CHAPTER VI.

"LA FEMME, MALHEUREUSEMENT SI FAMEUSE, FUNESTE ET TERRIBLE."--ST.

SIMON.

Once past Versailles, and St. Cyr was almost reached, the horse which

Martin Ashurst had ordered to be made ready for him that morning

bearing its rider easily and pleasantly along. Almost reached, yet

still a league off, wherefore the young man once more set about

collecting his thoughts ere that distance should be compassed.

Arranged once more in his own mind the manner in which he would

approach "Madame," if she would consent to receive him.

After much consideration, after remembering, or perhaps it should

better be said never forgetting, that what he was about to do might so

envelop him in perils that his life would not be worth a day's--nay,

an hour's--purchase, he had decided that he would be frank and

truthful--that was it, frank and truthful--before this woman who was

now the king's wife, this woman who held the destinies of all in

France in the hollow of her hand almost as much as they were held in

the hand of Louis.

He would plainly tell what he knew, or thought he knew; would seek

confirmation of that knowledge from her into whose house, to whose

presence, he was determined, if possible, to penetrate.

If she would consent to receive him!

Only--would she?

He knew that, by all report, even by such gossip as penetrated as far

as London, where she was much discussed in not only political but also

general circles, an audience with her was as difficult to be obtained

as with Le Dieudonné himself; that, with few exceptions, none outside

the charmed circle of the royal children, her own creatures, and her

own ecclesiastics, were ever able to penetrate to her presence. Nay,

had he not even heard it said that those on whom she poured benefits

could never even obtain a sight of her? that her especial favourites,

the Duchesse du Maine, the brilliant Marshals Villars, Tallard, and

d'Harcourt, could get audience of her only with difficulty? And these

were her friends, and he was--she might well deem that he was--her

enemy.

All the same he was resolved to see her if it were possible.

His dead kinswoman had been her friend, surely his passport was

there--in that.

He reached the outer gate of St. Cyr even as the clock set high above

it struck one, and addressing himself to a soberly clad man servant,

who was standing by the half-open gateway which led into a courtyard,

he asked calmly if "Madame" was visible--if it was permissible for him

to see her?

Then, at first, he feared that he had indeed come upon a bootless

errand, for the grave and decorous servitor showed in his face so deep

an astonishment at the request, so blank an appearance of surprise,

that he thought the answer about to issue from the man's lips could be

none other than one of flat refusal.

"Madame," he answered, in, however, a most respectful tone, "sees no

one without an appointment. If monsieur has that she will doubtless

receive him, or if he bears a message either from his Majesty or the

Duc du Maine. Otherwise----" and he shrugged his shoulders

expressively.

"I have none such," Martin replied, "nor have I any appointment. Yet I

earnestly desire to see Madame. I am the nephew of--of--the Princesse

de Rochebazon, who died yesterday. She was Madame's friend. If I can

be received upon that score I shall be grateful."

At once he saw that, as it had been before--upon, for instance, his

journey from the coast toward Paris--so it was now. That name, his

connection with that great and illustrious family, opened barriers

which might otherwise have been closed firmly against him, removed

obstacle after obstacle as they presented themselves.

The look upon the man's face became not more respectful, since that

was impossible, but less hard, less inflexible; then he said:

"If monsieur will give himself the trouble to dismount and enter the

courtyard his name shall be forwarded to Madame. Whether she will

receive monsieur it is impossible for me to say. Madame is now about

to take her _déjeûner d'après midi_. But the name shall be sent."

Therefore Martin Ashurst, feeling that at least he was one step nearer

to what he desired, dismounted from his horse, and resigning it to a

stableman who was summoned, entered the courtyard of the château, or

institution, as it was more often termed, of St. Cyr. An institution

where the strange woman who ruled over it brought up and educated, and

sometimes dowered, the daughters of the nobility and gentry to whom

she considered something was due from her.

At first he thought this courtyard had been constructed in imitation

of some tropical garden or hothouse, so oppressive was the heat caused

in it by the total exclusion of all air--a heat so great that here

rich exotics grew in tubs as they might have grown in the soil of

those far distant lands, notably Siam, from which they had been

brought by missionaries as presents to their all-powerful mistress.

Then he remembered that among other things peculiar to this woman was

her love of warmth and her hatred of fresh air--perhaps the only

subject on which she was at variance with Louis. And sitting there in

the warm, sickly atmosphere, waiting to know what reception, if any,

might be accorded him, he wondered how the king, whose love of open

windows and of the cool breezes which blew across the woods and

forests of his various palaces and châteaux was proverbial, could ever

contrive to pass as much of his life as he did in the confined and

vaporous air which perpetually surrounded his wife.

As thus he reflected there came toward him an elderly lady, preceded

by the servitor who had received him--a woman dressed in total black,

whom at first he thought might be Madame de Maintenon herself, would

have felt sure that it was she had not the newcomer, bowed--nay,

courtesied to him--as she drew; near, while she spoke in a tone of

civil deference which he scarcely thought one so highly placed as the

king's unacknowledged wife would have used.

"Madame will receive monsieur," this lady said very quietly, in a

soft, almost toneless voice, "if he will follow me. Also she will be

pleased if he will join her at her _déjeûner_."

"It is Mademoiselle Balbien," the servitor said, by way of

introduction of this ancient dame, "Madame's most cherished

attendant." Whereon Martin bowed to the other with a grace which she,

"attendant" though she might be, returned with as much ease as though

her life had been passed in courts from the days of her long-forgotten

infancy.

"Monsieur may have heard of me," the old lady chirped pleasantly as

now she motioned Martin to follow her, smiling, too, while she spoke.

"The Princesse de Rochebazon knew me very well indeed--alas, poor

lady, and she is dead!"

Yes, Martin had heard of her, and from his aunt, too, as well as

others. Had heard of her deep devotion to the woman who now ruled not

only France but France's king--had heard, in truth, that the De

Maintenon might have been dead long years ago of starvation, of

bitter, pinching want, had it not been for this faithful creature. Had

heard his aunt tell, when inclined to gossip, of how Nanon Balbien had

taken Scarron's widow to her garret after the death of the bankrupt

and poverty-stricken poet; had shared her bed and her daily

meal--generally a salted herring and some bread--with the woman now

omnipotent in France; had preserved her life thereby and prevented her

succumbing to cold and destitution and starvation. Knew, too, that

there were those in France who said that in so doing Nanon Balbien had

unwittingly perpetrated the greatest sin, the greatest evil, against

the land that was possible. That it would have been better had she

left the object of her charity to die in the gutters of the street

than to preserve her life, and thereby raise up and nourish the snake

which sucked the life blood from France and all within it.

Still following this old woman, through corridors from which all air

was as equally excluded as from the glass-roofed courtyard they had

left--corridors, too, in which there stood in niches alabaster busts

of saints, and one, with above it a sacred light, of the Figure

itself--Martin Ashurst went on, until at last he and his conductor

neared a huge ebony door the handle of which was of massive silver and

representing an angel's head--a door outside which there stood four

ladies in waiting, all dressed in black, none of them young, and one

only passably good-looking, yet whom he divined to be women of the

oldest and best blood in France, and divined rightly, too. Three of

them were high-born noblemen's daughters, one the daughter of a

prince--De Rohan.

"Mademoiselle de Rochechouart," said Martin's guide, "this is the

gentleman. Will you conduct him to Madame?" and she drew back now,

resigning the visitor to the lady whom she addressed.

"Come, monsieur," that lady said, her voice soft and low, "follow me."

A moment later and he stood before the marvellous woman, the

Protestant woman born in a prison, now a bigoted papist and a king's

wife. Yet Martin remembered only at the moment the words of his dead

kinswoman, "Madame knows it." Remembered, too, how she had said of her

that she was one who would never tell.

Almost he thought that she had but just risen from the _prie Dieu_

which stood beneath another figure of the Saviour that was placed in a

niche here, as was its fellow in the corridor; that she had been

engaged in prayer while awaiting the moment when he should be

conducted to her presence. Thought so, yet doubted. For if she knew,

if she divined upon what errand he had come, would she, even she, this

reputed mask of duplicity, of self-righteous deceit, be praying on her

knees at such a moment? Or, for so also he thought in that swift

instant, was she seeking for guidance, beseeching her God to cleanse

and purify her heart, to give her grace to speak and to reveal the

truth?

But now she stood there calm, erect, notwithstanding her sixty-five

years of life, waiting for him to be brought to her, for his approach.

Yet not defiantly or arrogantly--only waiting.

The murmured words of Mademoiselle de Rochechouart served as

introduction; the courtly bow of Martin Ashurst made acknowledgment of

his presentation, then she spoke:

"My tears, my prayers, my supplications for Aurore de Rochebazon," she

said--and he marvelled that her voice was so low and sweet, he having

imagined, he knew not why, that it should be harsh and bitter--"have

been offered up many times since I have heard of her death. Monsieur,

I accept as a favour at your hands that you have ridden from Paris to

see me here. Doubtless you knew that I should be soothed to hear of

the end she made. Is it not so, monsieur?"

"It is so to some extent, madame. Yet, if you will be so gracious,

there are other matters on which I shall crave leave to address you,

if I have your permission."

"You shall have full permission to speak as it may please you. Yet,

first, you have ridden from Paris. Also it is my hour for the midday

repast. Monsieur," and she put out her silk mittened hand, "your arm."

And taking it she led him through a heavily-curtained door into an

adjoining room. Within that room, sombrely furnished, dark, too, and

somewhat dismal because of the ebony fittings and adornments, was a

table with covers for two. Also upon it a silver gong. And, alone to

relieve the gloom of all around, there stood upon it also a rich

_épergne_, filled almost to overflowing with rich luscious

fruit--peaches, choice grapes, and nectarines.

At first Madame said nothing, or little, to Martin Ashurst beyond the

ordinary speech of a courteous hostess to a stranger guest; also

Mademoiselle de Rochechouart and a waiting maid were always present,

the former standing behind the mistress's chair and directing the

latter by a glance. But at last the _déjeûner_ drew to a conclusion,

the meal of few but extremely choice _plats_ was finished, and two

little handleless cups of coffee (which Madame de Maintenon never

concluded any meal whatever without) were placed in front of hostess

and guest. Then they were alone.

"Now," she said, her deep eyes fixed upon Martin, "now tell me of the

end which Aurore de Rochebazon made. Tell me all--all--her last words.

They were those of one at peace, I pray."

Her voice was sweet and low as she spoke, yet not more calm than that

of the man who sat before her, as he answered:

"Madame, it is to tell you of her last words that I have sought your

presence. Yet, alas----"

"Alas!" she repeated quickly. "Alas! Why do you say that? Alas--what?"

"Her last words were scarce those of peace. Instead, the words of one

whose end was not peaceful; of one who wandered--was distraught--or

revealed in her dying moments a secret that should have been divulged

long, years ago."

The ivory of his listener's face did not become whiter as he spoke,

neither to her cheeks did any blood mantle. There was no sign that in

the mind of this, woman, marble alike in look and heart, was any

knowledge of what the revealed secret was, or only one such sign. A

duller glance from the deep sunken eyes, as though a film had risen

before them and hidden them from him who gazed at her. Then she said:

"Doubtless she wandered. Was distraught, as you say."

"Nay, madame. For she left behind her proofs--letters--testifying----"

"_What?_"

"That my aunt was not the Princesse de Rochebazon. That, instead, she

and her husband usurped a position which was never theirs. That a deep

wrong had been done which must, which shall be, righted."

"By whom?"

"By me, with God's grace."

* * * * * * *

The night was falling as he rode back to Paris and entered the city by

the western gate, making his way to the Rue Champfleury.

Yet neither the challenge of the _guet_ at the barrier nor the noise

inside it when once he was within the city, nor the crowd waiting

outside a theatre to witness a revival of L'Écolier de Salamanque,

which was the production of the poor decayed creature who had been the

first husband of the inscrutable woman he had visited that day, had

power to rouse him from his thoughts, nor to drive from out his memory

her last words:

"Even if all this were true you will never find him. Even though he

lives you will never succeed."