Twenty years after by Alexandre Dumas and Auguste Maquet
Chapter XXXVII.
528 words | Chapter 39
Cromwell’s Letter.
At the very moment when the queen quitted the convent to go to the
Palais Royal, a young man dismounted at the gate of this royal abode
and announced to the guards that he had something of importance to
communicate to Cardinal Mazarin. Although the cardinal was often
tormented by fear, he was more often in need of counsel and
information, and he was therefore sufficiently accessible. The true
difficulty of being admitted was not to be found at the first door, and
even the second was passed easily enough; but at the third watched,
besides the guard and the doorkeepers, the faithful Bernouin, a
Cerberus whom no speech could soften, no wand, even of gold, could
charm.
It was therefore at the third door that those who solicited or were
bidden to an audience underwent their formal interrogatory.
The young man having left his horse tied to the gate in the 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?”
“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
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