Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated)

by SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  “Do you dare,” he cried, with flashing eyes, “to call the charge of my children a menial position? I say that there is no higher in the kingdom. Go back to Meudon, sir, this instant, and never dare to open your mouth again on the subject. Away, I say! When, in God’s good time, you are king of this country, you may claim your own way, but until then do not venture to cross the plans of one who is both your parent and your monarch.”

  The young man bowed low, and walked with dignity from the chamber; but he turned with his hand upon the door.

  “The Abbe Fenelon came with me, sire. Is it your pleasure to see him?”

  “Away! away!” cried the king furiously, still striding up and down the room with angry face and flashing eyes. The dauphin left the cabinet, and was instantly succeeded by a tall thin priest, some forty years of age, strikingly handsome, with a pale refined face, large well-marked features, and the easy deferential bearing of one who has had a long training in courts. The king turned sharply upon him, and looked hard at him with a distrustful eye.

  “Good-day, Abbe Fenelon,” said he. “May I ask what the object of this interview is?”

  “You have had the condescension, sire, on more than one occasion, to ask my humble advice, and even to express yourself afterwards as being pleased that you had acted upon it.”

  “Well? Well? Well?” growled the monarch.

  “If rumour says truly, sire, you are now at a crisis when a word of impartial counsel might be of value to you. Need I say that it would—”

  “Tut! tut! Why all these words?” cried the king. “You have been sent here by others to try and influence me against Madame de Maintenon.”

  “Sire, I have had nothing but kindness from that lady. I esteem and honour her more than any lady in France.”

  “In that case, abbe, you will, I am sure, be glad to hear that I am about to marry her. Good-day, abbe. I regret that I have not longer time to devote to this very interesting conversation.”

  “But, sire—”

  “When my mind is in doubt, abbe, I value your advice very highly. On this occasion my mind is happily not in doubt. I have the honour to wish you a very good-day.”

  The king’s first hot anger had died away by now, and had left behind it a cold, bitter spirit which was even more formidable to his antagonists. The abbe, glib of tongue and fertile of resource as he was, felt himself to be silenced and overmatched. He walked backwards, with three long bows, as was the custom of the court, and departed.

  But the king had little breathing space. His assailants knew that with persistence they had bent his will before, and they trusted that they might do so again. It was Louvois, the minister, now who entered the room, with his majestic port, his lofty bearing, his huge wig, and his aristocratic face, which, however, showed some signs of trepidation as it met the baleful eye of the king.

  “Well, Louvois, what now?” he asked impatiently. “Has some new state matter arisen?”

  “There is but one new state matter which has arisen, sire, but it is of such importance as to banish all others from our mind.”

  “What then?”

  “Your marriage, sire.”

  “You disapprove of it?”

  “Oh, sire, can I help it?”

  “Out of my room, sir! Am I to be tormented to death by your importunities? What! You dare to linger when I order you to go!” The king advanced angrily upon the minister, but Louvois suddenly flashed out his rapier. Louis sprang back with alarm and amazement upon his face, but it was the hilt and not the point which was presented to him.

  “Pass it through my heart, sire!” the minister cried, falling upon his knees, his whole great frame in a quiver with emotion. “I will not live to see your glory fade!”

  “Great heaven!” shrieked Louis, throwing the sword down upon the ground, and raising his hands to his temples, “I believe that this is a conspiracy to drive me mad. Was ever a man so tormented in his life? This will be a private marriage, man, and it will not affect the state in the least degree. Do you hear me? Have you understood me? What more do you want?”

  Louvois gathered himself up, and shot his rapier back into its sheath.

  “Your Majesty is determined?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then I say no more. I have done my duty.” He bowed his head as one in deep dejection when he departed, but in truth his heart was lightened within him, for he had the king’s assurance that the woman whom he hated would, even though his wife, not sit on the throne of the Queens of France.

  These repeated attacks, if they had not shaken the king’s resolution, had at least irritated and exasperated him to the utmost. Such a blast of opposition was a new thing to a man whose will had been the one law of the land. It left him ruffled and disturbed, and without regretting his resolution, he still, with unreasoning petulance, felt inclined to visit the inconvenience to which he had been put upon those whose advice he had followed. He wore accordingly no very cordial face when the usher in attendance admitted the venerable figure of Father la Chaise, his confessor.

  “I wish you all happiness, sire,” said the Jesuit, “and I congratulate you from my heart that you have taken the great step which must lead to content both in this world and the next.”

  “I have had neither happiness nor contentment yet, father,” answered the king peevishly. “I have never been so pestered in my life. The whole court has been on its knees to me to entreat me to change my intention.”

  The Jesuit looked at him anxiously out of his keen gray eyes.

  “Fortunately, your Majesty is a man of strong will,” said he, “and not to be so easily swayed as they think.”

  “No, no, I did not give an inch. But still, it must be confessed that it is very unpleasant to have so many against one. I think that most men would have been shaken.”

  “Now is the time to stand firm, sire; Satan rages to see you passing out of his power, and he stirs up all his friends and sends all his emissaries to endeavour to detain you.”

  But the king was not in a humour to be easily consoled.

  “Upon my word, father,” said he, “you do not seem to have much respect for my family. My brother and my son, with the Abbe Fenelon and the Minister of War, are the emissaries to whom you allude.”

  “Then there is the more credit to your Majesty for having resisted them.

  You have done nobly, sire. You have earned the praise and blessing of

  Holy Church.”

  “I trust that what I have done is right, father,” said the king gravely.

  “I should be glad to see you again later in the evening, but at present

  I desire a little leisure for solitary thought.”

  Father la Chaise left the cabinet with a deep distrust of the king’s intentions. It was obvious that the powerful appeals which had been made to him had shaken if they had failed to alter his resolution. What would be the result if more were made? And more would be made; that was as certain as that darkness follows light. Some master-card must be played now which would bring the matter to a crisis at once, for every day of delay was in favour of their opponents. To hesitate was to lose. All must be staked upon one final throw.

  The Bishop of Meaux was waiting in the ante-room, and Father la Chaise in a few brief words let him see the danger of the situation and the means by which they should meet it. Together they sought Madame de Maintenon in her room. She had discarded the sombre widow’s dress which she had chosen since her first coming to court, and wore now, as more in keeping with her lofty prospects, a rich yet simple costume of white satin with bows of silver serge. A single diamond sparkled in the thick coils of her dark tresses. The change had taken years from a face and figure which had always looked much younger than her age, and as the two plotters looked upon her perfect complexion, her regular features, so calm and yet so full of refinement, and the exquisite grace of her figure and bearing, they could not but feel that if they failed in their ends, it was not for want of having a pe
rfect tool at their command.

  She had risen at their entrance, and her expression showed that she had read upon their faces something of the anxiety which filled their minds.

  “You have evil news!” she cried.

  “No, no, my daughter.” It was the bishop who spoke. “But we must be on our guard against our enemies, who would turn the king away from you if they could.”

  Her face shone at the mention of her lover.

  “Ah, you do not know!” she cried. “He has made a vow. I would trust him as I would trust myself. I know that he will be true.”

  But the Jesuit’s intellect was arrayed against the intuition of the woman.

  “Our opponents are many and strong,” said he shaking his head. “Even if the king remain firm, he will be annoyed at every turn, so that he will feel his life is darker instead of lighter, save, of course, madame, for that brightness which you cannot fail to bring with you. We must bring the matter to an end.”

  “And how, father?”

  “The marriage must be at once!”

  “At once!”

  “Yes. This very night, if possible.”

  “Oh, father, you ask too much. The king would never consent to such a proposal.”

  “It is he that will propose it.”

  “And why?”

  “Because we shall force him to. It is only thus that all the opposition can be stopped. When it is done, the court will accept it. Until it is done, they will resist it.”

  “What would you have me do, then, father?”

  “Resign the king.”

  “Resign him!” She turned as pale as a lily, and looked at him in bewilderment.

  “It is the best course, madame.”

  “Ah, father, I might have done it last month, last week, even yesterday morning. But now — oh, it would break my heart!”

  “Fear not, madame. We advise you for the best. Go to the king now, at once. Say to him that you have heard that he has been subjected to much annoyance upon your account, that you cannot bear to think that you should be a cause of dissension in his own family, and therefore you will release him from his promise, and will withdraw yourself from the court forever.”

  “Go now? At once?”

  “Yes, without loss of an instant.”

  She cast a light mantle about her shoulders.

  “I follow your advice,” she said. “I believe that you are wiser than I.

  But, oh, if he should take me at my word!”

  “He will not take you at your word.”

  “It is a terrible risk.”

  “But such an end as this cannot be gained without risks. Go, my child, and may heaven’s blessing go with you!”

  CHAPTER XIII.

  THE KING HAS IDEAS.

  The king had remained alone in his cabinet, wrapped in somewhat gloomy thoughts, and pondering over the means by which he might carry out his purpose and yet smooth away the opposition which seemed to be so strenuous and so universal. Suddenly there came a gentle tap at the door, and there was the woman who was in his thoughts, standing in the twilight before him. He sprang to his feet and held out his hands with a smile which would have reassured her had she doubted his constancy.

  “Francoise! You here! Then I have at last a welcome visitor, and it is the first one to-day.”

  “Sire, I fear that you have been troubled.”

  “I have indeed, Francoise.”

  “But I have a remedy for it.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I shall leave the court, sire, and you shall think no more of what has passed between us. I have brought discord where I meant to bring peace. Let me retire to St. Cyr, or to the Abbey of Fontevrault, and you will no longer be called upon to make such sacrifices for my sake.”

  The king turned deathly pale, and clutched at her shawl with a trembling hand, as though he feared that she was about to put her resolution into effect that very instant. For years his mind had accustomed itself to lean upon hers. He had turned to her whenever he needed support, and even when, as in the last week, he had broken away from her for a time, it was still all-important to him to know that she was there, the faithful friend, ever forgiving, ever soothing, waiting for him with her ready counsel and sympathy. But that she should leave him now, leave him altogether, such a thought had never occurred to him, and it struck him with a chill of surprised alarm.

  “You cannot mean it, Francoise,” he cried, in a trembling voice.

  “No, no, it is impossible that you are in earnest.”

  “It would break my heart to leave you, sire, but it breaks it also to think that for my sake you are estranged from your own family and ministers.”

  “Tut! Am I not the king? Shall I not take my own course without heed to them? No, no, Francoise, you must not leave me! You must stay with me and be my wife.” He could hardly speak for agitation, and he still grasped at her dress to detain her. She had been precious to him before, but was far more so now that there seemed to be a possibility of his losing her. She felt the strength of her position, and used it to the utmost.

  “Some time must elapse before our wedding, sire. Yet during all that interval you will be exposed to these annoyances. How can I be happy when I feel that I have brought upon you so long a period of discomfort?”

  “And why should it be so long, Francoise?”

  “A day would be too long, sire, for you to be unhappy through my fault. It is a misery to me to think of it. Believe me, it would be better that I should leave you.”

  “Never! You shall not! Why should we even wait a day, Francoise? I am ready. You are ready. Why should we not be married now?”

  “At once! Oh, sire!”

  “We shall. It is my wish. It is my order. That is my answer to those who would drive me. They shall know nothing of it until it is done, and then let us see which of them will dare to treat my wife with anything but respect. Let it be done secretly, Francoise. I will send in a trusty messenger this very night for the Archbishop of Paris, and I swear that, if all France stand in the way, he shall make us man and wife before he departs.”

  “Is it your will, sire?”

  “It is; and ah, I can see by your eyes that it is yours also! We shall not lose a moment, Francoise. What a blessed thought of mine, which will silence their tongues forever! When it is ready they may know, but not before. To your room, then, dearest of friends and truest of women! When we meet again, it will be to form a bond which all this court and all this kingdom shall not be able to loose.”

  The king was all on fire with the excitement of this new resolution. He had lost his air of doubt and discontent, and he paced swiftly about the room with a smiling face and shining eyes. Then he touched a small gold bell, which summoned Bontems, his private body-servant.

  “What o’clock is it, Bontems?”

  “It is nearly six, sire.”

  “Hum!” The king considered for some moments. “Do you know where Captain de Catinat is, Bontems?”

  “He was in the grounds, sire, but I heard that he would ride back to

  Paris to-night.”

  “Does he ride alone?”

  “He has one friend with him.”

  “Who is this friend? An officer of the guards?”

  “No, sire; it is a stranger from over the seas, from America, as I understand, who has stayed with him of late, and to whom Monsieur de Catinat has been showing the wonders of your Majesty’s palace.”

  “A stranger! So much the better. Go, Bontems, and bring them both to me.”

  “I trust that they have not started, sire. I will see.” He hurried off, and was back in ten minutes in the cabinet once more.

  “Well?”

  “I have been fortunate, sire. Their horses had been led out and their feet were in the stirrups when I reached them.”

  “Where are they, then?”

  “They await your Majesty’s orders in the ante-room.”

  “Show them in, Bontems, and give admission to none, not
even to the minister, until they have left me.”

  To De Catinat an audience with the monarch was a common incident of his duties, but it was with profound astonishment that he learned from Bontems that his friend and companion was included in the order. He was eagerly endeavouring to whisper into the young American’s ear some precepts and warnings as to what to do and what to avoid, when Bontems reappeared and ushered them into the presence.

  It was with a feeling of curiosity, not unmixed with awe, that Amos Green, to whom Governor Dongan, of New York, had been the highest embodiment of human power, entered the private chamber of the greatest monarch in Christendom. The magnificence of the ante-chamber in which he had waited, the velvets, the paintings, the gildings, with the throng of gaily dressed officials and of magnificent guardsmen, had all impressed his imagination, and had prepared him for some wondrous figure robed and crowned, a fit centre for such a scene. As his eyes fell upon a quietly dressed, bright-eyed man, half a head shorter than himself, with a trim dapper figure, and an erect carriage, he could not help glancing round the room to see if this were indeed the monarch, or if it were some other of those endless officials who interposed themselves between him and the other world. The reverent salute of his companion, however, showed him that this must indeed be the king, so he bowed and then drew himself erect with the simple dignity of a man who has been trained in Nature’s school.

  “Good-evening, Captain de Catinat,” said the king, with a pleasant smile. “Your friend, as I understand, is a stranger to this country. I trust, sir, that you have found something here to interest and to amuse you?”

  “Yes, your Majesty. I have seen your great city, and it is a wonderful one. And my friend has shown me this palace, with its woods and its grounds. When I go back to my own country I will have much to say of what I have seen in your beautiful land.”

  “You speak French, and yet you are not a Canadian.”

  “No, sire; I am from the English provinces.”

  The king looked with interest at the powerful figure, the bold features, and the free bearing of the young foreigner, and his mind flashed back to the dangers which the Comte de Frontenac had foretold from these same colonies. If this were indeed a type of his race, they must in truth be a people whom it would be better to have as friends than as enemies. His mind, however, ran at present on other things than statecraft, and he hastened to give De Catinat his orders for the night.