THE END.
It was in the great reception room at Versailles, an hour after the
King had held the council, which failed not to meet every day. His
mood was neither more nor less severe than ordinary; for if, on the
one hand, events had taken place which had given him pleasure, other
events had reached his ears from the south of France, which showed
him, notwithstanding all Louvois's efforts to conceal the extent of
the evil, that serious disturbances in the Cevennes, and other parts
of France, near the mouth of the Rhone, were likely to follow the
measures which had been adopted against the Protestants.
Louvois himself was present, and in no very placable mood, the King
having replied to him more than once during the morning haughtily and
angrily, and repressed the insolence by which his demeanour was
sometimes characterised, with that severe dignity which the minister
was very willing to see exercised towards any one but himself.
Louis, who was dressed in the most sumptuous manner, held in his hand
a roll of papers, which had been given him just before his entrance
into the chamber; but he did not read them, and merely turned them
round and round from time to time, as if he were handling a truncheon.
Many eyes were fixed upon him, and various were the hopes and fears
which the aspect of that one man created in the breasts of those who
surrounded him. All, however, were silent at that moment, for an event
was about to take place highly flattering to the pride of the
ostentatious King of France, and the eyes of all were fixed upon the
doors at the end of the hall.
At length they opened, and a fine looking middle-aged man, dressed in
a robe of red velvet, followed by four others in black velvet, was led
into the apartment and approached the King. He bowed low and
reverently, and then addressed the French sovereign without
embarrassment, and with apparent ease, assuring the monarch in vague,
but still flattering terms, that the republic of Genoa, of which he
was Doge, had entertained nothing, throughout the course of events
lately passed, but profound respect for the crown of France.
Somewhat to the left of the King, amongst the multitude of French
princes and officers, appeared one or two groups, consisting of the
ambassadors from different barbaric nations; and, while the Doge of
Genoa spoke, offering excuses for the conduct of the state he ruled,
the eye of Louis glanced from time to time to the Indian envoys in
their gorgeous apparel, as they eagerly asked questions of their
interpreter, and were told that it was the prince of an independent
state come to humble himself before the mighty monarch that he had
offended. When the audience of the Doge of Genoa was over, and he
withdrew, a multitude of the courtiers followed, so that the audience
hall was nearly clear, and the King paused for a moment, talking over
the Doge's demeanour to those who surrounded him, and apparently about
to retire immediately. He had taken a step forward, indeed, to do so,
when the Prince de Marsillac, who certainly dared to press the King
upon disagreeable subjects, when no one else would run the risk,
advanced, and, bowing low, pointed to the papers in the King's hand.
"I ventured, Sire," he said, "before your Majesty came here, to
present to you those papers which you promised to look at."
The King's brow instantly darkened. "I see at once, Prince," he said,
"that they refer to the Count of Morseiul, a rebel, as I am informed,
taken with arms in his hand, in regard to whom the laws of the land
must have their course."
The Prince was somewhat abashed, and hesitated; but another gentleman
stepped forward with stern and somewhat harsh features, but with a
noble air and look that bespoke fearless sincerity.
"What is it, Montausier?" said the King, sharply addressing that
celebrated nobleman, who is supposed to have been represented by
Moliere under the character of the misanthrope.
"Merely to say, Sire," replied the Duke in a firm, strong tone of
voice, "that some one has falsified the truth to your Majesty. My
nephew, in command of the troops to whom the Count surrendered,
informs me that he was not taken with arms in his hand, as you have
said; but, on the contrary, (and here lies a great difference,)
surrendered voluntarily, when, according to the truce of five hours
granted to the Huguenots by the Chevalier d'Evran, he had every
opportunity of escaping to England had he so pleased, as all the rest
of the leaders on that occasion did."
"How is this, Sir?" demanded the King, turning to Louvois. "I speak
from your statements, and I hope you have not made me speak falsely."
"Sire," replied Louvois, with a look of effrontery, "I have just heard
that what the Duke says is the case; but I judged that all such points
could naturally be investigated at the Count's trial."
The King seemed struck with this observation; but Montausier instantly
replied--"Monsieur de Louvois, if his Majesty will permit me to tell
you so, you have been, for the first time in your life, sadly tardy in
receiving information; for my nephew informs me that he gave you
intelligence of this fact no less than three days ago; and, in the
next place, you are very well aware of what you have not thought fit
to say, that by investigating such things at a trial, you would
directly frustrate the express object for which the Count de Morseiul
surrendered himself when he might have escaped, which was to cast
himself at the King's feet, and explain to him the strange and
extraordinary misconception by which he was cast into rebellion, and
to prove that as soon as ever he discovered the mistake which had been
committed, he had expressed himself ready to surrender, and trust to
the King's clemency, which is as great a quality as his justice."
Louvois's face had grown fiery red. "Expressed his readiness to
surrender!" cried he with a scoff. "Did he not fight two battles after
that?"
"How, Sir?" exclaimed the King. "I had understood from you that no
battles had been fought at all. Mere skirmishes you said--affairs of
posts--that the insurrection was nothing but the revolt of a few
peasants."
Louvois stammered forth some excuse about the numbers being
insignificant, and the whole business crushed within nine days after
the Chevalier d'Evran took the command; but the King turned away
angrily, saying, "Monsieur de Louvois, no more interruption. I find in
my middle age, as I found in my youth, that a king must see with his
own eyes. Now, Marsillac, what is it you wish? What is it you desire
of me, Montausier?"
"For my part, Sire," replied the Prince de Marsillac, "I only desire
that your Majesty should run your eyes over those papers. They are
very brief, and to the point; and every fact that is therein stated I
can assure you can be proved on indisputable authority."
"And I," said the Duke of Montausier, "have only to beg that your
Majesty would see and hear the Count of Morseiul. From him, as every
man here present knows, you will hear the pure and simple truth, which
is a thing that happens to your Majesty perhaps once in five or six
years, and will do you good."
The King smiled, and turned his eyes upon the papers; and when he had
read them nearly through, he smiled again, even more gaily than
before.
"It turns out, gentlemen," he said, "that an affair has happened to me
which I fancy happens to us all more than once in our lives. I have
been completely cheated by a valet. I remember giving the villain the
paper well, out of which it seems he manufactured a free pardon for
his master. At all events, this frees the Count from the charge of
base ingratitude which has been heavily urged against him. Your
statement of his willing surrender, Montausier, greatly diminishes his
actual and undoubted crime; and as I have complied with the request of
the Prince de Marsillac, and looked at the papers, I must not refuse
you yours. Either to-day, if the Count have arrived, or to-morrow, I
will hear his story from his own lips."
"Sire," replied the Duke of Montausier, "I have been daring enough to
receive him in my apartments."
The cloud came slightly again over Louis's countenance; but though he
replied with dignified gravity, yet it was not with anger. "You have
done wrong," he said; "but since it is so, call him to my presence.
All you ladies and gentlemen around shall judge if I deal harshly with
him."
There was a pretty girl standing not far from the King, and close
between her own mother and the interpreter of the ambassadors from
Siam. We have spoken of her before, under the name of Annette de
Marville; and while she had remained in that spot, her eyes had more
than once involuntarily filled with tears. She was timid and retiring
in her nature; and as the Duke of Montausier turned away to obey the
King, every one was surprised to hear her voice raised sufficiently
loud to reach even the ear of Louis himself, saying to the
interpreter, "Tell them that they are now going to see how
magnanimously the King will pardon one who has offended him."
The King looked another way; but it was evident to those who were
accustomed to watch his countenance, that he connected the words he
had just heard with the humiliation he had inflicted on the Doge of
Genoa, and that the contrast struck and pleased him not a little.
In a very short time, before this impression had at all faded away,
the door again opened, and the Duke of Montausier re-entered with the
Count of Morseiul. The latter was pale, but perfectly firm and
composed. He did not wear his sword, but he carried it sheathed in his
hand, and advancing directly towards Louis, he bent one knee before
the King, at the same time laying down the weapon at the monarch's
feet.
"Sire," he said, without rising, "I have brought you a sword, which
for more than ten years was drawn in every campaign in your Majesty's
service. It has, unfortunately, been drawn against you; and that it
has been so, and at the very moment when your Majesty had a right to
expect gratitude at my hands, is the bitterest recollection of my
life; so bitter indeed, so horrible, so painful, that the moment I
discovered the terrible error into which I had been hurried, the
moment that I discovered that I owed my liberation to your Majesty, I
instantly determined, whatever might be the result of the events that
were then taking place, to surrender myself, unconditionally, to your
Majesty's pleasure, to embrace no means of escape, to reject every
opportunity of flight; and if your indignation so far overcame your
mercy as to doom me to death, to submit to it, not alone with courage,
which every man in your Majesty's service possesses, but with perfect
resignation to your royal will."
The words, the manner, the action, all pleased the King, and the
countenance with which he looked upon the young nobleman was by no
means severe.
"You have, I fear, greatly erred, Monsieur de Morseiul," he replied.
"But still I believe you have been much misled. Is there any favour
that you have to ask me?"
The Count gazed up in the King's face, still kneeling; and every head
was bent forward, every ear listened eagerly. A momentary pause
followed, as if there was a great struggle within him; and then he
answered. "Sire, I will not ask my life of your Majesty;--not from any
false pride, for I feel and acknowledge that it is yours to give or to
take,--but because my conduct, however much it might originate in
mistake, must appear so ungrateful to you that you cannot, at this
moment, feel I deserve your mercy. The only favour I will ask, then,
is this: that should I be brought to a trial, which must end, as I
know, inevitably in my fall, you will read every word of my
deposition, and I therein promise to give your Majesty a full and true
account, without the falsification of a single word, of all that has
taken place in this last lamentable business."
Louvois took a half step forward as if to speak, and not a little
anxiety was upon his countenance. But, contrary to the general
impression of those present, all that the Count had said had pleased
the King; though his latter words had not a little alarmed the
minister, who knew that truths might be displayed which he was most
anxious to conceal.
"Monsieur de Morseiul," replied the King, "I will promise what you
ask, at all events. But what you have said has pleased me, for it
shows that you understand my spirit towards my subjects, and that I
can grant without being asked. Your life, Sir, is given to you. What
punishment we shall inflict may, perhaps, depend upon the sentence of
a judicial court or of our council."
"May it please your Majesty," said Louvois, stepping forward, "to hear
me one moment. You have, perhaps, thought me inimical to Monsieur de
Morseiul, but such, indeed, is not the case; and I would propose, that
instead of subjecting him to any trial at all, you, at once, pronounce
sentence of banishment upon him, which is all the mercy that he can
expect. His estates, as ought to be the case, must be forfeited to the
crown."
"And he driven forth," said the King, "to employ his military talents
in the service of our enemies."
"Never, never, never, Sire!" exclaimed the Count, clasping his hands
eagerly. "Never should my sword be drawn against my native land. I
would rather beg my bread in misery, from door to door: I would rather
live in want, and die in sorrow, than do so base an act!"
There was truth and zeal upon his countenance, and Louvois urged what
he had proposed; but while he was addressing the Monarch, in a lower
tone, one of the side doors of the hall opened, and a lady came partly
in, speaking to some one behind her, as if she knew not that any one
was in the hall. The moment that she perceived her mistake, Madame de
Maintenon drew back; but the King advanced a step and besought her to
come in.
"We want your presence much, Madam," he said with a smile, "for we
cannot decide upon what is to be done with this young culprit. But you
seem in haste, and who is this with you? I have somewhere seen his
face before."
The King might well fail to recognise the countenance of Jerome
Riquet, for it was at that moment actually cadaverous in appearance,
from the various emotions that were going on in his heart.
"I was at that moment seeking your Majesty," said Madame de Maintenon,
advancing with her usual calm grace, "and was passing this way to your
cabinet, to crave an audience ere you went out. But I thought the
ceremony of the day was over."
"What are your commands, Madam?" said the King. "Your wishes are to be
attended to at all times."
"You know, Sir," she said, "that I am not fond of ever asking one, who
is only over generous to his servants, for any thing. But I was eager
at that moment to beseech your Majesty to grant at once your pardon to
this unfortunate man who some time ago committed a great crime in
misapplying your Majesty's handwriting, and who has now just committed
another, for which I understand the officers of justice are in pursuit
of him, though the swiftness of the horse which brought him here has
enabled him to escape for the moment. He found out my apartments, I
know not how, and I brought him instantly to your Majesty as soon as I
had heard his story, and read this paper."
"What is this paper?" demanded the King, taking it; "ticketed I see in
the hand of Monsieur de la Reynie, 'Letter from the said Herval to the
Sieur de Hatreaumont!' How come you possessed of this, sirrah?"
Riquet advanced and knelt before the King, while Louvois suddenly
seemed to recollect some business, and retired from the circle.
"Sire," said the valet, in the briefest possible terms, "in serving my
master I was taken by your Majesty's forces, shut up in a barn with
some wounded prisoners, heard the well known leader, Herval, confess
to the Chevalier d'Evran, that he had written a letter to the traitor
Hatreaumont, regarding his having been prevented from murdering your
Majesty by the Count de Morseiul, (in which prevention I had some
little share). The man died before his words could be taken down. The
Chevalier d'Evran said it did not signify, for you would believe his
evidence. But the Chevalier d'Evran was killed. My word I knew would
not be believed; but I heard that the papers of Hatreaumont were to be
burnt this day by the common hangman, opposite the Bastille.[4] I had
a swift horse saddled. I got close to the fire. I fixed my eyes upon
the papers one by one as they were thrown in, till seeing the writing
of Herval, I seized the letter, and galloped hither as hard as I
could. This is my tale, Sire, and on my word it is true."
---------------------
Footnote 4: The papers of Hatreaumont were preserved for some time
after his death, in order to give light in regard to the guilt of his
accomplices.
---------------------
The King hastily opened the paper, and read the contents, the
expression of his countenance changing several times as he proceeded.
But when he had done, he turned towards the Count, saying, "Monsieur
de Morseiul, I require no one now to advise me how to act towards you.
You are freely and entirely pardoned. I have given up the hope again
of ever seeing you cast away the errors of your faith. But even that
must not make me harsh towards the man who has saved my life. I would
only fain know how it was that you did not inform me of this at the
time?"
"Sire," replied the Count, "I came to your Majesty for the purpose.
Your Majesty most remember, that I told you that I had matters of deep
importance to communicate. You referred me to Monsieur de Louvois, and
as I was proceeding to his house, I was arrested. In the Bastille I
was allowed to communicate with no one, and the rest you know."
"We have been all very unfortunate, Count," replied the King.
"However, I trust, that these embarrassments are at an end. You have
your free pardon for the past, and now for the future. I cannot
violate in your favour the laws that I have laid down for the
regulation of the land, and for the establishment of one general
religion throughout the country. If you stay in France, you, with
others, lose the means of exercising the ceremonies of your sect. But,
as I said to the Count de Schomberg, I say to you: in consideration of
the great services that you have rendered, I will allow you to sell
all your possessions if you choose to retire to another land, and this
is, I fear, all I can do."
"Your Majesty overwhelms me with bounty," said the Count, "but there
are yet two favours that I would ask."
"What more?" said the King.
"One request is, Sire," said the Count, "to be allowed once in every
year to present myself before your Majesty; and the other, that I may
retain the chateau and the immediate grounds around it belonging to my
ancestors. Thus every fond recollection that I have attached to France
will still be gratified; and though in exile, I shall live a Frenchman
to the last."
"Your request is granted," replied the King, with a smile. "And now,
gentlemen and ladies, as by your faces round I judge you are all well
satisfied, we will not detain you longer."
Thus saying, Louis turned and withdrew.
Ere the Count of Morseiul retired from the room, and before any of his
friends therein could speak with him, Madame de Maintenon said a word
in his ear in a low voice.
"Go to the hotel of the British ambassador," she said. "You will there
find those that you do not expect."
The heart of the Count of Morseiul beat high. He had words of
gratitude to speak to many there present; but as soon as that was
done, he hurried to Paris without a moment's pause; and in a few
minutes clasped Clemence de Marly to a joyful heart.
We need not tell here the brief story she related of her flight from
the coast of France to London; and of her having found an affectionate
parent in one who, by the wiles of an artful second wife, and an
intriguing priest, had been persuaded to leave his children, by a
first marriage with a Protestant lady, to the charge of her Catholic
relations in France; and to the care of the King of that country.
Louis had become the godfather of the eldest (known to us as the
Chevalier d'Evran), while the earl himself was in exile during the
troubles of the great rebellion. A Catholic himself, the Earl had been
easily induced to believe that his children's salvation depended upon
their being educated in a Catholic country; even though concealed
there from Protestant relations by assumed names. But on the death of
his second wife, all his feelings of natural affection returned, and
during an illness, which made him believe that he was on his
death-bed, he sent his brother to seek and bring back his children. We
need not enter into the detail any farther. The reader can and will
imagine it all. All that remains to be said is, that Clemence, in her
eagerness, had easily persuaded that parent, whose only child she now
was--for the three which had sprung from the second marriage had not
survived--to hasten over to Paris, invested with every authority from
the King, with whom his religion rendered him a favourite, to solicit
the pardon of the Count of Morseiul. In consequence of the
considerable round the Count was obliged to take in his journey to the
capital, and the difficulty of obtaining an audience of the King, she
had arrived the day before his fate was finally decided.
The only part of that fate which could yet be doubtful, was now in her
hands; and, if the King of France had shown himself merciful to the
Count de Morseiul, she showed herself devoted to him through life,
making him as happy, as the combination of the rarest qualities of
mind and person with the noblest, and the deepest, and the dearest
qualities of the heart, could make such a man as we have endeavoured
to depict the Huguenot.
THE END.