And as the king brightened, so all the great court brightened too. The salons7 began to resume their former splendour, and gay coats and glittering embroidery9 which had lain in drawers for years were seen once more in the halls of the palace. In the chapel, Bourdaloue preached in vain to empty benches, but a ballet in the grounds was attended by the whole court, and received with a frenzy10 of enthusiasm. The Montespan ante-room was crowded every morning with men and women who had some suit to be urged, while her rival’s chambers12 were as deserted13 as they had been before the king first turned a gracious look upon her. Faces which had been long banished14 the court began to reappear in the corridors and gardens unchecked and unrebuked, while the black cassock of the Jesuit and the purple soutane of the bishop15 were less frequent colours in the royal circle.
But the Church party, who, if they were the champions of bigotry16, were also those of virtue17, were never seriously alarmed at this relapse. The grave eyes of priest or of prelate followed Louis in his escapade as wary18 huntsmen might watch a young deer which gambols19 about in the meadow under the impression that it is masterless, when every gap and path is netted, and it is in truth as much in their hands as though it were lying bound before them. They knew how short a time it would be before some ache, some pain, some chance word, would bring his mortality home to him again, and envelop20 him once more in those superstitious21 terrors which took the place of religion in his mind. They waited, therefore, and they silently planned how the prodigal22 might best be dealt with on his return.
To this end it was that his confessor, Pere la Chaise, and Bossuet, the great Bishop of Meaux, waited one morning upon Madame de Maintenon in her chamber11. With a globe beside her, she was endeavouring to teach geography to the lame23 Due du Maine and the mischievous24 little Comte de Toulouse, who had enough of their father’s disposition25 to make them averse26 to learning, and of their mother’s to cause them to hate any discipline or restraint. Her wonderful tact27, however, and her unwearying patience had won the love and confidence even of these little perverse28 princes, and it was one of Madame de Montespan’s most bitter griefs that not only her royal lover, but even her own children, turned away from the brilliancy and riches of her salon8 to pass their time in the modest apartment of her rival.
Madame de Maintenon dismissed her two pupils, and received the ecclesiastics29 with the mixture of affection and respect which was due to those who were not only personal friends, but great lights of the Gallican Church. She had suffered the minister Louvois to sit upon a stool in her presence, but the two chairs were allotted30 to the priests now, and she insisted upon reserving the humbler seat for herself. The last few days had cast a pallor over her face which spiritualised and refined the features, but she wore unimpaired the expression of sweet serenity31 which was habitual32 to her.
“I see, my dear daughter, that you have sorrowed,” said Bossuet, glancing at her with a kindly33 and yet searching eye.
“I have indeed, your Grace. All last night I spent in prayer that this trial may pass away from us.”
“And yet you have no need for fear, madame—none, I assure you. Others may think that your influence has ceased; but we, who know the king’s heart, we think otherwise. A few days may pass, a few weeks at the most, and once more it will be upon your rising fortunes that every eye in France will turn.”
The lady’s brow clouded, and she glanced at the prelate as though his speech were not altogether to her taste. “I trust that pride does not lead me astray,” she said. “But if I can read my own soul aright, there is no thought of myself in the grief which now tears my heart. What is power to me? What do I desire? A little room, leisure for my devotions, a pittance34 to save me from want—what more can I ask for? Why, then, should I covet35 power? If I am sore at heart, it is not for any poor loss which I have sustained. I think no more of it than of the snapping of one of the threads on yonder tapestry36 frame. It is for the king I grieve—for the noble heart, the kindly soul, which might rise so high, and which is dragged so low, like a royal eagle with some foul37 weight which ever hampers38 its flight. It is for him and for France that my days are spent in sorrow and my nights upon my knees.”
“For all that, my daughter, you are ambitious.”
It was the Jesuit who had spoken. His voice was clear and cold, and his piercing gray eyes seemed to read into the depths of her soul.
“You may be right, father. God guard me from self-esteem. And yet I do not think that I am. The king, in his goodness, has offered me titles— I have refused them; money—I have returned it. He has deigned40 to ask my advice in matters of state, and I have withheld41 it. Where, then, is my ambition?”
“In your heart, my daughter. But it is not a sinful ambition. It is not an ambition of this world. Would you not love to turn the king towards good?”
“I would give my life for it.”
“And there is your ambition. Ah, can I not read your noble soul? Would you not love to see the Church reign42 pure and serene43 over all this realm—to see the poor housed, the needy44 helped, the wicked turned from their ways, and the king ever the leader in all that is noble and good? Would you not love that, my daughter?”
Her cheeks had flushed, and her eyes shone as she looked at the gray face of the Jesuit, and saw the picture which his words had conjured45 up before her. “Ah, that would be joy indeed!” she cried.
“And greater joy still to know, not from the mouths of the people, but from the voice of your own heart in the privacy of your chamber, that you had been the cause of it, that your influence had brought this blessing46 upon the king and upon the country.”
“I would die to do it.”
“We wish you to do what may be harder. We wish you to live to do it.”
“Ah!” She glanced from one to the other with questioning eyes.
“My daughter,” said Bossuet solemnly, leaning forward, with his broad white hand outstretched and his purple pastoral ring sparkling in the sunlight, “it is time for plain speaking. It is in the interests of the Church that we do it. None hear, and none shall ever hear, what passes between us now. Regard us, if you will, as two confessors, with whom your secret is inviolable. I call it a secret, and yet it is none to us, for it is our mission to read the human heart. You love the king.”
“Your Grace!” She started, and a warm blush, mantling47 up in her pale cheeks, deepened and spread until it tinted48 her white forehead and her queenly neck.
“You love the king.”
“Your Grace—father!” She turned in confusion from one to the other.
“There is no shame in loving, my daughter. The shame lies only in yielding to love. I say again that you love the king.”
“At least I have never told him so,” she faltered49.
“And will you never?”
“May heaven wither50 my tongue first!”
“But consider, my daughter. Such love in a soul like yours is heaven’s gift, and sent for some wise purpose. This human love is too often but a noxious51 weed which blights52 the soil it grows in, but here it is a gracious flower, all fragrant53 with humility54 and virtue.”
“Alas! I have tried to tear it from my heart.”
“Nay55; rather hold it firmly rooted there. Did the king but meet with some tenderness from you, some sign that his own affection met with an answer from your heart, it might be that this ambition which you profess56 would be secured, and that Louis, strengthened by the intimate companionship of your noble nature, might live in the spirit as well as in the forms of the Church. All this might spring from the love which you hide away as though it bore the brand of shame.”
The lady half rose, glancing from the prelate to the priest with eyes which had a lurking57 horror in their depths.
“Can I have understood you!” she gasped58. “What meaning lies behind these words? You cannot counsel me to—”
The Jesuit had risen, and his spare figure towered above her.
“My daughter, we give no counsel which is unworthy of our office. We speak for the interests of Holy Church, and those interests demand that you should marry the king.”
“Marry the king!” The little room swam round her. “Marry the king!”
“There lies the best hope for the future. We see in you a second Jeanne d’Arc, who will save both France and France’s king.”
Madame sat silent for a few moments. Her face had regained60 its composure, and her eyes were bent61 vacantly upon her tapestry frame as she turned over in her mind all that was involved in the suggestion.
“But surely—surely this could never be,” she said at last, “Why should we plan that which can never come to pass?”
“And why?”
“What King of France has married a subject? See how every princess of Europe stretches out her hand to him. The Queen of France must be of queenly blood, even as the last was.”
“All this may be overcome.”
“And then there are the reasons of state. If the king marry, it should be to form a powerful alliance, to cement a friendship with a neighbour nation, or to gain some province which may be the bride’s dowry. What is my dowry? A widow’s pension and a work-box.” She laughed bitterly, and yet glanced eagerly at her companions, as one who wished to be confuted.
“Your dowry, my daughter, would be those gifts of body and of mind with which heaven has endowed you. The king has money enough, and the king has provinces enough. As to the state, how can the state be better served than by the assurance that the king will be saved in future from such sights as are to be seen in this palace today?”
“Oh, if it could be so! But think, father, think of those about him— the dauphin, monsieur his brother, his ministers. You know how little this would please them, and how easy it is for them to sway his mind. No, no; it is a dream, father, and it can never be.”
The faces of the two ecclesiastics, who had dismissed her other objections with a smile and a wave, clouded over at this, as though she had at last touched upon the real obstacle.
“My daughter,” said the Jesuit gravely, “that is a matter which you may leave to the Church. It may be that we, too, have some power over the king’s mind, and that we may lead him in the right path, even though those of his own blood would fain have it otherwise. The future only can show with whom the power lies. But you? Love and duty both draw you one way now, and the Church may count upon you.”
“To my last breath, father.”
“And you upon the Church. It will serve you, if you in turn will but serve it.”
“What higher wish could I have?”
“You will be our daughter, our queen, our champion, and you will heal the wounds of the suffering Church.”
“Ah! if I could!”
“But you can. While there is heresy62 within the land there can be no peace or rest for the faithful. It is the speck63 of mould which will in time, if it be not pared off, corrupt64 the whole fruit.”
“What would you have, then, father?”
“The Huguenots must go. They must be driven forth65. The goats must be divided from the sheep. The king is already in two minds. Louvois is our friend now. If you are with us, then all will be well.”
“But, father, think how many there are!”
“The more reason that they should be dealt with.”
“And think, too, of their sufferings should they be driven forth.”
“Their cure lies in their own hands.”
“That is true. And yet my heart softens66 for them.”
Pere la Chaise and the bishop shook their heads. Nature had made them both kind and charitable men, but the heart turns to flint when the blessing of religion is changed to the curse of sect67.
“You would befriend God’s enemies then?”
“No, no; not if they are indeed so.”
“Can you doubt it? Is it possible that your heart still turns towards the heresy of your youth?”
“No, father; but it is not in nature to forget that my father and my grandfather—”
“Nay, they have answered for their own sins. Is it possible that the Church has been mistaken in you? Do you then refuse the first favour which she asks of you? You would accept her aid, and yet you would give none in return.”
Madame de Maintenon rose with the air of one who has made her resolution. “You are wiser than I,” said she, “and to you have been committed the interests of the Church. I will do what you advise.”
“You promise it?”
“I do.”
Her two visitors threw up their hands together. “It is a blessed day,” they cried, “and generations yet unborn will learn to deem it so.”
She sat half stunned68 by the prospect69 which was opening out in front of her. Ambitious she had, as the Jesuit had surmised70, always been— ambitious for the power which would enable her to leave the world better than she found it. And this ambition she had already to some extent been able to satisfy, for more than once she had swayed both king and kingdom. But to marry the king—to marry the man for whom she would gladly lay down her life, whom in the depths of her heart she loved in as pure and as noble a fashion as woman ever yet loved man—that was indeed a thing above her utmost hopes. She knew her own mind, and she knew his. Once his wife, she could hold him to good, and keep every evil influence away from him. She was sure of it. She should be no weak Maria Theresa, but rather, as the priest had said, a new Jeanne d’Arc, come to lead France and France’s king into better ways. And if, to gain this aim, she had to harden her heart against the Huguenots, at least the fault, if there were one, lay with those who made this condition rather than with herself. The king’s wife! The heart of the woman and the soul of the enthusiast71 both leaped at the thought.
But close at the heels of her joy there came a sudden revulsion to doubt and despondency. Was not all this fine prospect a mere72 day-dream? and how could these men be so sure that they held the king in the hollow of their hand? The Jesuit read the fears which dulled the sparkle of her eyes, and answered her thoughts before she had time to put them into words.
“The Church redeems73 its pledges swiftly,” said he. “And you, my daughter, you must be as prompt when your own turn comes.”
“I have promised, father.”
“Then it is for us to perform. You will remain in your room all evening.”
“Yes, father.”
“The king already hesitates. I spoke39 with him this morning, and his mind was full of blackness and despair. His better self turns in disgust from his sins, and it is now when the first hot fit of repentance74 is just coming upon him that he may best be moulded to our ends. I have to see and speak with him once more, and I go from your room to his. And when I have spoken, he will come from his room to yours, or I have studied his heart for twenty years in vain. We leave you now, and you will not see us, but you will see the effects of what we do, and you will remember your pledge to us.” They bowed low to her both together, and left her to her thoughts.
An hour passed, and then a second one, as she sat in her fauteuil, her tapestry before her, but her hands listless upon her lap, waiting for her fate. Her life’s future was now being settled for her, and she was powerless to turn it in one way or the other. Daylight turned to the pearly light of evening, and that again to dusk, but she still sat waiting in the shadow. Sometimes as a step passed in the corridor she would glance expectantly towards the door, and the light of welcome would spring up in her gray eyes, only to die away again into disappointment. At last, however, there came a quick sharp tread, crisp and authoritative75, which brought her to her feet with flushed cheeks and her heart beating wildly. The door opened, and she saw outlined against the gray light of the outer passage the erect76 and graceful77 figure of the king.
“Sire! One instant, and mademoiselle will light the lamp.”
“Do not call her.” He entered and closed the door behind him. “Francoise, the dusk is welcome to me, because it screens me from the reproaches which must lie in your glance, even if your tongue be too kindly to speak them.”
“Reproaches, sire! God forbid that I should utter them!”
“When I last left you, Francoise, it was with a good resolution in my mind. I tried to carry it out, and I failed—I failed. I remember that you warned me. Fool that I was not to follow your advice!”
“We are all weak and mortal, sire. Who has not fallen? Nay, sire, it goes to my heart to see you thus.”
He was standing78 by the fireplace, his face buried in his hands, and she could tell by the catch of his breath that he was weeping. All the pity of her woman’s nature went out to that silent and repenting79 figure dimly seen in the failing light. She put out her hand with a gesture of sympathy, and it rested for an instant upon his velvet80 sleeve. The next he had clasped it between his own, and she made no effort to release it.
“I cannot do without you, Francoise,” he cried. “I am the loneliest man in all this world, like one who lives on a great mountain-peak, with none to bear him company. Who have I for a friend? Whom can I rely upon? Some are for the Church; some are for their families; most are for themselves. But who of them all is single-minded? You are my better self, Francoise; you are my guardian81 angel. What the good father says is true, and the nearer I am to you the further am I from all that is evil. Tell me, Francoise, do you love me?”
“I have loved you for years, sire.” Her voice was low but clear—the voice of a woman to whom coquetry was abhorrent82.
“I had hoped it, Francoise, and yet it thrills me to hear you say it. I know that wealth and title have no attraction for you, and that your heart turns rather towards the convent than the palace. Yet I ask you to remain in the palace, and to reign there. Will you be my wife, Francoise?”
And so the moment had in very truth come. She paused for an instant, only an instant, before taking this last great step; but even that was too long for the patience of the king.
“Will you not, Francoise?” he cried, with a ring of fear in his voice.
“May God make me worthy59 of such an honour, sire!” said she. “And here I swear that if heaven double my life, every hour shall be spent in the one endeavour to make you a happier man!”
She had knelt down, and the king, still holding her hand, knelt down beside her.
“And I swear too,” he cried, “that if my days also are doubled, you will now and forever be the one and only woman for me.”
And so their double oath was taken, an oath which was to be tested in the future, for each did live almost double their years, and yet neither broke the promise made hand in hand on that evening in the shadow-girt chamber.
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1
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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salons
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| n.（营业性质的）店( salon的名词复数 )；厅；沙龙（旧时在上流社会女主人家的例行聚会或聚会场所）；（大宅中的）客厅 | |
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salon
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| n.[法]沙龙；客厅；营业性的高级服务室 | |
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embroidery
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| n.绣花，刺绣；绣制品 | |
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frenzy
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| n.疯狂，狂热，极度的激动 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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bigotry
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| n.偏见，偏执，持偏见的行为[态度]等 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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wary
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| adj.谨慎的，机警的，小心的 | |
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gambols
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| v.蹦跳，跳跃，嬉戏( gambol的第三人称单数 ) | |
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envelop
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| vt.包，封，遮盖；包围 | |
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superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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prodigal
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| adj.浪费的，挥霍的，放荡的 | |
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lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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averse
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| adj.厌恶的；反对的，不乐意的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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perverse
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| adj.刚愎的；坚持错误的，行为反常的 | |
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ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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pittance
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| n.微薄的薪水，少量 | |
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covet
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| vt.垂涎；贪图(尤指属于他人的东西) | |
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tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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foul
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| adj.污秽的；邪恶的；v.弄脏；妨害；犯规；n.犯规 | |
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hampers
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的第三人称单数 ) | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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needy
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| adj.贫穷的，贫困的，生活艰苦的 | |
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conjured
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的过去式和过去分词 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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46
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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47
mantling
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| 覆巾 | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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49
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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50
wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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51
noxious
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| adj.有害的，有毒的；使道德败坏的，讨厌的 | |
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52
blights
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| 使凋萎( blight的第三人称单数 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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fragrant
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| adj.芬香的，馥郁的，愉快的 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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lurking
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| 潜在 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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heresy
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| n.异端邪说；异教 | |
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speck
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| n.微粒，小污点，小斑点 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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softens
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| （使）变软( soften的第三人称单数 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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stunned
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| adj. 震惊的，惊讶的 动词stun的过去式和过去分词 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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surmised
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| v.臆测，推断( surmise的过去式和过去分词 )；揣测；猜想 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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redeems
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| 补偿( redeem的第三人称单数 )； 实践； 解救； 使…免受责难 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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repenting
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的现在分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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abhorrent
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| adj.可恶的，可恨的，讨厌的 | |
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