The royal supper, _au grand couvert_, was that night a melancholy one.
Surrounded, as was always the case, by the sons and daughters of his
royal house as well as the grandsons and granddaughters, and also by
those ladies of highest rank to whom the right was accorded of supping
at the royal table, the King sat silent and meditative. It was
observed, too, that his Majesty's fine appetite had failed him
to-night and that he scarcely ate anything, in spite of this being the
meal for which he cared most. The thirty violins that usually played
nightly in the gallery of the antechamber were, on this occasion,
silent, since the King had ordered that there should be no music; the
talk and chatter that, in discreet limitation, usually went on at the
second table was now almost entirely suppressed; a gloom had fallen
over the Court which, from the august ruler downwards, none seemed
able to shake off. Rousing himself, however, from the melancholy that
had obtained possession of him to-night--a melancholy produced more by
the knowledge that there was no possibility of pardon for his early
playmate than by even the reflection that, on the morrow, this
playmate was to atone for his treachery on the scaffold--Louis rose
from his seat and left the table, while all present rose at the same
moment.
"De Brissac," the King said to that officer, who now filled and, until
the new Colonel of Guards should be appointed, would fill the place of
the unhappy man who was to die to-morrow at three o'clock; "there will
be no audience to-night in my bedchamber. Inform the Court," after
which the King bowed to all who were present and retired. Yet, so
strong was habit that, as he passed a little antechamber on his way
to his bedroom he stopped and, going into it alone, saw that his pet
spaniels had been fed and were comfortable for the night.
"De la Ruffardière," he said to a young nobleman present in the
bedroom, to whom at this time had fallen the privilege of removing the
King's coat, waistcoat and shirt before handing his Majesty over to
the care of the _premier valet_, "I will dispense with your attendance
to-night, and yours," addressing the valet. "I am--fatigued--and would
be alone. Bid De Brissac have the guard set at once in the corridor
and changed as quietly as possible. Good-night. Heaven have you in its
holy keeping."
"Sire," the Marquis de la Ruffardière ventured to say. "I--I--there is
a----"
"What is it?" the King asked, looking fixedly at the young man. "What
is it----?"
"Sire, a--a lady has arrived to-night. She begs audience of your
Majesty. She----"
"Who is the lady?"
"Sire, it is the Princesse de Beaurepaire."
"The Princesse de Beaurepaire! Here! At St. Germain."
"Here, sire. In the blue antechamber. On her arrival your Majesty's
Intendant had a suite of rooms prepared for her. But, sire, she
implores leave to speak with your Majesty."
"This is the bitterest stroke of all," the King murmured to himself.
"_His_ mother and almost mine. Heaven!" Then, addressing the Marquis
aloud, he said: "I will, I must, go to her. No," he said, seeing that
the other made as if he would accompany him. "No. Remain here. This
is--I--I--must go alone." Passing through the door which the Marquis
rushed forward to open, Louis went down a small passage and, softly
turning the handle of the door, entered the blue antechamber.
"Madame," he said very gently, as he perceived the Princess rise
suddenly from the fauteuil on which she had been seated, or, rather,
huddled, "Madame. Ah! that we should meet thus. Oh! madame!" and
taking her hand he bent over it and kissed it.
"Mercy, sire," the Princess cried, flinging herself at once at the
King's feet. "Mercy! Mercy for my unhappy son. Nay," she said, as
Louis endeavoured with extreme gentleness to raise her to her feet,
"nay, nay, let me stay here. Here until you have granted my prayer.
Louis!" throwing aside all ceremony in her agony, "spare him. Spare
him. Ah! you cannot, you will not, slay him, evil as he has been,
evilly as he has acted towards you Louis," she cried again as,
releasing his hand now, she placed both hers upon her bosom. "Louis,
even as he when a child lay on this breast, so, too, did you. As your
mother would take you from her bosom to place on mine, so have I taken
him from mine to place on hers. We were almost foster mothers as you
were almost foster brothers! Ah! sire, as there is One above and He
the only One from whom you can sue for mercy, so let me sue for and
win mercy on earth from the only one who can accord it."
"I am not the only one. He is condemned by his judges. Doomed. If I
spare him, then must I spare all who henceforth conspire against me;
then have I been merciless to all whom I have hitherto refused to
spare for their treachery. For their infidelity."
"Their treachery! Their infidelity! And his! His treachery and
infidelity! Do you deem that I do not see it, know it, hate and
despise it? Do you think that I, Anne de Beaurepaire--that I, who
was the proudest woman in your father's Court, that I whom your
father--who hated all other women--alone loved, do not hate and
despise my son's acts? Ah! Ah!" she sobbed, "I hate and loathe his
infidelity but, God help and pity me! I love the infidel, and he
is--my--child. Ah! Louis, Louis," she continued, and now not only had
she possessed herself of the King's hand but, with her other
disengaged hand, had grasped him above the elbow so that he could not
free himself from her; "think of it. Think. Think. Short of making me
his Queen, which he could not do, while on my part I would be naught
else than that to him, your father loved me so well that there was
nothing I could ask that he would not have granted. He who detested
all other women; he, the woman hater! It cannot be that his child will
not spare my child. My only child, since his brother, Léon, is
imbecile. Ah! I have but one; do not deprive me of that only one."
"Madame," the King replied, while still endeavouring to lift the
unhappy Princess to her feet and while the tears streamed from his own
eyes as he witnessed her tears falling. "I--I--it rests not with me.
There are others to whom are confided----"
"Others," she wailed, yet still with some of her haughty contempt left
in her tones. "Others. What others? De Louvois, who reeks of the
_roture_. De Louvois the plebeian; La Reynie whose name should be Le
Renard; that woman who weaves her toils----"
"Madame, silence! I command--nay, nay, I beg of you to be silent. Not
a word of----"
"Ah! I am distraught. I know not what I say. Yet if you will not hear
me nor have mercy on me, at least have mercy on my grief and sorrow.
See--see--Louis de Bourbon--I kneel at your feet in supplication even
as once your father knelt at mine, and--God help me!--you are as
inexorable to me as I was to him; yet I kneel in a better, a nobler
hope. Sire!" she continued in her misery. "Sire, look on me! If you
will not pity me, pity my tears, my supplications; see how abject I
am. I--I--Anne de Beaurepaire, who never thought to sue to mortal man.
Ah! be not so pitiless, Louis! You! of whom it has been said that you
are never wantonly cruel."
"Nor am I now," the King exclaimed, his face convulsed with grief
and emotion. "It is not I, but France. Had Lou--the Prince de
Beaurepaire--and I been simple gentlemen; had he but aimed his
treacherous shaft against me and my life, then he might have gone in
peace for the sake of our childhood together, for the sake of the
noble Anne, his mother, whom," his voice sinking to a murmur, "my
austere father could not refrain from loving. But it was against
France. France and her ancient laws and rights; her throne; all that
makes France what she is, all that makes your proud race--a race as
proud as my own, or as the race of Guise, or Bretagne, or Montmorenci,
or Courtenai--what it is. France, for which I stand here the symbol
and representative; France which has but one other name--Bourbon."
"Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!" the Princess wailed. "As you are great, as you
are Louis the Bourbon, be great in your pardon. Show mercy to a
broken-hearted woman."
"If I might I would. But if I spare him, having spared none other who
conspired against France, will France spare me? Will she pardon her
unjust steward? And there are others. The Council, the great
Ministers----"
"Yet," the Princess cried, "it is you who have said, '_L'Etat c'est
moi_'. You, whose '_Je le veux_' none have ever dared to question and
still live."
"Nevertheless," the King said, still very gently while sick at heart
at being forced to so reply, "_he_ dared----"
"And," she sobbed, loosing her grasp on his hand and arm as she fell
an inert mass to the floor; "therefore must die."
After which she lay motionless, her superb grey hair, which, in her
emotion had become dishevelled, making a white patch upon the rich,
blood-red Segoda carpet.
Kneeling now by the side of the unhappy mother upon whose breast, as
she had said, he had so often been soothed in infancy, the King
endeavoured in every way to restore her to sensibility and raise her
from the position to which she had fallen. He kissed and rubbed her
hands again and again; he whispered words of comfort and affection
into her now deaf ears, and said all that one might say to comfort a
broken-hearted woman, except that which alone might have called her
back to sense and happiness--a promise of pardon for her son.
After which, finding that it was impossible to restore her by his own
efforts, the King left the room quietly, went back to his bedroom and,
summoning the Marquis de la Ruffardière to assist him, returned to the
blue antechamber.
"Poor lady," he said, looking down at the Princess, "she has swooned
at learning that there is no hope of pardon for him. Can we convey her
to the rooms the Intendant has set apart for her?"
"Doubtless, sire, if your Majesty will permit yourself----"
"Permit myself! In my childhood she has often rocked me to sleep in
her arms!"
"Perhaps one of her women, sire, might also assist----"
"When we have conveyed her to her apartments. But, first, go out to
the corridor and bid the guard retire for a quarter of an hour. There
must be no prying eyes to witness the weakness of the noble Anne de
Beaurepaire."
So, when the Marquis had obeyed this order and bidden the sentries
leave the principal corridor till he summoned them back, he and the
King lifted the Princess gently from the floor and conveyed her to the
rooms set apart for her, after which they handed her over to the care
of the women she had brought with her on the long, swift journey from
Nancy.
Followed by the Marquis, the King returned to his bedchamber and
prepared to retire, the assistance of the former being now accepted.
Yet, while Louis was gradually undressed by De la Ruffardière who
removed his shoes and stockings as well as his clothes, since the
_premier valet_ had long since departed on receiving his dismissal for
the night, the King sighed heavily more than once; and more than once,
too, the Marquis observed that the tears stood in his eyes. And, once
also, he murmured to himself: "It is his last night on earth. His last
night. Stay with me," he commanded as, after rising from his prayers,
he prepared to get into his bed. "Stay with me, De la Ruffardière. You
can sleep here on the lounge or in the antechamber, can you not?"
"Sire, I will not sleep. Rather may I crave to be allowed to keep
guard in the antechamber."
"Nay! nay! Sleep. Rest is needful to all. Extinguish all light, except
the night-lamp. Good-night, De la Ruffardière."
"Good-night, your Majesty. God bless your Majesty and grant you a
peaceful night's rest."
"Amen," the King said, sighing deeply.
When, however, the guard was being changed in front of the château,
and the exchange of sign and countersign could be plainly heard by the
Marquis who was lying wide awake on the lounge at the foot of the
great _ruelle_ of the King's bed, Louis spoke and called him by name.
"Here, sire," the other said, springing off the couch. "How fares it
with your Majesty?"
"Sad at heart. Sad. Sad. De la Ruffardière, tell me frankly; here
to-night and alone as we are--tell me as man to man--what is the
character I bear with my people? Do they deem me a cruel ruler?"
"Ah, sire! The noblest King who has ever adorned a throne. Bountiful,
magnanimous----"
"What," the king continued, scarcely pausing to hear the answer he
knew must come from a courtier, "what is thought of De Beaurepaire's
punishment? Am I deemed implacable?"
"Sire," the other said, hardly daring to answer him, yet forcing
himself to do so, "if he should go free what shall be the reward of
those who have never wavered in their loyalty to, and love of, your
Majesty?"
"Ah," Louis said. "Ah, 'tis true."
After this, the King seemed to sleep, yet, ere the time came for him
to awake and give the usual audience in bed to all the courtiers, he
spoke to the Marquis a second time.
"You are a friend of De Courtenai?" he asked.
"I am, sire."
"Does he, do all of his family, regret the Byzantine throne they once
sat on? Do they who were once Kings, they who are akin to the throne
of France, regret their present poverty and lowliness?"
"They have never said so, sire, to my knowledge. They are content to
be simple gentlemen. The men are plain soldiers, giving their swords
to France, the women to rearing their children as children having the
blood of De Courtenai in them. Sire, _bon sang ne peut mentir_."
"They should be happy, very happy," Louis murmured. "The throne they
lost could not outvie the gentle, simple life, nor the absence of
trouble, care and heartache. De la Ruffardière, pray God that none
whom you love may ever attain to a throne."