HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF THE ISLES.
“A merry madman this!”—_Prout._
——“Though this be madness, yet
There’s method in’t!”—_Shakspeare._
While Lord Montressor pursues his search for Estelle, we must take up
the fortunes of some other persons who are concerned in our narrative.
But first a brief review of Victorie L’Orient’s course seems necessary
to the reader’s better understanding of what follows:—
“Tis hard for human actions to account,
Whether from reason, or from impulse only,”
writes the lamented Thomas Hood.
It would certainly be difficult to explain satisfactorily the motives of
the course of conduct pursued by Victoire L’Orient toward the hapless
lady whose evil fortune had placed her peace, if not her destiny, in his
power. One would have naturally supposed that, being released from his
penal life, he would have proceeded directly to England, and while her
hand was yet free, would have openly demanded possession of the woman
whom he claimed as his wife. Why he did not do so—why, on the contrary,
he chose to wait for the hour when she should bestow her hand on
another, to humble her before the whole world, is the unresolved
problem. Of course every theory of his motives must be purely
speculative.
Judging, however, from what we have already seen of his character and
have heard of his history, it is neither unreasonable nor uncharitable,
to suppose the following to have been the case:
A man like Victoire L’Orient, of depressed moral and intellectual
nature, usually feels a strong antagonism to a woman who is brought into
constant and rebuking comparison with himself, especially when that
woman is his own wife, whom he deems should of right be in all respects
his inferior and subordinate. Very soon must Monsieur Victoire have
discovered the moral and intellectual excellence of the young creature
whom he had ensnared, and consequently the wide disparity of character
between himself and her. This alone was sufficient to have galled a
spirit so egotistical as his own. And when we remember that in addition
to this, Estelle inevitably detected his utter unworthiness, and that,
notwithstanding her sweet patience and forbearance, she must
unavoidably, through the very truthfulness and ingenuousness of her
character, have revealed the low estimation in which she held him, we
need not feel any degree of surprise that his selfish passion for her
was largely alloyed with hate, and that his desire to possess, was quite
equalled by his wish to humble her.
With these feelings and purposes, having been pardoned, or having served
out his time in Algiers, he embarked in the “Duc D’Anjou” for France.
Picked up by an Algerine corsair from the wreck of that vessel, he had
been reconveyed to the Barbary States. Escaping thence, he once more
returned to Europe.
He came to England to claim the hand of Estelle, or, failing to obtain
it, to extort money from her parents as the price of silence and
absence.
But on arriving at Exeter, and hearing of her approaching nuptials with
the Viscount Montressor, and being ignorant of the good and sufficient
reasons she possessed for supposing himself to be deceased, all the most
malignant passions of his heart were enkindled, and all the most cunning
faculties of his mind were employed to enable him to meet the exigency
in a manner that should at the same time punish Estelle and profit
himself.
Feeling no doubt of the legality of that rite by which he supposed he
had secured her person and fortune, yet fearing, nevertheless, that in
the event of his _then_ claiming her hand, her father would interfere,
and, by means of his vast wealth and influence, contrive to invalidate,
or in some other manner break the bond that united them, he, with a
demon’s art, resolved to reserve himself, to conceal the fact of his
existence for awhile, to allow her—unconscious of his presence in the
country—to go to the altar, and then, armed with a warrant for her
arrest, spring a trap upon her.
Not that he intended she should suffer the extreme penalty of the law;
but that he wished to degrade her in the eyes of the whole world, so
that even her haughty parents should be willing, as their only resort,
to resign her, with her fortune, to his possession. To accomplish this
end, it had been his purpose, after the interruption of the nuptials by
the arrest of the bride, to have had an explanation, and come to a
compromise with Estelle’s family, and in the event of their closing with
his terms, to have withdrawn his witnesses, so that at the trial before
the Judge of the Assizes, there should be no evidence against her, who,
being then free, though ruined, would fall to his undisputed possession.
Fortunately for Estelle, her advocate, Lord Dazzleright, at once
detected the policy of the prosecuting party. And the manner in which
the charge was met and the defense conducted at the preliminary
investigation, disabused Monsieur Victoire of the false hope of
obtaining possession of Estelle, and at the same time aroused all the
vindictive passions of his nature, that instigated him to have her
prosecuted to the utmost extent of the law.
Upon the occasion of the trial before the Assizes, the charge of the
Judge to the jury—in which his lordship distinctly declined to pronounce
upon the validity of the alleged first marriage, declaring that to be a
matter for the adjudication of the spiritual courts—had again, however
irrationally, revived his hopes.
At the conclusion of the trial, he determined to keep trace of Estelle,
and to file a petition to be heard upon his claim, before the Court of
Arches.
He soon discovered the flight of Estelle to London, and subsequently her
embarkation for Baltimore.
In pursuit of her he took passage on the Mercury bound for the same
port.
But Monsieur Victoire had still another motive, (which shall be
revealed,) for his voyage to America.
The most debased and unfortunate of wretches possibly have some friends
whom they love or by whom they are beloved. And this miserable Victoire
had his mother, who doted on him, and a fellow voyager on whom he doted.
The name of the last mentioned was Julius Luxmore. How he had first
become acquainted with this young man it is not necessary now to relate.
It is sufficient to say that he had known him intimately for about two
years.
From the moment of Victoire L’Orient’s embarkation on board the Mercury,
his spirits had suffered a reaction into gloom and apathy, to which
those of his volatile nation are frequently subject. And this
despondency increased with every league of the voyage, until, when half
across the Atlantic ocean, it amounted to absolute despair. He passed
much of the day in leaning over the bulwarks of the vessel, gazing
gloomily into the sea, and sometimes muttering to himself:
“I shall never see Etoile! I shall never see Etoile!”
One afternoon he was thus standing in the stern of the vessel with his
elbow resting on the taffrail, his chin leaning upon his hand, and his
eyes fixed intently upon the foaming sea in the wake of the vessel, when
his friend came up to his side, touching his elbow, and said, cheerily:
“Come, come, shipmate! Do you think we are near a sunken reef? And are
you making leaden plummets of your eyeballs to take the soundings? What
are you gazing at?”
“_Mon tombeau_,” answered the Frenchman, gloomily.
“‘These things must not be thought on after these ways so, it will make
us mad,’ as the tender-hearted Lady Macbeth says.”
“_Mais, mon Dieu!_ I shall never see Etoile! I shall never see Etoile!”
“‘Consider it not so deeply!’ I think you have every thing to hope. You
must not judge her inclinations by the action of her counsel. Reflect;
she has fled from Lord Montressor, not from you!”
“Grand heaven! who talks of her? It is not of Estelle, my demon of a
wife, that I speak!” exclaimed Victoire, shrugging his shoulders.
“Of whom then? Etoile—Etoile—I never heard the name. Has Monsieur
Victoire perhaps _consoled_ himself for the absence of Madame Estelle?”
inquired Luxmore in a tone of raillery.
“Ah! no, no,” replied the Frenchman in the same mournful tone—“I speak
of my child—my daughter—my pretty little Etoile!”
“Your child!” exclaimed Luxmore in astonishment.
“Yes, my friend. Mon Dieu! Yes, my daughter, my dear Etoile!”
“But you never told me you had a child?”
“But yes, mon Dieu! I have! I did from all the fact conceal. Listen you.
You shall hear. That woman of perdition, Estelle, had a child—a
daughter?”
“Is it possible! and that child lives?”
“Yes, yes! my beautiful Etoile! My princess of the Isle! My star of the
sea!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with real or feigned enthusiasm.
“You astonish me. And her mother——?”
“Does not know she lives. Attend you. I will, from you, nothing hide.
She has an uncle—the King of the isle.”
“Eh? What?” exclaimed the other in perplexity.
“I have an uncle—the King of the Isle.”
“My poor Victoire, has grief unsettled your reason?”
“Why?”
“Just now you spoke of your daughter as princess of the Isle, but as you
also called her a star of the sea, I considered both phrases figurative.
Now, however, when you talk gravely of your uncle, who is the King of
the Island——”
“But grand Dieu! my dear and good friend, you comprehend not. I have one
uncle who is a bachelor—old and rich, and resident for a long time upon
an island in the sea. But, mon Dieu! he is foolish, imbecile, idiotic,”
said Victoire, in a tone of real or assumed grief.
“I am sorry, since it distresses you; but I cannot see what your mad
uncle has to do with the life of your daughter or the ignorance of her
mother.”
“But, my faith! it has a great deal to do with both the one and the
other. Attend you. I shall nothing conceal. Regard you. You shall know
all. Listen you, then, my dear friend!”
And Monsieur Victoire L’Orient commenced an explanation which I beg
leave to disembarrass from his idiomatic French and broken English and
give in less unintelligible language.
It seems from the representations of Monsieur Victoire that the family
of “L’Orient” really once belonged to the ancient seignory of Provence.
The younger and of course poorer branch of that family, were of the
company of French Roman Catholics who went out with Lord Baltimore’s
emigrant troop, and settled the province of Maryland.
This particular family fixed upon one of the loveliest and loneliest of
the Islands of the Chesapeake, and from that day, through several
successive generations, held it in their exclusive possession. Indeed,
their greatest desire, their hereditary passion, seemed to be to keep
this beloved and beauteous Island in the family.
In all these years the intercourse between the European and the American
branches of the old house was not suffered to wane. On the contrary,
several successive intermarriages had revived and consolidated the
relationship. Thus when an heir of the Island reached man’s estate, his
choice of a bride was limited by the number of his marriageable female
cousins in France. Or if a daughter happened to be the sole heiress, a
husband was found for her among the males of the same.
The American branch of the house were called for distinction L’Oriens
_de l’Ile_ (or, of the Island). But this term in the course of time
became a second surname, or a sort of title, so that the owners of the
Island were always called Monsieur L’Orient De L’Ile. And any European
L’Orient who married a sole heiress of the Island became in her right,
also Monsieur L’Orient De L’Ile;—though by his American neighbors of the
coast, he was called simply Mr. De L’Ile.
We all know that successive intermarriages are not favorable to any
race. Hence it is not surprising that the family of L’Oriens De L’Ile
gradually died out. And the last lineal descendant, Monsieur Hubert De
L’Ile, who married his first cousin, had neither son nor daughter to
succeed him.
The European branch of the house that had remained in France, and had
married into other families, continued, on the contrary, to be a
handsome and vigorous race.
And of such was the father of Monsieur Victoire.
But Monsieur Victoire had, as he says, an uncle, the elder brother of
his father. This man, Monsieur Henri L’Orient, was socially a bachelor
and an oddity, and politically a royalist and a Bourbonist. He had one
grand passion, and that was for—islands! or perhaps I should say for the
family Island in the Chesapeake, to which he was heir presumptive.
During the lifetime of Monsieur and Madame Hubert De L’Ile, he made
several voyages to the Chesapeake, and spent many months on the Island.
His love of the place was immense, his praise of it extravagant, his
compliments to the proprietors as sincere as they were overwhelming.
“You are like a king and queen here! you are in your insular domain!
Your kingdom is only bounded by the infinite sea!”
Thus he became a great favorite with the childless old people, who would
laughingly reply:
“Ah, well! if it is so, if we are a king and queen, then you are the
prince and the heir of the kingdom.”
And at their death they left a will bequeathing the Island to Monsieur
Henri L’Orient, and in case the latter should die without children, to
Monsieur Victoire L’Orient and his heirs forever.
Monsieur Henri L’Orient was sixty years old when he “came to his
kingdom.” It was not likely that he would take a wife and become the
father of sons and daughters at that age. So he invited his younger
brother, with his family, to accompany him to his insular domain. But
Madame, his sister-in-law, who was at that time young, pretty,
fashionable and extravagant, preferred the saloons of Paris to the
loveliest Island in the world. And so Monsieur Hubert took leave of his
relatives, and departed alone for his “kingdom.”
And years passed, during which the old man was too much attached to his
Island, and his relatives in Paris too much devoted to pleasure, to
permit an exchange of visits.
But fifteen years after the separation, Madame was a widow without
youth, beauty or riches. And her good brother-in-law wrote, proposing
that she should come and bring her son and take up her residence with
him.
But oh, horror! Madame could not think of such a thing! She infinitely
preferred to trust to her own resources in Paris, rather than to go out
to live among “mulattos and mud turtles on his Island in the Bay.”
And with the help of friends, Madame opened her Pensionnat des
Demoiselles.
Five more years passed, and old Monsieur Henri grew older in the
solitude of his insular “kingdom.” Now, whether it were the effect of
his strange and lonely life, the approach of extreme old age, or the
misfortunes of his beloved Bourbons, or all of these causes combined, I
know not, but the mind of the old man became deranged upon one subject,
his grand passion became a monomania, his jest grew earnest, his
ownership of the Island appeared the sovereignty of a kingdom, and his
letters to his sister-in-law and nephew were signed—with more rigid
formality of course than a real monarch would have used—
“HENRI, BY GRACE OF GOD, KING OF THE ISLES.”
For as his monomania grew, he imagined that his sovereign sway extended
over all the Islands of the Bay. At first, as his letters betrayed no
other sign of the writer’s mental alienation, his sister-in-law deemed
this signature an odd piece of pleasantry, as indeed in the first
instance it might have been; but when letter after letter came, gravely
signed in this manner, and when, in addition, he expressed his great
anxiety to see her son, the “Prince,” his nephew—Madame’s eyes were
opened!
“This unfortunate old beast is mad!” she said; “we must look after him!”
But just as Madame came to this conclusion, her own especial family
affairs demanded her exclusive attention. Her son Monsieur Victoire was
on trial for treason; Victoire’s baby-bride had a baby of her own that
must be concealed; her “pensionnat” was broken up; her character was
impeached; and finally the necessity of a change of residence was for
all these reasons imperative. She only waited the result of Victoire’s
trial, and when he was condemned to Algiers, she gathered together the
remnants of her property, turned the whole into cash, took her stolen
grandchild, whom she chose, for private reasons of her own, to
represent, for the present, to its mother, as dead,—and went down to
Dijon. Thence she wrote to her brother-in-law, “His Majesty, the King of
the Isles,” that her son, the “Prince,” his nephew, had experienced
unheard-of misfortunes, through his devotion to his allies, the
Bourbons; and that he was now banished to Algeria. But that his
“Highness” had left a child, an infant daughter, an angel of beauty;
and—what should she do with this child?
The course of months brought back the old man’s answer. The “King of the
Isles” expressed the most exalted admiration of his nephew, the Prince’s
heroism, and the most profound sorrow for his misfortunes; and ended by
entreating his unhappy sister-in-law to bring the “Princess,” her
granddaughter, to be educated at his own court.
“Great Heaven! that old animal is very mad! I hope he is not dangerous!
Very well! if he should be, his negro slaves are strong enough to bind
him at my command. And who will have a better right to command than I
when I get there?” said Madame, who being a prompt as well as courageous
woman, immediately wrote to the “Island King,” saying that she should
quickly follow her letter, and have the honor of presenting the
“Princess” at the court of His Majesty. And so in the course of a few
weeks Madame, having in charge the yearling child, embarked on board the
“Sirene,” bound from Havre to Baltimore, engaging the captain to put her
on shore at L’Orient, or East Island.
It was after a prosperous voyage of two months, and upon a most
beautiful morning in May, that Madame was early aroused from her berth
to get ready to go on shore. Upon occasion she could be quick in making
her toilet, so in twenty minutes from the opening of her eyes she stood
upon the deck, looking out for the long-talked of, the beloved, the
beauteous Island.
There it lay before her, in its more than ideal loveliness! There it lay
like an emerald on the bosom of the bay! A beautiful green island,
dimpled with hill and valley, veined with limpid streams, studded with
gray and mossy rocks, shaded with tall groves, and environed by the blue
waters that leaped and sparkled in the morning sun like a living sea of
liquid sapphires! There was a vivid and delicate freshness of hue in the
luxuriant vegetation of the Isle, as peculiar as it was delightful. Far
in the interior, from amidst the green beauty of the grove, arose the
many tall, white chimneys of the Island mansion. Scattered about in
picturesque groups, were the white cottages of the negro servants. Down
on the beach was a white boat-house, built in the shape of a Chinese
pagoda.
Madame gazed in a sort of enthusiasm upon the scene.
“It is a magnificent place, after all! My faith! those comical De L’Iles
did well to adore it! As for me, I shall take that old madman in hand! I
shall assume the direction of affairs. I shall introduce a new order of
things. I shall form the acquaintance of the gentry on the main land. I
shall give _fetes_ and dances! My Heaven! I must amuse myself, or else I
shall die of grief for poor Victoire, or go mad like His Majesty, the
King of the Isles! And at last Victoire will come back; or at least my
little Etoile will grow up; and by-the-by, it is very fortunate, my
faith! that I have this child as a passport to acceptance!” soliloquised
Madame.
And she had scarcely had time thus to lay out her future before the
long-boat came around to the starboard gangway, and her trunks were
lowered into it.
“The boat awaits the pleasure of Madame,” said the captain, offering
himself to assist her in the descent. Madame was carefully seated, the
babe was put in her arms, the six sailors plied their oars, and the boat
skimmed like a sea-bird the surface of the sparkling waters.
Ten minutes brought them to the landing-place on the Isle—a little pier
beside the boat-house, painted white, and ascended by three steps.
From this pier an avenue of half a mile in length, shaded by beautiful
trees, led up through fields and pleasure grounds, toward the house. All
this, Madame saw at a glance, while the boat was pushed up and moored.
But upon the pier stood a most interesting group—namely, “His Majesty,
the King of the Isles,” and the chief ministers of his court—in other
words, Monsieur Henri De L’Isle and a half dozen of his negro men.
Madame gazed in a sort of consternation—she had expected to find a very
aged, decrepit, driveling madman. “His Majesty,” on the contrary, though
eighty years of age, was still one of the finest looking men she had
ever set her eyes upon—tall, broad shouldered, and erect in form, with a
fresh, handsome, noble countenance, surrounded by a thick growth of hair
and beard as white as snow. He wore a purple cashmere morning-gown
folded like a royal robe about his person. His manner was dignified and
courteous, as he stood waiting to receive his guests. The half-dozen
negro men that were with him were neatly dressed in white trousers and
pink shirts, and were remarkable for their healthful and joyous
appearance.
“Very good! the madman and his familiars are not so ill to look upon!”
said Madame, as with the child in her arms she left the boat.
Monsieur Henri, with the air of the Grand Monarque, came down to meet
her.
“Welcome, illustrious lady and beloved sister! welcome to our court, our
kingdom, and our heart!” he said, holding out both his hands.
“I thank you, Monsiegneur!” replied Madame. But as she was embarrassed
with the babe in her arms, she could not accept his offered courtesy.
“Why, how then! is Madame, my sister, left without her retinue? And has
the Princess, my niece, no attendance?” exclaimed Monsieur Henri,
looking excessively shocked.
“Madame the Duchesse de Berri had no more, when she wandered in La
Vendee!” said our Madame, demurely.
“Oh, miserable country!—oh, unfortunate princes!” exclaimed the old man,
lifting his hands and raising his eyes to heaven. Then—“Give me the
illustrious babe,” he said; and taking the child in his arms with the
solemn air of a bishop, who was about to baptize it, he called to one of
his negroes—“Come hither, Monsieur Louis.”
A tall, aged man, with a very black skin, and very white hair, who was
clothed like the others, in a pink shirt and white trousers, approached
and bowed respectfully.
“This is my High Constable of the Kingdom, Madame,” said Monsieur De
L’Ile, introducing the new-comer.
Then placing the infant solemnly in the arms of the old negro, he
charged him, saying—
“Receive your Princess, Monsieur Louis! and bear her on before us to the
palace! I follow with Madame.”
Without suffering a muscle of his very intelligent face to change, the
old negro received the babe, and led the way up the shaded avenue toward
the house.
“August lady, and dear sister, will you accept my arm?” said Monsieur
Henri, bowing and offering his services with the air of Chevalier
Bayard.
“I thank you, Monsiegneur,” said the ‘august lady,’ suffering him to
draw her arm within his own, and lead her on, up the lovely, shadowy
walk, through the shrubberies, the pleasure grounds, and the flower
gardens. There were so many flowers! especially roses!—‘roses,
everywhere roses’—they flushed all the green island with their bloom,
and filled all the air with their perfume. They clustered thicker as you
approached the white house with its many tall chimneys, and its central
front portico. They climbed its posts, and ran along its eaves and
cornices, and shaded its windows.
“What a beautiful, beautiful place!” said Madame, in rapture.
Monsieur Henri led her up the white stone stairs of the portico, through
the front door, and into a broad central hall from which several
half-open doors on either side revealed glimpses of many spacious rooms
in their summer array of straw matting, white curtains, linen covers,
and many flowers; while the wide open doors at the back of the hall
exposed a pleasant view of gardens, vineyards, and orchards, sloping
down to the shore.
“Welcome to my court, illustrious Madame,” said Monsieur De L’Ile,
opening the first door on his right, and ushering his guest into a
pleasant, airy parlor. He led her to an arm-chair, placed her in it, and
then rang for attendance.
The bell was answered by the appearance of a handsome and even very
intellectual-looking mulatto woman, of about thirty years of age, who
courtesied and stood waiting.
“This is Mademoiselle Madeleine, the first lady of your bed-chamber,
Madame,” said Monsieur Henri, presenting the woman to her new mistress.
“And now, Mademoiselle, conduct your august mistress to her apartment.
Monsieur Louis? Ah, you are there! Deliver the Princess into the charge
of Mademoiselle.”
The woman took the babe, and bowing to Madame, led the way up stairs to
a suite of apartments on the right side of the central hall, whose many
windows looked out upon the beautiful pleasure grounds of the Island and
upon the surrounding sea, and whose summer furniture was arranged with
the nicest regard to comfort and elegance.
“My faith, the lunatic knows how to keep house,” thought the lady. Then
turning to her attendant, she inquired:
“Does your master ever become violent?”
“Madame?”
“I ask you, does your master ever become ungovernable—dangerous?”
“Pardon, I do not understand Madame,” said the woman, gravely and
respectfully.
“You _will_ not, I suspect,” muttered the lady; then aloud, she asked:
“How long has your master been mad?”
“Pardon. Madame has been misinformed; my master is not mad.”
“Your master is not mad!” exclaimed the lady, in astonishment.
“No, Madame,” replied the mulatto, calmly.
“You tell me that your master, Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, is not mad?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“Then, if he is not mad, I should not wonder if you told me next that he
is King of the Isles.”
“Certainly, Madame, he is King of the Isles.”
“How? Your master, Monsieur De L’Ile, King of the Isles?”
“Assuredly, Madame, since he says it.”
“Oh, then, since this is so, I see how it is. I have arrived at Bedlam,
and we are all lunatics together!” exclaimed the visitor, highly
provoked.
“Has Madame any orders?” inquired the woman, humbly.
“Yes; lay that child on the bed, and go and send Louis to me.”
“Yes, Madame.” And the woman left the room to do her errand.
In a few moments, Louis appeared at the chamber door, bowed and stood
waiting.
“Louis, how long has your master been mad?” inquired the lady,
peremptorily.
“Forgive, but Madame has been deceived; my master is not mad.”
“Then I suppose that he is really King of the Isles?” questioned the
guest, ironically.
“Undoubtedly, Madame, since he says.”
“And he is not mad?”
“Assuredly not, Madame.”
“Then I am, that is all.”
“Has Madame any orders?”
“No—yes; tell Madeleine to return to me.”
The old man bowed deeply and retired.
Madame clasped her temples with both hands.
“Yes,” she said; “it is I, without doubt, who am mad, or shall soon
become so. Here I arrive at the extremity of the civilized world—the
very jumping-off place, and what do I find? a courtly madman, who calls
himself King of the Isles, and a pair of mulatto savages, who address me
in the elegantly turned phrases of the Tuileries, and confirm his
title——Ah, in a good hour! here comes Mademoiselle, my maid of honor!”
The entrance of the mulatto put an end to Madame’s soliloquy, and
suggested the propriety of arranging her toilet. With the assistance of
Madeleine, her black satin dressing-gown was arranged, her well-dyed
black ringlets smoothed, the white lace collar and mits put on, and
Madame was ready to go down to breakfast.
Madeleine remained to take care of the child.
Louis stood outside the door, bowed, and preceded the lady to show her
the way to the breakfast parlor.
It was a delightful room on the right hand of the hall, with its floor
covered with straw matting. Its many muslin-draped windows were open to
a view of rolling green meadows, covered with tender spring vegetation,
and variegated with apple, peach, and cherry trees, all in full bloom.
And beyond, the wide expanse of sparkling, leaping blue water stretched
away until its boundaries were lost under the purple, crimson, and gold
of the morning horizon.
The breakfast table, covered with fine white damask, and adorned with a
service of silver and white Sevres, was laden with all the luxuries of
the season.
Monsieur De L’Ile (unless the reader prefers that I should call him the
King of the Isles) stood ready to hand Madame to the table—an act of
gallantry that he performed with the stately courtesy of a Guise or a
Medici.
Louis took his stand at a sideboard that stood between two of the open
windows, and from whence he served coffee, tea, or chocolate.
Madame had enough to do to watch her host. She engaged him in
conversation, hoping to be able to measure the extent of his insanity,
and to find out whether, and how best, she could wrest from his aged
hands the control of his own property: first, whether she could not do
it without having _recourse_ to law; secondly, whether she could do it
even _through_ law. Of the first there was little hope; the old man’s
mind upon every subject but the one, acted with a vigor, clearness, and
directness that proved him to be a very unlikely subject for even the
most artful woman’s government; of the second there was no certainty,
for, though upon one idea he was undoubtedly mad, yet, upon the first
suspicion of her purpose to subject him to a medical or a judicial
examination, he would assuredly have the cunning to conceal his
madness—a measure in which he would be supported by his two educated
slaves, Louis and Madeleine, who, for whatever reason, were certainly
flatterers of his mania.
However, Madame was not a woman rashly to resign a purpose, or grow
hopeless of its accomplishment.
And all this time, while her head was busily brewing plots, the old man,
the purposed victim of her machinations, was loading her with
compliments and attentions.
When breakfast was over, Madame set herself to arrange her own personal
attendance. Madeleine was retained as her maid. And a pretty mulatto
girl named Coralie, the younger sister of Madeleine, was appointed nurse
to the “Princess Etoile.” Frivole, the boy brother of those girls was
brought from the garden into the house as page and messenger. And
Madame’s establishment was complete.
The next day was the Sabbath. Madame was a devout Roman Catholic, and a
scrupulous attendant upon mass. Here was a difficulty not thought of
before. Where and how should she attend mass? She early rang her bell.
Her maid answered the summons.
“Madeleine, how far are we from the main land?”
“About fifty miles.”
“Very good. How far is the nearest Catholic chapel from this?”
“St. Inigoes, the nearest, Madame, is fifty miles.”
“Better! Madeleine, my brother-in-law, your master, his Majesty the King
of the Isles, when he was simply Monsieur Henri, used to be a good
Catholic.”
“And he is so still, Madame.”
“But good Catholics are under obligations to hear mass once every
Sunday.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“‘Yes, Madame.’ It is very well to say, ‘Yes, Madame,’ but how upon
earth do you reconcile the neglect of that duty on the part of your
master with your declaration that he is still a good Catholic?”
“But Madame will pardon me. She hastens to conclusions. My master does
not neglect his Christian duties.”
“Then I should be glad to know how he performs them. You do not mean to
say that he goes fifty miles to hear mass at St. Inigoes?”
“No, Madame.”
“How then?”
“His Holiness the Pope offers up Mass here every Sunday, before
breakfast.”
“EH?”
“His Holiness the Pope offers up Mass here every Sunday, before
breakfast, in the chapel fitted up for that purpose.”
“Oh! my head! my head!” cried the poor woman, wildly clapping her hands
to her temples.
“Is Madame ill?” coolly inquired the mulatto.
“ILL? Is all the world raving mad? You tell me, you impertinent! you
impudent! you insolent! outrageous——! You tell me that the Pope says
Mass here every Sunday!”
“Madame can assure herself of that fact,” replied Madeleine, with an
humble, but injured look.
“I shall go mad! I got over your King of the Isles, your Lord High
Constable, and your Princess Etoile—but his Holiness the Pope saying
Mass here every Sunday—no! I won’t endure that!”
“Madame undoubtedly has the privilege to object!”
“Begone!”
“Yes, Madame. But pardon me for delaying long enough to say my master
bade me inform you, that High Mass would be celebrated in the chapel
this morning; and that Louis would be in attendance to conduct you
thither.”
“Begone, I say, while I have some rationality left!”
“Certainly, Madame.”
“Stop! come back; help me to dress; I will go to the chapel that the
dream may be finished, and I may wake up the sooner.”
Madeleiene obediently came back.
Madame quickly made her toilet and left her chamber, at the door of
which she found Louis waiting to attend her.
“Louis, is it true that Mass will be celebrated here this morning?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“But who will officiate?”
“Our Most Holy Father, the Pope!”
“Go to the——. I mean go on before me.”
Madame had nearly permitted herself, in her indignation, to use profane
language.
Louis, undisturbed by his mistress’s excitement, walked down before her,
until he paused before the door of the chapel, which was one of those
pleasant rooms on the first floor.
Madame entered, and found herself in an apartment fitted up as a church.
At the upper extremity stood an altar adorned with sacred pictures and
statuettes, wreathed with flowers, and lighted with many wax candles.
From a silver censer burning before it, arose a rich aroma that filled
the air. Dark, rich transparencies pulled down before the windows
produced something of the effect of stained glass, and threw over the
scene an atmosphere at once brilliant and solemn. Between every window
was some picture of saint, or angel. Rows of neat white benches supplied
the place of pews. All the slaves of the Island plantation, dressed in
their summer Sunday suits of pure white, were here assembled, with a
quiet and devout demeanor. Before the altar, with his back to the
congregation, stood a very tall and dignified old man in the
triple-crowned mitre and the pontifical robes and vestments of his
Holiness the Pope.
Madame sank into the nearest seat through the sheer exhaustion produced
by an overwhelming astonishment. What did this mean? Who was this
person? How dared any subordinate priest, bishop, or archbishop, or even
cardinal, assume the pontifical robes?
The strains of an organ now arose, swelling on the air. She looked
around—saw the organ, it was behind her, and beside the door by which
she had entered, but a screen reaching half way up the instrument,
concealed the organist from her view. What _did_ it all mean?
But the Mass had commenced, and Madame was too devout a Catholic to stop
to think when it was time to pray. So down she dropped upon her knees,
and began in the form of the ritual, and in her case, no doubt, with the
exactest truth, to accuse herself of every sin in the catalogue. And in
her devotions she forbore to look about or raise her eyes again to the
mysterious old man who officiated, at the altar.
At last at the conclusion of the solemnities, when the celebrant turned
round toward the people, and solemnly extending his venerable hands,
intoned “Deus Gratias,” (Thanks be to God,) Madame raised her eyes, and
to her inexpressible scandalization, recognized Monsieur Henri.
“Good! This is better than the rest! He is a king all the week and the
Pope on Sunday. But it would be a mortal sin in me to allow _this_
madness to go on any longer! I would put up with the king for six days,
but the Pope, Holy Virgin! no, that must be stopped. I’ll make an excuse
of an errand to town, get him to let me have a barque, and go to the
mainland, and to the County seat, and take out a writ of lunacy against
him. I will lose no time. I will do this to-morrow.”
While Madame thus resolved, the congregation were quietly dispersing. As
there was but one outlet to this room, the officiating priest himself
came down; and in passing by his guest, he paused, extended his hands
over her head in the most solemn and benignant manner, and said, gravely
and slowly—
“Benedicite, illustrious daughter,” and then in measured steps passed
out.
Sunday, on the Sunrise Island, was a day of Heaven—as the Isle itself
was a terrestrial paradise.
The fifty servants, entirely freed from labor at the time, and dressed
in their festive garments, wandered about with their children, in
couples, trios or groups—over the green fields, beside the singing
streams, or along the silvery sanded beach; or they sat in groups under
the shady groves; or reposed, stretched at length, beneath some gigantic
tree; or gathered in some large arbor around some one of their number,
who had been taught to read, and who read to them from the Book of
books; or else they united their voices in a psalm of thanksgiving that
arose joyously from that green and blooming Island of the sea, filling
all the sunny air with music. And the lovely day was followed by a
moonlight night, and their Sabbath recreations were closed by the
assembling of the whole band of servants, and the singing of an evening
hymn. Then, after partaking of the simple Sunday supper of coffee, cakes
and fruit, served under the trees, they separated for the night.
And Monsieur Henri, no longer pope, but king, sat upon his front piazza,
with his niece upon his knee, his sister-in-law beside him, and his two
favorite servants Madeleine and Louis near at hand, and watched the
departing figures of his people as they defiled off in twos and threes
and larger groups, toward their respective neat, white cabins.
“My subjects are happy, I think, my dear sister! At least it is my study
to make them so! And they love me! Yes, they love me! That is what keeps
my old age green,” said the old man.
And assuredly no people in the world were happier as a community than
these dependants of the good old man—these subjects of a self-styled
king.
“They seem contented and prosperous,” said Madame.
“They have nothing left to wish for, and on their side leave me nothing
to desire. Neither have I any cares of government—Louis manages all my
affairs,” said the old man with a look of infinite content.
The next day, Monday, “His Majesty” requested a private interview with
his “august sister,” in which he begged that she would give him a full
and particular account of her illustrious son, “the Prince,” his
nephew’s misfortunes. And Madame gave a distorted version of the
truth—relating that Monsieur Victoire had been condemned to the colonies
for conspiring in favor of the Bourbons, and that his young wife, an
English Lady of high rank, had abandoned him in his misfortunes. The
mind of the old man in attending to this story seemed divided between
exalted admiration for the heroism, and profound sorrow for the
misfortunes of his nephew.
They then talked of the affairs of the Island. And Madame learned from
all she heard and saw, that Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, notwithstanding his
monomania, and perhaps even _because_ of it, was one of the best of
masters and wisest of rulers—truly deserving to be called by the
threefold titles that he claimed of King, Priest, and Father of his
people.
He had, on first coming to the Island, found Louis and Madeleine—a
bright intelligent brother and sister, the former twenty, the latter ten
years of age. He had taught them both to read, write, and keep accounts.
They were both perfectly devoted to his person and interests, and in the
twenty years of his residence on the Island, an attachment had grown up
between himself and them, that more nearly resembled the confidential
friendship of equals, than the relative regard of master and servants.
Yet their reverential affection for their master amounted to idolatry.
No absurdity of which the old man through his monomania might be guilty,
could provoke from their respectful countenances a smile. They seemed
really to wish to believe him to be a king, rather than to admit him to
be a madman. Never for an instant was their guarded reverence for him
surprised or betrayed. No matter how sudden, startling, and perplexing
the questions, put by Madame upon the subject of their master’s
madness—their answers were always ready, grave, respectful, and
uncompromising.
“Pray, how long has it been since Monsieur Henri has enjoyed the dignity
of being a king all the week and a pope on Sunday?” inquired Madame of
Louis that identical Monday morning.
“To us, ever since he first announced himself as such, Madame,” replied
Louis, with an humble bow.
“Pray, has Monsieur Henri friends and neighbors on the main land?”
questioned the lady of Madeleine.
“Very many, Madame.”
“And do they know that he is mad?”
“They cannot know that since he is not, Madame,” replied the woman
deferentially.
And Madame never could surprise either Louis or Madeleine, or any other
servant on the plantation into the slightest betrayal of a suspicion
that any thing was amiss with their master’s brain.
This brother and sister were the mainstays of their old master. Louis
managed his farm, orchard, vineyard, garden and fishery, and attended to
the sale of the products of the whole. Madeleine kept his house, table
and wardrobe in order, and nursed him through any indisposition. Madame
saw at once that she herself was a supernumerary in the establishment;
that the position assigned to her was that of a most honored guest, most
welcome to remain forever, but neither expected nor desired to take any
trouble, or assume any responsibility in the government of the family.
Now this position was by no means acceptable to her feelings, and she
resolved to carry into immediate execution her purpose of going that day
to the mainland to apply for a writ of lunacy in behalf of her
brother-in-law. Having ascertained from Monsieur Henri that the Island
belonged to the County of Northampton, and that the county-town was
Eastville, she begged that he would allow her the use of the barque and
the men to work it to take her to that town, where she said she wished
to make some purchases of summer clothing for herself and the child.
Monsieur Henri, with the most cordial politeness, at once assented,
adding that he should do himself the honor of attending his beloved
sister.
Now this was quite an unexpected difficulty. His presence must defeat
her object. She therefore begged that he would not take the trouble to
accompany her, and entreating that he would regard his ease and health.
But Monsieur De L’Ile was not to be exceeded in politeness. He assured
his sister-in-law that to attend her to Eastville would afford him
unmixed gratification. And he further informed her that he himself had
business at the court-house, that required his immediate attention.
There was therefore nothing for her to do but to submit to necessity and
trust to circumstances to favor her design. And since he was really
himself going to the court-house, that very event might so turn out as
to enable her, without difficulty, to deliver him into the hands of the
proper authorities for his safe custody. She therefore affected to
accept his proffered services with great thankfulness.
He informed her, however, that it would require a whole day to go and
return from Eastville, and that therefore, if she pleased, he would give
orders for the barque to be made ready for service by sunrise next
morning.
To that feature of the plan, also, she assented with seeming gratitude.