The Cat and the King

by Louis Auchincloss

  “What keeps me going is the sense that I have been granted the greatest boon a man can have in her love, and now the Almighty, or providence, or simply the community of man, is requiring that I give something back to the world in return. If I ever establish my crown, there will be no end of things that I can accomplish here. Think of it, Saint-Simon! A prince of the blood who may actually be of service to his fellow men!”

  Madame la Duchesse became very intimate with Gabrielle and myself in these days. She professed to follow the Polish proceedings with the deepest interest and never showed by so much as a blink of the eye that she was afflicted by the prospect of her lover’s permanent displacement. On the contrary, she seemed full of hopes for his glory and would say that we should all be known in the pages of history as mere footnotes to his great career!

  “Of course, you may be something more, Monsieur de Saint-Simon,” she told me one afternoon when Gabrielle and I had met her, as appointed, by Neptune’s Basin. “You may be his first minister.”

  “What makes you say that, ma’am?” Gabrielle asked. “How could the king of Poland have a subject of our king as his first minister?”

  “Well, as long as your husband was willing to live in Warsaw, his nationality would make no difference.”

  “And is my husband willing to live in Warsaw?” Gabrielle faced me with a look of calm inquiry.

  “It’s an idea I’ve played with,” I admitted, in some embarrassment. I had not wished to upset Gabrielle before any final decisions were taken.

  “Would it not be good of you to inform me, before transporting your wife and infants to a land of snow and ice?”

  Madame la Duchesse glanced, I thought rather maliciously, from me to my wife. It always pleased her to uncover family dissension.

  “You would be given plenty of time, my dear,” I assured Gabrielle as blandly as I could, “before anything so drastic was asked of you. Who knows? If I did go, it might be only for a few months at a time, on an advisory basis.”

  “And I should be left alone here, at Versailles?”

  It was the first time that Gabrielle had ever crossed me—at least in the presence of a great person. I was surprised.

  “You would always be at liberty to come with me.”

  “There!” cried Madame la Duchesse. “Can you want more than that, my dear? I couldn’t. Why, I should love to go to Poland this very minute!”

  “With small children, ma’am?”

  “The smaller the better! They wouldn’t get in my way when I was there.”

  The only way that one could perceive the strain on Madame la Duchesse was in her increased acerbity with members of the royal family. Her younger sister, the new duchesse de Chartres, who now, as a granddaughter-in-law of France, outranked the wife of a prince of the blood, particularly irked her. In marriage contracts witnessed by the king and his children, where Madame la Duchesse now had to sign under her sister, she would style herself “Louise-Françoise de Bourbon—legitimated” in large handwriting to call attention to the fact that Madame de Chartres always omitted the humiliating qualification. And at a performance of Esther she actually hissed the reference to the disgrace of the “haughty Vashti,” notoriously inserted by Racine as a compliment to Madame de Maintenon at the expense of Madame la Duchesse’s mother. Yet when she was seen the next day emerging from her “stepmother’s” apartment after what was assumed to have been one of the Maintenons famous dressings down, her eyes were not red, as in the case of other scolded princesses, but clear and defiant.

  Matters were not going well in Poland. It began to look as if the whole project might fail. Conti now found that he had problems with French as well as Polish support. One evening at home I read Gabrielle this part of one of his letters:

  “The king expects me to back French policy in everything, particularly in Spain. On the death of King Charles, which can’t be far off now, he and the emperor will both claim the throne by descent. Charles is supposed to be supporting the French claim in his will, and it is generally believed that our king would pass the Spanish crown on to one of his grandsons. I feel very strongly that it would be disastrous to have Versailles and Madrid that closely linked. It might unite all Europe against France in a terrible war.”

  Gabrielle made no comment. She simply reached out her hand for the letter. I did not give it to her.

  “I think this one is not for the eyes of Madame la Duchesse.”

  “I thought they all were. I thought that was the understanding.”

  “Ah, but you forget my discretion. Madame la Duchesse is a very loose talker. If the king got wind of the views of his Polish candidate towards his great goal—Spain—all would be over.”

  “You mean the prince de Conti would be recalled?”

  “And his kingdom would disappear like a dream! We can hardly put a weapon like that in the hands of a woman who wants him home.”

  Gabrielle looked at me curiously. “I thought you thought she was so noble. So disinterested. Like a heroine of Corneille’s. You did rather go on about it, dear!”

  “Well, why tempt people? If Madame la Duchesse asks you, say that we have not heard from Conti this week.”

  Gabrielle nodded obediently. “Just so. The posts are terrible!”

  As it turned out, that was the last letter I had from Conti. Some weeks later a majority of the Polish nobles went over to the elector of Saxony, and the game was up. There was nothing for my poor hero to do but creep ignominiously back to Versailles.

  4

  THE APARTMENTS of the due and duchesse de Bourbon in the great south wing were very splendid. Monsieur le Due had hung the walls, as if he had been at his own château at Chantilly, with the same vast, bloody battle scenes that his grandfather, the Great Condé, had used to show Conti as a boy. Of course, in so trying to deflect attention from his own minimal war career, he drew attention rather violently to it. Interspersed with these pictures of carnage were big, pompous Rigaud portraits of Condé warriors in brilliant armor, with further slaughter going on in the background.

  Monsieur le Due was a tiny man, like all the Condés. His father, the great hero’s son, had cared more for genealogical than physical splendor and, by marrying a Palatine princess, had blighted his posterity with the dwarfishness of the Gonzagas. The slight stature of Monsieur le Due was not improved, either, by a pot belly, but, although one of the most malicious men in court, he could be very bright and witty, and I always enjoyed an occasional chat with him on a neutral subject.

  The first time that I saw the prince de Conti after his return from Poland was at a small reception in the apartments of the due and duchesse de Bourbon. Madame la Duchesse was at her most exuberant. She made no secret of her delight at being reunited with her adored one, and she strolled with him among her other guests, arm in arm. Monsieur le Due, who could hardly make open objection to such cordiality to a returning brother-in-law, was nonetheless obviously irritated. When he and I talked, he allowed his tone to be grating.

  “A sad day for France, sir,” I observed discreetly.

  “For France,” he emphasized. “Not, necessarily, for all Frenchmen. Or all French women.”

  “I suppose it is only natural for the royal family to rejoice at the return of so beloved a member.”

  “Rather too natural, Monsieur de Saint-Simon.”

  “Poland has lost a great sovereign. And we, a great ally. I suppose there can be no doubt about that?”

  “Can there not?”

  “You doubt the capacity of the prince de Conti?”

  “I doubt his enthusiasm.”

  “You mean you believe he had no heart for the job?”

  “I mean he had not the slightest intention of ever becoming king of Poland. It was the title he wanted, pure and simple. He calculated that if elected and then deposed, he could return to Versailles and take precedence over the rest of the family (including your humble servant), the way the deposed king of England does.”

  “But surely it
was understood from the beginning that an elective crown would be recognized only if the election held!”

  “Was it?” Monsieur le Due’s eyebrows soared. “Not by Conti, it wasn’t. He believed that my wife would intercede with the king. And it is entirely possible that she may have. But the king was not going to flout the wishes of the first prince of the blood.” Here he made me a jaunty little mocking bow. “Not even at the request of the first princess!”

  “It seems difficult to believe,” I continued, placing no credit whatever in what my jealous interlocutor had said, “that we could have all been saying our prayers for the fruition of a project that its principal beneficiary wished to abort.”

  “All the prayers were not directed to that goal. There may even have been masses offered for the failure of the project. Black masses!”

  This was going rather far. The duchess’s mother, Madame de Montespan, was notoriously supposed to have sought to preserve the king’s love by a black mass, in which blood from the slit throat of a newborn infant had been allowed to drip on her stomach as she lay, naked and supine, on an improvised altar.

  I decided to leave Monsieur le Due to his morbid reflections, and, bowing, turned to make my way towards his wife. Seeing me, she waved and pulled Conti to the middle of the chamber, where we met.

  “Oh, don’t make such a face,” she reproached me. “I have to have my little moment. I am quite aware that it infuriates Monsieur le Due. But I’ll make it up to him. I always do. If you don’t permit yourself some little outlets in court life, you’ll find yourself exploding in little pieces all over the great gallery.”

  “I am very happy to see you, sir,” I said to Conti.

  “Saint-Simon, dear fellow!” He detached himself from Madame la Duchesse to embrace me warmly. She burst out laughing.

  “Well! Perhaps I should leave you two boys alone!”

  “Perhaps it would be good if you did,” Conti advised her gently. “For a minute, anyway. You’ve made enough of me. Go and un-ruffle Monsieur le Due. He looks like a startled grouse.” Alone, he turned to me. “I can never thank you enough for your letters. What are people saying? That I made a lovely mess of it?”

  “No,” I replied judiciously. “Most consider it simply bad luck. Some blame the king. A few, like Monsieur le Due, think you didn’t really try. That you wanted all the time to come home. For what reason, you can imagine.”

  “I give you my solemn word, Saint-Simon, that I tried my best!” He was graver than I had ever seen him, very pale but with a flash in his eyes. “I did everything a man could do to win over the nobles to my candidacy. But when I saw that it was all to no avail, that I was to be flung out of that cold, dark northern heaven back to the glittering lights of old Versailles, when I saw that my allies were dissolving... well, despise me if you will... I was actually happy. Oh, happy as I had never been! To come back, a broken Antony, to my serpent of old Nile! For that’s what she is, my friend. I’m in her clutches now forever.”

  “There are other careers,” I insisted, shocked.

  “Not for me. How you stare, Saint-Simon! Do you think I don’t know myself? I had a chance, one single glorious chance, a golden opportunity, and it’s gone. There are people who never get second chances, and I am one of them. I can even stand back and admire my own futility. My story is short but elegantly written. Charming, if a bit sad. Never tragic. I was wrong, just now, to compare myself to Antony. I am more like a perfect little novel by Madame de La Fayette.”

  I could not avoid the feeling that there was a constraint in Conti’s manner. It was not only the note of self-dramatization in his voice. I had a distinct impression that he was putting up a wall of words between himself and me, not only that I might be prevented from criticizing him, but that he might be kept from criticizing me. Yet, what had I done that was wrong, except perhaps encourage him in the illusion that his love could be maintained by correspondence when a clean break should have been advocated? What lover would have held that against a friend?

  Others pushed forward now to speak to Conti, and I had to give way. I thought that he would send for me in private, but he did not do so. And something else troubled me at this time. Savonne had not only failed to return to court; he had not even written to me.

  One of Conti’s staff had told me that Savonne had been gravely depressed by the failure of the enterprise and had spoken of making a religious retreat. This was not unlike him, but his silence was. As none of his family was at court, I was constrained to write a note to one of Madame de Maintenon’s secretaries to ask if they had news of him. What was my astonishment to be informed in return that the great marquise would see me herself! I was instructed to present myself at her apartments the very next morning, before she departed on her daily visit to St. Cyr.

  5

  AT THE APPOINTED TIME I was shown into Madame de Maintenon’s receiving room, where she was seated in the famous red chair. I was not invited to be seated.

  “I decided that it would be better if I spoke to you directly, Monsieur de Saint-Simon,” she began in a chilling tone. “My cousin Savonne has not been willing to communicate with you. I am afraid he no longer regards you as his friend.”

  “May I ask the reason?” I inquired, in great agitation.

  “He has been bitterly upset over this Polish business. Almost, I fear, to the risk of his sanity.”

  “That is understandable. But why should it make him cease to regard me as his friend?”

  The Maintenon honored me with an impassive stare. “You have not been one of my friends, sir.”

  “What causes Madame to think that?”

  “In court these things are known.”

  “In court, I suppose, we are at the mercy of every gossip. But I hardly supposed that the lady who has been described by the king himself as a priestess of the life of reason would listen to idle tattle.”

  “I listen to everything! I have to. Look at the crowd waiting outside this room, just for a word with me, before I go to Saint-Cyr. Every last one of them has a favor to ask or a tale to tell. Usually both!”

  I allowed myself to give her a narrow look. “You may find many who will misquote me. You will not find one who can have misread me.”

  “What on earth do you mean by that?”

  “Simply that I have never had the presumption to name Madame de Maintenon in a letter.”

  “And why should I be concerned with your letters, sir?” She paused here, and then, to my astonishment, smiled. “Oh, of course, you think I read everyone’s mail.”

  “Letters have been read, Madame.”

  “I don’t know what measures may be taken by the ministers in the interests of security. But contrary to popular opinion I read only letters that are addressed to me.” I bowed in silence. Contradiction was hardly expected. “Of course, people suspect me. My position invites that. But I do the job God gave me as best I can.” She did not raise her eyes to the ceiling as she said this; she was too clever for that. She simply allowed her eyelids to droop for a moment. “A very poor best, I’m sure it is.”

  “No one doubts your devotion to duty, Madame.”

  “Oh, do they not? Do you not, sir? When one is reared as I was, on a lonely island, thousands of leagues away, across the ocean, and then is doomed to live in a crowded court, one has experienced the extremes of isolation and inundation. Thank heaven I learned to depend on myself before I was subjected to the scrutinies of Versailles. But I didn’t ask you here to recriminate. Or even to win you to my side. No, I shall be quite candid. I asked you here to tell you something that it is in your best interests for you to know.”

  Again I bowed and waited.

  “You are aware, sir, of my great interest in the king’s children. When I Was honored, many years ago, with the charge of the royal infants, I accepted it as a duty. I did not know then that it would become a joy. I have learned to love them as I might have loved my own. Not least in my affection is Madame la Duchesse.”

  �
��She is indeed a radiant princess.”

  “Thank you. I believe she is. But I do not imagine that I am revealing any startling news when I say that she is indiscreet. I believed that it would be a good thing for everybody if the prince de Conti were elected king of Poland. I believed that you, too, saw matters in that light.”

  “It is an honor to be of your persuasion, Madame.”

  Madame de Maintenon did not concede by so much as a blink that she understood my irony. “The king, sir, is always a monarch first and a father second. He would never consider a possible advantage to a daughter if the smallest French interest were at stake. So the moment he suspected that the prince de Conti might not share his views as to the Spanish succession, the prince’s candidacy was dead.”

  I waited, but she did not continue. “And did the king have such suspicions?” I demanded at last.

  “How could he not, when Madame la Duchesse told him so herself? It annoyed him that she should be the one to bring about what she so evidently and inappropriately desired, namely, the recall of the prince, but that could not affect his decision.”