Madame de Fargis went and brought back Beringhen. He was a tall and handsome lad, with blond hair and a red beard, half Dutch and half German, though he’d been raised in France. The king was very fond of him, and he was devoted to the king in return. Madame de Fargis came in tugging him by the sleeve; he didn’t know what he was wanted for and, faithful to his orders, it was only at the express command of the queen that he left his post in the royal antechamber.
But the parrot was so smart that the moment Beringhen entered, it knew he could speak Dutch, and without waiting for a request for the fifth compliment, it said, “Och, myne welbeminde koningin, ik bemin u, maar ik u meer in hollandsch, myne liefste geboorte taal.”
“Oh!” Beringhen said, astonished. “This parrot speaks Dutch as if it was from Amsterdam.”
“And what did it say to me, if you please, Monsieur de Beringhen?” the queen asked.
“It told Your Majesty, ‘Oh, my beloved Queen, I love you, but I love you most of all in Dutch, my dear native language.’”
“Well done!” said the queen. “And now we shall see it! I have no doubt it’s as beautiful as it is well-educated.” And so saying, she drew back the cloth to reveal what she already suspected: in the cage, instead of a parrot, was a pretty little dwarf woman, barely two feet tall and wearing a Frisian outfit.
She made a nice bow to Her Majesty. She then stepped out of the cage through the door, which was tall enough for her to use without stooping, and made a second bow, even more graceful than the first.
The queen took the dwarf in her arms and kissed her just as she would a child, and in fact, though she was fifteen years old, she was no bigger than a girl of two.
At that moment, someone was heard calling from the corridors, “Monsieur le Premier! Monsieur le Premier!”
According to the custom of the Court, that was the title of the king’s Premier Valet de Chambre. Beringhen, who had finished his service to the queen, stepped quickly to the door and met the Second Valet, who was looking for him. Through the open door, the queen could hear the following exchange:
“What is it?”
“The king is asking for Doctor Bouvard.”
“Mon Dieu!” said the queen. “Has some misfortune happened to His Majesty?” She went to the door to inquire further, but all she saw was the backs of the two valets as they raced off, each in a different direction. “Oh!” she said. “How can I find out what’s happened to the king?”
“Is Your Majesty going to see?” asked Mademoiselle de Lautrec.
“I dare not,” said the queen. “The king hasn’t called for me.”
“It’s a strange country,” murmured Isabelle, “where a worried wife dare not ask about her husband.”
“Do you think I should go take a look?” said Madame de Fargis.
“But what if the king is angry?”
“Well, he’s not likely to eat me—not King Louis XIII!” Then, approaching the queen, she whispered, “I’ll just take a couple of peeks and find out what’s happening.”
And just like that, she was gone.
Five minutes later, she returned, laughing all the way.
The queen breathed a sigh of relief. “So it was nothing serious, then?”
“Oh, quite serious: there was a duel.”
“A duel?” said the queen.
“Yes, in the presence of the king himself.”
“Who dared to do that?”
“Monsieur Baradas and Monsieur de Bassompierre. Monsieur Baradas was wounded.”
“By a sword?”
“No, a larding needle.” And Madame de Fargis, who had assumed a serious look, broke out again into one of those rippling laughs like a string of pearls, a hallmark of those of joyous nature.
“Well, ladies, now that we’ve been informed,” said the queen, “I don’t think we should let this accident interfere with our visit to Señor Lopez.”
Baradas, handsome though he was, didn’t inspire much sympathy in the queen or the ladies of her suite, so nobody had any objection to the queen’s proposal.
She set the dwarf in Madame de Bellier’s arms and, asking her name, was told it was Gretchen, which means both “Daisy” and “Pearl.”
The sedan chairs were waiting at the foot of the Louvre’s grand staircase. Each could carry two passengers. The queen went with Madame de Fargis and tiny Gretchen.
Ten minutes later, they were at Lopez’s place, which was at the corner of Rue du Mouton and the Place de Grève. When the porters set the queen’s chair down in front of Lopez’s door, a young man who stood on the threshold, hat in hand, stepped forward to open the chair and offer his arm to the queen.
This young man was the Comte de Moret.
A note from “Cousin Marina” to “Cousin Jacquelino” had apprised him that the queen would be at Lopez’s shop from eleven to noon, and he had hastened to be there.
Had he come to greet the queen and salute Madame de Fargis, or to exchange glances with Isabelle? We cannot say—but what we can say is that as soon as he had bowed to the queen and shaken hands with Madame de Fargis, he ran to the chair that followed and offered his arm to Mademoiselle de Lautrec with as much respect as he had paid to the queen.
“Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” he said to Isabelle, “for not coming to you first, as my heart desired; but in the presence of the queen, respect must come before all, even love.”
And bowing to the young woman, he conducted her to the entourage forming around the queen, and then took a step back before she could answer with anything but a blush.
The attentions of the Comte de Moret were so different from those of other gentlemen, and on the three occasions in which he’d been face-to-face with Isabelle, he had shown her so much love and respect that it was impossible that these meetings could have failed to leave an impression on the girl’s heart. She spent the entire time in Lopez’s shop standing in a corner, preoccupied, oblivious to the treasures displayed around her.
Once inside, the queen looked around until she spotted the Spanish Ambassador, who was chatting with the diamond cutter, apparently asking the value of some of the stones.
She, for her part, had brought Lopez a beautiful string of pearls, some of which were damaged and needed to be replaced. But the price of replacing the eight or ten damaged pearls was so high that she was reluctant to give Lopez permission to do it.
Madame de Fargis, conversing with the Comte de Moret, had been listening to him with one ear and to the queen with the other. She came over and asked, “Begging your pardon, Your Majesty, but how much are you short of what you need?”
“Look here, my dear,” said the queen. “I desire this beautiful crucifix, but this Jew of a Lopez won’t sell it to me for less than a thousand pistoles.”
“Bah!” said Madame de Fargis. “It’s quite unreasonable of you, Lopez, to sell this imitation cross for a thousand pistoles when your kind paid only thirty silver pieces for the original.”
“First of all,” said Lopez, “I am not a Jew, I’m a Muslim.”
“Jew, Muslim, it’s all one to me,” said Madame de Fargis.
“And then,” continued the queen, “I need a dozen pearls to repair my necklace, and he wants to charge me fifty pistoles apiece.”
“Is that all you need?” asked Madame de Fargis. “I have seven hundred pistoles of yours right here.”
“Where is it, my dear?” asked the queen.
“In the pockets of that big dark fellow there, standing by that tapestry from India.”
“Ah! Isn’t that Particelli?”
“No, Madame, that is Monsieur d’Émery.”
“Particelli or d’Émery, does it matter?”
“Only to the king, Madame.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You may not know that when the cardinal appointed Monsieur d’Émery to be the Keeper of the Cutlery, the king said, ‘Good, let us have this Monsieur d’Émery in the position as soon as possible.’ ‘Why is that?’ asked the cardinal, ast
onished. ‘Because I’d heard that a rascal named Particelli wanted the post,’ said the king. ‘Particelli? He was hanged,’ said the cardinal. ‘I’m glad,’ said the king, ‘because it’s said he was a terrible thief.’”
“Yes, well, so . . .?” said the queen.
“So,” said Madame de Fargis, “you have but to whisper in the ear of Monsieur d’Émery and he will give you your seven hundred pistoles.”
“But how will I repay him?”
“Simply by not pointing out to the king that d’Émery and Particelli are one and the same.”
Madame de Fargis then ran over to d’Émery, who had not noticed the queen, occupied as he was with inspecting some fabrics. But as soon as he saw her, and Madame de Fargis had whispered a few words in his ear, he came over as quickly as his short legs and big belly would allow.
“Now, Your Majesty,” said Madame de Fargis, “you remember Monsieur Particelli!”
“D’Émery,” said the bursar.
“Mon Dieu, of course,” said the queen.
“As soon as Monsieur Particelli knew of your embarrassment . . .”
“D’Émery, d’Émery,” repeated the bursar.
“. . . He offered to open for Your Majesty a line of credit with Monsieur Lopez for twenty thousand livres.”
“Twenty thousand livres!” cried the little man. “The devil!”
“Do you feel that isn’t enough for such a great queen, Monsieur Particelli? Do you think it should be more?”
“D’Émery, d’Émery, d’Émery,” he repeated despairingly. “Only too happy to be of assistance to Her Majesty; but in the name of heaven, call me d’Émery.”
“Oh, that’s right,” said Madame de Fargis. “Particelli was hanged, wasn’t he?”
“Thank you, Monsieur d’Émery,” said the queen. “In truth, you’re doing me a genuine service.”
“It is I who am obliged to Your Majesty—but I would be very grateful if you were to ask Madame de Fargis, who is quite mistaken, not to call me Particelli.”
“Agreed, Monsieur d’Émery, agreed,” said Madame de Fargis, “so long as you tell Monsieur Lopez that you’re covering the queen for up to twenty thousand livres.”
“Yes, yes, but there will be no more talk of Monsieur Particelli, no?”
“No, Monsieur d’Émery! Of course not, Monsieur d’Émery!” said Madame de Fargis, steering him over to Lopez.
Meanwhile, the queen and the Spanish ambassador had exchanged a glance, then gradually moved toward each other. The Comte de Moret was leaning against a pillar and watching Isabelle de Lautrec, who was pretending to play with the dwarf and talk with Madame de Bellier, though she, feeling the burning gaze of Antoine de Bourbon upon her, was unable to play with the one nor converse with the other. Madame de Fargis was ensuring that Her Majesty would have twenty thousand livres credit, and d’Émery and Lopez were discussing the terms. Everyone was so busy with their own affairs that no one paid any attention to the ambassador and the queen, who drifted together until they were side by side.
There was a brief exchange of compliments before they passed on to more interesting matters. “Her Majesty has received a letter from Don Gonzalès?” the ambassador asked.
“Yes, by way of the Comte de Moret.”
“And Her Majesty read not only the visible lines, written by the Governor of Milan . . .”
“. . . But also the invisible lines written by my brother.”
“And the queen has considered the advice she was given?”
The queen blushed and looked down.
“Madame,” the ambassador said, “there are necessities of State before which even those of the highest rank must bow. If the king died . . .”
“God save us from that misfortune, Monsieur!”
“But—if the king did die . . . what would happen to you?”
“God would decide that.”
“We need not leave the decision to God, Madame. Do you trust Gaston’s word?”
“That wretch? No!”
“They would send you back to Spain, you know, or confine you in a French convent.”
“I do not hide from myself that that would be my fate.”
“Could you depend on support from your mother-in-law?”
“Oh, no. She pretends to love me, but I know that beneath it all she hates me.”
“Indeed. But if Your Majesty were with child at the time of the king’s death, you would be declared regent, and everyone would fall at your feet.”
“I know that, Monsieur.”
“Well?”
The queen sighed. “But . . . there’s no one I love who . . .”
“What you mean is that you still love someone who, unfortunately, it’s futile to love.”
Anne of Austria wiped away a tear.
“Lopez is looking at us,” said the ambassador. “I don’t much trust this Lopez. We must part, but first promise me one thing.”
“What’s that, Monsieur?”
“I ask only this, but I ask it at the behest of your august brother, and on the behalf of both Spain and France.”
“What do you want me to promise, Monsieur?”
“That, if the grave circumstances we’ve discussed come to pass, you will close your eyes and allow yourself to be led by Madame de Fargis.”
“You have the queen’s promise on that,” said Madame de Fargis, appearing between the queen and the ambassador. “I promise it myself, in the name of Her Majesty.”
Then she added in a whisper, “Lopez is looking at you—and the diamond cutter has been listening.”
“Madame!” said the queen loudly. “It must be two o’clock in the afternoon. We must return to the Louvre for dinner, and to inquire after poor Monsieur Baradas!”
XXXII
Advice from a Jester
As we have seen, King Louis XIII was offended at first by the insolence of his favorite Baradas, when he tore the bottle of orange-water from the king’s hands and threw it at his feet. But as soon as he saw the wound inflicted by Monsieur de Bassompierre, spilling the precious blood of his precious Baradas, his anger changed to agony. Throwing himself upon the wounded youth, he drew the larding needle from his shoulder and, against all advice, citing his knowledge of medicine, insisted on treating the wound himself.
But the gifts and privileges Louis XIII had showered on his favorite, reminiscent of the favors Henri III had granted his mignons, had turned him into a spoiled child. Baradas pushed the king away, pushed everyone away, vowing he would never forget this insult to himself and to the king. He shouted that justice demanded the Maréchal de Bassompierre must be sent to the Bastille, unless he agreed to a public duel to settle the matter, like the one under Henri II that had ended in the death of La Châtaigneraie.
The king tried to calm him, but Baradas, who might have forgiven a wound from a sword, even from the proud Marshal Bassompierre, couldn’t forgive being wounded with a larding needle. He gave the king an ultimatum: nothing would do but either a legal duel in the presence of King and Court, or Bassompierre sent to the Bastille.
Baradas then stalked off to his room, like the majestic Achilles retiring to his tent after Agamemnon refused to give up the lovely Briséis.
This event threw all the larders into disarray, even those who weren’t larding. The Duc de Guise and the Duc d’Angoulême, wanting no part of this domestic quarrel, put on their hats, walked to the door, and went out together.
Once the door had closed behind them, the Duc de Guise paused and asked the Duc d’Angoulême, “So, what do you think of that?”
Angoulême shrugged his shoulders. “I say that poor old King Henri III, much maligned though he is, was less dismayed by the deaths of his favorites Quélus, Schomberg, and Maugiron than our good King Louis XIII is by a scratch to Monsieur Baradas.”
“Is it possible for a son to be so unlike his father?” said the Duc de Guise in a low voice, glancing around as if looking for an escape route. “My faith, I must admit I preferred Ki
ng Henri IV, even if he was still a Huguenot at heart.”
“You say that now that he’s dead; but when he was alive, you detested him.”
“He’d done so much damage to our noble house, it was impossible to be friends.”
“I can accept that,” said the Duc d’Angoulême, “but what I can’t accept is this insisting on a similarity between a child and his father. Such a resemblance is not granted to every family. Let’s take you, for example, my dear duke,” said Angoulême, gently prodding de Guise’s arm. “I, who have had the honor of knowing your mother’s husband, and the pleasure of knowing you, I dare say, without the slightest malice intended, that there is no resemblance at all between you and him.”
“My dear Duke!” said Monsieur de Guise, not quite sure whether Angoulême was mocking him.
“But no!” Angoulême insisted, with that air of bonhomie of which he was a master, so that no one could ever tell whether he was quite serious. “But no! It’s obvious enough,pardieu. Your late father was large where you are small, had an aquiline nose where yours is snubbed, and had dark eyes where yours are gray.”
“Next you’ll say he had a scar on his cheek, where I do not!”
“Only because you’ve never gone to war as he did.”
“What!” cried de Guise. “I, never gone to war? And what of La Rochelle, then?”
“That’s right, I forgot. You have seen war—from the battlements.”
“Duke,” said Monsieur de Guise, detaching his arm from Angoulême’s, “I think you’re having a bad day, and it’s time we parted.”
“Me, having a bad day? Is that what you think? If I said anything disagreeable, that was certainly not my intention. If you don’t look like your father, you must understand that that’s just a matter of chance. For example, do I resemble my father, Charles IX, who had red hair and a ruddy complexion? Not a bit. There’s no point in getting upset about it—everyone must look like someone. Our king, for example, looks a lot like Virginio Orsini, that cousin of the queen mother who came to France with her. You remember Orsini, don’t you? While Monsieur, in turn, looks as much like Concino Concini as one drop of water does to another. You yourself can have no doubt whom you resemble.”