The Stance a King Should Have

Louis laughed as soon as he heard the question.

He looked at Mazarin. "Your Eminence," he asked modestly, "who would you say I am?"

"Louis XIV." Though he had no idea why Louis had raised this question, Mazarin still answered, "His Majesty the King of France and Navarre."

Louis then turned to Anne, the Queen Mother. "Then, Mother," he repeated his earlier question, "who am I?"

Ordinarily, Anne would certainly have answered, You are my dear little Louis. But since Mazarin had already set the correct example, she followed suit. "You are the King of France and Navarre."

Louis nodded, then asked everyone present who was qualified to be in this room—not many, but all were trustworthy ministers upon whom they would have to rely in this matter.

They all answered, "Your Majesty is the King."

Only then did Louis lean lightly back against his chair and continue, "Then Charles, Duke of Cornwall—who was his father, and who will he become?"

The room fell silent at once. Mazarin frowned and considered for a moment before cautiously answering, "The King of England?"

Louis looked to the others, and they gave the same answer one after another. Only Anne, the Queen Mother, added somewhat displeasedly, "A Protestant."

Louis patted his mother's hand soothingly. "I know that your devotion to God makes it impossible for you to tolerate a Protestant," he said. "But Mother, we must clearly understand one thing: whether it is I, Charles, or any emperor or king, they may be Protestants, they may be our enemies, but there is one thing in which we are absolutely alike—that is... we are the sole rulers of our nations in this secular world."

"And," he said, sweeping his gaze around the room, "this quality is more important than faith, position, or personal grudges. No—it should be said that it is the foundation of everything. Without it, we would have no right to continue existing at all, much less speak of anything else."

He looked at them all. Though he was only eleven, the severity in his gaze made many swallow the words already at their lips... This was too... But seeing Mazarin's calm composure, as well as the Queen Mother, who seemed to wish to say something but held herself back, they wisely remained silent.

"I know you must have many objections. Yes, Charles is not only a Protestant; England is also our enemy. But today, we must receive him and support him, until he returns to England and is crowned King. Perhaps you find this bewildering. Of course, it would be gratifying to mock and toy with an enemy once incomparably powerful. But first, it must not be built upon rebellion. Any rebellion, especially one against a king and the royal family, is absolutely intolerable. Gentlemen, I mean this." Louis stressed his words. "Even if the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire were betrayed by his own subjects, I would not rejoice over it, trumpet it everywhere, or even assist his enemies, even if he were an out-and-out heathen... because I, too, am a king."

The King's sharp gaze passed over every person present. "All acts of defiance must be condemned. From today onward, I do not wish to hear any frivolous remarks or rumors concerning Charles I at court, nor do I wish to see any words in newspapers or books that encourage such conduct. And I especially do not wish for any one of you to have dealings with Oliver Cromwell, England's traitor and bandit. Therefore, I shall welcome my cousin Charles and help him to the best of my ability. I hope you will do the same."

This was the first time France's most important courtiers had faced such a king. Though his body had not yet fully grown, his thoughts... were clearly as orderly as an adult's. Moreover, his understanding and explanation of the word king had already reached heights many could never attain. Before entering this room, some had still been laughing at Charles I and attempting to persuade the Cardinal and the Queen Mother to refuse aid to Charles, Duke of Cornwall.

But the King was right. Charles I might have been mediocre, but he was a king nonetheless. Cromwell might have been valiant and wise, but he was, in the end, a subject. They could rejoice at the death of an old foe, but they absolutely could not encourage such acts, because they, too, had a king, and their lives depended upon that king.

Anne, the Queen Mother, wore a complicated expression. At last, she understood Mazarin's concern and relief. Not every king could so quickly comprehend his own significance and duty. She knew she ought to be happy, yet an indescribable pressure would not leave her—perhaps because she had suddenly realized what dangerous and magnificent road the enormous carriage of France would race down beneath the whip of her son Louis.

Mazarin, however, watched his colleagues gape one after another with a touch of mischief. But before he could say anything, someone suddenly stood up. "I obey Your Majesty's command!" he cried resolutely. "Ah, Your Majesty, I am willing to obey any order of yours, all the more so when it is so wise and correct! Please rest assured, we shall do as you say. For Your Majesty, even if we must be smashed to pieces and ground to dust, we are willing!"

This sudden outburst startled not only the Queen Mother and Mazarin, but even Louis. He instinctively looked at Mazarin, who shook his head. This was not a man arranged by him. Then Louis recognized him: Monsieur Nicolas Fouquet, the intendant who had sent a large donation at Saint-Germain-en-Laye like charcoal in the snow. To reward him, the penniless King had even granted him the honor of accompanying a hunt. But after returning to Paris, exhausted in body and mind, the King had temporarily failed to remember him.

Fouquet had entered alongside Particelli d'Émery, the Superintendent of Finances, and could be considered merely an attendant. Yet he had been bold enough to speak before the Queen Mother and the Cardinal, which had truly taken everyone by surprise. But since he had pledged loyalty to the King, the King would not rebuke him over such a small matter. Sure enough, the King merely waved a hand helplessly and told him to sit. "You have been rather discourteous," Louis reproved him gently, though everyone could see that the King was not angry in the least. "I ought to punish you." He looked to Mazarin. "What punishment should he receive?"

"Why not have him take charge of the Duke of Cornwall's daily arrangements in Paris?" Mazarin naturally understood Louis's meaning. "If he can perform as well as he has promised."

"Then so it shall be," the King said. "I do not need you to be smashed to pieces and ground to dust, Monsieur Fouquet. If you do well, you may serve me for many years yet."

Fouquet immediately leapt from his chair. He first bowed to the King, then to Mazarin, then to the Queen Mother, and finally to everyone in the room.

The face of Émery, the Superintendent of Finances, turned green and white. Fouquet's move was undoubtedly climbing upward by stepping on his face. Yet neither the Cardinal, the Queen Mother, nor the King paid him any heed. Émery's origins were not lofty; he had risen entirely because he was a relative of Mazarin. In fact, not long ago, he had been nothing more than a peasant from Siena. But after taking office, he had used his position and the Cardinal's power to line his own pockets. Then, after the royal family had been forced to flee Paris for Saint-Germain-en-Laye, he revealed both his base nature and his short-sightedness. He had actually been unwilling to take money from the treasury to cover the daily expenses of the King, the Queen Mother, and the Cardinal, leaving the entire royal family in a woeful state. The only reason he could still attend such a meeting was that no one capable of replacing him had yet been found.

Nicolas Fouquet had seized this opportunity perfectly.

Charles, Duke of Cornwall, arrived in Paris. The treatment he received astonished him. After all, he knew that Anne, the Queen Mother of France, did not much like him or his father—or rather, any Protestant. Many in Paris felt the same. Apart from his title and a few trusted retainers, he had brought nothing with him. His country had been occupied by rebellious subjects, his army scattered and adrift, and his treasury looted clean by a mob. There was not the slightest profit to be gained from him.

Yet the residence, carriages, food, and clothing prepared for him by Fouquet, a subject of his cousin Louis, King of France, were all fit for a king. Charles, Duke of Cornwall, was deeply moved. On the third day after arriving in Paris, regardless of his exhaustion from the journey, he insisted on going to see the King.

King Louis was, just as his sister Henrietta had said, a gentle young man. They spoke for a long time and were reluctant to part even when it was time to dine. Only when they had to retire for the night did they finally separate.

The entire audience ceremony was beyond reproach, except that one maid beside Charles, Duke of Cornwall, suddenly cried out and fainted at the sight of that savage wolfskin—a gift from Prince of Condé.