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    The Refugees
    The Refugees
    The Refugees
    Ebook484 pages7 hours

    The Refugees

    By Arthur Conan Doyle

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    About this ebook

    This early work by Arthur Conan Doyle was originally published in 1893 and we are now republishing it with a brand new introductory biography. Arthur Conan Doyle was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1859. It was between 1876 and 1881, while studying medicine at the University of Edinburgh, that he began writing short stories, and his first piece was published in Chambers's Edinburgh Journal before he was 20. In 1887, Conan Doyle's first significant work, A Study in Scarlet, appeared in Beeton's Christmas Annual. It featured the first appearance of detective Sherlock Holmes, the protagonist who was to eventually make Conan Doyle's reputation. A prolific writer, Conan Doyle continued to produce a range of fictional works over the following years. We are republishing these classic works in affordable, high quality, modern editions, using the original text and artwork.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherRead Books Ltd.
    Release dateMar 31, 2016
    ISBN9781473369788
    The Refugees
    Author

    Arthur Conan Doyle

    Arthur Conan Doyle (1859–1930) practiced medicine in the resort town of Southsea, England, and wrote stories while waiting for his patients to arrive. In 1886, he created two of the greatest fictional characters of all time: the detective Sherlock Holmes and his partner, Dr. Watson. Over the course of four novels and fifty-six short stories, Conan Doyle set a standard for crime fiction that has yet to be surpassed.

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    • 5/5
      I have long loved the writing of Arthur Conan Doyle and, while the Sherlock Holmes canon will always be my favourite, he wrote very widely in several different genres, including one of my favourites, historical fiction. This one is set in France and French Canada in the late 17th century at the time when King Louis XIV revoked the Edict of Nantes, the law enacted by his grandfather a century before extending tolerance towards the Huguenots (Protestants). Ten of thousands of these persecuted people fled to north America, the low countries, Germany and England. Amory de Catinat and his family are Huguenots, forced to flee, though he had recently earned high favour as a personal guard to the King. In addition to this personal story, the French half of the novel is dominated by the rivalry between Madame de Montespan, the long established mistress of the king and mother to his several illegitimate children, and her supplanter Madame de Maintenon, governess to those children. This is unintentionally funny in places and engagingly melodramatic in the best traditions of historical fiction written in the nineteenth century. King Louis XIV is famous for having said "L'etat, c'est moi", and this overwhelming domination is brought across well here. The French Canadian half of the novel I enjoyed less, and it got a bit repetitive with the endless battles with the Iroquois native Americans (hence dropping half a point), but there was a lot of drama and tension, while the violence and killings were vividly and quite horribly described (the Iroquois being portrayed, with the racial assumptions of the time, as simple savage brutes). This was a very well written and interesting novel about a period of history not generally well known to the great majority of British readers.

    Book preview

    The Refugees - Arthur Conan Doyle

    MONTESPAN.

    Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

    Arthur Conan Doyle was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1859. It was between 1876 and 1881, while studying medicine at the University of Edinburgh, that he began writing short stories, and his first piece was published in Chambers’s Edinburgh Journal before he was 20. In 1882, Conan Doyle opened an independent medical practice in Southsea, near Portsmouth. It was here, while waiting for patients, that he turned to writing fiction again, composing his first novel, The Narrative of John Smith.

    In 1887, Conan Doyle’s first significant work, A Study in Scarlet, appeared in Beeton’s Christmas Annual. It featured the first appearance of detective Sherlock Holmes, the protagonist who was to eventually make Conan Doyle’s reputation. A prolific writer, Conan Doyle continued to produce a range of fictional works over the following years. In 1893, feeling that the character of Sherlock Holmes was distracting him from his historical novels, he had Holmes apparently plunge to his death in the short story ‘The Final Problem’. However, eight years later, following a public outcry from his readers, Conan Doyle ‘resurrected’ the detective in what is now widely regarded as his magnum opus, The Hound of the Baskervilles.

    Sherlock Holmes went on to feature in fifty-six short stories and four novels, cementing Conan Doyle’s reputation as probably the most famous crime writer of all time. Aside from his fiction, Conan Doyle was also a passionate political campaigner – a pamphlet he published in 1902, defending the United Kingdom’s much-criticised role in the Boer War, is seen as a major contributor to his receiving of a knighthood in that same year.

    In his later years, following the death of his son in World War I, Conan Doyle became deeply interested in spiritualism and psychic phenomena, producing several works on the subjects and engaging in a very public friendship and falling out with the American magician Harry Houdini. He died of a heart attack while living in East Sussex in 1930, aged 71.

    CHAPTER I.

    THE MAN FROM AMERICA.

    It was the sort of window which was common in Paris about the end of the seventeenth century. It was high, mullioned, with a broad transom across the centre, and above the middle of the transom a tiny coat of arms—three caltrops gules upon a field argent—let into the diamond-paned glass. Outside there projected a stout iron rod, from which hung a gilded miniature of a bale of wool which swung and squeaked with every puff of wind. Beyond that again were the houses of the other side, high, narrow, and prim, slashed with diagonal wood-work in front, and topped with a bristle of sharp gables and corner turrets. Between were the cobble-stones of the Rue St. Martin and the clatter of innumerable feet.

    Inside, the window was furnished with a broad bancal of brown stamped Spanish leather, where the family might recline and have an eye from behind the curtains on all that was going forward in the busy world beneath them. Two of them sat there now, a man and a woman, but their backs were turned to the spectacle, and their faces to the large and richly furnished room. From time to time they stole a glance at each other, and their eyes told that they needed no other sight to make them happy.

    Nor was it to be wondered at, for they were a well-favoured pair. She was very young, twenty at the most, with a face which was pale, indeed, and yet of a brilliant pallor, which was so clear and fresh, and carried with it such a suggestion of purity and innocence, that one would not wish its maiden grace to be marred by an intrusion of colour. Her features were delicate and sweet, and her blue-black hair and long dark eyelashes formed a piquant contrast to her dreamy gray eyes and her ivory skin. In her whole expression there was something quiet and subdued, which was accentuated by her simple dress of black taffeta, and by the little jet brooch and bracelet which were her sole ornaments. Such was Adele Catinat, the only daughter of the famous Huguenot cloth-merchant.

    But if her dress was sombre, it was atoned for by the magnificence of her companion. He was a man who might have been ten years her senior, with a keen soldier face, small well-marked features, a carefully trimmed black moustache, and a dark hazel eye which might harden to command a man, or soften to supplicate a woman, and be successful at either. His coat was of sky-blue, slashed across with silver braidings, and with broad silver shoulder-straps on either side. A vest of white calamanca peeped out from beneath it, and knee-breeches of the same disappeared into high polished boots with gilt spurs upon the heels. A silver-hilted rapier and a plumed cap lying upon a settle beside him completed a costume which was a badge of honour to the wearer, for any Frenchman would have recognised it as being that of an officer in the famous Blue Guard of Louis the Fourteenth. A trim, dashing soldier he looked, with his curling black hair and well-poised head. Such he had proved himself before now in the field, too, until the name of Amory de Catinat had become conspicuous among the thousands of the valiant lesser noblesse who had flocked into the service of the king.

    They were first cousins, these two, and there was just sufficient resemblance in the clear-cut features to recall the relationship. De Catinat was sprung from a noble Huguenot family, but having lost his parents early he had joined the army, and had worked his way without influence and against all odds to his present position. His father’s younger brother, however, finding every path to fortune barred to him through the persecution to which men of his faith were already subjected, had dropped the de which implied his noble descent, and he had taken to trade in the city of Paris, with such success that he was now one of the richest and most prominent citizens of the town. It was under his roof that the guardsman now sat, and it was his only daughter whose white hand he held in his own.

    Tell me, Adele, said he, why do you look troubled?

    I am not troubled, Amory,

    Come, there is just one little line between those curving brows. Ah, I can read you, you see, as a shepherd reads the sky.

    It is nothing, Amory, but—

    But what?

    You leave me this evening.

    But only to return to-morrow.

    And must you really, really go to-night?

    It would be as much as my commission is worth to be absent. Why, I am on duty to-morrow morning outside the king’s bedroom! After chapel-time Major de Brissac will take my place, and then I am free once more.

    Ah, Amory, when you talk of the king and the court and the grand ladies, you fill me with wonder.

    And why with wonder?

    To think that you who live amid such splendour should stoop to the humble room of a mercer.

    Ah, but what does the room contain?

    There is the greatest wonder of all. That you who pass your days amid such people, so beautiful, so witty, should think me worthy of your love, me, who am such a quiet little mouse, all alone in this great house, so shy and so backward! It is wonderful!

    Every man has his own taste, said her cousin, stroking the tiny hand. It is with women as with flowers. Some may prefer the great brilliant sunflower, or the rose, which is so bright and large that it must ever catch the eye. But give me the little violet which hides among the mosses, and yet is so sweet to look upon, and sheds its fragrance round it. But still that line upon your brow, dearest.

    I was wishing that father would return.

    And why? Are you so lonely, then?

    Her pale face lit up with a quick smile. I shall not be lonely until to-night. But I am always uneasy when he is away. One hears so much now of the persecution of our poor brethren.

    Tut! my uncle can defy them.

    He has gone to the provost of the Mercer Guild about this notice of the quartering of the dragoons.

    Ah, you have not told me of that.

    Here it is. She rose and took up a slip of blue paper with a red seal dangling from it which lay upon the table. His strong, black brows knitted together as he glanced at it.

    Take notice, it ran, that you, Theophile Catinat, cloth-mercer of the Rue St. Martin, are hereby required to give shelter and rations to twenty men of the Languedoc Blue Dragoons under Captain Dalbert, until such time as you receive a further notice. [Signed] De Beaupre (Commissioner of the King).

    De Catinat knew well how this method of annoying Huguenots had been practised all over France, but he had flattered himself that his own position at court would have insured his kinsman from such an outrage. He threw the paper down with an exclamation of anger.

    When do they come?

    Father said to-night.

    Then they shall not be here long. To-morrow I shall have an order to remove them. But the sun has sunk behind St. Martin’s Church, and I should already be upon my way.

    No, no; you must not go yet.

    I would that I could give you into your father’s charge first, for I fear to leave you alone when these troopers may come. And yet no excuse will avail me if I am not at Versailles. But see, a horseman has stopped before the door. He is not in uniform. Perhaps he is a messenger from your father.

    The girl ran eagerly to the window, and peered out, with her hand resting upon her cousin’s silver-corded shoulder.

    Ah! she cried, "I had forgotten. It is the man from America.

    Father said that he would come to-day."

    The man from America! repeated the soldier, in a tone of surprise, and they both craned their necks from the window. The horseman, a sturdy, broad-shouldered young man, clean-shaven and crop-haired, turned his long, swarthy face and his bold features in their direction as he ran his eyes over the front of the house. He had a soft-brimmed gray hat of a shape which was strange to Parisian eyes, but his sombre clothes and high boots were such as any citizen might have worn. Yet his general appearance was so unusual that a group of townsfolk had already assembled round him, staring with open mouth at his horse and himself. A battered gun with an extremely long barrel was fastened by the stock to his stirrup, while the muzzle stuck up into the air behind him. At each holster was a large dangling black bag, and a gaily coloured red-slashed blanket was rolled up at the back of his saddle. His horse, a strong-limbed dapple-gray, all shiny with sweat above, and all caked with mud beneath, bent its fore knees as it stood, as though it were overspent. The rider, however, having satisfied himself as to the house, sprang lightly out of his saddle, and disengaging his gun, his blanket, and his bags, pushed his way unconcernedly through the gaping crowd and knocked loudly at the door.

    Who is he, then? asked De Catinat. A Canadian? I am almost one myself. I had as many friends on one side of the sea as on the other. Perchance I know him. There are not so many white faces yonder, and in two years there was scarce one from the Saguenay to Nipissing that I had not seen.

    Nay, he is from the English provinces, Amory. But he speaks our tongue. His mother was of our blood.

    And his name?

    Is Amos—Amos—ah, those names! Yes, Green, that was it—Amos Green. His father and mine have done much trade together, and now his son, who, as I understand, has lived ever in the woods, is sent here to see something of men and cities. Ah, my God! what can have happened now?

    A sudden chorus of screams and cries had broken out from the passage beneath, with the shouting of a man and the sound of rushing steps. In an instant De Catinat was half-way down the stairs, and was staring in amazement at the scene in the hall beneath.

    Two maids stood, screaming at the pitch of their lungs, at either side. In the centre the aged man-servant Pierre, a stern old Calvinist, whose dignity had never before been shaken, was spinning round, waving his arms, and roaring so that he might have been heard at the Louvre. Attached to the gray worsted stocking which covered his fleshless calf was a fluffy black hairy ball, with one little red eye glancing up, and the gleam of two white teeth where it held its grip. At the shrieks, the young stranger, who had gone out to his horse, came rushing back, and plucking the creature off, he slapped it twice across the snout, and plunged it head-foremost back into the leather bag from which it had emerged.

    It is nothing, said he, speaking in excellent French; it is only a bear.

    Ah, my God! cried Pierre, wiping the drops from his brow. Ah, it has aged me five years! I was at the door, bowing to monsieur, and in a moment it had me from behind.

    It was my fault for leaving the bag loose. The creature was but pupped the day we left New York, six weeks come Tuesday. Do I speak with my father’s friend, Monsieur Catinat?

    No, monsieur, said the guardsman, from the staircase. My uncle is out, but I am Captain de Catinat, at your service, and here is Mademoiselle Catinat, who is your hostess.

    The stranger ascended the stair, and paid his greetings to them both with the air of a man who was as shy as a wild deer, and yet who had steeled himself to carry a thing through. He walked with them to the sitting-room, and then in an instant was gone again, and they heard his feet thudding upon the stairs. Presently he was back, with a lovely glossy skin in his hands. The bear is for your father, mademoiselle, said he. This little skin I have brought from America for you. It is but a trifle, and yet it may serve to make a pair of mocassins or a pouch.

    Adele gave a cry of delight as her hands sank into the depths of its softness. She might well admire it, for no king in the world could have had a finer skin. Ah, it is beautiful, monsieur, she cried; and what creature is it? and where did it come from?

    It is a black fox. I shot it myself last fall up near the Iroquois villages at Lake Oneida.

    She pressed it to her cheek, her white face showing up like marble against its absolute blackness. I am sorry my father is not here to welcome you, monsieur, she said; but I do so very heartily in his place. Your room is above. Pierre will show you to it, if you wish.

    My room? For what?

    Why, monsieur, to sleep in!

    And must I sleep in a room?

    De Catinat laughed at the gloomy face of the American.

    You shall not sleep there if you do not wish, said he.

    The other brightened at once and stepped across to the further window, which looked down upon the court-yard. Ah, he cried. There is a beech-tree there, mademoiselle, and if I might take my blanket out yonder, I should like it better than any room. In winter, indeed, one must do it, but in summer I am smothered with a ceiling pressing down upon me.

    You are not from a town then? said De Catinat.

    My father lives in New York—two doors from the house of Peter Stuyvesant, of whom you must have heard. He is a very hardy man, and he can do it, but I—even a few days of Albany or of Schenectady are enough for me. My life has been in the woods.

    I am sure my father would wish you to sleep where you like and to do what you like, as long as it makes you happy.

    I thank you, mademoiselle. Then I shall take my things out there, and I shall groom my horse.

    Nay, there is Pierre.

    I am used to doing it myself.

    Then I will come with you, said De Catinat, for I would have a word with you. Until to-morrow, then, Adele, farewell!

    Until to-morrow, Amory.

    The two young men passed downstairs together, and the guardsman followed the American out into the yard.

    You have had a long journey, he said.

    Yes; from Rouen.

    Are you tired?

    No; I am seldom tired.

    Remain with the lady, then, until her father comes back.

    Why do you say that?

    Because I have to go, and she might need a protector.

    The stranger said nothing, but he nodded, and throwing off his black coat, set to work vigorously rubbing down his travel-stained horse.

    CHAPTER II.

    A MONARCH IN DESHABILLE.

    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 is on duty?

    Major de Brissac at the main guard, and Captain de Catinat in the corridor.

    "De Catinat! Ah, the young man who stopped my horse at Fontainebleau.

    I remember him. You may give the signal, Bontems."

    The chief valet walked swiftly across to the door and threw it open. In rushed the officer of the ovens and the four red-coated, white-wigged footmen, ready-handed, silent-footed, each intent upon his own duties. The one seized upon Bontem’s rug and couch, and in an instant had whipped them off into an ante-chamber, another had carried away the en cas meal and the silver taper-stand; while a third drew back the great curtains of stamped velvet and let a flood of light into the apartment. Then, as the flames were already flickering among the pine shavings in the fireplace, the officer of the ovens placed two round logs crosswise above them, for the morning air was chilly, and withdrew with his fellow-servants.

    They were hardly gone before a more august group entered the bed-chamber. Two walked together in front, the one a youth little over twenty years of age, middle-sized, inclining to stoutness, with a slow, pompous bearing, a well-turned leg, and a face which was comely enough in a mask-like fashion, but which was devoid of any shadow of expression, except perhaps of an occasional lurking gleam of mischievous humour. He was richly clad in plum-coloured velvet, with a broad band of blue silk; across his breast, and the glittering edge of the order of St. Louis protruding from under it. His companion was a man of forty, swarthy, dignified, and solemn, in a plain but rich dress of black silk, with slashes of gold at the neck and sleeves. As the pair faced the king there was sufficient resemblance between the three faces to show that they were of one blood, and to enable a stranger to guess that the older was Monsieur, the younger brother of the king, while the other was Louis the Dauphin, his only legitimate child, and heir to a throne to which in the strange workings of Providence neither he nor his sons were destined to ascend.

    Strong as was the likeness between the three faces, each with the curving Bourbon nose, the large full eye, and the thick Hapsburg under-lip, their common heritage from Anne of Austria, there was still a vast difference of temperament and character stamped upon their features. The king was now in his six-and-fortieth year, and the cropped black head was already thinning a little on the top, and shading away to gray over the temples. He still, however, retained much of the beauty of his youth, tempered by the dignity and sternness which increased with his years. His dark eyes were full of expression, and his clear-cut features were the delight of the sculptor and the painter. His firm and yet sensitive mouth and his thick, well-arched brows gave an air of authority and power to his face, while the more subdued expression which was habitual to his brother marked the man whose whole life had been spent in one long exercise of deference and self-effacement. The dauphin, on the other hand, with a more regular face than his father, had none of that quick play of feature when excited, or that kingly serenity when composed, which had made a shrewd observer say that Louis, if he were not the greatest monarch that ever lived, was at least the best fitted to act the part.

    Behind the king’s son and the king’s brother there entered a little group of notables and of officials whom duty had called to this daily ceremony. There was the grand master of the robes, the first lord of the bed-chamber, the Duc du Maine, a pale youth clad in black velvet, limping heavily with his left leg, and his little brother, the young Comte de Toulouse, both of them the illegitimate sons of Madame de Montespan and the king. Behind them, again, was the first valet of the wardrobe, followed by Fagon, the first physician, Telier, the head surgeon, and three pages in scarlet and gold who bore the royal clothes. Such were the partakers in the family entry, the highest honour which the court of France could aspire to.

    Bontems had poured on the king’s hands a few drops of spirits of wine, catching them again in a silver dish; and the first lord of the bedchamber had presented the bowl of holy water with which he made the sign of the cross, muttering to himself the short office of the Holy Ghost. Then, with a nod to his brother and a short word of greeting to the dauphin and to the Due du Maine, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat in his long silken night-dress, his little white feet dangling from beneath it—a perilous position for any man to assume, were it not that he had so heart-felt a sense of his own dignity that he could not realise that under any circumstances it might be compromised in the eyes of others. So he sat, the master of France, yet the slave to every puff of wind, for a wandering draught had set him shivering and shaking. Monsieur de St. Quentin, the noble barber, flung a purple dressing-gown over the royal shoulders, and placed a long many-curled court wig upon his head, while Bontems drew on his red stockings and laid before him his slippers of embroidered velvet. The monarch thrust his feet into them, tied his dressing-gown, and passed out to the fireplace, where he settled himself down in his easy-chair, holding out his thin delicate hands towards the blazing logs, while the others stood round in a semicircle, waiting for the grand lever which was to follow.

    How is this, messieurs? the king asked suddenly, glancing round him with a petulant face. I am conscious of a smell of scent. Surely none of you would venture to bring perfume into the presence, knowing, as you must all do, how offensive it is to me.

    The little group glanced from one to the other with protestations of innocence. The faithful Bontems, however, with his stealthy step, had passed along behind them, and had detected the offender.

    My lord of Toulouse, the smell comes from you, he said.

    The Comte de Toulouse, a little ruddy-cheeked lad, flushed up at the detection.

    If you please, sire, it is possible that Mademoiselle de Grammont may have wet my coat with her casting-bottle when we all played together at Marly yesterday, he stammered. I had not observed it, but if it offends your Majesty—

    Take it away! take it away! cried the king. Pah! it chokes and stifles me! Open the lower casement, Bontems. No; never heed, now that he is gone. Monsieur de St. Quentin, is not this our shaving morning?

    Yes, sire; all is ready.

    "Then why not proceed? It is three minutes after the accustomed time.

    To work, sir; and you, Bontems, give word for the grand lever."

    It was obvious that the king was not in a very good humour that morning. He darted little quick questioning glances at his brother and at his sons, but whatever complaint or sarcasm may have trembled upon his lips, was effectually stifled by De St. Quentin’s ministrations. With the nonchalance born of long custom, the official covered the royal chin with soap, drew the razor swiftly round it, and sponged over the surface with spirits of wine. A nobleman then helped to draw on the king’s black velvet haut-de-chausses, a second assisted in arranging them, while a third drew the night-gown over the shoulders, and handed the royal shirt, which had been warming before the fire. His diamond-buckled shoes, his gaiters, and his scarlet inner vest were successively fastened by noble courtiers, each keenly jealous of his own privilege, and over the vest was placed the blue ribbon with the cross of the Holy Ghost in diamonds, and that of St. Louis tied with red. To one to whom the sight was new, it might have seemed strange to see the little man, listless, passive, with his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the burning logs, while this group of men, each with a historic name, bustled round him, adding a touch here and a touch there, like a knot of children with a favourite doll. The black undercoat was drawn on, the cravat of rich lace adjusted, the loose overcoat secured, two handkerchiefs of costly point carried forward upon an enamelled saucer, and thrust by separate officials into each side pocket, the silver and ebony cane laid to hand, and the monarch was ready for the labours of the day.

    During the half-hour or so which had been occupied in this manner there had been a constant opening and closing of the chamber door, and a muttering of names from the captain of the guard to the attendant in charge, and from the attendant in charge to the first gentleman of the chamber, ending always in the admission of some new visitor. Each as he entered bowed profoundly three times, as a salute to majesty, and then attached himself to his own little clique or coterie, to gossip in a low voice over the news, the weather, and the plans of the day. Gradually the numbers increased, until by 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

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