court, mounted the great staircase and addressed the guard
in the first chamber.
“Cardinal Mazarin?” said he.
“Pass on,” replied the guard.
The cavalier entered the second hall, which was guarded by
the musketeers and doorkeepers.
“Have you a letter of audience?” asked a porter, advancing
to the new arrival.
“I have one, but not one from Cardinal Mazarin.”
“Enter, and ask for Monsieur Bernouin,” said the porter,
opening the door of the third room. Whether he only held his
usual post or whether it was by accident, Monsieur Bernouin
was found standing behind the door and must have heard all
that had passed.
“You seek me, sir,” said he. “From whom may the letter be
you bear to his eminence?”
“From General Oliver Cromwell,” said the new comer. “Be so
good as to mention this name to his eminence and to bring me
word whether he will receive me — yes or no.”
Saying which, he resumed the proud and sombre bearing
peculiar at that time to Puritans. Bernouin cast an
inquisitorial glance at the person of the young man and
entered the cabinet of the cardinal, to whom he transmitted
the messenger’s words.
“A man bringing a letter from Oliver Cromwell?” said
Mazarin. “And what kind of a man?”
“A genuine Englishman, your eminence. Hair sandy-red — more
red than sandy; gray-blue eyes — more gray than blue; and
for the rest, stiff and proud.”
“Let him give in his letter.”
“His eminence asks for the letter,” said Bernouin, passing
back into the ante-chamber.
“His eminence cannot see the letter without the bearer of
it,” replied the young man; “but to convince you that I am
really the bearer of a letter, see, here it is; and kindly
add,” continued he, “that I am not a simple messenger, but
an envoy extraordinary.”
Bernouin re-entered the cabinet, returning in a few seconds.
“Enter, sir,” said he.
The young man appeared on the threshold of the minister’s
closet, in one hand holding his hat, in the other the
letter. Mazarin rose. “Have you, sir,” asked he, “a letter
accrediting you to me?”
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“There it is, my lord,” said the young man.
Mazarin took the letter and read it thus:
“Mr. Mordaunt, one of my secretaries, will remit this letter
of introduction to His Eminence, the Cardinal Mazarin, in
Paris. He is also the bearer of a second confidential
epistle for his eminence.
“Oliver Cromwell.
“Very well, Monsieur Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, “give me this
second letter and sit down.”
The young man drew from his pocket a second letter,
presented it to the cardinal, and took his seat. The
cardinal, however, did not unseal the letter at once, but
continued to turn it again and again in his hand; then, in
accordance with his usual custom and judging from experience
that few people could hide anything from him when he began
to question them, fixing his eyes upon them at the same
time, he thus addressed the messenger:
“You are very young, Monsieur Mordaunt, for this difficult
task of ambassador, in which the oldest diplomatists often
fail.”
“My lord, I am twenty-three years of age; but your eminence
is mistaken in saying that I am young. I am older than your
eminence, although I possess not your wisdom. Years of
suffering, in my opinion, count double, and I have suffered
for twenty years.”
“Ah, yes, I understand,” said Mazarin; “want of fortune,
perhaps. You are poor, are you not?” Then he added to
himself: “These English Revolutionists are all beggars and
ill-bred.”
“My lord, I ought to have a fortune of six millions, but it
has been taken from me.”
“You are not, then, a man of the people?” said Mazarin,
astonished.
“If I bore my proper title I should be a lord. If I bore my
name you would have heard one of the most illustrious names
of England.”
“What is your name, then?” asked Mazarin.
“My name is Mordaunt,” replied the young man, bowing.
Mazarin now understood that Cromwell’s envoy desired to
retain his incognito. He was silent for an instant, and
during that time he scanned the young man even more