The Hesitant Prince of Condé and His Instigators

Prince of Condé soon learned that Duchess of Montpensier had been confined to her room. He did not care in the least. Between him and the Grande Mademoiselle, it could only be said that they had used each other. Or rather, because of the weakness inherent in women, Duchess of Montpensier might indeed have developed genuine feelings for him. But for any man with rank and moral standards, truly having something with a lady who had not yet entered marriage was a contemptible matter. Had he been unmarried, he could still have covered it up with marriage as an excuse, but Prince of Condé had married long ago, though he did not like his wife in the slightest—Cardinal Richelieu's niece.

Clara Clémence, that pitiable woman, had been only thirteen when she married Prince of Condé. She had now borne him a son, seven years old, but the boy had unfortunately inherited her short stature and hunchback. This had turned the prince's indifference toward her into hatred. In return, her love for Prince of Condé had only grown fiercer and deeper. She had used the inheritance she received from Monsieur Richelieu, both wealth and connections, entirely for Prince of Condé's sake. And she had inherited another legacy from Richelieu as well: a cruel heart and sharp insight.

Prince of Condé's face was overcast today. Both the prince's mother, whom people respectfully called the Old Lady, and his brother-in-law, Duke of Longueville, believed it was because of the assassination attempt. Though the prince and the two dukes had escaped unharmed, one of his favorite servants, and also his most loyal, had died while running to seek aid from the king's party. Several other dependable servants had also perished; they had followed him all the way from the campaigns against the Spaniards to this place.

"Your Highness," Princess Clara called her husband, though at times she also called him monsieur, because he had never been willing to show her excessive intimacy in either public or private. "Are you worried about the wives and children left behind by those loyal men?"

"I am entirely at ease leaving that matter to you," Prince of Condé said. "That is not what worries me."

"If it is not for the dead," the princess said, "then it must be for the living. In that case, let me tell you that I have settled the two officers you brought with you. They are staying at the nearest inn. My servants give them a grand écu each day to provide their meals, and each of them has received a reward of twenty gold louis in your name. They are endlessly grateful for it."

At last, a sliver of sunshine broke through the heavy clouds on Prince of Condé's face. "Ah," he said, "my lady, that is far more than the king promised them. He gave them only five gold louis each."

"That is only proper," the princess said. "They are not the king's officers, but yours. It was only because I saw those light chestnut shoulder belts that I decided to give them so much. Otherwise, I would rather have had them seek their reward from the king."

"That will not do, my lady," Prince of Condé said. "Whatever color their shoulder belts may be, they are brave men, and they saved my life. Twenty gold louis is not too much."

"I think loyalty is more precious than bravery," the princess said. "You may choose one brave man from a hundred, but among ten thousand people, you may not find even one loyal man."

Then she saw her husband's face darken once more. "Yes," the prince murmured. "You are right, my lady. Loyalty is a quality more precious than bravery, and rarer as well."

The princess studied her husband's expression. "You look worn, Your Highness, but I do not believe that a small skirmish on Turbigo Street could shake you. Tell me, if something troubles you, tell me. Perhaps there is nothing I can do to help you, but you may confide in me, even if it is the most terrible thing. I can swear upon the cross that I will keep my lips sealed."

"Alas," the prince said, "is it not precisely a matter concerning those two officers?"

"Are they not your officers? Are they not loyal to you?"

"That is the problem," the prince said. "You see, my lady, one of them was sent to Paris on my orders. He designed excellent defensive works during the siege battles in Lorraine, and distinguished himself in the fighting in Champagne, so I decided to reward him personally and grant him the status of an official officer."

"That is a good thing."

"But the moment the king summoned him, he ran to the king's side and obeyed his orders." The prince spoke bitterly. "Though his willingness to do so may partly have been because of me—he and his friend led the king and the king's musketeers along a hidden path known only to them, found us at once, and struck down three assassins alongside me."

"Yes." To the prince's surprise, his wife remained exceedingly calm. "He is still willing to be loyal to you."

"Indeed."

"But in his heart, the king carries more weight than you."

"Plainly so."

"That is precisely it," the princess said. "That is the heart of the matter, Your Highness. Do you believe your power is inferior to His Majesty the king's at present?"

"How could that be?"

"Then what of achievements on the battlefield? Can he compare with you?"

"No. He is still a child."

"Then in studies and council chambers, does he perform more brilliantly than you?"

"Of course not," Prince of Condé said. "He is not even permitted to involve himself in affairs of state." He glanced at his wife. "What exactly are you trying to say, my lady?"

"Do you still not understand?" the princess said with a smile. "Your Highness, what I mean is that compared to His Majesty the king, the only thing you lack is a name."

Those words made Prince of Condé leap from his chair. He stared at his wife as if she had suddenly shed her human skin and revealed the devil's true face before him. "What are you saying?!" he shouted. "Tell me that you do not know what you are saying!"

"On the contrary," the princess said. "I know very clearly what I am saying, and so do you, Your Highness. You have merely allowed this so-called loyalty to blind your eyes, just like that young officer. Have you not seen it? The people of Paris, and indeed of all France, would rather obey your will than submit beneath a clergyman's robe and a foreign woman's skirts. I saw that from the day you entered Paris. Otherwise, let our king lead eight hundred soldiers—no, even eight thousand soldiers—against a hundred thousand rioters. Could he have won as effortlessly as you did?

Your Highness, if he could have done so, he would not have been driven out of Paris by its people!"

"God!" Prince of Condé cried out. "You are urging me to commit an evil deed! Like Lady Macbeth, you are manipulating your husband into seizing what does not belong to him!"

"Utterly wrong." The princess stood before the fireplace, with scarlet flames behind her while her face was almost wholly submerged in deep shadow. "Macbeth was merely a minister, but until 1601, your ancestors had always been the presumed heirs to the throne. Your grandfather, your father, and you have always been the first princes of the blood. You have never stood more than a single step from the throne..."

"A step that can never be crossed," Prince of Condé said. "I will never become a vile traitor."

"Then this will happen again and again," the princess's voice came from the darkness. "He will take everything from you, Your Highness. He is the king." She stepped forward, while the prince stepped back and fell into his chair. "Though you may now defy the cardinal, mock the queen mother, and disregard the king, it is only because this lion is still young. But one day it will grow into a monstrous beast. When that time comes, you will be the one begging him, pleading for a scrap of mercy."