The Little Huguenot/Chapter 12

king had been at the château of Francis two days without making up his mind about de Guyon. It was the evening of Monday, and he had put the lieutenant under arrest at midnight on Saturday; being then much troubled at the letter which the Abbé Gondy had sent to him, and not at all sure what lay behind the musketeer's duplicity. "Fie!" said he, "I will bring this little witch to the palace though I carry her, as she asks; and as for this booby, if he has been making love to her, I will hang him."

Worn by thirty years of uninterrupted debauchery, grown feeble, seeking new pleasures for a jaded appetite, easily provoked to anger or to suspicion, roundly hated in all France, the "Well-Beloved" was in no mood to bear with any patience the affront which had been put upon him. For more than a year now, the strange creed, in some part Protestant, in some part Republican, in some part ascetic, which Gabrielle de Vernet had preached at the Château aux Loups had been a by-word and a jest among the wits of the Court. The amiable Madame de Boufflers had risen to her finest flights of humour when discussing it; Madame Doublet de Persan had died with a lie about it on her lips. While, on the one hand, the evil-minded shrugged their shoulders, evilly implying that something more than mere spirituality lay behind the asceticism of the little Huguenot; on the other hand were many to whisper in the king's ear tales of the fascination which she exercised upon those about her, and of the indisputable beauty of which she was the possessor. Goaded by the incessant chatter to the point of active curiosity, Louis had determined to see the girl for himself, and to hear from her own lips that apocalypse with which the people credited her. No doubt he contemplated with content the subjection of so much morality and vaunted righteousness to the perils of the Court; no doubt his real purpose was deep, and linked closely to his lust. In any case, it boded no good to her most concerned, nor was it made weaker by her obstinacy. "I will send a troop of horse for her, and burn her chapel about her ears," he cried once in a rage. Sixty years of life had not taught him patience.

In truth, it was Gabrielle de Vernet's refusal that set the fires of smouldering passion aflame. He said that she should boast of her righteousness no longer; should become the sport of those very men and women at whom she had pointed her finger. And if she had thoughts of the lieutenant who had so bungled his duty, he would know how to conduct the affair to a pretty conclusion. In which spirit, he kept de Guyon a prisoner in a sunless room near the Cour Ovale, and denied to him even an account of that crime which had robbed him in a moment of his sword and of his love-dreams.

On the morning of the Monday, Louis rode abroad in the forest in the company of the Grand Falconer, the Comte de Vaudreuil, and of the Grand Louvetier, the Comte d'Haussonville. He had come to the palace quite privately, consoling himself with the hope that the little Huguenot would be there to amuse him; and in her absence he found that time was his enemy. Indeed, he spoke of returning to Versailles on the following morning, saying to himself that Gabrielle de Vernet should be brought there publicly as a part of her punishment. At the same time, he would sign the lettre de cachet which should send his amorous lieutenant to For-l'Evêque, where he would have the leisure to consider what sort of a bargain he had made for himself.

Early in the afternoon, the king dined privately, discarding here any of that publicity which he observed unfailingly at Versailles. He went afterwards to the orangery, and to the park, remaining abroad nearly until sunset. Meanwhile, de Guyon paced the dingy room in the Cour Ovale; now permitting himself to hope, now abandoning himself to the gloomy possibilities which crowded upon his mind. Nor could the honest fellow, his servant Antoine, in any way lead him to that sensible discussion of his position which alone might lead to his liberation. It seemed to him that fate had opened his eyes to the sweet vision of Gabrielle but to plague him; had permitted him to dream, that the awakening might be more bitter. In the solitude of confinement, he recalled her words, her humours, her angers, her prettiness. He remembered that the touch of her hand had sent fire leaping through his veins; he dwelt on that moment when he had held her in his arms and had known the supreme ecstasy of life. Yet all this was of the past. What the morrow would be, God alone could tell.

Towards evening, when the old oaks were casting lengthening shadows upon the lawns by the lake, and the fish-pond shone like a burnished mirror, and all the statues seemed to sleep, a sudden palaver and commotion in the court without recalled him from his visions to the realities in the Château de Fontainebleau. He thought at the first that they had come to take him to For-l'Evêque or even to the Bastille, and thus to end for many years the hopes which he treasured so diligently. He knew that the king gave short shrift to those who stood between him and his pleasures. He had seen many an honest man snatched from life by the "Well-Beloved's" caprice; had watched the quick degradation of many a woman who had withstood his desires. And he had begun to believe that Louis had never set himself to any purpose with more determination than to his ensnarement of Gabrielle de Vernet.

From the narrow windows of his room in the White Tower, he could see nothing of that which was happening in the courtyard of the château. But he heard the clatter of hoofs upon the stone pavement, and his servant, Antoine, came in presently looking like one who has news upon his tongue. Scarce had he passed the door when de Guyon began to question him.

"Has the king returned, Antoine?"

"Ma foi, no," replied the other.

"He is still riding, then?"

"He is in the orangery with the Comte de Buffon."

"Then whose horses do I hear?"

Antoine, who loved the lieutenant and guessed how things stood with him, avoided the question.

"There is talk of his Majesty riding away to-morrow," said he.

"Ah!" exclaimed de Guyon. "Then I shall know to-morrow what he has in store for me."

"A month in For-l'Evêque at the most, mon maître—at least, that is the gossip of the gallery."

De Guyon shrugged his shoulders.

"And after that, Antoine?"

"Your sword and, perhaps, a command. The king has not a long memory, monsieur!"

"You think so?"

"I have no doubt of it; and now that madame has come here, he will soon wish her at the château again."

"Madame! to whom do you refer?"

"Then you have not heard. Madame de Vernet rode into the courtyard half-an-hour ago."

De Guyon swung round upon his heel, and faced his servant.

"Antoine," cried he, "what tale is this?"

"Tale, mon maître?"

"Certainly, as I say—what does it mean?"

"It is no tale; madame arrived at the château as I came by the Salle des Gardes."

"You do not jest with me?"

"I—jest? God forbid!"

"Then she is here?"

"Without doubt she is."

"And the king knows of her coming?"

"They say that he will sup with her to-night."

"They lie! I will prevent her."

"You! Oh, but you forget; there is a guard at your door."

De Guyon sank upon a bench and buried his face in his hands. The idol he had raised up seemed to come crashing headlong to the ground. It were as if Gabrielle had been torn from his arms in that moment; had been snatched from him while her kisses were still warm upon his lips. When Antoine spoke to him again, there were tears in his eyes.

"Courage, my master; these Huguenots are all alike," cried the honest fellow; "their virtue would not fill a nut. Diable! They have the clothes of a nun and the heart of a grisette! What a pity that you should trouble yourself with their affairs."

De Guyon did not answer him. He was wrestling silently with his overwhelming despair—contrasting the Gabrielle of the Château aux Loups with the woman who of her own will had come to sup with the king at Fontainebleau. There was a time when he had said that he was not worthy to raise her hand to his lips. What a fool he had been to believe in her pretty platitudes! She was as the others—not better, no worse. And yet the memory of that moment when he had held her in his arms was not to be blotted out. He would have given half the years remaining to him to know that the news which Antoine brought was false. There were even prayers upon his lips for her by whom he had been taught to pray.