this did not bother him much, because he was paid for food and drink, and he did not need anything else from us.
Suddenly the doors of the tavern swung open and six of the cardinal's guards entered, accompanying Fontray.
I looked at Fontray and from his look I realized that he was a prisoner, although he was not tied up.
"There is a God!" I thought. "The guards can't always be in the majority! With the odds we have, we can even afford to be magnanimous and not kill any of them."
I thought d'Artagnan, in my place, would certainly have started a quarrel and escalated the situation to a fierce fight. Porthos, I suppose, would have done the same. Athos, on the contrary, would have announced all his advantages beforehand and perhaps even forbidden his five musketeers from participating in the battle, so that everyone would have an equal chance. But service to the Order had taught me to take full advantage of my situation and not to play the game of "nobility" with fate.
I made a sign to my men that they should not pretend to be with me, but should be ready to act immediately at my slightest sign or word.
Having identified the leader of the six by some signs, I approached him while he was thinking about what they could all eat to continue on.
“Thank you, Lieutenant, this completes your mission. We will accompany your friend from now on,” I told him.
"I'm not a lieutenant, but a sergeant," the guardsman objected. "And you're not my superior to give me orders. We'll complete our mission ourselves and don't need any help or advisers."
"I'm in charge of a secret convoy," I replied. "Didn't Count de Rochefort warn you?"
"And where is your convoy?" the guard asked with a grin. "I haven't seen anyone else yet! Are you this secret convoy?"
"I told you the convoy was secret!" I objected. "You can rest. You really should have some food after such a long journey. We'll handle the rest of your business ourselves."
"Sir, you are an insolent fellow!" exclaimed the guardsman. "I am in the Cardinal's service, and if you do not immediately disappear from sight, no one will envy your fate. You will join the prisoner, and then let Count Rochefort deal with you!"
"Sir, if you don't understand kind words, then perhaps I'll attach you to the prisoner, and then let Count Rochefort deal with you!" I answered in the same tone.
After this I gave a signal with my left hand, and all ten of my musketeers, as if on command, stood up from their tables and approached me, surrounding the six guards.
“You’d better take my word for it than demand proof of my right from me,” I said calmly.
My interlocutor immediately assessed the situation. He had a choice: start an argument with me from which he was unlikely to emerge alive, or believe me that I had the authority to take his prisoner, or merely pretend to believe him but act exactly as if Rochefort himself had ordered him to hand over his prisoner to me.
If they had been musketeers, their swords would have already been drawn, but these were merely the Cardinal's guards. They all turned their gaze to their sergeant.
"Everything is fine," he said. "We are handing over our prisoner to this convoy."
His five subordinates began to calmly sit down at the tables, anticipating a hearty meal after a job well done, while I took Fontray by the arm and sternly said to him:
- Mr. Fontray, please follow me!
Fontray nodded and followed me out of the tavern, accompanied by my ten young men.
As soon as we reached the street, I ordered everyone to quickly mount their horses and ride after me as far away from this place as possible. I was sure the sergeant would try to get help, after which the force would be on his side.
After we felt safe, we went at a walking pace, and I asked Fontray about everything.
"Well," I said to him, after listening to his confession, "let's hope that the play taken from you won't arouse the Cardinal's suspicions, although, knowing his talent as a writer, I'm convinced he won't fail to read this vaudeville and expose your ruse."
"Of course, Monsieur d'Alameda," replied Fontrailles. "My ruse was calculated to result in a random search; a meeting with the cardinal was not part of my plans."
"Consider the plot exposed," I replied. "Change your clothes, try to disguise yourself, and run. Warn anyone you meet along the way that it's time to escape."
"I still have one more thing to do!" Fontray replied.
“Which one?” I asked.
"I will kill the cardinal!" Fontrai cried bravely.
"You won't succeed," I replied. "The cardinal has been warned; he will be waiting for the assassin; he has three hundred personal guards. While at other times he might use only a portion of them, releasing the others for rest, today and tomorrow all three hundred will rally around him."
"Well, I suppose you're right," Fontray agreed. "Besides, every dog knows me by sight."
“And besides, the cardinal will soon be informed that you have escaped, so he will be warned of a possible assassination attempt on your part,” I added.
“So, the time has come to make sure that my shoulders don’t become orphaned, parting forever with the head that they carried on them for so many years!”
"Of course!" I replied. "Save yourself. There's no point in going to Monsieur now. They're already looking for you, so run in the opposite direction from where they're looking for you."
"You're right," Fontrailles replied. "Especially since I've prepared a surprise for the cardinal. While carefully examining the things I took from him, he'll certainly try to open the box. That'll be the end of him."
“Well, if the box explodes when you try to open it, it could seriously injure the cardinal,” I replied serenely.
"It doesn't explode, but a hidden spring will spray deadly poison into his face," Fontray replied with a smile.
"Then you've done even more than was required of you," I replied. "Now you can, with a clear conscience, take care of your own life."
After these words of mine, Fontray, without further ado, disappeared around the nearest bend.

Late in the evening of June 9th, I went to see Saint-Mar.
"Mr. Chief," I said to him, "Go to Sedan immediately."
"Why, Chevalier d'Alameda?" Saint-Mars asked in surprise.
"To save your life," I replied. "For God's sake, drive quickly before you're arrested. If the Sedan isn't suitable, go anywhere, as long as it's as far away from the Cardinal's guards."
"Why do you think my life is in danger?" Saint-Mars asked.
"Because the Cardinal's guards seized Fontray and searched him," I replied. "I believe they found what they were looking for."
"What did they find?" Saint-Mars asked incredulously.
"Something that exposes you and Monsieur as conspirators," I replied. "A draft or a copy of a treaty with Spain, or something else. I don't know the details, but I believe Fontrailles went to Madrid. Therefore, I suspect these are some papers from there. The rest shouldn't be too hard to figure out."
"But why are you warning me?" asked Saint-Mars. "After all, you didn't seem to approve of my actions?"
“I did not recommend that you start this conspiracy, but you did not listen to me, and I, as you remember, told you that if this business were to begin, I would not stand aside,” I answered him.
"But how did the cardinal know that Fontrai had gone to Spain?" exclaimed Saint-Mars.
"Firstly, the cardinal has a whole network of informants throughout the country, and secondly, you can ponder the answer to this question at your leisure, somewhere in Sedan, or Lorraine, or Spain," I replied. "Now is not the time for discussion; I suggest you save yourself."
“You don’t understand anything,” Cinq-Mars retorted haughtily. “In the end, it doesn’t matter that the Cardinal has this agreement. The Cardinal is doomed. The King loves me and will do anything I ask of him. Tomorrow I will speak with the King and secure Richelieu’s resignation. Do you know what, d’Alameda? I’m even glad it turned out this way! I’m tired of waiting, I’m finally tired of waiting! Now everything will be decided. I’ll go all out, I’ll crush the Cardinal!”
"Are you going to meet the King tomorrow?" I asked, horrified. "Take my advice, Mr. Chief, save yourself. Perhaps a month or two will pass, the King will miss you and forgive you, and everything will be forgotten. I'll let you know when it's safe to return."
"You weren't listening to me, or you didn't understand," Saint-Mars dismissed. "I'm telling you, the King loves me. I'm in no danger. This is a minor misunderstanding that will be resolved tomorrow!"
"It was you who didn't listen to me, Mister Chief, it was you who didn't understand me," I objected. "I wanted to save your life, but it seems it wasn't meant to be! Goodbye then!"
"See you soon, Monsieur d'Alameda!" replied Saint-Mars. "I invite you to the celebration I'm throwing to mark Richelieu's resignation. It will take place in no more than three days."
I nodded silently and bowed. At that moment, I congratulated myself for not having told Cinq-Mars my real name, but for having used the first name that came to mind. Let the Cardinal's bloodhounds search for the Chevalier d'Alameda later! That would be more difficult for them than finding the Chevalier d'Herblay, whom every Musketeer in Paris knew, as well as some of the Cardinal's guardsmen whom I had only wounded but not killed, and almost every young and attractive parishioner!
"This can't be saved," I thought. "I'll try to save the cardinal."

I headed to Madame Combala. Getting an appointment with her wasn't difficult, since Mozart was a member of the Order.
“Madam, your dear uncle’s life depends on you,” I said to her after very brief greetings and bows.
"Who are you, sir?" she asked. "Your name was told to me, but I have never heard it."
"My name is Chevalier d'Alameda, madam, and that is enough for our conversation," I replied. "If you try to find out who I am, you will find out, but you may not have time to save His Eminence."
"What threatens him?" she asked anxiously. "Murder? Assault? He has sufficient security."
"His life is threatened by the box he took from Fontray," I replied. "It's a secret box, and it's not easy to open, but eventually he'll figure out the secret of its lock. However, it must not be opened. It contains a deadly poison, which will be released into his face by a hidden spring."
"Oh, my God!" cried Madame Combalet. "I must warn him immediately, if it's not too late."
“If the Lord does not want him to die, you will have time,” I answered.
"May I ask how you know about this box?" asked Madame Combalet.
"From the one who made it," I replied. "I can't tell you any more details, except that only you will the cardinal trust without any doubt. If someone else told him this, he wouldn't believe it and would want to see for himself that the box really does contain a secret."
"You are right, Chevalier d'Alameda," replied Madame Combalet. "But my uncle will still want to make sure that the box really does pose a danger."
“In that case, he will decide his own fate,” I replied.
"One more word, Chevalier," said Madame Combalet. "Why are you saving him? After all, you seem to belong to the opposite camp?"
"The Cardinal is not the kind of man to fight with such vile methods," I replied. "Besides, killing him will change nothing about the conspirators' fate, and will greatly complicate the Queen's, while I am, first and foremost, Her Majesty's servant."
“I understand everything,” Madame Combale replied and ran out of the room to get ready for the journey as quickly as possible.
I followed her out and went as far as possible from the Palais Cardinal, where she lived, together with her uncle, as her closest relative.
There was no point in explaining to Madame Combalet that, according to the Order's plans, Cardinal Richelieu was not supposed to die from the infernal box made to order by Fontray.

Chapter 98

The Cardinal was quite ill and weak, but the uncovered conspiracy seemed to inject a miracle cure into his blood. Excited by the thrill of unmasking a hidden enemy, with whom he had long been bound only by mutual, irreconcilable hatred, he found the strength to meet the King, although he had to be carried to His Majesty on a stretcher, after which the servants, obeying a gentle wave of the Prime Minister's hand, left them alone.
"Your Majesty, can you forgive me?" asked the cardinal. "I have done you wrong in every way."
"Really?" the King perked up. "Tell me more about it!"
“My fault is that I once recommended to you the son of the Marquis de Effiat as your wardrobe master,” Richelieu replied in a voice full of despair.
"What are you saying, Cardinal?" exclaimed the King. "Saint-Mars was quite worthy of your recommendations, and I cannot accuse you of anything in this regard!"
"Your Majesty, how can I fulfill the duties of the First Minister of France if I am so poor a judge of character that I had the stupidity to recommend to you a traitor, a conspirator, a betrayer, a man corrupt and unworthy of the favors you showered on him, no doubt only because you trusted my recommendation ?" the cardinal retorted heatedly.
"What you're saying now sounds less like repentance than like an accusation, Cardinal!" the King retorted. "And if things are as you say, then the one to blame is him, not you. But what grounds do you have for such a serious accusation?"
"Monsieur de Saint-Mars, whom you have honored with the high title of Monsieur le Grand, was plotting treason, the purpose of which was the overthrow of Your Majesty," the cardinal replied sorrowfully. "I cannot be forgiven if I allowed the poison of treason to take such deep root!"
"Cardinal, as far as I know you, you would not allow yourself to make such statements without compelling evidence to support your words," the King replied. "I demand that evidence."
“Read this, Your Majesty, and then all your doubts will disappear,” the cardinal replied and handed the King several sheets of paper.
"What is this?" asked the King, without reading.
“This is a copy of the treaty between Gaston d’Orl;ans and Philip IV of Spain,” replied the cardinal.
"What kind of treaties can there be between the King of Spain and my brother?" exclaimed the King. "Does he already consider me dead, and also counts both my sons among the dead?"
Instead of answering, the cardinal covered his eyes with his left palm, expressing the utmost degree of despair.
"And you say that the Master Chief was involved in this betrayal?" the King asked angrily.
“There can be no doubt about that, since some articles of this treaty specifically stipulate his role in the future governance of France,” the cardinal replied.
“Explain this term ‘Further governance of France’,” the King demanded.
"It means the governance of France after the Prime Minister and the King are removed from power," the Cardinal replied. "It's all explained here."
The cardinal pointed his finger at several lines of the second sheet of the treaty.
"The King will be removed from power," you say? Louis XIII asked . "You mean killed?"
"Not necessarily, Your Majesty," the cardinal replied. "He could be forcibly placed in a monastery or somewhere worse."
"What could be worse than a monastery?" the King asked in bewilderment.
"A prison from which it will be impossible to rescue you," the cardinal replied. "Either because of the close guard, or because your location will be unknown. But a monastery is certainly simpler, Your Majesty. A monastery or…"
“Or?” asked the King.
“Or, Your Majesty,” the cardinal replied, looking into the King’s eyes, and then raising his eyes to him, sending shivers down Louis’s spine.
"My brother and my... Lord Chief! They've planned such a thing!" the King exclaimed.
“People can be extremely ungrateful at times, Your Majesty,” the cardinal replied in an extremely sad voice.
“Arrest him,” the King said curtly.
"Of course, Your Majesty, you are speaking of the Lord Chief, not your brother, aren't you?" the king inquired.
"Place Monsieur under house arrest," replied the King. "Saint-Mars in the Bastille. Who else? The Queen?"
"Her Majesty is not involved in this conspiracy, Your Majesty!" the cardinal replied.
“Are you sure?” asked the King.
“Quite!” the cardinal replied.
"Very well," Louis replied with relief. "Nevertheless, investigate everything thoroughly."
The King was relieved that the Queen was innocent this time, for for the past year and a half he had felt acutely that he could no longer trust anyone but her with the guardianship of his sons. No matter how cold the relationship between the august spouses had become, the Queen was the mother of his children, and Louis completely trusted her maternal feelings. He could suspect every relative of wishing ill upon his heirs; for this reason, he believed, every nobleman could be bribed. He could trust only the Queen and the Cardinal completely. But the Cardinal was old and infirm. If the Queen were implicated in the conspiracy, who could the equally infirm King count on in the event of his death? Who could protect these children, who stood between his brother or other princes of the blood and the throne?
“I will conduct a thorough investigation, Your Majesty, but I am deeply convinced in advance that Her Majesty is not involved in the conspiracy, which I can vouch for with a light heart,” the cardinal replied.
He knew the Queen was innocent because she had been surrounded by his spies for over two years. He had no doubt she sympathized with the conspirators, but in a very strange way. She desired their rise and the easing of Richelieu's guardianship over her, but she genuinely didn't want the Cardinal dead, or she feigned her gratitude so skillfully that the Cardinal was willing to believe her. And he did.
"Where did you get this agreement?" asked the King.
“It was found at Fontray’s, whom I was forced to suspect, since he had undertaken a journey to Madrid,” replied the cardinal.
"Fontrailles visited Madrid without my permission?" the King asked angrily. "You are too soft-hearted, Cardinal. I hope he has been arrested?"
“Arrested and awaiting trial,” the cardinal replied.
“Good,” said the King, nodding. “Did they find anything else interesting on him?”
“Nothing significant, except for one box, which we haven’t opened yet, since the key hasn’t been found, but we will definitely open it,” the cardinal replied.
"Why didn't you pick the lock?" Louis inquired.
"I was told that a Spanish chemist invented mixtures that ignite when exposed to fresh air," the cardinal replied. "And a mechanic invented locks for boxes that, when someone tries to force the lock, break the vial inside the box containing the mixture. I'm afraid that if we try to force the lock, the contents will simply burn."
"How are you going to open this box?" Louis asked.
"I've sent for a locksmith who can carefully open any lock," Richelieu replied. "He'll be here this evening, and we'll open it together."
"Very well, Cardinal, proceed," replied the King. "My God! Saint-Mars is a conspirator!"
"Who would have thought, Your Majesty?" Richelieu played along, feigning genuine surprise.
"Do you know what, Cardinal?" Louis asked suddenly. "I confess to you, for the last month, no, for the last month and a half, I have become completely convinced of Saint-Mars's ingratitude! He has become rude, capricious, unfair... In a word, he has become unbearable! I have even forbidden him to enter my bedroom!"
"I will never cease to be amazed at Your Majesty's foresight!" exclaimed the cardinal.
"Investigate this matter thoroughly, Cardinal!" the King said with feeling. "All those responsible must receive the punishment they deserve."
The Cardinal bowed his head and rang the bell, after which servants entered the room and carried the stretcher with Richelieu out of the King's bedroom.

Chapter 99

"Mr. Gilles Personnier," the cardinal said to the scholar who had just entered, "I know you are extremely skilled in mechanics. Could you open this box, the key to which has been lost, without forcing the lock?"
"To do that, I'll need to make several impressions of the keyhole, using several turns of the quick-setting material," Personier replied. "Then I'll try to make a key and hope it fits the lock on this box."
"How long will this take?" Richelieu asked.
“I hope to do it in two hours,” Personnier replied.
“ Wonderful!” replied Richelieu.

Two and a quarter hours later, Mr. Personier appeared before the cardinal.
“Your Grace, I have made the key,” he said.
"Have you tried opening the box?" the cardinal asked.
"No," replied Pernsonnier. "But I am certain that the key I made will open the lock of this box, and also allow it to be locked."
Personier placed the box on the table next to the cardinal, put the key next to it, bowed and took a step back.
At that very moment, when the cardinal's hand reached for the key, Madame Combalet burst into the room, out of breath.
"Uncle, don't open the box!" she screamed.
"What's the matter, my dear?" asked the cardinal. "What's troubling you so?"
"The box contains a hidden spring that will spray poisonous powder into the face of anyone who tries to open it!" Madame Combalet replied.
"How do you know that?" the cardinal asked in surprise.
"From a man who called himself the Chevalier d'Alameda," she replied. "I believe that is not his real name, but it does not matter, I believe him."
"Do you think, Monsieur Personnier, that such a mechanism could be built into the box?" the cardinal asked.
"That's possible," Personnier replied after some thought. "In that case, the lid will open automatically, all you have to do is turn the key all the way."
"Can we find out what the box contains without putting ourselves in danger?" the Cardinal asked. "After all, it may turn out that this information is false, and that this Chevalier d'Alameda has simply deceived my niece."
"We could do the following," the scientist replied. "First, we'd tie the box with a fuse, the kind used to detonate gunpowder charges. Then, we'd open the box's lock with a key, place the box on a wooden block, and tie a long cord to the top. We'd light the fuse and move to a safe distance. I believe ten paces would be enough, but to be on the safe side, we'd go thirty paces. After the fuse burns down to the knot, the knot will turn to ashes, causing the box's internal spring to spring the lid open. If the box has a mechanism that ejects poison, the poison will be ejected no more than two or three paces. If that happens, our fears will be confirmed." If the box doesn't open on its own, we'll pull the cord tied to the wooden block on which the box rests. The block will topple over, and the box will fall to the ground, likely opening. If we still can't determine whether it contains poison, someone will have to approach the box wearing a mask made of several layers of cloth soaked in water. This mask will cover the mouth and nose of the person approaching the box. Leather gloves are also required.
"Where are you planning to do all this, Master Personnier?" Richelieu asked, overflowing with respect for the scientist.
“ In some deserted wasteland, Your Eminence,” the scientist replied.
"Excellent, Monsieur Personier," said Richelieu. "I trust you to carry out this experiment. Regardless of the outcome, whether you find anything important in the box or not, you will receive one hundred and fifty pistoles from my treasurer. However, if any papers are found there, your reward will be doubled. My page will arrange for you to be given everything you need—a fuse, string, a flint, and a wooden block. Let them dig it all up, even from underground."
Personier bowed, took the box and the key, and went out with Madame Combalet, who conveyed the cardinal's orders to the page and the treasurer, after which she returned to her uncle.
"Who is this mysterious Chevalier d'Alameda, who knows so much, and of whom I have never heard?" asked Richelieu.
"Does it really matter, Uncle?" asked Madame Combalet. "What's more important to me is that if there was any danger to you, it's gone now. Everything else is unimportant."
"I must find him," replied the cardinal. "And you, my dear, will help me in this, for you have seen his face."
"Of course, Uncle, but for what purpose?" asked Madame Combalet.
“If this is a stupid joke, then I will find him to punish him, and if his warning saved my life, I will have to reward him even if he is involved in the conspiracy,” the cardinal replied.

An hour later, Master Personnier came to the cardinal.
"Your Grace, the box contained a spring that set the mechanism in motion," he said. "As soon as the flame in the fuse reached the knot, the lid of the box flew open, and a cloud of white powder ejected about two steps away. Two pigeons that were nearby at the time died instantly. I carefully collected some of the powder for analysis. Tomorrow I will tell you what kind of poison it was. I ordered the place where the powder spilled to be covered with dry branches and set on fire, and when everything burned out, to cover it with earth."
"Did the box contain any papers?" the cardinal asked.
"I examined it thoroughly; it contained only fifty pistoles and a diamond ring. I thoroughly disinfected everything. There were no papers in the box; I tore off the fabric lining and even took the box apart."
"Very well, Master Personnier," replied the cardinal. "You will receive three hundred pistoles from my treasurer, and you may also keep everything you found in the box."
When Personnier, having bowed, left the Cardinal’s office, Richelieu looked meaningfully at Madame Combalet.
"Today, my dear, you saved my life," he said. "If you had delayed on the road even for a minute, it would have been too late!"
"Tell me, Uncle, to which saint should I pray for the health of Monsieur d'Alameda?" asked Madame Combalet. "For your health, I will order a huge candle to the Virgin Mary."
"Light a candle for Saint Armand," the cardinal replied. "I believe he averted this misfortune from me. In honor of his deliverance from death, I will not execute Fontrailles, though he deserves it. I will commute the death penalty to imprisonment for, say, twenty years. He will still have a chance to leave the Bastille and enjoy freedom, but later."
After these words, the cardinal made a gesture with his hand and lips, which Madame Combalet unmistakably understood, after which she offered her uncle her forehead for a kiss.
The cardinal kissed Madame de Combalet and sank back into his pillows, contented. He didn't yet know that Fontrailles was already outside France, so it was beyond the cardinal's power to imprison him in the Bastille.

Chapter 100

Thus, the cardinal understood from the text of the treaty alone that it had been drawn up by Gaston d'Orl;ans, Duke of Bouillon, and Cinq-Mars. According to this agreement, King Philip IV of Spain, Habsburg, was to provide twelve thousand infantry and fifteen thousand cavalry, as well as provide funds for the conspiracy's leaders. Gaston d'Orl;ans intended, should the conspiracy succeed, to assume the throne; Cinq-Mars, to become Prime Minister in place of Cardinal de Richelieu; and the Spaniards, to obtain the favorable peace they had long and vainly sought during their war with the French.
The cardinal thought about the infernal box Fontray had intended to use to kill him. He remembered the time he had cruelly insulted Fontray.
Louis d'Astarac de Fontrailles, Marquis de Marestan, was a close friend of Marquis Henri de Saint-Mars, but they were complete opposites. Saint-Mars was young, twenty-one, slender, and handsome, while Fontrailles was already thirty-seven years old, a short, hunchbacked man with two humps. Fontrailles had a sharp tongue.
One day, Fontrailles, along with several young noblemen, ridiculed a performance staged, as it later turned out, by order of Cardinal de Richelieu. The Cardinal, of course, was informed of this, and he was deeply offended. A few days later, meeting the Marquis in the reception hall of his palace, just as the arrival of a foreign ambassador was being announced, he loudly declared:
"Step aside, Monsieur de Fontrailles. Or better yet, don't show yourself at all. The ambassador didn't come to France to look at freaks."
"How little it sometimes takes to make an enemy, and how much effort it takes to make even one friend!" Richelieu thought belatedly. "However, fate sometimes gives pleasant and undeserved surprises. This very Chevalier d'Alameda, whom I don't even know! And yet he somehow saved my life!"

Saint-Mars and de Thou had already been captured and were sitting in the Bastille.
The cardinal was sorting through the papers found at Saint-Mars. In one of the love letters written to him by Marie Louise de Gonzaga-Nevers, the cardinal found a mention of a conspiracy.
"You only promise to overthrow His Eminence, when almost all of Paris already knows about the plot! Just idle talk. Active people don't blurt out their plans, lest anyone interfere with their execution, so I don't believe you."
"The impudent girl!" thought the cardinal. "And she, too, knew about the plot and wanted me dead! It's a pity I can't punish her with anything other than contempt!"
The Cardinal remembered how Saint-Mars had asked him for help in marrying her.
"Remember, sir, that you are only a simple nobleman, elevated solely by the grace of the King," Richelieu replied. "How could you have the audacity to expect such a marriage? Naturally, the princess refused you. If she didn't laugh at the proposal of such a marriage, then I must admit she's even more insane than you."
"This is when Saint-Mars hatched his plot!" thought the cardinal. "He decided to take revenge on me, or, more likely, he planned to achieve his goal by eliminating me as the only obstacle!"
Not only all the threads of the conspiracy, but also all their sources and causes, were now obvious to the cardinal. He'd paid too little attention to making personal enemies among those with influence at court, and especially among those climbing the career ladder! But how could he care less about this when he already lacked the time to handle all the tasks of governing the state, which meant he slept no more than four hours a night, which ultimately undermined his health.
The Cardinal had already been informed that Fontrai had fled abroad disguised as a Capuchin.
Saint-Mars also tried to escape, but he did so reluctantly, without much enthusiasm and very late, so that he found it impossible to escape from Paris, since, by order of the cardinal, all the city gates were locked and strictly guarded.
There were ample grounds for accusing Cinq-Mars and de Thou, since Gaston d'Orl;ans, as soon as he realized the plot had failed, voluntarily denounced all his accomplices, so long as he could be spared interrogation, confrontation, and explanations. The Duke of Bouillon did the same. Both were pardoned, and the cardinal received information about all the conspirators' actions and all their names.
Among the names of the conspirators, Richelieu also found the name of the Chevalier d'Alameda.
This didn't surprise him; he'd already guessed that the unknown well-wisher who'd saved his life must have known about this infernal box because he was one of the conspirators. He assumed all the conspirators were aware of this device, which heightened the severity of his interrogation.
The Cardinal's anger, which should have been directed at Monsieur, at Fontray, at Chevreuse and at the Duke of Bouillon, was directed at the other conspirators who were within his reach.
Truly, they might have envied the fate of the Count of Soissons, who also always stood by the Duke of Bouillon, but died in July 1641 in an accident. He had a habit of using his pistol as an extension of his hand, sometimes forgetting it was loaded. It is said that he simply wanted to use the barrel to lift the visor of his helmet, forgetting it was loaded, and accidentally fired it straight into his head.
This accident also saved Richelieu the year before, since the Count of Soissons had enough victorious troops and he intended to send them to Paris to overthrow Richelieu.
A member of the Jesuit leadership once hinted to me that someone knew very well about this habit of the Count of Soissons, and also knew of the Count's intentions to conquer Paris. This person had loaded the Count's pistol and slightly sharpened one part of it, so that it could be fired by a slight impact, such as contact with the visor of a helmet. However, he immediately told me that this information was unreliable, from which I concluded that for some reason he regretted telling me these details. Apparently, he didn't yet fully trust me. At that point, I decided that this information was trustworthy.
I wish to conclude my description of Cinq-Mars's conspiracy, as I have already devoted too much space to it. I will simply say that Cinq-Mars mentioned my name, as did de Thou and Monsieur, but all of them addressed me as the Chevalier d'Alameda. Had Richelieu undertaken an active investigation, he would certainly have discovered who was hiding behind this name. It was enough to recall that Madame Combalet had seen me and could have identified me, and Monsieur, Cinq-Mars, and de Thou would not have failed to recognize me either. But, as I have noted, the Cardinal decided to abandon the pursuit of the mysterious Chevalier d'Alameda, who had saved him from certain death. This saved me from the scaffold, although I nevertheless preferred to leave Paris for a while, and even if the Cardinal had decided to pursue me, I probably would have managed to escape, as Fontrailles did.
The investigation dragged on, as the cardinal wanted to identify all his enemies. The cardinal learned of the plot on June 10th, and the execution of Saint-Mars and de Thou did not take place until September 12th. It must be said that Saint-Mars refused to believe the King would consent to his execution and constantly expected Louis XIII to forgive him, perhaps after a few scoldings first.
King Louis XIII personally interrogated Cinq-Mars. The Monsieur le Grand declared that he had no intention of overthrowing the King, but merely of eliminating Cardinal Richelieu. The King then pointed to de Tr;ville, who was standing nearby, and angrily said:
"Mr. Chief! Remember this. Here is the man who will rid me of the cardinal as soon as I want it. He is enough for me; I don't need anyone else's help in this matter!"
Naturally, the Cardinal was informed of the King's statement, after which he decided to remove de Tr;ville from court. Due to his illness, he instructed the Comte de Chavigny to persuade the King to remove de Tr;ville from his position as captain of the king's musketeers. Chavigny achieved nothing.
"You know, Monsieur de Chavigny, that I am called Louis the Just," said the King. "How can I continue to call myself just if I remove from office men who have served me faithfully for many years, and who bear no guilt toward me? Monsieur de Treville bears the scars of wounds received in my service! His loyalty to me is beyond doubt, and, moreover, he did not join the conspiracy against the Cardinal, although I know for a fact that he was urged to do so!"
"Sire!" Chavigny tried to object. "The Cardinal is just as devoted to Your Majesty, and he served you without sparing his life. His contribution to the governance of the state is immeasurable! How can His Eminence be put on the same scale as some captain of the Musketeers?"
"The King himself is the captain of the King's Musketeers, Monsieur de Chavigny!" the King objected. "De Treville merely serves as my deputy! Therefore, if the Cardinal serves as my deputy in one position, and De Treville in another, they are both my deputies. Their importance is quite comparable. It's good you mentioned the scales, Chavigny. The scales must be balanced. If the weight is removed from one scale, the other will go down! You propose removing De Treville, but you fail to realize that in that case, the scales bearing the Cardinal will tip not up, but down! We cannot know the depths to which someone can sink who wields power without the power to counter it! However, after the betrayal of the Monsieur le Grand, we already know that!"

This did not happen. If Cinq-Mars had not so demonstratively turned away from the King's advances, perhaps even in the face of such exposure, the King would have truly forgiven him. But the disdain Cinq-Mars showed for the King had its effect, and, perhaps most importantly, Cinq-Mars's plot was exposed by the Cardinal only after the King had become weary of his favorite's company. The Cardinal felled the colossus, whose feet had already become clay; he only needed to strike him for him to fall. So it can be said that Cinq-Mars was destroyed by the King's foul breath, which Cinq-Mars refused to ignore.
De Thou and Saint-Mars ascended the scaffold simultaneously, along with the priest, Father Malavett. The executioner, armed with an axe, was already waiting for them there.
"Which of us will die first?" de Thou asked de Saint-Mars.
"I don't care," replied the defeated favorite. "What order do you wish?"
“I don’t know,” de Thou replied.
"Perhaps we should ask the executioner?" asked Saint-Mars.
Then Father Malavalette asked, pointing to Monsieur de Thou:
— You seem to be older, don't you? Perhaps, in terms of seniority, your turn is first?
“Yes, I am older, of course,” answered de Thou and took a step towards the chopping block.
But at that moment, he suddenly realized that the block was now dry, and whoever laid their head upon it first would be spared the sight of their comrade's death, as well as the horror of knowing that the same thing would happen to them. The second of them would have to lay their head upon a block soaked in their comrade's blood. He realized that he, as the eldest, must accept the heavier fate—being second. The kindness, delicacy, and wisdom of Monsieur de Thou reached their zenith in the response he uttered after this moment of enlightenment.
"Perhaps we must now take the final step on the path to eternal glory," he said, turning to de Saint-Mars. "You are braver than I, so perhaps you will show me this path?"
"Alas, I have opened the door to the abyss for you," de Saint-Mars replied with a sigh. "It's a pity the cardinal didn't limit himself to my execution. Well, I'll go first, hoping you'll be pardoned. That thought will strengthen my courage."
He laid his head on the block and waited. The executioner, apparently inexperienced, was no longer young. He took a long time to get his bearings, until Saint-Mars finally lost patience.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" he exclaimed, already trying to raise his head to hurry the executioner.
And at that moment the executioner delivered his blow, which landed not on the neck, but on the skull.
There was a crunch, but the head did not separate from the body, and Saint-Mars, instead of instant death, received a painful wound, remaining alive.
The executioner was so old and clumsy that it took him twelve blows to cut off the head of the unfortunate de Saint-Mars.
The people who witnessed the execution wept, even those who sympathized with the cardinal.

When Chavigny reported to the Cardinal that the King had refused to dismiss de Treville, he was angry.
"Monsieur de Chavigny! I have furnished you with the most powerful arguments, which merely had to be presented to the King in the proper order!" he exclaimed. "And all you have obtained from the King is a reference to de Treville's merits? As if I did not know of them without you!"
“The King did not want to create grounds for people to stop considering him Louis the Just,” Chavigny tried to justify himself.
"The King is always concerned with everyone's opinion of him; he always brings that argument up in every conversation!" the Cardinal retorted. "You should have told him that you were conveying not your request, but my urgent advice, my decision, and not because I want it, but because it is absolutely necessary! Only such words have any effect on the King!"
“I tried to say that,” de Chavigny lied.
"Of course you didn't say that," the Cardinal replied wearily. "You're dizzy, Monsieur de Chavigny, because the heights to which I've raised you don't match your talents, your ability to maintain balance and move in the right direction. A great pity! You should learn this, for I'm counting on you so much! Especially for the time when I'm gone! And that time, believe me, is just around the corner!"
At that very moment the Cardinal decided to place his bet on Mazarin and recommend him to the King as his successor as First Minister.
Chavigny offered his humblest apologies and promised to try again to talk to the King.
"It's impossible, it's futile, and it's dangerous," the cardinal objected. "Once you've been rejected by the King once, returning to this conversation is impossible. If you failed to convince the King the first time, you won't succeed a second time, because then the King would have shown you that his resolve is not unshakable. And finally, it's dangerous, because after a second refusal, even I won't be able to return to this conversation. So now I'll have to pursue this matter myself, no matter how difficult it may be to arrange this meeting."
The Cardinal, almost at the end of his strength, rose from his bed and personally appeared before the King for an explanation. This alone had an effect on the King, as the Cardinal had barely left his bed. Richelieu found the words that convinced the King to agree to de Tr;ville's resignation.
The Cardinal managed to recommend Mazarin to the King and Queen.
"You will like him," he said to the Queen. "He is so like Buckingham!"
Maria Gonzaga, having learned that all of Saint-Mars's papers were now in the Cardinal's possession, begged Richelieu through Madame d'Aiguillon to return all of her love letters to Saint-Mars and the lock of hair that she had sent him at his request.
"There are too many love letters from so many different ladies in Saint-Mars's papers for me to sort out which are from her and which from other ladies," the cardinal replied. "However, if she were to send a sample of her hair and handwriting, then perhaps something could be done to help her find the letters and the lock of hair she requested among dozens of other ladies' locks."
This was Cardinal Maria Gonzaga's small revenge for knowing about Saint-Mars's plan and not condemning it, and not reporting it to the cardinal.
The King's health deteriorated daily, but the Cardinal's illness was even more serious. Less than three months after the execution of Cinq-Mars and de Thou, on December 4, 1642, Cardinal Richelieu died. The King immediately restored de Tr;ville's position as captain of the King's Musketeers.
The news of the cardinal's death greatly pleased the King. Such is the gratitude of monarchs.

Chapter 101

After the plot was uncovered, Gaston d'Orl;ans intended to flee to Franche-Comt;, but his advisers warned him that in this case, after the death of the King, Anne of Austria would remain the sole ruler of France.
Since Monsieur had confessed to everything, the Duke of Bouillon's confessions were not enough to obtain his forgiveness, so the Duke was forced to buy him off by giving Sedan to the King. Richelieu was accommodating, and the acquisition of Sedan satisfied him completely. If Colbert had been so accommodating, Superintendent Fouquet might have been able to buy off Louis XIV by giving him Belle-;le.
After the Cardinal's death, Louis reinstated not only de Tr;ville but also four Guard captains—Deszesart, Tillade, Lasalle, and Beaupuy—to their former positions. To the King's credit, although he acquiesced to the Cardinal's demand to dismiss all of these men, he retained all five of their salaries in the form of a pension and allowed them to live wherever they chose, so their dismissal was merely on paper, as they were free to remain in the King's vicinity.
After the Cardinal's death, the exiles, fearing only him, began to hastily return to Paris to pay their respects and devotion to the Queen, hoping she would not forget them when she assumed power as Dowager Queen to a young monarch. Louis XIII disliked this courtly bustle, so he ordered all nobles who had returned without his permission to return to their estates and not to disturb their monarch at court. Well, that suited me. I returned to Paris, trying to avoid the King's notice, but I had no fear of meeting the Queen. Her irritation with the Duchess de Chevreuse did not extend to me.
The cardinal's spies were left without their master, and therefore without money and without a job. I even felt a little sorry for them, and most importantly, they could now be easily identified by the sudden decline in income of many nobles, since their payment for their services was irregular and illegal.
The King seemed to be on the mend, despite twice coming close to death in the past year. His freedom from the Cardinal was short-lived, as he faced the task of governing the state.
Louis trusted none of the princes and understood that only his wife, Queen Anne, could protect his children. But the King could not rely on her to govern the state. He recalled his dying words about her: "The Queen is Spanish." Therefore, if she were to rule the state, she would make peace with Spain, even against France's interests.
Richelieu left the King a massive book, "Political Testament." This would have been wonderful for a man of action who would have taken the trouble to read it, and more than once. But for the King, only a slim book, the most important points, should have been left, which the Cardinal did not do. Thus, his work became more the stuff of history and literature than a political guide for a King deprived of his first minister.
The royal council included Seigner, Bouthillier, Chavigny, Noyer, and Mazarin.
The cardinal managed to obtain a cardinal's hat for Mazarin, since he was pleased with his service.
The King recalled Richelieu's words: "I know only one man capable of taking my place, but he is a foreigner. But still, take advantage of him."
Mazarin tried to correct the shortcoming pointed out by Richelieu by obtaining French citizenship.
Finally, on April 20, 1643, Louis XIII assembled the princes and ministers, the chancellor and secretaries of state, and other high officials in the new ch;teau of Gaston d'Orl;ans. He declared his will, bequeathing his mother, Queen Anne, as regent for the underage Louis. He appointed his brother, Gaston d'Orl;ans, as royal viceroy, subordinate to the Queen. The main state, military, civil, and financial matters were to be decided by the Permanent Council, which, along with the Queen and Monsieur, included Mazarin, S;guier, Bouthillier, and Chavigny. By this time, Noyer had already been dismissed for overzealously interceding with the King on behalf of the Queen.
Everyone on this council had equal votes, and decisions had to be made by majority vote. The King also declared that he did not forgive Ch;teauneuf and the Duchess de Chevreuse. The Queen had to sign the drafted document, although she objected to many of its points, perhaps to all but the first two.
The King ordered his eldest son baptized, as he had previously only received the rite of minor baptism. The Dauphin's godmother was the Princess de Cond;, and his godfather was Cardinal Mazarin, as Louis XIII would have preferred the Pope as godfather, but Rome had not responded, and Mazarin was, in a sense, the Pope's representative.
"What is your name from now on, my son?" the King asked the Dauphin after the baptism ceremony.
“Louis XIV , my father,” replied the Dauphin.
"Not yet, my son," the King replied. "But soon you will be, God willing."
From his bed the King could see Saint-Denis, where, according to custom, the last King of France lay until his heir died.
“This is where I will soon move and stay for a long time,” said the King, pointing to the Basilica, where the coffin with Henry IV was now located .
Indeed, since the Dauphin was still a child, he had a long reign ahead of him.
When the King became especially ill and fell into oblivion, all the hidden nobility rushed to protect themselves.
It all began with Lameyer and Chavigny gathering their troops, fearing reprisals like those against Richelieu's men. In response, Monsieur and Cond; ordered their men to arm themselves and remain nearby. The Vend;mes, the legitimate descendants of Henry IV by Gabrielle d'Estr;es, took similar measures. The Queen could not side with Monsieur and his House of Orleans, nor with the House of Cond;, nor with the House of Guise, nor with the House of Rohan, since their main forces were still far away, and the active representative of the Rohan and Guise families, her former friend, the Duchess of Chevreuse, was still in exile, and the Queen had no desire to bring her back.
She would, of course, have trusted de Treville, Deszesart, and d'Artagnan, but they were only warriors, not politicians. So she decided to trust the Vend;mes.
The Duke de Beaufort, proud that the Queen had entrusted him and his relatives with their safety, behaved in accordance with this new position and did not even turn his head towards his competitors, but looked only at the Queen.
Having regained consciousness, the King fully approved of the Queen's actions.
The Queen had another reason to trust the Vend;mes, which I will remain silent about out of modesty, since this reason has already been set out in one of the chapters.
I must say that I once caught something special, elusively benevolent, in the Queen’s glance at C;sar Vend;me.
Many times the courtiers already considered the King dead, but he came to his senses again and died only on May 14, 1643.
The Queen and her sons left Saint-Germain in a cortege that included the Grey and Black Musketeers, led by de Tr;ville, the light cavalry regiment under Marshal Schomberg, the equerry, and all the nobles. The late King remained, surrounded by only a few guards, until his body was carried in funeral procession to Saint-Denis.
But now no one was up to the funeral; everyone was in a hurry to pay their respects to the new young King Louis XIV and the Queen Mother, and the princes and Monsieur were also trying to grab as much power for themselves as possible.
On May 18th, a parliamentary session was held, where the infant King, dressed entirely in purple, was carried in by the Lord Chamberlain, the Duke de Chevreuse. Also present were the Queen, Monsieur de Cond;, and his son, Conti.
“Gentlemen, I have come to testify to you of my good will, the Chancellor will say the rest,” said the new King Louis XIV, the phrase he had learned the day before, after which he sat down on the throne and fell silent.
After this, the Queen spoke, her face covered by a transparent black veil.
"The King's death, gentlemen, has caused me great grief," she said. "My grief is so great that it has prevented me from fully focusing on my new duties until my son reaches adulthood. Today, I wish to assure you that, in any event, I will be pleased to accept any valuable advice you deem necessary for the good of the State, both for me and my son."
This speech amounted to a coup d';tat; the Queen usurped all power in France for herself and her young son. This completely contradicted all but the first two clauses of the document King Louis XIII had drawn up as his political testament , which she had signed. The Queen promised to listen to advice, and therefore, she promised to make decisions regarding the governance of the state independently.
Gaston d'Orl;ans and the Prince de Cond; were forced to speak out next, each asking Parliament to grant the Queen full power until Louis XIV came of age. Indeed, although this turn of events infringed on their rights, it was still more advantageous for them than complying with all the dictates of Louis XIII .
After this, Chancellor S;guier rose from his seat and silently knelt before the young King. He then delivered a speech praising Queen Anne.
It would be curious to know what the Queen herself was thinking at that moment, whether she recalled how Seguier had searched her room and even dared to demand from her the letters she had hidden in her bosom. This man had been an obedient executor of the will of the King and the Cardinal, but now he had to obey the one whom, at their behest, he had repeatedly humiliated.
Chief Advocate Omer Talon summed it all up. He called on Parliament to accept the King's authority, and asked the King to love his Parliament and his people.
The Parliament then unanimously rejected the declaration drawn up by Louis XIII , which it had unanimously accepted twenty-five days earlier, while Louis XIII was still alive.
True, there were those who dared to impose their own conditions on the Queen. Some demanded the resignation of all the Cardinal's prot;g;s, but the Bishop of Beauvais persuaded the parliamentarians not to insist, declaring that the Queen should be given the opportunity to deal with these gentlemen herself later.
 
Chapter 102

Contrary to expectations, the Queen left all of her husband's ministers in their positions, and two days later appointed Cardinal Giulio Mazarin as head of her numerous councils.
Monsieur and Prince de Cond; remained nominal heads of the political council, but even a small nominal advantage in the right hands could be decisive. It's enough to recall the situation when the Queen Mother, Marie de Medici, convinced her son, Louis XIII, to appoint Cardinal Richelieu to the royal council. The lack of specific responsibilities and the King's particular respect for his opinions made the cardinal almost immediately the de facto head of the council, and subsequently, the first minister. As a result, the opinions of all the other council members became merely advisory. This is how it happens: the person who is allowed merely to summarize the results of the debate at the end of the discussions or merely formulate the question before putting it to a vote becomes the de facto leader. Everyone quickly understands who makes the final decisions and no longer tries to oppose them, except in cases of rebellion, mutiny, or conspiracy.
Mazarin was precisely the figure who was capable of continuing Richelieu's line of strengthening royal power, but, as Richelieu rightly said, "Mazarin is a foreigner," so the matter could not do without conspiracies, rebellions and uprisings, in other words, without what later became known as the Fronde.
What exactly is a rebellion?
A person of insignificance can, under certain circumstances, gradually begin to assume social prominence. Any officer, pursuing a military career, especially in times of war, is periodically promoted, provided there are no obvious offenses. He commands ever-increasing military forces, and among his soldiers, he begins to feel like an undisputed leader, a captain, a general, a monarch, a living embodiment of God. And then comes a time when he feels undervalued, confined within those boundaries that he can no longer break through legally and peacefully, since every career has its own natural obstacles. Power and glory can sometimes rob one of reason. Such a military leader may attempt to dictate terms to those whose positions he cannot legitimately claim.
So, if the Duke of Soissons had not accidentally shot himself in the head, he would have marched on Paris with his troops, and the chances are very high that he would have succeeded in overthrowing Cardinal Richelieu and forcing Louis XIII to take his demands into account.
The King's brother, Gaston d'Orl;ans, also repeatedly contemplated the removal of his ailing brother. While Louis XIII remained childless, that is, for two decades, Gaston was considered the first heir to the throne, the Dauphin, so the King's death, either natural or accidental, would have paved the way for him to ascend to the throne. Gaston conspired repeatedly, but circumstances, Richelieu's firm hand, or both prevented him from succeeding.
There were also other sources of rebellion.
For many decades, the Dukes of Lorraine, these same Guises, considering themselves noble enough for the head of their house to lay claim to the crown of France, were one of the main breeding grounds of rebellion.
The princes of the House of Rohan were similar, but they did not carry their ambitions to the point of outright rebellion. As one of the heads of this house once said, "I don't want to be a prince, I don't want to be a king, I am a de Rohan!" But in the person of the Duchess de Chevreuse, the Rohan line, to which she belonged by birth, merged with the Guise line, to which her husband, the Duke of Chevreuse, belonged. History has demonstrated how explosive this mixture is.
In addition, King Henry IV, due to his amorousness, produced illegitimate sons, whom he legitimized, founding an entire branch of the Princes of Vend;me, and there also remained the branch of the Bourbons through his uncle.
Could a peaceful regency for Queen Anne be expected under these circumstances? Of course not! It would have taken a cunning and dexterous politician like Mazarin to retain the throne and pass it on to Louis XIV upon his coming of age.
Fortunately for France, or to the credit and dexterity of Giulio Mazarin himself, a very strong bond was established between the Queen and the new cardinal, namely, a secret marriage.
Only such a strong bond could overcome the rebellion that was organized by Jean-Fran;ois Paul de Gondi, Archbishop of Paris, coadjutor, later Cardinal de Retz.
The late Cardinal Richelieu once wrote on one of his drafts:

“It’s a shame to learn about the rebellion,
When the rebels are your own prot;g;s."

After he managed to bribe one of the noble rebels, he wrote the following:

When a rebel starts a bargain,
With one foot he steps into the morgue."

But all those rebellions the Queen had to endure and win hand in hand with Mazarin came later. Right now, everyone was simply surprised by the special trust the Queen showed in Mazarin almost immediately after her husband's death.
It is true that both the King and the Cardinal recommended that she use the services of this clever politician.
Mazarin achieved what no one else had. He pleased both Louis XIII and Cardinal Richelieu, yet he didn't alienate the Queen. A rare quality!
He knew how to be pleasant and he knew how to please those he wanted to please.
In vain does Grimaud repeatedly emphasize Mazarin's stinginess, greed, and irascibility in his memoirs. He simply didn't know this politician, courtier, and de facto ruler of France.
The ailing cardinal and the dying king cared about business, not about being pleasant. The king's bad breath, mentioned by Cinq-Mars, wasn't the biggest problem. In recent months, it was simply impossible to enter the bedchamber where the dying king lay without being assaulted by a disgusting miasma of excrement, sweat, and heavy breathing. The queen bore it stoically.
But Mazarin always exuded the scent of exquisite aromas, unobtrusively, not suffocatingly, just a touch, a subtle scent that penetrated her consciousness, making the Queen long to be near him, to stand closer, to touch him. He was respectful just as much as necessary, affectionate, kind, and courteous. When the Queen was particularly short of money, he invited her to attend a game where he won five thousand francs, offering them as a token of his gratitude for the fact that it was her presence that had inspired him and been the reason for his winnings. By all accounts, this was impudence, but Mazarin so skillfully framed his request to accept this winning that the Queen could not resist. He thanked her in such a way that it was felt that it was not he who had given her a gift, but the Queen who had bestowed her favor upon him, agreeing to relieve him of the burdensome winnings that seemed to weigh him down, a heavy price to pay for the pleasure of participating in the game. He had a knack for giving gifts that were impossible to refuse. If he gave an object, even a simple dog, he would first research the recipient's tastes and preferences, so that the gift would perfectly suit them. The cost of the gifts was never so exorbitant as to be considered bribery, but also never so insignificant as to be forgotten. After such gifts, the recipients never felt awkward, never felt obligated to do or give anything in return; they simply felt a warmer affection for Mazarin, and nothing more. But it worked.
He was welcome. The Queen was always glad to see him. He was a new incarnation of Buckingham, but a gentler, kinder one. If before meeting Mazarin the Queen had once said, "Ah, all men are so rude!" then after meeting him she probably wouldn't have said it again.
And although children, as a rule, do not like their stepfathers, Cardinal Mazarin managed to instill in the Queen's children, the Dauphin Louis and his younger brother Philippe, if not love, then at least something very close to familial affection.
Mazarin was also favored by the Queen for his attempts to achieve peace with Spain during Richelieu's reign. The Prime Minister even once reproached Mazarin for his excessive commitment to peace.
"What's wrong with this world?" Richelieu said then. "You worry about the world more than some ardent lover does about the lady of his heart!"
“I must admit that peace is my weakness,” Mazarin agreed.

Mazarin sought to defuse the conflict between the Queen's two homelands, which could not fail to win her sympathy. Mazarin, who had only entered Richelieu's service in 1640, sought to pardon de Thou, reconcile the King with Monsieur, and pardon the Duke of Bouillon, advising him to cede Sedan to the King.
While Richelieu surrounded all his friends and foes with his own spies, Mazarin tried to be everyone's friend and surround himself with friends and supporters. Among his friends were the papal nuncio Grimaldi, the Bishop of Beauvais, Vincent de Paul, Brienne, Henri de Bergen, and Montagu. The same Montagu who took Buckingham's last breath after the treacherous knife thrust inflicted by Felton.
Mazarin spoke fluent Spanish, which also pleased the Queen. Wanting to remove Richelieu's prot;g;s—namely, Bouthillier, Chavigny, and S;guier—from the council, she had to leave at least someone who could continue governing the country, and Mazarin naturally became that person.
The Queen's choice noticeably upset her former comrades in the conspiracy - La Rochefoucauld, Lachatre, Bouillon, La Porte and Chateauneuf.
But the Queen expelled the Brassacs and Madame de Lansac, and reinstated Madame de Sanc; and Madame de Hautefort, the abbess of Val-de-Gr;ce and Father Cossin, as well as Madame de Voslas, Chateauneuf's sister. D'Argouge, who had returned from exile, took over Legras's position in the treasury. Vautier was released from the Bastille and returned to his post as France's first physician. De Guise, d'Elbeuf, and d';pernon were allowed to return, although they were not given back their former positions. Madame de Motteville returned, and even Fontrailles and d'Aubidge.
It seemed that the Queen had brought back everyone persecuted by Cardinal Richelieu, but had completely forgotten about the Duchess de Chevreuse. La Rochefoucauld offered to remind her of this. He implored her to return the Duchess and wondered why she had not done so. The Queen replied that she still cherished friendly feelings for the friend of her youth, but noted that she had completely lost her taste for the pleasures of youth, which she had shared with her friend. Of course, the Queen understood that in such a case, Marie would strive to occupy the same position in her life, and even higher, which would be a burden to her. It is one thing for men to govern the state, leaving their wives to think only of pleasure, and if they even think about power and wealth, it is only to have more opportunities for enjoyment. It is quite another matter when the management of the state falls to women. In this situation, she will not have to struggle to acquire power, but persistently strive to maintain it. In this situation, the experience of the Duchess de Chevreuse was useless and superfluous, her energy tiresome and excessive, her memories superfluous and dangerous.
The Queen reluctantly yielded to La Rochefoucauld's persuasion, ordering him to meet the Duchess and lay before her his wishes for a new line of conduct at court. Perhaps, when the Queen told her now-deceased husband that she no longer wished to see the Duchess de Chevreuse and to hear nothing more about her, she wasn't pretending so much after all?
The Queen failed to dismiss Chancellor S;guier because he was wealthy, had many protectors, and, most importantly, was highly skilled in his field. Even Mazarin said there was no one to replace him, so she was forced to admit that S;guier's only fault before her was fulfilling his duty, which was to obey the King and the Prime Minister.
The Queen forgot to mention d'Artagnan, as he was serving with the Duke of Enghien at the time and had participated in the famous Battle of Rocroi, which brought the Duke glory. From then on, whenever his name was mentioned, everyone would add "Victor of Rocroi." D'Artagnan's contribution to that victory was significant, but it didn't even earn him a promotion.

Chapter 103

I came to see Marie Chevreuse to inform her that she would probably soon be able to return to court.
"I've been waiting for this good news for a long time, my dear Henri!" exclaimed Mary. "Isn't it strange! My husband holds the young King in his arms, and I, his wife, must vegetate in the wilderness, in exile!"
"Your husband had no misfortune to anger the cardinal and the previous King," I replied. "Whereas they had reason to be angry with you and me."
"The previous one!" Chevrette exclaimed. "That's the whole point, after all, the current King has no reason to be offended by us, does he?"
“Of course, my dear Duchess,” I replied, kissing her hand.
"By the way, I received a strange letter from C;sar Vend;me!" Maria said suddenly.
"What's so strange about it?" I asked.
“It seems to me that he is hinting at some kind of intimacy between him and me, which allegedly took place in the winter of 1637.
“In winter?” I asked again. “What month?”
"That didn't happen, Henri!" Maria objected. "It simply couldn't have happened, after all, I was here, in exile!"
“How does he explain this discrepancy?” I asked.
"He thinks I came to Paris secretly just to meet him secretly," Maria exclaimed. "I think he's gone crazy!"
"A secret meeting?" I asked. "In complete darkness and wearing a mask?"
"Exactly!" Maria replied happily. "He was simply being played! I wish I knew who dared to commit such audacity!"
"By what signs did he decide it was you?" I asked. "After all, any woman could have given you your name in a similar way!"
“Vendome claims that he recognized my perfume, and that there were other unmistakable signs that left no doubt,” Maria replied.
"The lady who was with him, did she not identify herself or did she use your name?" I asked.
"I don't understand exactly. He just assures me he's not mistaken, and on that basis he's convinced I'm in love with him, so he's hoping for another meeting," Maria replied. "You see? He's completely lost his mind."
“Or maybe he was cleverly deceived,” I replied.
"But who and why?" asked Maria.
"But tell me, did the meeting that C;sar Vend;me writes about take place, as he believes, in December 1637?" I asked. "Am I right?"
“Yes, in December,” Maria answered. “So what?”
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” I replied. “Tell me, have you written him a reply?”
"Of course," Maria replied. "And I sent it with the same messenger."
“What is his name?” I asked.
"Philippe de Genlus, I think," Chevrette replied. "What difference does it make, really?"
"Tell me exactly what you answered C;sar Vend;me?" I insisted.
"I replied that he must have gone mad, since I distinctly remember not traveling anywhere in the winter of 1637, being in exile without a break," Maria replied. "I also wrote that if everything he wrote about actually happened, then someone must have played a trick on him. Let him search among the Cardinal's circles, since very few knew the name of my perfume or where I got it. Only Richelieu could have orchestrated such a prank; after all, I can't suspect the Queen!"
"You wrote that you can't suspect the Queen?" I asked. "How long ago did the courier leave? Describe his appearance, his horse, everything about him!"
“He left yesterday, and not on horseback, but in a carriage,” Maria answered. “Why are you so worried, Henri?”
"What do you think will happen after this same Philippe de Genlus delivers your letter to C;sar Vend;me?" I asked.
"What does all this matter to me?" Maria objected.
"It's enough to realize that a man like C;sar Vend;me wouldn't be able to calm down at the thought of being so absurdly deceived," I replied. "And he knows Richelieu's character well enough to understand that such jokes are not in his nature, unless one assumes..."
"Assume what, Henri?" asked Maria.
"Unless we assume that such a prank was part of the cardinal's larger plans," I replied. "And at this very time, in this very year, in this very December of 1637, if the cardinal was considering any adultery that would require keeping the identity of the woman hiding behind the mask a secret, it could only have been with one woman. And in that case, the man's choice becomes clear; it is extremely logical; this choice is the only choice Richelieu could have made."
"Oh my God!" Maria exclaimed. "Are you talking about..."
"Be silent, madam!" I replied. "Forget our mutual conclusions. Write another letter to C;sar Vend;me, apologizing for that sweet joke and asking him not to mention it and never to betray you to anyone, for fear of your husband's jealousy."
"Am I supposed to confess to a sin I didn't commit?" Maria asked, offended.
"Exactly!" I confirmed. "Caesar must have no doubt that he was meeting with you, lest he develop suspicions about another lady, one of higher rank, as you understand. Such a meeting, under the current circumstances, would be such an indictment against her that it would plunge all of France into chaos!"
"You're right, Henri, I didn't think!" replied Maria. "I shouldn't have answered C;sar Vend;me that way. I'll write another letter immediately. But how can I recall the one I sent by Vend;me's messenger?"
"It must not reach its destination," I replied. "Otherwise, civil war will break out."
"Will you intercept this letter, Henri?" Chevrette asked hopefully.
"Of course," I replied. "Even if I have to kill this Philippe de Genlus, as well as all his servants, friends, and even horses, and even if I have to do it with my bare hands! Write quickly, damn it! I must not waste time!"
"But he's riding in a carriage; you can easily catch up with him on horseback!" Maria objected. "What's the rush?"
“I’ll catch up with him if he doesn’t decide to mount a horse and continue his journey on horseback,” I replied. “And God forbid he does that already!”

Half an hour later, I mounted my horse and galloped after C;sar Vend;me's messenger. In my pocket was a new letter from the Duchess de Chevreuse, written to her under my dictation. My plans to escort the Duchess to Paris were not destined to come true; this mission of dubious honor had to be entrusted to Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld.
All the way, I prayed that Philippe de Genluce wouldn't dare switch to a saddle. At the first inn where I stopped for a bite to eat, I asked for pen and paper and wrote the following letter.

The "Goat" tavern is in the hands of Monsieur d'Artagnan, captain of the king's musketeers.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan, I inform you that I have quarreled with a gentleman who has appointed a duel to be fought this evening in the Place Royale; as I am a clergyman, and this matter might be harmful to me if I communicate it to anyone other than such a faithful friend as yourself, I ask you to be my second.
Enter the square from the new St. Catherine Street and you'll meet your opponent under the second lamppost. I'll be with mine under the third.
Your Aramis."

I intended to send this letter as soon as I arrived in Paris. I had no doubt that I would be able to start a quarrel with de Genluce and arrange a duel as soon as possible, so that he wouldn't have time to deliver the message to C;sar Vend;me. I decided that if I managed to resolve the matter before I arrived in Paris, I would simply tear up this letter.

De Genluce's carriage was drawn by four horses, so it took me a while to catch up. I felt sorry for the horse, because if it had died somewhere along the way, I would have wasted too much time getting to the nearest village to buy another. At the first post station I came to, I didn't change it, as it wasn't yet exhausted, and the horses I could have rented were far too weak compared to mine. But at the second post station, I had to change it anyway, otherwise it simply wouldn't have lasted the race.
On the outskirts of Paris, I finally caught up with the carriage I had been chasing for so long.
I noticed a man traveling in a carriage looking out the right window. I made sure to pass by just as I encountered a large puddle of mud on the side of the road, spurring my horse so hard that the mud from under his hooves undoubtedly splashed all over the traveler's face.
Without paying any attention to this, I rode across the path of his horses and tried to push them off the road so that the carriage slid to the left, got its left wheels stuck in a puddle of mud and leaned so much that it almost fell.
"What do you think you're doing, monsieur?" the traveler exclaimed from the carriage, wiping his face with a handkerchief.
“I’m riding as best I can, and if my horse has caused you any inconvenience, direct all your complaints to him,” I answered deliberately rudely.
I must admit, it was with great difficulty that I forced myself to utter all these rude remarks. Natural tact demanded that I apologize to the traveler, but I deliberately bit my lip until it bled, to further infuriate myself.
After this, I demonstratively drove around the stuck carriage and, seeing the helpless state it was in due to my fault, I laughed out loud and, pointing at the traveler’s face, made the most disgusting grimace.
"You wouldn't do any harm to wash yourself, sir," I said. "There are streaks of dirt on your face."
"Such filth can be washed away with blood!" the traveler finally exclaimed.
“Well, sir, you are absolutely right,” I replied.
Now I no longer had to be indelicate, since the necessary words had been spoken, and I could allow myself the most exquisite politeness.
"My name is Chevalier d'Herblay, and I am at your service," I said. "Let us discuss this matter today on the Rue Sainte-Catherine. My second will be able to find us more easily, as he lives nearby, and I hope he will respond to my request today to be at the right place at the right time. Do you have a second?"
“We’ll pick him up on the way,” replied Monsieur de Genlus.
"Then let me ride beside you, so as not to lose sight of you," I said. "As for the letter to my second, I will give it to a clever fellow who will deliver it to my friend's home, and if he is not at home, he will look for it in the barracks."
Luckily, everything that followed happened as I planned.
My friend d'Artagnan showed up at the meeting without asking any questions.
He met my opponent's second and deftly pierced his hand with his sword. By this time, I had already finished my work.
The dying Zhanlyus pulled an envelope out of his chest pocket.
"I see you are a worthy gentleman," he said. "Give this letter to my sovereign, Caesar of Vend;me, and apologize for me for not being able to deliver it to him myself."
"Don't worry," I replied, taking the envelope. "I'll give C;sar Vend;me a letter from Madame de Chevreuse."
"Did you know who this letter was from?" de Genlus asked with the last of his strength.
“I read the signature on the envelope,” I replied.
After this I put the letter in another pocket, so as not to confuse it with the one I was supposed to give to Vandom.
At that moment d'Artagnan came up to me.
"It's done," I told him. "I think I've killed the insolent fellow. Well, my dear friend, if you ever need me, you know I'm entirely devoted to you."
I shook his hand, hugged him and quickly disappeared under the arch.

After this, I delivered a letter from Chevrette to Vend;me through a third party, explaining that I had met the envoy ill at an inn near Paris, that he had asked me to deliver this letter, and that he himself had promised to come as soon as he recovered. After this, I quickly disappeared, lest I have to answer any awkward questions.

When I got home, I opened the envelope containing Chevrette's first letter.
This is what I read.

"Dear Duke! I don't understand the meaning of your letter and am forced to suspect that either you have been greatly overtired in recent days, or someone has played a cruel joke on you. Assuming the latter, I can only suspect someone from Cardinal Richelieu's entourage, who, although not entirely well at the time, was active enough to organize such a prank. I cannot imagine why he might need it, but I see no other options. I really cannot suspect our august Queen of such jokes, which are completely out of her style. I must decisively dismiss all others, because if you claim to recognize the scent of my perfume, then I must tell you that my favorite perfume comes from places no one knows about, and it is made according to recipes that are kept in the strictest confidence. This mixture of Egyptian and Turkish aromas is unknown to anyone except the Queen, and, of course, could have been known to our late Cardinal Richelieu, since he, with the help of his loyal servants, knew practically everything that was happening in France, and especially in the Louvre. So, if what you write about wasn't a dream, then you can easily find the source of the prank that was played on you.
I remain your sincere friend.
Marie de Chevreuse"

Judging by this letter, it was possible that Maria had figured out all the circumstances of the case, but perhaps hadn't calculated the consequences of such a revelation. Well, I was once again convinced that she couldn't be trusted in anything.
Well, I'll have to keep an eye on her again. After all, if C;sar Vend;me had received this letter, and had pondered the purpose of this secret, intimate meeting between the Queen and him, and what result it would lead to, and had recalled the Dauphin's birthright, he might have tried to blackmail the Queen into accepting his regency or, at the very least, claiming the position of first minister. Naturally, she would not have agreed, which would have almost inevitably led to civil war. This letter from the Duchess of Chevreuse alone would have been sufficiently incriminating; she would not have been able to maintain her position on the throne, nor would she have been able to preserve the throne for Louis IV , since he had not yet been officially crowned; he could have been declared a bastard. This duel with Jeanluce saved France from civil war.
And C;sar Vend;me, fooled by me, read the following message from Chevrette with great pleasure.

"Dear Duke! I had hoped with all my heart that you would not guess the name of the one who, succumbing to tender feelings that suddenly grew into uncontrollable passion, briefly forgot her duty. I completely forgot that my unique perfume might betray me. Well, you have uncovered my secret, and therefore I can only appeal to your modesty. I hope that our meeting did not disappoint you, whereas I, to my greatest regret, received much more than I could have wished for, but instead of peace, I was completely deprived of peace. After all, I hoped with the help of this secret meeting to cure my hopeless love for you, but instead I only received confirmation that you are fully worthy of it, and that my feelings for you are not a fleeting whim, but a genuine feeling, the kind that only happens once in a lifetime. Have mercy on the one who cannot be cured of her love for you, although she understands how destructive this feeling is for her too! I am grateful to you for keeping this secret so closely guarded, and I beg you to continue to keep me confidential. May this secret between us be that delicate bond between us which I would like, and hopefully can afford, to preserve. I hope this small request is not too burdensome for you, my knight. I am writing this letter under the influence of renewed emotions, and I am afraid to reread what I have written. I beg you to destroy this letter immediately after reading it.
I remain your sincere friend and would be happy to be for you everything I can only dream of.
With tears and love, Marie de Chevreuse"
 


Chapter 104

In Paris, Chevrette experienced two disappointments: political and personal.
The reason for the political disappointment was that the Queen, who during the lifetime of the King and the Cardinal had opposed their policy, after taking the reins of government into her own hands, continued it steadfastly and consistently.
Out of love for her children and in order to leave them a strong country, she neglected her former attachment to her brother and the entire Spanish family. She continued the war with Spain and achieved great victories, despite many expecting her to act in the exact opposite direction. Former friends and enemies of Cardinal Richelieu expected peace with Spain, and that the Queen would abandon her former allies and forge alliances with France's former enemies . But, on Mazarin's advice, she continued Richelieu's policies so successfully that he likely blessed her reign from heaven .
Chevrette's personal disappointment was that the Queen made it clear she had no intention of continuing her dangerous games, that the time for intrigue was over forever, and that henceforth the Duchess, who had never been the Queen's equal, must now even more so always remember her place. A friend in the past, she had now become an unpleasant memory and, what's worse, a witness to many affairs and the bearer of many secrets. Therefore, the Queen couched her demands in the mildest possible terms, professing her friendship and tender feelings for her friend, and citing state necessity, the impossibility of continuing the pleasures of youth, her busy schedule, etiquette, the Queen's complete lack of self-control, and God knows what other circumstances.
La Chevrette understood everything, feigning friendship, love, submission, and gratitude, but she was well aware that she knew a dozen of the Queen's secrets, the most dangerous of which were the secret of the Dauphin's conception and the secret of his twin brother's existence. The Duchess realized that these two secrets were dangerous for their bearer, but with luck, they could form the basis for a significant increase in her fortune, ensuring her power and authority over the Queen, only if they remained a secret from everyone except herself and those already privy to them. She understood that, besides herself and the Queen, the secret of the Dauphin's conception was likely known only to me, while the secret of his brother's birth was likely known also to those entrusted with his guardianship. She also hoped that this secret would never become known to Mazarin, since he could then advise the Queen to get rid of the Duchess or even personally undertake everything for the final and effective solution of this problem, which would be the best way to keep both these secrets.
I can't say for certain whether Mazarin knew these secrets. He was a gentle man; unlike Richelieu, he didn't abuse the death penalty; in the most serious cases, he was content to imprison his enemies in the Bastille or some similar prison. Under his rule, heads stopped rolling off as often as they had under Richelieu. But Chevrette didn't know this yet.
It is also surprising that such philanthropy, gentleness and balanced policy of the new first minister were perceived by everyone as his weakness.
Before his death, Richelieu complained to the King that the Queen was Spanish and Mazarin was a foreigner. How wrong he had been! The Queen became one of the most French queens in French history. It would have been impossible to be more French. She loved her sons so much. Mazarin also strove to become French in everything. They almost succeeded, but not in the eyes of the princes, the nobility, or the commoners. Of course, it wasn't the commoners themselves who came up with the idea of accusing the Queen and the Prime Minister of being foreigners; these ideas were planted among the people by the princes and dukes. But the ideas took hold, and they gradually became accustomed to calling Mazarin a vile Italian and the Queen a Spaniard. However, the people still treated the Queen with all due respect, and if they wanted to overthrow someone and dismiss him, it was, of course, the cardinal.
But all this didn't begin all at once, but gradually. At first, the Queen's reign was so serene that poets compared it to the Golden Age, and the Queen herself to one of the ancient goddesses.
True, the Queen, aware of the fragility of her regency, sought to enlist everyone's support, and so, as far as she could, never refused any petitioner, which, unfortunately, also gave rise to accusations of weakness. Generosity quickly leads to poverty, and since the Queen had not read the works of Nicola Machiavelli, she was unaware that a sovereign's generosity could be considered a vice and stinginess a virtue. She ignored the example of her mother-in-law, Marie de Medici, who generously gave money and made friends, but when the money ran out, so did her friends. For friends surround us not when we have paid them something, but when they have something to look forward to in the future.
No one taught her this simple truth, because no one could have imagined that she would one day single-handedly, or almost single-handedly, rule a state like France.
I was worried that Chevrette might reveal one of the two secrets we both knew. I wasn't at all worried that she might plot to get rid of me. Maria wasn't the kind of person who would plot and carry out a banal murder, especially the murder of one of her lovers. She remained faithful to all her lovers, and continued to love them all throughout her life, which probably proves that she simply never loved anyone, but only felt possessive feelings for us all.
Relations between us would have been much better if she had allowed me to consider my children my children. But she was so adamant about this that even now, when she is no longer here, as is her second husband, the Duke de Chevreuse, and no one could forbid me from communicating with them as their true father, it does not occur to me, and I have no intention of changing the state of my easy acquaintance with them that developed during her lifetime. If you do not love your children from childhood, then this will not come with the time of their growth, when they themselves become parents. And in their children, I do not see my grandchildren. Sometimes I think that perhaps they are not my children, and not my grandchildren at all. But what I know with my mind, I know, although my heart does not want to listen to my head and accept them as my offspring. I love them, love them from afar. I would give myself to kill for any of them! I commissioned portraits of all of them and often spend a long time gazing at their faces. I see my own traits in them. But I will never admit my relationship to any of them. Damn this noble honor! Only the King can openly acknowledge his illegitimate children without their dignity, honor, and fortune being harmed, and even elevated. Everyone else must hold their hearts tight and, when they meet, bow coldly and politely to their children, as if they were complete strangers, equal in social standing, but nothing more. How I envy Athos, who nevertheless raised Raoul himself and found the strength to admit his paternity!
However, besides the King, there was another man who was able to recognize many illegitimate children as his legitimate children and heirs. I remembered Rodrigo Borgia, Alexander VI . In my case, perhaps I could have... But no! At that time, almost two hundred years ago, the requirement of celibacy in Catholicism was not yet as strict as it is today. Rodrigo had ten children known to everyone, and another fourteen known to no one. Except me. But I have already consigned the document attesting to this to the flames. We must respect the will of our predecessors. If he did not wish this to be made public, then there is no point in preserving papers that could lead to such publicity. I hope that my successors will treat my notes with the same respect—that is, consign them to the flames.
 
Chapter 105

The highest nobility flocked to the Queen for favors, promised or assumed. The Queen could not yet afford the luxury of offending princes, dukes, marshals, and peers; they all sought positions and money, and there were more contenders than there were resources. Some had to be refused, and this risked the emergence of new enemies. Monsieur received the governorship of Languedoc, the Duke of Enghien received Champagne, Cond; received Chantilly and Dammartin, confiscated by the King from Montmorency, his brother-in-law and the Princess's brother. The Duke of Bouillon, brother of the Viscount de Turenne, intended to reclaim Sedan, which he had received in exchange for pardon for his involvement in the Cinq-Mars conspiracy. He insisted that he had become involved in this conspiracy to protect the Queen from the Cardinal's oppression. If the Queen had returned Sedan to him, she would have indirectly admitted her complicity in the Cinq-Mars conspiracy, or at least her sympathy for it. She could not do this, of course, and so she flatly refused the Duke of Bouillon, thereby alienating him. Mazarin supported her in this tenacity and encouraged her steadfastness, convincing her that her salvation lay only in firmness. Mazarin recommended openly declaring that those who relied on the Queen's excessive kindness would pay for it, and that the heir to the absolute King should not, upon reaching adulthood, inherit a state completely different from the one his father had left him because of the Queen's mistakes.
However, the Queen herself had no intention of making endless concessions to all the nobility Richelieu controlled. One of those whose exorbitant ambitions the Queen refused was the Duc de La Rochefoucauld. For some unknown reason, he imagined himself to be the Queen's best friend and benefactor, and for this reason, he perceived the Queen's rise as a guarantee of his own. La Rochefoucauld's concern for his fate when he suffered slightly and temporarily for her sake—that is, when he had to spend only a week in the Bastille—and the Queen's joy upon learning of his release, were mistakenly interpreted by La Rochefoucauld as a confirmation of his services and, at the same time, as such obvious gratitude, almost excessive, that he attributed to her God knows what feelings for him. In his memoirs, he emphasized that when Cardinal Richelieu offered him the rank of major general, the news upset the Queen, who expressed the hope that he would not accept it. She merely implied that accepting this favor would mean the defection of one of those she had hitherto counted among her friends to Cardinal Richelieu. This regret of hers was conveyed to La Rochefoucauld, from which he concluded that the Queen had asked him to convey her disappointment, and that this was tantamount to a request not to accept the favor, since she, the Queen, would soon have the opportunity to reward him much better. He thus fantasized that the Queen had promised him a position far superior to that of major general. When the Queen became regent, La Rochefoucauld not only eagerly anticipated this reward but even had the audacity to remind her of his anticipation and the Queen's supposed promise. Naturally, Koroyeva was surprised and denied any such obligations, which angered La Rochefoucauld to no end. He interpreted his week-long imprisonment in the Bastille as a self-sacrifice for the Queen that had not been properly appreciated or rewarded. The truth was that if La Rochefoucauld had accepted the cardinal's favor, he probably wouldn't have been imprisoned for a week, but in return he would certainly have been made a cardinal, which would have included espionage for Richelieu, and perhaps even worse. Thus, La Rochefoucauld's expectation of a reward was based solely on the fact that he hadn't become a Judas, although it had been advantageous to him at a certain point, and on the fact that he had "suffered," that is, spent a relatively serene week in the Bastille, where the regime was so easy for him that he even later recounted how many intelligent people he had interacted with there and how much he had learned from them. If the Bastille truly makes a philosopher out of a rebel, and a writer out of a philosopher, then perhaps a week's "rest" in the Bastille should be recommended to every oppositionist? How much more useful would it be for France to have La Rochefoucauld, the author of Maxims and Memoirs, than La Rochefoucauld, the duelist and conspirator, the ally of the Duchess de Chevreuse!
However, La Rochefoucauld, too, was eventually forced to realize that the Queen's refusal to entrust him with certain positions and assignments, which she explained by the lack of need for them, was in fact due to her lack of trust in him. He even went so far as to accuse her of insufficient confidence in him. This duke, who had lost all sense of proportion, had counted, as he himself admitted, on the Queen entrusting him with the management of all the councils that served her, determining the tasks of each, and, apparently, the composition of each. This alone demonstrates how far he was from adequately assessing his own importance, his talents, and his statesmanship. The Queen gave him exactly the position he deserved—namely, that of a writer and memoirist, even if he was resentful of everyone and everything. This is what happens when you can't distinguish simple politeness from royal promises. If La Rochefoucauld had the opportunity to render the Queen one or two minor favors, after which he heard her say that she would forever remain grateful to him for these services, he apparently concluded that he had now acquired eternal power over the Queen due to her eternal and endless gratitude to him. Despite all his insight, La Rochefoucauld failed to understand that words of eternal gratitude from the lips of sovereigns are not a promise of future benefits as a form of gratitude, but rather these words constitute the entirety of their gratitude, and no more will follow.
Now that the Queen had assumed power, she had so many "friends"—those who claimed to have been on her side during Richelieu's reign—that she could not have imagined such support at a time when she truly needed it but was not receiving it. All these supposed friends eagerly awaited the arrival of the Duchess de Chevreuse, naively believing that she would assume a leading position with the Queen and help these "friends" establish themselves in power, or at least help them obtain money, positions, or estates. Cardinal Mazarin feared this might actually happen, so he sent Montagu to meet the Duchess, instructing him to warn the Duchess that her initiative and activity at court were not required, and that she would be well received only if she showed sufficient deference and restraint in her interactions with the Queen. The Cardinal hoped that Montagu, as the Duchess's former lover, would be able to convince her of this. As I've already written, the Queen intended to send La Rochefoucauld on similar missions to the Duchess, but, having become convinced of his exorbitant ambitions, she doubted his mission would be successful.
However, Marie did not heed these warnings. Blinded by the honors bestowed upon her by those who had counted on her protection, as well as Mazarin's polite and respectful attitude toward her, she believed she had returned to Paris a victor. Only the Queen herself could demonstrate that all the ostentatious courtesy, all the friendliness, and even tenderness toward her former friend were mere veneer concealing distrust and coldness. The Queen reminded Marie that she had arrived from Spain and that her presence at court would cause unnecessary anxiety among France's allies. Therefore, the Queen recommended that the Duchess remain in Dampierre for an indefinite period. The next day, Mazarin visited her and presented her with fifty thousand ;cus "for the first time," informing her that the Duchess would soon receive another two hundred thousand ;cus, but her departure to Dampierre was a done deal. Wherever it was possible to buy someone off rather than allow them to attain political power, Mazarin always preferred to buy off, and where flattery would have helped, Mazarin flattered without restraint. He heaped such compliments on the Duchess, expressed such admiration and best wishes, that Marie truly believed she had found a good friend in him, while the Cardinal saw her as a dangerous enemy, and all his words, like all his money, were directed toward removing her as far away as possible and neutralizing her.
The Duchess accepted Mazarin's gift as a matter of course, but not as something worthy of special attention. She saw it as an advance on the future, when in reality it was a final settlement for the past and an indication that no future was foreseen for her. The Duchess, however, had extremely ambitious goals. She wanted to remove all of Richelieu's relatives from power, all the Br;z;s, Lameyeres, and d'Aiguions, and install her own relatives and friends in cushy positions of power—the Guises, Luignes, Rohans, and those so-called "Haughty Ones," the La Rochefoucaulds, Hauteforts, Sens;s, Saint-Louis, and La Portes, and so on. Among her supporters, Marie also counted those who had once been opponents of the Cardinal, whether they were actually her supporters or not. So, her list included Fontrailles, d'Aubizou, Beaupuis, de Treville, and Deszesart. I believe she even included d'Artagnan, and I have no doubt that she counted me among them.
She couldn't understand that by this time I already belonged to another party—the d'Herblay party, of which I was both end and means, both symbol and sole functionary. Even membership in a far more powerful society, the Jesuit Order, was for me not an end but a means, so sympathy for Chevrette or even complicity in some of her schemes was either a means to my own ends or a distraction in the absence of other, more pressing matters.
At first, this circle of the Arrogant did not greatly upset or frighten Mazarin. The Cardinal treated them with reciprocal arrogance, characterizing them as people whose job it was to hinder everything that did not originate with them, to slander everything they encountered, to mock good people and good deeds, predicting a bad end for both. He noted that they rejoiced at every defeat of the current government, rejoicing in every misfortune and disaster, because they blamed every failure and every misfortune on the fact that they themselves had not been given sufficient power in this new government. Everything done by others, or outside of them, they called worthless and hopeless, if not downright disastrous.
The first step of the Arrogant Ones was to expose Richelieu. Unable to oppose him while he was alive, they turned on him after his death. Their second step was to attack Mazarin. He was accused of debauchery, but when they realized that this trait was not characteristic of him, since the simple gallantry he displayed not only toward the Duchess de Chevreuse but also toward her mother-in-law, Madame de Gu;m;n;, never exceeded the permissible bounds, they decided to accuse him of the Italian sin, since he was Italian. But this, too, was slander; Mazarin had no inclination for this sin, and who better than Chevrette would have understood this, having witnessed the sometimes bizarre preferences of her first husband, as well as those of Louis XIII and Buckingham.
La Porte even dared to try to persuade the Queen to distance herself from Mazarin and remove him from power, citing rumors circulating about him. The Queen retorted that these rumors were apparently invented and spread by the Prince of Cond;. La Porte even dared to compare the Queen to her mother-in-law, Marie de' Medici, who had allowed the Italian Concino Concini into her bedroom. The Queen retorted that this comparison was unfounded, as Mazarin was merely a political aide, and that she would care for the King, her son, and the Prince, his brother, in a manner completely different from that in which Marie de' Medici cared for her two children, since she truly loved Louis.
It must be said that La Porte hit the nail on the head with his comparison. The analogy, which no one had thought of, was almost perfect. Marie de' Medici, during the underage Louis XIII, had her Italian lover rule France. Anne of Austria, during the underage Louis XIV , also had an Italian ruler, whom everyone believed to be her lover. I would also add that neither Louis was the son of their nominal father. But it seems few knew this. In any case, while Marie de' Medici was suspected by almost everyone, no one suspected Anne of Austria. And yet, if the analogy were perfect, should we have expected that Louis XIV , upon reaching adulthood, would perhaps order Mazarin's assassination and take power completely into his own hands? We know that this did not happen. But I am convinced that many Frenchmen would have wished for precisely this to happen. This is the reason for the Fronde.
La Porte's words were perhaps too fair, and therefore they failed to achieve their goal, as they angered the Queen. Instead of heeding his advice, she struck him off as a friend.
Mazarin successfully exploited the differences between his ill-wishers. Chevreuse wanted to replace Ch;teauneuf as minister, but all the other Arrogant Ones opposed this, fearing he would seize too much power.
The Duke of Vend;me attempted to propose Sublet de Nouyer in place of Mazarin and decided to influence the Bishop of Beauvais to recommend to the Queen that de Nouyer be reinstated for this purpose. But Mazarin learned of these attempts and informed the Bishop of Beauvais that it was not in his interests to support de Nouyer, as he also had his sights set on the cardinal's hat, which the Bishop of Beauvais himself coveted. So was it worth aiding a rival?
The Duke of Vend;me's son, the Duke of Beaufort, was tongue-tied and not particularly bright, making him far more suited to the role of commander, as he was a fearless warrior and, moreover, not without military talent. Furthermore, de Beaufort's candidacy would have been opposed by all of Cond;, who hated him no less than Ch;teauneuf.
Chevrette advocated for the appointment of the Prince of Cond; as Governor-General and for the return of the governorship of Brittany to him, which had gone to Richelieu's relatives, de Br;z; and de Lameyer. The Queen hated Cond; but was on friendly terms with his wife, so only a flexible mind like Mazarin, whose advice the Queen always accepted, could navigate these twists and turns.
The Queen valued Mazarin, and it was for this reason that she showed firmness when she had to stand up for him.
It all began with a lost love letter, but the fuss surrounding it was so intense that for three weeks the Queen and the Prime Minister pored over the matter with such diligence as if the fate of France depended on it. However, it must be acknowledged that the scandal erupted between such noble and important families that the consequences of such a scandal could have been most unforeseen. I imagine that wars could have broken out among such distinguished individuals over such trivial matters. The peculiarity of the situation is also that all the ladies involved in this scandal were known to me very well.

Chapter 106

Meeting too many young and beautiful women never bothered me. But sometimes the acquaintances were too close, and the women were too famous. In such cases, such acquaintances could become troublesome.
I made little secret of my close friendship with Duchess Marie de Chevreuse. Among my acquaintances were other ladies, such as her cousin. It would seem reasonable to me to avoid close relations with other relatives of these two ladies, especially those of a degree of kinship that placed them in a position similar to that of a mother. I am speaking of Marie's mother-in-law, Monsieur de Montbazon.
But what could I do when my mother-in-law turns out to be ten years younger than her daughter-in-law? Judge for yourself!
Marie d'Avaugourt de Bretagne was ten years younger than Marie de Chevreuse, and also ten years younger than me, and she was quite beautiful—slender, sweet, intelligent, and not at all prudish. Having married Hercule de Rohan, 2nd Duke of Montbazon, who was forty-two years her senior, she was naturally inclined to form tender friendships with younger men who were more pleasing to her. Duke Hercule de Rohan was related to the Comte de Rochefort, being the son of Louis VI de Rohan, first Prince de Gu;m;n;, and L;onore de Rohan, hereditary Countess of Rochefort. It may seem surprising that these family ties didn't prevent Marie de Chevreuse and the Comte de Rochefort from feuding fiercely. But, firstly, this feud was no more surprising than the feud between Monsieur and the King, who were more closely related, or, for example, the feud between the King and the Queen Mother. Secondly, it ended with the death of Richelieu. So, I couldn't help but notice the most beautiful woman at court, Marie de Montbazon, a duchess and a beauty, young and lively.
I wasn't the only one who noticed her. The Duc de Montbazon himself was indulgent of the Duchess's merry antics, provided that decorum wasn't compromised. Marie de Montbazon was, incidentally, the only noble beauty at court who pleased me, and with whom my rival, Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld, failed to establish the more than friendly relationship he desired. This confirms this lady's exceptionally refined mind and taste. She was beautiful, and if I don't expatiate on her virtues in these pages, it's only out of respect for her and gratitude, which requires me to maintain a modesty that prevents me from doing her justice.
Since the Duchess had the good sense not to be carried away by La Rochefoucauld, her attention turned to Monsieur Henri II d'Orl;ans, Duke of Longueville, who was twenty-seven years younger than her husband. He also appreciated her virtues.
During the period I'm describing, a new star arose on the court scene, equal to the Duchess in nobility, beauty, and intelligence, but younger, a full nine years younger than Madame de Montbazon, which ensured her complete victory. This was Genevi;ve de Bourbon, daughter of the Prince de Cond; and sister of the Duke of Enghien. Her brother, the Duke of Enghien, had just recently covered himself in glory with his victories at Rocroi, which also elevated her. Monsieur de Longueville took such keen notice of her that he seriously considered marrying her. This greatly upset Madame de Montbazon, who felt slighted and insulted.
I will say, by way of self-criticism, that I had already managed to establish a friendship with Madame Genevi;ve de Bourbon, so that I had to listen to Madame de Montbazon describe all of Madame de Bourbon’s shortcomings in extremely exaggerated colors, without contradicting and sometimes agreeing, after which, a few days later, I had to listen to Madame de Montbazon describe the disgusting shortcomings of Madame de Montbazon from Madame Genevi;ve, who also did not skimp on negative colors and exaggerations, and again I had to agree and assent.
It was quite tiring for me, but I told myself that if I didn’t learn to hide my feelings and be pleasant to those with whom I communicate even if the topic of conversation did not interest me and was even unpleasant to me, then I had no place in politics, no place in the Order, and certainly no place in the ranks of the clergy.
So, the ladies said nasty things about each other, but it didn't cool them down enough. Both were eager for a scandal, centered around the one they were so jealous of that they couldn't rest.
In 1642, the wedding took place, and Genevi;ve became Madame de Longueville. Genevi;ve grew tired of her elderly husband long before the honeymoon was over, so she acquired a tender friend in Maurice, Count de Coligny, who, only a year her senior, possessed the necessary zeal, charm, and romantic dreams. The poor man was so in love with her that he barely concealed his feelings.
Three years before the time of which I write, I met the grown-up daughter of my cousin Marie, Madame de Bois-Tracy. I had known her as a girl, and she had once jokingly told me she would like to marry me after she turned sixteen. Having met her at that age, two years earlier, I was stunned by her beauty. Unfortunately for me, her name was also Marie, and that name had a strange power over me. Mademoiselle Marie de Bois-Tracy captivated my imagination. For a week, I barely slept, dreaming of her. I convinced myself that I should not meet the daughter of someone with whom I was so close. Certain calculations convinced me that she was in any case not my daughter, and yet I considered such a relationship immoral. But the convictions that moderated my desires during the day had no effect on my imagination at night. I allowed myself to respond to Maria's passionate confessions with a few compliments, and, I confess, we had three dates, after which I realized I had to either marry her and renounce all my political ambitions, or break up. I couldn't help but give in to this feeling completely, utterly, without reserve. I decided to break up with her and tried to do it as gently as possible.
"I have chosen the spiritual path," I told Maria. "I gave the Lord a vow of celibacy. However, our relationship tempts me to abandon that vow. We must separate."
“But you, Chevalier, as far as I know, easily break this vow with very many of your parishioners,” objected Maria.
"Consoling a poor married woman whose husband isn't paying enough attention isn't a sin of breaking one's vow of celibacy," I replied hypocritically. "Even Cardinal Richelieu didn't refuse such favors to the suffering, and can I, a simple abbot, condemn the cardinal or not follow his example?"
"Chevalier, I don't wish to see you again. From now on I don't know you, and if we meet again, I won't recognize you, just know that!" Maria exclaimed, after which I had to leave.
So, I hadn't seen her for three years, but at the celebration of the victory at Rocroi, I saw a married couple. It was the one I knew as Marie, Mademoiselle de Bois-Tracy, and her husband, an elderly and distinguished nobleman, Monsieur de Fauquerolles. Marie pretended not to recognize me, and I did the same. However, half an hour later, while strolling in the garden, I came across her alone, as her husband had gone off to play ombre.
“Chevalier, I think we’ve met,” said Maria with a slight smile, which contained both pride and contempt, and regret for what had not come to pass, which made for a very tempting mixture of feelings.
"Madam, contrary to your promise, you recognized me and spoke to me first, which makes me extremely happy," I replied. "May I apologize again for my unworthy behavior and try to beg for forgiveness?"
"For what?" she asked with a smile. "You were right. You would never have married me, and I should never have dreamed of marrying you. Now I am quite noble and even richer than I was, and completely free, since my husband does not at all value his exclusive rights, which he uses so rarely that it is worth remembering.
“I am extremely upset by this disregard for you and your inalienable rights on his part,” I lied.
"You mean you're extremely happy about this?" Maria asked. "If you're going to lie to yourself, you shouldn't lie to me, because I know you very well and understand your feelings."
"I admit, you've found me out," I agreed. "I'm glad your husband isn't bothering you too much."
"You probably thought that since I'm now a married woman, meeting with me no longer conflicts with your principles?" she asked with a grin.
“I dare not deny what you read in my eyes,” I replied, because it was true.
"Have you thought about my feelings?" Maria asked.
“I thought your feelings for me remained unchanged,” I replied.
"Exactly!" she exclaimed. "The only question is, what kind of feelings? Those I spoke of during the happy hours of our meetings, or those I displayed at our parting? Think about it, Chevalier!"
I bowed my head and was about to leave, but Maria stopped me with a gesture.
"Tell me, Chevalier, but only frankly," she said. "Do you hope for a renewal of our relations?"
"I will always hope so," I replied. "Why lie to myself and to you if you so easily expose my insincerity? I have always admired you and intend to continue to do so, regardless of what you think or how you respond."
This time I really did take my leave and disappear. For three weeks we had no opportunity to see each other in private or exchange any letters or signs.
Afterwards, I saw her at one of the receptions, but I didn't dare approach her because there were many strangers present. Maria glanced at me and caught my gaze, then indicated her pocket, from which she pulled out a handkerchief, dropping a small note onto the carpet. She immediately covered it with her dress and looked at me. I indicated with my eyes that I had noticed the note and was ready to pick it up, after which Maria serenely left the place where she had been, leaving me free to take possession of it.
I only had to take three steps, but as soon as I had taken two steps, Monsieur La Rochefoucauld stopped me.
"Tell me, Chevalier, how often did you see the Duchess de Chevreuse during her exile?" he asked.
"You know that yourself, Duke," I replied. "If Richelieu were alive, I would say I never saw her, but now it's easier for you to ask her yourself. I don't deny that I saw her once or twice, I think, passing on greetings from one of our mutual acquaintances, I can't remember exactly who."
"Please do not consider me impertinent, Chevalier," replied the Duke. "I would like to ask if the Duchess has spoken to you about me? It seems to me that since her return she has become more than a little cool towards me, whereas before her exile we had a strong friendship."
“She didn’t mention you in my presence, Duke, but I’m sure she didn’t forget about you, because she chose you as the keeper of her jewels,” I replied.
"You know this too?" La Rochefoucauld asked in surprise.
“I didn’t know that for sure, but you just confirmed my guess, Duke,” I replied with a smile and tried to continue my way to the note.
At that moment, I saw that there was no longer any note on the carpet. A cold sweat broke out on me.
"Gentlemen!" said Madame de Montbazon at that very moment. "One moment's attention! I found a note on the carpet! What does it mean?"
"And who is it addressed to?" asked one of the courtiers.
"Who signed it?" asked a lady.
"Just imagine, there's no address or signature here!" Madame de Montbazon exclaimed.
"In that case, this letter doesn't belong to anyone, and we have every right to examine its contents!" someone else exclaimed, and everyone else took up the idea.
The company had already been "tired" several times by various liqueurs and tinctures, so what a more sober group probably wouldn't have allowed itself to do happened, to my chagrin and everyone's delight. Fortunately, Maria was already far away by then, as she left immediately after leaving this note for me.
"Read it!" some ladies said.
"Don't keep me in suspense!" others said.
"This will be fun!" the men anticipated.
"So, I read!" said Madame de Montbazon. "This is what it says. 'What did you hope for after so long an absence and silence? Do you not know that the pride which formerly made me appreciate your feelings now protects me from the suffering which a false pretense of continuing our relationship might have caused me?'"
"What's going on here?" we heard the Queen's commanding voice. "Madame de Montbazon! Where did you get this letter and why are you holding such a public reading here?"
“I found this letter on the carpet,” Montbazon answered.
"By what right do you read this letter aloud?" asked the Queen.
"I was hoping we could find out who it was from, or to whom it was addressed," Montbazon replied. "However, there's no need to read any further. I can guess who it's from and to whom it's addressed. Take this, madam; it seems you lost it."
With these words, Montbazon approached the Duchess de Longueville and handed her a note.
"How dare you suspect me of such vileness?" de Longueville exclaimed, shying away from the note as if it were a poisonous snake.
“Well, in that case, I will deliver this letter to the addressee myself,” Montbazon continued her farce, after which she went up to Maurice de Coligny and handed him the note.
“You were told that you are deeply mistaken, madam,” Maurice de Coligny answered through clenched teeth, after which he turned around without even looking at the note and walked away a few steps.
"Give me that note!" the Queen said imperiously.
Montbazon was forced to submit.
"How disgusting it is to read other people's letters!" the Queen exclaimed, recalling the days of her humiliation when her correspondence was read by the King and the Cardinal, as well as Chancellor Seguier. "Madame de Montbazon, I beg you to leave my house and reflect on your behavior."
After this, the Queen turned away from Madame de Montbazon, and following her, all the guests stopped noticing her.

Chapter 107

I wrote Maria a letter outlining the entire unpleasant situation. I expressed my regret that I hadn't managed to quickly obtain the note intended for me, citing the unexpected nature of the matter, my lack of preparation, and the forced delay due to La Rochefoucauld's inappropriate intervention.
I understood that these excuses would not soften the horror of the letter becoming public knowledge, the full text of which I did not know, and I was afraid that some turns of phrase in it would allow one to guess the name of the sender or the person of the addressee.
However, the situation in which Madame de Montbazon accused Madame de Longueville of authorship was also highly undesirable. I felt some sympathy for both of them, while their feud seemed to have reached its climax and become public, since the altercation took place in full view of the entire community and, worse, in front of the Queen.
The Queen unconditionally sided with Madame de Longueville. Her authorship had not been proven, so the accusations were unfounded, but even if the Queen herself had been convinced of Madame de Longueville's authorship, she would still have sided with her.
Cond;, aware of the Queen's support, demanded an apology; some nobles, on the contrary, supported Madame de Montbazon. The court split into two warring camps. Cond; allied with the Longueville party, while Montbazon allied with the Beauforts and other Vend;mes. Chevrette defended Montbazon, which further alienated her from the Queen. But she could not help but stand up for her young mother-in-law.
I persuaded Monsieur de Malevrier to admit that the letter was written to him by his niece, and that it spoke not of gallant love, but of a familial love that had been shattered by a disagreement. Monsieur de Malevrier agreed to take on the matter, demanding twenty thousand pistoles. Chevrette had to pay these expenses, after which Malevrier offered a version that satisfied both parties. Malevrier, however, asked that his confession be kept secret, as the matter was, after all, a very delicate, family matter.
The Queen insisted that Madame de Montbazon apologize. The text of the apology was drafted with the assistance of Cardinal Mazarin, a process that took two hours. The reading was scheduled to take place at the home of the Duchess de Chevreuse. Under pressure from the authorities, Madame de Montbazon read the apology to the Duchess de Longueville in a tone that expressed protest against every word. The Queen ordered Madame de Montbazon to leave the reception where this was taking place, but Montbazon ignored it, being a guest of her sister-in-law. The Queen then left the Duchess's ch;teau herself.
The matter might have died down, but Montbazon didn't believe Malevrier's confession. Then La Rochefoucauld—the same Duke Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld who had caused all the fuss—for if he hadn't detained me, the letter would have reached its destination and there would have been no scandal!—intervened where he wasn't wanted. He proposed comparing the handwritings to expose the lie. The letter was handed to La Rochefoucauld, and Madame de Rambouillet and de Sabl; were chosen as handwriting experts. They examined the letter and a sample of Madame de Longueville's handwriting in the presence of the Queen. They declared the handwriting on the letter to be completely unlike Madame de Longueville's, after which they threw the letter, which had caused so much controversy, into the fireplace. This should not have been done, since Madame de Montbazon denounced these arbitrators as close friends of Madame de Longueville, and on the grounds that the letter had been destroyed, she began to declare that this once again proved that the handwriting on the letter matched that of the Duchess, otherwise why would it have been destroyed?
This behavior finally caused Madame de Montbazon to quarrel with the Queen, who ordered her to go back to Rochefort.
The expulsion of de Montbazon dealt a blow to the Duke of Beaufort's pride. He began deliberately disobeying and even ignoring the Queen, daring to turn his back on her, as if unaware of her presence.
Finally, Maurice de Coligny, who also felt insulted because de Montbazon had correctly revealed that he was the Duchess de Longueville's lover, challenged the Duke of Guise to a duel. The long-standing feud between the Coligny and Guise families had not abated for a moment. Both duelists remembered both the murdered Gaspard de Coligny and the murdered Henry de Guise.
The duel took place despite the edict still in effect banning such duels. Swords crossed, and after several minutes of furious combat, Maurice de Coligny received a fatal, penetrating wound to his left shoulder.
The duel didn't put an end to the gossip, as it wasn't her husband, but a "friend," who stood up for the Duchess's honor. Beaufort continued to rebel, even attempting to arrange Mazarin's assassination. This assassination was prevented when Beaufort asked the Duke of ;pernon to forbid his musketeers from interfering, but d';pernon guessed what was going on and sent his servant to warn the cardinal. The assassins waited in vain for Mazarin, the plot was exposed, and the Duke of Beaufort was arrested right in the Louvre, where he spent the night under the guard of Guitant and his guards, and the next morning he was escorted to the Ch;teau de Vincennes.
Thus, alas, a young and extremely charming woman, by her carelessness, caused an irreconcilable schism among the highest nobility of the French kingdom, which led to the death of one of them and the arrest of the other.
After the arrest of de Beaufort, I was summoned by the coadjutor of the Jesuit Order.
"Chevalier," he said, "we know the true reasons for these events, which lasted three weeks. Tell us everything you know about them."
I told everything I knew, without adding anything of my own, keeping silent, however, about the true addressee of this letter, as well as about the true sender.
“You forgot to tell us that the letter was written by Madame de Focquerolles and that it was addressed to…” the Coadjutor said in a dispassionate voice, waiting for me to finish this sentence.
"I was going to tell you this, but I kept silent only because you got there before me," I said, embarrassed. "The letter was written by Madame de Fauquerolles, Madame de Bois-Tracy's daughter, and it was addressed to me."
“Don’t make such mistakes again,” said the coadjutor.
"I beg your pardon," I replied. "It won't happen again. I should also add that I only heard the beginning of this letter, the first couple of lines, after which the reading was stopped and the letter was burned, so we will never know its full contents."
"Nonsense!" exclaimed the coadjutor. "Here is a complete copy of this letter. You may read it if you wish."
He carelessly threw a sheet of paper on the table.
I looked at it and was stunned. This was not a copy; it was an authentic letter from Marie de Fauquerolles. I will quote only the most important lines for me: "I suffer because I love you as before, and you, if you suffer, it is only because you do not love me as before."
"Then what was burned in the fireplace?" I asked.
“An exact copy of this letter, written in the handwriting of the Duchess de Longueville,” replied the Coadjutor. “I was under no obligation to answer your question, but I am not forbidden from satisfying your curiosity. I say this only so that you understand that not everything that seems to you a play of chance is so. And by no means always are the consequences that seem random and fatal to you coincidental and fatal. Sometimes events are directed by a hand more powerful than fate, or, as you perhaps call it, ‘evil fate.’ However, I was wrong to use the word ‘sometimes.’ If all the events you have described to me had been random, you might have received a demotion in your rank in the Order, rather than the promotion that has actually occurred. You will learn of your promotion tomorrow at a place to be notified later. The time, as usual, is one o’clock in the morning.”
I kissed the coadjutor's hand, bowed and left.
 
Chapter 108

The Queen was deeply distressed that Beaufort, whom she trusted so much that she entrusted her children to him, had turned out to be a conspirator plotting the Cardinal's murder, a crime that would have been carried out if not for d';pernon, but her bosom friend, the Duchess de Chevreuse, who had pushed him to commit the crime. She wondered why, while she had seemed to have countless friends while under the oppression of the Cardinal and the King, now that she had become Regent, they were becoming fewer and fewer every day. Monsieur Andr; d'Ormesson explained to her that the people love future rulers more than current ones. But that wasn't the reason. She had forgotten that, in the days when she had first acquired the power of sole Regent, she had acquired hundreds of friends whom she had never even known about during her days as Queen without power. All these people flocked to Paris in hopes of positions, titles, rewards for deeds they hadn't performed, and advance payment for services they had no intention of rendering. When they saw that the Queen, on Mazarin's advice, had stopped handing out unjustified advances and undeserved rewards, they felt insulted. The example of Beaufort's punishment frightened them even more, since each of them secretly hoped that a certain amount of disobedience might go unpunished, for the Queen was, after all, a woman, and in some ways, the antithesis of Cardinal Richelieu. But remaining a woman in the full sense of the word is extremely dangerous for a reigning Queen, and as soon as Anne realized this, all her one-time friends fled, realizing that easy money was not in sight, and the danger of punishment for crimes remained. Mazarin convinced the Queen that it was better to have no friends at all than to have friends whose friendship must be purchased daily with ever more substantial gifts. He reminded her of how unreliable a friend Cardinal Richelieu had once been, and had favored, de Cinq-Mars, and the Queen was forced to agree with him. The Queen's trust in Mazarin at that time was not based on love. He had proven in practice that his advice was worth listening to. It was he who advised her to capture Thionville to demonstrate to the world that she intended to continue the policy of Louis XIII , that is, Richelieu. After the victory at Rocroi, the Duke of Enghien captured Thionville, confirming the soundness of Mazarin's advice.
The Duke of Vend;me was ordered to return to his estate in Ane, from which they had all returned only four months earlier following the death of Louis XIII . The minor conspirators who had joined the Beaufort conspiracy, lacking the nobility to escape a more severe punishment for such insolence, also went to Ane. They were all captured in a brothel thanks to the complicity of its keeper. Enraged, Vend;me ordered the brothel's destruction and headed for Italy, there to await the overthrow of Mazarin, just as he had once awaited the overthrow of Richelieu in England.
The Queen also asked the Duchess de Chevreuse to leave Paris, and in return, she demanded payment of her debts, which cost the treasury a hefty two hundred thousand livres. Some of the debts, and perhaps all of them, were drawn up by her friends, so the funds went not to paying off the debts but directly to the Duchess, who was not shy about profiting from her former bosom friend. Marie reasoned that what better time to "milk" the Queen than when she had the means to incur such expenses and no need for the Duchess to take any action, even if it was simply to get her to leave Paris.
Ch;teauneuf, whose involvement in the plot to assassinate Mazarin had been proven, was also removed again. Monsieur Lachatre was stripped of his position as Colonel General of the Swiss, as he belonged to Madame de Montbazon's party. The position was given to Bassompierre, an old but loyal man.
Meanwhile, Mazarin quietly removed three very worthy bishops - Beauvais, Limoges and Lisieux, since their influence in the council diminished his personal power.
But all these changes did not cause unrest in France.
Mazarin was wise enough not to shift responsibility for the disgrace to the Queen, as Richelieu had done, shifting it to the King. Let me remind you that Richelieu's method was to first secure the King's conviction, presenting evidence against the accused and arguments in favor of their conviction so strong and convincing as to incite Louis XIII to such a state of anger that he could sentence the culprit to death. Afterwards, he would intercede for the accused, finding less than convincing arguments for pardon. In this case, despite the fact that the sentence was essentially prepared by Richelieu, the Cardinal himself acted as a peacemaker and advocate for forgiveness, while the King, unaware that he was a puppet the Cardinal manipulated, considered himself obligated to impose the punishment, remembering that his name was Louis the Just. Mazarin, meanwhile, sought the Queen's decision to convict the culprits, but made no secret of the fact that this decision came directly from him. At the same time, Mazarin carefully spread the opinion that the Queen constantly felt the desire to forgive the guilty, but he, Mazarin, was making every effort to restrain the Queen and convince her not to succumb to good Christian impulses, since the Queen was first and foremost a sovereign, and only after that a merciful woman and a Catholic.
Spain, Venice, and other neighbors of the Queen realized their vain hopes for a shift in French foreign policy in favor of the Habsburgs. The Chevreuse party was defeated, and the foreign policy of the Spanish-born Queen of France ignored Spain's interests and was entirely focused on France's.
Mazarin also significantly reduced the personal armed guard he had inherited from Richelieu, preferring to arm his personal lackeys, who carried weapons covertly and discreetly guarded him not only at parades, but around the clock.
D'Artagnan , as an officer in the King's Musketeers, was therefore not charged with guarding the Cardinal. However, his immediate duties included ensuring the young King's safety, often taking over the post himself. Mazarin hadn't noticed him for a while, not distinguishing him from the other Musketeers, which was, of course, his mistake.
A few words about my attitude towards Mazarin.
I was still a member of the Chevreuse party, but only nominally. I had already become disillusioned with its ideas and its enterprise. However, it remained a tangible counterweight to absolutism. Moreover, Mazarin seemed to me a pathetic intriguer. He didn't hesitate to flaunt all his negative character traits, while his uniquely sophisticated mind, even his cunning and resourcefulness, he carefully concealed.
I would say that if I compared Richelieu to a lion and Colbert to a fox, then I would compare Mazarin to some mythical creature who lacked a whole lion's skin, so the missing pieces were made up with fox fur. Where Mazarin couldn't act with the strength and decisiveness that Richelieu would have, he made up for his lack of authority with his unrivaled cunning. These pieces of fox fur were visible to everyone.
We all felt like young and strong wolves who simply had to take power from the fox, not wanting to see his hidden lion nature.
However, Mazarin's cunning wasn't all-encompassing. Had he been more prudent, he would not have made the mistake that later cost him dearly. He persuaded the Queen to move into the Palais Royal, the former palace of Cardinal Richelieu, which he had given to the King in his will. This palace was far more suitable for the royal family's joyful residence, but it was less suited to the task of defending against angry Parisians. Had the Queen and her family remained in the Louvre, she would have continued her life, perhaps more boring, but far better protected from the rebellious mob.
However, who expected the mob to rebel against their beloved Queen? Furthermore, it should be noted that every popular uprising is always prepared and carried out by forces very close to the highest power in the country. The Fronde was no exception. Those who instigate a rebellion are gravely mistaken in believing that suppressing it will be as easy as starting it. But more on that later. For now, the Queen enjoyed Richelieu's astonishing foresight, who created the Palais Royal, the perfect palace for the august family to live comfortably.

Chapter 109

Marie de Chevreuse refused to admit defeat. Tormented by boredom, she launched a lawsuit to seize the governorship of Le Havre from Marie-Madeleine de Vignerot de Poncourlay, Marquise de Combalet, Duchess of Aiguillon—the same woman who had saved her uncle, Cardinal Richelieu, from the death casket— in favor of her friend, Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld. At the same time, the Cond; family descended on Madame d'Aiguillon, plotting to seize her share of Richelieu's inheritance in favor of the Duchess of Enghien. To support the Duchess d'Aiguillon, the Queen, accompanied by Mazarin, traveled to Rueil to visit her. The Duchess de Combalet had every right to her uncle's inheritance, for she was so close to him that she bore him two great-nephews, whom he loved as his own children, and he had very good reasons for doing so. She shouldn't be blamed for this, as she was young, beautiful, and healthy, so I certainly don't intend to criticize her close relationship with her secretary after Uncle Richelieu's death. She must have had some form of amusement, after all!
Society did not applaud the Queen's sympathy and support for one of Richelieu's nieces. Voiture even recited a daring poem, prepared in advance but passing it off as improvised, in which he hinted that perhaps the Queen's sympathies had changed over time and that she would now prefer to deal with Richelieu rather than Buckingham. Since both contenders for her special attention were already deceased, and the Queen, remaining the Dowager Regent, was not obliged to account for her preferences to anyone, she was not offended, but asked Voiture for a copy of the poem, as it reminded her of the wild times of youth, which we all value little while we have it, but yearn for above all else when it is gone.
The Queen and the Cardinal's journey to resolve the Duchess d'Aiguillon's affairs demonstrated to all of France that the late Richelieu's niece was now far more favored than the Cardinal's former friend and eternal opponent, the Duchess de Chevreuse. Marie herself was forced to acknowledge this.
Mazarin used this trip to entertain the Queen to the highest degree, for which he even ordered from Italy the singer Leonora Baroni, whom he favored so much that it was rumored that between her and the cardinal there was some kind of past that would not be forgotten.
During his stay in Rueil, the Cardinal was offered apartments connected to the Queen's chambers by a small gallery, allowing him to visit her at any time without being announced. Monsieur Olivier Lef;vre d'Ormesson hoped that Mazarin would tactfully decline these apartments, but Mazarin occupied them without hesitation. Thus, on November 23, 1644, Mazarin made it clear that he could decide this matter himself, without consulting the Queen, since he was either already convinced of her consent or did not consider it necessary to consider her wishes. The latter was unthinkable, and by this time, so to speak, a complete understanding had been established between Mazarin and the Queen.
Meanwhile, the understanding between me and the Duchess de Chevreuse was gradually fading. Perhaps this was due to the attention I had involuntarily begun to pay to the Duchess de Longueville, or perhaps Marie had learned of my attentions to her cousin's daughter, Madame Marie de Fauquerolles? But I could not resist these two temptations, no matter how hard I tried, so I resorted to the only way to fight them: succumb to them. Surely I had to make amends for this involuntary sin by publishing Marie's letter? Even if no one suspected that she was the author of this love note ! It was fortunate that her elderly husband had not seen the note, for he might have recognized the handwriting. Even greater was the happiness that the letter had been burned in the eyes of the world, while in reality I nevertheless became the happy owner of this note addressed to me. I simply had to show it to Maria and reassure her that her authorship could never be revealed. Besides, I'd memorized it, knowing in advance it would be taken from me. For everyone's peace of mind, I offered to destroy it, having first proven that I'd memorized the text and would cherish it forever. All that remained was to toss the grisly evidence into the fireplace, which we did, watching with a mixture of delight and sadness as the scrap of paper that had caused a three-week storm in the kingdom crumbled into nothing.
After several weeks of happiness, for which I had to recall my skill in using a rope ladder to enter and exit paradise, I finally returned to my usual routine, settling into my normal rhythm of life, which involved devoting no more than three or four nights a week to amorous adventures, reserving the days for work and reflection, and the evenings for studying information that might prove useful to me in the future. Every Saturday, I devoted at least four hours to reading intelligent and instructive books, which nourished my mind and excited my imagination.
One day Bazin brought me a letter from London, which was delivered to him for me by a certain messenger who wished to remain anonymous.
The letter was sealed with Lord Winter's personal seal.
I printed it out and read the following.

“Dear Chevalier d'Herblay!
I hope you remember him who counts you among his best friends after that duel in which you and your friends showed such high nobility that we, your opponents, could not help but feel the greatest respect for you and seek your friendship?
Yes, it is I, Lord Winter, who comes to you asking for advice, and perhaps even help.
I did not bother Monsieur le Comte de La F;re with my affairs, since, as it seems to me, in this matter he would not have been able to maintain his usual prudence and coldness, since the matter concerns him too much, and, besides, it seems to me that he in some way repents of the punishment we have carried out on the criminal, guilty of many troubles here in France and here in England.
I also did not turn to Monsieur de Valon, since to solve my problem I do not need strength, but a subtle mind.
I also didn't approach Monsieur d'Artagnan, believing he was on duty and that my letter could seriously compromise him. You, however, are a member of the clergy, so my approaching you on matters of ethics is entirely natural.
So, we are talking about the son of the one whose name I would not want to trust even on a paper sent by a reliable messenger.
You will no doubt remember that she had a son, as she herself stated, asking for leniency due to this circumstance. I promised her that I would take care of this son, although I do not recognize him as my relative, despite the fact that he was born to her during her marriage to my late brother. And the point here is not that this marriage was illegal, but that the father of this child was an entirely different man, Gerard Duchot, an unworthy adventurer of vile rank. I have already informed you of this. I took this child to London, established guardianship over him, hired a wet nurse, a tutor, and a governor for him. I did everything in my power to ensure that he grew up and was raised as the legitimate son of an English nobleman should be raised and educated.
But I avoided meeting him, as it was unbearable. Every such encounter reminded me of the evil his mother had committed. I still cannot forgive her for the murder of my dear brother, nor for orchestrating the assassination of my sovereign, the Duke of Buckingham. This child was remarkably similar to her, and yet in his face I saw certain repulsive features that made him resemble some kind of ghost from the other world, some kind of lemur with pale, translucent skin through which his skull seemed to shine, with sunken eyes, and thin lips on which a smile invariably flitted—not a smile of joy or happiness, but the smile of a hidden killer awaiting the hour of vengeance. Perhaps I am not objective; perhaps it only seemed that way to me. I must admit that, for all that, his face was quite regular, and could even be called attractive, if not for the emotions that so profoundly influenced his appearance. However, it seems to me that over time he became increasingly self-controlled, and that feeling of hidden vengeance became less and less noticeable on his face, which by no means means it disappeared. It simply lurked somewhere in the depths of his heart, if what beat within his chest can be called a heart. I write about this because I was forced to become more closely acquainted with his character, which horrified me and still makes me shudder as I write about it.
As it turned out, the father of this child, this Mordaunt, this same Gerard Duchot, had somehow learned that his son was in London and that considerable funds were being allocated for his upkeep. He had made his way to London by hook or by crook and settled near his son. Waiting for the right moment, he met him, struck up a conversation about abstract topics, and then tried to befriend him and gain his complete trust. This man possessed extraordinary cunning, and so he achieved his goal. They became friends and often strolled in the garden, and also ventured beyond the estate, to the river, into the woods, into the fields. I had missed the opportunity, and this man had gained extraordinary influence over Mordaunt. I had wrongly trusted his former wet nurse, governess, and tutor.
The woman who had nursed him during his infancy was not very wise; she loved him like her own son, spoiled him, and forgave him everything. The governor paid attention only to his dress, and, it must be said, he taught him to dress like a nobleman. The tutor also aimed only at teaching him to conduct himself in society as a nobleman should, and the fact that I assigned him such a dim-witted tutor is undoubtedly my fault. All these people were only too happy that Mordaunt had made a friend old enough to be his father. Duchot knew how to present himself in such a way that he appeared worthy of every respect and complete trust. After all, deception was his main profession! These three men I assigned to Mordaunt decided that their charge's friendship with a worthy man was the best education, so they left this Gerard Duchot to influence young Mordaunt as he saw fit.
I must say that Duchot appeared in London under a completely different name, so when I was told that Mordaunt had made a friend, I myself did not attach any particular importance to it.
Having completely captured his son's mind and heart, Duchot set about the task for which he had come to England. This consisted of extracting as much money as possible, first from those entrusted with Mordaunt's upbringing, and then from me. At first, I was quite accommodating in this matter, viewing the demand for increased allowance as a natural consequence of Mordaunt's growing age and his needs becoming more substantial, and therefore more expensive.
But one day I received a letter from Simon, Mordaunt's tutor, expressing concern about how angry and vindictive Mordaunt was growing. Simon was perplexed by the cause of such a dramatic change in his charge, but at that time he had not yet connected the evidence of his charge's extreme cruelty with the appearance of Duchot among his friends. Mordaunt had become fascinated with hunting, but he displayed such astonishing cruelty towards the victims of his passion that it seemed the entire hunt was merely a pretext for him to vent his pent-up anger on at least some living creature, to revel in its torment. He sought to inflict the most painful wounds possible on the animals he hunted, then watched their agony with delight, rather than ending the unfortunate victim's suffering with a well-aimed blow to the heart. This letter alarmed me, and I decided to visit Mordaunt and have a talk with him. Imagine my surprise when I found an embittered youth who demanded that I hand over my entire fortune to him under the ridiculous pretext that I had robbed him and appropriated the inheritance of his father and mother. I tried to explain to him that even the considerable sums I was allocating for his upkeep were in no way my duty to spend on him, and that he had no right to any inheritance from my brother. This conversation enraged Mordaunt and began accusing me of crimes that I have neither the strength nor the inclination to list here. I suggested that we return to this conversation later, after I had brought him copies of the documents that proved my case and the groundlessness of his claims. I felt it was unwise for me to show him the original documents, which he might, in desperation, try to snatch from me and destroy. Instead, I offered him the guarantee of two worthy people that the copies I would show him would be completely identical to the originals.
He behaved like a little animal, the offspring of a wild predator. I left that house in disarray. We met two weeks later, but it brought neither of us satisfaction. We quarreled, and I threatened to deprive him of even the portion of his allowance I'd been allocating him if he didn't calm down and accept his fate with resignation.
The worst thing happened a week after I left.
I was informed that the house in which Mordaunt was kept had been destroyed by fire.
Neighbors told me horrific details about the cries of agony heard from the house half an hour before the fire. The charred bodies of the wet nurse, tutor, and governess were found in the burned-out house. The safe where the gold was kept had been broken into. Mordaunt and Duchot had disappeared.
I don't rule out the possibility that they may have even returned to France. The police will be looking for them here in England, but be careful. I think Duchot is hatching a plan to exact revenge on those responsible for the death of Mordaunt's mother, and will teach this bastard to do the same. I call him that after what those two did to three sweet, innocent people who cared for this monster for so many years. From the descriptions of Mordaunt's mysterious "friend," I learned that he was none other than Duchot.
So, my dear Chevalier d'Herblay, I would like to ask you whether I should make every effort to find Mordaunt and Duchot, or whether I should surrender myself to God's providence and let things go as Providence wills?
I remain your sincere friend, and I flatter myself with the hope that you see me as such.
Your Lord Winter"

Chapter 110

When you're young, it's very difficult to admit your mistakes. It feels like such an admission diminishes your value in the eyes of others, and, more importantly, in your own eyes.
When Socrates' age arrives, and even a modicum of his wisdom comes with the passing of time, you begin to understand that acknowledging your own mistakes doesn't diminish your dignity in the least; on the contrary, the stubbornness with which we sometimes deny our mistakes diminishes it. After all, this only means we're unwilling to learn from them, and if faced with a similar choice, we'll repeat the same mistakes again.
Lord Winter, in this letter, gave us all a warning under the guise of asking my advice, or he asked for my advice and gave us a warning in the interim, or, more likely, he intentionally did both. I, however, did not fully appreciate his warning and did not fully consider what advice should be given in such a situation.
This is the letter I wrote him in response and sent it by the man who was the messenger and who warned Bazin that he would come for my answer in two days.

"Dear Sir, Lord Winter!
I am grateful to you for remembering me and counting me among your friends, and I assure you on my own behalf, as well as on behalf of my three friends, that your friendship is not unrequited. All four of us also appreciate your exalted qualities, your nobility, courage, and prudence. It is a great honor for us to be counted among your friends.
I thank you for your warning regarding the likely arrival of this lady's son in France. However, I cannot imagine what we could do to prevent this young man and his worthless father from slipping down the likely path. If his father were a nobleman, I would challenge him to a duel. If he were to commit a crime in the eyes of French justice, one could hope to hand him over to the authorities for punishment. But this is only possible with evidence of his crime, his guilt. If he had any plots against the current government and this could be proven, then perhaps he could be preventively sent to the Bastille. However, nowadays prisons are used to house dukes and even princes, while commoners are flogged for minor offenses or sent to the gallows for major crimes. However, the current Prime Minister loves money so much that he would prefer, I believe, to use fines in all cases in order to enrich the treasury, which for him is tantamount to personal enrichment, since, as Superintendent of Finances of France, he probably no longer distinguishes between his personal treasury and the state treasury.
I pray the Lord that these two do not leave England, for the crimes they have committed within your realm can best be investigated and punished within your realm. However, if this same Duchot is discovered to be in France, and England demands the extradition of this criminal for exemplary punishment, I believe that the Prime Minister, Cardinal Mazarin, will not refuse King Charles I 's request , and if he were to refuse, Queen Henrietta could appeal to her brother's widow, Queen Anne, and the matter would be resolved. However, these men are so insignificant that it would hardly be fitting for kings to worry about their punishment, and their crime seems to consist merely in the fact that Duchot may be guilty of the death of three servants and of embezzling money intended for the upbringing and education of his own son, and perhaps will use it for precisely these purposes.
You yourself see that interference in this matter cannot have any weighty grounds in the eyes of French justice. I mentioned the Kings only because I know you enjoy a very close and respectful relationship with King Charles I and can likely influence some of his decisions, or, better yet, he can influence the respect of your requests. As for my current position at court, at the time we first met, I was in such a relationship with one of the ladies-in-waiting of France that she was free to approach me with various requests, which, however, did not allow me the freedom to approach her with requests of my own. In other words, we were obliged to serve the Queen, but the Queen was in no way obliged to reward us for our service. Nowadays, however, we no longer have even a fraction of the connection with the court that we had under Cardinal Richelieu. I, as you know, have left the Musketeers forever, as have the valiant Chevalier du Valon and the noble Count de La F;re. However, the Chevalier d'Artagnan remained in the King's Musketeers and was even awarded the rank of Lieutenant of the King's Musketeers. This position, however, while highly honorable in the eyes of budding soldiers and ordinary Parisians, is not at all appreciated by those in power—I mean the Queen, the Cardinal, the princes, the dukes , the peers, and the marquises. All these proud people are accustomed to ignoring officers and soldiers in peacetime, and in wartime they are only glad that they shed blood for them, while they spend their time in idleness and amusement, indulging in hunting, balls, masquerades, and assemblies, and in between they strive to cheat on each other or wrest advantageous positions from each other.
Therefore, I see no point in needlessly worrying Lieutenant d'Artagnan, because if I tell him that Milady's son may soon arrive in Paris, he will reply: "Damn it, so much the better! We'll send him to Hell to his mother! Just let him show his face on the streets of Paris! Let's just wait until he's at least eighteen years old!"
And in that case, I would agree with him completely. Fighting with a child is not our style. Regarding this Duchot, I would say that if he ever shows up nearby, we certainly won't be able to cross swords with him, but we can order the servants to give him a good beating and throw him out, in the hopes that he'll die from the beating like a rabid jackal.
If the scoundrel ever dares to shoot at me, he had better aim as well as he can, or he will be killed by a return shot.
However, I see no reason to be alarmed by the arrival of this pair, since just as I don't know them by sight or name, they don't know any of us. You haven't told me the name under which his vile father is hiding, only that he's changed it. Therefore, I can't even undertake any investigation to protect myself from him or any of my friends from him.
In closing my letter, I will respond to your request for advice. Although I believe you know far more about the circumstances of this entire matter, and therefore it would be improper for me to offer advice on a matter about which I know so little, nevertheless, given that the request for advice has been made and the circumstances have been explained in the letter, I recommend that you, firstly, hand over to the detective services all information regarding this scoundrel and murderer Duchot, and secondly, deprive this ill-bred Mordaunt, who will probably follow in his mother's footsteps, of any allowance or any rights to the inheritance, if any, you have granted him. Put him out of your mind after this and live peacefully and happily. Believe me, the Lord knows his righteous and his sinners, and will reward them all according to their deserts.
I do not address the Count de la F;re with these questions, for I can already anticipate his answer. He would say: “Do not think about how to achieve anything, but consider only the paths by which you can attain what our duty, our honor, and our calling command us to desire. If the goal is good and the means noble, then victory will be sweet, and defeat should be accepted with humility. If, however, for the sake of a good goal we use unnoble means, then victory will bring us no joy, and defeat will simply destroy us. Follow your own path, the one you have chosen and charted for yourself, do not look back at the past, do not fear the future, and do not envy those who follow other paths and achieve more than you. For who shall name the value of our various achievements? Only God knows it. Perhaps one sou given to a beggar means much more in heaven than hundreds of millions of livres spent on building palaces, organizing balls, or on war."
That's what Count de La Fere would say, and I completely agree with him.
As for the Chevalier du Valon, he would probably say: “Whatever you decide, my friends, I am with you, or better yet, I am ahead of you!”
Let us surrender to our fate, but first hand the case over to the detective police.
Your sincere friend
Abbe d'Herblay, former musketeer Aramis."

Chapter 111

I made a mistake in the text of this letter. I followed Lord Winter in calling Mordaunt a child, and based my advice on that. Furthermore, I pointed out that we should not cross swords with a man who is not a nobleman. My mistake was that by the time I met Milady, she already had this child, so by the most conservative estimates, he must have been over eighteen years old. Yet nothing prevented me from challenging d'Artagnan to a duel when he attempted to pick up and return to me, in full view of my comrades, Madame de Bois-Tracy's handkerchief, which I had dropped. And at that time, d'Artagnan was precisely eighteen years old. So calling Mordaunt a child was incorrect; he should have been a youth, and his age should not have been considered a reason to exclude a duel with him. Lord Winter also failed to inform me, and I failed to consider, that this ward had received a full course of instruction in all that a nobleman should know, including fencing, shooting, horsemanship, and so on, which he mastered to perfection, inspired by the desire to use them for his revenge. He led a refined and elegant life, being financially secure, so he didn't have to work hard, and with aristocratic hands, which allowed him to easily pass himself off as a true aristocrat. Add to this the documents of nobility, stolen by his real father and appropriated by him, which opened the doors to all noble homes for him, and Lord Winter had drawn up a document declaring his guardianship of Mordaunt, which also formally and practically inducted him into the circle of nobles. Thus, there were no obstacles to our duel with him. And since I regarded Mordaunt as a child, perhaps a teenager, I couldn't even imagine holding him even partially responsible for the heinous crime of murdering three servants, theft, and arson. Had I taken Mordaunt's age into account, I would have understood that he was an accomplice to these crimes and should bear responsibility for them. And if the law is slow or overlooks such crimes, then a duel would resolve the issue more quickly and effectively.
So, there were reasons and opportunities for a duel with him, and a pretext could easily have been found. But, I repeat, there were things I overlooked, things I didn't know, things I didn't make the appropriate calculations, things I didn't take into account, and all of this, taken together, led to the mistakes I made in my reply and in my actions.
After sending my reply by the messenger who brought Lord Winter's message, I decided to reflect on the matter and recalled Count Ronchamp informing me that this same G;rard Duchot had posed as someone else, a nobleman, an officer, and had managed to establish himself as such in the eyes of the French nobility. The Count told me that Duchot had met him at a post office and learned from him that he was returning from military service to his estate to accept the inheritance of his deceased parents. The vile Duchot, using all his hypocrisy, attempted to gain the trust and befriend the officer, who was an orphan. The poor officer explained that he had been absent from his family estate for a very long time. The criminal realized that this officer bore a vague resemblance to G;rard Duchot himself. The idea of taking his life, destiny, rank, and wealth occurred to his vile mind, and then he carried it out in the most vile manner. It's unknown how exactly he disposed of the body. Most likely, he dumped it in a nearby lake, after tying some kind of weight to it. Fish then ate the corpse beyond recognition.
I remembered the Count saying something about Burgundy. Unfortunately, I had no friends in Burgundy. I had no servants except Bazin, who was now only half my servant, having become a clerk in a small Parisian church. I had no money to hire someone to go to Burgundy and try to find Duchot and Mordaunt.
Furthermore, in order to undertake a search, it would be useful to know the name of the officer Duchot had assumed. Through some strange forgetfulness, Lord Winter had neglected to tell me. I ordered Bazin to make inquiries about Count Ronchamp, hoping that perhaps he could tell me something. I also decided to consult d'Artagnan. He always found unexpected and effective solutions to the most complex problems. Unfortunately, he was on a new campaign, which followed almost immediately after the victory at Rocroi under the Duc d'Enghien, and had not yet returned to Paris. I did not risk writing to him, deciding that the matter was not urgent enough to trust the mail.
Meanwhile, Gerard Duchot and Mordaunt settled in the estate that Duchot had taken possession of as a result of his crime. There, he continued his pernicious influence on the young man, raising him to be a misanthrope, embittered against the world and dreaming solely of revenge against all those who had deprived him of his mother.
After returning to France, Mordaunt and Duchot undertook some investigation, which uncovered a mysterious string of deaths. Four executioners, branded with a fleur-de-lis, perished one after another. The investigation each time concluded that it was suicide. Since these events occurred in different cities, and since suicide notes were found near the bodies, none of the investigators had the slightest doubt that these were suicides. Moreover, different investigators handled these cases in different cities, unaware of similar events elsewhere. No one thought to connect the four cases. Three executioners were found hanged, the fourth was found in a river. Each investigator reasoned that an executioner is a person who always finds reasons for self-dissatisfaction, doubt, remorse, and even despair. And who places any value on the lives of these outcasts? All these cases were closed.
There was also a report of the mysterious death of two priests. This case was investigated more closely, as suicide is not common among clergy, as it is widely known that such a thing is considered a terrible sin. I cannot say with certainty why Mordaunt and Duchot unleashed their vengeance on the priests. Perhaps they wanted to learn something from them, but when they failed, they dealt with them. Terrible burns were found on the hand of each of these two priests, likely inflicted with a poker heated in the fireplace. But the presence of "farewell letters" reassured the investigators. No one compared the handwriting of these letters with samples of the clergymen, but if this had been done, the investigators would have been surprised to find that the handwriting was always the same, the same as that on the executioners' farewell notes. Furthermore, I should note that, as a rule, executioners in provincial towns were illiterate. They carried out the orders of the judges who read out the sentences against the criminals. In any case, a competent executioner is an extremely rare thing, if there were any. So, if these six deaths had been investigated by a single investigative commission, they would likely have discovered these strange facts, which would have forced them to approach the investigations differently.
Meanwhile, events began in England that distracted Lord Winter from the Mordaunt affair, so much so that I did not even receive a reply to my letter. In July, we learned of the victory of the Parliamentary army under Fairfax and Leven over Rupert's army at Marston Moor, near York. Waller's newly recruited army was routed. Essex's army was also routed. Parliament, at the instigation of the Independents led by Cromwell, adopted a plan for a radical reorganization of the army. In fact, it must be acknowledged that King Charles I, gradually losing popularity and power, had crossed the critical point at which he would no longer have to fight for his power, but for his life. By the end of that year, the situation in England had become dire. In early December, the Self-Denial Bill was signed. At Cromwell's demand, all members of Parliament resigned their military commands. The main thing here is that Cromwell was able to demand something from members of Parliament, which showed the whole of Europe that he had effectively become the head of England.
The year 1644 also marked the departure of one pontiff and the arrival of a new one. In July, Pope Urban VIII departed for a better world, joining the host of saints surrounding the heavenly throne of our heavenly Lord. His place was taken by Pope Innocent X, who held this highest office throughout the sinful world for eleven years, until January 7, 1655.

Chapter 112

The Count de Ronchamp had retired from society and was living on his estate. One day, which I can't call wonderful, two guests arrived, noblemen by the look of them. They introduced themselves as Messrs. de Remo—father and son.
"Good day, gentlemen," said the Count. "To what do I owe this visit?"
"I am Chevalier Henri de Remo, a retired lieutenant," said the elder of the two visitors. "This is my son, John Francis de Remo. We would like to make some inquiries about our mutual acquaintances."
"Well then, gentlemen, come in, I am pleased to meet you," replied the Count. "I suppose you know my name, since you have come to see me, but I will nevertheless introduce myself, Count de Ronchamp."
"We're searching for relatives of the Marquise de Brinvilliers, " said the elder de Remo. "We're distant relatives in the collateral line, and she recently became her uncle's direct heir. The inheritance is quite substantial, and if she were to die, the next claimants would be us—my son, John Francis de Remo, and myself. But we've learned that the Marquise de Brinvilliers had a son, and in that case, her entire inheritance would go to him. Could you assist us in our search?"
"It is very noble of you, gentlemen, that instead of simply accepting this inheritance, you are seeking a person who may have a greater claim to it," replied the Count de Ronchamp. "But I must confess that I do not know where to look for this child. It is true that I was a friend of the Marquis de Brinvilliers, but since his tragic death I know almost nothing about the fate of his family. I only know that his widow, the Marquise de Brinvilliers, was apparently a woman of vice, and also, as far as I know, the marriage was illegal, since she had previously been married to another gentleman."
"These details, interesting in themselves, are unlikely to have any impact on her rights to the paternal inheritance, nor on the inheritance rights concerning her son," replied the elder de Remo. "I know that this marriage you speak of cannot be called a happy one, since her husband died, and soon afterward the Marquise herself perished. We would only like to know the fate of her son, and for that, I believe, we would be interested in learning any information you can provide about her, since, as you yourself admitted, you were friends with her husband, the Marquis."
"Well, it seems you're right," agreed the Count de Ronchamp. "You probably know that the Marquise didn't die a natural death. She was executed."
"Executed?" the elder de Remo was surprised. "But the lawyers I hired examined all the sentences of that time against all women of similar age throughout France. It's impossible that she was sentenced to death for any crime. Besides, we don't know what crime she might have committed."
"You won't find any information about her in the court archives," agreed Count de Ronchamp. "She was sentenced privately, and the execution was also not entirely official."
"Privately sentenced?!" exclaimed de Remo. "The execution took place unofficially? Have mercy, Count! What are you saying? Are we really living in an age of barbarians? Is something like that really possible in our enlightened seventeenth century?"
"I can only say that there were very good reasons for sentencing her. The nobles who carried it out had a public document signed by Cardinal Richelieu, who approved in advance any actions they took as being in the interests of France and with his knowledge," the Count stated with some hesitation. "Furthermore, as far as I know, the execution was carried out by an executioner, I believe from the town of B;thune. Yes, indeed, the B;thune executioner!"
"The executioner of Bethune..." said the younger de Remo, and the Count shuddered at his hoarse voice, filled with burning hatred. "The executioner of Bethune! How dare he obey mere nobles in such a matter?"
"I don't know the details," de Ronchamp replied. "I only know that he himself had reason to personally hate this lady."
"Can an executioner act out of personal vengeance?!" exclaimed the younger de Ronchamp, causing the Count de Ronchamp to shudder again.
"Believe me, this lady fully deserved her fate," the Count tried to reassure his guests. "But it seems we're not examining the reasons for these actions, but their consequences? So, you're looking for her son. I'll tell you what I know about this matter. Firstly, her son, although born in marriage to the Marquis, was not his son. This is known from compelling evidence; the Marquis himself informed me of it."
"Do you know what this evidence was?" Remo Jr. croaked.
“The word of the Marquis, my friend, would be enough for me, but believe me, he acquainted me with them, so they are undoubtedly very well-founded, since…”
"It doesn't matter," Remo Sr. interrupted. "He was her son, the inheritance belongs to her, so her relationship with her husband has nothing to do with our case."
"Perhaps so, but since the young man asked me a question..." the Count objected. "However, you're right, that matter is already in the past, and there's no point in dredging it up. So, she was executed. I know that. Furthermore, as far as I know, her son was taken by her relative, the Marquis's brother, who promised to take care of him. So, if you manage to find the Marquise's son, it will most likely be in England, in London."
"He recognized the Marquise's son as his legitimate relative and heir?" Remo Jr. asked harshly.
“No, because his brother managed to familiarize him with evidence of the Marquise’s betrayal,” the Count replied.
"Then why did he take her son?" asked Remo Sr.
“He promised this to his mother just before her death, and such promises must be kept,” the count replied.
"He was present at her execution?" exclaimed the younger Reno. "He knew they were going to execute her and didn't stop it?"
"For what reason should he have prevented this execution, if he himself believed it was deserved and necessary?" the Count asked in turn.
"What possible need could there be for reprisals against one's own relative?" Remo Jr. croaked. "Was it really just to appropriate her inheritance from the Marquis?"
"You're being biased, because you don't know all of this marquise's crimes," de Ronchamp countered. "She's responsible for quite a few murders, even without counting her failed attempts to assassinate some distinguished noblemen."
"Why didn't they take this matter to court?" Remo Jr. continued his questioning.
"I can't explain it exactly," the Count replied. "You'd better ask her brother-in-law, who lives in London, about that. You know his name, don't you?"
"Lord Winter!" Remo Jr. growled.
"I think you are taking the affair of your distant relative too seriously, young man," replied the Earl. "If you have the means to travel to London and meet Lord Winter, give him my regards, and he will tell you all about this matter, and also explain the reasons for this action, which you condemn, without going into all the circumstances of it."
"Good," replied Remo Jr., seemingly regaining his composure. "Thank you for the details you've given us. Is that all you know about this case, or can you recall anything else?"
“I believe I have told you everything I know that will help you find this young man,” replied the Count.
"Then just one last question," said Remo Sr. "The Marchioness had a servant named Katie. She might know something about her son. Do you know where she went?"
“Oh, regarding this, I can only tell you that she left the Marquise and, on recommendation, entered the service of another noble lady,” the count replied.
"Could you tell us the name of this lady?" asked Remo Jr.
"If I'm not mistaken, this is the Duchess de Chevreuse," replied the Count. "But since she resigned long before the events you inquired about, I don't think she'll be able to tell you anything useful for your investigation."
"Let us be the judge of that!" Remo Sr. replied rudely and rose abruptly from his chair, after which Remo Jr. jumped up just as abruptly.
"However, gentlemen, you are not very polite!" the count exclaimed, but immediately stopped himself.
He found two swords pressed to his chest. Father and son de Remo managed to draw theirs and pressed them to his chest so hard that they pierced his doublet and even the skin of his chest.
"And this is your gratitude for the information I gave you?" the Count asked, without losing his composure.
"Yes, our gratitude lies in the fact that we didn't kill you right away," Remo Jr. replied. "And now you'll receive our gratitude for spreading vile gossip about my mother!"
"About your mother?" the Count asked, peering into Remo Jr.'s features.
"Yes, about my mother, the Marquise de Brinvilliers, Lady Winter, my mother!" the young man replied. "Know the name of the one who will send you to the next world! My name is John Francis Mordaunt Winter, Marquis de Brinvilliers!"
With these words, Mordaunt pressed hard on the sword, and it pierced the Earl's heart through and through.
"Killed?" asked Duchot, for it was he who was hiding behind the name of Remo Sr.
“I suppose he is dead,” Mordaunt replied, and a sinister smile stretched his thin lips almost across half his face.
“We must be sure of this to the end,” answered Duchot, and plunged his sword into the Count’s chest next to Mordaunt’s.
After this, both assassins drew their swords and casually wiped them on the count's lace collar.
"I must go to London to take revenge on Lord Winter," Mordaunt croaked. "And also to find out the names of those nobles who participated with him in this matter."
"Yes, my friend!" replied Duchot. "We're going back to London!"
"But on the way we'll stop by the Duchess of Chevreuse to see her maid, Katie!" Mordaunt exclaimed.
If poor Katie had heard these words, she would have been horrified.

Chapter 113

"I understand that you are interested in my mother's former maid, named Katie," Mordaunt said to Gerard Duchot on the way from the Count's. "What is she for us?"
"I'll tell you just one phrase your mother used, which I knew very well, as I've already told you," Duchot replied. "She said something like this: 'Damn Katie! If I could catch her, I'd suck the life out of her! She must die!' Is that enough?"
"Yes," Mordaunt replied, "that's enough. If my mother wanted to kill this woman, she must die!"
"I thought so," agreed G;rard Duchot. "Let's go to the Duchess de Chevreuse and act accordingly."

The Duchess was in a relaxed mood. She regretted that her former best friend had turned her away and completely misunderstood her.
"Oh, Annette!" she said, addressing either the birds outside the window or the clouds in the sky. "And this is your gratitude for everything I've done for you!"
It's difficult to list all the Duchess's actions, or to weigh them against the benefit or harm they brought to the Queen! Of course, the Duchess occasionally helped the Queen out of difficult situations, but most of these situations arose through her initiative! Perhaps the most difficult situation for the Queen arose during the incident with the pendants, and then it wasn't the Duchess who rescued her, but her chambermaid, Constance Bonacieux! Another difficult situation arose during Buckingham's tactless behavior, and in that case, the Duchess was an accomplice to the affair, not a defender of the Queen's honor. And finally, if, through the Duchess's fault, Anne hadn't fallen so awkwardly that she lost the boy she was carrying, who could have become the Dauphin, the Queen's entire life would have been different; there would never have been that period of twenty-one years when the King neglected the Queen, believing her barren! If Anne of Austria were to recall all the misfortunes befalling her thanks to the Duchess of Chevreuse, she would hate her, and if she were to try to recall all her benefactions, she would hardly recall a single one. Only the merry dalliances of their youth, in which Marie, along with her first husband, de Luynes, shamelessly exploited the royal couple's money and power for personal gain. Perhaps all these thoughts crossed the Queen's mind, and in that case, it's not surprising that she drew the corresponding conclusions about her former friend. It can be assumed that the decision to permanently sever relations with the Duchess occurred to the Queen, indeed, at the very time she announced them to the King and the Cardinal, and the rare letters she did send the Duchess were intended merely to reassure her and discourage her from any frankness that could harm the Queen. Indeed, there are some friends with whom it is very dangerous to quarrel, no matter how much you would like to part with them once and for all.

The Duchess's page announced the arrival of two noblemen, de Remo, father and son.
"I'm not receiving anyone," the Duchess replied. "I'm not feeling well today. Let them leave their cards and state their business."
The Duchess was in perfect health, but the unfamiliar names made her wary, so she reasoned that if the matter was important, these uninvited guests would find a way to arrange a meeting.
Two minutes later the page returned and announced that the gentlemen de Remo begged for a short meeting of the utmost importance, and that they would not be able to visit the Duchess another time, as they were leaving for England.
"To England?" the Duchess repeated, her memory immediately flashing back to the wonderful days she'd spent there with Buckingham. "Ask them who exactly they're going to England to see, and ask them why they've come to me. After all, I really am unwell!"
"If they are acquainted with the Earl of Holland or the Duke of Buckingham's son, I will, of course, receive them!" thought the Duchess. "But I must be extremely careful!"
“Your Grace, the gentlemen of Remo have announced that they are going to the King,” the page replied.
“Next?” the Duchess asked impatiently.
"Excuse me?" the page asked again.
“Stupid boy!” exclaimed the Duchess. “I told you to ask what business they have with me? This is the third time you’ve returned to me with a report, although the first time you should have told me why I should receive some unknown father and son, de Remo, who are traveling to England! Anyone can announce that they are going to the King. That is not a mission! If they were carrying a letter to Charles I from his wife Henrietta, who is now in the Louvre, they would not trumpet it from every corner, but would try to avoid attracting unnecessary attention. Perhaps they are going to him to kill him? How should I know! Felton was also on his way to Buckingham! I should not meet people who are going to England for God knows what purpose!”
The Duchess's suspicions were explained by the fact that she always knew everything in advance, relying on an extensive correspondence and even employing a small staff of spies. She perceived any unexpected appearance of uninvited guests as an inconvenience and tried to avoid the meeting.
"Explain to them, you idiot, that I'm not well and am lying in bed!" added the Duchess. "If they have business, let them put it in a letter, and I'll read it. It's not proper for me to receive unknown noblemen while lying in bed, in my negligee!"
When the page came out again, the Duchess continued her performance in a monologue, which she delivered to herself.
“If only it were a prince, or a duke, or even a marquis!” she said. “At worst, a count, a viscount, a baron, or even a baronet! Some pathetic chevalier, father and son! Why should I receive them? I don’t give receptions for strangers. If only they were at least neighbors! Or envoys from one of my friends! They would have long ago informed me who they came from.”
Apparently, Remo senior also realized that without explaining the purpose of their visit, they would not be able to secure an interview with the Duchess. He decided to play it safe. The Duchess's friendly relationship with the Duke de La Rochefoucauld was well known, so he decided to use this friend as a scapegoat.
“Messieurs de Remo, father and son, said they had come from the Duke de La Rochefoucauld,” said the page, who entered cheerfully, since he had been promised two pistoles if the Duchess would receive the uninvited guests.
The Duchess silently extended her hand. The page blushed and looked at the Duchess with an expression of bewilderment.
"Where's the letter, you idiot?" asked the Duchess. "If these people came from Fran;ois, he gave them a letter. If they had a letter, they would have shown it to you the first time, and the second time, I suppose, they would have decided to give it to me through you. No letter, no trust."
The page realized that the prospect of receiving two pistoles had become practically insignificant and sadly left the Duchess to inform the guests that the Duchess required a letter.
"Now that idiot will tell me there's no letter, and that La Rochefoucauld sent me a verbal message!" the Duchess exclaimed, addressing herself. "No, that won't do! These are some kind of spies."
After that, she rang the bell and Katie entered the room. It was the same Katie who had once fallen in love with d'Artagnan. She was now seventeen years older, making her nearly thirty-four, but she was still fresh and sweet.
"Listen, Katie!" said the Duchess. "Some unknown noblemen, whom I don't trust, are asking to see me. Quickly change your clothes, you'll impersonate me, and I'll hide behind the screen."
Katie was a quick-witted girl, and after serving the Duchess for seventeen years, she learned to quickly carry out Maria's orders without asking unnecessary questions.
Fifteen minutes later she was already dressed as a duchess and was seated in the favorite armchair of the Duchess de Chevreuse, while the Duchess herself ordered a page to bring in the guests and introduce them to Katie as the Duchess de Chevreuse herself.
Katie was a superb actress; the guests who entered had never seen the Duchess, so she easily deceived them, posing as the Duchess de Chevreuse. Marie, spying on Katie through a small crack in the screen, almost burst out laughing, so amusingly and precisely did the cunning maid impersonate her patroness.
"It's a shame Annette can't see this!" she thought. "We could have had a great laugh together at this performance, and maybe we could even become friends again!"
"Your Grace!" said the elder de Remo for himself and his son. "Allow me to pay my humble respects and inform you that you are far more handsome than all the portraits of you we saw at the Duke de La Rochefoucauld's!"
"Thank you!" Katie exclaimed, offering her hand for a kiss. "Which of the two portraits the Duke has did you like better? The one with me in a blue dress, the one on the wall on the left, or the one with me in the costume of an Eastern princess with a turban and a robe with peacocks, the one on the wall on the right?"
"Both portraits are magnificent!" exclaimed G;rard Duchot, for it was he. "But believe me, seeing you in person is an incomparable pleasure!"
"What an idiot!" thought the Duchess. "And how clever Katie is! She knows perfectly well that La Rochefoucauld only has a medallion with my image, and that he couldn't possibly have any paintings! What do these swindlers want with me?"
"Gentlemen, I am delighted to welcome to my home the friends of my wonderful friend, the Duke de La Rochefoucauld," said Katie. "You, of course, brought me a letter from him. Oh, how grateful I am to you! Let me have it quickly!"
"Madam, the letter is lost," Duchot said. "We were almost there, and I decided to reread the address, pulled it out of my breast pocket, where I always kept it. But suddenly a gust of wind blew, snatched the envelope from my hands, and carried it into the middle of the river! I was about to rush into the water after it, but the river was too swift, and my horse was tired, and I was afraid I'd lose the letter and drown the horse.
"That's very unfortunate!" Katie replied, with an expression of sympathy and grief. "But where are your horses?"
“We arrived on stage horses in the interests of speeding our journey,” Duchot replied.
"Well, that's quite reasonable," agreed Katie. "Perhaps the Duke told you verbally the news he conveyed to me in that letter?"
"Oh, yes, of course, Your Grace, but not entirely," Duchot replied. "In the letter, he expressed his opinion on the state of affairs at court, and also what changes he expected to occur in the near future. I, of course, am not privy to that part of the letter, and cannot recount it to you."
“Then tell me what you know,” Katie continued.
"The Duke added at the end of his letter that I am his closest friend, and he recommends me highly," Duchot replied. "He also inquired about your maid, Kitty, to whom he sends his regards and inquires about her health, since, by a happy coincidence, one of his maids is her cousin, a fact he discovered quite by accident. This cousin sends Kitty her warmest regards."
"Tell me, my dear chevalier," said Katie suddenly. "Has our dear Duke healed his eye? The wound was terrible! We were all afraid he would lose it, but the wonderful doctor assured us he would cure the Duke so beautifully that there wouldn't be a trace left, only a small scar on his cheek."
"I'm glad to inform you that the Duke's eye is almost completely healed," Duchot replied. "The scar on his cheek remains, of course, but fortunately, the eye hasn't lost its sight. Although, of course, the Duke doesn't yet have the same sharpness in that eye, but the doctor promises improvement over time."
"Oh, how glad I am!" cried Kitty. "What happiness! You have not come so far in vain! I would gladly write the Duke a letter in reply, but you, as I am told, are going in the opposite direction, to England, so I can only lament that I am unable to reciprocate the kindness of informing him of my extreme joy at the improvement of his health, and also that I remain his close friend, although, as you yourself see, I am a little unwell."
"Perhaps we'll stop by on our way back and take a letter from you to the Duke," Duchot replied. "But would you mind letting us see your maid, Katie? We have a letter for her from her cousin, and we promised to deliver it to her personally."
“Of course, gentlemen, but perhaps we should have lunch first?” asked Katie. “After all, you’ve been on the road and are probably quite hungry!”
"We won't refuse," Duchot replied, looking meaningfully at Mordaunt. "We really are on our way."
"In that case, gentlemen, please wait a while in the summer garden while I make arrangements for dinner," said Katie. "Besides, I need to change for dinner, so I'll be with you in a quarter of an hour."
Duchot and Mordaunt walked in the direction indicated and came out into the summer garden.
As soon as the door closed behind them, the duchess came out from behind the screen.
"Katie, you're a good girl!" she said. "They're impostors. You've exposed them! Just think! All those stories about the two portraits, the one in blue and the one dressed as an Indian princess, went off without a hitch; they confirmed everything. But the story about the Duke's sore eye and the terrible wound on his cheek were beyond praise! But do you know, my dear, the way the young nobleman looked at you when he was sure you couldn't see him?"
"What kind?" Katie asked cheerfully.
"Don't joke about that!" the Duchess exclaimed. "I think he wanted to look into your soul, right down to the very core. It may well be that they didn't quite believe our prank."
"What are we going to do?" Katie asked.
“It’s very simple,” the Duchess dismissed. “These people are claiming to be friends of the Duke of La Rochefoucauld, and they’re lying. They’re also lying about having a letter from him to me. So why did they come? For some reason, they need you. Don’t you know these people?”
“I’m seeing them for the first time,” Katie answered.
"Think back carefully, perhaps a long time ago, many years ago," the Duchess insisted. "Imagine the older one as a younger man. Perhaps before you came to live with me, seventeen years ago?"
"Good heavens, you're right, madam!" exclaimed Katie. "The older one, the one who kept talking while the younger one was silent! It's him! For a moment I thought I knew him, but I couldn't quite place him! Now I recognize him, it's him!"
"Who is he, my dear?" asked Maria.
"Milady's secret lover, Gerard Duchot!" exclaimed Katie. "A brigand and a bandit!"
"What does he want from you?" asked the Duchess. "Revenge? He tried to take you, and you refused him?"
"That happened," Katie agreed, "but I think he calmed down quickly. He'd hardly come back seventeen years later to take revenge on me for rejecting him. There's something else going on here."
"You said you angered your former mistress, the one you called Milady," Maria said. "There's no mistress. But the resentment could have been passed down through generations."
"But I'm not to blame for his mistress's death!" Katie objected. "I ran away from her when she was still alive!"
"They want to learn from you the names of those who executed her," said the Duchess. "And perhaps also to avenge what your former mistress was angry with you for. Therefore, these people take this Milady's case too seriously. The eldest is her former lover, that's clear. Therefore, the youngest is her son!"
"Oh my God!" Katie exclaimed. "What are we going to do?"
“Nothing special,” replied the Duchess. “I’ll tell my servants to throw them out.”
"What if they lie in wait for us?" Katie asked.
"They're going to England, if they're not lying," the Duchess replied. "We won't be leaving the castle without guards for some time."
The Duchess rang the bell and a page entered the room.
“Dani, tell my guards to throw these two impostors out of my house and never let them cross my threshold again,” said the Duchess.
The page bowed and left.

Meanwhile, in the summer garden, a conversation took place between Gerard Duchot and Mordaunt.
"Well, what do you say, my friend?" asked Duchot.
"I think we've been found out," Mordaunt replied. "There were too many details in the questions. There was probably a catch in those questions. Either the Duke didn't have a wounded eye, or she's wearing a different color dress in the paintings. I dreaded her asking which eye the Duke of La Rochefoucauld had been wounded in—the right or the left?"
"Such a question would betray her distrust!" exclaimed Duchot.
"That only shows that the Duchess is too clever," Mordaunt objected.
"She's even smarter than you think," Duchot replied. "I don't think it was the Duchess who received us."
"Who?" Mordaunt asked sharply.
“It was Katie, your mother’s former servant,” Duchot replied.
"Why didn't you kill her?" Mordaunt croaked angrily.
“Because I only realized it now,” Duchot replied.
"Well then, let's go and kill her!" Mordaunt roared, and without waiting for an answer, he rushed towards the room where he had left Katie.
But on the way he met three of the duchess’s courtiers armed with swords.
“Gentlemen, the Duchess asks you to leave her house,” said one of them, apparently a senior in rank, no less than a sergeant.
"Get out of my way!" Mordaunt cried, pushing him aside and trying to move on.
"Defend yourself, sir!" cried the sergeant, pointing his sword at Mordaunt.
"Well, I didn't plan to kill you, but I will, since that's what you want!" Mordaunt croaked angrily and pounced on the sergeant.
Two other guards wanted to intervene, but the sergeant shouted at them: “I’ll do it myself!”
Taking advantage of the guards' confusion, Ducho slipped between them and burst into the room where the Duchess and Katie were.
"Deceiver!" he cried, pointing his sword at Katie. "Die!"
Katie froze in terror, unable to run, while Duchot only had three steps left to take to pierce her chest.
"Farewell, d'Artagnan!" cried Katie, falling to her knees.
The fall deflected the fatal blow, as the blade pierced the air above her head. Duchot spun around and raised his sword over Katie, who lay prostrate on the floor, just as a shot rang out.
Duchot fell. A bullet from the Duchess de Chevreuse's pistol pierced the adventurer's heart.
The Duchess's pistol was made according to my designs; it had two barrels, one below the other, and was small enough to be concealed in a secret pocket. When, behind the screen, the Duchess realized she had been visited by swindlers and adventurers, she silently opened the drawer of the dressing table behind the screen and pulled out the pistol.
Holding the deadly weapon in her hand, the Duchess flung open the doors where the battle between Mordaunt and the sergeant was taking place. The sergeant was already regretting his orders to his friends not to interfere, but his honor forbade him from calling on them for help. The guards, however, were afraid to disobey his orders, despite having already received two serious wounds to his arm and shoulder.
"Drop your sword, or I'll shoot!" cried the Duchess, pointing her pistol at Mordaunt.
Mordaunt assessed the situation, then, pretending to throw down his sword, sharply pushed the sergeant in the wounded shoulder and ran towards the exit of the castle.
No one thought to detain him.
“See that he leaves my house and never sets foot in it again,” said the Duchess. “And, my God, Etienne! What’s the point of this show of nobility? You shouldn’t have started a duel with him one-on-one, but simply thrown these scoundrels out of my house, taking advantage of your superior numbers! Where do these empty notions of honor come from? Look, he wounded you twice, and with a little more, he could have killed you! Get to a doctor immediately! We’ll take care of our wounded man.”
The Duchess returned and looked at Duchot lying in a pool of his own blood.
“No, you can’t ask about anything anymore,” she said.
"Madam, you saved my life!" Katie exclaimed.
"I suppose so," the Duchess agreed. "We'll throw a little ball tomorrow to celebrate. But you know, my dear, I see you still love that d'Artagnan of yours! And yet he hasn't thought of you for fifteen years!"
"It doesn't matter," Katie replied. "Everyone has their faults. The main thing is that I didn't forget about him."

Chapter 114

That evening, the Duchess summoned Katie for a serious conversation.
"Katie, my dear, as sorry as I am, I think it would be better for us to separate, at least for a while," she said.
"Are you driving me away, Your Grace?" Katie asked in horror. "What have I done to deserve your displeasure after so many years of faithful service?"
"Not at all, my dear!" the Duchess objected. "I value you extremely, and I would be in despair if I could not protect you from these murderers!"
"But it was you who saved me from certain death, Your Grace!" exclaimed Katie.
"What worked once may not work again, and stop calling me Your Grace!" the Duchess replied. "Aren't we friends? We agreed that you call me by my first name! What's changed since then?"
"What's changed is that you risked your life for me, and also that you're driving me away!" Katie replied.
“Don’t talk nonsense!” the Duchess waved him off. “I did what I had to, and thank God that the scoundrel’s body was removed from my room and his blood was washed away! But don’t forget that there’s another one left, young and agile. Didn’t you see how easily he overpowered Etienne? And there were three of them, and they were ordered to escort those bandits out of the house! And instead they started a duel, a contest of nobility! Against such scoundrels one should use all the force at one’s disposal, not arrange one-on-one fights! Etienne has positively lost his mind! To start a duel instead of ordering his men to push two scoundrels out by force! Well, well! And where? In my house! Can I really rely on such childish guards? Never! Only one person can protect you!”
"Who, madam?" asked Katie.
"You know perfectly well!" replied the Duchess. "Your beloved d'Artagnan! Only he can withstand such a blow from a sword!"
"But he didn't manage to save his beloved Constance!" Katie objected. "And besides, I think he's already forgotten me and grown cold towards me."
"It's up to you to remind him of yourself and rekindle his former love," the Duchess replied. "And he couldn't protect his beloved only because he wasn't there. If he had been nearby, she would have been safe. That's why I want you to be close to him."
"He's a military man and doesn't belong to himself," Katie tried to object. "Even if we live in the same house, I'll be alone all day."
"I hope that scoundrel won't be able to track your journey and follow you. Besides, he's probably really going to England, so there's no reason for him to return to Paris," the Duchess continued to insist.
“I don’t dare argue with Your Grace,” Katie replied and bowed low.
"There we go again!" the Duchess said, offended. "We're friends, after all. We've been discussing this for so long precisely because I'm not going to force you or order you around. I suggest you think about it. You must make the decision yourself. If you decide it's best for you to remain with me, I'll accept that, but in that case, you mustn't go anywhere without protection, at least for a few days, until we're sure the scoundrel has left these parts."
"Okay, I'll stay with you for another five days, and during that time we'll decide what's best to do next," Katie suggested. "Will you approve of this decision?"
"As I said, the decision is yours, my dear," the Duchess replied. "But I will never forgive myself if I don't protect you from that vile man."
"I can't rule out the possibility that you're also in danger, Your Grace, since you killed his father, which would likely provoke even greater anger than any childhood grievances," Katie said. "We both need to look out for each other's safety. I'll protect you as long as you're willing to look out for mine."
"You're right, my dear," the Duchess agreed. "With this scoundrel, it's possible that I, too, am now in danger. Where then shall we begin our precautions?"
"First of all, let me draw the curtains on this window overlooking the garden," Katie suggested. "Of course, we won't be able to admire these magnificent flowers and trees for a while, but at least no one will be able to spy on us."
With these words, Katie walked to the window and pulled the left curtain halfway down. She was about to pull the right curtain as well, but suddenly a shot rang out outside the window. Katie screamed and sank to the floor, exhausted.
"What's wrong with you?" the Duchess exclaimed, running up to Katie, who was lying on the floor.
"Forgive me, Duchess, I can no longer protect you," Katie whispered with difficulty, using her last strength. "D'Artagnan, my dear, goodbye forever."
A well-aimed shot hit the unfortunate maid in the chest.
The Duchess looked at Katie's frozen face in horror for a while, holding her cooling hand in her hands, after which she crawled to the table in horror, picked up the bell and began to ring it furiously.
The page who entered found her sitting on the floor, pressing Katie's head to her chest.
"Find him and catch him!" she said to the page. "Let Etienne take all the guards he has and catch the one who killed my Katie, hiding in the garden! God, what idle people you all are! I ordered my house to be guarded! Why didn't you guard the garden?!"
The page looked in horror at Katie lying on the floor, nodded and ran headlong out of the room.
"And call the doctor, quickly! Bring the doctor here!" the duchess exclaimed after the page.
After that, she looked at Katie's frozen face and whispered: "It's no use. It seems to be too late... The shot was too accurate."
The Duchess again tenderly stroked the head of the unfortunate Katie, running her fingers through her curls.

Meanwhile, Mordaunt was already far away. He was walking quickly toward the inn, where he had left the horse he had bought the day before.
"Well, Mother!" he said, addressing the heavens, though it would have been more accurate to direct his words to Hell. "You would be pleased with me! One of your offenders has paid for her treachery. I will find them all and send them after her! I swear to you! I will not stop until they are all killed. Every single one of them, no matter how many there are!"

Chapter 115

The doctor lived nearby, so he arrived quite quickly.
"She's still alive, she's just unconscious," he said. "The blood loss isn't severe, but there might be some blood in her lungs. I have to operate on her right here, and I'm not responsible for the outcome, but I'll do my best. Young man, you'll be assisting me. Aren't you afraid of blood?"
"My page isn't afraid of blood," the Duchess said for him. "And I'm not afraid either, and I can assist you as well."
“Have them bring a basin of warm water and a kettle of boiling water,” the doctor replied.
“If you save her, I will pay you triple the rate,” said the Duchess.
“If the Lord allows me to save her, that will be reward enough,” the doctor replied.
He resolutely cut the clothing on Katie's chest with a scalpel. The scalpel struck something hard. It was whalebone from a corset supporting her breasts. It split in two, but it managed to weaken and divert the bullet fired from a considerable distance. The bullet grazed a rib and veered off to the side. The wound was horrific, but the bullet had missed the heart or lungs. The doctor sighed with relief.
"This girl is probably a saint," he said. "The Lord himself is protecting her, no doubt!"
"Oh, Lord, give her back to me, and I will make her a countess!" the Duchess whispered without any pretense.

Arriving on the coast, Mordaunt began looking for a vessel to sail to England. The money Duchot had carried was now lost to him, but they had left most of their money in the room they had rented at the inn, so he still had enough to pay for his voyage. All his thoughts were focused on revenge against Lord Winter, whose hatred grew within him as he reflected on the loss of not only his mother but also the friend who had been like a father to him. Such is human nature—we always blame our neighbors for the misfortunes we create for ourselves, often precisely those who cared for us most.
Mordaunt's voyage was short and unremarkable.
Upon arrival in England, he appeared before Lord Winter and demanded from him the inheritance of his parents, the Marquis and Marquise de Brinvilliers.
This demand shocked Lord Winter.
"Young man!" exclaimed Lord Winter. "I have provided for your maintenance and upbringing not because I was obliged to do so, but only out of pity for your fate and as a result of the ill-considered promise I made to your unworthy mother. Your double crime—the murder of three people and the robbery of a safe followed by the arson of the house—would have relieved me of any obligations to you even if there had been any, but I repeat: I have no obligations to you, and I cannot have any. I am showing inordinate kindness in not immediately handing you over to the police, who would undoubtedly have imprisoned you, though not for long, since such crimes, even in liberal England, are punishable by death. So do yourself a favor—free me from your company forever. By doing so, you will, above all, ease your own fate, for, I warn you, my patience is not eternal, and I may someday decide to do what you deserve."
“I did not kill those people,” Mordaunt lied, since he was in fact helping his mentor Duchot deal with the unfortunate and innocent servants and tutor.
“I don’t care about the details,” Lord Winter replied. “You and the man you called your friend committed this crime together. If you merely knew of his plans and didn’t stop him, you are his accomplice. You, however, escaped with him and, I believe, used the stolen money. Furthermore, your accomplice didn’t know about the money; he didn’t know the secret of the safe in which it was kept, and this safe hadn’t been broken into, which was established despite the fact that the house was set on fire. If you wish to justify yourself and prove your innocence, I suggest you turn yourself in at the police station, and if you are released and acquitted, you can return to me to continue this conversation. But if they decide to punish you, I will not interfere in this matter and I do not intend to pay for a lawyer for you.”
“Give me what I am legally entitled to inherit from my parents, and you will never see me again,” Mordaunt croaked angrily.
“My poor brother’s inheritance does not concern you in any way, but it has already been completely spent on your maintenance and on the purchase of that house which you deigned to burn down,” replied Lord Winter.
"How could you dispose of this money?" Mordaunt exclaimed. "This money is mine, and you had no right to spend it."
"A significant portion of my poor brother's wealth was invested in a house in France, which your unworthy mother burned down," Lord Winter retorted. "She stole the gold and jewels and spent them on her escapades. The funds my brother deposited in the bank were insignificant in comparison. These funds were given to me as my brother's sole legitimate heir. I voluntarily assumed the duties of your guardian, but I admit that I handled them poorly, for I should have been more strict in your upbringing and prevented you from becoming acquainted with the scoundrel who corrupted you. If you had been my nephew, I would have done the same, but in regard to someone who is not related to me, I approached the matter of your upbringing too casually, believing myself unjustified in imposing upon you all the rigors of a classic English upbringing, a fact I now regret." All this money, as I already said, was spent on you and the house, which you burned down, and I even added about an equal amount of my own money, the remains of which were kept in the safe. After you robbed the safe and burned the house, there was nothing left. Go away.
“Tell me the name of the lawyer who formalized your rights to the inheritance and your guardianship over me,” Mordaunt croaked angrily.
"The lawyer has nothing to do with this, since this decision was approved by King Charles I of England ," Lord Winter replied. "You can only accept this decision, since in England he is the highest authority, and you have nowhere to turn with objections to this legal act."
"There will be a way to deal with your King too!" Mordaunt growled.
“Well, look for someone who can give the King directions,” Lord Winter answered indifferently.
"I will find such a man!" Mordaunt cried. "And then beware, Lord Winter! May you and your King be damned!"
After these words, Mordaunt stormed out of the house of Lord Winter, whom he called his uncle and whom he hated more than anyone else on earth. But from now on, he included King Charles I of England in this list of hated people .

Chapter 116

At this very time, unprecedented events began in England. The people rebelled against their rightful King. Mordaunt's involvement in these events led to a tragic outcome. In January 1645, Parliament passed a resolution creating the so-called Parliamentary Army. The 22,000-strong New Model Army, led by Thomas Fairfax, no longer obeyed the King. Oliver Cromwell became the Commander of the Cavalry.
To describe Cromwell's character, we must go back twenty years, to the time when Milady pointed Felton's knife at Buckingham's chest.
The disintegration of the English kingdom began with this sinister event, the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham by the officer Felton, who was persuaded to commit the crime by Milady de Winter, aka Anne de Beyle, etc., Mordaunt's mother. Charles I loved Buckingham and valued him as a statesman and commander. The people of England hated him. For this very reason, Charles hated the murderer of his friend and loyal servant, while the people sympathized with him and, worst of all, admired him.
The King, feeling he had lost his friend, his favorite, and his right hand, decided to take revenge. He took revenge on Felton by executing him, but seeing the people's admiration for him, he decided to take revenge on the people of England, his own nation. First, he hastened to strip the nation of the rights that had developed over its long history. He resolved to nullify the decisions of Parliament, asserting his own sole authority, announcing through the presses that the King's "So be it" was the supreme law and the monarch's right, and that no parliamentary scribbles could amend or reverse the King's decision.
Charles brought into Parliament all those hated by the English people. He filled Parliament with persecutors of Puritanism and defenders of absolutism. He attempted to move as close to Catholicism as possible while distancing himself from the traditional English religion. This also aroused popular hatred for his own wife, whom ordinary citizens saw as the reason for this undesirable change, since she came from Catholic France and was the sister of King Louis XIII of France . The people's hatred of their own Queen, whom they saw as a foreigner and, therefore, a spy, could cost the monarchy dearly. God forbid that the people of France should ever hate their Queen simply because she came from the royal family of another kingdom—Spain, England, or Austria. In that case, a storm of popular indignation could sweep away the reigning dynasty, as happened in England.
So, Charles I brought back and reinstated his friends, hated by the common people of England. He brought back Doctor Montagu, Doctor Menoring, Archbishop William Laud, a staunch persecutor of Puritanism, and Thomas Wentworth, a talented but ambitious orator whom he made a baron and accepted into royal service. He was followed by Diggen, Lytloton, Noah, Wandesword, and many others.
Parliament tried to resist, but Charles I paid no attention. For example, Charles demanded that taxes Parliament hadn't approved be collected with particular care, even more stringently than the taxes that had been approved. Tribunals were established to try criminals under martial law. He hoped that military victories would silence all discontent. He appointed Earl Robert Bertie Lindsay to replace the murdered Buckingham, but to no avail. Cardinal Richelieu took La Rochelle, as we all remember. At the same time, Oliver Cromwell developed a hatred for King Charles I and vowed to fight him with all his might.
Parliament had embarked on a campaign against its King, and the King responded by decreeing its dissolution. But Parliament was in no hurry to disband. The King then dispatched guardsmen led by a captain who, apparently, was not entirely loyal to him, as he was slow to carry out the royal order.
The parliamentarians realized they had gone too far, but retreating was more terrifying than stubbornly pressing forward. John Eliot, keeping his composure, stepped to the podium and began reading out theses hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper.
— Gentlemen, do you acknowledge that anyone who seeks to introduce popish innovations into the Church of England must be considered as the chief enemy of the Kingdom?
The moment of silence seemed like an eternity to him, until each member of parliament realized that they were taking a step against the King, after which there would be no turning back.
"Yes, that's true!" two or three voices shouted from the back rows.
"We admit it! It's true!" the majority of voices echoed with a kind of wild joy.
"We consider this point accepted!" said Eliot. "I ask for a few more minutes of your attention and your approval."
"Read!" someone shouted from the back rows.
"Anyone who advises the King to levy taxes and duties without the approval of Parliament is an enemy of the people!" Eliot shouted, glaring defiantly at the members of Parliament.
"Yes, that's true!" everyone present exclaimed with delight.
"Anyone who pays taxes not approved by us must be declared a traitor to England!" Eliot continued.
"Yes, that's true!" the parliament responded in unison.
At that moment there was a knock on the locked doors of parliament.
"The king sent soldiers to shut us up!" said Eliot.
A murmur ran through the hall, in which one could hear fear, close to panic.
"Well, we'll discuss the rest of the matters later," Eliot said. "I declare this session of parliament adjourned. Disperse, citizens."
At that moment, soldiers broke down the doors, but the members of Parliament calmly passed them, leaving the chamber. Perhaps the King was fortunate that the soldiers did not have to resort to violence against Parliament, otherwise his reign might have ended much earlier.
Soon after, Charles I visited the House of Lords and announced that he was dissolving Parliament because of the provocative behavior of the Lower House.
The people of England expected the King to convene a new Parliament. That's exactly what he should have done. But Charles I made an unforgivable mistake. He posted notices declaring his complete disillusionment with the parliamentary system and his intention to convene a new Parliament. He could have created a Parliament that would support him with the help of loyalists, but he decided to manage on his own. Then he made another mistake: he took revenge. Eliot, Hals, and Valentine were soon arrested. They were charged with rebellion and ordered to pay fines, but all refused to plead guilty and, of course, had no intention of paying any fines. John Eliot, preferring prison, died there three years later. The others were finally released, but prison had not made them more loyal subjects; on the contrary, it had strengthened their spirit of rebellion.
All these events, which occurred in the year of Buckingham's death, marked the beginning of the end of Charles I 's reign . If Charles had had his own Richelieu, he would have consolidated his power, preventing its overthrow. But Charles I had no such Richelieu. However, among his opponents was an intelligent, talented, and active man named Oliver Cromwell.
Many of the King's opponents went to the colonies to establish order there. In the colonies, they gained military experience, civil government, and troop leadership. Twenty years later, they all returned to continue their struggle against the King and win.
Meanwhile, the new councillors who replaced Buckingham began to rummage through the archives, extracting from them hopelessly outdated regulations and demanding strict compliance with them from dissatisfied citizens.
One of these outdated laws stipulated that landowners whose land yielded more than forty pounds sterling annually were required to request knighthood from the King, who obligated them to pay for the process and also pay a special knight's fee annually to the treasury. Cromwell ignored this demand, and his case was sent to court, which sentenced him to pay ten pounds sterling for his refusal. Cromwell paid the fine, but to subsequently escape this obligation, he sold all his lands, which netted him eighteen thousand pounds sterling. Had he taken this money and left for America, as he seriously considered, his enmity with the King might have ended there. But he hesitated to take his elderly mother with him, and was also wary of leaving her in England, so he lingered for several more months. At that very time, the King issued a decree changing the structure of local government. In particular, all power in Gettington was vested in twelve aldermen, elected for life after paying a rather hefty charter. Naturally, the local wealthy gained power, intending to recoup their losses through proper management of lands that had previously been considered public and used by all without any additional taxes. The loss of common lands jeopardized the ability of ordinary peasants to graze sheep, make hay, gather berries, mushrooms, and brushwood, harvest firewood, fish, and hunt. The new system condemned them to poverty and starvation. Cromwell lost his temper and rebelled against the aldermen. He was arrested on their complaint and taken to a London prison. The Earl of Manchester forced him to apologize to the aldermen, after which Cromwell was released and sent home. The citizens he championed considered him a hero, but when he returned, they treated him like a traitor, so Cromwell was forced to leave. Hiding the shame that burned within him, he moved to Cambridge, where he began to live a more modest life than he had led in Gatington. He was enraged by the realization of his own powerlessness to change anything.
Such was the man Oliver Cromwell. Now I will skip the nearly twenty years that have passed since then and return to the time of my narrative, when Mordaunt arrived in England, where Cromwell was already master of the cavalry.

Chapter 117

Incidentally, Oliver Cromwell's mother's maiden name was Elizabeth Stewart. What a coincidence! Cromwell's mortal enemy bore the same surname as his mother. I feel I should tell a little more about the tragic fall of the great and unfortunate King Charles I , whom the four of us tried so unsuccessfully to save.
In 1636, this Elizabeth's brother, Steward, Oliver Cromwell's uncle, died, leaving his nephew a considerable fortune with lands in the town of Ely. But here, too, Cromwell's interests intersected with those of the King. The King's emissaries began cultivating these lands, draining the marshes. Afterwards, the improved lands began to go to the treasury, ruining the surrounding peasants, depriving them of pastures and hunting grounds. Cromwell decided to sue the King, representing not only his own rights but those of all his fellow countrymen, and collected small sums from them to pay the claim. He used all his oratorical talent, and the unthinkable happened: the court upheld his claim and declared him victorious, declaring the defeat of the King's representatives.
I's expenses were mounting, the treasury was running low, and his litigants were constantly searching for new excuses to impose taxes. They even found an outdated ship tax, introduced to combat pirates and levied only on coastal towns. The fight against pirates ceased, and the tax was no longer collected, but Charles reinstated it, soon extending it not only to coastal towns but to the entire country. Oxford, Essex, and Devonshire rebelled, but the main troublemakers were identified and imprisoned. Ultimately, only one person in all of England remained outraged by the new tax: Cromwell's cousin, John Hampden. He was taken to prison, where he remained quiet, but demanded that his case be resolved through the courts. He convinced his jailers that if his accusers prevailed, the tax would be legally enforceable and could subsequently be collected without issue. This unexpected argument was reported to the King, who found it reasonable, hoping, of course, that the court would side with him. He ordered Hampden to be tried according to existing laws, and the defendant was permitted to bring his own lawyers. John Hampden's lawyers, like himself, conducted themselves in court with the utmost propriety, gentleness, and courtesy. They charmed everyone present, including the jury, who hesitated, fearing injustice. Ultimately, seven voted against Hampden, while five voted in his favor. Such a narrow majority forced the jurors to ponder the rationale for their verdict, which, upon reflection, had no legal basis. Therefore, the jury adopted the following formulation: "No laws can prevent the King from enjoying his privileges, therefore the sovereign may disregard those laws that deprive him of the opportunity to provide for the defense of the country, and if necessary, the King may repeal those laws that hinder him, and decide for himself which laws to follow and which to repeal." In effect, this jury confirmed the complete absence of any laws in England other than the will of the monarch.
The King was pleased, but such blatant disregard for laws and legality outraged even the most loyal courtiers. The nation lost respect for the King and trust in his judgment, as all laws, traditions, and principles of monarchical authority were now rendered null and void. John Hempden became a folk hero, a martyr in life, a symbol of the struggle against the people's disenfranchisement and the monarch's permissiveness. The Queen decided that the time had come for England to gradually transition to Catholicism. At her suggestion and with the King's consent, Catholic bishops began to assume increasing importance, completely disregarding the wishes of the nation, which categorically rejected Catholicism, calling it a papist heresy.
Numerous anti-Catholic pamphlets began to circulate, and Archbishop Laud ordered the authors of these pamphlets to be rounded up and their ears cut off. But this didn't stop the wave of pamphlets. Laud then decided to stage a show trial of the most famous and talented pamphleteers, sentencing them to death. William Prynne, Henry Burton, and John Bastwick were imprisoned on charges of treason. Even the hardened criminals sitting in the Star Chamber considered Laud's demands for the death penalty excessive. So, in a farce where the accused were provided only with lawyers who refused to sign their statements, leaving them without lawyers and forced to defend themselves, they were sentenced to pay a fine, after which they had to stand for a whole day in the pillory, and finally have their ears cut off.
The outraged crowd gathered at the execution site not to revel in the suffering of the condemned, as is usually the case in France, but to express their sympathy for the condemned. When the guards tried to push back the sympathizers, Burton loudly asked the officer:
- Don't drive them away, because they need to learn to suffer in order to accept their fate with dignity in the future, which will not be sweet!
The King and Archbishop Laud reveled in their omnipotence. They decided to restore order in Scotland. Charles was the hereditary King not only of England but also of Scotland, and while in England his will was now considered above the law, in Scotland things were still different. In the King's physical absence, power there was dispersed among synods, which were constantly being re-elected, the General Assembly, and the baronial clans. Charles forbade the convening of the General Assembly, declared the end of Scottish liberties, and Laud introduced a uniform liturgy.
On the day the first Anglican service was held, Scotland erupted and marched on Edinburgh. In every Scottish town, immediately after the King's proclamation abolishing Scottish liberties, a pre-prepared protest was read out in the name of the people. Within a month and a half, all of Scotland had risen to the banner of resistance.
The King dispatched Marquis James Hamilton to suppress the rebels in Scotland. Hamilton soon returned to inform the King that the entire Scottish nation was rebelling. The King resolved to send an army to Scotland to suppress it, while Scotland resolved to raise an army for resistance. While in England the army was raised with the meager funds scraped together after enormous expenditures on entertaining the King and the entire court, in Scotland the people devoted their last resources to raising a worthy army: merchants equipped ships to purchase arms and gunpowder, and nobles trained peasants in the art of war. The motley English army advanced toward Scotland, replenishing its budget through extortion and the plunder of its compatriots, which caused English Puritans to sympathize with the rebellious Scottish people. Some of the English soldiers themselves were even inclined to go over to the Scots. The English court continued to flatter its monarch, assuring him of their loyalty, but none of the nobles surrounding the King intended to shed blood for his mistakes; they all craved continued entertainment and feasting. Instead of executing or at least imprisoning those who refused to go into battle according to the laws of war, Charles merely banished the disobedient, attempting to act with persuasion alone. Unwavering in implementing his less-than-wise decisions, he was overly lenient in reining in his own nobility, in which he was significantly inferior to Cardinal Richelieu.
Charles entrusted the command of the royal troops to that same Lord Henry Rich Holland, the former lover of the Duchess de Chevreuse, who had been implicated in many of her intrigues. This dashing warrior in the bedroom was so inexperienced in battle that, upon seeing the enemy troops, he believed they were twice as numerous as they actually were, and therefore courageously retreated. The English army was melting away before our eyes, and it couldn't have been otherwise with such a commander.

Chapter 118

The Scots had effectively won, but they had no intention of overthrowing the King; they were merely protesting the royal decrees. Therefore, they did not storm his headquarters. They respectfully and submissively insisted on the repeal of the decrees they had rebelled against, and Charles I was forced to capitulate, as he had no army left, nor any commanders. He was forced to rescind the decrees, pardon the rebels, restore the Scots' parliament and general assembly, and even allow them to judge Anglican bishops. Both sides pledged to disband their armies, although, strictly speaking, the King no longer had any to disband.
Charles had no intention of honoring this treaty. Having disbanded the remnants of the worthless army, he decided to raise a new one, no less than thirty thousand strong. He recommended to his supporters in Scotland that they disrupt the convening of Parliament and the General Assembly under any pretext, focusing primarily on the violation of the procedure for their convocation and the legality of their conduct.
To finance the war, Charles I ordered the confiscation of 130,000 pounds sterling worth of financiers' gold, which undermined his credibility in London's financial circles. Having lost the support of England's wealthiest citizens, the King could no longer hope for victory, so instead of confiscating this money, he should have persuaded them to lend it to him. The King was forced to capitulate to his own bankers and return the stolen money, but it was impossible to repay the entire sum, as part of it had been spent and part stolen, leaving the bankers dissatisfied. The King began to seek help from the most unlikely potential lenders, including the King of Spain, Genoese merchants, and even the Pope. He was humiliatingly rebuffed in all of these places. The King elevated his prot;g; Wentworth, creating him Earl of Strafford, and dispatched him to Ireland to raise troops while he began a clumsy attempt at reconciliation with his own Parliament.
In a chess game, there are situations where no matter what a player does, no matter what move they make, the outcome will be worse than simply doing nothing. But in chess, a player can't skip a move. The same situation sometimes arises in life, but it would have been better for Charles I to do absolutely nothing than to do what he did. This reminds me of Nicolas Fouquet's behavior before his arrest; every action he took only worsened his situation, but I'll talk about that later.
So, the King led weak and poorly motivated troops against the strong and highly motivated Scottish forces, losing the war to such an extent that the Scots began to seriously threaten to take York and other English cities. The King decided to rely in his fight against the Scots on Parliament, which he himself had repeatedly humiliated and ultimately dissolved. The Parliament he had assembled, far from assisting him in his affairs, became merely an additional problem. At one of the sessions, Oliver Cromwell spoke, demanding the release of all those condemned by the King or at his behest.
Without making friends with the English nation, the English rich, the English Parliament, or Scotland, Charles merely promised concessions to everyone, only to withdraw them at the first opportunity, making more and more enemies with this policy. Soon, there was almost no one left on whom he could completely rely, except perhaps the Queen, Stafford, Lord Winter, and a small handful of men still loyal to him. But even these supporters began to doubt the firmness of the king's word.
Some time later, the King allowed Stafford to be tried, imprisoned in the Tower, without his intervention. Parliament then tried Archbishop Laud and all of Stafford's aides. Finally, Parliament exiled the King's mother-in-law, Marie de' Medici, the Queen's mother, from England, forcing her to flee to France, from which Richelieu had once exiled her. When Parliament condemned the Catholic priest Goodman to death, Charles I , who could have pardoned him, was afraid to so openly oppose the will of Parliament. From that moment on, every citizen of England understood that the King's power was at an end and that Parliament had become the true master of England. The only remaining difficult question was who would ultimately wield the full power of Parliament. History had always proven that any collegial body inevitably becomes a deliberative body under a single strong personality, and there were never any exceptions to this rule.
A chaotic gathering of people with differing opinions sooner or later realizes that every issue put to a vote must be assigned to someone to prepare it in advance. From this understanding to the creation of all-powerful committees and subcommittees is only one step, and from their creation to the realization that the decisive opinion within them belongs to the chair, who will subsequently influence the general opinion, then called a unanimous decision. Committees are the essence of a single-minded authority.
Oliver Cromwell was the least offensive to the two opposing parties, so he was nominated to chair the committee for the investigation of complaints against marsh drainers, a task he had once performed admirably on. He was also nominated to chair the committee for the review of sentences handed down during the turbulent times of the absolute power of King Charles I and his ideological inspirer, Archbishop Laud. These sentences had been handed down by the Star Chamber and confirmed by a high commission, so Cromwell now stood above these two formerly all-powerful collegial bodies, as he was given the power to overturn their judgments. Cromwell also chaired the subcommittee on religious affairs, effectively becoming the most senior cleric in England.
Cromwell was unwavering in his judgments, always speaking with fervent conviction, which had a profound effect on his audience, as most opposition figures constantly doubted their own judgment. Cromwell was even more persuasive compared to the King, who constantly wavered in all his decisions.
Parliament, having acquired de facto power, began to strengthen its legislative foundation by revising existing laws. Finally, the King made another mistake: he failed to pay his army the sums he owed them, while Parliament paid those same army.
I recall the confrontation between Mark Antony and Octavian Augustus in ancient Rome after the death of Julius Caesar. Mark Antony effectively inherited power from the deceased Caesar, but Octavian declared himself heir not only to Caesar's wealth, but also to his debts. By paying off Caesar's debts to the troops, Octavian gained the troops' trust, after which it was no longer so difficult for him to acquire all of Rome.
Oliver Cromwell probably read history, something Charles I did not . If you don't learn from history, then the story of your own life may become a lesson for your descendants. Lady Clio, the muse of history, took cruel revenge on Charles I.
The king offered his few supporters ministerial posts, but to do so they would have to resign from parliament. They, however, preferred to remain in parliament, realizing that this was more secure.
Meanwhile, Parliament had not forgotten Stafford, languishing in the Tower. After accusing all his aides of treason one after another, they ordered a trial for Stafford himself on the same charge. This time, he was accused of treason.
The king, who still had the nominal right to dissolve Parliament before Stafford's trial began, did not do so and attended the proceedings as an honored guest. Stafford, who during his reign had never even considered following the law, had no intention of being polite and polite this time. He accused Parliament of slander and perfidy, so offended his accusers did not fail to record his contempt of Parliament. Yet the lords charged with formulating the charge had enough common sense to realize that if Stafford were convicted, they themselves would be next. So they returned a verdict of acquittal, which would result in Stafford's release and return to his duties as Prime Minister.
At this point, the opposition began to fear for its lives if Stafford were acquitted and his unlimited power were returned to him.
At that moment, a young aristocrat named Henry Wen asked to speak and read a letter he had found in the archives of his father, also named Henry Wen. In this letter, Stafford urged the King to act decisively and unyieldingly against Parliament and, if necessary, to use the Irish army, completely under his command, against the rebellious English. The debate erupted with renewed vigor. The day's session ended in a stalemate. The scales of justice could not be decisively tipped one way or the other. The power of the King and the Lords was now equal to that of Parliament and the people. Victory could have gone either way. The hearings on Stafford's case continued for several days, but there was no hope of moving in one direction or the other.
At this very time Mordaunt arrived in London.
He immediately went to Cromwell.
“My lord, I am the one who will help you defeat Charles I ,” he said.
“Young man, I do not know who you are or what proposal you have come to me with, and believe me, I am not inclined to discuss political issues with a stranger,” Cromwell replied.
"Once England knew nothing of you, but now you are a man whose words are listened to," Mordaunt retorted. "Why don't you agree that a man may come to you of whom you know nothing, but after a while you will begin to listen to his words?"
"Very well," replied Cromwell. "I am ready to listen to you, but first, please inform me of the subject of your conversation."
"Stafford!" Mordaunt replied. "If you destroy Stafford today, you can just as easily destroy the King, in the same way. But if you release Stafford today, tomorrow he will take the place of Prime Minister, and the day after tomorrow he will destroy you."
"You are probably right, young man, but the matter is decided in Parliament, which consists of a large number of people, and each of them has his own opinion, and, what is important, has reason for having that opinion," Cromwell objected. "There is no way to force those people to change their minds who have good reason for not changing them."
"You're mistaken," Mordaunt objected. "I agree there's no way to quickly change people's minds, though given enough time, they could all be persuaded. But I'm not talking about changing their minds, I'm just talking about changing their votes."
“All these people are perfectly free, and therefore they will vote exactly as they think fit,” Cromwell objected.
"What do you say if I get them to vote the way you want in less than five days?" Mordaunt asked.
"And how do I need it?" Cromwell asked with a smile.
"Stafford must be executed," Mordaunt said firmly.
“But the King can reverse the verdict of Parliament and pardon his faithful first minister,” Cromwell objected.
"If Parliament condemns Stafford to death by a convincing majority, King Charles I will confirm that sentence," Mordaunt replied.
“King Charles I personally promised Stafford that not a hair would fall from his head,” Cromwell said doubtfully.
“The King will forget his promise, or rather, he will pretend to forget it, or say that he is unable to fulfill it,” answered Mordaunt.
"Can you answer me two questions, young man?" Cromwell asked after a pause.
“It depends on the questions,” Mordaunt answered shortly.
"Okay," Cromwell agreed. "The first question is this: What do you want from me in exchange for my service?"
"Nothing," Mordaunt replied. "It would be more accurate to say that after this, you yourself will want to make me your advisor or confidant."
"That suits me," Cromwell nodded. "Then the second question. Why do you need this?"
"And you?" Mordaunt asked in turn.
"I hate the King's lawlessness and permissiveness," Cromwell replied. "And that is why I fight him."
"And I hate the one who commits this lawlessness, King Charles I ," Mordaunt replied. "And I begin my fight against him. And also against one of his friends, Lord Winter."
“Well, I listen to your plan,” said Cromwell.

Chapter 119

"Members of Parliament who come every day to listen to debates and occasionally to speak ultimately vote as they wish," Mordaunt said.
“More precisely, as their conviction or, if you like, their conscience tells them,” Cromwell clarified.
“Convictions are what people use to cover up personal motivation, but in reality, motivation is made up of accumulated grievances and calculations for the future,” Mordaunt countered.
"Why do you speak of insults and not mention gratitude?" asked Cromwell.
"No one uses gratitude when making decisions," Mordaunt snapped. "It's too weak a motivation. If gratitude obligated us to do anything, no one would ever accept favors, and the favor itself would cease to be so. But resentment is a different matter. You can refuse a favor, but no one gives you the opportunity to refuse an offense! Therefore, the offended are left with only the sweet anticipation of revenge. That's why I say that resentment is the cornerstone of conviction."
"And how do you intend to change such strong convictions, which are based on past grievances?" Cromwell asked with interest.
"Grievances give way to personal interest in the future," Mordaunt snapped.
"Are you suggesting bribing members of Parliament?" Cromwell asked with a smirk. "Do you really think no one has thought of that? But we don't have the sums to buy every member of Parliament, and besides, that's a very unreliable approach."
"I know that, and that's why I'm not suggesting it," Mordaunt countered. "Do you know what influences people more powerfully than calculation? What makes them obey more powerfully than bribery?"
"Judging by your question, you know that," Cromwell replied. "What is it, in your opinion?"
"Fear," Mordaunt replied. "Members of Parliament who disagree with your decision must be intimidated."
“But threatening members of Parliament is in itself a crime for which one must answer,” Cromwell objected.
"But only if these threats do not come from the people and do not reflect the opinion of the nation," Mordaunt responded. "The people's wrath must be called upon those who do not support your legitimate demands. Your demands are to punish the nation's oppressor. Therefore, the nation must force recalcitrant members of Parliament to vote as it demands. All supporters of Stafford must be branded with shame and intimidated by the people's hatred."
Cromwell even stood up in surprise.
"Are you proposing to incite the people to revolt against these members?" he asked with interest.
"The people will rise up on their own, they just need to be given a target and the command: 'Get them!'" Mordaunt replied. "Anyone loyal to Stafford should be branded traitors. They should be given offensive nicknames. Staffordians, for example. Stafford's lackeys. Judases."
"I like that idea," Cromwell agreed. "How many people do you need to implement this idea?"
"To begin with, a dozen smart men, literate, capable of writing pithy appeals, or better yet, slogans," Mordaunt replied. "They must receive instructions from me and money, half of which they will keep for themselves and the other half will be spent on recruiting ten more small-time operatives each."
“Don’t flatter yourself, they’ll keep the whole amount for themselves,” Cromwell objected.
"In that case, someone else, some honest cashier, should pay the recruited executors," Mordaunt agreed. "The expenses will be small, but the effect should be significant. Ten young men will each compose ten appeals and give them to copyists, who will post them in the appropriate places: in front of churches, in squares and markets, at the doors of taverns and beer halls."
Cromwell walked over to the table, pulled out one of the drawers and took out a heavy purse of gold, which he placed in front of Mordaunt.
"I'm not interested in money," Mordaunt replied.
“These are your expenses for those agents who will carry out your instructions,” Cromwell replied.
"Agreed," Mordaunt replied. "I'll take payment for business expenses from you."
"Young man," said Cromwell before parting with Mordaunt, "tell me your name."
"My name is Mordaunt," replied Cromwell's guest. "I have another name which has been taken from me, and I hope to have it back. Then I will tell you that too."
"I believe that the man who has mortally offended you will meet with an unenviable fate," said Cromwell. "I would not wish to be in his place."
"We have common enemies, my lord, which gives us reason to remain, if not friends, then allies," Mordaunt replied. "I value alliances far more than friendship. They are more reliable."
"I suppose you didn't have many friends?" Cromwell asked.
"Only one, my lord, but he taught me much," Mordaunt replied. "For the simple reason that he was not my friend, but my ally. I inherited his enemies, and some of them have already had to answer for their deeds. And the rest await their fate."
“If you help me deal with my enemies, I will help you punish yours,” said Cromwell.
“For a start, we have a common enemy, King Charles I ,” Mordaunt croaked, then took the purse, bowed, and left.
"I don't even know where he lives, or whether he told me his real name or a fictitious one," Cromwell thought. "However, even if he disappears with the money, the idea he gave me is worth it!"

The next day, Londoners saw numerous leaflets posted on many buildings listing the names of members of Parliament who had advocated Stafford's acquittal. They were called Staffordians, Judases, traitors, hangers-on, and papists. The leaflets demanded justice, which they equated with the execution of the traitor Stafford. The leaflets called on the people to defend their rights, gather outside the Parliament building, and demand justice from their elected representatives. Incriminating leaflets appeared on the houses of those who supported the acquittal, listing the guilt of these members of Parliament, mostly fictitious but supplemented with some truthful information. The people believed these leaflets implicitly.
Satirical poems and captioned drawings began to circulate, scathingly exposing Stafford for sins he'd never even suspected. By skillfully mixing truth with lies, the authors of these illustrated pamphlets gained the complete trust of the crowd. Songs in the rhythm and style of traditional soldiers' drinking couplets began to spread among the common people. The rhymes were simple, the lines short, easy to remember, and they quickly spread throughout England. The sympathies of the entire nation were on the side of the authors of these pamphlets; the entire country condemned Stafford and wanted him executed.
Rumors began to circulate among the people that a group of conspirators had formed within Parliament, allegedly bought by the King and therefore intent on betraying the interests of the state. Some members of Parliament, who had previously openly proposed acquitting Stafford, succumbed to the pressure and hastily fled to France. The facts of their escape were used as evidence of their treason. A rumor also circulated that the crowd that would gather in front of the Parliament building on the day of the final debate and vote on the case intended to raze the entire building and kill the "traitors" on the spot.
Mordaunt went even further. His henchmen created the "Union for the Defence of True Faith and Civil Liberty." Anyone who refused to join this union was called a traitor. The union petitioned Parliament demanding that anyone who refused to join be barred from holding ecclesiastical or civil office. Passions flared. Parliament passed a law stipulating that no one could dissolve Parliament without its consent.
In this heated debate, Parliament passed a resolution condemning Stafford as a traitor to the country, almost without debate. The Act of High Crime was submitted to the King for approval, who asked for one day to consider it. During that day, a crowd raged beneath his windows, demanding his approval. The King feared an assault on his residence; his meager guards would be no match for such a crowd. The Queen begged the King to sign Stafford's sentence, threatening to abandon her husband and depart for France if he did not. Ministers and bishops also insisted on the same.
The King, who had previously given a personal promise to Stafford to protect his life in any case and under any circumstances, felt humiliated and destroyed as a monarch losing the remnants of power and having already lost his authority.
One of the bishops told the King that if a person's conscience conflicts with the monarch's civic duty, it must yield. Since the deputies and Lords had examined Stafford's case in detail, at length, and in depth, their decision was justified, and therefore the monarch must accept it.
This phrase has justified many a treason long before Charles I , and I believe that the methods which were used to persuade Parliament and the King will long continue to operate in the world.
Stafford himself, realizing the hopelessness of his situation, wrote a letter to the King, urging him to approve the Act and thereby absolving him of guilt, freeing him from his obligation to defend him from any accusations. This letter from Stafford now lies before me. I will not copy it. I will only say that only a truly noble man could have written such a letter, one who sacrificed himself for the peace of his monarch's conscience. No priest could have absolved the King of this sin better than Stafford himself, a victim of the King's complaisance, his impotence before the terrible force he himself had awakened, whose name was the people's wrath.
Exactly twenty-four hours later, the King approved the shameful Act, sentencing to death Stafford, who had served the King faithfully and truly for eleven years, taking upon himself all his mistakes and guilt, protecting his monarch from the people's hatred, taking responsibility for all abuses, lawlessness, cruelty and for all defeats in battles, and who had lost his health in this service, and now voluntarily agreed to lose his life for the King, who hardly deserved such a sacrifice.
I can't say that Mordaunt was the inventor of the method that helped Cromwell deal with Stafford. It was likely the same method used by those who incited the inhabitants of Jerusalem to shout "Crucify! Crucify!" during the trial of our Lord Jesus Christ. And similar cries from the crowd, which had terrified Pontius Pilate, once again served their purpose, once again forcing justice to bow before the terrible and cruel force that is the wrath of a deceived people.
If Mordaunt had not burned with such an irresistible hatred for King Charles I , perhaps history would have turned out differently.

Chapter 120

Stafford accepted his fate with extraordinary courage. Standing on the scaffold, he addressed the people, declaring that bloody reprisals were not the best beginning for a renewed England.
His courage and horrific death shocked many. Some members of Parliament began to privately question the wisdom of the execution, and all of them were immediately escorted to the Tower.
Those who remained saw where the process was heading and became more radical in their support for a decisive struggle against the King. Cromwell increasingly established himself as the informal leader of the opposition to Charles I , the de facto leader of the victors. Mordaunt, by mutual agreement, took on the position of his commissioner for particularly important affairs, carrying out the most delicate and risky missions.
Power in the country rested entirely with Parliament, which passed a law stating that the King could not dissolve it; only Parliament itself could decide to dissolve itself. The King confirmed this law. Thus, while Parliament existed, the King's power was negligible compared to its decisions. But if Parliament ceased to exist, power would return entirely to the King, who could annul all Parliament's decrees and reinstate all laws repealed by Parliament, and could also avenge his favorite and loyal servant on each member of Parliament personally. Parliament, however, could not exist forever, so its members sought ways to deprive the King of the ability to restore his absolutism and punish all who disobeyed the monarch.
Among the members of Parliament, no one except Cromwell had a coherent plan for further action. Cromwell had this plan, largely due to his invaluable experience in managing majority opinion, manipulating the collegial body through intimidation and by attracting excited crowds of citizens.
Some time later, Ireland rebelled against the Puritan Parliament. A serious civil war broke out, with two hundred thousand casualties. The King secretly rejoiced, but pretended to regard these events as troubles that would likely soon end. Charles also attempted to reach an agreement with the Parliament's leaders, offering them the highest ministerial posts, hoping to thereby destroy the Parliament he hated. But those with whom he tried to negotiate were all too convinced that the King's word was worthless, and that ministerial positions could easily be abolished, or their occupants removed and replaced, as soon as the King regained full power. They preferred to remain within the ranks of Parliament, where they felt more protected from the most unexpected turns of fate.
Finally, the King decided to leave London with his family. But he felt safe in no city or fortress. To add insult to injury, the commandant of the fortified city of Hull simply refused him entry, which was both an insult and a profound misfortune for Charles I , who realized he no longer had anywhere to hide from his fellow citizens, dissatisfied with his rule and led by Parliament, to whom he himself, by his own decrees, had temporarily ceded full power in the kingdom. How long this temporary situation would last, he could no longer predict. He was forced to learn from experience that the temporary can prove permanent and final, while his absolute power and everything associated with it, which he had thought unshakable, rested on God knows what weak foundations. He did not realize that he had made countless mistakes, believing every action to be correct, justified, and the only right one. He criticized everyone and everything, reproaching his few and most loyal friends, servants, and supporters, venting on them his frustrations stemming from his mismanagement of the state, which had first inflamed the entire nation against him and then prevented him from taking effective measures to establish peace or suppress rebellion by force. Where force was necessary, he hesitated; where flexibility was necessary, he was inflexible. If there was a worse way to govern a country than Charles I , I know of no such thing. If there was a course of action that would have alienated more friends from the King, farther and faster, than Charles I did , I know of no such action. He committed every mistake that could be made, choosing between two evils, and sometimes all three.
But despite all this, Charles was so convinced of his own righteousness, of the nobility of his goals and means, that when he spoke, he still managed to impress his audience, but only as long as they could see and hear him. Reality brought everything back to normal. The veneer of nobility was a thin veneer, barely concealing the incompetence of a statesman and the indecisiveness of a monarch, which had already cost the lives of many of his former friends and most devoted servants.
Let me remind you that Athos, our valiant Count de la F;re, did everything possible to save this King, and he also captivated me with this idea. I confess that I still regret that we failed to do so. But without indulgence in dreaminess and self-deception, saving this monarch would have made sense only as saving a man – a husband and a father, a salvation for those who begged us to do so. We could not fail to honor the request of the sister of our Louis XIII , the King under whom we began our musketeer careers. Whatever our attitude toward the shortcomings of this monarch, he was our King, the father of the current King Louis XIV , and we could not abandon his sister without help. If necessary, we would have given our lives to save her husband, the father of our King's nephews. But saving Charles I for England, saving him as its monarch, was pure madness. Twice this King's servants and friends arranged his escape, and twice he fell back into the hands of his enemies. Only a man like Athos could have devoted himself entirely to this task and drawn us all into it; only a man like d'Artagnan could have concocted one plan after another for his rescue, the execution of which was thwarted each time by such a small obstacle that I am inclined to believe that Fate itself conspired against Charles I.
But if it be said to me that Fate has chosen such a monster as Mordaunt as her instrument, I shall answer that I am proud of having resisted that fate with all my might, and very pleased that we were able to pull out the poisonous fangs of that snake, Milady's bastard.

Chapter 121

A description of how Charles I waged war against his own people, defending his personal power, which he lost through gradual concessions to Parliament, made out of indecision and God knows what else, would take up too much space. I am writing my own memoirs only of the events in which I took part, occasionally deviating from this narrative to outline the general situation very schematically, so that the reader can more easily understand and feel the time and place of action, although, as I have already noted, I do not think these memoirs will see their reader. I am writing them for myself, in case I forget anything, and also to relieve my memory.
I had already thought of finishing the description of affairs in England and returning to our affairs in France, but how then can we explain the appearance in France of the wife of King Charles I and the aunt of our King Louis XIV , if not by telling about the reasons that forced her to leave her husband and the King and seek refuge in her homeland?
At the time I write about, Oliver Cromwell was a lieutenant general, his personal qualities having already elevated him to near the very pinnacle of power, since he chaired the most important committees in Parliament and commanded the cavalry in the army, so he behaved like the general he already was. His position was achieved through the extraordinary trust placed in him by a nation rebelling against its monarch, but there were still lords sitting in the upper house who understood that if the King were deposed tomorrow, the people could depose them the day after. They continued to see him, the King, as the source of their power and strength, and so their struggle against Charles I was conducted with caution. In other words, they did not desire final victory in this struggle, and Cromwell saw and understood this.
The war between the Puritans, who had turned their arms against the King, and the army of Charles I , recruited from the Irish, Scots, and those who, for one reason or another, still supported him, took place with varying success.
Lord General Manchester once angrily told Cromwell that the war they were waging against the King had no prospects. He declared that even if they completely defeated the King, this victory would be only temporary, whereas any victory for the King would be final, since the King remained the King, the legitimate ruler of the state, and all others were merely his subjects. The entire army opposing him could be considered nothing more than a rebel army, and its leaders, state criminals. If they won, the King could hang them all, and the rest, ruin them and enslave them for life.
Manchester simply wanted to speak out, air his doubts, and perhaps hear arguments that would paint the situation in a less unflattering light. He said this in a friendly manner, as one comrade to another, despite the vast class gap between him and Cromwell.
But Cromwell saw something else in this speech. He decided that, by speaking of the immutability of royal authority and his superiority over all other subjects, the Lord General was also implying the immutability of the lords' superiority over all other nobles, as well as the superiority of nobles over burghers. He disliked this conversation, so he didn't try to convince Manchester, merely declaring that with such convictions, it was time not to take up arms at all, and that a man with such views shouldn't fight, much less lead an army, but should instead go and surrender to the enemy's mercy, without delaying for a moment, lest he increase his guilt before the one he already considered the victor in any case. Manchester shrugged and dismissed the conversation as an insignificant exchange of opinions.
But Cromwell didn't forget this conversation. Based on these words, he drew up an indictment against Lord General Manchester, accusing him of defeatism and, consequently, of all the failures that had occurred in all the previous battles. He read this indictment to the House of Commons. In it, he quoted Manchester's very words, informing his astonished listeners that the troops were being led by a general who did not want them to win.
The House of Commons condemned Manchester's position but made no decision on the matter, so Manchester countered in the House of Lords. He declared Cromwell insubordinate and blamed him for the defeats. He also declared that Cromwell hated the Scots and recruited his troops primarily from Independents who hated the aristocracy. He recalled that Cromwell had once offered to renounce his earldom, leading him to conclude that the lieutenant dreamed of eliminating all aristocrats from England. Accusations of sympathy for sextants and mystics followed, and Manchester added that Cromwell had threatened to shoot the King if he stood in his way.
The army, composed primarily of Scottish mercenaries, fought sluggishly, as it was clearly divided, hindering effective command. Lords Manchester and Essex distrusted Cromwell, while Cromwell himself believed he could have accomplished the task even without their help, using only his cavalry, if he had acted more decisively and not been forced to coordinate his every move with the lords. Everyone was tired of war and wanted peace, but the King was unwilling to compromise even an iota in the peace treaty. He wanted to retain absolute power as if nothing had happened in England in all those years, not realizing that the past was irrevocably gone and could no longer be restored, since the nation and both houses of Parliament had become empowered and had acquired a taste for participating in the government of the country. Furthermore, an agreement on the King's terms would have meant the death of all those who had participated in the rebellion against him.
Cromwell spoke in the House of Commons, calling for an accelerated and intensified military action, arguing that the cost of maintaining an army was high and that it should not be prolonged; only a swift and complete victory over the King would save the country. The House of Commons supported him, while the House of Lords, the upper house, naturally supported the interests of the Lords.
Presbyterian Zush Tate proposed a voluntary resignation act, which would have prohibited members of Parliament from holding leadership positions in the army and civil administration. This meant that anyone holding these positions while serving in Parliament would have to either resign from Parliament or voluntarily resign. The idea was that employees, both military and civilian, would have to obey Parliament, rather than, by entering it, influencing the very directives they themselves had shaped. The proposal was so unexpected that no one could find any arguments to oppose it; it was adopted in general terms and awaited approval by both Houses. Cromwell's opponents thought this would be a way to rein him in. But Cromwell, unafraid of resigning from any of his positions, enthusiastically supported the proposal. The important idea of this act was that each member of parliament was asked to decide for himself which office to retain and which to renounce.
Here Mordaunt suggested an idea to Cromwell, which was then put forward by one of his supporters on his instructions.
“Gentlemen!” he said. “Every matter decided by Parliament goes through two stages. First, it must be approved by the Lower House, then by the Upper House. But the Upper House is where the Lords sit, defending their own interests, and nothing more. No decree that infringes on their rights even by an iota will pass. We saw this for ourselves with the Act on Voluntary Abdication from Service. It turns out that here in the Lower House, we are simply wasting our time. We discuss, vote, pass acts and laws, and the Upper House nullifies all our work. We are wasting our time. We are wasting taxpayers’ money and failing to justify the trust of our voters. This cannot continue. I propose that we unite both Houses and introduce this Act in both Houses at once, considering all votes equal!”
All members of the Lower House immediately realized that, since the Lower House was larger, if all votes of each member of both houses were tied in a single vote, the Lower House would prevail. This proposal was adopted. Numerous petitions were submitted to Parliament demanding support for the Lower House's decision to vote together. Needless to say, all these petitions were orchestrated by Mordaunt, who used his wits and Cromwell's money to achieve this.
The Presbyterians realized they had lost, so they decided to at least win some concessions. They proposed an amendment to the Act to make an exception for Lord Essex. This proposal alone meant the Act would be passed. After heated debate, the vote began. Ninety-three votes were cast in favor of the special resolution regarding Lord Essex, while one hundred votes were cast against. The Act was passed. The approved Act, along with the minutes from the Lower House, was sent to the House of Lords, who attempted to simply delay its signing, so the Act languished there for a long time.
Taking advantage of the delay, the Presbyterians hastened to deal with Archbishop Laud and their other enemies, supporters of the King. William Prynne, the same William whose ears had been cut off for his pamphlets by Laud's order, was appointed head of the judicial commission. To lend a semblance of legality and objectivity, the trial also included the cases of McGuire, a participant in the Irish rebellion, the Gothams, father and son, who proposed the surrender of the fortress of Hull, and Alexander Carew, Governor of St. Nicholas Island. The crimes of these four against the laws of England and Parliament were obvious and proven, so their trial lent authority and weight to the entire process. Laud was also convicted, despite the investigators lacking compelling evidence of his guilt.
The executions were carried out in rotation over the course of two months, with a scaffold being erected in the Tower courtyard five times, after which it was dismantled and taken away.
Everyone understood that although many common people gathered to watch the execution, and the King remained on the sidelines, all these executions were intended, first of all, to demonstrate to the King that from now on, in this country, it was not he, not Charles I , who was in charge of life, but another force, beyond his control.
The king, who had previously avoided the word "parliament," pretending such a body didn't exist, began using it after his first execution, imbuing it with a highly respectful tone. He also appointed commissioners to negotiate peace, and from then on he began to express an active interest in its successful outcome.
Finally, the King's representatives met with representatives of the House of Lords at the negotiating table with the goal of reaching a peace agreement within twenty days. It was decided to devote no more than three days to any given issue, after which they would move on to the next matter. Only after all important matters had been discussed would they return to those issues that had not been resolved within the allotted three days to discuss them again and reach a mutually acceptable solution.
Unfortunately, the first issue chosen for discussion was the question of faith. Even the King's representatives were divided on this issue: some favored a single Presbyterian church, others defended the Church of England, previously abolished by Parliament. Cromwell and his supporters stood for religious freedom. Passions flared, goodwill gave way to hostility. Three days passed in bitter bickering, but fortunately, the three-day rule forced them to move on to the next issue, a military one, on the fourth day.

Chapter 122

Mordaunt went to see Cromwell, whom he could visit without being informed.
“My lord, it seems we must part,” he said.
"Are you dissatisfied with your position?" Cromwell asked in surprise. "I'm not asking if you're happy with your salary, since I barely managed to persuade you to take it."
"The position is of no importance to me, and I receive a salary only because I have no other source of income, and I have to support myself somehow," Mordaunt replied. "I came to you with an entirely different purpose, and you know it. I came to deal with Charles I and one of his favorites, Lord Winter. But you sat down at the negotiating table with him. That doesn't suit me."
"My dear Mordaunt, I too am reluctant to negotiate with a King who has brought so much evil to his country and, most importantly, will be unable to do any good for it in the future," Cromwell agreed. "But political processes develop according to their own laws. I was nominated by the people, and the people did not want to defeat the King, but to have their demands, which they considered and consider legitimate, fulfilled. Since the King ignored these demands, the only way out for the people was to force the King to submit, and if he did not, to deprive him of power."
"Why haven't you stripped him of that power yet?" Mordaunt croaked.
"We are following this path, and will most likely reach its logical conclusion," Cromwell countered. "As far as I know the King, he is not inclined to make any concessions; he simply does not understand the concept of compromise. So our people, with my help, will force him to submit."
"It's too little for me, and too long to believe in the desired result," Mordaunt waved his hand. "Didn't you, my lord, say that the army costs the people too much, and if it does nothing, then the people will raise their voices for the army to be disbanded?"
"Yes, those are my words," Cromwell agreed. "And I agree that a soldier without a military commission is a potential criminal: a deserter, a marauder, a rapist. Therefore, I would like our army to act more quickly and decisively, or else it should be disbanded."
"That 'or' of yours doesn't suit me, my lord," said Mordaunt. "The king must be arrested and brought to trial, after which you can disband your army if you wish."
"I entirely agree with you, Mr. Mordaunt," replied Cromwell. "But circumstances compel me to take part in the negotiations, since the nation desires peace."
"The nation itself doesn't know what it wants!" Mordaunt croaked again, his voice always rising to a near-shout when excited, a roar that resembled a beast's. "The nation's desires and aspirations follow the cries of the crowd in the street, and the cries of the crowd follow the heralds, who can inspire the crowd to do anything! One only needs to be sufficiently persuasive and prepare the ground in advance so that the slogan thrown to the crowd is perceived as its own aspirations. Damp straw is difficult to light even with a torch, but a single spark is enough to ignite dry straw. The same is true of the crowd. The people are now exhausted, and they will follow anyone, so long as they are promised a quick solution to all their problems. The conflict has dragged on. Promise the nation a quick solution to all its problems and show it the path it should take to achieve it, and it will follow it, even if it means making some sacrifices.
"What victims are you talking about?" Cromwell asked.
"Of course, every man most readily sacrifices the fortune and lives of his fellow men, but in this case I am speaking of some expense, some risk, and participation in battles," Mordaunt replied. "The people have already sacrificed much, and will sacrifice something more, if only all their previous sacrifices were not in vain."
"And how will this help us?" the general asked.
"It's very simple," Mordaunt explained. "All we have to do is inform the people that the negotiations are aimed at deceiving the nation, and the people will thwart them. In that case, the war will enter its most heated phase. This war will not be a war of position, it will be a head-on clash! There must be a single and final victor, the King's defeat must be complete and utter."
“Your ideas are good for some philosophical essay, but I don’t know how to apply them in practice,” Cromwell waved his hand.
"Very well, my lord," replied Mordaunt. "I understand you. You approve of me, but you will not help me in my task, which is to spare you the negotiations with Herod!"
“I do not limit you in any way, Mr. Mordaunt, remembering that your advice has always been good, and your actions in implementing it have been even better,” replied Cromwell.
"I understand," said Mordaunt. "Well, I'll solve your problems once again, in the hope that someday you'll solve mine."

The next day, a preacher unexpectedly appeared at one of the churches. He looked like a rabid Puritan, a young man with deep-set eyes and a hoarse voice. He took advantage of the fact that the church was full on Sunday—Puritans rarely preached—so his speech was met with interest.
After reading a few appropriate passages from the Bible, the preacher attacked the monarchists and all those who negotiated with the King.
“What do you expect from these negotiations?” the preacher croaked. “These men from Oxford are thirsty for blood! Your blood, brothers! Why have they started these negotiations? Only to gain time, to better prepare for further war against you, brothers! They are preparing to commit a terrible crime! Do not be deceived! These are the messengers of Satan, spawned from Hell! Expecting peace from these negotiations is as futile as squeezing water from a stone! You are being deceived, you are being seduced only so that the noose can be more conveniently placed around your necks! All of the King’s negotiators must be sent back to the King, and if they leave, then they must all be hanged! Only then will we achieve peace when the King stops deceiving us, and he will not stop doing so as long as he sees how blindly we trust his promises, which are then never kept!”

The people were excited by this preacher's words and agreed with him. People are always quick to believe that someone is far worse than themselves! The few who retained faith in the infallibility of the King, God's anointed, began to believe that the King was surrounded by bad advisers, that he was misinformed, misled. This consideration also made everyone militant toward the King's delegates.

"Brothers, I will reveal the truth to you!" the preacher continued to rage. "Do you know that, while pretending to negotiate with the nation, Charles I is at the same time negotiating with the Papists in Ireland and Scotland in order to enlist their support and use them against our dear Parliament, the last bastion of defense of our legitimate interests and rights? It is so, I do not lie, I have secret protocols drawn up between the King and the Irish and Scottish Papists! Tomorrow, on this very spot, I will bring them, and you will be able to read them!"
The noise grew louder, and law enforcement officers appeared, who decided to investigate the causes of the disturbances.
"Look over there!" the preacher exclaimed, pointing at the guards. "There they are! These are the King's commissioners too! They ensure that the words of truth are not spoken on the streets of England or in its churches! Seize them, my brothers!"
The crowd roared and rushed at the innocent guards.
Meanwhile, the preacher disappeared, taking advantage of the fact that the crowd temporarily switched its attention from him to the guards who had appeared.

The King's representatives sensed that the negotiations could break down and lead to another rebellion. Charles became nervous and finally decided to make some concessions. He was forced to agree to allow officers appointed by Parliament to command the national troops. Effectively, with this agreement, the troops no longer belonged to the King, but to Parliament.
The king was forced to sign an act according to which the people's militia was to be commanded by Fairfax and Cromwell.
The people felt this concession as a victory over the King's stubbornness.
Charles I was despondent, feeling he was losing the last of his power. When one of his lords asked him why he was so sad, Charles I replied that he had been served bad wine.
"I hope that in a few days, Your Majesty, you will be drinking the finest wine in the kingdom with your Lord Mayor in the city council chamber!" the unsuspecting lord replied.
The King, sensing disaster, spent a sleepless night, and the next morning received Montrose's report on some of his victories in Scotland. But the King understood that even Montrose's victories in Scotland were now meaningless; he would be unable to march victoriously through his kingdom, which he no longer governed. Laws were governed by Parliament, and the army was now commanded by men appointed by Parliament. But Montrose advised Charles to hold out to the last and avoid entering into dubious agreements with Parliament. Charles I was easily persuaded, and therefore easily dissuaded. Since he read Montrose's advice last, it was with Montrose's opinion that he agreed when Southampton brought him the Act appointing Fairfax and Cromwell to command for his signature. The King refused and uttered harsh words, which immediately became known in Parliament.
Parliament realized that it was impossible to negotiate anything with this King, since the one who had agreed to the jointly negotiated solution the previous day had decisively rejected it the following morning. This behavior put an end to efforts to reach an agreement. Negotiations ceased due to Parliament's lack of faith in the possibility of reaching any agreement. The war between the King and his people, and the people against their King, continued.

"What do you say now, my lord?" Mordaunt asked Cromwell after the delegates from both sides who had begun the negotiations had departed without completing their intended business. "Do you still hope to reach an agreement with the King?"
"I never harbored any illusions that this was possible," Cromwell replied. "But I couldn't openly oppose negotiations. I certainly didn't expect the matter to end so quickly, and that's probably to our advantage."

The next day, Cromwell demanded that Parliament appoint a commander-in-chief, naming Fairfax rather than himself. The young Fairfax's candidacy reassured those who feared Cromwell's concentration of power, and he easily gained Parliament's support. He then resigned his seat as an MP to focus on his military duties, in accordance with the Act of Abdication, which had never been approved by the House.
After this, the Lower House introduced a bill abolishing the troops' duty to protect the King. The Lords of the Upper House were alarmed, to which the functionaries of the Lower House countered that the troops were now effectively fighting against the King, and therefore, for them, the duty to protect the King was becoming absurd. However, the votes were split roughly evenly, after which the Lower House placed full responsibility for the consequences on the House of Lords. The Lords, fearing the responsibility, relented. The army received the legal right to fight against its King.
Essex, learning of Fairfax's appointment, realized he would never become commander-in-chief and resigned all authority. Waller and Manchester followed suit. The troops under their command nearly mutinied and defected to the King, but Cromwell, on Mordaunt's advice, proposed to Parliament that they pay all outstanding pay, as well as two months' pay in advance. After this measure, all the troops, still simmering with discontent, calmed down and returned to full obedience.
The cavalrymen previously commanded by Cromwell also resented being forced to place themselves under Fairfax's command. Cromwell was appointed head of the War Committee, effectively giving orders to Fairfax. He could have become the sole and most important military man on the War Committee, but Parliament couldn't stop the cavalrymen's rebellion with financial handouts, so Cromwell was offered the chance to return to command of the cavalry to restore order and discipline. His mere appearance was enough to calm the cavalry and place them under his complete control. They achieved their goal, but perhaps Cromwell regretted not having been given the post of head of the War Committee. He was too good a military leader for the army to allow him to take a ministerial position. No one can hope for promotion until they have trained an effective deputy.

Chapter 123

Charles I appointed his fifteen-year-old son, Charles, Prince of Wales, as generalissimo and ordered him to march west with his force.
The young generalissimo was confronted by skilled commanders, Fairfax with his foot army and Cromwell with his cavalry.
Cromwell was winning victories, the King had made it clear that he would be finished off, while Parliament would have liked to have two Cromwells, one to lead the cavalry, the other to chair the War Committee and other important committees of Parliament.
After numerous battles, the King was left completely defeated and lost his army.
Mordaunt asked Cromwell when the King would be executed?
“He is still King of England and, as such, is not subject to Parliament,” Cromwell replied.
"Why do you all bow down to him so?" Mordaunt flared up. "Will you forgive him even a crime against the nation, against each of you personally?"
"You speak of things that are not proven, but merely conjecture," Cromwell countered. "You and I both know the King would hang us all without a second thought, but that's just conjecture. There's no proof."
"But you weren't looking for them!" Mordaunt protested. "You have the power to seize his entire archive of documents and search it thoroughly!"
"If we find private letters there, we have no moral right to read them, let alone read them in Parliament," Cromwell objected. "The King's private life is sacred."
"The private life of a traitor to the nation is not sacred; it must be thoroughly investigated!" Mordaunt objected. "What if you find in his correspondence an indication that he intended to betray the interests of the country?"
"Now is not the time to sort through his copious correspondence; it would take months!" Cromwell tried to object.
"Leave this matter to me, my lord!" Mordaunt exclaimed. "I will quickly find what we need!"
"You know that I have always supported your initiatives," Cromwell agreed. "And I have never been disappointed in that. You ask so little of me that I cannot refuse you. If you find anything that exposes the King as a traitor, I will have these letters read in Parliament."

A week later, letters found in Charles I's archives were read out in the House of Commons . They irrefutably proved that the King had no intention of honoring any agreements, entered into negotiations only to buy time, and that he was constantly negotiating with France, Spain, and Ireland, even asking the Pope for help, seeking loans at any interest rate to recruit a new, stronger army and defeat his own country's forces. The handwriting of the letters revealed the handwriting of Charles I.
The crowd was raging. No one asked themselves some of the questions that naturally suggested themselves.
Firstly, for what reason were the letters that were to be sent kept in the King's archives?
Secondly, if these were drafts, why sign them? Why present them as genuine letters?
Thirdly, if these were drafts, then why did he consider letters that had no corrections and were properly signed to be drafts?
Fourth, do Kings write letters in their own handwriting, much less copies? Isn't it enough to dictate the text of a letter to a secretary, signing it only with one's own signature? Did the King really have nothing better to do than write, much less copy, his own letters?
Fifthly, for what purpose did the King keep such letters incriminating him in his own archives?
Sixth, it wouldn't be a bad idea to present these letters to the King and ask him whether he acknowledges that they were written in his own handwriting. And if the King were to dismiss them as forgeries, who would have the audacity to continue to assert their authenticity?
I believe the reason Parliament was embarrassed to discuss these matters with the King was because all members understood they were acting unethically. To discuss these letters with the King, they would first have had to admit that not only had personal archives been seized, but correspondence, the private nature of which was beyond doubt, had been read—and, furthermore, this reading had taken place in public!
Realizing the unethical nature of their actions, Parliament chose to compound this unethical behavior by ignoring the opportunity to discuss these documents with the King and clarify them, preferring to discuss them in the absence of the supposed author, drawing conclusions without giving the King a chance to justify himself. After all, it's possible that even if the King himself wrote and signed these letters, he still had no intention of sending them, but wrote them simply to ponder the possibility, in the form of epistolary diaries, but ultimately abandoned the idea of sending them! In that case, such letters would not have exposed him as a traitor.
However, I know that the King really did seek help wherever he could, that he really was ready to fight his own kingdom, and that he really did not intend to fulfill the promises in any agreements.
But I cannot guarantee that the evidence presented to Parliament was not fabricated.
I continue to believe that King Charles I was not so mad as to keep such dangerous letters incriminating him in his archives. I reserve the right to this belief. I know only too well that any document can be forged. Every document is made by people, and what one person has done, another can do. What one person does mechanically, without thinking, another, with a certain talent and practice, can do with great effort, but very effectively. An example of this is one man, whom I will tell you about later, who studied his own brother's handwriting so perfectly that no handwriting expert could distinguish documents written by him from the genuine article. And who, after all, is a handwriting expert? An expert in the peculiarities of handwriting? If such an expert were to undertake to forge a signature, he would take into account all the subtleties that his art teaches. I would not claim that the letters read in Parliament were written by Charles I. On the contrary, I would doubt it, if only for the reason that under no circumstances would the King personally write second copies of such letters, sign them, and keep them. And he wouldn't even write the first copies of such letters himself.
Thus, reading these supposed "documents" indicated that the King supposedly had no regard for his people, his Parliament, or his duty as sovereign. Negotiating agreements that the King had no intention of fulfilling was an insult. Negotiating with foreign kings for military aid against his own army and on his own territory was treason. No one even considered making peace with the King. The rebellious people and the rebellious Parliament now had only one thought: complete victory over Charles I. He had to be defeated, humiliated, brought to his knees, and punished to the fullest extent of the law. But not according to the law, according to which the will of the King is law, but according to the practice that law is the decision of Parliament. If the first law were in effect, the existence of the second law was itself illegal. But who cared?
Now, if anyone fought on the King's side, it was only the rabble, burning with a thirst for plunder, violence, easy enrichment, a need for thrills, and perhaps even a desire for revenge. The royal army consisted of individuals possessing unparalleled insolence, irresponsibility, lack of ceremony, cruelty, and carelessness. They had no concept of military discipline; their only goal was plunder and oppression of those unfortunate enough to occupy the territory they occupied, even if only temporarily.
In the armies of Fairfax and Cromwell, the situation was the opposite. Their soldiers were disciplined, they did not loot, commit violence, or rob their own citizens. They were united by a common faith, and in their free time they sang psalms in chorus and prayed for victory over the hated enemy.
Meanwhile, the King, realizing his cause was lost, did not deny himself simple pleasures. He enjoyed the hospitality of the Marquis of Worster at Ragland Castle, where he spent his time in revelry, hunting, and feasting, while his fifteen-year-old son fought on the battlefield.
Naturally, the fifteen-year-old generalissimo found it difficult to resist these conditions. He was soon forced to surrender Bristol, which shocked the King.
The King wrote letter after letter to Oxford, demanding that Rupert, the King's nephew, be stripped of his cavalry commission. After some reflection, he also demanded that the Governor of Oxford be removed from office simply for his friendship with Rupert. In the next letter, he demanded that the governor and his nephew be arrested, and after some reflection, he added a rather revealing postscript: "Tell my son that his death alone would not have caused me such grief as a base act like the capitulation of Bristol."
Let me just remind you that the King wrote about his fifteen-year-old son, whom he had previously made generalissimo.

Chapter 124

It's sad to recount what happened next. The royal army grew weaker by the day, disintegrating before our eyes; the royal commanders' command became increasingly poor, while the opposition army grew stronger, its commanders drawing on past experience and demonstrating ever-increasing professionalism.
As the King was about to take Chester, Jones's regiment unexpectedly attacked him from the rear. The King should have gathered all his forces and attempted to break through this regiment, or else died with honor. But he lacked the strength for such a feat, so he simply abandoned his army and fled. The remnants of the ignominiously abandoned army fled in disarray behind him . Was it worth reproaching a fifteen-year-old son for surrendering Oxford, only to be disgraced in the process?
The King's immediate security force was reduced to three hundred personally loyal bodyguards. The King managed to fall out with all his supporters, including his nephew Rupert, Prince Maurice, and Montrose.
Meanwhile, Cromwell ordered a more decisive war and the taking of no prisoners. Any Irishman captured with weapons in hand on English soil would be shot, or tied back to back and thrown over a cliff into the sea.
The Prince of Wales realized that he lacked the knowledge and military talent to lead the remaining troops in Cornwall, and he offered Hopton to lead them.
"When someone refuses to obey an order, they usually justify it by saying it conflicts with their sense of honor," Hopton replied. "In this case, if I were to use that excuse, I would have every right to do so. The army you offer me, under current circumstances, can only be completely routed by the enemy, which would certainly damage the honor of its leader. So, by accepting your offer, I would be forced to sacrifice my own honor. Nevertheless, if Your Highness wishes to summon me, I am ready to obey, and will do everything in my power to lose as late as possible and with as little dishonor as possible. The best outcome for me would be to fight as long as possible, to die in this final battle."
After yet another series of defeats, it became known that the locals intended to seize the Prince of Wales and hand him over to Parliament. So Hopton put Charles of Wales on the nearest ship and sent him to France.
He fought for a while longer, as long as he could. But the officers came to him and announced that the soldiers were demanding surrender. They explained that the enemy was offering favorable terms, so the soldiers declared that they would negotiate with the enemy themselves if the officers did not support them. Hopton, like all the officers and soldiers, already knew that Cromwell always treated cities, fortresses, and armies that voluntarily surrendered to him with great mercy, but in the event of refusal, he ordered no one to be spared, no prisoners to be taken, and captured cities and fortresses to be completely cleared of enemies. Therefore, Hopton replied to the officers that he was resigning his command and that they could surrender, provided that his name did not appear in the treaty, as he refused to sign the capitulation. He himself boarded a ship and left England, following the Prince of Wales to the shores of France.
The King's only remaining hope lay in Lord Westley's three-thousand-strong army, stationed at Worcester. He marched to meet him with the remnants of his army, which he had managed to gather, numbering no more than fifteen hundred horsemen.
But he was not destined to join Lord Westley's army, which was completely defeated.
Barely able to stand on his feet, the elderly Lord Westley sat down on the drum offered to him by his enemies and said with a sigh:
"Well, gentlemen, you've done your job. You can play your game or quarrel among yourselves, as you please."
After these words, Lord Westley turned his face towards the sun and, closing his eyes, completely surrendered himself to the sensation of warmth emanating from the heavenly body, as if he was handing himself over to the hands of the Lord.
The King hurried back to Oxford and delivered a message to Parliament, promising to disband his troops, surrender all fortresses, and return to Whitehall a peaceful man. Parliament merely chuckled. After all, the King had promised to do what had already been done. He had no troops to disband, nor any fortresses to surrender. It's so easy to promise to part with what you don't have, and so sweet to demand at least something in return!
The members of Parliament understood that if the King returned peacefully to Whitehall, who could guarantee he wouldn't immediately try to declare himself the rightful King? And who knew how the people, the nation, the troops would react? After all, not everyone knew about all of Charles I 's actions during the events of recent years!
Therefore, Parliament passed a law declaring that no one was to have any contact with the King or even approach him. He was only to be arrested. Fairfax was ordered to surround Oxford and storm it.
Oxford was besieged. The King offered to surrender if he were brought before Parliament, but was refused. The besiegers refused to hear any terms from the King; no "ifs" were taken into account; he was simply to be captured by storm, as the King had been predetermined to be a prisoner of war.
The King cut off his locks, shaved his beard, disguised himself as a servant, and, accompanied by only two companions, left Oxford at night through the fortress gates and over St. Magdalene's Bridge. Simultaneously, to create a distraction, three other groups of horsemen, each consisting of three men, emerged through three other exits and rode off in different directions, making it more difficult to determine which group the King was in and where he was going.

Chapter 125

Mazarin entered the Queen's house without warning, as had become their habit.
"You summoned me, Your Majesty?" he asked respectfully.
"Oh, Jules, leave those titles of yours!" the Queen waved her hand dismissively. "Now's not the time! We need to make a decision on a rather delicate matter."
“I am at your disposal, my Queen,” Mazarin said softly.
"The Prince of Wales has left England," the Queen announced. "Do you know where he is going?"
"To her mother, Queen Henrietta Maria of England, who has made Saint-Germain her home and established here, in the Parisian palace, a second court of royalists exiled from England, led by Sir Canelm Digby," replied Mazarin. "Your Majesty is exceedingly kind to your sister-in-law. The sister of your late husband, King Louis XIII , refuses nothing, while you, as I see, sometimes deny yourself even the most necessary things. Now her eldest son will join her. We may have the most serious problems as a result of your endless kindness, Your Majesty, but I undertake to arrange everything, since you are pleased to offer hospitality to this family. I understand your family feelings and bow to them."
"Well, my family feelings aren't so strong as to infringe on our state's needs for the sake of this fugitive's comfort," the Queen retorted. "But it seems to me she's providing for her stay with the means she brought with her from England? Or am I mistaken?"
"Allow me to remind you, Your Majesty, that the bulk of the English Crown's treasury was spent on King Charles I 's war against his own Parliament, as well as against his own nation, and, furthermore, against his second heir, Scotland," Mazarin added gently. "Of course, Queen Henrietta Maria did not arrive in Paris empty-handed, but all that she possesses does not ensure her stay in France."
“I heard that she brought with her a lot of treasures, the value of which is quite high,” the Queen was surprised.
"It would be more accurate to say that she did, at one time, take a considerable quantity of jewels from England, but she took them not to France, but to The Hague," Mazarin clarified. "She entertained herself at court with various productions of highly frivolous plays, in which she even performed some roles, which provoked the outrage of the Puritans. One famous poet, in his pamphlets, criticized the women who played roles at the fairgrounds, calling all such actresses by a term I hesitate to repeat before Your Majesty. This poet, at the insistence of the Queen, lost his ears for his prank, since she saw a hint of herself in the pamphlet. This man, although deaf, later became the head of Parliament and brought about the execution of two of King Charles I's most devoted friends, the Earl of Stafford and Archbishop William Laud." After this, the aforementioned Pym turned his attention to Queen Henrietta Maria, offering to bring her to reason or even exile her from England. The Count de la F;re, Marquis of Embo, our ambassador to England, who was then in England, urged Queen Henrietta Maria to reconcile with Pym so as not to inflame passions. He told her that in a foreign country, the customs of that country must be respected, and this applies above all to any queen, who is usually the crown princess of another state.
At these words, Mazarin bowed low to Queen Anne and kissed her hand.
"Your Majesty knows from experience what this is like," he said, kissing the Queen's other hand. "It takes a truly heroic woman to renounce her closest relatives in favor of a new fatherland, and Your Majesty's example should be regarded as one of the loftiest models to follow." But Queen Henrietta did not follow the Comte de la F;re's advice; on the contrary, she insisted that King Charles I show as much firmness as possible toward Parliament and personally toward Pym, who had offended her. You know what this led to. The King attempted to arrest Pym, as a result of which Parliament finally took the path of struggle against the King—or at least its lower house. We recalled our ambassador, the Comte de la F;re, and sent him home to Blois. After this, Queen Henrietta departed for The Hague. Firstly, she went there for her own safety. Secondly, her departure was intended to defuse tensions between the King and Parliament. But her true goal was to raise an army and procure weapons for the King's war against his own people and, of course, Parliament.
"It's understandable," the Queen sighed. "Parliament can be unbearable sometimes."
"But every war must either be won or not started at all," Mazarin retorted softly. "The example of Charles I provides us with a series of brilliant examples of what should never be done under any circumstances, and Queen Henrietta supplements this magnificent history textbook with her own mistakes, which she committed on her own initiative and completely without any outside help. She took the centuries-old legacy of the English crown with the aim of converting it into money, and then into weapons and an army."
“This impulse of hers can also be understood,” the Queen noted.
"Your Majesty, there are treasures that simply cannot be converted into money," Mazarin countered. "They are the national property of the kingdom. No private individual can pay their price, and no state will purchase such things, for there is always the danger that the new government will demand their return to their rightful owner, that is, the state. Queen Henrietta has removed what does not belong to her. If she had used the dowry given to her by your late husband for these purposes, no one would have dared to condemn her. But the treasures of the English crown must always remain in England."
"How did it all end?" asked the Queen.
“Queen Henrietta Maria managed to accomplish something; she arrived in England on a ship loaded with weapons, but it didn’t help Charles I ,” Mazarin replied. “It’s a long story with two stages of civil war, which got progressively worse for the royal family. As a result, as you see, she’s with us. But I can’t say that she pays all the expenses of her stay in Paris. And yet, as I said, the entire court is here with her. These idle idlers cost you, Your Majesty, a pretty penny every year. But that’s not all. They’ve established their own rules here in Saint-Germain. They have love affairs, duels, theatrical performances, and God knows what else. A whole state within a state. And no one can put them in their place, solely out of respect for you, Your Majesty, and also out of respect for your late husband, whose sister she is.”
"Who dared fight a duel in Paris?" the Queen exclaimed angrily.
"Prince Rupert, King Charles's nephew, intended to duel George Digby," Mazarin replied. "Henrietta Maria, fortunately, prevented this by ordering their arrest. But she was unable to prevent Henry Percy's duel with that same George Digby, and then Percy's duel with Prince Rupert."
"So did she arrest them, or just order them arrested?" the Queen asked. "If this Digby and this Rupert were arrested, how could they take turns dueling with some Percy? Besides, I don't understand how this parasite dares to order arrests, even of her own subjects? After all, they are on my land, in my kingdom. Here, only I can give such orders, or someone I've entrusted with this right, like you, my dear Jules!"
“You are absolutely right, Your Majesty,” agreed Mazarin.
"What are your recommendations regarding the arrival of the Prince of Wales here in France?" asked the Queen.
"As long as his father, King Charles I , lives , the Prince of Wales is simply not the most welcome guest," Mazarin replied softly. "We could agree to his stay, but it seems to me that we should not agree to the resulting expansion of the English court in Saint-Germain. On the contrary, we should recommend to Queen Henrietta Maria that she reduce the expenses of maintaining this court, that is, send some of her courtiers home. A significant part."
“That would be rather awkward,” said the Queen doubtfully.
“I will undertake negotiations with Her Majesty,” replied Mazarin.
"You said, 'While King Charles I lives ,'" the Queen clarified. "How are you to understand that? Are you suggesting that he might soon be..." The Queen hesitated, searching for the right words.
"His situation is extremely dire, Your Majesty," Mazarin replied. "If the English Parliament carries out its plan to arrest their King, they will undoubtedly try him. And if they try him, he may suffer the same fate as Mary Stuart."
"My God!" the Queen cried. "Can anyone really dare raise a hand against their King? At least the Queen of England ordered Mary Stuart's execution!"
"A bad example is contagious," Mazarin replied. "The Romans had a proverb: 'What is permitted to Jupiter is not permitted to a bull.'" It was believed that Jupiter, disguised as a bull, abducted the beautiful Europa.
"I know, what's next?" asked the Queen.
"Too many bulls have imagined themselves to be the new Jupiters after this," Mazarin replied. "Every bull knows that every other bull is just a bull, but believe me, each one thinks privately that he is the Jupiter."
"So you believe King Charles I is in such danger?" the Queen asked, this time without putting such horror into her question.
"I don't rule out anything, Your Majesty, and I believe that in this case the presence of his legitimate heir on French soil is undesirable, since Parliament, having decided to get rid of the King alone, may want to get rid of his heir as well," Mazarin replied. "This could mean a choice between handing him over to the new English government or waiting for war to be declared against us."
“But there is a third way out,” the Queen suggested.
"Which one?" asked Mazarin.
“His expulsion from France,” the Queen replied.
"This exit is tantamount to handing him over to England," said Mazarin. "It's as unacceptable as it is shameful. It would be better if the Prince of Wales himself were willing to leave France at least a day before becoming King in Exile."
"Will this be possible to accomplish?" asked the Queen.
"Put your trust in me, Your Majesty, and I will do my utmost, and I trust in God's will," the cardinal replied. "To my great regret, we cannot refuse to receive the Prince of Wales at this time, nor can we recommend that Queen Henrietta leave France. But we can ensure that the Queen of England and her court's stay in exile in Paris will not be as tranquil as it has been so far. Let them themselves choose to find another place to stay."
“Jules, do it as delicately and carefully as possible,” the Queen replied.
"I assure you, Your Majesty, that Queen Henrietta will have nothing to reproach you with," Mazarin replied. "She will encounter natural difficulties, in the resolution of which we will assist her as best we can, after which she will decide it would be better for her to depart for another place."
"What would I do without you, my dear Jules?" exclaimed the Queen.
"Your Majesty would remain the most beautiful Queen in Europe, even without me, and also the wisest and most powerful," replied Mazarin. "It is all of us, your humble servants, who must thank fate for having been granted the honor of serving you."
After these words, Mazarin again fell into the Queen’s hand, who tenderly stroked his magnificent black curls, after which she affectionately patted his palm and let him go to carry out urgent matters related to the governance of France.

Chapter 126

“Monsignor, there is a man asking to come to you for confession. I think I’ve seen him somewhere,” Bazin said to me.
"For heaven's sake, stop calling me monsignor!" I protested.
“Very well, Monseigneur, as you say,” replied Bazin.
“So where is this man?” I asked.
“He’s waiting for you in the confessional,” Bazin replied.
I proceeded to the confessional, which was divided into two sections so that the confessor and the person being confessed could not see each other. It's a small secret to reveal that the confessor was still able to glimpse the person being confessed, as he was in a darkened room, separated from the visitor by a wooden grille and a dark, translucent cloth. Since the similar room where the visitor was located was illuminated, the confessor could see who he was dealing with. But the person being confessed believed he was invisible, so he remained more relaxed.
I recognized the man immediately. It was Monsieur Bonacieux, the husband of Constance, with whom d'Artagnan was in love. However, he was no longer her husband, but her widower.
“I’m listening to you, my son,” I said.
"Holy Father, I have been told that you forgive even the greatest sins," Bonacieux said humbly. "May I ask you to hear my confession?"
By recounting the details of our conversation here, I do not violate the secrecy of confession, as Bonacieux himself has long since died, leaving no relatives or heirs. Furthermore, I do not intend to publish these notes. In this personal diary of mine, I can indulge in anything except one thing—lies. Why should I lie to myself?
"Any servant of God may turn to whichever confessor they deem necessary," I replied. "My duty is to listen to everyone and respond in the name of the Lord. Not in His name, but only in His name. I ask you to understand and acknowledge this."
"I will speak to you, Holy Father, as I would speak to the Lord at the Last Judgment," replied Bonacieux. "I don't even know the depth of my sin, but I am certain that I have much to repent of."
“Go ahead,” I replied.
"I had a wife, beautiful, young, and flighty, but I loved her very much," said Bonacieux. "She disappeared, and for twenty years now I have no idea what happened to her. But lately I have begun to think that perhaps I am partly to blame for her disappearance."
“What led you to this conclusion?” I asked.
"We had a quarrel," said Bonacieux. "I became jealous, and she protested that my accusations were baseless. After that, I was arrested and brought before the cardinal. I'm not talking about the current cardinal, but about the great cardinal, Richelieu."
Bonacieux fell silent.
“I’m listening to you,” I said. “It befits me to remain silent and listen. If you wish to tell me everything, speak; if you prefer silence, I will not detain you. You may leave at any moment. But if you are here, speak.”
“I beg your pardon, Holy Father,” Bonacieux said hastily. “I was thinking, because I don’t know whether I should tell you about my visit to the Cardinal. I’ve made up my mind, I’ll tell you everything. The Cardinal was very kind to me and called me his friend, so I was completely struck by his manners. I must say, I respected him greatly before, although I allowed myself to laugh a few times about the incident with the sarabande. And about how the Cardinal danced before the Queen... I’m still ashamed that I dared to laugh at such a great man. But after my conversation with His Eminence, I was filled with even greater respect for him. He demanded that I inform him of all my wife’s acquaintances, of all her visitors, of the letters she receives, sends, or forwards, of all her movements. He said that she had joined the circle of state criminals, and it was my duty to expose them.”
"Do I understand you correctly that you agreed to spy on your own wife, contrary to the Lord's commandment that husband and wife are one and indivisible?" I asked.
"Spying?" Bonacieux was alarmed. "Yes, perhaps that's what it should be called. Spying, precisely. But I didn't consider that spouses are inseparable. The Cardinal convinced me that my duty was to aid him in his fight against the enemies of the state. Do you condemn me, Holy Father?"
"You condemn yourself, my son, otherwise you would not have come to confession," I replied. "Allow me not to express my judgment until you have told me all that you must tell, if you expect an answer from a priest who only proclaims the will of the Lord."
"I beg your pardon, you are right, Holy Father," Bonacieux hastily agreed. "You are right, I agreed to spy on my own wife, believing it was necessary. But the Cardinal paid me in silver for it. All these twenty years I have wondered if this is what is called thirty pieces of silver, the price Judas received for his betrayal."
Silence reigned again. I cleared my throat.
“Yes, I must tell you everything myself,” Bonacieux understood my hint. “We were running an inn, and a young man, a Gascon, who dreamed of becoming a musketeer, stayed there. His name was the Chevalier d’Artagnan. I noticed that he was glancing in my wife’s direction, and she, as it seemed to me at the time, did not object to his close attention. At first, I convinced myself that it was only my imagination, that I should trust my wife. But over time, I began to think that there was an affair going on between them. I tried to talk to her and reason with her, but she only laughed in my face, saying that she saw this guest as nothing more than a guest. I believed her completely. But after a while, my wife was kidnapped. At first, I thought that this Gascon had done it, but then I remembered that a tall man in black, a nobleman by his appearance, had been watching her closely several times. It seemed to me that he was tracking her. I decided that he was the one who had kidnapped her. So I decided to ask my lodger to find my wife and rescue her. In reward, I granted him unlimited credit within reason, forgave him three months' worth of back rent, and ordered his servant to bring him the best food and excellent wine to his room. But he deceived me, despicably deceived me! He did nothing to find and rescue my wife. Instead, he showed complete disregard for my interests. The fact is that I was, of course, mistakenly arrested by the Cardinal's guards. At the time of my arrest, this Gascon was present at home with his three friends, and he greeted my arrest with great enthusiasm. He thanked the guards for arresting me and wished them a long time in prison. Fortunately, I was soon released. Freed by the great Cardinal himself! It was then that my conversation with him took place. The cardinal told me I was an honest and honorable man, compensated me for the inconvenience, and sent me home, informing me that my wife had been involved in treason and that I was to put a stop to her activities in this direction. I, of course, agreed. After that, I thought my wife was deceiving me! But if she was deceiving me in political matters, then who could guarantee that she wasn't deceiving me in marital matters as well? I was horrified by this thought! I recalled once again how she had laughingly dismissed my suspicions about the young Gascon, and this time it seemed to me that she had lied to me after all. I decided to track them down and expose them. But I had no chance. The chevalier had gone away for a long time, so I almost calmed down. But I also thought that perhaps he had rented another apartment on the other side of Paris so he could meet my wife there discreetly. While my wife was at work, I would traipse around the city, hoping to bump into him by chance, and when she was off duty, I would follow her, hoping that she would turn off the direct route home, take a detour somewhere, and that there I would catch them, the dear fellows, and expose them. But nothing of the sort happened. I was unable to catch her red-handed. A couple of weeks later, the young Gascon returned. My wife was at work at the time. Then my wife came home, and I hid to see what she would do. She sat down at the table, wrote a note, then took the spare key to the room we rented to the Gascon and entered, after which she immediately left, locked the doors, and put the key back. I waited until she left, went into the Gascon's room using the same key, and found a note on his desk that read: "They wish to thank you warmly on their own behalf and on behalf of another person. Be at Saint-Cloud this evening at ten o'clock, opposite the pavilion adjoining Monsieur d'Estr;es's house. K.B." The initials K.B. were her initials, Constance Bonacieux! When I saw this note, I went crazy. My wife herself was making an appointment with a young lodger in a secluded place, on some estate! Could I have imagined such a thing? I wanted to kill her, him, and myself. Or perhaps just him? Or just myself? I don't know! I sat and sobbed for half an hour, after which my thoughts cleared up. I told myself that nothing was known yet, nothing had been proven. Perhaps she simply needed to give him some money for a service rendered? Why not? I had to know everything before doing anything. I couldn't afford to make an irreparable mistake! So I put the note back where I found it, locked the door, and returned to my room. A couple of hours later, I heard that the Gascon had returned to his room. I was restless, so I went outside to meet him and look him in the face. I forgot to mention that his room had a separate entrance from the street. Soon he also came out of the house and met me. He apparently intended to pass by, pretending not to notice me, but I bowed to him politely.
"Monsieur Bonacieux, have you been released from prison yet?" the Gascon inquired, beaming like a golden louis d'or.
“Thank God, innocent people are not kept in prison for long,” I replied.
"I hope you weren't treated too badly?" the Gascon inquired.
"It's hard to say," I retorted. "If you ever happen to be where I was and meet Monsieur Lafema, you'll never laugh about this delicate subject again. If you only knew how strong the doors are in the Bastille! And what thick, sturdy iron bolts they have, and what enormous locks they have!"
"Didn't you see blue sky and sunshine while you were there, dear Monsieur Bonacieux?" the Gascon asked, mockingly, it seemed to me.
"If you call a patch of gray sky, crossed in two directions by thick iron bars, blue sky, then I've seen it occasionally," I replied. "And every day I thought that maybe I was looking at the sky for the last time."
“And yet, you were released, to the delight of us all,” the Gascon replied, his lips stretching into a wide smile, and ironic wrinkles gathering at the edges of his cunning eyes.
“His Grace was quickly convinced of my innocence,” I replied.
"Not so quickly, after all, you spent quite a long time there," the Gascon objected. "Tell me, did you find out who kidnapped Madame Bonacieux back then?"
"Since she's now free, you can conclude that she's also been released, and therefore she's innocent," I replied. "Therefore, there's nothing more to say. Justice is sometimes forced to make mistakes, but these mistakes are easily corrected, since, fortunately, justice doesn't make irreparable mistakes."
"I am glad to hear it, good Monsieur Bonacieux!" the Gascon replied with even greater irony.
"Where have you been for the last few days?" I asked in turn. "I haven't seen you for almost two weeks, and your boots were so covered in dust you'd hardly find on the roads of Paris!"
“We took our friend Athos to the waters at Forges, where he remained,” replied the Gascon.
"And you, as I see, have chosen to return to Paris?" I asked. "I suppose you have reasons for preferring the city to the beautiful resorts? I suppose the local beauties wouldn't allow such a handsome man as you, Chevalier, to leave Paris for long?"
“You have guessed right, my dear Monsieur Bonacieux,” the Gascon replied with a laugh, “I must admit, they were waiting for me, and, I can assure you, with impatience!”
"And you, apparently, are also burning with impatience to meet the one who was waiting for you?" I asked, not knowing why.
"By the way, don't be surprised if I return home a bit late today, or perhaps even don't come home at all," the Gascon replied with a laugh. "However, you won't be bored, since I trust Madame Bonacieux will brighten up your leisure time?"
"Madame Bonacieux is busy this evening!" I objected. "Her duties keep her at the Louvre."
"Well, I sympathize with you, but what can you do! One has to endure the inconveniences when your wife serves at court," the Gascon replied, and it seemed to me that his words and his gaze betrayed even more irony, disdain, and a sense of superiority.
"Have fun!" I replied. "I hope you'll remember this night for a long time," I added when he had gone far enough to hear my last remark.
After this story, Bonacieux fell silent again.

"You were about to tell me about your sin, my son," I said. "Instead, you're recounting in excessive detail a dubious episode from your family life, in which I see nothing worth sharing with a servant of God. The Church does not interfere in worldly affairs or in the relationships of spouses or their guests."
“I told you this only so that you could understand my actions,” replied Bonacieux. “After this conversation, I finally understood that the Gascon intended to attend this rendezvous, that he and my wife intended to spend the entire night together. And then I realized that I was powerless to stop them. What could I do? Arrest him at gunpoint? Surely he would have run me through with his sword? Fire a pistol? I wouldn’t have had the courage, and even if I had, I would most likely have missed. Hire some people to help me? To disgrace myself in front of this rabble? So that all of Paris would later say that I was a cuckold? And then I remembered that my wife might still be involved in the conspiracy. Perhaps this entire meeting was merely an anti-government crime, and not adultery at all! In that case, my worries were needless. The worst thing that threatened me was that she would be arrested, perhaps tried, and even executed, but I would not be disgraced, so it was still easier than being a cuckold! I prayed to God that my second suspicion would be true, that my wife would be unfaithful not to me, but to the King and the Cardinal! I suddenly remembered that I had promised the great Cardinal to report any suspicious activity on my wife. And this matter was clearly suspicious. Fortunately, I remembered Constance's note word for word. I immediately went to the Palais Cardinal and demanded to see His Eminence. I would have been thrown out, but I saw a gentleman who already knew me and who held a rather high position in the Cardinal's service. I already knew that his name was the Count de Rochefort. The Count saw me, asked my business, and when he heard I had information about my wife's secret meeting, he immediately ordered me through and personally escorted me to the Cardinal. The great Cardinal greeted me kindly, listened to me, and then gave me another purse of silver and advised me to go home and have no fear.
Here Bonacieux fell silent again and, as I saw, covered his face with his hands. He was sobbing.
"My son, what happened next?" I asked.
“Nothing!” replied Bonacieux. “Nothing happened after that. I never saw her again, my dear Constance! I tried to learn of her fate from the Cardinal, but they wouldn’t let me see him. Five times I met Monsieur de Rochefort in the street, but he always pretended not to know me. On the sixth occasion, when I grabbed him by the sleeve and begged him to tell me Constance’s fate, he scornfully snatched his sleeve from my hands and said: ‘Listen! If you dare speak to me again or come within five paces of me, I will have my servants beat you with sticks, and if that doesn’t work, I will run you through with this sword!’ Since then, I have known nothing of my unfortunate Constance’s fate. I believe that she certainly got what she deserved, since she plotted to kill the King and the Cardinal, or assisted the conspirators in this plot. Besides, she was having an affair with that Gascon, that d'Artagnan! But I still regret telling the Cardinal and Rochefort where they could find her. I think I'm partly to blame for her being imprisoned in the fortress. And I still wait for her to be forgiven and released. When the Cardinal died, I hoped my wife would be released and return home. But that didn't happen. She probably ran off with that Gascon!
"My son!" I said. "To absolve you of your sin, I must first explain it to you. Do you have the courage to hear the truth about your actions and their consequences? I warn you that, by the will of fate, I am informed of your wife's fate and can share some of the details of these events with you."
"Are you telling the truth, Holy Father?" asked Bonacieux, his voice trembling.
“I swear to you in the name of the Lord that I will tell you the truth and nothing but the truth about your wife,” I replied.
- But how do you know all this?
"The Lord sometimes reveals the most varied secrets to his servants, sometimes even more terrifying than this," I replied. "But you came to confession, not to interrogate me. Either you see me as a servant of the Lord and trust me, or you should look for another confessor."
"Forgive me, Holy Father!" Bonacieux hastened to correct himself. "I'm wrong, I believe you. So you know about her fate?"
“Not everything, but a lot,” I answered.
"Speak!" cried Bonacieux. "Anything is better than uncertainty!"
“It will hurt you to hear this truth, I warn you,” I said.
“So be it!” cried Bonacieux. “I want to know everything. I want it. Speak.”
“Know then, Monsieur Bonacieux, that your wife is innocent of any of the crimes of which you suspect and accuse her,” I replied. “She has never plotted against the King, nor against the Cardinal, nor even against any of the King’s servants or the Cardinal, or against any other person, French citizen or foreigner. No evil. Never. Neither in deed nor in thought. The only thing she is guilty of is devotion to our Queen and a desire to defend her honor. Are you satisfied?”
"Thank you!" Bonacieux exclaimed. "I believe you, it's true! I know she's like that, my Constance! But... She was unfaithful to me, wasn't she?!"
“That’s your second question, and I’ll also answer it in the negative,” I said. “If you like, she liked the Gascon you’re talking about. I can’t even guarantee that, under different circumstances, she would probably have broken up with you and taken up with him. But these are mere assumptions, which neither I, a servant of God, nor you, a husband who has accused your wife of infidelity that never happened, should make. Before his trip, there were only exchanges of remarks between them; after his trip, they saw each other only briefly in the Louvre for a few seconds, no more. After that, he saw her only once, in the presence of many witnesses, in a monastery, under extremely regrettable circumstances. So I assure you, your wife did not cheat on you with that Gascon; nothing of the kind you suspect took place between them.”
"There wasn't?!" Bonacieux cried. "So she was pure? Where is she hiding? Where did she go, if not to her lover?"
"She was in captivity, in prison, thrown there innocently," I replied, "after which the Queen herself saw to it that she was freed and hidden from her enemies in a Carmelite monastery. She remained there for some time."
"To enter a convent while her husband was still alive?" exclaimed Bonacieux. "How could she have decided to do that?"
"She decided to leave her husband, who had betrayed her to her enemies, for a convent," I said coldly. "Instead of protecting his wife from unjust arrest or hiding her, that same husband told her enemies where and when they could find her, defenseless and not expecting any attack, and with no one nearby who could intercede for her. An hour or so before your guest, the young Gascon, arrived there, the Cardinal's guards, led by the Comte de Rochefort, seized her by force and abducted her again, from where she was only rescued by our Queen. She was the one who ordered her placed in the convent, where the Cardinal's guards could not reach her."
"So, she's in a convent?" asked Bonacieux. "Name that convent, and I'll go there, in rags and barefoot if necessary, I'll beg her forgiveness, I'll persuade her to come back!"
"The monastery of Bethune," I said. "But don't rush. She didn't stay there long, Monsieur Bonacieux." "One of the cardinal's henchmen killed her by forcing her to drink poisoned wine. I warned you that it wouldn't be easy for you to learn the truth. That truth is that if you hadn't betrayed her to Rochefort and the cardinal, she might still be alive today."
“No!” cried Bonacieux. “It’s a lie! She’s alive! I don’t believe it.”
"If you want to know where Constance Bonacieux's grave is, I can tell you that you'll find it in the cemetery of Perrois, B;thune," I replied. "You'll find her grave easily; it's a small cemetery, and on it stands a solid piece of white marble with her name, 'Constance Bonacieux,' the date of her death, and an image of a dove. Now that you know the whole truth, would you like me to forgive you your sin? Repent and turn to the Lord, and He will probably forgive you. The Lord is good; He has forgiven even greater sins."
“Wait,” Bonacieux objected. “The accusation I just heard is too heavy. I cannot believe you, but I cannot not believe you either. I must understand all of this. I must visit her grave. Touch the tombstone. Understand. I cannot ask the Lord for forgiveness for this sin so quickly. This sin, as I see, is too great. I did not want this. But I know that this is no excuse. I must feel it, understand it, feel it. God! How can I ask the Almighty for forgiveness for this sin, which I have not yet recognized, which I have not yet reconciled with myself? And is such reconciliation possible? I need to come to my senses, think it over, feel it…”
“Well, come for absolution as soon as you are ready for it,” I replied.
“But not to you, Holy Father,” Bonacieux objected. “The sin I bear, if you tell the truth, is too great for me to ask your forgiveness. Someone higher up is needed here. A bishop… An archbishop, perhaps… A cardinal… I don’t know. No, not cardinal! I hate that word! After all, he gave me silver! For my poor Constance! I sold her for pieces of silver! With it, I built a new house! Accursed house! Accursed dwelling, built with Judas’s silver! I need to think, to understand…”
"If talking to a simple abbot isn't enough for you, go to the Coadjutor of Paris," I replied. "He's below the Cardinal, but above any other confessor in Paris."
"I will do so!" replied Bonacieux. "I thank you for your advice and for the information which, I hope... What am I saying? I believe you, yes, I believe you. Farewell, Holy Father!"
With these words, Bonacieux stood up resolutely, opened the doors of his cell and left the temple.

The next day, a fire broke out on a Paris street. As I learned by chance, it was the house of a wealthy grocer named Bonacieux that burned down. At the same time, someone who wished to remain anonymous donated a thousand pistoles to the Church of the Blessed Virgin Mary for the repose of the servant of God, Constance.

Three days later, I saw a fool with deep, sunken eyes, disheveled hair, unkempt stubble, and dressed in rags, standing on the steps of Notre Dame Cathedral. A sign nearby announced that he was collecting money for a walking pilgrimage to B;thune. I recognized him. It was Bonacieux.

Chapter 127

If anyone happens to read these memoirs, they will ask whether I have perhaps devoted too much attention to the events in England. And I have already asked myself this question. But Europe is a single organism, and it was further influenced by the liberating spirit of the wars in the Netherlands. The problems that arose between King Charles of England and his nation are comparable to those between Mazarin and the French nation. And the absurdity with which Charles attempted to resolve them, and the unfortunate outcome for him, allow us to better understand how clever Mazarin was, and how useful and important his delicate advice was for Queen Anne.
In these memoirs, I refer to the English King as Charles I , but he only became the first posthumously, with the rise of Charles II , his son. First Kings don't have numbers. He was simply King Charles. His power was hereditary, and for several hundred years, hereditary power in England had been unchallenged. He was also King of Scotland, a crown he also inherited. If he had had trouble with England, he could have retired to Scotland and preserved not only his life but also his power, at least in that small country. But Charles was unwilling to compromise. Having begun by declaring his power total, placing it above all law, he encountered few objections to such tyranny. Parliament existed under him, but it could only exist with both houses, the upper of which was composed of lords almost entirely loyal to him. Without the approval of the House of Lords, no decision could be made, and furthermore, without the King's approval, no decision of Parliament, including one approved by both Houses, would be valid. Meanwhile, Parliament's disagreement with the King, or the King's disagreement with Parliament, always meant only one thing: Parliament would be dissolved. A King without Parliament remained King; a Parliament without a King ceased to be Parliament. Convincing the pitiful remnants of Parliament to vote for the execution of their King, without whom they themselves were nothing, was no easy feat. It required acting as Charles did. Having begun a war against Scotland with the help of English troops, he then began a war against England with the help of Irish troops, and finally found himself surrounded by Scots troops, who no longer considered him their sovereign King. But even when the entire Empire no longer recognized his authority, they still acknowledged him as their King. He was offered a treaty on the most favorable terms. Not only did he refuse any compromises, he also deceived all his negotiators, promising one thing to one, another to another, but fulfilling absolutely none of them. Twice he simply fled: once from the battlefield, and once from the castle in Richmond, using a secret passage he knew. This escape alienated him from almost all of his supporters, and, worse, from absolutely all of his opponents. These opponents, before his escape, still respected him and tried to negotiate with him, simply to conclude a small agreement guaranteeing non-prosecution of those who rebelled in defense of their legal rights; they offered him a ten-year resignation from command of the army. The King was unwilling to cede any of his rights. But after his escape, even Parliament realized that any negotiations with the King were futile. Before the King's escape, even Cromwell hoped that England's salvation lay in a treaty with the King and strict adherence to its terms. But how could one negotiate with a King who had suddenly disappeared and was perhaps already secretly recruiting new troops elsewhere for a new war?
With a handful of remaining supporters, Charles arrived at the fortress of Carisbrooke on the Isle of Wight. Commandant Hammond realized that such a visit would be fatal for him. He had neither invited the King nor expected his arrival; to him, such a guest was a burden, threatening death.
"You have ruined me, Your Majesty!" he said. "But I will not give you the slightest reason to complain about the reception I will give you, and then, come what may."
Why flee if Charles had subsequently informed Parliament of his whereabouts? Did he really consider a dozen or so loyal men on the island a guarantee of his safety?
Parliament again attempted to negotiate with the King and sent him even more lenient terms. The King was asked to cede command of the land and naval forces to Parliament for twenty years, repeal his acts accusing Parliament of illegal actions, revoke all charters of elevation to the lordships issued after his departure from London, and grant Parliament the right to meet whenever he deemed necessary.
The King's term of imprisonment was doubled compared to the previous proposal. The King should have considered that things would only get worse, and perhaps no one would ever offer him better terms. This treaty wouldn't be a capitulation, but a temporary compromise. The King had already repeatedly demonstrated incomprehensible leniency in matters he could have won—after all, he had agreed to the execution of Stafford and Laud! Well, here the price was simply the lives of his most loyal allies.
Here, the price was a slight infringement of his rights, and he was not willing to make any concessions. He had the opportunity to pacify the country, end the civil war, after which, perhaps, in a few years, the situation might turn in his favor. After all, Lord Westley had said with good reason: "Well, gentlemen, you have done your part. You can play your game or quarrel among yourselves, as you please." He understood perfectly well that among the victors, no one could unite all the disparate factions and retain complete control of the state. In any case, there were still many disagreements ahead, on which a cunning politician like Mazarin could build his game and regain full power.
But Charles wasn't as cunning as Mazarin; he was simply stubborn, unable to grasp the entire situation, formulate the best plan of action, and execute it. He simply saw nothing, understood nothing, and acted as if his two wars against his own subjects had never happened, and as if the tens of thousands of dead on both sides had never existed.
If Karl had had any common sense, he would have agreed to these terms. But that was Karl, just the way he was.
I must be completely honest. Even Oliver Cromwell at that time was still seeking an opportunity to reach an agreement with the King; even he still saw the country's salvation in reaching an agreement with Charles. But after this flight and yet another refusal to reach an agreement, Cromwell realized that no compromise with this man was possible, and even if a treaty were reached, Charles would not even consider honoring it. This stubborn man believed that there was no law in England above his wishes, no authority above his power, no authority above his own, no one had the right to demand anything from him, and, even more so, no one had the right to judge him.
He should have parted with these illusions as soon as he saw the first troops opposing his troops, but he did not part with them even when he had to leave the battlefield between two armies, one in front, the other in the rear, and even when against the whole of England he was protected only by a chair placed in the courtroom.
In discussing the King's reply to Parliament, Thomas Roth said that all His Majesty's actions of late convinced him that the only worthy place for this man was Bedlam, a place where madmen were kept and shown to visitors for money.
He was not far from the truth.
I write this only to remind myself and potential readers that the situation in England arose solely through the fault of the King, for he was the sole legitimate heir to the crown of England and Scotland; no one ever objected to his candidacy; the crown was his without a doubt. He should have simply governed the country, as his ancestors had done, or entrusted it to a worthy prime minister, as Louis XIII did .
Queen Anne, however, set a precedent that had long since been absent from France. Only in England could a queen be a sovereign ruler, but not in France, and not during the reign of Anne of Austria. A queen could wield power, as Catherine de' Medici had, by influencing her son the king, first Francis II , then Charles IX , then Henry III , as Marie de' Medici had during the minority of Louis XIII . However, under Catherine de' Medici, her sons formally reigned, and Marie de' Medici was officially crowned by order of Henry IV . Many princes, and above all Gaston d'Orl;ans, the brother of the late king, claimed a sizable share of power for themselves. Only Mazarin's assistance enabled Anne of Austria to consolidate her power and remain sole regent, reducing all royal councils to advisory bodies under her, a virtually sovereign ruler.
But for a long time the highest nobility considered themselves entitled to give her not only advice, which she did not ask for, but even insistent recommendations, to interfere in her decisions, to lay claim to positions that would give them high incomes and great power.
Some things had to be thrown into these mouths to temporarily close them. Others had to be muzzled.
Mazarin was superb. He was a diplomat of the highest order. He never refused anyone; the word "no" was not part of his vocabulary, but he almost never did anything that would diminish the Queen's power or his influence, never conceding anything that couldn't be repaid with interest a little later. When he needed to persuade the Queen to make a concession, he explained that the time was not yet ripe for firmness. One of his favorite methods of making concessions was to verbally agree, but in reality, delay fulfilling the promise as long as possible. But he always knew how to clearly distinguish when refusal or hesitation were disastrous, and when and under what circumstances it was appropriate to fool petitioners and even those who made unreasonable demands. When it was necessary to agree and fulfill the promise immediately, or pay without delay, he did so. He taught the Queen this flexibility, too.
If it had not been for this resourcefulness, worthy of a river eel, he would not have stood up to the Fronde.
However, as a former rebel, I must be completely honest with myself. Our actions were more like those of a child moving chess pieces without considering the rules of the game or understanding the rationale behind these changes, while we were facing an experienced grandmaster. And this grandmaster had such a powerful figure in his hands as our good friend Charles-Ogier de Batz de Castelmore, Lieutenant d'Artagnan.
I enlisted the noble Athos in my schemes, even though his nobility prevented him from being useful in matters of intrigue. Had he been forced to fight the Gorgon Medusa, I imagine he would have shouted at her: "Mind you, I do not fear your gaze, which turns all to stone, for I will gaze upon you through a highly polished copper shield, which serves as a mirror!" Had Athos come to King Minos, he would have informed him: "I must warn you that your daughter Ariadne has given me a ball of thread with which I intend to find my way out of the labyrinth!" Had he been forced to fight the Trojans, he would have warned them: "We intend to climb inside the wooden horse, emerge unexpectedly from its belly at night, slay the guards guarding the city gates, and then unlock the gates for our troops!"
If he were forbidden to reveal his tactics to his opponents, he would refuse such a confrontation, calling it dishonest.
At his instigation, the Duke of Beaufort, before arranging his escape, revealed all the tricks he had prepared to accomplish it. This was Athos's condition; he would agree to nothing less. He had to take this risk, as it was too late to retreat.
If only d'Artagnan were with us! With him, the Fronde would have won.
But I ask myself: “What would have happened next?”
The Fronde was intended to put pressure on the Queen, but for what purpose, exactly? To remove Mazarin? To transfer full power to the young Louis XIV ? By taking this power from his mother? Would he have taken it? And wouldn't Gaston d'Orl;ans have been the first to take advantage of it? Or perhaps one of the Cond;s benefited from it? Wasn't it so that the coadjutor would become a cardinal that Beaufort received a pardon and disappeared without a trace during one of his military sorties? Pointless! A worthless fuss. Rescuing Beaufort from imprisonment, so that he could earn the "proud" nickname of "King of the Markets"?
I am convinced that if Mazarin had known that Beaufort would be called that, he would have laughed for a long time, after which he would have ordered Beaufort to be released and sent to the markets of Paris to reign there!
My dear d'Artagnan! With your help we would have won, but you wouldn't have joined us, because you saw much further than we did! You understood that the Queen didn't want to be free of Mazarin, just as Louis XIII hadn't wanted to be free of Richelieu! Therefore, any plot against Richelieu was doomed to failure, and any plot against Mazarin was pointless.
Our trip to England to rescue King Charles was also a complete farce, looking like heroism, but having no prospects.
This King pursued a suicidal policy. A King who wrote to his fifteen-year-old son that he would rather die than surrender Oxford, and who himself shamefully fled first from the battlefield, then from the residence to which he had been assigned! How could he be of any use to his kingdom, which he had brought to two civil wars? How could he help his family? A King who consulted his wife on all matters, receiving the most unthinkable advice from her and blindly following it, and when he lost the opportunity to discuss his decisions with her, began to find even more unacceptable solutions to every problem, ones that even his dim-witted wife would not have suggested to him! A man who, given two evils, chose both! What's more, he chose all three!
Only the extreme respect for Athos and, for this reason, unquestioning obedience to him in small things, in such small things as our own lives, forced me to take part in this adventure, in which d'Artagnan and, of course, Porthos also subsequently joined!
Well, Athos, who had briefly served as France's ambassador to England and given Queen Henrietta the most sensible advice she never followed, couldn't remain indifferent to her confession that she feared for her husband's life. And he unquestioningly set off to rescue this absurd monarch. The Queen didn't ask us to return her younger children. Did she understand they were safe? Or did she not love them enough to worry about their fate as much as her husband's? Charles, Prince of Wales, now 19, was in France with Queen Henrietta Maria. Sixteen-year-old James, twelve-year-old Anne, nine-year-old Henry, and five-year-old Henrietta remained in London.
If there's anything worth writing about the fate of Charles I of England, it's this: If you don't intend to keep your promises, don't make them. If you intend to break your promises or agreements, treaties, or laws you've established, first find lawyers to establish legal grounds for this violation, and hire slanderous papers to distribute these lies wherever you wish to maintain a good opinion of yourself. But if you simply fail to fulfill your obligations without providing compelling reasons or excuses, and without disseminating these excuses before breaking your word, then your only justification is that you are stronger than those to whom you made these promises, and stronger many times over and forever. Then blame the weaker party for whatever you please and declare that it is their own fault that you are reluctantly forced to annul previous agreements. If Karl had acted like that, there would always have been fools who would still believe in his agreements. But he behaved in such a way that even such fools no longer remained around him.
The second conclusion we must draw from the fate of this insignificant monarch is this: always be able to anticipate your prospects, weigh your capabilities against those of your enemies. When assessing the advisability of another peace agreement with your enemies, remember not those more advantageous opportunities for compromise that you foolishly missed, but rather try to anticipate those likely future events that could make the agreements you reject today seem desirable but unattainable tomorrow.
Karl's actions remind me of a gambler who loses every bet but keeps playing, telling himself, "If I quit, I'll lose more than I would have lost if I'd quit even earlier. So I'll try making one more bet!" But impassive Fate tells him, "You've lost half of what you had!" He makes another bet, and Fate tells him, "You've lost half of what you had left at this point!" He makes another bet and loses half of his remaining quarter, but, having realized the result, he still doesn't compromise or make peace, but instead bets again and again, losing more and more. Instead of telling himself, "I have to stop or I'll lose everything!" he stubbornly repeats, "I can't stop, because then it will be too disappointing that I didn't stop sooner!"
People who live by the rule: “I’ll die myself and ruin the country, just so I don’t have to admit my own mistakes” cannot be given state power.

Chapter 128

Queen Anne was having a hard time. Funds were running low, and there was nowhere to get them, as Parliament was stubborn and unwilling to approve new taxes, which was probably necessary given the war effort. Austerity measures were also required, something the nobility opposed. The Queen introduced a decree banning the use of gilding in carriage decoration, but received no approval. The tax farmers, who bought the right to collect taxes from the state, were also neglecting their duties. They themselves were undoubtedly squeezing every last penny out of the people, even more than was necessary, since they had to make a profit somehow! But they pretended that funds were arriving more slowly than expected, thus delaying payments to the treasury. They likely hoped that perhaps a change of power would soon occur, and the new government would be unaware of the previous regent's debts, allowing them to pocket the collected sums for themselves. This is what happens when subjects begin to feel that the government has become more liberal, more loyal than before.
Parliament began its struggle to gradually increase its own importance and, consequently, to curtail the power of the Queen Regent and the Prime Minister. The Queen, observing events in England, was mortally afraid that something similar would break out in France. Her goal was to preserve the throne for her son, and she saw any signs of disobedience from Parliament or the princes as attempts to hinder her. While receiving Presidents Guyan and Barillon, she lost her temper and ordered them to be quiet and leave. Barillon was exiled to Pignerol, where, unfortunately, he died, giving rise to suspicions that the Queen had ordered his poisoning. Although doctors performed an autopsy and concluded that he died of natural causes, the people did not believe this, as the Queen had tempered her anger with mercy and ordered his release after he had already died, although she was unaware of it. There were detractors who declared that the Queen had pardoned Barillon only because she knew he was already dead. The death of Guyan, which occurred almost simultaneously, added fuel to the fire, and no one considered the possibility that this old man, at a very advanced age, could have died simply because he had already lived out his life.
The tax farmers, frightened by the parliament's disapproval of their actions, chose to be less active in their duties and to disappear whenever possible. For a time, taxes ceased to flow into the treasury, causing the money not only to "start running out," but even to "stop starting." The Queen was even forced to sell her jewels and seek assistance from Madame d'Aiguillon and the Cond; family, as there was no longer enough money to even provide the King with a daily meat dish.
The Queen and Mazarin were forced to reconsider the advisability of selling new court positions. At first glance, such deals seemed to generate direct profit, but they increased the number of courtiers who had to be paid salaries, and, furthermore, courtiers were exempt from taxes. Therefore, everyone wanted to become courtiers, wanting to buy these positions for themselves, since it was much easier to pay a one-time fee and then reap the benefits and benefits than to pay regular taxes without any revenue from the treasury.
But many positions were simply passed down by inheritance!
Mazarin was resented by the nation for being a foreigner. He was also hated for pretending to be French, and also for being different. While the Frenchman was ready to challenge him to a duel for any insult, Mazarin preferred to pretend he didn't notice the pamphlets circulating about him, had no idea who their authors were, didn't understand the contemptuous or ironic intonations, the caustic ambiguities, and even the outright attacks against him. He preferred to calmly joke about it, or pretend nothing had happened, although in his heart, he apparently noted all the dissatisfied people, memorized them, and devised ways to punish the insolent, overcome disobedience, and achieve his goals. The cunning Italian repeatedly explained to the Queen that the monarch's greatest virtues were composure and secrecy—a quality Anne agreed with but could not cultivate in herself. Sometimes, admittedly, she managed to successfully conceal her feelings and intentions, but other times she couldn't restrain herself, and would reprimand members of Parliament and its leaders, ministers, and princes. Sometimes even Mazarin himself would be targeted, and he would then humbly ask to be punished and dismissed. This had a sobering effect on the Queen; she would immediately calm down and assure the Cardinal that she was satisfied with him as First Minister and had no intention of replacing him.
Despite all his statesmanship, Mazarin himself also had some ruinous passions; for example, he kept Marion Delorme, who cost him a lot of money, but not for him, of course, but for the treasury.
When the Duchess de Chevreuse informed me of the annual cost of this kept woman to France, I immediately became an enemy of Mazarin and a rebel. I believe this information had a corresponding effect on Athos, although his views were primarily based on extremely lofty and little-understood aspirations and ambitions. Dear Athos! His romantic devotion to kings of all stripes was so often subjected to such severe tests that only a nature as strong and yet stubborn as his could endure them while maintaining an almost divine awe of royalty. It should be noted that Athos never awes any king in particular; he could treat any king, or even an emperor, as an equal, without, strictly speaking, having any reason to do so.
It was truly wrong to idolize royal honor and dignity so much, and it would have been wrong to treat Louis XIV and Queen Anne with such arrogance, as our noble Athos, Count de La F;re, quite foolishly allowed himself to do on several occasions. With his pathetic approach to the concepts of honor, duty, and royal dignity, he should have been born sometime before the Trojan War; he would have easily replaced the centaur Chiron, teaching nobility and the art of war to Achilles, Jason, Castor, and Polydeuces! His Homeric notions of nobility were completely out of keeping with an age raised on the Borgias, the Medici, and Machiavelli!
So, I was already a rebel back then, when the rebel movement itself didn’t even exist.
And Athos too.
The Queen was having a hard time. The elders in Parliament tried to restrain her from introducing innovations, while the young, as usual, hurried to introduce democratic freedoms they knew nothing about, believing only from hearsay that this was precisely what would give them everything they desired, without any effort, expense, or risk. They had all heard of the events in England and judged them only by the romantic fantasies born of narrow-mindedness, not by a thoughtful analysis of events that brought no relief to anyone, but instead claimed tens of thousands of lives, brought the British Empire to the brink of ruin, and brought about a state where normal government not only did not exist in the country, but was not even expected to exist for several years.
They say it's true, no matter how bad things are where we're not, we think it's better there than where we are. They wanted British freedoms, not really understanding that this meant the freedom to die for reasons they forgot to explain, in mortal combat with equally unfortunate souls who, by fate's will, found themselves on the other side of the trenches.
Mazarin, meanwhile, understood that England's experience should be used, above all, to prevent its repetition in France. He carefully studied all the events in that island nation, and I probably wouldn't be far off if I said he understood them far more than some members of the English Parliament, perhaps even Oliver Cromwell himself. Indeed, this is true. Cromwell waited for God to tell him what to do, while our shrewd Mazarin was ready to give instructions to the Almighty himself if he asked for his advice.
The lack of funds was increasingly affecting the state's affairs. Parliament's actions were also a contributing factor. Some officials blamed the problems on misguided tax policies and blamed the tax farmers who collected taxes.
In May 1648, open rebellion erupted in Parliament. Mazarin and Particelli d'Emery, the Controller General and Superintendent of Finances, attempted to push through yet another financial law, which outraged the majority. This concerned a tax called the pletta, which allowed officials to sell their offices by inheritance. This tax was hard on the pockets of many representatives of the three upper chambers, who requested Parliament's support and found a strong response in the person of Councillor Brussel. It must be acknowledged that, of course, a situation in which the bulk of taxes must be collected from those who have almost no income other than that earned through hard work, while those with large incomes who could otherwise fill the treasury with their taxes are completely exempt from taxes, is not the best solution to the problem of meeting state needs. But the fact also remains that no public body will ever approve a decision that infringes on the interests of the majority within that same public body, no matter how just that decision may be in essence. But Councilor Brussel, who was not personally affected by this bill in any way, was renowned for his eccentric habit of defending everything he considered just and attacking everything he considered unjust, despite not always taking the time to thoroughly examine all the circumstances of the matter under consideration to form an objective assessment. He was a man who was prepared to destroy the state for the sake of principles known only to himself rather than abandon them. He said that there are times when the best way to serve the monarch is to disobey him. His stupidity was visible to few, his courage was noticeable to all, and so Brussel's reputation began to grow rapidly and spread far beyond the Palais de Justice. Parisians saw him as their protector against the injustices perpetrated by their prime minister, Cardinal Mazarin.
To confront the Prime Minister, the four upper chambers gathered in the Palais de Justice, outraging the Queen. Anne was outraged that the deputies had created a fifth chamber from the four upper chambers, without the permission of the King or the Regent, and without the legal right to create such new collegial bodies. She called this an unprecedented and baseless act, the establishment of a republic within a monarchy, warned that the consequences could be dangerous and reprehensible, and called for a return to the implementation of existing laws and submission to the existing government.
These words were prepared for the Queen by Chancellor Seguier in precise accordance with her mood and her assessment of the situation.
As a result, four councilors of the Grand Council and two councilors of the High Tax Court were arrested, while seven others escaped. Mazarin decided to take strict measures, believing the situation had gone too far.

Chapter 129

I can't even remember when or how my formal introduction to the Duchess de Longueville took place. But I do remember very well how that form of introduction, the kind one never forgets, took place.
"Monsieur d'Herblay," she said, approaching me at one of the receptions, "it seems you don't miss your good friend, the Duchess de Chevreuse, very much?"
"Your Grace, the depth of our acquaintance is greatly exaggerated either by those who are angry with her or me, or by those who envy me. I don't think there are anyone who envies her in this matter. In reality, we are just friends."
"Well, La Rochefoucauld also speaks of exactly the same acquaintance with her," the Duchess smiled. "I suppose Marie is instructing her friends, so to speak, to give precisely this explanation of the matter. Well, she's right, of course! A married woman has no need to flaunt her friendships with men, since even the most innocent friendship compromises her in some way."
"You see!" I smiled. "Even if I had something to boast about, my duty is to deny everything, and since I have absolutely nothing to boast about, I can only smile modestly at all your questions on the subject."
"Come on, Chevalier!" objected Anna Genevieve. "You can't hide anything from me; I know everything from reliable sources."
"If you, madam, know something I don't, I won't dispute it," I replied. "My mother taught me never to argue with women in general, especially with noble women, and even more so with young and beautiful ones . You are an example of a woman with whom I shouldn't argue, for all the reasons I've listed. Whatever you say, I won't dispute it. If you tell me that a rose bush will immediately grow and bloom on the stone floor of this hall, I won't dispute it. I'd sooner disbelieve my eyes and declare that I lack the visual acuity to enjoy the spectacle than dare contradict you."
"Your mother was a very clever woman," said the Duchess. "But I think you've just made all this up, so you're a liar and a flatterer, in addition to all your other faults."
"What are the other disadvantages?" I inquired with a friendly and affectionate smile.
“Don’t worry, d’Herblay, all your faults are among those for which women love men, especially young and handsome women, young and handsome men,” said the Duchess.
“I’m far from young anymore,” I tried to object.
“Come on, Chevalier, men of your type are akin to wine in that the years only make them stronger, more refined, better,” replied the Duchess.
"After such an attack of undeserved compliments, I surrender to the mercy of the beautiful conqueror!" I exclaimed. "Ask me whatever you like, assert whatever you like, but I admit defeat in advance."
"That's right!" said the Duchess. "A true man never allows himself to be defeated by any man, nor does he allow himself to be defeated by any woman, but only surrenders to her without a fight. Only capitulation of this kind bears the fruits vainly hoped for by those who strive to win at all costs."
“So?” I asked, because I understood that the Duchess had serious questions for me, and all the previous chatter was just a lead-in to them.
"Very well, I will tell you," said the Duchess. "The fact is that my husband, just as you claim, says that he is merely a friend of the Duchess de Chevreuse. In the very same words."
"I don't think you or I should worry about that," I said dismissively. "I, as I said, am merely a friend of the Duchess, and your husband, too, it turns out. If friendship with the Duchess de Chevreuse cast a shadow, then the Queen, the late King, Cardinal Richelieu, Buckingham, the Earl of Holland, and many others would have to be condemned!"
"Well, enough about friendship, Henri!" said the Duchess. "I like to call a spade a spade. Your mistress took my husband from me, and I intend to take revenge on her by taking her lover. You. Do you understand?"
For a while I just stood silently in bewilderment.
The Duchess of Longueville, Anne Genevi;ve, was seventeen years younger than me and God knows how many degrees higher in nobility. However, I was no stranger to noblewomen; the Duchess of Chevreuse was no less noble, but then, Marie was the same age as me! Anne Genevi;ve was simultaneously much younger and far nobler than me; she was beautiful, intelligent, the dream of every man in Paris, and half of France would have been, too, had they known her even superficially! I tried to console myself with the thought that her husband was seven years older than me, but it was no use, for her husband was far nobler and wealthier than me; he was a duke of royal blood, a prince of the blood, a scion of the House of Valois, who, under different circumstances, might have laid claim to the French throne!
"Philosophers lie when they say that he who remains silent can be considered wise," the Duchess snorted. "The longer you remain silent, the less intelligent you seem. Considering what I've told you, I can only perceive your silence as insolence!"
"A man who finds himself in paradise is forgiven for some confusion," I replied. "Give me a little time to come to my senses!"
"I won't give you another minute," the Duchess objected. "I'll give you five seconds to answer 'Yes,' and then I'll start counting. Five, four..."
“Yes,” I answered and kissed the Duchess’s hand that she extended to me.
The touch of my lips to that hand, with the knowledge that soon everything else would be mine, inexplicably stirred me. I felt like I was no longer the same person I had been at sixteen or a little older. Not at all! My heart threatened to leap out of my chest, and I didn't hold it back. My head spun. The Duchess's hand emanated the subtlest scent of roses and lilacs.
“When?” was all I could ask.
"You'll find out in due time!" the Duchess replied with a smile and gently slapped my hand with her fan, after which she walked away with the utmost grace, without even looking back.
From that moment on, I belonged entirely to her. I even forgot about my duties to the Order.
But not for long.
The Order itself reminded of itself when necessary.
I was summoned to Count Etienne de Lyon by a signal on the wall.
"You're making progress, Adjunct!" said the Count. "Just as the Order lost interest in one Duchess and began to focus on another, you've already turned your attention to her! What is this? Coincidence or deep information from sources other than ours?"
"Neither one nor the other, Holy Father," I replied. "It is Fate itself that makes its choice for me."
"Well, that's even better," the Count rejoiced, though I can't guarantee he believed me. "Fate is subject to the will of God, and so are we, so we respect and accept Fate's signs with due reverence. If Fate brings you together with the Duchess de Longueville, she shows us how we should take advantage of it."
"Should this be understood to mean that I am being asked to make use of the Duchess?" I asked.
"Don't worry, the Order has no objection to your acquaintance or to your feelings for her, if any," the Count replied. "You are merely asked to respect the Duchess's political convictions and not dissuade her from any potential political ambitions. You will serve as a catalyst for her activism. I hope you don't mind?"
"I didn't join the Order to contradict my superiors," I replied. "Even if your order had conflicted with my original plans, I would have obeyed. But it doesn't. The Duchess, as far as I can tell, wants to make life easier for Mazarin by relieving him of his duties as First Minister. She likely has better candidates for the post. I don't find this plan objectionable, and I'm prepared to participate in its implementation if it suits the Order's plans."
"I'll tell you frankly, we haven't yet fully grasped Giulio's character," the Count replied. "We intend to test him with some internal upheavals before deciding on his fate and his impact on France. The Order didn't organize any trials for King Charles, but Charles of England set himself a test of sorts and failed it. We would like, if possible, to spare him the worst that threatens him, and at present the Order is seeking the last means to save this man, but, in fact, this action is of no significance to our overall goals. If we cannot save him, then it follows that God, with the help of his assistant, Fate, has thus determined his fate. At present, we are still leaning toward the idea of saving him. As for Mazarin, we have not yet developed a clear line regarding him. His abilities must be tested; some of his actions were hasty, and he must learn a lesson. For starters, we will intimidate him a little. The Duke of Beaufort must be released." You'll do this with the help of the Duchess de Longueville and her friends. The Duchess has very influential friends, any of whom would gladly take the place at her side she's offered you. But don't be fooled.
“I know,” I said. “The Duke de La Rochefoucauld.”
“Nonsense!” objected the Count. “He’s only courting her and spreading rumors of his successes. But we can’t rule out the possibility that he might succeed. In that case, you’ll have a rival, and consequently, your influence over the Duchess will weaken or disappear altogether. When I said, ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ I didn’t mean that the Duchess has other lovers; I only meant that she allows rumors to spread about her having them only because she can easily refute them, thus clearing herself in her husband’s eyes at any moment. But the Duc de Longueville is not jealous; as you know, he has set his sights on the Duchess de Chevreuse. Your friend, the Duc de La Rochefoucauld, on the other hand, is very jealous. He was jealous of the Duchess de Chevreuse’s relationship with you, but at least he was a success with her.” If he succeeds with the Duchess de Longueville, he might even accept your presence in his path. But if he fails, then beware. This man could simply kill you.
“I’m not at all against a duel with him,” I replied.
"Don't flatter yourself!" said the Count. "He's a Duke and a Prince, he won't challenge you to a duel. He'll set his numerous courtiers on you, so they'll simply hunt you down like a deer or a boar on a hunt, and shoot you or run you through with a dozen swords at once."
“But that’s dishonest!” I said indignantly.
"That's quite in the spirit of princes and dukes, Chevalier, get used to not being surprised," the Count replied. "That's all for today, I won't keep you any longer."

Chapter 130

I came to Blois to see Athos in order to make him an offer.
"I'm glad to see you, my dear friend!" exclaimed Athos after I entered his house almost immediately after Grimaud, who announced my arrival.
"And I am no less glad to see you than you are, dear Athos!" I replied. "I am delighted to find you in good health and good spirits!"
"Very well, Aramis!" Athos clarified. "Your arrival is a double celebration for me. However, every day has been a celebration for me lately. You remember my ward Raoul, don't you?"
"Of course, and I suppose that this slender young man is him? I think I recognize him!" I replied.
"Just don't praise him too soon, you haven't yet discovered his merits," Athos said coquettishly. "And especially don't praise him after you've discovered them, lest you spoil him."
"Then I will praise you for raising him so well, and teaching him probably everything you knew at his age," I replied. "I will never believe that you did not teach him to use a sword, a musket, a pistol, and other weapons, as well as to ride a horse."
"You won't believe it, and you'd be right, since I taught him all this," Athos agreed. "I'm both his father and his mother, as you can see. But seriously, only a woman could replace his mother, so we're at odds there. It's a good thing he's a man, and he needs a guardian's guidance far more than a guardian's coddling."
“You are right as always, dear Athos,” I replied.
“Here I propose we interrupt the series of mutual compliments, go to the dining room and do justice to the dinner, after which you will tell me your business,” Athos concluded.
"My business?" I asked, surprised. "Is seeing you not enough of a reason for my trip?"
"It has been inadequate for twenty years, except on one occasion, so it might well remain inadequate," replied Athos. "With me, my dear friend, there is no point in playing tricks. I will not treat you any worse just because you do not come to see me without a reason. And how could I blame you for that, when I am exactly the same? After all, I too could have visited you, but I did not."
"You seem to have been busy raising your charge, and besides, I heard that you served as the French ambassador to King Charles of England," I clarified. "Whereas I have no such excuse."
"I would have continued as ambassador if it had been of any use," Athos replied with a deep sigh. "King Charles knew how to listen only to his Buckingham, then to a certain Lucy Hay, which he certainly shouldn't have done, and finally to his wife Henrietta Maria, which he should have done with caution. Finally, he stopped listening to her advice just when it had become more reasonable than his own. What was I to do at such a court? I wrote to be recalled and returned here to Blois. Fortunately, my ambassadorial duties didn't interfere with my duties as guardian, since they weren't all that long, and all this time I was replaced by Grimaud, Blaisois, and a few other tutors and servants. But Raoul's joy at my return was so strong that it more than made up for the time lost on ambassadorial duties."
“Could you take Raoul with you, Athos?” I asked.
"For what?" Athos asked in surprise. "In England there is neither a good climate, nor good cuisine, nor good manners, nor anything worthy of attention."
"What about pretty women?" I joked.
"You can find a reasonably good woman almost anywhere, but a truly good one almost nowhere," Athos replied. "Besides, I don't need women anymore, and Raoul, thank God, doesn't need them yet. I probably had a premonition that my mission would be short-lived. But let's go to dinner! The food will get cold!"

The dinner was superb, but I won't describe it, and besides, I don't even remember what Athos served. I can only repeat that all the dishes were of the highest quality, and the wine beyond all praise.
After dinner, Athos looked at me eloquently, as if repeating his question about the reason for my arrival.
“What do you say about Mazarin, Count?” I asked him.
“Nothing, since it is customary to speak well of people in their absence, or nothing at all,” answered Athos.
“Then what do you say about the Duke de Beaufort?” I asked.
"First of all, I regret that he was imprisoned in a fortress," Athos replied. "The grandson of Henry IV should not have been imprisoned by some Mazarin. If the Queen ordered his arrest, I regret that she did so."
“His guilt, as you know, is that he wanted to rid France of Mazarin,” I said.
“If such a desire is a crime sufficient for imprisonment in a fortress, then the entire nobility of France should be imprisoned,” replied Athos, “with the exception of a dozen people, among whom, of course, firstly, Mazarin himself, secondly, the Queen, and thirdly, probably, such nobles who, upon closer examination, are not nobles at all.”
“I completely agree with you, Athos,” I agreed. “So, are we going?”
“Where to?” asked Athos.
“To release the Duke de Beaufort from the fortress where he was imprisoned without our approval, and since we do not approve of this action, it is difficult to guarantee that we will not cancel it,” I replied.
"I like that!" Athos agreed.
"You've already left Raoul," I continued. "We can do the same this time."
A slight shadow crossed Athos's face.
“This is a different matter entirely,” he objected. “I was leaving a young boy behind to carry out the mission entrusted to me by the King. I might die, but I could not fall into disgrace, and such disgrace could not harm my ward. On the contrary, he would have become heir to my title and my estate, everything I possess. Now, however, we propose to go against the will of the Queen and the Prime Minister. Failure could result in not only death but also the disgrace of our loved ones. And Raoul, meanwhile, is no longer a child. I must first arrange his future, secure his career, after which I will be able to confidently set out on this mission. I hope the Duke de Beaufort will forgive us a week’s delay? After all, I suppose he’s almost accustomed to prison routine by now.”
"This is a matter I wouldn't wish anyone to get used to," I replied. "But the Duke de Beaufort will forgive us a week's delay. In the meantime, I'll try to find Porthos and interest him in this idea."
"Why don't you talk about d'Artagnan?" Athos asked worriedly.
"Because, being in the king's regular service, he naturally fell under Mazarin's command," I replied. "While this venture might end in prison for the rest of us, for him it would be the Place de Gr;ve, since his actions would be treasonous. We, however, are not in the royal service."
“This matter could end for all of us at the Place de Gr;ve,” Athos answered calmly.
"But Mazarin will definitely come up with something even more disgusting for him," I said confidently. "If they cut off our heads, they'll quarter him."
"You're right, Aramis, let's spare our friend," Athos agreed. "But what if he's ordered to prevent this, or, worse, to find and punish the culprits? Are we really going to cross swords with him?"
"I hope it doesn't come to that," I said, though I confess I hadn't considered such a turn of events before. "So how do you plan to arrange Raoul's fate? I have a slight chance of getting some nobles to assist in this matter."
"I have a better idea," Athos replied. "But don't ask me what it is. In due course I may tell you about it, and I think I'll surprise you quite a bit."
“Well, if your idea is better than mine, which I haven’t even had a chance to tell you about yet, I think we’ve pretty much resolved all the issues and agreed on everything except one,” I said. “Where and how will we meet?”
"Exactly a week from now, in Paris, at the tavern on the Rue Ferou, where the four of us often celebrated our victories," replied Athos. "I hope that tavern is still there?"
"It's still there, and the owner is the same, only he's gone bald, fatter, and widowed, so they serve a wider variety of drinks and a slightly less varied variety of food now."
"That's unimportant, since we only need a meeting place," Athos replied. "As for the drink, I think I drank my quota twenty years ago, and have since completely lost interest in wine."
"Well, good luck!" I replied.
We embraced, I embraced Raoul, patted Grimaud on the shoulder, and jumped into the saddle of my horse, steering him toward Paris. I decided to put the idea of finding and enlisting Porthos into the matter into action a little later. First, I needed to see the Duchess de Longueville, who had already set a day and hour for her promises to be fulfilled. It's easy to see that I didn't gallop, but practically flew on my black stallion.
 
Chapter 131

Needless to say, my meeting with the Duchess de Longueville did not disappoint me. From the moment we met, I became her admirer forever. Unlike Marie de Chevreuse, the Duchess de Longueville never deceived me. Not in anything. We were always on good terms; I could easily rely on her in everything, as she could on me.
Could I have imagined such a relationship was possible between a man and a woman? Of course, such an impossible dream would never have entered my head. And it was more than friendship, and also more than mutual love. It was that unprecedented mixture of both, when one cannot be separated, distinguished from the other. Children probably dream of such relationships when they read fairy tales, until they grow up and realize that such relationships only exist in fairy tales.
Of course, not everything was perfect. It wasn't ideal for me that the Duchess was a married woman and we had to hide our relationship. But this was offset by the fact that her husband, who was significantly older than me, a full seven years, was even more so than the Duchess herself. Her almost filial attitude toward the Duke didn't detract from my feelings in any way.
Apparently, the Duke himself understood that his heart could no longer match the ardent youth and passion of his young wife, who was quite suitable as his daughter, so if he was jealous, he never gave her any reason to feel it.
The Duchess probably found it inconvenient to keep our relationship a secret, but perhaps this constant secrecy made our encounters more appealing for both of us. Our political views were so closely aligned that we understood each other not just with a half-word, but even with a half-glance. We were similar in the ways that similarity draws people together, and unlike in those qualities that must be opposites to be more attractive. It was love, but I'm wrong to use the word "was," for this love continues to this day and will continue to exist as long as I live, or as long as she lives. I'm convinced that if there's anything beyond the grave, we will preserve our mutual love beyond it.
But how the annoying Fran;ois de La Rochefoucauld interfered with our relationship! It was unthinkable, unbearable, indescribable! He even organized a hunt for me, a real hunt, like the kind they organize for a boar or a wolf.
And this despite the fact that we should be political allies!
Perhaps, however, my contempt for him stems from how much he resembles me, like all the memoirists of our time, like Monsieur de Gondi, the Coadjutor of Paris, later Cardinal, like his friend Tal;man des R;aux, like Madame de Savign;. So I too have joined this writing fraternity, which makes me feel like the equal of Grimaud, that graphomaniac who recorded some of our adventures with such precision, yet so absurdly heaped upon them his erroneous judgments, conclusions, impressions, and God knows what other trifles, fantasies, and errors! I will never tire of refuting him, but I admire his prolificacy. In a word: graphomaniac, which I must henceforth also call myself.
"Duchess!" I said. "To see you is the greatest happiness for me, and to see you so close and, I dare say, intimate, is the height of bliss."
"For starters, when we're alone, just call me Ange," Anna Genevieve countered. "That's what my dear father called me. It's a name I like."
“Okay, dear Ange,” I responded immediately and planted a kiss on her hand.
“You can go much further,” Ange said, offering her cheek first.
Modesty prevents me from describing what follows.
We enjoyed intimacy for a very long time and lost track of time.
Finally, the moment came when we both wanted to talk about something other than our mutual feelings.
"Henri, what do you think of Mazarin's reign?" Ange asked.
“I think it’s high time he was reined in,” I replied.
"Oh, how wonderful!" exclaimed Ange. "I think exactly the same thing!"
"From now on, we can not only share our thoughts on this matter, but also join forces to realize our desire," I replied. "We could organize a national movement, led, of course, by noble and worthy people, like you, for example, and members of your family. This movement could develop into a party that, in time, could achieve Mazarin's complete resignation."
"This is precisely the scenario I wanted to consult with you about, and I'm interested in your opinion on the worst-case scenario for the organizers of this movement?" Anzhe asked.
"I understand why you're not interested in the best-case scenario, since the best-case scenario should be your complete victory," I agreed. "It seems to me that the worst-case scenario doesn't pose a significant threat to you, so it's worth taking on."
“Yes, of course, I don’t need you to explain to me the probable outcome of the best possible development of events,” Anzhe agreed.
“Well, I suppose Mazarin would not dare to persecute representatives of such a noble family as you without special reasons and grounds,” I replied.
"But he did decide to arrest and imprison the Duke de Beaufort, didn't he?" asked the Duchess.
"Such a confinement should be regarded as merely a temporary inconvenience," I replied. "Besides, I have reason to believe that it will soon end, and our illustrious Duke de Beaufort will regain his freedom."
“Is this really true?” the Duchess exclaimed happily. “How can you know this?”
“I know this if only because I will make every effort to achieve it,” I replied.
"Do you hope to persuade Mazarin to release Beaufort?" Ange asked doubtfully.
“I hope to resolve this issue positively, and you will find out what means I will use after the issue is finally resolved,” I replied.
I promised that everything would be arranged in the best possible way.

That evening, I received a letter from Chevrette. She informed me that Kitty, whom I had recommended as her maid and who had become as close to her as a true friend over the past twenty years, was, thank God, recovering. Only then, in the same breath, did she report that her life had nearly ended after a cruel attempt on her life by a terrible man, who was perhaps dangerous to her as well. I had become accustomed to certain irregularities in the flow of Marie's letters. I confess, I treated this letter with too much disdain, as my thoughts were already entirely on my dear Ange. I should have written to Marie and asked her about the details of the incident, and, in particular, about the man, or rather, the two men, who had dared to attack the Duchess's house. Had I paid more attention to this matter, I am convinced that many subsequent misfortunes could have been avoided, as we could have taken appropriate measures to protect ourselves and those we hold dear, or in whom we even simply care. My new love completely distracted me from all the events surrounding my former passion, which explains, but does not justify, my neglect.
The events I'm describing took place at a time when love, politics, intrigue, and war were so intertwined that separating them, separating them from one another, was simply impossible. I had to take this into account.
Now I know that the man who almost killed Katie was Mordaunt's father.
The Duchess didn't say a word about one of the two attackers being killed. However, her letter hinted at this, reporting that the terrible danger had half-receded.

Chapter 132

I thought it would be a good idea to secure d'Artagnan's support, but I decided to act from afar. Of course, I had heard some information about the activities of the lieutenant of the king's musketeers, and I knew that he served diligently, that he was in good standing, and I had even heard of some of his exploits, which filled me with joy. But I needed information of a different kind; I wanted to know to what extent I could hope to involve him in the activities prescribed to me by the Order, which I myself considered necessary and just, and to which I was urged by both my former love, Marie de Chevreuse, and my new love, or rather the only love of my life, the Duchess de Longueville, my Anger.
As I wrote earlier, I really hoped that I would receive some information about d'Artagnan from time to time from Katie, but she left Paris with Marie de Chevreuse, so this channel of information ceased to exist a long time ago.
I decided it would be worthwhile to inquire about my friend's mood from Planchet. Fortunately, I knew where he lived and even occasionally visited the grocery store he ran. I assumed he hadn't lost contact with his former employer, so he might be able to tell me at least some information about him.

So I entered Planche's shop.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Planchet. "What a welcome guest has honored my humble establishment! Jean, give His Highness Monsieur d'Herblay everything we have, the very best, and quickly!"
The young lad quickly rushed to set the table.
"Planchet, my friend, I'm not hungry," I objected. "Don't worry, I didn't plan to dine with you, I just dropped by to chat a little."
"One doesn't interfere with the other," Planchet replied. "Jean, bring the best wine, Turkish coffee, glazed cherries, Viennese waffles, and Dutch chocolate to the study."
Hearing such a tempting list, I thought that perhaps I should pay attention to Planchet's cooking.
“You will not leave me, Your Highness, without tasting at least one raisin and without taking at least one sip of wine,” Planchet said with conviction and at the same time unobtrusively.
“You’re right, my friend, I can’t resist such an attack,” I agreed with a smile and walked into the office, which was so beautifully and thickly upholstered that no one could overhear our conversation.
"I've come to question you about your affairs, dear Planchet, and also about those of your former master, if you're knowledgeable about them," I said. "Please, without further ado, sit down with me at table, let's do justice to your fare and have a quick chat."
“With the greatest pleasure, Your Highness, but I can stand,” Planchet replied.
"Don't forget that I'm a clergyman, and I feel more comfortable talking to any Christian as an equal," I countered. "Sit down, and let's talk."
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Planchet replied with a bow and perched himself on the edge of a chair at the corner of the table.
“That’s better,” I said, holding out a glass for myself and for Planchet, into which he poured some excellent Burgundy.
"You're probably primarily interested in my former master, and you asked about me out of politeness," the wily grocer replied. "But you won't be disappointed if you also show an interest in my humble person. But I'll begin by satisfying your most immediate curiosity. Frankly, I no longer serve Monsieur d'Artagnan, but I see him often, and he honors me with his visits, I hope, in memory of my faithful service."
"I have no doubt about it!" I replied.
"Wait a minute, you don't want to find out what kind of man he is from me, since you know him perfectly well," Planchet continued. "If you were interested in whether all is well with him, you would have asked him himself. Therefore, you want to know whether he is suitable for some undertaking in which you would like to involve him, without him knowing about this conversation. You know his talents, so you are interested in his current political orientation."
I couldn't help but break out in a cold sweat. More than twenty years of training in the Order hadn't taught me to hide my interests; a simple shopkeeper had easily seen through me.
“I am no simple shopkeeper,” Planchet continued, as if he had eavesdropped on my thoughts. “After all, I am a man of the service, a soldier, and I have served Monsieur d’Artagnan long enough to know him and, if you please, you and his other friends. And I doubt you wish to call upon him to share your chosen career as an abbot. More likely, you wish to return from abbot to musketeer and would like to have him as a partner in some major and risky undertaking. And this undertaking, of course, has nothing to do with supporting Mazarin. You have not submitted to Richelieu, so will you submit to Mazarin, his miniature version, his shadow? So, Your Highness, you are plotting against Mazarin.”
"Planchet!" I cried. "If anyone else had said that to me, I would have stabbed them with this dagger already! But you are you, and I trust that your assumptions will not go beyond what they should be—namely, your own fantasies and dreams. And your fantasies will not be used to harm anyone, least of all yourself. So I will continue to listen to you, neither denying nor confirming your words."
“Your dagger is truly very convincing,” Planchet replied, calmly glancing at the dagger I had pulled out to further emphasize my point. “I had no doubt you had something similar, and that’s for the best, believe me. To settle the matter at once, I will tell you two things that will leave no doubt between us. First, the lieutenant is too true to his oath to participate in any case against the prime minister. If he is given the order to arrest him, he will arrest him, but no other way. In this, he is just like our veteran, Monsieur de Treville. He was always ready to arrest Richelieu, but would never have done so except by order of the King, Louis XIII . Monsieur d’Artagnan will arrest or, if you prefer, kill anyone on the orders of the Queen or the young King. But such an order will never be given.”
“Why are you so sure of this?” I asked.
"I am convinced of this for many reasons, but I cannot present them all as coherently and beautifully as you, gentlemen of the nobility, and you have no reason to waste your time listening to my paltry arguments," Planchet replied. "If you did not believe me, you would not have come to ask my opinion, but since you have asked, I have answered directly and briefly. And the second thing I wanted to tell you is that you, Your Highness, can rely on me completely. Whatever you plan, Planchet will be with you, Monsieur d'Herblay."
“My undertaking may prove extremely dangerous,” I objected.
“It couldn’t be otherwise,” Planchet agreed.
“If we fail, my comrades and I could face not just prison, but also the death penalty,” I added.
“Of course,” Planchet confirmed.
“A nobleman can only have his head cut off, but a commoner can also be hanged,” I said.
"Even if I'm quartered!" Planchet exclaimed. "I've lived my life, and I'm not clinging to it, and my life, I must tell you, is dull and joyless, so its imminent end doesn't frighten me in the least. I just don't agree to take my own life. God forbids such an act. But I'm ready to risk my life for a just cause, even this very moment."
"What brought you to this state, dear friend?" I asked.
"Thank you for the 'dear friend,' Your Highness!" Planchet replied, standing and bowing, before sitting back down at the table. "What brought this about, you ask? The very thing neither you, nor the lieutenant, nor the count have. A wife."
"Wife, really?!" I exclaimed with a laugh. "Has marriage really turned you into a rebel?"
"Laugh, laugh, Your Grace," Planchet muttered sullenly, tossing back a full glass. "How is it that young fairies turn into vicious furies, and all under our watchful eye? You bring a beautiful flower into your home, and before you know it, it transforms into a disgusting, clinging, poisonous thorn. Actually, I only have one complaint about her."
“Which one?” I asked.
"I cannot forgive her for accepting my offer to marry me," Planchet replied. "If it weren't for that, I would forgive her everything."
"Capacious and thorough!" I admired.
“I’ve thought about it too often at night, which makes it easy for me to formulate it during the day when the subject comes up,” Planchet replied. “It’s amazing! At the altar, these beauties promise to love their husbands, to obey them, to support them in sorrow and in joy, but as soon as they get married, they do exactly the opposite! It seems they respect any beggar more than their own spouse, since they would never allow themselves to speak to him as disdainfully as to their own husband! And, I ask, why did you marry me if you despise me so much for faults that don’t exist, hate me for shortcomings you’ve invented, and consider yourself superior to your husband in everything, which is not even close? I’d drink myself to death if it weren’t for my ulcer. And so I have to endure her character, for which I can’t find salvation even in alcohol.”
“Why don’t you leave her?” I asked.
"I lack courage," Planchet declared. "I would rather rebel against all the Kings of Europe than against my wife. After all, we were married before the face of God!"
“Well, perhaps there is some sound philosophy in your views,” I replied thoughtfully.
"You bet!" Planchet replied enthusiastically. "Family life has taught me to stoically accept any scandal, any trouble, not to plan anything good or bright, to resign myself to the inevitable and bear my cross. I think the Savior was also married, it's just that no one knows about it."
"What convinces you of this?" I asked, barely suppressing my laughter.
"The humility with which he endured the scourging, carried his cross to Golgotha, knowing that death awaited him there, and with what humility he accepted the most excruciating death imaginable," Planchet replied. "Death, even the most excruciating, ends all earthly torments, whereas marriage only begins them. A man who has lived side by side with you for many years and therefore knows all your weak points can inflict such spiritual wounds that no executioner, capable only of tormenting our body, but not our soul, could."
"I won't enter into polemics with you, my friend Planchet," I replied. "So I've learned more than I wanted to know. I was only interested in how much I could rely on d'Artagnan, and I've already learned that, and also that I can rely on you."
"Then find out one more thing," said Planchet. "You, of course, remember the Count de Rochefort."
"How could I not remember him!?" I exclaimed. "There was a time when Porthos himself threatened to destroy him for the affair with de Chalais, but he forgot his threats too quickly. After that, d'Artagnan spent a great deal of energy to meet and fight him, and, it seems, crossed swords with him a couple of times!"
"He dueled with the Count three times, and three times he inflicted extremely painful, but not fatal, wounds on him," Planchet clarified. "It seems to me that if he had wanted to kill Rochefort, he would have done it the first time. He wanted exactly what he achieved—to make Rochefort suffer three extremely painful wounds."
"So what?" I asked.
“It seems to me that after this my master forgave the Count, and they were reconciled,” Planchet replied.
“Let’s say,” I agreed.
"You needed a man possessing all the qualities of Monsieur d'Artagnan, but one who would go against Mazarin," said Planchet. "Such a man is the Comte de Rochefort."
"Count de Rochefort?" I asked. "Interesting! I never thought of him as a possible ally."
"Times change, Your Grace," Planchet replied. "Former friends become enemies wherever you look, so why shouldn't former enemies become allies?"
"A very interesting idea, Planchet!" I exclaimed. "But where can I find Rochefort?"
"I don't know about that," Planchet replied. "He once tried to offer his services to Cardinal Mazarin, but he rejected him. I think the Queen told him not to get involved with the Count. She probably has a score to settle with him."
"Of course!" I exclaimed.
"Well, for these very reasons, Count Rochefort, who had hoped to be to Mazarin what he had been to Richelieu, took offense at him and, it seems, became hostile to him. But he apparently opposed him too openly, so he could very well have been thrown into the Bastille."
"Rochefort in the Bastille?" I asked.
"I wouldn't be surprised," Planchet replied. "But if he's not there, then my advice to find him and involve him in your affairs is useless. If he's at large, or if he ever is, then remember my advice, Your Grace."
"Very well, thank you, Planchet," I replied. "I'll be going, but first I'd like to ask you one question. Why do you call me 'Your Grace'?"
“Because it is too early to call you ‘Your Eminence’, but it is already too late to call you ‘Monsieur Chevalier’,” Planchet replied.
I was amazed at the intelligence of this difficult commoner and decided that I would use him if there was a suitable job for him, after which I paid him generously and left his establishment.

Chapter 133

God knows I passionately desired to win d'Artagnan over to my side, and I feared it just as much. I have no need to lie to myself, especially now that I'm describing it all. I wanted to be the leader in this matter. And although Athos was undoubtedly older than us all and, as we unanimously acknowledged, more reasonable, his reasoning consisted primarily of skepticism and a search for noble motives in both our past and future actions. He believed that all our actions were dictated solely by higher considerations, and that it simply could not be otherwise. As if we were born into this world solely to serve the noble purpose of protecting Kings and Queens of all stripes, and to do only what is proper for nobles. And yet, in his mind, he had formed such a fantastical and romantic image of the ideal nobleman that perhaps no one else like him had ever existed anywhere or at any time. At the same time, of course, he wasn't always like this. In our youth, we caroused, got into fights, and God knows what else we did. He was exactly the same from the moment we met until Milady's execution. I believe that, due to his unsuccessful marriage, he considered himself responsible for the shame it had brought upon his entire family, so he no longer seriously considered the moral values of his behavior, as if adopting the name Athos instead of the Comte de la F;re. Although even then, a striving for nobility always shone through in his actions. After Milady had won her favor, he not only considered the shame of his family washed away by her blood, allowing him to return to the life of a noble count, fully reclaiming his name. He also likely considered himself guilty of the crime he had committed, and therefore imposed a certain additional vow upon himself—that is, he wanted to be more noble than he should be, holier than the Pope, more innocent than a newborn infant, purer than the feather from an angel's wing. Naturally, he didn't always succeed in this, which led him to further exaggerate his own demands on his own behavior, striving to be guided only by truly lofty goals. For this reason, Athos could not be the leader and director of the enterprise I had conceived, although he was the best performer provided he agreed with the goal and methods. Nevertheless, he could assume leadership at any time, and each of us obeyed him even if we did not agree with him internally. If the devil himself were attacking me, and my only salvation was a pistol with silver bullets, and if Athos were to say to me, "Aramis, drop the pistol," I would drop it without a second thought. And even if a frying pan, red-hot, stood before me, and Athos were to say, "Take it with your bare hands, that's how it must be," I would obey. Perhaps I would regret it later, but the moment he uttered those words, I wouldn't have the heart to disobey. And yet, I knew he would never give a bad order that would harm me.
As for Porthos, I was convinced I could easily control him, so I could make any promise to anyone in his name, and I was certain he would fulfill my request as if it were his own wish. But that was only on the condition that he was no longer bound by his word to Athos or d'Artagnan. Those two were more influential to him than I, for some reason I don't know.
If I had won d' Artagnan over to my side, then Porthos would inevitably have been with us, so the conversation should have begun with him.
But I didn't have the courage to incite d'Artagnan to betray his oath. Apparently, I intuitively understood the impossibility of such a thing.
Frankly, I now believe I shouldn't have gotten involved in a matter d'Artagnan wouldn't have approved of. But after I received Athos's consent, I considered my undertaking almost a sacred mission. Athos knew how to inspire enthusiasm!
So, I approached Porthos to recruit him to our cause. I told myself that if the three of us were in league, d'Artagnan would surely join us. I was deceiving myself and didn't admit it. But who knows? After all, I failed to recruit Porthos simply because I didn't find him at home. I didn't have to search for him, as d'Artagnan later did; I always knew where my friends were, having all the means to do so. After all, the Order supports its members very well; necessary information is passed from those who have it to those who need it, and not only when the Order needs it, but simply to foster closer unity among its members. I knew, of course, where Porthos lived, but I didn't know that at the very time I chose to visit him, Porthos himself had decided to go to the bull fair to personally select the strongest and most pedigreed.
I saw very prosperous estates, many of which belonged to Porthos. When Mousqueton, fattened on Porthos's bread, informed me of the purpose of Porthos's journey, I was surprised by the reason for it and at first didn't even believe the old servant. After all, I saw such large and well-bred herds of animals that it seemed simply absurd to me to buy more bulls and cows. However, Mousqueton uttered a philosophical phrase: "No wealth ever seems sufficient to anyone," and I couldn't help but agree.
So, this is what people do for twenty years away from military campaigns. Grimaud has become a nursemaid, Mousqueton a philosopher, Bazin a clerk, and Planchet a bourgeois dreaming of becoming a conspirator!
"Would you like me to convey anything to Monsieur de Valon?" Mousqueton asked me.
"No need," I replied. "On the contrary, I ask you not to tell him anything about my arrival, since I'll be arriving in a week and I want it to be a surprise for him."
At this I winked conspiratorially at Musketon.
"I understand, Your Grace!" replied Mousqueton, winking back.
I knew I'd lied to him, but it was the only way to keep him from blabber. I don't know exactly why, but my intuition told me it would be better if Porthos didn't know about my visit.

In my narrative, I have reached the point where Grimaud begins the second book of his memoirs, entitled "Twenty Years After." Well, I don't think I should recount that book, although I consider myself entitled to clarify certain points and correct inaccuracies made by that memoirist. I have already corrected some of them. I will do so again, trying to avoid repetition, since, on the whole, Grimaud has accurately recounted the sequence of events that began with our reunion, first with d'Artagnan one by one, and then with our unification in the face of a common enemy, Mordaunt, who acted against us with the entire military force of Oliver Cromwell at his disposal. I needn't have complained about Fate, for she, after all, saved us from a terrible death on a felucca filled with gunpowder, which exploded from a fuse lit by Mordaunt's hand. However, further everything will be in order.


On this note, I believe it appropriate to conclude the third volume of my works.

(To be continued, see Book 4)


;
Translator's Afterword to the Third Book


On the last page of Aramis's memoirs, I found a sheet of paper in which Aramis wrote down some of Cardinal de Richelieu's most recent statements. I believe they have been published before. However, I suspect that not all of them are known to modern readers. Therefore, I present this sheet without commentary, and let others sort out what the Great Cardinal himself said, and what he perhaps never said. Personally, I believe that all of these statements are Richelieu's, but not all of them have reached our contemporaries.


Current statements by Cardinal de Richelieu

Reason should be the universal rule and guide: everything should be done according to reason, without succumbing to the influence of emotions.

One spy can do as much damage to the enemy as an entire regiment; two spies can be compared to two regiments, but even a thousand spies cannot replace an army, because it is not enough to know; one must also act in accordance with that knowledge.

Orders and laws <…> are completely useless if they are not accompanied by their implementation.

It's not enough to encrypt your messages; you must also take every measure to ensure that even encrypted messages don't fall into enemy hands. If you suspect your messages could be intercepted, use double or triple encryption so that no one other than you can fully decrypt the message.

To govern a state, you need to talk less and listen more.

Only those who agree in advance, or those who believe that they can successfully deceive their partner, can negotiate.

To judge the sovereign, one must know everything that the sovereign knows; to judge the commander-in-chief, it is enough to wait until the end of the war; in any war there will always be a right and a wrong, depending on who wins.

To mislead the enemy, deception is permissible; everyone has the right to use any means against their enemies.

Lies and slander are the same weapons as truth and force; for those who wage war, deception is not only permissible, but also prescribed, as is intelligence, counterintelligence, and disinformation of the enemy.

Disorder <…> must be reformed only gradually. Minds must be slowly brought to this point, and in no way must one go from one extreme to another.

It is always easier to bribe than to buy, it is always easier to buy than to destroy, it is always easier to destroy than to conquer, it is always easier to conquer than to keep someone conquered.

Give me six lines written by the most honest man, and I will find in them something for which to hang him.

Any closed community is designed to protect the interests of the members of that community against everyone else, everyone knows this, but to an even greater extent it is designed to satisfy the interests of the head of that community, and only he knows this.

He who avoids the game loses it.

The citizens need the King no less than the citizens need the King, but no more; strictly speaking, neither the citizens need the King, nor the King his citizens, but everyone, not excluding the King, needs the carrot and stick from above and the ability to apply the carrot and stick to those below; this is precisely why the King needs religion, as does the Pope himself.

Even the Savior was subject to Fate and Necessity, so should we complain that there is always someone above us?

Just as the human body would become ugly if equipped with eyes in every part, so too would a state become disfigured if all its inhabitants became educated, for instead of obedience, they would be filled with pride and vanity. Universal education would lead to the number of those sowing doubts far exceeding those capable of dispelling them.

He who buys justice wholesale sells it retail.

If we allow England, Spain and Portugal to take away the New World from us, Germany, Italy and Holland will take away the Old World from us.

Kings are not obliged to explain the decisions they make; in this privilege lies their greatness.

Rome developed by turning neighboring states into its provinces, and we must do the same.

The Ottoman Empire must always see us as allies, but we must always see it as a future colony, for whoever controls this territory controls Europe, and every European state will inevitably strive to annex at least part of it; the same can be said about the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth.

The art of concealment is the science of kings.

The Prime Minister must fear friends more than enemies, for he has no real friends, only enemies who pretend to be friends and enemies who make no secret of their enmity; one can come to an agreement with obvious enemies, but never with secret ones.

If it is possible, by all honest means, to preserve modesty and sincerity among ordinary people, then how can this be done in the midst of a rampant vice, when the doors are wide open to corruption and greed, when those who have sold their loyalty at the highest price are held in the highest esteem?

Betrayal is just a matter of time.

If you have identified a traitor, you can use him while hiding your knowledge of his betrayal.

Safety is a category immeasurably higher than greatness.

Someday we will be able to stop fearing betrayal, but before that we will have to confess and die.

You call this cunning? I would rather call it a shortcut.
If God wanted to forbid drinking wine, then why did He have to make it so tasty?

If the Lord wanted to forbid the passion of pursuit, then why was it necessary to make it so pleasant and how would the human race then continue?

Buying loyalty by handing out positions and money left and right is a good way to ensure one's peace of mind; but only peace of mind, not security.

Financial operators <…> constitute a special class, harmful to the state, but nonetheless necessary. This kind of officialdom is an evil that cannot be dispensed with, but which must be brought within tolerable limits.

The day will come when speculators and moneylenders will be more important than monarchs; before it is too late, these functions should be transferred to the state, as well as tax collection.

If the people were too prosperous, they could not be kept within the bounds of their duties <…>. They should be compared to a mule, which, accustomed to the burden, is more damaged by prolonged rest than by work.

I put punishment first in comparison with reward because, if I had to lose one of them, I could rather do without the latter than without the former.

Any monarch can always devise a way to increase punishment, but not everyone can so easily increase rewards; therefore, the world inevitably moves toward increasing punishment, since any measures of influence on friends and foes always sooner or later prove insufficient.

People easily lose track of favors <…>. When they are showered with them, the desire to have them makes them even more ambitious and ungrateful.
The whip, which is the symbol of justice, must never go unused.

The ancient Romans used to say, "Bread and circuses." Food can always run out, and its shortage must be made up for by the sophistication of new spectacles, which is what they did in critical situations.