The Scourge of God: A Romance of Religious Persecution
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."
CHAPTER VII.
THE HOUSE BY THE BRIDGE.
"Come," said Martin to the trembling pastor, "come. We may do
something, avert some awful calamity. You are of their faith. They
will listen to you," and he arranged his _porte épée_ and motioned to
the old man to follow him.
"Not you! Not you!" the other whispered, shuddering. "Not you! You
know not what will befall you if you take part in this."
"Yes, I. I must go too. I am a Protestant as much as they. I tell you,
Pastor Buscarlet, I will wear the mask no longer. Come. Hark! There is
firing. Come. We can do nothing here. Help neither Huguenot nor
Papist."
"On my knees I beseech you to stop," the old man said, flinging
himself upon them before Martin, "on my knees. You know not what you
do. Think, think! If these men have risen it is at the worst but
Frenchmen against Frenchmen. But with you--you are English. And we are
at war again. Oh! I sicken with dread that it should be known."
"It can never be known. I have the French as well as you, or
they--better than they, for mine is the speech of Paris and theirs of
the mountains. Hark! they sing of Judah once more--also there is
firing. Come with me or let me go alone." And he tore himself from the
hands of the other.
Yet he did not go alone; even as he stepped into the garden the pastor
went with him, running by his side to keep pace with his eager
strides, whispering, entreating as he did so.