CHAPTER XXVI

The royal supper, au grand couvert, was that night a melancholy one. Surrounded, as was always the case, by the sons and daughters of his royal house as well as the grandsons and granddaughters, and also by those ladies of highest rank to whom the right was accorded of supping at the royal table, the King sat silent and meditative. It was observed, too, that his Majesty's fine appetite had failed him to-night and that he scarcely ate anything, in spite of this being the meal for which he cared most. The thirty violins that usually played nightly in the gallery of the antechamber were, on this occasion, silent, since the King had ordered that there should be no music; the talk and chatter that, in discreet limitation, usually went on at the second table was now almost entirely suppressed; a gloom had fallen over the Court which, from the august ruler downwards, none seemed able to shake off. Rousing himself, however, from the melancholy that had obtained possession of him to-night--a melancholy produced more by the knowledge that there was no possibility of pardon for his early playmate than by even the reflection that, on the morrow, this playmate was to atone for his treachery on the scaffold--Louis rose from his seat and left the table, while all present rose at the same moment.

"De Brissac," the King said to that officer, who now filled and, until the new Colonel of Guards should be appointed, would fill the place of the unhappy man who was to die to-morrow at three o'clock; "there will be no audience to-night in my bedchamber. Inform the Court," after which the King bowed to all who were present and retired. Yet, so strong was habit that, as he passed a little antechamber on his way to his bedroom he stopped and, going into it alone, saw that his pet spaniels had been fed and were comfortable for the night.

"De la Ruffardière," he said to a young nobleman present in the bedroom, to whom at this time had fallen the privilege of removing the King's coat, waistcoat and shirt before handing his Majesty over to the care of the premier valet, "I will dispense with your attendance to-night, and yours," addressing the valet. "I am--fatigued--and would be alone. Bid De Brissac have the guard set at once in the corridor and changed as quietly as possible. Good-night. Heaven have you in its holy keeping."

"Sire," the Marquis de la Ruffardière ventured to say. "I--I--there is a----"

"What is it?" the King asked, looking fixedly at the young man. "What is it----?"

"Sire, a--a lady has arrived to-night. She begs audience of your Majesty. She----"

"Who is the lady?"

"Sire, it is the Princesse de Beaurepaire."

"The Princesse de Beaurepaire! Here! At St. Germain."

"Here, sire. In the blue antechamber. On her arrival your Majesty's Intendant had a suite of rooms prepared for her. But, sire, she implores leave to speak with your Majesty."

"This is the bitterest stroke of all," the King murmured to himself. "His mother and almost mine. Heaven!" Then, addressing the Marquis aloud, he said: "I will, I must, go to her. No," he said, seeing that the other made as if he would accompany him. "No. Remain here. This is--I--I--must go alone." Passing through the door which the Marquis rushed forward to open, Louis went down a small passage and, softly turning the handle of the door, entered the blue antechamber. "Madame," he said very gently, as he perceived the Princess rise suddenly from the fauteuil on which she had been seated, or, rather, huddled, "Madame. Ah! that we should meet thus. Oh! madame!" and taking her hand he bent over it and kissed it.

"Mercy, sire," the Princess cried, flinging herself at once at the King's feet. "Mercy! Mercy for my unhappy son. Nay," she said, as Louis endeavoured with extreme gentleness to raise her to her feet, "nay, nay, let me stay here. Here until you have granted my prayer. Louis!" throwing aside all ceremony in her agony, "spare him. Spare him. Ah! you cannot, you will not, slay him, evil as he has been, evilly as he has acted towards you Louis," she cried again as, releasing his hand now, she placed both hers upon her bosom. "Louis, even as he when a child lay on this breast, so, too, did you. As your mother would take you from her bosom to place on mine, so have I taken him from mine to place on hers. We were almost foster mothers as you were almost foster brothers! Ah! sire, as there is One above and He the only One from whom you can sue for mercy, so let me sue for and win mercy on earth from the only one who can accord it." "I am not the only one. He is condemned by his judges. Doomed. If I spare him, then must I spare all who henceforth conspire against me; then have I been merciless to all whom I have hitherto refused to spare for their treachery. For their infidelity."

"Their treachery! Their infidelity! And his! His treachery and infidelity! Do you deem that I do not see it, know it, hate and despise it? Do you think that I, Anne de Beaurepaire--that I, who was the proudest woman in your father's Court, that I whom your father--who hated all other women--alone loved, do not hate and despise my son's acts? Ah! Ah!" she sobbed, "I hate and loathe his infidelity but, God help and pity me! I love the infidel, and he is--my--child. Ah! Louis, Louis," she continued, and now not only had she possessed herself of the King's hand but, with her other disengaged hand, had grasped him above the elbow so that he could not free himself from her; "think of it. Think. Think. Short of making me his Queen, which he could not do, while on my part I would be naught else than that to him, your father loved me so well that there was nothing I could ask that he would not have granted. He who detested all other women; he, the woman hater! It cannot be that his child will not spare my child. My only child, since his brother, Léon, is imbecile. Ah! I have but one; do not deprive me of that only one."

"Madame," the King replied, while still endeavouring to lift the unhappy Princess to her feet and while the tears streamed from his own eyes as he witnessed her tears falling. "I--I--it rests not with me. There are others to whom are confided----"

"Others," she wailed, yet still with some of her haughty contempt left in her tones. "Others. What others? De Louvois, who reeks of the roture. De Louvois the plebeian; La Reynie whose name should be Le Renard; that woman who weaves her toils----"

"Madame, silence! I command--nay, nay, I beg of you to be silent. Not a word of----"

"Ah! I am distraught. I know not what I say. Yet if you will not hear me nor have mercy on me, at least have mercy on my grief and sorrow. See--see--Louis de Bourbon--I kneel at your feet in supplication even as once your father knelt at mine, and--God help me!--you are as inexorable to me as I was to him; yet I kneel in a better, a nobler hope. Sire!" she continued in her misery. "Sire, look on me! If you will not pity me, pity my tears, my supplications; see how abject I am. I--I--Anne de Beaurepaire, who never thought to sue to mortal man. Ah! be not so pitiless, Louis! You! of whom it has been said that you are never wantonly cruel."

"Nor am I now," the King exclaimed, his face convulsed with grief and emotion. "It is not I, but France. Had Lou--the Prince de Beaurepaire--and I been simple gentlemen; had he but aimed his treacherous shaft against me and my life, then he might have gone in peace for the sake of our childhood together, for the sake of the noble Anne, his mother, whom," his voice sinking to a murmur, "my austere father could not refrain from loving. But it was against France. France and her ancient laws and rights; her throne; all that makes France what she is, all that makes your proud race--a race as proud as my own, or as the race of Guise, or Bretagne, or Montmorenci, or Courtenai--what it is. France, for which I stand here the symbol and representative; France which has but one other name--Bourbon."

"Mercy! Mercy! Mercy!" the Princess wailed. "As you are great, as you are Louis the Bourbon, be great in your pardon. Show mercy to a broken-hearted woman."

"If I might I would. But if I spare him, having spared none other who conspired against France, will France spare me? Will she pardon her unjust steward? And there are others. The Council, the great Ministers----"

"Yet," the Princess cried, "it is you who have said, 'L'Etat c'est moi'. You, whose 'Je le veux' none have ever dared to question and still live."

"Nevertheless," the King said, still very gently while sick at heart at being forced to so reply, "he dared----"

"And," she sobbed, loosing her grasp on his hand and arm as she fell an inert mass to the floor; "therefore must die."

After which she lay motionless, her superb grey hair, which, in her emotion had become dishevelled, making a white patch upon the rich, blood-red Segoda carpet.

Kneeling now by the side of the unhappy mother upon whose breast, as she had said, he had so often been soothed in infancy, the King endeavoured in every way to restore her to sensibility and raise her from the position to which she had fallen. He kissed and rubbed her hands again and again; he whispered words of comfort and affection into her now deaf ears, and said all that one might say to comfort a broken-hearted woman, except that which alone might have called her back to sense and happiness--a promise of pardon for her son.

After which, finding that it was impossible to restore her by his own efforts, the King left the room quietly, went back to his bedroom and, summoning the Marquis de la Ruffardière to assist him, returned to the blue antechamber.

"Poor lady," he said, looking down at the Princess, "she has swooned at learning that there is no hope of pardon for him. Can we convey her to the rooms the Intendant has set apart for her?"

"Doubtless, sire, if your Majesty will permit yourself----"

"Permit myself! In my childhood she has often rocked me to sleep in her arms!"

"Perhaps one of her women, sire, might also assist----"

"When we have conveyed her to her apartments. But, first, go out to the corridor and bid the guard retire for a quarter of an hour. There must be no prying eyes to witness the weakness of the noble Anne de Beaurepaire."

So, when the Marquis had obeyed this order and bidden the sentries leave the principal corridor till he summoned them back, he and the King lifted the Princess gently from the floor and conveyed her to the rooms set apart for her, after which they handed her over to the care of the women she had brought with her on the long, swift journey from Nancy.

Followed by the Marquis, the King returned to his bedchamber and prepared to retire, the assistance of the former being now accepted. Yet, while Louis was gradually undressed by De la Ruffardière who removed his shoes and stockings as well as his clothes, since the premier valet had long since departed on receiving his dismissal for the night, the King sighed heavily more than once; and more than once, too, the Marquis observed that the tears stood in his eyes. And, once also, he murmured to himself: "It is his last night on earth. His last night. Stay with me," he commanded as, after rising from his prayers, he prepared to get into his bed. "Stay with me, De la Ruffardière. You can sleep here on the lounge or in the antechamber, can you not?"

"Sire, I will not sleep. Rather may I crave to be allowed to keep guard in the antechamber."

"Nay! nay! Sleep. Rest is needful to all. Extinguish all light, except the night-lamp. Good-night, De la Ruffardière."

"Good-night, your Majesty. God bless your Majesty and grant you a peaceful night's rest."

"Amen," the King said, sighing deeply.

When, however, the guard was being changed in front of the chateau, and the exchange of sign and countersign could be plainly heard by the Marquis who was lying wide awake on the lounge at the foot of the great ruelle of the King's bed, Louis spoke and called him by name.

"Here, sire," the other said, springing off the couch. "How fares it with your Majesty?"

"Sad at heart. Sad. Sad. De la Ruffardière, tell me frankly; here to-night and alone as we are--tell me as man to man--what is the character I bear with my people? Do they deem me a cruel ruler?"

"Ah, sire! The noblest King who has ever adorned a throne. Bountiful, magnanimous----"

"What," the king continued, scarcely pausing to hear the answer he knew must come from a courtier, "what is thought of De Beaurepaire's punishment? Am I deemed implacable?"

"Sire," the other said, hardly daring to answer him, yet forcing himself to do so, "if he should go free what shall be the reward of those who have never wavered in their loyalty to, and love of, your Majesty?"

"Ah," Louis said. "Ah, 'tis true."

After this, the King seemed to sleep, yet, ere the time came for him to awake and give the usual audience in bed to all the courtiers, he spoke to the Marquis a second time.

"You are a friend of De Courtenai?" he asked.

"I am, sire."

"Does he, do all of his family, regret the Byzantine throne they once sat on? Do they who were once Kings, they who are akin to the throne of France, regret their present poverty and lowliness?"

"They have never said so, sire, to my knowledge. They are content to be simple gentlemen. The men are plain soldiers, giving their swords to France, the women to rearing their children as children having the blood of De Courtenai in them. Sire, bon sang ne peut mentir."

"They should be happy, very happy," Louis murmured. "The throne they lost could not outvie the gentle, simple life, nor the absence of trouble, care and heartache. De la Ruffardière, pray God that none whom you love may ever attain to a throne."