ruin him in saying so.”
“Why?”
“Because he may be tried for it.”
“Ah! absurd! they don’t burn sorcerers nowadays.”
“No? ‘Tis not a long time since the late cardinal burnt
Urban Grandier, though.”
“My friend, Urban Grandier wasn’t a sorcerer, he was a
learned man. He didn’t predict the future, he knew the past
— often a more dangerous thing.”
Mazarin nodded an assent, but wishing to know what this
prediction was, about which they disputed, he remained in
the same place.
“I don’t say,” resumed the guard, “that Coysel is not a
sorcerer, but I say that if his prophecy gets wind, it’s a
sure way to prevent it’s coming true.”
“How so?”
“Why, in this way: if Coysel says loud enough for the
cardinal to hear him, on such or such a day such a prisoner
will escape, ’tis plain that the cardinal will take measures
of precaution and that the prisoner will not escape.”
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“Good Lord!” said another guard, who might have been thought
asleep on a bench, but who had lost not a syllable of the
conversation, “do you suppose that men can escape their
destiny? If it is written yonder, in Heaven, that the Duc de
Beaufort is to escape, he will escape; and all the
precautions of the cardinal will not prevent it.”
Mazarin started. He was an Italian and therefore
superstitious. He walked straight into the midst of the
guards, who on seeing him were silent.
“What were you saying?” he asked with his flattering manner;
“that Monsieur de Beaufort had escaped, were you not?”
“Oh, no, my lord!” said the incredulous soldier. “He’s well
guarded now; we only said he would escape.”
“Who said so?”
“Repeat your story, Saint Laurent,” replied the man, turning
to the originator of the tale.
“My lord,” said the guard, “I have simply mentioned the
prophecy I heard from a man named Coysel, who believes that,
be he ever so closely watched and guarded, the Duke of
Beaufort will escape before Whitsuntide.”
“Coysel is a madman!” returned the cardinal.
“No,” replied the soldier, tenacious in his credulity; “he
has foretold many things which have come to pass; for
instance, that the queen would have a son; that Monsieur
Coligny would be killed in a duel with the Duc de Guise; and
finally, that the coadjutor would be made cardinal. Well!
the queen has not only one son, but two; then, Monsieur de
Coligny was killed, and —- ”
“Yes,” said Mazarin, “but the coadjutor is not yet made
cardinal!”
“No, my lord, but he will be,” answered the guard.
Mazarin made a grimace, as if he meant to say, “But he does
not wear the cardinal’s cap;” then he added:
“So, my friend, it’s your opinion that Monsieur de Beaufort
will escape?”
“That’s my idea, my lord; and if your eminence were to offer
to make me at this moment governor of the castle of
Vincennes, I should refuse it. After Whitsuntide it would be
another thing.”
There is nothing so convincing as a firm conviction. It has
its own effect upon the most incredulous; and far from being
incredulous, Mazarin was superstitious. He went away
thoughtful and anxious and returned to his own room, where
he summoned Bernouin and desired him to fetch thither in the
morning the special guard he had placed over Monsieur de
Beaufort and to awaken him whenever he should arrive.
The guard had, in fact, touched the cardinal in the
tenderest point. During the whole five years in which the
Duc de Beaufort had been in prison not a day had passed in
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which the cardinal had not felt a secret dread of his
escape. It was not possible, as he knew well, to confine for
the whole of his life the grandson of Henry IV., especially
when this young prince was scarcely thirty years of age. But
however and whensoever he did escape, what hatred he must
cherish against him to whom he owed his long imprisonment;
who had taken him, rich, brave, glorious, beloved by women,
feared by men, to cut off his life’s best, happiest years;