Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “I am very sorry, Monsieur de Vivonne,” said he, “but you are forbidden the presence.”

  “Forbidden the presence! I? You are mad!” He stepped back with gray face and staring eyes, one shaking hand half raised in protest,

  “I assure you that it is his order.”

  “But it is incredible. It is a mistake.”

  “Very possibly.”

  “Then you will let me past.”

  “My orders leave me no discretion.”

  “If I could have one word with the king.”

  “Unfortunately, monsieur, it is impossible.”

  “Only one word.”

  “It really does not rest with me, monsieur.”

  The angry nobleman stamped his foot, and stared at the door as though he had some thoughts of forcing a passage. Then turning on his heel, he hastened away down the corridor with the air of a man who has come to a decision.

  “There, now,” grumbled De Catinat to himself, as he pulled at his thick dark moustache, “he is off to make some fresh mischief. I’ll have his sister here presently, as like as not, and a pleasant little choice between breaking my orders and making an enemy of her for life. I’d rather hold Fort Richelieu against the Iroquois than the king’s door against an angry woman. By my faith, here is a lady, as I feared! Ah, Heaven be praised! it is a friend, and not a foe. Good-morning, Mademoiselle Nanon.”

  “Good-morning, Captain de Catinat.”

  The new-comer was a tall, graceful brunette, her fresh face and sparkling black eyes the brighter in contrast with her plain dress.

  “I am on guard, you see. I cannot talk with you.”

  “I cannot remember having asked monsieur to talk with me.”

  “Ah, but you must not pout in that pretty way, or else I cannot help talking to you,” whispered the captain. “What is this in your hand, then?”

  “A note from Madame de Maintenon to the king. You will hand it to him, will you not?”

  “Certainly, mademoiselle. And how is Madame, your mistress?”

  “Oh, her director has been with her all the morning, and his talk is very, very good; but it is also very, very sad. We are not very cheerful when Monsieur Godet has been to see us. But I forget monsieur is a Huguenot, and knows nothing of directors.”

  “Oh, but I do not trouble about such differences. I let the Sorbonne and Geneva fight it out between them. Yet a man must stand by his family, you know.”

  “Ah! if Monsieur could talk to Madame de Maintenon a little! She would convert him.”

  “I would rather talk to Mademoiselle Nanon, but if—”

  “Oh!” There was an exclamation, a whisk of dark skirts, and the soubrette had disappeared down a side passage.

  Along the broad, lighted corridor was gliding a very stately and beautiful lady, tall, graceful, and exceedingly haughty. She was richly clad in a bodice of gold-coloured camlet and a skirt of gray silk trimmed with gold and silver lace. A handkerchief of priceless Genoa point half hid and half revealed her beautiful throat, and was fastened in front by a cluster of pearls, while a rope of the same, each one worth a bourgeois’ income, was coiled in and out through her luxuriant hair. The lady was past her first youth, it is true, but the magnificent curves of her queenly figure, the purity of her complexion, the brightness of her deep-lashed blue eyes and the clear regularity of her features enabled her still to claim to be the most handsome as well as the most sharp-tongued woman in the court of France. So beautiful was her bearing, the carriage of her dainty head upon her proud white neck, and the sweep of her stately walk, that the young officer’s fears were overpowered in his admiration, and he found it hard, as he raised his hand in salute, to retain the firm countenance which his duties demanded.

  “Ah, it is Captain de Catinat,” said Madame de Montespan, with a smile which was more embarrassing to him than any frown could have been.

  “Your humble servant, marquise.”

  “I am fortunate in finding a friend here, for there has been some ridiculous mistake this morning.”

  “I am concerned to hear it.”

  “It was about my brother, Monsieur de Vivonne. It is almost too laughable to mention, but he was actually refused admission to the lever.”

  “It was my misfortune to have to refuse him, madame.”

  “You, Captain de Catinat? And by what right?” She had drawn up her superb figure, and her large blue eyes were blazing with indignant astonishment.

  “The king’s order, madame.”

  “The king! Is it likely that the king would cast a public slight upon my family? From whom had you this preposterous order?”

  “Direct from the king through Bontems.”

  “Absurd! Do you think that the king would venture to exclude a Mortemart through the mouth of a valet? You have been dreaming, captain.”

  “I trust that it may prove so, madame.”

  “But such dreams are not very fortunate to the dreamer. Go, tell the king that I am here, and would have a word with him.”

  “Impossible, madame.”

  “And why?”

  “I have been forbidden to carry a message.”

  “To carry any message?”

  “Any from you, madame.”

  “Come, captain, you improve. It only needed this insult to make the thing complete. You may carry a message to the king from any adventuress, from any decayed governess” — she laughed shrilly at her description of her rival—”but none from Francoise de Mortemart, Marquise de Montespan?”

  “Such are my orders, madame. It pains me deeply to be compelled to carry them out.”

  “You may spare your protestations, captain. You may yet find that you have every reason to be deeply pained. For the last time, do you refuse to carry my message to the king?”

  “I must, madame.”

  “Then I carry it myself.”

  She sprang forward at the door, but he slipped in front of her with outstretched arms.

  “For God’s sake, consider yourself, madame!” he entreated. “Other eyes are upon you.”

  “Pah! Canaille!” She glanced at the knot of Switzers, whose sergeant had drawn them off a few paces, and who stood open-eyed, staring at the scene.

  “I tell you that I will see the king.”

  “No lady has ever been at the morning lever.”

  “Then I shall be the first.”

  “You will ruin me if you pass.”

  “And none the less, I shall do so.”

  The matter looked serious. De Catinat was a man of resource, but for once he was at his wits’ end. Madame de Montespan’s resolution, as it was called in her presence, or effrontery, as it was termed behind her back, was proverbial. If she attempted to force her way, would he venture to use violence upon one who only yesterday had held the fortunes of the whole court in the hollow of her hand, and who, with her beauty, her wit, and her energy, might very well be in the same position to-morrow? If she passed him, then his future was ruined with the king, who never brooked the smallest deviation from his orders. On the other hand, if he thrust her back, he did that which could never be forgiven, and which would entail some deadly vengeance should she return to power. It was an unpleasant dilemma. But a happy thought flashed into his mind at the very moment when she, with clenched hand and flashing eyes, was on the point of making a fresh attempt to pass him.

  “If madame would deign to wait,” said he soothingly, “the king will be on his way to the chapel in an instant.”

  “It is not yet time.”

  “I think the hour has just gone.”

  “And why should I wait, like a lackey?”

  “It is but a moment, madame.”

  “No, I shall not wait.” She took a step forward towards the door.

  But the guardsman’s quick ear had caught the sound of moving feet from within, and he knew that he was master of the situation.

  “I will take Madame’s message,” said he.

  “Ah, you have recovered your senses! Go
, tell the king that I wish to speak with him.”

  He must gain a little time yet. “Shall I say it through the lord in waiting?”

  “No; yourself.”

  “Publicly?”

  “No, no; for his private ear.”

  “Shall I give a reason for your request?”

  “Oh, you madden me! Say what I have told you, and at once.”

  But the young officer’s dilemma was happily over.

  At that instant the double doors were swung open, and Louis appeared in the opening, strutting forwards on his high-heeled shoes, his stick tapping, his broad skirts flapping, and his courtiers spreading out behind him. He stopped as he came out, and turned to the captain of the guard.

  “You have a note for me?”

  “Yes, sire.”

  The monarch slipped it into the pocket of his scarlet undervest, and was advancing once more when his eyes fell upon Madame de Montespan standing very stiff and erect in the middle of the passage. A dark flush of anger shot to his brow, and he walked swiftly past her without a word; but she turned and kept pace with him down the corridor.

  “I had not expected this honour, madame,” said he.

  “Nor had I expected this insult, sire.”

  “An insult, madame? You forget yourself.”

  “No; it is you who have forgotten me, sire.”

  “You intrude upon me.”

  “I wished to hear my fate from your own lips,” she whispered. “I can bear to be struck myself, sire, even by him who has my heart. But it is hard to hear that one’s brother has been wounded through the mouths of valets and Huguenot soldiers for no fault of his, save that his sister has loved too fondly.”

  “It is no time to speak of such things.”

  “When can I see you, then, sire?”

  “In your chamber.”

  “At what hour?”

  “At four.”

  “Then I shall trouble your Majesty no further.” She swept him one of the graceful courtesies for which she was famous, and turned away down a side passage with triumph shining in her eyes. Her beauty and her spirit had never failed her yet, and now that she had the monarch’s promise of an interview she never doubted that she could do as she had done before, and win back the heart of the man, however much against the conscience of the king.

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE FATHER OF HIS PEOPLE.

  Louis had walked on to his devotions in no very charitable frame of mind, as was easily to be seen from his clouded brow and compressed lips. He knew his late favourite well, her impulsiveness, her audacity, her lack of all restraint when thwarted or opposed. She was capable of making a hideous scandal, of turning against him that bitter tongue which had so often made him laugh at the expense of others, perhaps even of making some public exposure which would leave him the butt and gossip of Europe. He shuddered at the thought. At all costs such a catastrophe must be averted. And yet how could he cut the tie which bound them? He had broken other such bonds as these; but the gentle La Valliere had shrunk into a convent at the very first glance which had told her of waning love. That was true affection. But this woman would struggle hard, fight to the bitter end, before she would quit the position which was so dear to her. She spoke of her wrongs. What were her wrongs? In his intense selfishness, nurtured by the eternal flattery which was the very air he breathed, he could not see that the fifteen years of her life which he had absorbed, or the loss of the husband whom he had supplanted, gave her any claim upon him. In his view he had raised her to the highest position which a subject could occupy. Now he was weary of her, and it was her duty to retire with resignation, nay, even with gratitude for past favours. She should have a pension, and the children should be cared for. What could a reasonable woman ask for more?

  And then his motives for discarding her were so excellent. He turned them over in his mind as he knelt listening to the Archbishop of Paris reciting the Mass, and the more he thought, the more he approved. His conception of the deity was as a larger Louis, and of heaven as a more gorgeous Versailles. If he exacted obedience from his twenty millions, then he must show it also to this one who had a right to demand it of him. On the whole, his conscience acquitted him. But in this one matter he had been lax. From the first coming of his gentle and forgiving young wife from Spain, he had never once permitted her to be without a rival. Now that she was dead, the matter was no better. One favourite had succeeded another, and if De Montespan had held her own so long, it was rather from her audacity than from his affection. But now Father La Chaise and Bossuet were ever reminding him that he had topped the summit of his life, and was already upon that downward path which leads to the grave. His wild outburst over the unhappy Fontanges had represented the last flicker of his passions. The time had come for gravity and for calm, neither of which was to be expected in the company of Madame de Montespan.

  But he had found out where they were to be enjoyed. From the day when De Montespan had introduced the stately and silent widow as a governess for his children, he had found a never-failing and ever-increasing pleasure in her society. In the early days of her coming he had sat for hours in the rooms of his favourite, watching the tact and sweetness of temper with which her dependent controlled the mutinous spirits of the petulant young Duc du Maine and the mischievous little Comte de Toulouse. He had been there nominally for the purpose of superintending the teaching, but he had confined himself to admiring the teacher. And then in time he too had been drawn into the attraction of that strong sweet nature, and had found himself consulting her upon points of conduct, and acting upon her advice with a docility which he had never shown before to minister or mistress. For a time he had thought that her piety and her talk of principle might be a mere mask, for he was accustomed to hypocrisy all round him. It was surely unlikely that a woman who was still beautiful, with as bright an eye and as graceful a figure as any in his court, could, after a life spent in the gayest circles, preserve the spirit of a nun. But on this point he was soon undeceived, for when his own language had become warmer than that of friendship, he had been met by an iciness of manner and a brevity of speech which had shown him that there was one woman at least in his dominions who had a higher respect for herself than for him. And perhaps it was better so. The placid pleasures of friendship were very soothing after the storms of passion. To sit in her room every afternoon, to listen to talk which was not tainted with flattery, and to hear opinions which were not framed to please his ear, were the occupations now of his happiest hours. And then her influence over him was all so good! She spoke of his kingly duties, of his example to his subjects, of his preparation for the World beyond, and of the need for an effort to snap the guilty ties which he had formed. She was as good as a confessor — a confessor with a lovely face and a perfect arm.

  And now he knew that the time had come when he must choose between her and De Montespan. Their influences were antagonistic. They could not continue together. He stood between virtue and vice, and he must choose. Vice was very attractive too, very comely, very witty, and holding him by that chain of custom which is so hard to shake off. There were hours when his nature swayed strongly over to that side, and when he was tempted to fall back into his old life. But Bossuet and Pere la Chaise were ever at his elbows to whisper encouragement, and, above all, there was Madame de Maintenon to remind him of what was due to his position and to his six-and-forty years. Now at last he had braced himself for a supreme effort. There was no safety for him while his old favourite was at court. He knew himself too well to have any faith in a lasting change so long as she was there ever waiting for his moment of weakness. She must be persuaded to leave Versailles, if without a scandal it could be done. He would be firm when he met her in the afternoon, and make her understand once for all that her reign was forever over.

  Such were the thoughts which ran through the king’s head as he bent over the rich crimson cushion which topped his prie-dieu of carved oak. He knelt in his own enclosure to the right of the altar, w
ith his guards and his immediate household around him, while the court, ladies and cavaliers, filled the chapel. Piety was a fashion now, like dark overcoats and lace cravats, and no courtier was so worldly-minded as not to have had a touch of grace since the king had taken to religion. Yet they looked very bored, these soldiers and seigneurs, yawning and blinking over the missals, while some who seemed more intent upon their devotions were really dipping into the latest romance of Scudery or Calpernedi, cunningly bound up in a sombre cover. The ladies, indeed, were more devout, and were determined that all should see it, for each had lit a tiny taper, which she held in front of her on the plea of lighting up her missal, but really that her face might be visible to the king, and inform him that hers was a kindred spirit. A few there may have been, here and there, whose prayers rose from their hearts, and who were there of their own free will; but the policy of Louis had changed his noblemen into courtiers and his men of the world into hypocrites, until the whole court was like one gigantic mirror which reflected his own likeness a hundredfold.

  It was the habit of Louis, as he walked back from the chapel, to receive petitions or to listen to any tales of wrong which his subjects might bring to him. His way, as he returned to his rooms, lay partly across an open space, and here it was that the suppliants were wont to assemble. On this particular morning there were but two or three — a Parisian, who conceived himself injured by the provost of his guild, a peasant whose cow had been torn by a huntsman’s dog, and a farmer who had had hard usage from his feudal lord. A few questions and then a hurried order to his secretary disposed of each case, for if Louis was a tyrant himself, he had at least the merit that he insisted upon being the only one within his kingdom. He was about to resume his way again, when an elderly man, clad in the garb of a respectable citizen, and with a strong deep-lined face which marked him as a man of character, darted forward, and threw himself down upon one knee in front of the monarch.

  “Justice, sire, justice!” he cried.

  “What is this, then?” asked Louis. “Who are you, and what is it that you want?”