“You wish time to think about this?”
And there it was, finally, laid out as clearly as possible. In another world, another future, another universe, Richelieu had groomed Mazarini—by then known as Jules Mazarin—to be his successor. And such a glorious career he had had, under that Francofied name! Reckoned, in the annals of France, to have been the equal of Richelieu himself.
There were precious few ministers of state in the history of the world whose names would be remembered by any but antiquarians centuries later. Richelieu was one of them. Mazarin, another.
“If you please, yes.” With those words, Mazarini felt himself grow cool, more ordered.
“There is no urgency,” said the cardinal. “For the time being you have obligations as nuncio extraordinary, and doubtless there are many with calls upon your time.”
Mazarini nodded. “Monsignor Bischi’s office has much work for me, augmenting the regular offices of the nunciature here. And I find my lodgings with le comte de Chavigny most congenial.”
“Ah, yes. Young Leon is very much the coming man among my creatures, you know. A promising young fellow, very much in the image of his father. I understand he and young Monsieur Lefferts found much in common?”
Mazarini grinned. “I fear I may not mention much of what they found in the presence of a churchman of Your Eminence’s famed piety.”
Richelieu chuckled. “There are times when I do feel my age, all—what—forty-eight years of it? I remember when it was thought that I would follow His Majesty’s colors rather than take the cloth—oh, the stories I would hear of military debauchery.”
“I could tell you more than one such of Harry Lefferts. A man to watch, that.” Mazarini smiled at the memories. Now that Harry was leaving, he could afford to do so. Granted, the disemboweling of Agnelli had been perhaps excessive. Then again, Agnelli had been a notorious bully and there had been few, even in Rome, who had mourned his passing. Had he been an outraged husband or father, sentiment would have been different. But Agnelli had simply been a rival for a lady’s affections—and one whose own past conduct did not bear close examination.
“As are all the Americans.” There was a trace of acerbity in the cardinal’s voice. “I shall be meeting some of them in a few weeks, sent by way of an embassy, if my intendants report aright. Apparently they propose to send the wife of their president, Monsieur Stearns. I do look forward to—” Richelieu shook his head. “But you have met the young lady.”
“She is charming, of that there is no doubt. Very intelligent and well read, also.” Mazarini shrugged. “As a diplomat? Hard to say. She is certainly pleasant to talk with, as well as look upon.”
He choked the rest off. Richelieu had almost, he realized, drawn him out into the betrayal of confidence—even by what might be inferred from what he said. None other of the notables he dealt with would cause him to speak so. It was, he felt, unfair to require a diplomat of his comparative youth to deal with beautiful women in the course of his work. What could he say, after, that could not be misconstrued?
Richelieu interrupted his indignant reverie. “While we are on the subject of diplomats, has Sable spoken with you? He has a few things he wishes to discuss about our deployments in northern Italy.”
“Sable? Oh, you mean the cousin of—” Mazarin waved at the wall behind which Richelieu’s dark-lanternist lurked. It made sense to refer to the senior Servien by his marquisate de Sable when there was room for confusion. Although the near-invisible man in the next room could hardly be confused with the elder Servien in the flesh. The instantly forgettable factotum was one creature. The caustic, bombastic military intendant Mazarini had met at Casale could scarcely be credited to have come from the same family. “Yes, he has sent me a note on the subject. There are doubtless some small issues along the Pinerolo border that we must discuss. Tiresome, but necessary.”
“Now, to change the subject. Have you been presented to Her Majesty?” Richelieu returned from the window and perched on the edge of his desk.