Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated) (422 page)

The king frowned, for the slightest correction was offensive to him.

“You do not seem very clear about the matter, and I confess that it does not interest me deeply,” said he. “Pray turn to something else.”

“There is my Pretended Astrologer.”

“Yes, that will do.”

Corneille commenced to read his comedy, while Madame de Maintenon’s white and delicate fingers picked among the many-coloured silks which she was weaving into her tapestry. From time to time she glanced across, first at the clock and then at the king, who was leaning back, with his lace handkerchief thrown over his face. It was twenty minutes to four now, but she knew that she had put it back half an hour, and that the true time was ten minutes past.

“Tut! tut!” cried the king suddenly. “There is something amiss there. The second last line has a limp in it, surely.” It was one of his foibles to pose as a critic, and the wise poet would fall in with his corrections, however unreasonable they might be.

“Which line, sire? It is indeed an advantage to have one’s faults made clear.”

“Read the passage again.”

        
“Et si, quand je lui dis le secret de mon ame,

         
Avec moins de rigueur elle eut traite ma flamme,

         
Dans ma fayon de vivre, et suivant mon humeur,

         
Une autre eut bientot le present de mon coeur.”

“Yes, the third line has a foot too many. Do you not remark it, madame?”

“No; but I fear that I should make a poor critic.”

“Your Majesty is perfectly right,” said Corneille unblushingly.

“I shall mark the passage, and see that it is corrected.”

“I thought that it was wrong. If I do not write myself, you can see that I have at least got the correct ear. A false quantity jars upon me. It is the same in music. Although I know little of the matter, I can tell a discord where Lully himself would miss it. I have often shown him errors of the sort in his operas, and I have always convinced him that I was right.”

“I can readily believe it, your Majesty.” Corneille had picked up his book again, and was about to resume his reading when there came a sharp tap at the door.

“It is his Highness the minister, Monsieur de Louvois,” said

Mademoiselle Nanon.

“Admit him,” answered Louis. “Monsieur Corneille, I am obliged to you for what you have read, and I regret that an affair of state will now interrupt your comedy. Some other day perhaps I may have the pleasure of hearing the rest of it.” He smiled in the gracious fashion which made all who came within his personal influence forget his faults and remember him only as the impersonation of dignity and of courtesy.

The poet, with his book under his arm, slipped out, while the famous minister, tall, heavily wigged, eagle-nosed, and commanding, came bowing into the little room. His manner was that of exaggerated politeness, but his haughty face marked only too plainly his contempt for such a chamber and for the lady who dwelt there. She was well aware of the feeling with which he regarded her, but her perfect self-command prevented her from ever by word or look returning his dislike.

“My apartments are indeed honoured to-day,” said she, rising with outstretched hand. “Can monsieur condescend to a stool, since I have no fitter seat to offer you in this little doll’s house? But perhaps I am in the way, if you wish to talk of state affairs to the king. I can easily withdraw into my boudoir.”

“No, no, nothing of the kind, madame,” cried Louis. “It is my wish that you should remain here. What is it, Louvois?”

“A messenger arrived from England with despatches, your Majesty,” answered the minister, his ponderous figure balanced upon the three-legged stool. “There is very ill feeling there, and there is some talk of a rising. The letter from Lord Sunderland wished to know whether, in case the Dutch took the side of the malcontents, the king might look to France for help. Of course, knowing your Majesty’s mind, I answered unhesitatingly that he might.”

“You did what?”

“I answered, sire, that he might.”

King Louis flushed with anger, and he caught up the tongs from the grate with a motion as though he would have struck his minister with them. Madame sprang from her chair, and laid her hand upon his arm with a soothing gesture. He threw down the tongs again, but his eyes still flashed with passion as he turned them upon Louvois.

“How dared you?” he cried.

“But, sire—”

“How dared you, I say? What! You venture to answer such a message without consulting me! How often am I to tell you that I am the state — I alone; that all is to come from me; and that I am answerable to God only? What are you? My instrument! my tool! And you venture to act without my authority!”

“I thought that I knew your wishes, sire,” stammered Louvois, whose haughty manner had quite deserted him, and whose face was as white as the ruffles of his shirt.

“You are not there to think about my wishes, sir. You are there to consult them and to obey them. Why is it that I have turned away from my old nobility, and have committed the affairs of my kingdom to men whose names have never been heard of in the history of France, such men as Colbert and yourself? I have been blamed for it. There was the Duc de St. Simon, who said, the last time that he was at the court, that it was a bourgeois government. So it is. But I wished it to be so, because I knew that the nobles have a way of thinking for themselves, and I ask for no thought but mine in the governing of France. But if my bourgeois are to receive messages and give answers to embassies, then indeed I am to be pitied. I have marked you of late, Louvois. You have grown beyond your station. You take too much upon yourself. See to it that I have not again to complain to you upon this matter.”

The humiliated minister sat as one crushed, with his chin sunk upon his breast. The king muttered and frowned for a few minutes, but the cloud cleared gradually from his face, for his fits of anger were usually as short as they were fierce and sudden.

“You will detain that messenger, Louvois,” he said at last, in a calm voice.

“Yes, sire.”

“And we shall see at the council meeting to-morrow that a fitting reply be sent to Lord Sunderland. It would be best perhaps not to be too free with our promises in the matter. These English have ever been a thorn in our sides. If we could leave them among their own fogs with such a quarrel as would keep them busy for a few years, then indeed we might crush this Dutch prince at our leisure. Their last civil war lasted ten years, and their next may do as much. We could carry our frontier to the Rhine long ere that. Eh, Louvois?”

“Your armies are ready, sire, on the day that you give the word.”

“But war is a costly business. I do not wish to have to sell the court plate, as we did the other day. How are the public funds?”

“We are not very rich, sire. But there is one way in which money may very readily be gained. There was some talk this morning about the Huguenots, and whether they should dwell any longer in this Catholic kingdom. Now, if they are driven out, and if their property were taken by the state, then indeed your Majesty would at once become the richest monarch in Christendom.”

“But you were against it this morning, Louvois?”

“I had not had time to think of it, sire.”

“You mean that Father la Chaise and the bishop had not had time to get at you,” said Louis sharply. “Ah, Louvois, I have not lived with a court round me all these years without learning how things are done. It is a word to him, and so on to another, and so to a third, and so to the king. When my good fathers of the Church have set themselves to bring anything to pass, I see traces of them at every turn, as one traces a mole by the dirt which it has thrown up. But I will not be moved against my own reason to do wrong to those who, however mistaken they may be, are still the subjects whom God has given me.”

“I would not have you do so, sire,” cried Louvois in confusion. The king’s accusation had been so true that he had been unable at the moment even to protest.

“I know but one person,” continued Louis, glancing across at Madame de Maintenon, “who has no ambitions, who desires neither wealth nor preferment, and who can therefore never be bribed to sacrifice my interests. That is why I value that person’s opinion so highly.” He smiled at the lady as he spoke, while his minister cast a glance at her which showed the jealousy which ate into his soul.

“It was my duty to point this out to you, sire, not as a suggestion, but as a possibility,” said he, rising. “I fear that I have already taken up too much of your Majesty’s time, and I shall now withdraw.” Bowing slightly to the lady, and profoundly to the monarch, he walked from the room.

“Louvois grows intolerable,” said the king. “I know not where his insolence will end. Were it not that he is an excellent servant, I should have sent him from the court before this. He has his own opinions upon everything. It was but the other day that he would have it that I was wrong when I said that one of the windows in the Trianon was smaller than any of the others. It was the same size, said he. I brought Le Metre with his measures, and of course the window was, as I had said, too small. But I see by your clock that it is four o’clock. I must go.”

“My clock, sire, is half an hour slow.”

“Half an hour!” The king looked dismayed for an instant, and then began to laugh. “Nay, in that case,” said he, “I had best remain where I am, for it is too late to go, and I can say with a clear conscience that it was the clock’s fault rather than mine.”

“I trust that it was nothing of very great importance, sire,” said the lady, with a look of demure triumph in her eyes.

“By no means.”

“No state affair?”

“No, no; it was only that it was the hour at which I had intended to rebuke the conduct of a presumptuous person. But perhaps it is better as it is. My absence will in itself convey my message, and in such a sort that I trust I may never see that person’s face more at my court. But, ah, what is this?”

The door had been flung open, and Madame de Montespan, beautiful and furious, was standing before them.

CHAPTER X
.

AN ECLIPSE AT VERSAILLES
.

Madame de Maintenon was a woman who was always full of self-restraint and of cool resource. She had risen in an instant, with an air as if she had at last seen the welcome guest for whom she had pined in vain. With a frank smile of greeting, she advanced with outstretched hand.

“This is indeed a pleasure,” said she.

But Madame de Montespan was very angry, so angry that she was evidently making strong efforts to keep herself within control, and to avoid breaking into a furious outburst. Her face was very pale, her lips compressed, and her blue eyes had the set stare and the cold glitter of a furious woman. So for an instant they faced each other, the one frowning, the other smiling, two of the most beautiful and queenly women in France. Then De Montespan, disregarding her rival’s outstretched hand, turned towards the king, who had been looking at her with a darkening face.

“I fear that I intrude, sire.”

“Your entrance, madame, is certainly somewhat abrupt.”

“I must crave pardon if it is so. Since this lady has been the governess of my children I have been in the habit of coming into her room unannounced.”

“As far as I am concerned, you are most welcome to do so,” said her rival, with perfect composure.

“I confess that I had not even thought it necessary to ask your permission, madame,” the other answered coldly.

“Then you shall certainly do so in the future, madame,” said the king sternly. “It is my express order to you that every possible respect is to be shown in every way to this lady.”

“Oh, to this lady!” with a wave of her hand in her direction. “Your Majesty’s commands are of course our laws. But I must remember that it is this lady, for sometimes one may get confused as to which name it is that your Majesty has picked out for honour. To-day it is De Maintenon; yesterday it was Fontanges; to-morrow — Ah, well, who can say who it may be to-morrow?”

She was superb in her pride and her fearlessness as she stood, with her sparkling blue eyes and her heaving bosom, looking down upon her royal lover. Angry as he was, his gaze lost something of its sternness as it rested upon her round full throat and the delicate lines of her shapely shoulders. There was something very becoming in her passion, in the defiant pose of her dainty head, and the magnificent scorn with which she glanced at her rival.

“There is nothing to be gained, madame, by being insolent,” said he.

“Nor is it my custom, sire.”

“And yet I find your words so.”

“Truth is always mistaken for insolence, sire, at the court of France.”

“We have had enough of this.”

“A very little truth is enough.”

“You forget yourself, madame. I beg that you will leave the room.”

“I must first remind your Majesty that I was so far honoured as to have an appointment this afternoon. At four o’clock I had your royal promise that you would come to me. I cannot doubt that your Majesty will keep that promise in spite of the fascinations which you may find here.”

“I should have come, madame, but the clock, as you may observe, is half an hour slow, and the time had passed before I was aware of it.”

I beg, sire, that you will not let that distress you. I am returning to my chamber, and five o’clock will suit me as well as four.”

“I thank you, madame, but I have not found this interview so pleasant that I should seek another.”

“Then your Majesty will not come?”

“I should prefer not.”

“In spite of your promise!”

“Madame!”

“You will break your word!”

“Silence, madame; this is intolerable.”

“It is indeed intolerable!” cried the angry lady, throwing all discretion to the winds. “Oh, I am not afraid of you, sire. I have loved you, but I have never feared you. I leave you here. I leave you with your conscience and your — your lady confessor. But one word of truth you shall hear before I go. You have been false to your wife, and you have been false to your mistress, but it is only now that I find that you can be false also to your word.” She swept him an indignant courtesy, and glided, with head erect, out of the room.

The king sprang from his chair as if he had been stung. Accustomed as he was to his gentle little wife, and the even gentler La Valliere, such language as this had never before intruded itself upon the royal ears. It was like a physical blow to him. He felt stunned, humiliated, bewildered, by so unwonted a sensation. What odour was this which mingled for the first time with the incense amid which he lived? And then his whole soul rose up in anger at her, at the woman who had dared to raise her voice against him. That she should be jealous of and insult another woman, that was excusable. It was, in fact, an indirect compliment to himself. But that she should turn upon him, as if they were merely man and woman, instead of monarch and subject, that was too much. He gave an inarticulate cry of rage, and rushed to the door.

“Sire!” Madame de Maintenon, who had watched keenly the swift play of his emotions over his expressive face, took two quick steps forward, and laid her hand upon his arm.

“I will go after her.”

“And why, sire?”

To forbid her the court.”

“But, sire—”

“You heard her! It is infamous! I shall go.”

“But, sire, could you not write?”

“No, no; I shall see her.” He pulled open the door.

“Oh, sire, be firm, then!” It was with an anxious face that she watched him start off, walking rapidly, with angry gestures, down the corridor. Then she turned back, and dropping upon her knees on the prie-dieu, bowed her head in prayer for the king, for herself, and for France.

De Catinat, the guardsman, had employed himself in showing his young friend from over the water all the wonders of the great palace, which the other had examined keenly, and had criticised or admired with an independence of judgment and a native correctness of taste natural to a man whose life had been spent in freedom amid the noblest works of nature. Grand as were the mighty fountains and the artificial cascades, they had no overwhelming effect on one who had travelled up from Erie to Ontario, and had seen the Niagara River hurl itself over its precipice, nor were the long level swards so very large to eyes which had rested upon the great plains of the Dakotas. The building itself, however, its extent, its height, and the beauty of its stone, filled him with astonishment.

“I must bring Ephraim Savage here,” he kept repeating. “He Would never believe else that there was one house in the world which would weigh more than all Boston and New York put together.”

De Catinat had arranged that the American should remain with his friend Major de Brissac, as the time had come round for his own second turn of guard. He had hardly stationed himself in the corridor when he was astonished to see the King, without escort or attendants, walking swiftly down the passage. His delicate face was disfigured with anger, and his mouth was set grimly, like that of a man who had taken a momentous resolution.

“Officer of the guard,” said he shortly.

“Yes, sire.”

“What! You again, Captain de Catinat? You have not been on duty since morning?”

“No, sire. It is my second guard.”

“Very good. I wish your assistance.”

“I am at your command, sire.”

“Is there a subaltern here?”

“Lieutenant de la Tremouille is at the side guard.”

“Very well. You will place him in command.”

“Yes, sire.”

“You will yourself go to Monsieur de Vivonne. You know his apartments?”

“Yes, sire.”

“If he is not there, you must go and seek him. Wherever he is, you must find him within the hour.”

“Yes, sire.”

“You will give him an order from me. At six o’clock he is to be in his carriage at the east gate of the palace. His sister, Madame de Montespan, will await him there, and he is charged by me to drive her to the Chateau of Petit Bourg. You will tell him that he is answerable to me for her arrival there.”

“Yes, sire.” De Catinat raised his sword in salute, and started upon his mission.

The king passed on down the corridor, and opened a door which led him into a magnificent ante-room, all one blaze of mirrors and gold, furnished to a marvel with the most delicate ebony and silver suite, on a deep red carpet of Aleppo, as soft and yielding as the moss of a forest. In keeping with the furniture was the sole occupant of this stately chamber — a little negro boy in a livery of velvet picked out with silver tinsel, who stood as motionless as a small swart statuette against the door which faced that through which the king entered.

“Is your mistress there?”

“She has just returned, sire.”

“I wish to see her.”

“Pardon, sire, but she—”

“Is everyone to thwart me to-day?” snarled the king, and taking the little page by his velvet collar, he hurled him to the other side of the room. Then, without knocking, he opened the door, and passed on into the lady’s boudoir.

It was a large and lofty room, very different to that from which he had just come. Three long windows from ceiling to floor took up one side, and through the delicate pink-tinted blinds the evening sun cast a subdued and dainty light. Great gold candelabra glittered between the mirrors upon the wall, and Le Brun had expended all his wealth of colouring upon the ceiling, where Louis himself, in the character of Jove, hurled down his thunder-bolts upon a writhing heap of Dutch and Palatine Titans. Pink was the prevailing tone in tapestry, carpet, and furniture, so that the whole room seemed to shine with the sweet tints of the inner side of a shell, and when lit up, as it was then, formed such a chamber as some fairy hero might have built up for his princess. At the further side, prone upon an ottoman, her face buried in the cushion, her beautiful white arms thrown over it, the rich coils of her brown hair hanging in disorder across the long curve of her ivory neck, lay, like a drooping flower, the woman whom he had come to discard.

At the sound of the closing door she had glanced up, and then, at the sight of the king, she sprang to her feet and ran towards him, her hands out, her blue eyes bedimmed with tears, her whole beautiful figure softening into womanliness and humility.

“Ah, sire,” she cried, with a pretty little sunburst of joy through her tears, “then I have wronged you! I have wronged you cruelly! You have kept your promise. You were but trying my faith! Oh, how could I have said such words to you — how could I pain that noble heart! But you have come after me to tell me that you have forgiven me!” She put her arms forward with the trusting air of a pretty child who claims an embrace as her due, but the king stepped swiftly back from her, and warned her away from him with an angry gesture.

“All is over forever between us,” he cried harshly. “Your brother will await you at the east gate at six o’clock, and it is my command that you wait there until you receive my further orders.”

She staggered back as if he had struck her.

“Leave you!” she cried.

“You must leave the court.”

“The court! Ay, willingly, this instant! But you! Ah, sire, you ask what is impossible.”

“I do not ask, madame; I order. Since you have learned to abuse your position, your presence has become intolerable. The united kings of Europe have never dared to speak to me as you have spoken to-day. You have insulted me in my own palace — me, Louis, the king. Such things are not done twice, madame. Your insolence has carried you too far this time. You thought that because I was forbearing, I was therefore weak. It appeared to you that if you only humoured me one moment, you might treat me as if I were your equal the next, for that this poor puppet of a king could always be bent this way or that. You see your mistake now. At six o’clock you leave Versailles forever.” His eyes flashed, and his small upright figure seemed to swell in the violence of his indignation, while she leaned away from him, one hand across her eyes and one thrown forward, as if to screen her from that angry gaze.

“Oh, I have been wicked!” she cried. “I know it, I know it!”

“I am glad, madame, that you have the grace to acknowledge it.”