Twenty Years Later. Part one
Twenty Years Later
by Alexandre Dumas
1
The Shade of Cardinal Richelieu.
In a splendid chamber of the Palais Royal, formerly styled
the Palais Cardinal, a man was sitting in deep reverie, his
head supported on his hands, leaning over a gilt and inlaid
table which was covered with letters and papers. Behind this
figure glowed a vast fireplace alive with leaping flames;
great logs of oak blazed and crackled on the polished brass
andirons whose flicker shone upon the superb habiliments of
the lonely tenant of the room, which was illumined grandly
by twin candelabra rich with wax-lights.
Any one who happened at that moment to contemplate that red
simar — the gorgeous robe of office — and the rich lace,
or who gazed on that pale brow, bent in anxious meditation,
might, in the solitude of that apartment, combined with the
silence of the ante-chambers and the measured paces of the
guards upon the landing-place, have fancied that the shade
of Cardinal Richelieu lingered still in his accustomed
haunt.
It was, alas! the ghost of former greatness. France
enfeebled, the authority of her sovereign contemned, her
nobles returning to their former turbulence and insolence,
her enemies within her frontiers — all proved the great
Richelieu no longer in existence.
In truth, that the red simar which occupied the wonted place
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Dumas, Alexandre – Twenty Years After
was his no longer, was still more strikingly obvious from
the isolation which seemed, as we have observed, more
appropriate to a phantom than a living creature — from the
corridors deserted by courtiers, and courts crowded with
guards — from that spirit of bitter ridicule, which,
arising from the streets below, penetrated through the very
casements of the room, which resounded with the murmurs of a
whole city leagued against the minister; as well as from the
distant and incessant sounds of guns firing — let off,
happily, without other end or aim, except to show to the
guards, the Swiss troops and the military who surrounded the
Palais Royal, that the people were possessed of arms.
The shade of Richelieu was Mazarin. Now Mazarin was alone
and defenceless, as he well knew.
“Foreigner!” he ejaculated, “Italian! that is their mean yet
mighty byword of reproach — the watchword with which they
assassinated, hanged, and made away with Concini; and if I
gave them their way they would assassinate, hang, and make
away with me in the same manner, although they have nothing
to complain of except a tax or two now and then. Idiots!
ignorant of their real enemies, they do not perceive that it
is not the Italian who speaks French badly, but those who
can say fine things to them in the purest Parisian accent,
who are their real foes.
“Yes, yes,” Mazarin continued, whilst his wonted smile, full
of subtlety, lent a strange expression to his pale lips;
“yes, these noises prove to me, indeed, that the destiny of
favorites is precarious; but ye shall know I am no ordinary
favorite. No! The Earl of Essex, ’tis true, wore a splendid
ring, set with diamonds, given him by his royal mistress,
whilst I — I have nothing but a simple circlet of gold,
with a cipher on it and a date; but that ring has been
blessed in the chapel of the Palais Royal,* so they will
never ruin me, as they long to do, and whilst they shout,
`Down with Mazarin!’ I, unknown, and unperceived by them,
incite them to cry out, `Long live the Duke de Beaufort’ one
day; another, `Long live the Prince de Conde;’ and again,
`Long live the parliament!'” And at this word the smile on
the cardinal’s lips assumed an expression of hatred, of
which his mild countenance seemed incapable. “The
parliament! We shall soon see how to dispose,” he continued,
“of the parliament! Both Orleans and Montargis are ours. It
will be a work of time, but those who have begun by crying
out: Down with Mazarin! will finish by shouting out, Down
with all the people I have mentioned, each in his turn.
* It is said that Mazarin, who, though a cardinal, had not