The Knight of Malta. Эжен Сю

of shores perfumed by the orange-trees of Hyères, or the curious tourists, whom steamboats are continually transporting from Marseilles to Nice or to Gênes—are perhaps ignorant of the fact that two hundred years ago, under the flourishing administration of Cardinal Richelieu, the seashore of Provence was, almost every day, plundered by Algerian pirates, or other robbers from Barbary, whose audacity knew no bounds. Not only did they capture all the merchant vessels leaving port,—although these ships were armed for war,—but they landed under the cannon even of the forts, and carried away with impunity the inhabitant whose dwellings were not adequately armed and fortified.

      These depredations increased to such a degree that in 1633 Cardinal Richelieu instructed M. de Séguiran, one of the most eminent men of that time, to visit the coast of Provence, for the purpose of ascertaining the best means of protecting them from the invasion of pirates.

      We will quote a passage from the memoir of M. de Séguiran in order to give to the reader an exact idea of the scenes which are to follow.

      “There is,” says he, “in the town of La Ciotat, a sentry-box which the consuls have had built on one of the points of the rock of Cape l’Aigle, in which they keep a man, very expert in navigation, on guard night and day, to watch for pirate vessels.

      “Every evening, toward nightfall, the guard in the sentry-box of La Ciotat kindles his fire, which is continued by all the other similar sentry-boxes to the lighthouse of Bouc.

      “This is a certain signal that there is not a corsair in the sea.

      “If the said guard in the sentry-box has, on the contrary, recognised one, he makes two fires, as do all the others from Antibes to the lighthouse of Bouc, and this is accomplished in less than a half-hour of time.

      “The inhabitants of La Ciotat confess that commerce has been better during the last few years. But as far as can be learned, it is ruined.

      “The corsairs from Barbary in one year seized eighty vessels and put about fifty of their best sailors in chains.”

      As we have said, so great was the terror that these Barbary pirates inspired dong the coast that every house was transformed into a fortress.

      “Continuing our way,” says M. de Séguiran, “we arrived at the house of the lord of Boyer, gentleman of the king’s chamber, which house we found in a state of defence, in case of a descent of the corsairs,—having a terrace in front, facing the port, and on it twelve pieces of cast iron, several pieces of less calibre, and two swivel-guns, and in the said house four hundred pounds of powder, two hundred balls, two pairs of armour, and twelve muskets and short pikes.

      “At Bormez and at St. Tropez,” says M. de Séguiran, further on, “commerce is so seriously injured that it cannot amount to ten thousand pounds, which is a consequence not only of the poverty of the inhabitants, but also of the invasions made by pirates, who enter their ports almost every day, so that very often vessels are compelled to touch port, in order that the men who man them may escape, or the inhabitants of the place arm themselves.

      “At Martignes, a community which has suffered great losses in the persons of its inhabitants,—esteemed the best and most courageous seamen on the Mediterranean,—many of them have been made slaves by the corsairs of Algiers and Tunis, who practise their piracies more than ever, in the sight of the forts and fortresses of that province.”

      The reader can imagine the contempt of these Barbary pirates for the forts on the coast, when he knows that the seashore was in such a deplorable state of defence that M. de Séguiran says, in another passage of his report to Cardinal Richelieu:

      “The next day, January 24th, at seven o’clock in the morning, we went to the fortified castle named Cassis, belonging to the Lord Bishop of Marseilles, where we found that the entire garrison consisted of a porter only, a servant of the said bishop, who showed us the place, and where there were only two small pieces of ordnance, one of which had been emptied.”

      Later, the Archbishop of Bordeaux made the same remark in reference to one of the strongest positions of Toulon.

      “The first and most important of these forts,” says the warrior prelate in his report, “is an old tower where there are two batteries, in which fifty cannon and two hundred soldiers could be placed; there are good cannon within, but all are dismounted, and no ammunition, except what was sent by order of your Eminence [Cardinal Richelieu] fifteen days ago. The commandant is a simple, good man, who has for garrison only his wife and her servant, and, according to what he says, he has not received a farthing in twenty years.”

      Such was the state of things a few years before Cardinal Richelieu was invested by Louis XIII. with the office of grand master in chief and general superintendent of the navigation and commerce of France.

      In studying attentively the aim, the progress, the methods, and results of the government of Richelieu,—in comparing, in a word, the point of departure of his administration with the imperious conclusion of absolute centralisation toward which it always tended, and which he attained so victoriously,—one is especially impressed by the character of the navy, by the incredible confusion and multiplicity of powers or rival rights which covered the seashore of the kingdom with their inextricable network.

      When the cardinal was entrusted with the maritime interests of France, he could count but little upon the support of a weak, timid, restless, and capricious king; besides, he felt that France was secretly agitated by profound political and religious discords. Alone, opposing the exorbitant pretensions represented by the most powerful houses of France,—haughty and jealous guardians of the last traditions of feudal independence,—it was essential that the will of Richelieu should be indomitable, even obstinate, in order to crush beneath the level of administrative unity interests so numerous, so tenacious, and so rebellious! Such was, however, the work of this great minister.

      There is no doubt that the ardent and sacred love of the general good, the noble, instinctive perception of the needs and progress of humanity,—those pure and serene aspirations of a DeWitt or a Franklin,—would not have sufficed the cardinal in undertaking and sustaining so fierce a struggle; perhaps, too, it was essential that he should feel himself animated by an unbridled, insatiable ambition, in order to cope with so many formidable antagonisms, to despise so many outcries, to prevent or punish so many dangerous revolts by prison, exile, or the scaffold, and at last achieve the end of gathering in his dying and sovereign hand all the resources of the state.

      It was by this means—we think so, at least—that the genius of Richelieu, exalted by an unconquerable personality, succeeded in consummating this admirable centralisation of conflicting powers,—the constant aim and glorious end of his administration.

      Unfortunately, he died at the time he was beginning to organise this authority so valiantly conquered.

      If France, at the time of the cardinal’s death, presented still upon her surface the distinct evidences of a complete social overthrow, the soil was at least beginning to be freed from the thousand parasitical and devouring forces which had so long exhausted her strength.

      So, one might say that almost always eminent men, although of diverse genius, are born in time to achieve the great labours of governments.

      To Richelieu, that resolute and indefatigable clearer of untilled ground, succeeds Mazarin, who levelled the earth so profoundly ploughed,—then Colbert, who sowed it, and made it fruitful.

      The imperial will of Richelieu appeared under one of its most brilliant aspects in the long struggle he was obliged to sustain, when he was entrusted with the organisation of the navy.

      Up to that time, the governor-generals of Provence had always challenged the orders of the admiralty of France, styling themselves the “born admirals” of the Levant.

      As such, they pretended to the maritime authority of the province; a few of these governors, such as the Counts of Tende and of Sommerives, and, at the period of which we speak, the Duke of Guise, had received from the king special letters which conferred upon them the title of admiral. These concessions, drawn from the weakness of the monarch, far from supporting