Ten Years Later by Dumas, Alexandre. Part one

quarrel, they will fight. They are the only two maritime

powers. Let them destroy each other’s navies, we can

construct ours with the wrecks of their vessels; when we

shall save our money to buy nails.”

“Oh, how paltry and mean is all this that you are telling

me, monsieur le cardinal!”

“Yes, but nevertheless it is true, sire; you must confess

that. Still further. Suppose I admit, for a moment, the

possibility of breaking your word, and evading the treaty —

such a thing sometimes happens, but that is when some great

interest is to be promoted by it, or when the treaty is

found to be too troublesome — well, you will authorize the

engagement asked of you: France — her banner, which is the

same thing — will cross the Straits and will fight; France

will be conquered.”

“Why so?”

“Ma foi! we have a pretty general to fight under this

Charles II.! Worcester gave us good proofs of that.”

“But he will no longer have to deal with Cromwell,

monsieur.”

“But he will have to deal with Monk, who is quite as

dangerous. The brave brewer of whom we are speaking was a

visionary; he had moments of exaltation, of inflation,

during which he ran over like an over-filled cask; and from

the chinks there always escaped some drops of his thoughts,

and by the sample the whole of his thought was to be made

out. Cromwell has thus allowed us more than ten times to

penetrate into his very soul, when one would have conceived

that soul to be enveloped in triple brass, as Horace has it.

But Monk! Oh, sire, God defend you from ever having anything

to transact politically with Monk. It is he who has given

me, in one year, all the gray hairs I have. Monk is no

fanatic; unfortunately he is a politician; he does not

overflow, he keeps close together. For ten years he has had

his eyes fixed upon one object, and nobody has yet been able

to ascertain what. Every morning, as Louis XI. advised, he

burns his nightcap. Therefore, on the day when this plan

slowly and solitarily ripened, shall break forth, it will

break forthwith all the conditions of success which always

accompany an unforeseen event. That is Monk, sire, of whom

perhaps, you have never heard — of whom, perhaps, you did

not even know the name before your brother Charles II., who

knows what he is, pronounced it before you. He is a marvel

of depth and tenacity, the two only things against which

intelligence and ardor are blunted. Sire, I had ardor when I

was young, I always was intelligent. I may safely boast of

it, because I am reproached with it. I have done very well

with these two qualities, since, from the son of a fisherman

of Piscina, I have become prime minister to the king of

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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later

France; and in that position your majesty will perhaps

acknowledge I have rendered some service to the throne of

your majesty. Well, sire, if I had met with Monk on my way,

instead of Monsieur de Beaufort, Monsieur de Retz, or

Monsieur le Prince — well, we should have been ruined. If

you engage yourself rashly, sire, you will fall into the

talons of this politic soldier. The casque of Monk, sire, is

an iron coffer, in the recesses of which he shuts up his

thoughts, and no one has the key of it. Therefore, near him,

or rather before him, I bow, sire, for I have nothing but a

velvet cap.”

“What do you think Monk wishes to do, then?”

“Eh! sire, if I knew that, I would not tell you to mistrust

him, for I should be stronger than he; but with him, I am

afraid to guess — to guess! — you understand my word? —

for if I thought I had guessed, I should stop at an idea,

and, in spite of myself, should pursue that idea. Since that

man has been in power yonder, I am like one of the damned in

Dante whose neck Satan has twisted, and who walk forward

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