enveloped in
triple brass, as Horace had it. But Monk! Oh, sire, God defend you from
ever having anything to transact politically with Monk. It is he who has
given me, in one year, all the gray hairs I have. Monk is no fanatic;
unfortunately he is a politician; he does not overflow, he keeps close
together. For ten years he has had his eyes fixed upon one object, and
nobody has yet been able to ascertain what. Every morning, as Louis XI.
advised, he burns his nightcap. Therefore, on the day when this plan,
slowly and solitarily ripened, shall break forth, it will break forth
with all the conditions of success which always accompany an unforeseen
event. That is Monk, sire, of whom, perhaps, you have never even
heard--of whom, perhaps, you did not even know the name, before your
brother, Charles II., who knows what he is, pronounced it before you.
He is a marvel of depth and tenacity, the two only things against which
intelligence and ardor are blunted. Sire, I had ardor when I was
young; I always was intelligent. I may safely boast of it, because I
am reproached with it. I have done very well with these two qualities,
since, from the son of a fisherman of Piscina, I have become prime
minister to the king of France; and in that position your majesty will
perhaps acknowledge I have rendered some service to the throne of
your majesty. Well, sire, if I had met with Monk on my way, instead of
Monsieur de Beaufort, Monsieur de Retz, or Monsieur le Prince--well, we
should have been ruined. If you engage yourself rashly, sire, you will
fall into the talons of this politic soldier. The casque of Monk, sire,
is an iron coffer, and no one has the key of it. Therefore, near him, or
rather before him, I bow, sire, for I have nothing but a velvet cap."

"What do you think Monk wishes to do, then?"

"Eh! sire, if I knew that, I would not tell you to mistrust him, for
I should be stronger than he; but with him, I am afraid to guess--to
guess!--you understand my word?--for if I thought I had guessed, I
should stop at an idea, and, in spite of myself, should pursue that
idea. Since that man has been in power yonder, I am like one of the
damned in Dante whose neck Satan has twisted, and who walk forward
looking around behind them. I am traveling towards Madrid, but I never
lose sight of London. To guess, with that devil of a man, is to deceive
one's self and to deceive one's self is to ruin one's self. God keep me
from ever seeking to gu