The Arm and the Darkness by Taylor Caldwell
Yet, it sickened him. From some obscure ancestor he had inherited that deadly gift of never being able to deceive himself. The Church sickened him; it made him sick of his own soul.
By what falsehood, hypocrisy, cunning, craft, cruelty and indifference had he raised himself to be literally the King of France, master of Europe! By what shamefulness and degradation had he exalted himself! He thought of the Queen Mother, Marie de Medici, who was a symbol to him of the debauchery of his own soul. That big gross woman, whose touch had been pollution, who had lain on his breast in fetid midnight hours! He felt corruption, prostitution, through all his flesh. Yet, strangely, it was the memory of himself sitting on a cushion at her feet, ogling her with amorous languor as he strummed the lute he had learned to please her, which revolted him the most. In that act was the summing up of his debauchery and his prostitution. The lute-strumming had been more shameful than the mere polluting of his body in his implacable search for power.
He was only forty-one years old, half-dead, obscenely stained and dishonored. He had attained the power to which he had dedicated himself. He lay today on his bed and looked at it, and his nausea of spirit communicated itself to his body.
He stopped at nothing. He plotted like a serpent in a jungle. He was sleepless. The spring of his lust and greed had been wound too tightly in him to be stopped. He dared not stop, lest he die. He betrayed wantonly, that he might live.
He encouraged the Protestant great nobles for the sake of the unity of France, and, secretly, the advance of his own power. But he also derived a bitter amusement in that encouragement.
As he lay thinking, he heard the great door open softly. He lifted his heavy lids, and his strange tigerish eyes fixed themselves upon the young priest entering.
“Ah, Louis,” he murmured. He lifted himself slightly on his cushions and smiled. He loved Louis for the amusement he invariably offered him. He lifted his slender white hand in a languid blessing. Louis bowed silently. The Cardinal watched his secretary as the young man, with his stately step, approached the carved and gilded chair at the bedside, and sat down with his usual majestic grace.
The Cardinal surveyed him intently. With quickened interest, he perceived that Louis de Richepin was paler than usual, his countenance more rigid, more marblelike, and that there were purple stains under the large blue eyes. But directness was not one of the Cardinal’s less subtle characteristics in dealing with individuals, and he held his peace. He would soon be able, by devious means, to ascertain the cause of the visible distress of the priest.
His manner toward Louis was both fond and ironical, and sometimes lightly teasing.
“The rabble outside is as thick as ever, eh?” he asked.
“There is a large audience waiting to consult your Eminence,” replied Louis, stiffly.
“Ah, yes,” murmured the Cardinal, smiling slightly. “Fetch me those papers upon the table, Louis, if you please.”
Louis rose, his black garments rustling. He moved across the carpet and the polished floor like a noble ghost. He brought the papers to his master, and laid them on the crimson coverlet. He seated himself again. His silence had the quality of white stone.
The Cardinal, in a languid but firm voice, began to dictate messages to his secretary. He used Latin almost exclusively; he had a remarkably eloquent and smooth genius for that language. Louis wrote the dictation rapidly. The shadows of the golden sun became longer in the lofty chamber. The hum behind the doors increased in tempo. As he dictated, the Cardinal’s eyes remained fixed on Louis’ face, and the strange changing lights in them sharpened, grew more vivid. His heart beat with an anticipatory pleasure under his white silken nightshirt. Once or twice, he shivered involuntarily, for he was always cold, even in his warm bed.
There was a sudden pause. Louis waited, his head bent, his lips stern and cold.
“Yes,” murmured the Cardinal, abstractedly. “Louis,” he continued, “please request your brother, Monsieur de Richepin du Vaubon, to attend me tomorrow morning at this hour. He has returned, I hear, from some escapade?” He smiled. “Young blood,” he murmured.
Louis started violently. He lifted his head, and across his pale and beautiful countenance a dim flush raced like a fever. Fear, stark and vivid, began to glitter in his eyes.
“Arsène,” he faltered. His hands clenched on his knee.
“Yes, Arsène.” The Cardinal’s smile was friendly. “I enjoy his conversation. He has wit and charm, and is devilishly clever. Too, I wish to consult him about a certain matter.” He paused, then added negligently: “He is a close friend of Paul de Vitry, is he not?”
Louis cried out: “That is true, but he is no plotter with de Vitry! I can assure your Eminence of that—”
The Cardinal raised his deep brows. “Did I allege he was? But perhaps he can give me some information which might be useful.”
“We are not traitors, in our family,” Louis said, out of his fear and agitation.
“Did I say so? But Arsène was never reconciled to the faith of his fathers, was he?” The Cardinal was enjoying the fright of his secretary. “But I suspect Arsène of nothing, except frivolity. I have always had a fondness for him. It is my intention to offer him the captaincy of my Guards, even though he is still a Huguenot, from what I have learned.”
“It is a great honor,” said Louis, in a stifled voice. “But, as your Eminence has so rightly said, he is frivolous and careless.” He recalled the Cardinal’s words, and a wild envy and hatred filled him, now that his fear had diminished. “Discipline is beyond him. He plays like a child, though he is no longer very young. He detests responsibility. Though my father is of delicate constitution, Arsène can hardly be induced to visit our estates and supervise them. He is careless and abandoned and immature. Your Eminence’s offer will not impress him, I must confess. It will be a waste of your Eminence’s time.”
“Nevertheless, I intend to make him the offer.”
The Cardinal, who knew the hatred Louis bore his brother, was delighted and stimulated at the sight of the young priest’s visible jealousy and detestation.
He said: “I think you disparage Arsène too much, Louis. Because he has a lighter spirit than yours, and is concerned with amorous intrigues and swordplay, does not argue that he is worthless. I find him amusing. He is intrepid and fearless, and has a way with men. He is liked indiscriminately. He would make an excellent captain. M. de Cavois is becoming too stiff and rigid; he is no longer young, and I have a wish to retire him, for he antagonizes the Musketeers. He lacks the quality of adventure, and thinks only of discipline. Arsène would be a prime favorite with the men.”
Louis was silent. He was affrighted. His imagination rioted. It was very possible that Arsène would accept, in order to be privy to the Cardinal’s secrets, the better to betray him. Duty struggled with Louis’ love for his father. To enlighten the Cardinal would be to betray Arsène, and through Arsène, his father. The flush on Louis’ cheek deepened; dampness appeared on his marble forehead. His hands shook.
Then, in a dwindled voice, he said: “I must beg your Eminence to reconsider. I know my brother too well.”
The Cardinal shrugged. “Arsène has not yet accepted,” he replied, indifferently. “Shall we proceed with our correspondence?”
Half-fainting though he was with his agitation and terror, Louis could yet control himself, and attend to his duties.
There was no hesitation at any time in the Cardinal’s smooth and quiet voice as it flowed between his frail, hardly moving lips. As he spoke, he drew his imperial thoughtfully through his white fingers. His melancholy eyes, opaque with reflection and concentration now, regarded Louis without seeing him. Power was in his voice, courteous but filled with potential violence, uncompromising and urbane. Once or twice he smiled to himself, reflectively.
He dictated a letter to the King, and now his hidden smile grew deeper.
“It is with the most intolerable regret, Sire, that your servant has been unable to atten
He paused. Louis, writing swiftly, felt some grim excitement. He waited, his pen clenched between his fingers.
“I must beg your Majesty to reflect on the enormous difficulties inherent in any move against the great Protestant nobles and La Rochelle at this time. France is still divided, still weakened by war, still seething with tumult and disorder. One must move carefully in this regard, as you, Sire, with your enormous wisdom, are well aware. I remember, with humility, all your previous counsels in the matter.”
He paused again. He raised himself on his pillows, smiling broadly, his eyes twinkling with enjoyment and malice.
“There are some, as your Majesty is aware, who would like nothing better than to see France torn asunder with religious dissension. I need not name their names, for fear of touching upon a most delicate situation in your Majesty’s own house-hold. As you so well know, Sire, I have at all times endeavored to reconcile your Majesty with those closest to you, believing that domestic bliss should not be denied kings. For my efforts I have received only disdain, calumny and hatred, as your Majesty can attest. Nevertheless, as a devoted servant of your Majesty, I shall never desist in my efforts to bring peace to your heart and happiness to your hearth.”
The Cardinal’s imperial had been pulled to a soft thin string. He caressed it absently. His tigerish eyes gleamed. Louis did not look up, but there were blue lines about his lips, and his hand trembled visibly.
“Nevertheless, craving your Majesty’s indulgence before-hand, I must, out of my devotion to you, be frank, however angered you might be after the perusal of this letter.
“Though your Majesty’s most Catholic brother, Philip of Spain, is bound to you by the closest of ties through his sister, her Majesty, your Queen and mine, candor impels me to speak plainly. Investigation has proved to me without doubt, though with terrible anguish of mind, that Spain has been secretly negotiating with England for an alliance against France. Philip, in his hatred for France, is impelled to ally himself with our most formidable and heretical enemy. In refusing to be drawn into any premature conflict at this time, I humbly believe that we can restore tranquillity and strength to France, rendering her strong and invulnerable, better able to withstand battle abroad and confusion within. Let our enemies then beware!”
Louis’ pen fell from his fingers. He lifted his head and gazed at the Cardinal with suppressed rage and disappointment. The Cardinal, perceiving this, was titillated. He arched his steep brows.
“Well, Louis,” he said, indulgently. “Speak, or you will burst with spleen.”
Louis stood up in his agitation, grasping the papers on which he had been writing.
“Your Eminence,” he began, in a choked voice, “is, as always, very kind, very indulgent, to permit me to speak. You have never silenced me, claiming that I sometimes have flashes of wisdom. I crave your pardon in advance, but, as you are willing, I must say what I must say.”
Crimson had flooded the white stone of his countenance; his blue eyes were passionate with anger and detestation. The Cardinal inclined his head, and smiling, waited.
“Her Majesty,” continued Louis, pressing the palms of his hands rigidly together, “has frequently urged that we destroy that bastion of hellish heretics, La Rochelle, with immediate dispatch. So long as this bastion remains, a State within a State, we are undone, at the mercy of Spain and England, of the German Empire. It is the Achilles heel of our domestic and foreign policy, the unguarded breach in the wall through which our enemies can enter. Destroy La Rochelle, Monseigneur, and the English will have no port of entry into the heart of France. As it is now, the English can send supplies to the Huguenots at La Rochelle, encourage them in their obstinacy and treason, fortify them with ships and German, Spanish and Italian malcontents, who love their Church less than they hate France.”
He was forced to halt, his large pale features twisting with malignant passion. The Cardinal advanced his head slightly towards him, the better to observe these manifestations which could spring less from abstract indignation than personal hatred.
Louis continued, his voice trembling: “So long as the Edict of Nantes is in force, and La Rochelle unmolested in her effrontery and impudence, we are weakened, we are defenseless, we are open to attack by our hating enemies. I implore your Eminence to reflect upon this!”
“I have reflected,” murmured the Cardinal. He passed his hand over his face in one of those sudden and frequent attacks of exhaustion which so afflicted him. “You are rash, Louis. You would spring into battle against the Rochellais without sufficient preparation. You would revoke the Edict of Nantes without meditating upon the strong possibility of devastating disunity in France. However brave the heart, bare hands are not sufficient to stop swords or deflect cannon balls. Every peaceful moment gained is an hour of strength and preparation for France. But do not consider even for an instant that I do not have my plans!”
He fixed his eyes upon Louis. “It is probably only a calumny, a libel, but I have heard rumors that your brother, Arsène, has many friends in La Rochelle, and that he visits them upon occasion.”
Louis said nothing. He paled excessively. He sat down, abruptly. The Cardinal, smiling, indicated by an inclination of his head that the correspondence must proceed. Louis’ fingers felt numb as they held the pen. Then suddenly he cried out in a strange voice, shaking with vehemence: “Your Eminence must destroy the serpent within the heart of France, the Huguenots, the plotters, the heretics! How shall we endure with this venom unchecked in our souls?”
The Cardinal, as if Louis had not spoken at all, continued his dictation, in the smoothest of tones:
“In your letter, your Majesty impatiently quotes the late lamented de Luynes, who had conceived the premature and short-sighted policy of re-establishing our Holy Faith in Béarn, and destroying the Calvinists there established. With sorrow, I must recall to you the events of Montauban, where de Luynes was so ignominiously defeated, and who died of a broken heart in consequence. The militancy of our faithful children is to be admired. But it cannot but be deplored after a study of the facts. We are not yet ready for a move against internal and external enemies.
“However,” he resumed, in a firmer voice, “I promise, as always, to devote all my energy, and all the authority that it may please you to place in my hands, to destroying the Huguenots, abasing the pride of the great nobles, restoring all your subjects to their duty and in raising the name of your Majesty among foreign nations to its rightful place. I ask only faith in my prudence and in my devotion.”
He paused, then said: “Louis, I must ask you to take that to his Majesty, in person. I can trust no other.”
Louis bit his lip gloomily. His chest heaved under his black robes. He inclined his head. The Cardinal lay back against his cushions and regarded his secretary with malicious pleasure.
“Speak, Louis,” he said, in fond tones.
Louis drew a deep breath, clasped his hands together. “Your Eminence speaks of national unity. Is not the unity of Christendom more important? It appears to me that this unity of Christendom, perforce, will automatically bring with it national unity.” He continued: “The toleration of a State within a State can bring only ruin.”
The Cardinal smiled mockingly, but his voice was gentle, if ironical: “If we are to subdue the Huguenots, return France to complete Catholic unity, we should do so by example, virtue, prayer and humility. Do you doubt the efficacy of prayer, Louis? Pray then!”
Louis grew paler than ever. He regarded the Cardinal with stark simplicity, yet with it was a white indignation.
“We must first prove to God that we are sincere in our determination that He shall not be blasphemed by heretics.”
The Cardinal was silent a moment, then he said negligently: “Ah, you fanatics! I have the conviction, Louis, that you would enjoy the reintroduction of the wheel, the gallows and the ax against the Huguenots. Essentially, the fanatic is uncivilized. And do we not boast that we are the most civilized of people, in comparison with the coarse English, the boorish Germans, the vicious Spaniards?”
“Civilized uses cannot be considered in dealing with heretics!” cried Louis, and again that convulsion passed over his face as from some secret spasm.
“The Holy Office missed a fine recruit by some centuries,” observed the Cardinal, shaking his head. He thought to him-self, with pleasure: How his brother torments him, afflicts his soul! He regarded Louis with his long and melancholy gaze.
“My dear Louis, I am not your confessor, but I have thought that this morning you have been distrait. I hope that you consider me your friend, and allow me to assist you if you be in need of assistance.”
Louis started perceptibly, and half rose from his chair. Then he was motionless. So uncomplex, so simple, was his essential nature, that he could find no duplicity in the Cardinal’s words. Louis had not learned that Richelieu wasted no speech, and that every word was said with a purpose, if only a malicious one.
He put his hand to his eyes for a moment, and was silent.
Certain, now, that he had not been mistaken, the Cardinal forgot his malaise and stared at the young priest with increasing curiosity.
“Mon cher,” he murmured, “it is evident that you are distressed. Again, I urge you to consider that I am your friend.”
Louis began to speak in a pent, low voice: “I have never found it difficult to read my whole soul. Now, I find it impossible.”
“You mean,” said Richelieu gently, “that you dare not read your soul.” He was faintly excited. What could have stirred that blue-white glacier? The Cardinal knew that the movements of glaciers are never insignificant, that they bear in them the potentialities of death and enormous destruction, that their motion is irresistible and devastating. He sat up, and stared at Louis with avid interest.