Traitor and True

CHAPTER XVII

"The Splendid One" – "Le Dieudonné" – otherwise Louis XIV., King of France and Navarre, sat in the Galerie des Cerfs at Fontainebleau before a blazing log fire, his feet and legs encased in long, heavy riding boots, half a dozen dogs round him, and, on his lap, a little spaniel of the breed afterwards known in England as that of King Charles, with whose long silky ears he toyed.

Near the King, yet still at some distance from him, were many members of his family and Court, including the Queen, who sat before a second fire farther down the room in the riding-dress in which she had that day accompanied her husband to a wild stag hunt in the forest. A little distance off, chattering, laughing-in discreetly subdued tones-were women who bore, or were yet to bear, names that the world will never forget. One there was, who, although already a recipient of the favours of Le Roi Soleil if not as yet of his love, sat plainly dressed and with her eyes demurely cast down, near to Madame de Montespan-mâitresse en titre-and only raised those eyes at some sallies from the children of the latter who played around her knees. After which she would let them steal swiftly towards the face of the ruler of France's destiny as well as of the destiny of half Europe. Yet, sometimes, too, she would smile softly at some thought not aroused by the children's gambols, when her lips would part and disclose her teeth which were already giving signs of the decay that, later, was to take entire possession of them. When this occurred, those near her would wonder what the woman who, as Françoise d'Aubigne, had been born in a prison, was thinking of. Perhaps, they speculated to themselves, on the jokes and gibes of her dead husband, the diseased and crippled poet, romancer and dramatist, Paul Scarron. Or, perhaps, on the lovers she had so often run to meet (when she was supposed to be at mass or confession) in the little, green-hung parloir lent her by Ninon de l'Enclos for her rendezvous: perhaps of the manner in which, slowly but surely, she was spinning her web around the King and enfolding him in it even as the spider spins its web and enfolds and strangles the fly.

Near her were, however, other women who, had they had their way, would themselves have strangled the life out of this woman, now, by creation and gift of estate and brevet, Madame de Maintenon, as willingly as she was secretly strangling the will and power out of Louis; women whom once the King had loved more fiercely than-though not so subserviently as-he was now beginning to love her. Close by la femme funeste was the once lovely Duchesse de Châtillon-now grown fat and troubled with a nervous twitching of the face-who had once disputed with Madame de Beauvais, who had never been lovely and who squinted, the right of having been Louis' first love. Here, too, was the beautiful Mdlle. d'Argenson now married to a husband who was reported to beat her; and many others. While, had the phantoms of all those whom the King had adored and then neglected, and then cast off, been able to appear, the room would have been full of sombre shadows.

Before the King there was placed a small table on which, at this moment, was piled up in great disarray a vast heap of letters that had that afternoon arrived by special courier, and which he was at this time engaged in reading after his return from the stag hunt. Or rather, he was engaged in reading all those which a courtier who sat next to him in a smaller, less comfortable chair, handed to him after he himself had perused them. This courtier was no less a person than the Marquis de Louvois, whose precise position was that of Minister of War but who, during the ascendancy that he had for some years been gradually obtaining over the King-in which ascendancy he ran a race of deadly rivalry with Madame de Maintenon-had become his right hand.

"Two letters, both of the same import," Louis said now, placing one which he held in his hand face downwards on top of another he had previously laid on the table; "two letters from two women, and each telling the same story. Letters coming, you observe, from widely different cities. One from London. The other from Geneva. Almost, it seems, there must be some truth in what they tell."

The King might also have added, had he not doubtless entirely forgotten the fact, that the two women from whom those letters came had each been strongly affected towards him and his interests if they had not, like so many others, allowed themselves to love him.

"Can it be true?" he went on now. "Can it? Yet, it must be, Louise is in a position to know all, everything that transpires, everything that is known in London: the Duchesse de Castellucchio must know every secret that her admirer possesses."

"If, sire, he is her admirer."

"What else should he be?"

"Prétendu, perhaps, sire. Perhaps soupirant, awaiting events and fortune. Needy men have often married rich women, heiresses, women who can set them on their feet again; and they have done so without loving them."

"It is true," the King said, speaking in tones so low that none but his companion could hear him, but still tones clear, keen, incisive.

Then, lowering his voice as he changed the subject, the King said, "Is he gone?"

"He is, sire, in this room."

"Summon him."

Obedient to this order De Louvois rose from the far from comfortable seat in which he sat, and, proceeding down the gallery while smiling with a smile that had little mirth in it and scarcely any cordiality, reached at last a courtier who, clad in a green hunting costume adorned with gold lace and having on his shoulder the device in gold of a bugle above a sun, was talking to a lady. This courtier was no less a person than De Beaurepaire in his dress of Grand Veneur, while the lady, who possessed a simpering weak face that, in her case, was no index to her mind, and whose little curls all over her head gave her an appearance of youth to which she no longer had any claim, was Madame de Sevigne.

"His Majesty," De Louvois said to the former, after bowing to the latter, "desires to speak with you."

"I am at his service as always," De Beaurepaire replied. "I trust he is satisfied with the day's sport. It was worthy of a royal hunt, thirteen stags being killed."

"No doubt, no doubt," De Louvois muttered, as now De Beaurepaire followed him to where the King sat, while he observed as they drew near their master that the two letters were no longer lying on the table as they had originally been placed.

"Ah! Louis!" the King said to his namesake, addressing his old playfellow as he had always done since boyhood, "so you have not yet left for your house at Saint Mandé, where you now keep yourself so much when you are not called forth from it by your duties to me. Your duties of huntsman and Colonel of my Guards."

"Not yet, sire. The evening runs on; later I will ask your Majesty to permit me to depart. May I crave to know if your Majesty is contented with the day's hunt?"

"Beyond doubt. What you do for me, either as purveyor of sport or as the chief of my guards," bearing again on the fact of the Prince occupying the latter position, "is always well done."

"And always will be, sire. As it has ever been since, if I may recall the past, it was done when I was permitted to be your Majesty's principal playmate and comrade."

"Yes," the King replied, his bright blue eyes resting softly on the other, "my playmate and comrade. My playmate and comrade," he said again. "They were happy days. Once, Louis, you saved my life from an infuriated stag here in this very Forest of Fontainebleau-you remember? – and once in the Forest of Vincennes from an intending assassin."

"I have not forgotten, sire. If your life is ever in danger again, which heaven forfend, I pray it may be I who shall again save it."

"I hope so," the King said gently, "I hope so. Having saved that life before it should be dear to you now. Now, when I am environed with enemies worse than starving footpads and assassins; when the Dutchman, Orange, would, they say, go down on his knees and thank God for my taking off; when the ministers of my imbecile brother-in-law, Charles of Spain, would have me assassinated on my own hearth if it could be accomplished. When," he continued, "there is not a country in all Europe, except that over which Charles Stuart now reigns, that does not thirst for my life. In truth, I need good friends like you, Louis, and you, Louvois. The one to whom I have confided the charge of my own guards, the other the care of my whole army."

"Your Majesty may rely on me and my guards," De Beaurepaire said. "Your Majesty may rely on-"

"I know. I know," Louis said. "Should I have confided that charge to you otherwise?"

"And on me for the whole of your Majesty's army," De Louvois exclaimed.

"That too, I know. Now," the King said, rising from his chair, at which action all the others who were seated in the room rose as one person. "Now, let us prepare for supper. Louis," he said, addressing De Beaurepaire, "I spoke of an imbecile but now. There is another in Paris like unto him, who has a reckoning to make with you. The Duc de Castellucchio. What have you done with his wife?"

"She should be in Milan now, sire, and in her sister's arms. I sent her on to Nancy from Paris well escorted. I did my best for her. If the Duc de Castellucchio has aught to say to me he will know where I am to be found."

"He will not endeavour to find you himself. He may, however, persuade my Grande Chambre to do so."

"I do not fear even that august assembly, sire, so long as I have your protection."

"Do you fear aught on earth, Louis?"

"Nothing, sire, except your displeasure," the Prince answered with the courtier's true-yet false-air.

When, however, some hours later, De Beaurepaire had withdrawn, not only from the Royal Presence but also from all the crowd of courtiers who hovered round Le Roi Soleil, and he was seated on the back of a fresh, mettlesome horse which was to bear him to Paris as swiftly as might be, he rode as one rides whose mind is ill at ease. For his head was bent forward over the animal's mane, his handsome features were clouded and the reins in his hand were carelessly held.

"How he harped on the word assassin," he mused, "how oft he repeated it. How, too, he dwelt on my command of his guards. Yet I am no assassin nor would-be assassin. Whatever evil I may meditate against him, I have never thought of that. Nor has there been any talk of murder, of assassination-of him-so far as I have heard. La Truaumont spoke nothing of this after he rode back from Switzerland, but only that I should put myself at the head of the discontented nobility of Normandy who so protest against heavy taxation and the ignoring of their rights. Assassination! God! it is an evil word. And-assassination of him, my friend, my early playmate! The King who has showered benefits on me full-handed."

Musing still, meditating always, he rode on down the great avenue that led towards the little town of Fontainebleau, and, past it, to Paris five-and-thirty miles off; while, as he continued upon his way, he still mused, though now his thoughts took a different turn.

"A pity 'tis," he pondered, "that Humphrey West pryed into their-our-secrets. I would have had him spared, or, at least, slain in open honest fight, not done to death by so foul a thing as that Boisfleury-as La Truaumont says he was after he confessed that he knew all. Boisfleury! A piece of vermin fit only to crawl in the gutters of Paris, to herd with the lowest, but not fit to take the life of young, handsome Humphrey West. Humphrey, poor Humphrey! And poor Mademoiselle d'Angelis. She loved him passing well."

He paused ere concluding what he was saying, and, reining in his horse, stared fixedly into a dense copse that bordered the side of the drive. He stared at something he saw moving suspiciously through the undergrowth and as though with the desire of avoiding attention. Recollecting, however, that, on such a night as this, and after a great hunt in the vast forest which, at that time, covered very nearly a hundred square miles of ground, and where, too, hundreds of villagers, vauriens and ne'er-do-wells generally would be about, he muttered, "Psha! what need to be surprised at the sight of any creeping, crawling vagabond here," and withdrew his hand with almost a feeling of self-contempt from the holster towards which he had thrust it.

As, however, he again set his horse in motion, he saw that which, in all likelihood, had caused the creeping figure to take shelter in the undergrowth, if it was not due to his own appearance. Coming up the long avenue from the direction where, afar off, Paris lay, was one of those vehicles known as a chaise roulante-a small carriage which would hold but one person; a thing not much larger than a sedan-chair, but which was transported on two wheels and had a seat in front for the driver. To-night, since it was entirely dark, a lamp placed by the driver's side was alight and the rays from it were sufficient to illuminate the whole of the interior of the small carriage.

Attracted by the appearance of this vehicle, wondering who could be coming in so plain and common a conveyance to Fontainebleau at this hour-Fontainebleau, with the King in residence! – De Beaurepaire could not resist the impulse of curiosity which impelled him to glance in at the occupant.

Then, suddenly, his hands so tightened on the reins they held that his high-mettled horse rose on its hind legs and, in its rearing, nearly threw him.

He had tightened the reins thus as he saw a white, death-like looking face gazing out as he glanced in at the window; a face from out of which two hollow eyes stared into the darkness of the night.

"Dieu!" De Beaurepaire whispered, even as he knew, as he divined, that he had himself turned as white as that sepulchral-looking face inside the chaise roulante, and while he felt his whole body suffused with the perspiration that burst from every pore. "He is alive. And he knows all. To-night the King will know all, too. He must be here to tell him all!"

CHAPTER XVIII

The chaise roulante went on slowly up the avenue towards where, a quarter of a mile ahead of it, innumerable lights shone from all the windows of the royal château; the driver, as it passed De Beaurepaire, saluting obsequiously the man whom, by his rich apparel and quantity of gold lacing and passementerie, he knew to be some great functionary of the Court.

And that great functionary, that man who, but a few moments before had boasted to himself, who had told himself proudly, that he was no assassin, sat on his horse revolving hurriedly within his mind whether he should not now become one. Now, ere another two or three moments had elapsed; now, ere the conveyance could advance another dozen yards upon its road. Revolving in his mind whether he should turn rein and rush at that carriage, thrusting his sword through the driver's heart and, ere he could help himself or cry for assistance-which would not be forthcoming! – through the heart of that white, sickly-looking man within. For, it could be done, he knew. Nothing could prevent him doing it, nothing could save either passenger or driver if he chose to do it. Nothing.

With the exception of that creeping creature who had glided from his sight into the darkness of the underwood, and who was probably far away by now, there was no living creature near. No living soul. And it was dark at last! One thrust at the man who had just saluted him, another at the other in the vehicle: the light extinguished and the chaise roulante thrown over on to its side as he, in his great strength could easily cause it to be-and-and-that was all! All that was needed. All! The Court was at supper: the menials busy attending on the Court. It could be done in a moment and he far away half an hour after. And none would ever know. That was all that was needed! Yet, was it-all? Would none ever know? Ah, God! would He not know? Would his own heart not know? Yes, always! Always! Always! He would have become a twofold murderer. And he was-a De Beaurepaire!

With a sound that, as it issued from his lips, might have been a curse-or a sob-he loosed his rein and dug his spurs into his horse and rode away from that carriage. Away to Paris to meet his confederates in the great plot; to tell them that they were betrayed; that the one man outside their own band who knew this secret was alive and had, must have, divulged it to the King. That this man was alive while he, their chief, had had the chance of slaying him, of silencing him for ever-and that he had let the chance pass.

"Yet," he muttered to himself, "also have I missed being a murderer. I have missed that. Thank God! And-and-I am a true De Beaurepaire still. One who has brought no blot upon the name, who has nought to blench at."

Meanwhile, the chaise roulante went on until it drew up at a side door of the château, and two lackeys sauntered down the stone steps to see what the business of its occupant was.

"Monsieur desires?" the first inquired, letting his eyes roll insolently, or, at least, indifferently-which in a menial is the same thing! – over the terribly ill appearance of the man inside and also over the shabby hired vehicle in which he arrived. "Monsieur desires?"

"To see His Majesty the King. At once. On a matter of life and death."

"To see His Majesty the King," the fellow repeated, while a faint smile spread over his face. Yet, even as it did so, the footman felt some wonderment creeping into his mind. For the tone of the new-comer's voice proclaimed that this was no common person; his white hand as it lay on the lower part of the window-frame was not white from ill-health alone: it testified that its owner was of gentle blood. Also, the look and bearing of the traveller spoke more plainly than silks and satins and laces would have done of who and what he might be.

"To see His Majesty the King," the man repeated again, while his fellow-servant stood by his side-"On a matter-"

"Valet!" the new-comer exclaimed now in a tone of command, "open the door and help me out. Stand not muttering there but do as I bid you, and then take my name to some chamberlain who will pass it on to His Majesty. It is known to him. He will see me."

The words, if not the tone in which they were uttered, had their effect. In a moment that contemptuous, scornful address, that voice of command from a superior to an inferior told the footman with what manner of man he had to deal. The nobility, the gentry, spoke thus-to such as he was-with sometimes a snarl, with sometimes a curse-often with a blow-but they alone did so. The rest-who had not yet gathered themselves together into that black cloud which, more than a hundred years afterwards, was to burst over France and destroy King, Court, Nobility and all who were better than themselves-were nothing. They were nothing but dogs, beasts of burden, toilers for their betters; providers of playthings, in the shape of their daughters and wives and sisters, of toys for their rulers and masters, to be afterwards broken and flung away.

Obediently to the dictatorial voice of the young man in the conveyance-whose ill-health they now supposed was due to some form of long-continued aristocratic debauchery-they did as they were bidden. They opened the door of the chaise roulante and helped its occupant out; they assisted him to mount the stone steps and led him to a deep fauteuil in the richly carpeted vestibule, and then the first lackey said in a deferential tone: -

"His Majesty the King is at supper. But, if the seigneur will give his name it shall-"

"My name is Humphrey West. The King is acquainted with it. Here, give me some writing things. I will set it down. Your master knows it well, I say. Then lose no time. I tell you, man, I come on serious import." After which, Humphrey took the pen and paper that the footman brought and wrote his name as largely and legibly as his weakness would permit. Bearing the paper in his hand the man went away, while his fellow walked to the farther end of the vestibule and entered into conversation with another member of his fraternity who was loitering about. A few moments later, however, the first one returned followed by a handsome young page dressed all in crimson and lace, over which latter his long fair hair streamed-a pretty youth who, bowing to Humphrey, said: -

"If monsieur will give himself the trouble to follow me, I will conduct him to the apartment of Monsieur le Marquis de Louvois. Yet, I protest, monsieur," he said, in a well-bred, soft voice as he witnessed Humphrey's painful attempts to rise, "you will not get so far alone." An instant later, in a totally different tone, while stamping his red heel on the richly carpeted floor, he said to the lackeys: "You dogs, do you not see that monsieur can scarcely rise? Give him your arms at once. At once, I say, or I will have you both whipped."

"At once, Monsieur le Duc. At once," the fellows exclaimed, rushing to obey the summary orders of this handsome youth. "We but awaited Monsieur le Duc's commands." After which they assisted Humphrey along the corridor, while the masterful young sprig of nobility walked behind them muttering further objurgations as he tossed his fair locks over his shoulder.

After traversing two corridors-during which time the aristocratic page was profuse in his regrets at the distance Humphrey had to accomplish in his enfeebled state-the group arrived at last in a large room furnished in dark, highly polished oak on which the lights from the candles in a huge silver candelabra were reflected as in a mirror. Then, when the footmen had retired, the page, after saying in a soft voice, "Monsieur le Marquis is here," bowed to Humphrey and backed out of the door after the others.

Looking round the room, which was so vast that one portion of it was quite in shadow, Humphrey saw that down at the farther end, and standing before a vast fireplace in which the logs were almost extinct, was a man. A man richly, handsomely dressed whose eyes were fixed on him. One who, when the page and the footmen had departed, advanced towards Humphrey.

"Nay," this man said, seeing the latter's efforts to rise from a chair to which the young Duke had motioned him, "do not distress yourself. I have heard that you are in sore plight. Now, Monsieur West-whose name I know well and my master, the King, knows better-tell me all you have to say. I am the Marquis de Louvois," and, as he spoke, he drew another chair up close to Humphrey and sat down in it.

That this man was De Louvois-De Louvois called by some "the terrible," by others "the unscrupulous," and by still others the "curse of France" – Humphrey knew very well, since he had seen him often. He knew, also, that not only was De Louvois the Minister of War but Louis' most confidential minister: the only confidant the latter had ever possessed since De Louvois had gradually ousted Colbert from the same position. He had often seen that tall, rugged frame and coarse-featured face which told of the many vulgar passions beneath, and of the evil temper and overbearing disposition which caused the man to be hated by all who surrounded him and were in a position to be tyrannised over by him, and, consequently, he knew well enough that he was speaking to the domineering autocrat who, if not the king, was the King's right hand.

"Monsieur le Marquis," Humphrey said consequently, "I have come post-haste from Basle after escaping from death by a miracle, to reveal to His Majesty the existence of a plot which threatens not only his throne but his life."

"His life. Hein!" De Louvois muttered, rubbing his square jaw reflectively; "his life as well as his throne. How is that to be? Come, tell me that. But, stay, first tell me how you chance to be in possession of this knowledge. Thereby I shall be better able to judge of what value that knowledge is."

Then, as he said this, Humphrey was astonished to see the powerful minister spring to his feet and assume a most deferential attitude while, as he did so, Humphrey heard at the same time a low clear voice say behind him, "And as I, too, shall also be able to judge."

Looking round as well as the stiffness and soreness from which he was suffering would permit him to do, the young man saw that the King, who must have entered the room softly, was standing behind him. The King who was now dressed in a black velvet Court suit devoid of all adornment, save a glittering diamond-set semblance of the sun that sparkled from out the rich lace of his breast. The King who, even as Humphrey endeavoured to struggle to his feet by aid of pressing his hands on the arms of the fauteuil, said, "Nay, Monsieur West, be seated; do not rise," and added, "I grieve to see you in such a condition," while as he spoke he held out his hand, sparkling with jewels, to the young man to kiss.