The Refugees. Arthur Conan Doyle

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      Chapter 2.

       A Monarch in Deshabille

       Table of Contents

      It was the morning after the guardsman had returned to his duties. Eight o’clock had struck on the great clock of Versailles, and it was almost time for the monarch to rise. Through all the long corridors and frescoed passages of the monster palace there was a subdued hum and rustle, with a low muffled stir of preparation, for the rising of the king was a great state function in which many had a part to play. A servant with a steaming silver saucer hurried past, bearing it to Monsieur de St. Quentin, the state barber. Others, with clothes thrown over their arms, bustled down the passage which led to the ante-chamber. The knot of guardsmen in their gorgeous blue and silver coats straightened themselves up and brought their halberds to attention, while the young officer, who had been looking wistfully out of the window at some courtiers who were laughing and chatting on the terraces, turned sharply upon his heel, and strode over to the white and gold door of the royal bedroom.

      He had hardly taken his stand there before the handle was very gently turned from within, the door revolved noiselessly upon its hinges, and a man slid silently through the aperture, closing it again behind him.

      “Hush!” said he, with his finger to his thin, precise lips, while his whole clean-shaven face and high-arched brows were an entreaty and a warning. “The king still sleeps.”

      The words were whispered from one to another among the group who had assembled outside the door. The speaker, who was Monsieur Bontems, head valet de Chambre, gave a sign to the officer of the guard, and led him into the window alcove from which he had lately come.

      “Good-morning, Captain de Catinat,” said he, with a mixture of familiarity and respect in his manner.

      “Good-morning, Bontems. How has the king slept?”

      “Admirably.”

      “But it is his time.”

      “Hardly.”

      “You will not rouse him yet?”

      “In seven and a half minutes.” The valet pulled out the little round watch which gave the law to the man who was the law to twenty millions of people.

      “Who commands at the main guard?”

      “Major de Brissac.”

      “And you will be here?”

      “For four hours I attend the king.”

      “Very good. He gave me some instructions for the officer of the guard, when he was alone last night after the petit coucher. He bade me to say that Monsieur de Vivonne was not to be admitted to the grand lever. You are to tell him so.”

      “I shall do so.”

      “Then, should a note come from her—you understand me, the new one—”

      “Madame de Maintenon?”

      “Precisely. But it is more discreet not to mention names. Should she send a note, you will take it and deliver it quietly when the king gives you an opportunity.”

      “It shall be done.”

      “But if the other should come, as is possible enough—the other, you understand me, the former—”

      “Madame de Montespan.”

      “Ah, that soldierly tongue of yours, captain! Should she come, I say, you will gently bar her way, with courteous words, you understand, but on no account is she to be permitted to enter the royal room.”

      “Very good, Bontems.”

      “And now we have but three minutes.”

      He strode through the rapidly increasing group of people in the corridor with an air of proud humility as befitted a man who, if he was a valet, was at least the king of valets, by being the valet of the king. Close by the door stood a line of footmen, resplendent in their powdered wigs, red plush coats, and silver shoulder knots.

      “Is the officer of the oven here?” asked Bontems.

      “Yes, sir,” replied a functionary who bore in front of him an enamelled tray heaped with pine shavings.

      “The opener of the shutters?”

      “Here, sir.”

      “The remover of the taper?”

      “Here, sir.”

      “Be ready for the word.” He turned the handle once more, and slipped into the darkened room.

      It was a large square apartment, with two high windows upon the further side, curtained across with priceless velvet hangings. Through the chinks the morning sun shot a few little gleams, which widened as they crossed the room to break in bright blurs of light upon the primrose-tinted wall. A large arm-chair stood by the side of the burnt-out fire, shadowed over by the huge marble mantel-piece, the back of which was carried up twining and curving into a thousand arabesque and armorial devices until it blended with the richly painted ceiling. In one corner a narrow couch with a rug thrown across it showed where the faithful Bontems had spent the night.

      In the very centre of the chamber there stood a large four-post bed, with curtains of Gobelin tapestry looped back from the pillow. A square of polished rails surrounded it, leaving a space some five feet in width all round between the enclosure and the bedside. Within this enclosure, or ruelle, stood a small round table, covered over with a white napkin, upon which lay a silver platter and an enamelled cup, the one containing a little Frontiniac wine and water, the other bearing three slices of the breast of a chicken, in case the king should hunger during the night.

      As Bontems passed noiselessly across the room, his feet sinking into the moss-like carpet, there was the heavy close smell of sleep in the air, and he could near the long thin breathing of the sleeper. He passed through the opening in the rails, and stood, watch in hand, waiting for the exact instant when the iron routine of the court demanded that the monarch should be roused. Beneath him, from under the costly green coverlet of Oriental silk, half buried in the fluffy Valenciennes lace which edged the pillow, there protruded a round black bristle of close-cropped hair, with the profile of a curving nose and petulant lip outlined against the white background. The valet snapped his watch, and bent over the sleeper.

      “I have the honour to inform your Majesty that it is half-past eight,” said he.

      “Ah!” The king slowly opened his large dark-brown eyes, made the sign of the cross, and kissed a little dark reliquary which he drew from under his night-dress. Then he sat up in bed, and blinked about him with the air of a man who is collecting his thoughts.

      “Did you give my orders to the officer of the guard, Bontems?” he asked.

      “Yes, sire.”

      “Who СКАЧАТЬ