The Scourge of God. John Bloundelle-Burton

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СКАЧАТЬ and with a greater position still to come; since I was Madame Scarron only, with little thought of ever being a-"

      "Queen!"

      "Nay! Never that. A king's wife-but no queen."

      "It rested with you. The acknowledgment might have been forthcoming had you desired it."

      "Even so. Only it was best to-to-let matters remain as they are."

      So far as one so feeble as the princess now was could do so, she bent her head acquiescingly; doubtless she knew also that it was best that this woman should never be an acknowledged queen. She had not been a brilliant figure of the court of France for fifty years without being aware of all that was said, all that was whispered of Françoise d'Aubigné ere she found religion-as well as favour in the eyes of the king! Also, all that was whispered after that favour was found. There were a thousand tongues for ever wagging, as well as innumerable pens-the pen of De Sevignés to hint, the pens of Rabutins and Tallement des Réaux to speak plainly. Also her first lover was remembered and spoken of with many a courtier's tongue thrust in his, or her, cheek.

      But now-now! she posed as God's vicegerent in France. Religion, even God himself, as some said bitterly, had been taken under her patronage; the king trembled for his soul as she worked on the fears of his mind, and Jansenists, Calvinists, Huguenots had been driven forth by hundreds of thousands to other lands, or, remaining in France, had been dragooned, sent to the galleys, the wheel, and the flames. The "femme fameuse et funeste" was the greatest living saint in Europe.

      And as a saint, a patroness of the Holy Roman Church, she came now to visit the Princesse de Rochebazon once more ere she died.

      "Aurore," she said, a moment later, "I have come to you again, hoping to find you not yet gone before me; because-because-oh, Aurore! to-to plead once more for the sacred cause of our Church; to beseech you to consider what you are about to do. Think! Think! You have worked so much good for that Church-yet you may do more."

      "More!" the dying woman said, her clear, bright eyes fixed full blaze upon the other. "Madame-well, Françoise, since you insist-what more can I do? There is no de Rochebazon succeeding to title or estate, the power to will the latter, and-and all the movables, the argent comptant, is mine. And it is done. Beyond a few gifts to those who have served me, beyond what I have saved from that which is not justly mine, the Church will have all-all! Can it demand further?"

      "'Tis that, 'tis that, Aurore! What you have saved from that which is most justly yours? 'Tis that! You told me," and now her voice, never loud, sank almost to a whisper, as though she feared that even in this vast room there might still be some who could overhear her, "that to this young man, this Martin Ashurst-this Anglais-you have left those savings. A noble heritage, five hundred thousand pistoles. Oh, Aurore! Aurore! think, think! it is French money, and he is-English-"

      "He is my own flesh and blood," the other interjected. "My brother's child! And he is of our Church!"

      "That alone redeems it. Yet think of all our Church, here in this France of ours, needs. Money to extirpate the heretics-some can even be bought with money, they say; in the Midi there are those who will adopt our religion for a handful of Louis d'ors-"

      "They must have changed since their grandfather's days! – since La Rochelle!"

      "They have changed, though-Vengeance confound and crush them! – some are still obstinate. But, Aurore, listen. This young man, this nephew, needs not the money. He is provided for, will be provided for in his own land. He will do well-go far under the heretic, Anne. Oh, Aurore, he is your flesh and blood, I know. 'Tis but nature that you should benefit him-yet not so much, not so much. God is before man-before all earthly relations."

      "He is my brother's child," the Princesse de Rochebazon repeated. "And I loved that brother. Also this one has been my care-"

      "I know, I know! Supported, educated by you, given money hourly to squander in waste. Yet I speak not against that; he is of your race. But now you will give him all this-so great a sum! And France needs money. Aurore," she cried, "do you know that our-that Louis'-coffers are empty? The wars, the buildings, the pomps and vanities, the awful prodigalities of the court have left those coffers bare. And money is needed so, needed so-especially for the work of the Church-needed so much!"

      And she almost wrung her hands as thus she pleaded. Yet again the dying aristocrat murmured: "My own flesh and blood. Also of our faith."

      Exhausted by her own efforts, the De Maintenon-the Curse of France! as many had termed her-seemed now to desist, to be beaten back by the words of the princess. Then suddenly seemed also roused to fresh excitement as the other spoke again-excitement mixed this time with anger, as testified by the glances her eyes shot forth. For the dying woman had continued: "Though I provide for him I must tell him the truth-tell all. I can not die with a lie on my lips-in my heart."

      "Aurore!" she exclaimed-had she not been a king's wife, had this not been a sick-room, it might almost have seemed that she screamed at the other-"Aurore, your brain is gone. You are mad. Tell him all, and lead to further evil to our Church. Aurore, for God's sake say this is a fantasy of your mind. Why," she exclaimed, her passion mounting with her thoughts, "why should you, a stranger to France, a woman raised by marriage to your high position, bring scandal on the name of a noble family-reveal secrets that have slumbered for years?"

      "I can not die," the other repeated, "with the truth hidden."

      "The truth," Madame de Maintenon muttered through her discoloured teeth, "the truth! What has the truth to do with-what account is it when set against our faith! Aurore, in the name of that faith, recall your words, your resolve."

      But the dying woman was unshaken. Even the other, whose influence terrified all France, could not affright her-perhaps because the princess knew that henceforth she had to answer to a greater than she.

      "I must confess it to him-I must-I must!" she murmured faintly. "I must. I can not die with such a secret in my heart."

      CHAPTER II

      THE TRAVELLER FROM ENGLAND

      A great Berline à quatre chevaux halted at the North Gate outside Paris, and the young man seated within the carriage let down the window and prepared to once more answer all the questions that would be put to him. Yet he also thanked Heaven, in a somewhat wearied manner, that this must be the last of it. After that he would be in Paris, with nothing before him but to drive as fast as might be to the Rue Champfleury, known long ago as La Rue Honteuse.

      Then the formula began once more, was repeated and gone through with, precisely in the same manner as it had been gone through with at Boulogne, where he had landed, at Amiens, Abbeville, and half a dozen other towns and villages.

      "Monsieur's name?" asked the guet, respectfully enough, while as each answer was made he glanced at the passport handed to him and countersigned by the Ambassador to England from "Louis, Roi de France et de Navarre, etc."

      "Martin Ashurst."

      "Country?"

      "England."

      "Position?"

      "Gentleman. Also-"

      But here he found that no more explanation whatever was required from him. Precisely as he had found it all along the road, whenever the inquiring eyes of warders or guets or gatekeepers (in some cases soldiers) had lit upon one of the many statements appended to his passport-the statement that Monsieur Ashurst was nephew to "Madame la Princesse de Rochebazon."

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