 | Richelieu ; Or The Conspiracy |  |
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ACT IV.
Third Day.
SCENE I.
The Gardens of the Louvre.—Orleans, Baradas, De Beringhen, Courtiers, &c.ORLEANS.
How does my brother bear the Cardinal's death?
BARADAS.
With grief, when thinking of the toils of State;
With joy, when thinking on the eyes of Julie:—
At times he sighs, “Who now shall govern France?”
Anon exclaims—“Who now shall baffle Louis?”
(Enter Louis and other Courtiers. They uncover.)
ORLEANS.
Now, my liege, now, I can embrace a brother.
LOUIS.
Dear Gaston, yes.—I do believe you love me;—
Richelieu denied it—sever'd us too long.
A great man, Gaston! Who shall govern France?
BARADAS.
Yourself, my liege. That swart and potent star
Eclipsed your royal orb. He serv'd the country,
But did he serve, or seek to sway the King?
LOUIS.
You're right—he was an able politician —
That's all:—between ourselves, Count, I suspect
The largeness of his learning—specially
In falcons —a poor huntsman, too!
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Ha—ha!
Your Majesty remembers—
LOUIS.
Ay, the blunder
Between the greffier and the souillard when—
(Checks and crosses himself.)
Alas! poor sinners that we are! we laugh
While this great man—a priest, a cardinal,
A faithful servant—out upon us!—
BARADAS.
Sire,
If my brow wear no cloud, 'tis that the Cardinal
No longer shades the King.
LOUIS
(looking up at the skies).
Oh, Baradas!
Am I not to be pitied?—what a day
For—
BARADAS.
Sorrow?—No, sire!
LOUIS.
Bah! for hunting, man.
And Richelieu's dead; 'twould be an indecorum
Till he is buried— (yawns)
—life is very tedious.
I made a madrigal on life last week:
You do not sing, Count?—Pity; you should learn.
Poor Richelieu had no ear—yet a great man.
Ah! what a weary weight devolves upon me!
These endless wars—these thankless Parliaments—
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Like the old fisher of the fable, Proteus,
Netting great Neptune's wariest tribes, and changing
Into all shapes when Craft pursued himself:
Oh, a great man!
BARADAS.
Your royal mother said so,
And died in exile.
LOUIS
(sadly).
True: I loved my mother!
BARADAS.
The Cardinal dies.—Yet day revives the earth;
The rivers run not back. In truth, my liege,
Did your high orb on others shine as him,
Why, things as dull in their own selves as I am
Would glow as brightly with the borrowed beam.
LOUIS.
Ahem!—He was too stern.
ORLEANS.
A very Nero.
BARADAS.
His power was like the Capitol of old—
Built on a human skull.
LOUIS.
And, had he lived,
I know another head, my Baradas,
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With a most hungry fancy.
BARADAS
(anxiously).
Sire, I knew
You would protect me.
LOUIS.
Did you so: of course!
And yet he had a way with him—a something
That always—But no matter—he is dead.
And, after all, men called his King “The Just,”
And so I am. Dear Count, this silliest Julie,
I know not why, she takes my fancy. Many
As fair, and certainly more kind; but yet
It is so. Count, I am no lustful Tarquin,
And do abhor the bold and frontless vices
Which the Church justly censures; yet, 'tis sad
On rainy days to drag out weary hours —
Deaf to the music of a woman's voice—
Blind to the sunshine of a woman's eyes.
It is no sin in Kings to seek amusement;
And that is all I seek. I miss her much—
She has a silver laugh—a rare perfection.
BARADAS.
Richelieu was most disloyal in that marriage.
LOUIS
(querulously).
He knew that Julie pleased me:—a clear proof
He never loved me!
BARADAS.
Oh, most clear!—But now
No bar between the lady and your will!
This writ makes all secure: a week or two
In the Bastile will sober Mauprat's love,
And leave him eager to dissolve a hymen
That brings him such a home.
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See to it, Count;
(Exit Baradas.)
I'll summon Julie back. A word with you.
(Takes aside First Courtier and De Beringhen, and passes, conversing with them, through the gardens.)
Enter Francois.
FRANCOIS.
All search, as yet, in vain for Mauprat!—Not
At home since yesternoon—a soldier told me
He saw him pass this way with hasty strides;
Should he meet Baradas—they'd rend it from him—
And then—benignant Fortune smiles upon me—
I am thy son!—if thou desert'st me now,
Come, Death and snatch me from disgrace. But, no,
There's a great Spirit ever in the air
That from prolific and far-spreading wings
Scatters the seeds of honour—yea, the walls
And moats of castled forts—the barren seas,
The cell wherein the pale-eyed student holds
Talk with melodious science—all are sown
With everlasting honours, if our souls
Will toil for fame as boors for bread—
(Enter Mauprat.)
MAUPRAT.
Oh, let me—
Let me but meet him foot to foot—I'll dig
The Judas from his heart;—albeit the King
Should o'er him cast the purple!
FRANCOIS.
Mauprat! hold:—
Where is the—
MAUPRAT.
Well! What would'st thou?
FRANCOIS.
The despatch!
The packet.—Look ON ME—I serve the Cardinal—
You know me.—Did you not keep guard last night
By Marion's house?
MAUPRAT.
I did:—no matter now!—
They told me, he was here!—
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O joy! quick—quick—
The packet thou didst wrest from me?
MAUPRAT.
The packet?—
What art thou he, I deem'd the Cardinal's spy
(Dupe that I was)—and overhearing Marion—
FRANCOIS.
The same—restore it!—haste!
MAUPRAT.
I have it not:—
Methought it but reveal'd our scheme to Richelieu,
And, as we mounted, gave it to—
(Enter Baradas.)
Stand back!
Now, villain! now—I have thee!
(To François.)
—Hence, Sir!—Draw!
FRANCOIS.
Art mad?—the King's at hand! leave him to Richelieu!
Speak—the despatch—to whom—
MAUPRAT
(dashing him aside and rushing to Baradas).
Thou triple slanderer!
I'll set my heel upon thy crest!
(A few passes.)
FRANCOIS.
Fly—fly!—
The King!—
Enter at one side Louis, Orleans, De Beringhen, Courtiers, &c.—at the other, the Guards hastily.
LOUIS.
Swords drawn—before our very palace!—
Have our laws died with Richelieu?
BARADAS.
Pardon, Sire,—
My crime but self-defence. (Aside to King.)
It is De Mauprat!
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Dare he thus brave us?
(Baradas goes to the guard and gives the writ.)
MAUPRAT.
Sire, in the Cardinal's name—
BARADAS.
Seize him—disarm—to the Bastile!
(De Mauprat seized, struggles with the guard—François restlessly endeavouring to pacify and speak to him— when the gates open. Enter Richelieu—Joseph—followed by arquebussiers.)
BARADAS.
The Dead
Return'd to life!
LOUIS.
What a mock death! this tops
The Infinite of Insult.
DE MAUPRAT
(breaking from the guards).
Priest and Hero!—
For you are both—protect the truth!—
RICHELIEU
(taking the writ from the guard.)
What's this?
DE BERINGHEN.
Fact in Philosophy. Foxes have got
Nine lives, as well as cats!—
BARADAS.
Be firm, my liege.
LOUIS.
I have assumed the sceptre—I will wield it!
JOSEPH.
The tide runs counter—there'll be shipwreck somewhere.
(Baradas and Orleans keep close to the King—whispering and prompting him when Richelieu speaks.)
RICHELIEU.
High treason—Faviaux! still that stale pretence!
My liege, bad men (ay, Count, most knavish men!)
Abuse your royal goodness.—For this soldier,
France hath none braver—and his youth's hot folly,
Misled—(by whom your Highness may conjecture!)—
Is long since cancell'd by a loyal manhood.—
I, Sire, have pardoned him.
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And we do give
Your pardon to the winds.—Sir, do your duty!
RICHELIEU.
What, Sire?—you do not know—Oh, pardon me—
You know not yet, that this brave, honest, heart
Stood between mine and murder!—Sire! for my sake—
For your old servant's sake—undo this wrong.
See, let me rend the sentence.
LOUIS.
At your peril!
This is too much:—Again, Sir, do your duty!
RICHELIEU.
Speak not, but go:—I would not see young Valour
So humbled as grey Service!
DE MAUPRAT.
Fare you well!
Save Julie, and console her.
FRANCOIS
(aside to Mauprat).
The despatch!
Your fate, foes, life, hang on a word!—to whom?
DE MAUPRAT.
To Huguet.
FRANCOIS.
Hush—keep council!—silence—hope!
(Exeunt Mauprat and Guard.)
BARADAS
(aside to François).
Has he the packet?
FRANCOIS.
He will not reveal—
(Aside.)
Work, brain!—beat, heart!—“There's no such word as fail.”
(Exit François.)
RICHELIEU
(fiercely).
Room, my Lords, room!—The minister of France
Can need no intercession with the King.
(They fall back.)
LOUIS.
What means this false report of death, Lord Cardinal?
RICHELIEU.
Are you then anger'd, Sire, that I live still?
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No; but such artifice—
RICHELIEU.
Not mine:—look elsewhere!
Louis—my castle swarm'd with the assassins.
BARADAS
(advancing).
We have punish'd them already. Huguet now
In the Bastile.—Oh! my Lord, we were prompt
To avenge you—we were—
RICHELIEU.
We?—Ha! ha! you hear,
My liege! What page, man, in the last court grammar
Made you a plural?—Count, you have seized the hireling:—
Sire, shall I name the master!
LOUIS.
Tush! my Lord,
The old contrivance:—ever does your wit
Invent assassins,—that ambition may
Slay rivals—
RICHELIEU.
Rivals, sire!—in what?
Service to France? I have none! Lives the man
Whom Europe, paled before your glory, deems
Rival to Armand Richelieu?
LOUIS.
What, so haughty!
Remember, he who made, can unmake.
RICHELIEU.
Never!
Never! Your anger can recall your trust,
Annul my office, spoil me of my lands,
Rifle my coffers,—but my name—my deeds,
Are royal in a land beyond your sceptre!
Pass sentence on me, if you will; from Kings,
Lo, I appeal to Time! Be just, my liege—
I found your kingdom rent with heresies
And bristling with rebellion; lawless nobles
And breadless serfs; England fomenting discord;
Austria—her clutch on your dominion; Spain
Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind
To armed thunderbolts. The Arts lay dead,
Trade rotted in your marts, your Armies mutinous,
Your Treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke
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Supremest Monarch of the mightiest realm,
From Ganges to the Icebergs:—Look without
No foe not humbled!—Look within; the Arts
Quit for your schools—their old Hesperides
The golden Italy! while through the veins
Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides
Trade, the calm health of nations!
Sire, I know
Your smoother courtiers please you best—nor measure
Myself with them,—yet sometimes I would doubt
If Statesmen rock'd and dandled into power
Could leave such legacies to kings!
(Louis appears irresolute.)
Baradas
(passing him, whispers).
But Julie,
Shall I not summon her to Court?
LOUIS
(motions to Baradas and turns haughtily to the Cardinal).
Enough!
Your Eminence must excuse a longer audience.
To your own palace:—For our conference, this
Nor place—nor season.
RICHELIEU.
Good my liege, for Justice
All place a temple, and all season, summer!—
Do you deny me justice?—Saints of Heaven!
He turns from me!—Do you deny me justice?
For fifteen years, while in these hands dwelt Empire,
The humblest craftsman—the obscurest vassal—
The very leper shrinking from the sun,
Tho' loathed by Charity, might ask for justice!—
Not with the fawning tone and crawling mien
Of some I see around you—Counts and Princes—
Kneeling for favours;—but, erect and loud,
As men who ask man's rights!—my liege, my Louis,
Do you refuse me justice—audience even—
In the pale presence of the baffled Murther?
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Lord Cardinal—one by one you have sever'd from me
The bonds of human love. All near and dear
Mark'd out for vengeance—exile or the scaffold.
You find me now amidst my trustiest friends,
My closest kindred;—you would tear them from me;
They murder you forsooth, since me they love.
Eno' of plots and treasons for one reign!
Home!—Home! and sleep away these phantoms!
RICHELIEU.
Sire!
I—patience, Heaven!—sweet Heaven!—Sire, from the foot
Of that Great Throne, these hands have raised aloft
On an Olympus, looking down on mortals
And worshipp'd by their awe—before the foot
Of that high throne,—spurn you the grey-hair'd man,
Who gave you empire—and now sues for safety?
LOUIS.
No:—when we see your Eminence in truth
At the foot of the throne—we'll listen to you.
[Exit Louis.
ORLEANS.
Saved!
BARADAS.
For this deep thanks to Julie and to Mauprat!
RICHELIEU.
My Lord de Baradas—I pray your pardon—
You are to be my successor!—your hand, sir!
BARADAS
(aside).
What can this mean?—
RICHELIEU.
It trembles, see! it trembles!
The hand that holds the destinies of nations
Ought to shake less!—poor Baradas!—poor France!
BARADAS.
Insolent—
[Exeunt Baradas and Orleans.
Louis XIII. is said to have possessed some natural talents, and in earlier youth to have exhibited the germs of noble qualities; but a blight seems to have passed over his maturer life. Personally brave, but morally timid,—always governed, whether by his mother or his minister, and always repining at the yoke. The only affection amounting to a passion that he betrayed was for the sports of the field; yet it was his craving weakness (and this throws a kind of false interest over his character,) to wish to be loved. He himself loved no one. He suffered the only woman who seems to have been attached to him to wither in a convent—he gave up favourite after favourite to exile or the block. When Richelieu died, he said coldly, “Voilà un grand politique mort!” and when the ill-fated but unprincipled Cinq Mars, whom he called le cher ami, was beheaded, he drew out his watch at the fatal hour, and said with a smile, “I think at this moment that le cher ami fait une vilaine mine.” Nevertheless his conscience at times (for he was devout and superstitious) made him gentle, and his pride and his honour would often, when least expected, rouse him into haughty but brief resistance to the despotism under which he lived.
Louis had some musical taste and accomplishment, wherewith he often communicated to his favourites some of that wearisome ennui under which he himself almost unceasingly languished.
One of Louis's most bitter complaints against Richelieu was the continued banishment of the Queen Mother. It is impossible, however, not to be convinced that the return of that most worthless intriguante was wholly incompatible with the tranquillity of the kingdom. Yet, on the other hand, the poverty and privation which she endured in exile, are discreditable to the generosity and the gratitude of Richelieu—she was his first patron, though afterwards his most powerful persecutor.
In his Memoirs Richelieu gives an amusing account of the insolence and arts of Baradas, and observes, with indignant astonishment, that the favourite was never weary of repeating to the King that he (Baradas) would have made just as great a minister as Richelieu. It is on the attachment of Baradas to La Cressias, a maid of honour to the Queen Mother, of whom, according to Baradas, the King was enamoured also, that his love for the Julie de Mortemar of the play has been founded. The secret of Baradas' sudden and extraordinary influence with the King seems to rest in the personal adoration which he professed for Louis, with whom he affected all the jealousy of a lover, but whom he flattered with the ardent chivalry of a knight. Even after his disgrace he placed upon his banner, “Fiat voluntas tua.”
Louis XIII. did not resemble either his father or his son in the ardour of his attachments; if not wholly platonic, they were wholly unimpassioned: yet no man was more jealous, or more unscrupulously tyrannical when the jealousy was aroused.
One of Richelieu's severest and least politic laws was that which made duelling a capital crime. Never was the punishment against the offence more relentlessly enforced; and never were duels so desperate and so numerous. The punishment of death must be evidently ineffectual so long as to refuse a duel is to be dishonoured, and so long as men hold the doctrine, however wrong, that it is better to part with the life that Heaven gave than the honour man makes. In fact, the greater the danger he incurred, the greater was the punctilio of the cavalier of that time in braving it.
For the haughty and rebuking tone which Richelieu assumed in his expostulations with the King, see his Memoirs (passim) in Petitot's collection, vols. 22–30 (bis). Montesquieu, in one of his brilliant antitheses, says well of Richelieu, “Il avila le roi, mais il illustra le règne.”
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SCENE IV.
RICHELIEU.Joseph—Did you hear the king?
JOSEPH.
I did—there's danger! Had you been less haughty —
RICHELIEU.
And suffer'd slaves to chuckle—“see the Cardinal—
How meek his Eminence is to-day”—I tell thee
This is a strife in which the loftiest look
Is the most subtle armour—
JOSEPH.
But—
RICHELIEU.
No time
For ifs and buts. I will accuse these traitors!
François shall witness that De Baradas
Gave him the secret missive for De Bouillon,
And told him life and death were in the scroll.
I will—I will—
JOSEPH.
Tush! François is your creature;
So they will say, and laugh at you!—your witness
Must be that same Despatch.
RICHELIEU.
Away to Marion!
JOSEPH.
I have been there—she is seized—removed—imprison'd—
By the Count's orders.
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Goddess of bright dreams,
My Country—shalt thou lose me now, when most
Thou need'st thy worshipper? My native land!
Let me but ward this dagger from thy heart,
And die—but on thy bosom!
Enter Julie.
JULIE.
Heaven! I thank thee!
I cannot be, or this all-powerful man
Would not stand idly thus.
RICHELIEU.
What dost thou here?
Home!
JULIE.
Home!—is Adrien there?—you're dumb—yet strive
For words; I see them trembling on your lip,
But choked by pity. It was truth—all truth!
Seized—the Bastile—and in your presence too!
Cardinal, where is Adrien? Think—he saved
Your life:—your name is infamy, if wrong
Should come to his!
RICHELIEU.
Be sooth'd, child.
JULIE.
Child no more;
I love, and I am woman! Hope and suffer—
Love, suffering, hope,—what else doth make the strength
And majesty of woman?—Where is Adrien?
RICHELIEU
to JOSEPH.
Your youth was never young—you never loved:—
Speak to her—
JOSEPH.
Nay, take heed—the king's command,
'Tis true—I mean—the—
JULIE
to RICHELIEU.
Let thine eyes meet mine;
Answer me but one word—I am a wife—
I ask thee for my home—my FATE—my ALL!
Where is my husband?
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You are Richelieu's ward,
A soldier's bride: they who insist on truth
Must out-face fear;—you ask me for your husband?
There—where the clouds of heaven look darkest, o'er
The domes of the Bastile!
JULIE.
I thank you, father,
You see I do not shudder. Heaven forgive you
The sin of this desertion!
RICHELIEU
(detaining her).
Whither wouldst thou?
JULIE.
Stay me not. Fie! I should be there already.
I am thy ward, and haply he may think
Thou'st taught me also to forsake the wretched!
RICHELIEU.
I've fill'd those cells—with many—traitors all.
Had they wives too?—Thy memories, Power, are solemn!
Poor sufferer!—think'st thou that yon gates of woe
Unbar to love? Alas! if love once enter,
'Tis for the last farewell; between those walls
And the mute grave —the blessed household sounds
Only heard once—while, hungering at the door,
The headsman whets the axe.
JULIE.
O, mercy! mercy!
Save him, restore him, father! Art thou not
The Cardinal-King?—the Lord of life and death—
Beneath whose light, as deeps beneath the moon,
The solemn tides of Empire ebb and flow?—
Art thou not Richelieu?
RICHELIEU.
Yesterday I was!—
To-day, a very weak old man!—To-morrow,
I know not what!
JULIE.
Do you conceive his meaning?
Alas! I cannot. But, methinks, my senses
Are duller than they were!
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The King is chafed
Against his servant. Lady, while we speak,
The lackey of the ante-room is not
More powerless than the Minister of France.
RICHELIEU.
And yet the air is still; Heaven wears no cloud;
From Nature's silent orbit starts no portent
To warn the unconscious world;—albeit, this night
May with a morrow teem which, in my fall,
Would carry earthquake to remotest lands,
And change the Christian globe. What would'st thou, woman?
Thy fate and his, with mine, for good or ill,
Are woven threads. In my vast sum of life
Millions such units merge.
Enter First Courtier.
FIRST COURTIER.
Madame de Mauprat!
Pardon, your Eminence—even now I seek
This lady's home—commanded by the King
To pray her presence.
JULIE
(clinging to Richelieu).
Think of my dead father!—
Think, how, an infant, clinging to your knees,
And looking to your eyes, the wrinkled care
Fled from your brow before the smile of childhood,
Fresh from the dews of heaven! Think of this,
And take me to your breast.
RICHELIEU.
To those who sent you!—
And say you found the virtue they would slay
Here—couch'd upon this heart, as at an altar,
And shelter'd by the wings of sacred Rome!
Begone!
FIRST COURTIER.
My Lord, I am your friend and servant—
Misjudge me not; but never yet was Louis
So roused against you:—shall I take this answer?—
It were to be your foe.
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All time my foe,
If I, a Priest, could cast this holy Sorrow
Forth from her last asylum!
FIRST COURTIER.
He is lost!
(Exit First Courtier.)
RICHELIEU.
God help thee, child!—she hears not! Look upon her!
The storm, that rends the oak, uproots the flower.
Her father loved me so! and in that age
When friends are brothers! She has been to me
Soother, nurse, plaything, daughter. Are these tears?
Oh! shame, shame!—dotage!
JOSEPH.
Tears are not for eyes
That rather need the lightning, which can pierce
Through barred gates and triple walls, to smite
Crime, where it cowers in secret!—The Despatch!
Set every spy to work;—the morrow's sun
Must see that written treason in your hands,
Or rise upon your ruin.
RICHELIEU.
Ay—and close
Upon my corpse!—I am not made to live—
Friends, glory, France, all rest from me;—my star
Like some vain holiday mimicry of fire,
Piercing imperial heaven, and falling down
Rayless and blacken'd, to the dust—a thing
For all men's feet to trample! Yea!—to-morrow
Triumph or death! Look up, child!—Lead us, Joseph.
As they are going out, enter Baradas and De Beringhen.
BARADAS.
My Lord, the King cannot believe your Eminence
So far forgets your duty, and his greatness,
As to resist his mandate! Pray you, Madam,
Obey the King—no cause for fear!
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My father!
RICHELIEU.
She shall not stir!
BARADAS.
You are not of her kindred—
An orphan—
RICHELIEU.
And her country is her mother!
BARADAS.
The country is the King!
RICHELIEU.
Ay, is it so;—
Then wakes the power which in the age of iron
Burst forth to curb the great, and raise the low.
Mark, where she stands!—around her form I draw
The awful circle of our solemn church!
Set but a foot within that holy ground,
And on thy head—yea, though it wore a crown—
I launch the curse of Rome!
BARADAS.
I dare not brave you!
I do but speak the orders of my King.
The church, your rank, power, very word, my Lord,
Suffice you for resistance:—blame yourself,
If it should cost you power!
RICHELIEU.
That my stake.—Ah!
Dark gamester! what is thine? Look to it well!—
Lose not a trick.—By this same hour to-morrow
Thou shalt have France, or I thy head!
BARADAS
(aside to De Beringhen).
He cannot
Have the despatch?
DE BERINGHEN.
No: were it so, your stake
Were lost already.
JOSEPH
(aside).
Patience is your game:
Reflect you have not the Despatch!
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O! monk!
Leave patience to the saints—for I am human!
Did not thy father die for France, poor orphan?
And now they say thou hast no father!—Fie!
Art thou not pure and good?—if so, thou art
A part of that—the Beautiful, the Sacred—
Which in all climes, men that have hearts adore,
By the great title of their mother country!
BARADAS
(aside).
He wanders!
RICHELIEU.
So cling close unto my breast,
Here where thou droop'st—lies France! I am very feeble—
Of little use it seems to either now.
Well, well—we will go home.
BARADAS.
In sooth, my Lord,
You do need rest—the burthens of the state
O'ertask your health!
RICHELIEU
(to Joseph).
I'm patient, see!
BARADAS
(aside).
His mind
And life are breaking fast!
RICHELIEU
(overhearing him).
Irreverent ribbald!
If so, beware the falling ruins! Hark!
I tell thee, scorner of these whitening hairs,
When this snow melteth there shall come a flood!
Avaunt! my name is Richelieu—I defy thee!
Walk blindfold on; behind thee stalks the headsman.
Ha! ha!—how pale he is! Heaven save my country!
[Falls back in Joseph's arms.
(Baradas exit, followed by De Beringhen, betraying his exultation by his gestures.)
However “orgueilleux” and “colère” in his disputes with Louis, the Cardinal did not always disdain recourse to the arts of the courtier;—once, after an angry discussion with the king, in which, as usual, Richelieu got the better, Louis, as they quitted the palace together, said, rudely, “Sortez le premier; vous étes bien le roi de France.” “Si je passe le premier,” replied the minister, after a moment's hesitation, and with great adroitness, “ce ne peut être que comme le plus humble de vos serviteurs;” and he took a flambeau from one of the pages, to light the king as he walked before him—“en reculant et sans tourner le dos.”
Selon l'usage de Louis XIII., faire arrêter quelqu'un pour crime d'état, et le faire mourir, l'était à peu près le même chose. —Le Clerc.
Like Cromwell and Rienzi, Richelieu appears to have been easily moved to tears. The Queen Mother, who put the hardest interpretation on that humane weakness, which is natural with very excitable temperaments, said that “Il pleurait quand il voulait.”
END OF ACT IV.
| Richelieu ; Or The Conspiracy | |