“Grand Duc: c’est justement que la France t’honore;Ainsi que le dieu Mars dans Paris on t’adore.”
These fine phrases did not persuade the people that they were happy. They no more adored the Cardinal than they did the god Mars, but they accepted his fetes because they served as a covering for disorder. All Paris was in an uproar. Men with long beards, carrying torches, measures of wine, and two drinking-cups, which they knocked together with a great noise, went along, arm in arm, shouting in chorus with rude voices an old round of the League:
“Reprenons la danse;Allons, c’est assez.Le printemps commence;Les rois sont passes.“Prenons quelque treve;Nous sommes lasses.Les rois de la feveNous ont harasses.“Allons, Jean du Mayne,Les rois sont passes.“Les rois de la feveNous ont harasses.Allons, Jean du Mayne,Les rois sont passes.”
The frightful bands who howled forth these words traversed the Quais and the Pont-Neuf, squeezing against the high houses, which then covered the latter, the peaceful citizens who were led there by simple curiosity. Two young men, wrapped in cloaks, thus thrown one against the other, recognized each other by the light of a torch placed at the foot of the statue of Henri IV, which had been lately raised.
“What! still at Paris?” said Corneille to Milton. “I thought you were in London.”
“Hear you the people, Monsieur? Do you hear them? What is this ominous chorus,
‘Les rois sont passes’?”
“That is nothing, Monsieur. Listen to their conversation.”
“The parliament is dead,” said one of the men; “the nobles are dead. Let us dance; we are the masters. The old Cardinal is dying. There is no longer any but the King and ourselves.”
“Do you hear that drunken wretch, Monsieur?” asked Corneille. “All our epoch is in those words of his.”
“What! is this the work of the minister who is called great among you, and even by other nations? I do not understand him.”
“I will explain the matter to you presently,” answered Corneille. “But first listen to the concluding part of this letter, which I received to-day. Draw near this light under the statue of the late King. We are alone. The crowd has passed. Listen!
“It was by one of those unforeseen circumstances which prevent theaccomplishment of the noblest enterprises that we were not able tosave MM. de Cinq-Mars and De Thou. We might have foreseen that,prepared for death by long meditation, they would themselves refuseour aid; but this idea did not occur to any of us. In theprecipitation of our measures, we also committed the fault ofdispersing ourselves too much in the crowd, so that we could nottake a sudden resolution. I was unfortunately stationed near thescaffold; and I saw our unfortunate friends advance to the foot ofit, supporting the poor Abbe Quillet, who was destined to behold thedeath of the pupil whose birth he had witnessed. He sobbed aloud,and had strength enough only to kiss the hands of the two friends.We all advanced, ready to throw ourselves upon the guards at theannounced signal; but I saw with grief M. de Cinq-Mars cast his hatfrom him with an air of disdain. Our movement had been observed,and the Catalonian guard was doubled round the scaffold. I couldsee no more; but I heard much weeping around me. After the threeusual blasts of the trumpet, the recorder of Lyons, on horseback ata little distance from the scaffold, read the sentence of death, towhich neither of the prisoners listened. M. de Thou said to M. deCinq-Mars:“‘Well, dear friend, which shall die first? Do you remember Saint-Gervais and Saint-Protais?’“‘Which you think best,’ answered Cinq-Mars.“The second confessor, addressing M. de Thou, said, ‘You are theelder.’“‘True,’ said M. de Thou; and, turning to M. le Grand, ‘You are themost generous; you will show me the way to the glory of heaven.’“‘Alas!’ said Cinq-Mars; ‘I have opened to you that of theprecipice; but let us meet death nobly, and we shall revel in theglory and happiness of heaven!’“Hereupon he embraced him, and ascended the scaffold with surprisingaddress and agility. He walked round the scaffold, and contemplatedthe whole of the great assembly with a calm countenance, whichbetrayed no sign of fear, and a serious and graceful manner. Hethen went round once more, saluting the people on every side,without appearing to recognize any of us, with a majestic andcharming expression of face; he then knelt down, raising his eyes toheaven, adoring God, and recommending himself to Him. As heembraced the crucifix, the father confessor called to the people topray for him; and M. le Grand, opening his arms, still holding hiscrucifix, made the same request to the people. Then he readilyknelt before the block, holding the stake, placed his neck upon it,and asked the confessor, ‘Father, is this right?’ Then, while theywere cutting off his hair, he raised his eyes to heaven, and said,sighing:“‘My God, what is this world? My God, I offer thee my death as asatisfaction for my sins!’“‘What are you waiting for? What are you doing there?’ he said tothe executioner, who had not yet taken his axe from an old bag hehad brought with him. His confessor, approaching, gave him amedallion; and he, with an incredible tranquillity of mind, beggedthe father to hold the crucifix before his eyes, which he would notallow to be bound. I saw the two trembling hands of the AbbeQuillet, who raised the crucifix. At this moment a voice, as clearand pure as that of an angel, commenced the ‘Ave, maris stella’.In the universal silence I recognized the voice of M. de Thou, whowas at the foot of the scaffold; the people repeated the sacredstrain. M. de Cinq-Mars clung more tightly to the stake; and I sawa raised axe, made like the English axes. A terrible cry of thepeople from the Place, the windows, and the towers told me that ithad fallen, and that the head had rolled to the ground. I hadhappily strength enough left to think of his soul, and to commence aprayer for him.“I mingled it with that which I heard pronounced aloud by ourunfortunate and pious friend De Thou. I rose and saw him springupon the scaffold with such promptitude that he might almost havebeen said to fly. The father and he recited a psalm; he uttered itwith the ardor of a seraphim, as if his soul had borne his body toheaven. Then, kneeling down, he kissed the blood of Cinq-Mars asthat of a martyr, and became himself a greater martyr. I do notknow whether God was pleased to grant him this last favor; but I sawwith horror that the executioner, terrified no doubt at the firstblow he had given, struck him upon the top of his head, whither theunfortunate young man raised his hand; the people sent forth a longgroan, and advanced against the executioner. The poor wretch,terrified still more, struck him another blow, which only cut theskin and threw him upon the scaffold, where the executioner rolledupon him to despatch him. A strange event terrified the people asmuch as the horrible spectacle. M. de Cinq-Mars’ old servant heldhis horse as at a military funeral; he had stopped at the foot ofthe scaffold, and like a man paralyzed, watched his master to theend, then suddenly, as if struck by the same axe, fell dead underthe blow which had taken off his master’s head.“I write these sad details in haste, on board a Genoese galley, intowhich Fontrailles, Gondi, Entraigues, Beauvau, Du Lude, myself, andothers of the chief conspirators have retired. We are going toEngland to await until time shall deliver France from the tyrantwhom we could not destroy. I abandon forever the service of thebase Prince who betrayed us.“MONTRESOR”
“Such,” continued Corneille, “has been the fate of these two young men whom you lately saw so powerful. Their last sigh was that of the ancient monarchy. Nothing more than a court can reign here henceforth; the nobles and the senates are destroyed.”
“And this is your pretended great man!” said Milton. “What has he sought to do? He would, then, create republics for future ages, since he destroys the basis of your monarchy?”
“Look not so far,” answered Corneille; “he only seeks to reign until the end of his life. He has worked for the present and not for the future; he has continued the work of Louis XI; and neither one nor the other knew what they were doing.”
The Englishman smiled.
“I thought,” he said, “that true genius followed another path. This man has shaken all that he ought to have supported, and they admire him! I pity your nation.”
“Pity it not!” exclaimed Corneille, warmly; “a man passes away, but a people is renewed. This people, Monsieur, is gifted with an immortal energy, which nothing can destroy; its imagination often leads it astray, but superior reason will ever ultimately master its disorders.”
The two young and already great men walked, as they conversed, upon the space which separates the statue of Henri IV from the Place Dauphine; they stopped a moment in the centre of this Place.
“Yes, Monsieur,” continued Corneille, “I see every evening with what rapidity a noble thought finds its echo in French hearts; and every evening I retire happy at the sight. Gratitude prostrates the poor people before this statue of a good king! Who knows what other monument another passion may raise near this? Who can say how far the love of glory will lead our people? Who knows that in the place where we now are, there may not be raised a pyramid taken from the East?”
“These are the secrets of the future,” said Milton. “I, like yourself, admire your impassioned nation; but I fear them for themselves. I do not well understand them; and I do not recognize their wisdom when I see them lavishing their admiration upon men such as he who now rules you. The love of power is very puerile; and this man is devoured by it, without having force enough to seize it wholly. By an utter absurdity, he is a tyrant under a master. Thus has this colossus, never firmly balanced, been all but overthrown by the finger of a boy. Does that indicate genius? No, no! when genius condescends to quit the lofty regions of its true home for a human passion, at least, it should grasp that passion in its entirety. Since Richelieu only aimed at power, why did he not, if he was a genius, make himself absolute master of power? I am going to see a man who is not yet known, and whom I see swayed by this miserable ambition; but I think that he will go farther. His name is Cromwell!”