attentively than he had done at first. The messenger was
unmoved.
“Devil take these Puritans,” said Mazarin aside; “they are
carved from granite.” Then he added aloud, “But you have
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relations left you?”
“I have one remaining. Three times I presented myself to ask
his support and three times he ordered his servants to turn
me away.”
“Oh, mon Dieu! my dear Mr. Mordaunt,” said Mazarin, hoping
by a display of affected pity to catch the young man in a
snare, “how extremely your history interests me! You know
not, then, anything of your birth — you have never seen
your mother?”
“Yes, my lord; she came three times, whilst I was a child,
to my nurse’s house; I remember the last time she came as
well as if it were to-day.”
“You have a good memory,” said Mazarin.
“Oh! yes, my lord,” said the young man, with such peculiar
emphasis that the cardinal felt a shudder run through every
vein.
“And who brought you up?” he asked again.
“A French nurse, who sent me away when I was five years old
because no one paid her for me, telling me the name of a
relation of whom she had heard my mother often speak.”
“What became of you?”
“As I was weeping and begging on the high road, a minister
from Kingston took me in, instructed me in the Calvinistic
faith, taught me all he knew himself and aided me in my
researches after my family.”
“And these researches?”
“Were fruitless; chance did everything.”
“You discovered what had become of your mother?”
“I learned that she had been assassinated by my relation,
aided by four friends, but I was already aware that I had
been robbed of my wealth and degraded from my nobility by
King Charles I.”
“Oh! I now understand why you are in the service of
Cromwell; you hate the king.”
“Yes, my lord, I hate him!” said the young man.
Mazarin marked with surprise the diabolical expression with
which the young man uttered these words. Just as,
ordinarily, faces are colored by blood, his face seemed dyed
by hatred and became livid.
“Your history is a terrible one, Mr. Mordaunt, and touches
me keenly; but happily for you, you serve an all-powerful
master; he ought to aid you in your search; we have so many
means of gaining information.”
“My lord, to a well-bred dog it is only necessary to show
one end of a track; he is certain to reach the other.”
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“But this relation you mentioned — do you wish me to speak
to him?” said Mazarin, who was anxious to make a friend
about Cromwell’s person.
“Thanks, my lord, I will speak to him myself. He will treat
me better the next time I see him.”
“You have the means, then, of touching him?”
“I have the means of making myself feared.”
Mazarin looked at the young man, but at the fire which shot
from his glance he bent his head; then, embarrassed how to
continue such a conversation, he opened Cromwell’s letter.
The young man’s eyes gradually resumed their dull and glassy
appearance and he fell into a profound reverie. After
reading the first lines of the letter Mazarin gave a side
glance at him to see if he was watching the expression of
his face as he read. Observing his indifference, he shrugged
his shoulders, saying:
“Send on your business those who do theirs at the same time!
Let us see what this letter contains.”
We here present the letter verbatim:
“To his Eminence, Monseigneur le Cardinal Mazarini:
“I have wished, monseigneur, to learn your intentions
relating to the existing state of affairs in England. The
two kingdoms are so near that France must be interested in
our situation, as we are interested in that of France. The
English are almost of one mind in contending against the
tyranny of Charles and his adherents. Placed by popular
confidence at the head of that movement, I can appreciate
better than any other its significance and its probable
results. I am at present in the midst of war, and am about