“Well!” continued Mazarin, “I shall give you something in
exchange for these forty millions you have refused so
royally.”
Louis XIV. indicated by a movement that these flatteries
were displeasing to him. “I shall give you a piece of
advice,” continued Mazarin; “yes, a piece of advice —
advice more precious than the forty millions.”
“My lord cardinal!” interrupted Louis.
“Sire, listen to this advice.”
“I am listening.”
“Come nearer, sire, for I am weak! — nearer, sire, nearer!”
The king bent over the dying man. “Sire,” said Mazarin, in
so low a tone that the breath of his words arrived only like
a recommendation from the tomb in the attentive ears of the
king — “Sire, never have a prime minister.”
Louis drew back astonished. The advice was a confession — a
treasure, in fact, was that sincere confession of Mazarin.
The legacy of the cardinal to the young king was composed of
six words only, but those six words, as Mazarin had said,
were worth forty millions. Louis remained for an instant
bewildered. As for Mazarin, he appeared only to have said
something quite natural. A little scratching was heard along
the curtains of the alcove. Mazarin understood: “Yes, yes!”
cried he warmly, “yes, sire, I recommend to you a wise man,
an honest man, and a clever man.”
“Tell me his name, my lord.”
“His name is yet almost unknown, sire; it is M. Colbert, my
attendant. Oh! try him,” added Mazarin, in an earnest voice;
“all that he has predicted has come to pass, he has a safe
glance, he is never mistaken either in things or in men —
which is more surprising still. Sire, I owe you much, but I
think I acquit myself of all towards you in giving you M.
Colbert.”
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“So be it,” said Louis, faintly, for, as Mazarin had said,
the name of Colbert was quite unknown to him, and he thought
the enthusiasm of the cardinal partook of the delirium of a
dying man. The cardinal sank back on his pillows.
“For the present, adieu, sire! adieu,” murmured Mazarin. “I
am tired, and I have yet a rough journey to take before I
present myself to my new Master. Adieu, sire!”
The young king felt the tears rise to his eyes; he bent over
the dying man, already half a corpse, and then hastily
retired.
CHAPTER 49
The First Appearance of Colbert
The whole night was passed in anguish, common to the dying
man and to the king: the dying man expected his deliverance,
the king awaited his liberty. Louis did not go to bed. An
hour after leaving the chamber of the cardinal, he learned
that the dying man, recovering a little strength, had
insisted upon being dressed, adorned and painted, and seeing
the ambassadors. Like Augustus, he no doubt considered the
world a great stage, and was desirous of playing out the
last act of the comedy. Anne of Austria reappeared no more
in the cardinal’s apartments; she had nothing more to do
there. Propriety was the pretext for her absence. On his
part, the cardinal did not ask for her: the advice the queen
had given her son rankled in his heart.
Towards midnight, while still painted, Mazarin’s mortal
agony came on. He had revised his will, and as this will was
the exact expression of his wishes, and as he feared that
some interested influence might take advantage of his
weakness to make him change something in it, he had given
orders to Colbert, who walked up and down the corridor which
led to the cardinal’s bed-chamber, like the most vigilant of
sentinels. The king, shut up in his own apartment,
dispatched his nurse every hour to Mazarin’s chamber, with
orders to bring him back the exact bulletin of the
cardinal’s state. After having heard that Mazarin was
dressed, painted, and had seen the ambassadors, Louis heard
that the prayers for the dying were being read for the
cardinal. At one o’clock in the morning, Guenaud had
administered the last remedy. This was a relic of the old
customs of that fencing time, which was about to disappear