Lagardere remained alone for a while in the room, pensively contemplating
the portraits of the Three Louis. Then the sound of footsteps came to his
ears, footsteps advancing from many directions, footsteps all making
towards the great hall. He smiled as a man smiles who is prepared to
encounter cheerfully great odds, and then, as if there were observing
eyes upon him, though indeed no eyes beheld him save those that were
painted in the canvases of the three friends, he slouched across the
room, more markedly the hunchback than ever, till he came to the
curtained door by the side of the picture of Louis de Nevers. He lifted
the curtain, glanced round him for a moment at the empty room, and then
dipped behind the curtain.
The curtain fell, the room was empty, save for the painted presences of
the Three Louis. But the room was not empty long. A few moments later
Gonzague entered the room respectfully escorting his illustrious master
and friend, Louis of France. At their heels followed a little crowd of
notabilities, eminent lawyers, eminent ecclesiastics, all of whom had
claim, by virtue of their kinship or by virtue of their authority on
delicate, contested family matters, to a seat and a voice in the council
that Louis of Gonzague had been pleased to summon. After these again came
Gonzague's own little tail of partisans, Navailles and Nocé, Taranne and
Oriol, Choisy and Gironne, Albret and Montaubert, with Chavernay
fluttering about them like an impudent butterfly, laughing at them,
laughing at his august cousin, laughing at the king, laughing at
himself--laughing at everything. To him such a family gathering as this
which he attended was almost the most ridiculous thing imaginable on the
face of the whole world, and therefore deserving of consideration, if not
of serious consideration.
The king took his place upon the kind of little throne which had been set
apart for him. The rest of the company arranged themselves with
instinctive sense of precedence upon the chairs that were ranged behind
it. To Chavernay the whole thing looked like a pompous parody of a trial
where there was nobody to be tried, and he made unceasing jokes to his
neighbors, which compelled them to laugh. This earned for him a
disapproving glance from the dark eyes of Gonzague, which had no effect
whatever in depressing his spirits.
When all the guests were duly seated, Gonzague gravely rose, and, turning
towards the king, saluted him respectfully. "I thank your majesty," he
said, "for honoring us on this occasion, when matters of great moment to
me and to the lady whom I am proud to call my wife, and to the great
family with which I am associated at once by ties of blood and alliance,
are in question. Your majesty will readily understand that nothing but
the gravest sense of duty could have urged me to bring together so
learned, so just, so brilliant an assembly of men to deal with delicate
matters which have perhaps been too long left undealt with. Such
differences of opinion as may perhaps be admitted to exist between madame
the Princess de Gonzague and myself, however trivial in the beginning,
have in a sense grown with the passing of time into an importance which
calls imperatively for some manner or form of adjustment."
He paused in his speech, as if to control his emotions and to collect his
thoughts. The king leaned forward and addressed him. "Does any one," he
asked, "appear here for madame the Princess de Gonzague?"
Gonzague looked about him with a melancholy glance. "I had hoped, sire,"
he said, "that madame the princess would have chosen some one to
represent her." But even as he spoke he paused, for the door that led to
the princess's apartment was thrown open, and the Princess de Gonzague
appeared, clad in black as usual, and as usual leaning upon the arm of
her faithful Brigitte.
As the princess entered the room, every one rose, and all eyes were fixed
upon the stately figure and melancholy features of the still beautiful,
if prematurely aged, widow of Nevers. The princess made a deep
inclination to the king, and then spoke: "Your majesty, I need no one to
represent me. I am here."
Gonzague allowed his features to betray the satisfaction he felt at the
presence of his consort. He hastened to advance to her as she seated
herself close to the curtained alcove, saying as he did so: "Madame, you
are indeed welcome." And there was a sincerity in his tone not always
characteristic of his utterances.
The king bowed in his courtliest manner to the unhappy lady, and
addressed her: "Princess, you know why we are assembled here?"
Slowly the princess inclined her head. "I do," she said, and said no
more, but sat looking fixedly before her, the image of a patience that
shielded a strong purpose and a resignation that was now kindled by a new
hope.
The king turned to his friend and host: "Prince de Gonzague, we await
your pleasure."
Louis de Gonzague rose to his feet and surveyed his assembled guests with
a grave countenance that seemed to suggest boldness without effrontery
and a grief nobly borne. All present admired his beauty, his dignity, the
proud humility of his carriage towards the great lady who was in name his
wife. Many sympathized with him in what they knew to be his strange
position, and felt that the princess was indeed to blame in refusing
friendship and sympathy to such a man.
Gonzague bowed respectfully to the king, and his eyes travelled over the
whole range of his audience as he spoke. "Sire," he said, "I have to
speak to-day of the sorrow that has haunted me, as it has haunted your
majesty, for seventeen years. Louis de Lorraine, Duke de Nevers, was my
cousin by blood, my brother by affection. His memory lives here, eternal
as is the grief of his widow, who has not disdained to wear my name after
wearing his."
He paused for a moment, and in that pause the princess spoke in a voice
that was shaken with emotion, in spite of her determination to be firm:
"Do not speak of that. I have passed those seventeen years in solitude
and in tears."
Gonzague paid to her and her sorrow the homage of a bow; then he resumed:
"When madame the princess did me the honor to accept my name, she made
public her secret but legitimate marriage with the late Duke de Nevers
and the birth of a daughter of that union. This child disappeared on the
night of Nevers's death. The registration of its birth is torn out of the
chapel register and lost. For seventeen years the princess has patiently
sought for her lost child, and has sought in vain."
The princess sighed: "Alas!" Gonzague paused for a moment as if to allow
the princess to say more, and then, seeing she kept silent, he continued:
"Calumniators have hinted that it was my wish that the child should not
be found. Have they not, madame?"
"Such things have been said," the princess replied, gravely.
Again Gonzague spoke: "There were even those who hinted that my hand
might strike at a child's life. Is not that so?"
Again the princess repeated her former phrase: "Such things have been
said."