The Refugees. Arthur Conan Doyle

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СКАЧАТЬ the time the king’s frugal first breakfast of bread and twice watered wine had been carried in, the large square chamber was quite filled with a throng of men many of whom had helped to make the epoch the most illustrious of French history. Here, close by the king, was the harsh but energetic Louvois, all-powerful now since the death of his rival Colbert, discussing a question of military organisation with two officers, the one a tall and stately soldier, the other a strange little figure, undersized and misshapen, but bearing the insignia of a marshal of France, and owning a name which was of evil omen over the Dutch frontier, for Luxembourg was looked upon already as the successor of Conde, even as his companion Vauban was of Turenne. Beside them, a small white-haired clerical with a kindly face, Pere la Chaise, confessor to the king, was whispering his views upon Jansenism to the portly Bossuet, the eloquent Bishop of Meaux, and to the tall thin young Abbe de Fenelon, who listened with a clouded brow, for it was suspected that his own opinions were tainted with the heresy in question. There, too, was Le Brun, the painter, discussing art in a small circle which contained his fellow-workers Verrio and Laguerre, the architects Blondel and Le Notre, and sculptors Girardon, Puget, Desjardins, and Coysevox, whose works had done so much to beautify the new palace of the king. Close to the door, Racine, with his handsome face wreathed in smiles, was chatting with the poet Boileau and the architect Mansard, the three laughing and jesting with the freedom which was natural to the favourite servants of the king, the only subjects who might walk unannounced and without ceremony into and out of his chamber.

      “What is amiss with him this morning?” asked Boileau in a whisper, nodding his head in the direction of the royal group. “I fear that his sleep has not improved his temper.”

      “He becomes harder and harder to amuse,” said Racine, shaking his head. “I am to be at Madame De Maintenon’s room at three to see whether a page or two of the Phedre may not work a change.”

      “My friend,” said the architect, “do you not think that madame herself might be a better consoler than your Phedre?”

      “Madame is a wonderful woman. She has brains, she has heart, she has tact—she is admirable.”

      “And yet she has one gift too many.”

      “And that is?”

      “Age.”

      “Pooh! What matter her years when she can carry them like thirty? What an eye! What an arm! And besides, my friends, he is not himself a boy any longer.”

      “Ah, but that is another thing.”

      “A man’s age is an incident, a woman’s a calamity.”

      “Very true. But a young man consults his eye, and an older man his ear. Over forty, it is the clever tongue which wins; under it, the pretty face.”

      “Ah, you rascal! Then you have made up your mind that five-and-forty years with tact will hold the field against nine-and-thirty with beauty. Well, when your lady has won, she will doubtless remember who were the first to pay court to her.”

      “But I think that you are wrong, Racine.”

      “Well, we shall see.”

      “And if you are wrong—”

      “Well, what then?”

      “Then it may be a little serious for you.”

      “And why?”

      “The Marquise de Montespan has a memory.”

      “Her influence may soon be nothing more.”

      “Do not rely too much upon it, my friend. When the Fontanges came up from Provence, with her blue eyes and her copper hair, it was in every man’s mouth that Montespan had had her day. Yet Fontanges is six feet under a church crypt, and the marquise spent two hours with the king last week. She has won once, and may again.”

      “Ah, but this is a very different rival. This is no slip of a country girl, but the cleverest woman in France.”

      “Pshaw, Racine, you know our good master well, or you should, for you seem to have been at his elbow since the days of the Fronde. Is he a man, think you, to be amused forever by sermons, or to spend his days at the feet of a lady of that age, watching her at her tapestry-work, and fondling her poodle, when all the fairest faces and brightest eyes of France are as thick in his salons as the tulips in a Dutch flower-bed? No, no, it will be the Montespan, or if not she, some younger beauty.”

      “My dear Boileau, I say again that her sun is setting. Have you not heard the news?”

      “Not a word.”

      “Her brother, Monsieur de Vivonne, has been refused the entre.”

      “Impossible!”

      “But it is a fact.”

      “And when?”

      “This very morning.”

      “From whom had you it?”

      “From De Catinat, the captain of the guard. He had his orders to bar the way to him.”

      “Ha! then the king does indeed mean mischief. That is why his brow is so cloudy this morning, then. By my faith, if the marquise has the spirit with which folk credit her, he may find that it was easier to win her than to slight her.”

      “Ay; the Mortemarts are no easy race to handle.”

      “Well, heaven send him a safe way out of it! But who is this gentleman? His face is somewhat grimmer than those to which the court is accustomed. Ha! the king catches sight of him, and Louvois beckons to him to advance. By my faith, he is one who would be more at his ease in a tent than under a painted ceiling.”

      The stranger who had attracted Racine’s attention was a tall thin man, with a high aquiline nose, stern fierce gray eyes, peeping out from under tufted brows, and a countenance so lined and marked by age, care, and stress of weather that it stood out amid the prim courtier faces which surrounded it as an old hawk might in a cage of birds of gay plumage. He was clad in a sombre-coloured suit which had become usual at court since the king had put aside frivolity and Fontanges, but the sword which hung from his waist was no fancy rapier, but a good brass-hilted blade in a stained leather-sheath, which showed every sign of having seen hard service. He had been standing near the door, his black-feathered beaver in his hand, glancing with a half-amused, half-disdainful expression at the groups of gossips around him, but at the sign from the minister of war he began to elbow his way forward, pushing aside in no very ceremonious fashion all who barred his passage.

      Louis possessed in a high degree the royal faculty of recognition. “It is years since I have seen him, but I remember his face well,” said he, turning to his minister. “It is the Comte de Frontenac, is it not?”

      “Yes, sire,” answered Louvois; “it is indeed Louis de Buade, Comte de Frontenac, and formerly governor of Canada.”

      “We are glad to see you once more at our lever,” said the monarch, as the old nobleman stooped his head, and kissed the white hand which was extended to him. “I hope that the cold of Canada has not chilled the warmth of your loyalty.”

      “Only death itself, sire, would be cold enough for that.”

      “Then СКАЧАТЬ