The Scourge of God: A Romance of Religious Persecution
whatever. Henceforth, neither de Rochebazon, nor d'Ançilly, nor
Montrachet, nor Beauvilliers have aught to do with me. I cast them
off. I forget that the house which bears those titles is one with
which I have any connection. I go forth into the world alone, under a
lowly name. The roof that covers me, the food for my mouth, the
clothes to cover my nakedness, will be earned by my own hands.
Moreover, so do I steel my heart that henceforth even my brother,
Henri, will be lost to me forever. He becomes, therefore, your heir;
may he find in you a better father than I have ever done.
Consequently, for the last time on this earth, I sign myself,
"CYPRIEN DE BEAUVILLIERS."
Martin laid the paper down on the table before him and sat back musing
in his chair. "A stern, fierce determination that," he muttered to
himself, "arrived at by a man who would keep his word. Let us see for
the next."
As he read this next one it was easy to perceive what course the
rupture between the father and son had taken; how the iron will of the
one had beaten down that of the other. Already the elder had sued for
reconciliation--and had failed.
"What you now desire," the man wrote, who had once been Cyprien de
Beauvilliers, "is impossible. First, on the ground of religion, and
secondly, because of yourself. I am now of the Protestant faith, have
embraced that faith in Holland, to which country you appear to have
tracked my steps, I know not how. Yet that you shall never be able to
do so in the future, I leave it at once, and from the time when I quit
it I defy you to ever discover my whereabouts. Let me remind you that
this change of faith alone is a bar to my ever reassuming my position
as your successor; if it were not such bar I would proceed to even
other extremes to deprive myself of the succession; would draw my
sword against France if by doing so I could more utterly sever myself
from you and all connected with you.
"You ask me if I hate you? I reply that I hate the man who drove my
mother to evil by his intolerant and contemptible pride, and, fallen
as she became, I love and adore her memory. But my heart is not large
enough to find space in it for aught else. Not large enough----"
There was no more. The sheet of paper turned over at the word
"enough," and no other succeeded to it.
Again Martin lay back musing.
"He was firm," he murmured. "Firm. The years which have rolled by and
become forgotten since he wrote these lines, now so faded, prove that;
otherwise _she_ would have known of his existence, his whereabouts.
And--and--she was a just woman in spite of the deception of her life.
If she had known that he was still alive she would never have
consented to usurp all his rights. Nay, not though every priest in
France bade her do so."
As the word "priest" rose to his mind he started with a new thought.
"Who were the others," he whispered, "she said who knew of it? Louis,
the king! Almost it seems impossible. Then, next, the woman--his
wife--Madame! Also La Chaise and Chamillart. La Chaise, a
bigot--Chamillart, the man they speak of as _une fine lame!_ They all
know it, and will keep the secret well. What was it she said? 'They
will never tell.'"
Once more from St. Eustache close at hand the hour rolled forth;
almost it seemed as if the deep boom of the great bell echoed in his
ears the words he had repeated to himself, "They will never tell."
"Will they not?" he mused again. "Will they not? Neither Louis, nor
his wife, nor the priest, nor the scheming politicians. Will never
tell! Therefore all search must be unavailing. Yet--yet---we will see.
Only, even though I should find him, even though I forced from one of
them the acknowledgment that he still lived, was the true heir, would
he himself consent to take what is his? The man who wrote that letter
in bygone years will not have grown softer, more easily persuaded by
now. Yet I will make some attempt."
He sought his bed now, and once there, still lay awake for some time
longer, musing and meditating on the secret which had been confided to
him; wondering, too, if what he was doing was owing absolutely to a
determination to right a great wrong, or, instead, was only the
outcome of that strong, latterly-embraced Protestantism of his, which,
through this embrace, now caused him to desire to outwit these
scheming papists. Yet he might have found the answer by studying his
own feelings, his own resolves, arrived at the moment he learned of
the hidden secret of the great family to which he was allied. For if
he held his tongue now it was easily enough to be supposed that all
which he had inherited from the dead woman would at once be made over
to him. If he spoke on the subject of the lawful inheritor, not one
jot of the fortune that woman had left him would ever come his way.
Only he did not so reflect, did not remember, or, remembering, did not
hold that he was ruining himself in his determination not so much to
outwit the Romish Church and its principal adherents as to set right
the horrible wrong that had been committed--committed, in the first
place, by the real de Rochebazon himself toward his children by the
renunciation of all that he should have guarded for them; in the
second place, by those who were only too willing to assist in
depriving him, whom they doubtless termed the heretic, of what was
his.
He rose the next morning with his mind made up as to what should be
his future course, as to what, from this very day, he would set about
doing. Rose, calm and collected, knowing that he had undertaken a task
that must deprive him of that inheritance which by his silence alone
might easily be his; a task that might, in the state of autocratic
government which prevailed in France, lead him to a violent end.
Yet his mind was made up. He would not falter. Never. Even though he
should find the last de Rochebazon still as firmly set in his
determination as he had been in long-past years; even though when
found, if ever, he should spurn him from his threshold with curses for
having unearthed him, still he would do it. To right the wrong! To
repay in some way all that he had already received from this
family--his education, the luxury that had accompanied his earlier
days, the profusion of ease and comfort showered on him by one who, in
very truth, had no right to appropriate one crown or pistole of that
family's wealth. He would do it! To right the wrong!
"Where," he said, sending for the _maître d'hôtel_, who presented
himself at once before him, already clothed in decorous black, "where,
do you know, is Madame de Maintenon now?"
"I know not, monsieur, unless it be at St. Cyr. She is much there now;
almost altogether."
"Can you ascertain?"
"I will endeavour to do so, monsieur."
"If you will."
It was to her that, after the reflections of the night, he had
determined to address himself. To her, knowing full well even as he
did so, the little likelihood which existed of his obtaining any
information. Had not the woman now lying dead upstairs said that she,
among the others, would never tell?
Only it was not altogether with the desire to obtain information that
he was about to seek her. Instead, perhaps, to volunteer some, to tell
her that he knew the secret of the manner in which the existence of
Cyprien de Beauvilliers had been ignored for many years; to see if
there was no possibility of moving her to help in the deed of justice.
She was spoken of by some as God's chosen servant in France, as a
woman who was rapidly bringing a corrupt king, a corrupt court, a
corrupt land into a better path--a path that should lead to salvation.
Surely, surely she would not be a partner in this monstrous act of
injustice, a participator in this monstrous lie.
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