Delphi Complete Works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (Illustrated), page 367
“I am a citizen of Paris, and I have been cruelly wronged.”
“You seem a very worthy person. If you have indeed been wronged you shall have redress. What have you to complain of?”
“Twenty of the Blue Dragoons of Languedoc are quartered in my house, with Captain Dalbert at their head. They have devoured my food, stolen my property, and beaten my servants, yet the magistrates will give me no redress.’
“On my life, justice seems to be administered in a strange fashion in our city of Paris!” exclaimed the king wrathfully.
“It is indeed a shameful case,” said Bossuet.
“And yet there may be a very good reason for it,” suggested Pere la Chaise. “I would suggest that your Majesty should ask this man his name, his business, and why it was that the dragoons were quartered upon him.”
“You hear the reverend father’s question.”
“My name, sire, is Catinat, by trade I am a merchant in cloth, and I am treated in this fashion because I am of the Reformed Church.”
“I thought as much!” cried the confessor.
“That alters matters,” said Bossuet.
The king shook his head and his brow darkened. “You have only yourself to thank, then. The remedy is in your hands.”
“And how, sire?”
“By embracing the only true faith.”
“I am already a member of it, sire.”
The king stamped his foot angrily. “I can see that you are a very insolent heretic,” said he. “There is but one Church in France, and that is my Church. If you are outside that, you cannot look to me for aid.”
“My creed is that of my father, sire, and of my grandfather.”
“If they have sinned it is no reason why you should. My own grandfather erred also before his eyes were opened.”
“But he nobly atoned for his error,” murmured the Jesuit.
“Then you will not help me, sire?”
“You must first help yourself.”
The old Huguenot stood up with a gesture of despair, while the king continued on his way, the two ecclesiastics, on either side of him, murmuring their approval into his ears.
“You have done nobly, sire.”
“You are truly the first son of the Church.”
“You are the worthy successor of St. Louis.”
But the king bore the face of a man who was not absolutely satisfied with his own action.
“You do not think, then, that these people have too hard a measure?” said he.
“Too hard? Nay, your Majesty errs on the side of mercy.”
“I hear that they are leaving my kingdom in great numbers.”
“And surely it is better so, sire; for what blessing can come upon a country which has such stubborn infidels within its boundaries?”
“Those who are traitors to God can scarce be loyal to the king,” remarked Bossuet. “Your Majesty’s power would be greater if there were no temple, as they call their dens of heresy, within your dominions.”
“My grandfather promised them protection. They are shielded, as you well know, by the edict which be gave at Nantes.”
“But it lies with your Majesty to undo the mischief that has been done.”
“And how?”
“By recalling the edict.”
“And driving into the open arms of my enemies two millions of my best artisans and of my bravest servants. No, no, father, I have, I trust, every zeal for Mother-Church, but there is some truth in what De Frontenac said this morning of the evil which comes from mixing the affairs of this world with those of the next. How say you, Louvois?”
“With all respect to the Church, sire, I would say that the devil has given these men such cunning of hand and of brain that they are the best workers and traders in your Majesty’s kingdom. I know not how the state coffers are to be filled if such tax-payers go from among us. Already many have left the country and taken their trades with them. If all were to go, it would be worse for us than a lost campaign.”
“But,” remarked Bossuet, “if it were once known that the king’s will had been expressed, your Majesty may rest assured that even the worst of his subjects bear him such love that they would hasten to come within the pale of Holy Church. As long as the edict stands, it seems to them that the king is lukewarm, and that they may abide in their error.”
The king shook his head. “They have always been stubborn folk,” said he.
“Perhaps,” remarked Louvois, glancing maliciously at Bossuet, “were the bishops of France to make an offering to the state of the treasures of their sees, we might then do without these Huguenot taxes.”
“All that the Church has is at the king’s service,” answered Bossuet curtly.
“The kingdom is mine and all that is in it,” remarked Louis, as they entered the Grand Salon, in which the court assembled after chapel, “yet I trust that it may be long before I have to claim the wealth of the Church.”
“We trust so, sire,” echoed the ecclesiastics.
“But we may reserve such topics for our council-chamber. Where is Mansard? I must see his plans for the new wing at Marly.” He crossed to a side table, and was buried in an instant in his favourite pursuit, inspecting the gigantic plans of the great architect, and inquiring eagerly as to the progress of the work.
“I think,” said Pere la Chaise, drawing Bossuet aside, “that your Grace has made some impression upon the king’s mind.”
“With your powerful assistance, father.”
“Oh, you may rest assured that I shall lose no opportunity of pushing on the good work.”
“If you take it in hand, it is done.”
“But there is another who has more weight than I.”
“The favourite, De Montespan?”
“No, no; her day is gone. It is Madame de Maintenon.”
“I hear that she is very devout.”
“Very. But she has no love for my Order. She is a Sulpitian. Yet we may all work to one end. Now if you were to speak to her, your Grace.”
“With all my heart.”
“Show her how good a service it would be could she bring about the banishment of the Huguenots.”
“I shall do so.”
“And offer her in return that we will promote—” he bent forward and whispered into the prelate’s ear.
“What! He would not do it!”
“And why? The queen is dead.”
“The widow of the poet Scarron!”
“She is of good birth. Her grandfather and his were dear friends.”
“It is impossible.”
“But I know his heart, and I say it is possible.”
“You certainly know his heart, father, if any can. But such a thought had never entered my head.”
“Then let it enter and remain there. If she will serve the Church, the
Church will serve her. But the king beckons, and I must go.”
The thin dark figure hastened off through the throng of courtiers, and the great Bishop of Meaux remained standing with his chin upon his breast, sunk in reflection.
By this time all the court was assembled in the Grand Salon, and the huge room was gay from end to end with the silks, the velvets, and the brocades of the ladies, the glitter of jewels, the flirt of painted fans, and the sweep of plume or aigrette. The grays, blacks, and browns of the men’s coats toned down the mass of colour, for all must be dark when the king was dark, and only the blues of the officers’ uniforms, and the pearl and gray of the musketeers of the guard, remained to call back those early days of the reign when the men had vied with the women in the costliness and brilliancy of their wardrobes. And if dresses had changed, manners had done so even more. The old levity and the old passions lay doubtless very near the surface, but grave faces and serious talk were the fashion of the hour. It was no longer the lucky coup at the lansquenet table, the last comedy of Moliere, or the new opera of Lully about which they gossiped, but it was on the evils of Jansenism, on the expulsion of Arnauld from the Sorbonne, on the insolence of Pascal, or on the comparative merits of two such popular preachers as Bourdaloue and Massilon. So, under a radiant ceiling and over a many-coloured floor, surrounded by immortal paintings, set thickly in gold and ornament, there moved these nobles and ladies of France, all moulding themselves upon the one little dark figure in their midst, who was himself so far from being his own master that he hung balanced even now between two rival women, who were playing a game in which the future of France and his own destiny were the stakes.
CHAPTER V.
CHILDREN OF BELIAL.
The elderly Huguenot had stood silent after his repulse by the king, with his eyes cast moodily downwards, and a face in which doubt, sorrow, and anger contended for the mastery. He was a very large, gaunt man, raw-boned and haggard, with a wide forehead, a large, fleshy nose, and a powerful chin. He wore neither wig nor powder, but Nature had put her own silvering upon his thick grizzled locks, and the thousand puckers which clustered round the edges of his eyes, or drew at the corners of his mouth, gave a set gravity to his face which needed no device of the barber to increase it. Yet in spite of his mature years, the swift anger with which he had sprung up when the king refused his plaint, and the keen fiery glance which he had shot at the royal court as they filed past him with many a scornful smile and whispered gibe at his expense, all showed that he had still preserved something of the strength and of the spirit of his youth. He was dressed as became his rank, plainly and yet well, in a sad-coloured brown kersey coat with silver-plated buttons, knee-breeches of the same, and white woollen stockings, ending in broad-toed black leather shoes cut across with a great steel buckle. In one hand he carried his low felt hat, trimmed with gold edging, and in the other a little cylinder of paper containing a recital of his wrongs, which he had hoped to leave in the hands of the king’s secretary.
His doubts as to what his next step should be were soon resolved for him in a very summary fashion. These were days when, if the Huguenot was not absolutely forbidden in France, he was at least looked upon as a man who existed upon sufferance, and who was unshielded by the laws which protected his Catholic fellow-subjects. For twenty years the stringency of the persecution had increased until there was no weapon which bigotry could employ, short of absolute expulsion, which had not been turned against him. He was impeded in his business, elbowed out of all public employment, his house filled with troops, his children encouraged to rebel against him, and all redress refused him for the insults and assaults to which he was subjected. Every rascal who wished to gratify his personal spite, or to gain favour with his bigoted superiors, might do his worst upon him without fear of the law. Yet, in spite of all, these men clung to the land which disowned them, and, full of the love for their native soil which lies so deep in a Frenchman’s heart, preferred insult and contumely at home to the welcome which would await them beyond the seas. Already, however, the shadow of those days was falling upon them when the choice should no longer be theirs.
Two of the king’s big blue-coated guardsmen were on duty at that side of the palace, and had been witnesses to his unsuccessful appeal. Now they tramped across together to where he was standing, and broke brutally into the current of his thoughts.
“Now, Hymn-books,” said one gruffly, “get off again about your business.”
“You’re not a very pretty ornament to the king’s pathway,” cried the other, with a hideous oath. “Who are you, to turn up your nose at the king’s religion, curse you?”
The old Huguenot shot a glance of anger and contempt at them, and was turning to go, when one of them thrust at his ribs with the butt end of his halberd.
“Take that, you dog!” he cried. “Would you dare to look like that at the king’s guard?”
“Children of Belial,” cried the old man, with his hand pressed to his side, “were I twenty years younger you would not have dared to use me so.”
“Ha! you would still spit your venom, would you? That is enough, Andre! He has threatened the king’s guard. Let us seize him and drag him to the guard-room.”
The two soldiers dropped their halberds and rushed upon the old man, but, tall and strong as they were, they found it no easy matter to secure him. With his long sinewy arms and his wiry frame, he shook himself clear of them again and again, and it was only when his breath had failed him that the two, torn and panting, were able to twist round his wrists, and so secure him. They had hardly won their pitiful victory, however, before a stern voice and a sword flashing before their eyes, compelled them to release their prisoner once more.
It was Captain de Catinat, who, his morning duties over, had strolled out on to the terrace, and had come upon this sudden scene of outrage. At the sight of the old man’s face he gave a violent start, and drawing his sword, had rushed forward with such fury that the two guardsmen not only dropped their victim, but, staggering back from the threatening sword-point, one of them slipped and the other rolled over him, a revolving mass of blue coat and white kersey.
“Villains!” roared De Catinat. “What is the meaning of this?”
The two had stumbled on to their feet again, very shamefaced and ruffled.
“If you please, captain,” said one, saluting, “this is a Huguenot who abused the royal guard.”
“His petition had been rejected by the king, captain, and yet he refused to go.”
De Catinat was white with fury. “And so, when a French citizen has come to have a word with the great master of his country, he must be harassed by two Swiss dogs like you?” he cried. “By my faith, we shall soon see about that!”
He drew a little silver whistle from his pocket, and at the shrill summons an old sergeant and half a dozen soldiers came running from the guard-room.
“Your names?” asked the captain sternly.
“Andre Meunier.”
“And yours?”
“Nicholas Klopper.”
“Sergeant, you will arrest these men, Meunier and Klopper.”
“Certainly, captain,” said the sergeant, a dark grizzled old soldier of
Conde and Turenne.
“See that they are tried to-day.”
“And on what charge, captain?”
“For assaulting an aged and respected citizen who had come on business to the king.”
“He was a Huguenot on his own confession,” cried the culprits together.
“Hum!” The sergeant pulled doubtfully at his long moustache. “Shall we put the charge in that form, captain? Just as the captain pleases.” He gave a little shrug of his epauletted shoulders to signify his doubt whether any good could arise from it.
“No,” said De Catinat, with a sudden happy thought. “I charge them with laying their halberds down while on duty, and with having their uniforms dirty and disarranged.”
“That is better,” answered the sergeant, with the freedom of a privileged veteran. “Thunder of God, but you have disgraced the guards! An hour on the wooden horse with a musket at either foot may teach you that halberds were made for a soldier’s hand, and not for the king’s grass-plot. Seize them! Attention! Right half turn! March!”
And away went the little clump of guardsmen with the sergeant in the rear.
The Huguenot had stood in the background, grave and composed, without any sign of exultation, during this sudden reversal of fortune; but when the soldiers were gone, he and the young officer turned warmly upon each other.
“Amory, I had not hoped to see you!”
“Nor I you, uncle. What, in the name of wonder, brings you to
Versailles?”
“My wrongs, Amory. The hand of the wicked is heavy upon us, and whom can we turn to save only the king?”
The young officer shook his head. “The king is at heart a good man,” said he. “But he can only see the world through the glasses which are held before him. You have nothing to hope from him.”
“He spurned me from his presence.”
“Did he ask your name?”
“He did, and I gave it.”
The young guardsman whistled. “Let us walk to the gate,” said he. “By my faith, if my kinsmen are to come and bandy arguments with the king, it may not be long before my company finds itself without its captain.”
“The king would not couple us together. But indeed, nephew, it is strange to me how you can live in this house of Baal and yet bow down to no false gods.”
“I keep my belief in my own heart.”
The older man shook his head gravely.
“Your ways lie along a very narrow path,” said he, “with temptation and danger ever at your feet. It is hard for you to walk with the Lord, Amory, and yet go hand in hand with the persecutors of His people.”
“Tut, uncle!” said the young man impatiently. “I am a soldier of the king’s, and I am willing to let the black gown and the white surplice settle these matters between them. Let me live in honour and die in my duty, and I am content to wait to know the rest.”
“Content, too, to live in palaces, and eat from fine linen,” said the Huguenot bitterly, “when the hands of the wicked are heavy upon your kinsfolk, and there is a breaking of phials, and a pouring forth of tribulation, and a wailing and a weeping throughout the land.”
“What is amiss, then?” asked the young soldier, who was somewhat mystified by the scriptural language in use among the French Calvinists of the day.
“Twenty men of Moab have been quartered upon me, with one Dalbert, their captain, who has long been a scourge to Israel.”
“Captain Claude Dalbert, of the Languedoc Dragoons? I have already some small score to settle with him.”
“Ay, and the scattered remnant has also a score against this murderous dog and self-seeking Ziphite.”
“What has he done, then?”
“His men are over my house like moths in a cloth bale. No place is free from them. He sits in the room which should be mine, his great boots on my Spanish leather chairs, his pipe in his mouth, his wine-pot at his elbow, and his talk a hissing and an abomination. He has beaten old Pierre of the warehouse.”
“Ha!”
“And thrust me into the cellar.”
“Ha!”
