They had been talking of Premier Combe’s recent visit to Brittany. He had gone there to unveil a statue of Renan, and his ferocious measures against the Church were already well under way. Brittany, being a Catholic stronghold, had given him a hot reception—so hot that a pitched battle had resulted between the devout peasants and the police. De Vendôme was saying what a terrible thing it was that France should be ruled by men who were so obviously the tools of Satan, when de Quesnoy remarked:
‘If you have the courage, and are prepared to accept the direction of certain older men who will work loyally in your interests, I believe that in a year or so from now you could be in a position to drive every one of these atheists from office.’
De Vendôme first looked puzzled, then laughed, thinking that his senior had made a joke the point of which he did not get, but should have understood. The Count, having expected some such reaction, went on quietly to explain how the leaders of the monarchist party, realising that there was no longer anything to be hoped from the legitimate heir to the crown, now wished to place their hopes in him.
The young man would hardly have been human had he not been momentarily dazzled by the prospect held out to him; but it did not take him long to realise that should a coup d’état to seat him on the throne succeed, he would have to pay for the glory by carrying great responsibilities and leading a life hedged about with every kind of restriction. For some while they discussed the pros and cons, then he said:
‘I am greatly honoured, Count, but really I would rather not. It would be wonderful, of course, to be able to revive the Royal hunts at Fontainebleu and Compiègne, and to own the finest racing stables in the world. But my Ministers would always be at me about one thing or another, and I’d have practically no life of my own.’
De Quesnoy did not seek to persuade him by dwelling on the allurements of power and immense wealth; but he did say:
‘I can understand your rejecting this offer on personal grounds. Have you considered, though, what your acceptance might mean to France?’
‘No,’ the Prince admitted reluctantly. ‘I fear I have been thinking only of myself. You mean that it is my duty to accept in order to restore honest government. Perhaps you are right; although it is quite possible that I might find the task beyond me. I think the best plan would be for me to consult Father Thomas and find out if he considers me fitted to attempt such a great undertaking, or if I may refuse with a clear conscience.’
Father Thomas was one of the chaplains at St. Cyr and the Prince’s spiritual director, to whom he confessed regularly every week. As a restoration of the monarchy was so obviously in the interests of the church, de Quesnoy thought that all the odds were on Father Thomas telling his penitent that he should accept. But one could not be certain, as some priests were still in favour of the Raillement and so supporters of the Republic. His own duty, as he saw it, not for the sake of the Church but for the sake of France, was to persuade de Vendôme to play the rôle planned for him. Knowing how deeply religious the Prince was, although inwardly wincing at his own hypocrisy, he played his trump card, by saying:
‘This is so dangerous a secret that I must ask you to refrain from mentioning it even to your confessor. And, indeed, you are under no obligation to do so; because by accepting you would not be committing yourself to a course of action which would necessarily lead you into sin. On the contrary it seems to me that you are God’s chosen instrument. If we succeed in placing you on the throne you will be anointed with the Holy Oil at Rheims, and become His champion with the power to protect His Church from the persecution it is now suffering. In my view, to allow any other person, even His Holiness the Pope, to dissuade you from taking up the sceptre would be wrong. It is a matter entirely for your own conscience.’
For some moments the Prince was silent, then he said solemnly: ‘You are right. I would not accept for any other reason, but I see that as a good son of the Church I must.’
That evening de Quesnoy went into Paris and called at Laveriac’s private apartment to report his success. He had already been there on two occasions to give the General his opinion of the young Prince and inform him how he was shaping. Now, on the conclusion of his account of the conversation, the bright-eyed little Gascon exclaimed:
‘God be thanked that we are over that hurdle! You were right, of course, not to rush matters; but the Committee are anxious to go ahead with their secret campaign to make him a popular figure with the public. I take it you are fully satisfied that he won’t back out.’
‘No, I feel sure you can count on him to go through with it,’ de Quesnoy replied a shade unhappily. ‘Although I had to turn the screw to get his consent, and I’m none too easy in my own conscience about that.’
Laveriac shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘Forget it, mon ami. Most of us have to do things at times of which we do not approve, for the good of the cause. What matters is that we can now start to work in earnest for a man who you are convinced will make a good, if not spectacular, King.’
‘Yes; he’ll make a good King,’ de Quesnoy agreed. ‘Perhaps almost too good in one sense. He would never have agreed but for the bait of becoming the protector of the Church; so he will have to be watched. Otherwise he will fall completely under the domination of some Father confessor and the Jesuits; and that would be almost as bad for France as leaving the country to the mercy of Combes and the Socialists. I would be happier if instead of being quite such a saint he had a bit more of the devil in him.’
‘It may be that he is only a slow starter,’ remarked the General. ‘That is often the case with youngsters brought up as strictly as he has been; and sometimes such types turn out the worst rips of all. Now that he is in his second year he will be coming into Paris much more frequently and he’ll be a very abnormal nineteen-year-old if he doesn’t become interested in some young woman.’
‘Yes; I suppose that’s true. Unless things have greatly changed since I was a student at St. Cyr, nearly all his class mates will have their grisettes or ladies with complaisant husbands. The discussion of such matters among themselves may lead him fairly soon now to risk his confessor’s anger by succumbing to some pretty charmer’s wiles.’
The General drew thoughtfully upon his cigarette. ‘That’s about what will happen. Seeing that he is a Duke, too, and by no means a bad looking one, I expect there are quite a number of the fair but frail already setting their bonnets at him.’
‘You need not limit it to the frail,’ de Quesnoy smiled. ‘There are plenty of mothers in the Faubourg St. Germain who would like to get him for their daughters. And being the sort of chap he is he might decide to marry instead of taking a mistress.’
‘God forbid!’ Laveriac almost jumped out of his chair. ‘If he made an unsuitable marriage before we can get him on the throne that would ruin everything.’
‘I think that unlikely, and only mentioned it as a possibility. In families such as his marriages are always a matter of arrangement and lengthy negotiations. He is devoted to his mother and I cannot see him rushing into anything without her consent.’
‘I hope you are right. If so we could disclose to her the high destiny that is intended for him, and no doubt she would restrain him from spoiling his chances of the throne. But one never knows. And now it has cropped up the whole question perturbs me. Say he does take a mistress; being such an innocent he will probably regard her as a twin soul. Even the most stupid of women are capable of making boys like him believe them to be persecuted angels with hearts as pure as gold. He would naturally be tempted to confide in her and if she proved indiscreet that, equally, might ruin all our plans. I tell you, Count, at this stage, if the wrong woman got hold of this young man she could prove more dangerous to us than a dozen priests.’
De Quesnoy shrugged. ‘I fear that is a risk we must accept. Apart from continuing to impress upon him the imperative need for secrecy, I see no way in which we can counter it.’
‘Neither do I, at the moment,’ agreed the General. �
�But I shall speak to the Committee about it; and at least we can arrange to have him watched whenever he comes into Paris.’
As a result of this talk the Count took even greater pains to gain the confidence of his charge and by skilful questioning find out how he spent his time when in the capital. As he had supposed, apart from a few hours passed at one or other of two aristocratic clubs, of which he had been made a member, de Vendôme devoted his week-ends to a few noble families to whom he was related. Unlike most of his companions, he never spent a Saturday night in Paris, was usually in by twelve o’clock and invariably attended early morning Mass at the college chapel on Sundays.
Meanwhile Combes launched himself against the Church with iconoclastic fury. The old ‘Law of Associations’ which made it obligatory for the religious houses to have permits was reapplied with fresh vigour. For years the courts had been arguing hundreds of cases, aimed at confiscation of Church property, in which final judgment had been postponed owing to legal technicalities skilfully put forward by the lawyers. Now, the Prime Minister declared publicly in so many words that he did not give a fig for justice; he wanted action.
Only ten teaching Orders, which could not possibly be spared, were temporarily reprieved. Monks and nuns by the thousand were driven by the gendarmerie from the monasteries and convents which for many were the only homes they had known during the greater part of their lives. Great numbers sought refuge abroad, others went unhappily to live a new life, contrary to their vows, as lay members of their families, while others again, who lacked relations to care for them, were rendered entirely destitute and compelled to beg for food and shelter.
In some cases, as an alternative to confiscation, indemnities were accepted; but the valuations for them were carried out with calculated intent to harrow the feelings of the religious. Sacred relics that had been venerated for centuries were handled with contemptuous carelessness, or deliberately broken, and many precious vestments were spoiled.
Such measures aroused a strong feeling of sympathy for the Church among a large proportion of the French people who were not normally devout. These, mainly middle-class families, while far from priest-ridden, set a high value on the rites of christening, marriage, and burial, and considered that the religious orders did more good than harm; so they would have helped to stay the persecutions if they could. But Combes had succeeded in forming a combination in the Chamber which gave him a big majority; so he could not be stopped.
For the summer vacation de Vendôme returned to his home in Spain, while de Quesnoy spent his partly at Jvanets and partly in looking up old friends in Vienna. Both came back to St. Cyr the better for their holiday—the student determined to do his best during his last term so that when the results were published his future subjects should see that he had passed out well, and his instructor anxious to help him by private coaching to the utmost of his ability.
So keen was the Prince now that soon after the opening of the term he began to spend most of his Saturday afternoons working. But he always went into Paris on Saturday evenings; and by chance one week-end towards the end of September de Quesnoy discovered where the young man spent them.
He had some work of his own that he wanted to catch up with, so he too worked through the Saturday afternoon. Then, soon after six o’clock, he caught the same train as de Vendôme into Paris. On arriving at the Gare des Invalides, they discovered that they were both dining in the same part of the city, so they shared a fiacre to take them across the Seine. De Quesnoy was going to a house in the Avenue de Wagram, and de Vendôme to one in the Rue de Lisbonne; so the latter being nearer, the obvious thing was for the Count to drop the Prince.
On the far side of the Pont Alexandre an old flower seller was still sitting on a corner under her big sun umbrella hoping for late trade. Stopping the carriage de Vendôme got down and bought from her a big bunch of red roses. De Quesnoy observed the transaction with considerable interest, as it suggested that the young man might be going to a rendez-vous. It was, of course, equally possible that he was taking flowers to a sick friend or a hostess who frequently entertained him; but somehow the Count had a feeling that the red roses were intended for an amant de cœur, and it was strengthened by his recalling that during the past few weeks he had several times caught de Vendôme day-dreaming.
When they reached the Rue de Lisbonne, the Prince asked to be set down on its north side opposite the broad alley that led into the Pare Monceau. At that de Quesnoy immediately revised his guess about the roses. He had many a time in the past been set down himself in the same spot, as Angela lived in one of the two corner mansions the garden walls of which formed the alley. All the Committee behind the Ligue de la Patrie Française would by this time have made the acquaintance of the young man they hoped to make their King, Syveton among them. Evidently the Prince was dining with the Syvetons and taking the roses to Angela as a compliment.
With an inward sigh de Quesnoy wished that he was in the Prince’s place. Interesting as he had found it during the past eight months to cultivate Josephine Pollit’s literary and learned friends, he had still felt it a hardship that his rôle in the conspiracy necessitated his appearing to be out of sympathy with the people who would normally have formed his social circle.
On his arrival in Paris he had written to Angela telling her that greatly as he had looked forward to seeing her again after all these years he was, for the time being, debarred from calling on her owing to certain circumstances connected with the League of which her husband was now Treasurer. She had written back to say that she too was disappointed not to see him, but she fully understood, as she had asked Syveton about it and he had confided to her the hopes that were now being placed on a certain student at St. Cyr.
There they had had to leave matters; and although they had since exchanged two or three letters, giving each other their general news, now that de Quesnoy was back in France neither had felt called on to write the many-page dissertations on life, books, politics, and so on that they had when he was several thousand miles distant. As he no longer attended large social functions he had not even seen her in a crowd since his return, and when the carriage pulled up for de Vendôme to get out he would have given a lot to have accompanied him into the house; but he knew that to be out of the question.
However, as the carriage bowled on he chanced to look back and, to his surprise, he saw that instead of going to the front door of the mansion de Vendôme had turned into the alley leading to the park. Evidently then he was not, after all, dining with the Syveton’s; so the odds were once more on the roses being for some young woman with whom he had started an affair.
Recalling Laveriac’s remarks on the importance of being informed about any amatory relationship upon which the young Prince might enter, so that steps could be taken promptly to counter any danger to the conspiracy likely to arise from it, de Quesnoy instantly decided that it was his duty to follow his charge and, if possible, find out with whom he meant to spend his evening. Calling to the cocher to pull up and wait for him, he jumped out and walked quickly back to the entrance to the alley.
When he reached the alley it was empty. Dusk had already fallen, obscuring at its far end the park, but there was still sufficient light to see for a hundred yards or so, and the slim figure of the Prince should have been visible somewhere in the shadows ahead; but it was not. Fearing that he might lose him altogether de Quesnoy broke into a run, yet when he reached the park gates he could still see no sign of his quarry.
The Parc Monceau was the Kensington Gardens of Paris, as in it the children of the rich were taken for their airings; but it was made much brighter than its London equivalent by the picturesque clothes of the nurses. They all wore the costumes of the provinces from which they came; beautifully goffered bonnets of stiff lawn, huge bows of black watered silk and long streamers pinned to their back hair, or richly laced caps of a dozen varieties; so in the daytime the little park was one of the sights of the capital. But now it was almost deserted. Th
e only people in sight when the Count pulled up in the gateway were a pair of lovers seated on one of the benches, and the man was certainly not de Vendôme.
Puzzled by the Prince’s disappearance, de Quesnoy peered ahead of him, and was just about to run on when away to his right he caught the sound of a door slamming. On his right, as he stood there, was the corner of the wall of the Syvetons’ garden, the bottom of which was adjacent to the park. Turning, he strode along it and after covering thirty yards came upon a low door in the wall. Walking quickly on he came to another door, and then another. They were set in the wall regularly at intervals of about a hundred and twenty feet, and it was clear that all the houses in that section of the Rue de Lisbonne had private entrances from their gardens into the park.
All the doors were locked, and the question now was, through which of them had de Vendôme gone? The Count felt that it must have been through one of the two nearest to the alley as having run through it himself would have brought him almost on to the Prince’s heels; so he could hardly have had time to get farther. Retracing his steps, he stood well back from the wall and stared up at it.
He saw that every eighty feet or so the wall merged into a higher structure, the outlines of which were only vaguely visible against a background of dark trees. These, obviously, were large summer-houses at the bottom of each garden, the upper storeys of which formed gazeboes with windows giving them a view over the park. At once he recalled the pavilion in the Syvetons’ garden, and realised that he was now looking at its back and the backs of a row of others similar to it.
As his glance ran from one to another he saw that they were all in darkness, with one exception—the Syvetons’. Curtains were drawn across its windows but at their edges could be seen faint chinks of light. In amazement he stared at those tell-tale chinks. People did not receive their friends for ordinary social reasons in summer-houses at this hour on autumn evenings. Could it … could it possibly be that young de Vendôme was having an affaire with Angela?
The Prisoner in the Mask Page 16