"As long as it takes!" Barberini slapped the arm of his chair. "As long as it fucking takes! Do you not see what Richelieu wants? Do you not? As soon as the Church moves to stop France, Louis of France becomes another Henry of England. How many do we lose then, Monsignor?" Barberini sighed. "Please, forgive me. I set a poor example, no?"
Mazarini waved the apology aside. "I provoked the cardinal. But, please, Richelieu threatens apostasy?"
"Come, does Richelieu ever threaten? Overtly, I mean? You know the man, Giulio. You know him, how he talks. How he can hardly control Louis at times, as if Caussin doesn't have that fool on a tight leash."
Mazarini raised an eyebrow. "We're counting on Caussin now? That prig?" He also had doubts that the popular opinion of Louis of France as a blithering, purblind, easily led idiot were entirely accurate.
"He is a good and pious man, else Richelieu would not have appointed him the king's confessor." Barberini waved a finger of admonition as he spoke and grinned at his own joke.
"The cardinal may joke, but Caussin is a good and pious and above all loyal man. That is his trouble. Richelieu does take some of his duties seriously, and the king's conscience is one of them."
"Yes," Barberini waved aside the minor matter of a monarch's conscience, "but we digress. We dare not prevail upon France lest they turn Protestant. We dare not prevail upon Spain lest they work a mischief on the church in the guise of their own piety. May god forbid a church run by Olivares and his lot, eh?"
Mazarini held his tongue with the first—insolent—reply that came to him. "We dare not," he said finally, "dare not."
"Basta! Don't be such a fool, Giulio. What we dare not is set the Church against what the two largest Catholic powers want. One of which is Spain, which runs the church in its territories how it damned well pleases."
"And the Catholics in Germany? Is it necessary to kill them to save them for the Church and the House of Habsburg?"
It was Barberini's turn to be silent while Mazarini glared at him.
Mazarini cracked first and sighed, deeply. "So I am called to my obedience. So be it. I will say I could do more—"
"I don't doubt it. Come, if it were only Uncle Maffeo and I perhaps you might be allowed to try, eh? For now, there were too many . . ." Barberini's forced bonhomie trailed off. "No, I mislike it, too. But do nothing, Giulio. To intermeddle and fail before the war begins, eh? You see?"
"So the possibility of embarrassment must take second place to the certainty of bloodletting?"
Barberini frowned. "I share your disappointment. But we are both bound to obedience."
Mazarini hung his head. "I know," he sighed. "I have a man in Thuringia. On his way back, more than likely."
"I know. Your messenger. Do not send him back with any message."
Mazarini looked the cardinal full in the face. "I understand."
* * *
The Rhone flowed slow and even, the litter of Avignon only thinly scattered in it. "Obedience," he said, and spat. The spittle drifted down to vanish, blown by the wind under the arch of the bridge.
The thin winter sun, not yet tinged with the warmth of spring, scattered and danced on the wavelets around the river boats. He mimicked Barberini's pompous tone. "Come, Giulio, you patronizing little bastard." He spat again.
He hawked up one more, this time for the House of Habsburg, and dropped a good one into a boat as it emerged under the Pont St. Benezet. Snickering like a naughty boy, he stepped back from the parapet. Ah, if it was all that simple. Do the thing and escape notice after. The fat fool. And his—back to the parapet for another gob of malice into the river—dignity!
"Monsignor?" The voice was German-accented. "Monsignor Mazarini?"
"Ah, Heinzerling. There I was, convinced my life was being written by Cervantes from his assured place in Hell, and you arrive to be my Sancho Panza."
"Monsignor?" Heinzerling was frowning.
"Did the paltry contribution of Spain to world literature pass you by, Father?"
"No, Monsignor, but—"
Mazarini waved it aside. "How was Grantville?"
Heinzerling grinned. "All the reports had and more. The priest there, Father Mazzare, invites you to visit him, and their dignitaries would welcome discussions provided there is no expectation of conclusion. I have here for you a letter from the priest Mazzare, a note of the words I had with the Jewess I spoke to who is in their council of government, notes of what I saw in the town, everything." He pulled out a small packet of papers, on which the rings of ale mugs were visible.