Читать книгу The Power And The Glory - Gilbert Parker - Страница 10

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Never had the court at Versailles been more given to gayety and splendor. Yet behind all was an air of drama and grim event. Bright colors, perukes, swords, uniforms, laces, exquisite skirts, flamboyant ribbons, orders, velvet coats sometimes pure white, and everywhere signs of brilliance. Yet it was all possible, for Colbert had by his great finance made France rich, and unlike his predecessor, Cardinal Mazarin, he did not seek riches, and yet he could have made himself immensely rich. He was a figure as dear to France as later was Cavour to Italy, or Pitt to England, and he and his son Seignelay stood apart from the splendid superficial flippancy of Louis' reign. Marital felicity was derided in France, it was the sport of the theaters, but that was only at the capital; provincial France then, as now, was free from the sordid disregard of marital faith. Moscow was not Russia, Paris was not France, London was not England, Vienna was not Austria, home was not Italy, and behind all the outer show great causes and great minds were working, and all for the good of the land.

In the great Hall of Apollo stood Madame de Montespan, the favorite of Louis, surrounded by devoted courtiers, and she was not far from the King's throne. She was a most handsome woman, graceful in figure and with liquid and exasperating eyes. She knew well why these courtiers surrounded her, and she did not dislike it, for it was a tribute to her power with the monarch. But she was not deceived by it. She had a mind that would not stop at small things.

Barbe Ranard was of her class, but on a lower range of intellect and influence and poise. Even as a model to an artist takes on the air and imbibes the principles of art, so does the favorite of a great monarch grow more interesting because of her experience.

Madame de Montespan, the mother of seven children by Louis, seemed in excellent spirits, and was all smiles to those who flattered her, and she was as popular with the women as the men. She had that in her favor. She looked round the wonderful hall with pride. Here were princes, warriors, statesmen, philosophers, poets, artists, dramatists, all in the gaudy clothes of the court and all in the picture in sympathy with the magnificent architecture and decoration. She had worked her way brilliantly to her high place, yet she was not so vain as to believe that she might not be supplanted some day, and there was Fontanges, and there had been Vallière and others—and her mind was alert to hold Louis fast.

As she looked down the huge rooms, she saw approaching Abbé Potin, her confessor and secret-service agent. There was an ominous look in his face. She did not give her hand as he came near, but her suitors saw she wished to speak alone with him, and they draw aside.

She looked him in the eyes. “Well, Abbé, what is it? There's trouble. Is it grave?”

A satirical look crossed his face. “To have our plans thwarted is grave even in small things. This is not the biggest thing in the life of the Court, but it is a big thing in New France, in which His Majesty is so concerned. It would be bad for defeat to come now.”

“Ah, it is the matter of La Salle—that?”

“Even that, madame. The Abbé Renaudot brought La Salle in touch with the Prince de Conti, and through him with Henri de Tonty, and through him with La Motte de Lussière, and Barbe Ranard has not been able to influence Colbert or Seignelay or Prince de Conti.”

“She is naught, but you, have you also failed? Tell me all, Abbé.”

“I induced Abbé Renaudot, an astute and able man, to get information from the Comtesse Frontenac for Colbert, and he got what was required. But we could not win him to us. He is no friend of the Jesuits; he is a Recollet, if he is aught, and he made close friends with La Salle, whom he met at the home of Comtesse Frontenac. That we did not foresee. He has visited La Salle in his quarters, and La Salle has made progress. Yesterday La Salle and Tonty met Barbe Ranard at the house of Prince Conti, and Seignelay, would have naught to do with her action against La Salle—influenced perhaps by Conti.”

De Montespan frowned. “Conti—Conti—he is pestilent! Louis' son-in-law!”

“He has weight, and has become a friend of La Salle. It is said by the servant of Conti who is in my pay, that Barbe Ranard failed to influence either the Prince or Seignelay, though she tried hard. She is handsome, captivating, and clever, and could influence men—and has influenced many.”

“She is the friend of Duchesneau, the Intendant, in Quebec. She must have brains as well as charm. I would like to see her.”

“She is here, madame. She shall be brought, if you so wish.”

She inclined her head. “Is that all you have to tell?”

“But no, madame. Much more. There has been a meeting of Colbert, Seignelay, and the Grand Monarch. Colbert, insensible to my influence and to Barbe Ranard, has found much in La Salle to commend, and La Salle wrote a strikingly attractive report to the Minister of all that he has done and proposes to do. It has influenced the powerful and successful Colbert.”

“Too powerful and too successful, Abbé, but it would be madness to try to move him, for the King gives him high place in affection.”

“He cannot be removed, for he is the financial bulwark of France—an able man whom we detest, but he is incorruptible—as I know well.”

“No blandishment of woman could move him!”

“You have not tried, madame!”

She looked at him with meaning in her eyes. “I have and failed, but I shall try again, for there is much against me. It will be worth while testing my power. La Salle's report seems to have influenced them all. Ah, there Colbert is!”

In the distance Colbert could be seen, with Seignelay, coming slowly up the hall, and he was not surrounded, for few sought his company; he was too austere. But Seignelay had a more adaptable personality. He was a man not so great as his father, but he could not be purchased by gold or the Magdalene, and that was rare at Court.

“His Majesty will soon be here—his Ministers have come.”

“And there is Barbe Ranard,” said the Abbé. He sighed. “I have known her some years. She is a faithful friend of the Church.”

“Summon her to me, Abbé.”

The Abbé did not go himself, but sent a young officer of the King's Guard for her, and she came gracefully forward, her step light, her manner with an assumed modesty, her eyes tremulous with mock humility. She was becomingly dressed, her taking neck and fascinating face showing to advantage. She was no rival in beauty and distinction to De Montespan, and her pretended modesty pleased the favorite, though she saw through it; but seeing through it did not perturb her. The deceit was a tribute to herself, and she held out a hand in response to Barbe's curtsey. Barbe kissed it, and De Montespan said:

“You are welcome to old France, dear madame. You have lived in the wild places—how long?”

“Long enough to make me glad to feel the air of old France around me, madame. New France is not the same, though we have a small court there and we have a life that stirs in us the spirit of progress.”

“So the Intendant, M. Duchesneau, says,” she replied, with her eyes fixed on Barbe's face, “and Count Frontenac says it even more vigorously, I hear.”

Barbe felt the thrust concerning Duchesneau, but she did not resent it, as why should she in a court like this, and before the favorite of the King.

“Count Frontenac has many foes in Canada,” said Barbe. “I am addressing one of them now, am I not? It is a contest between the Governor and the Intendant and you are with the Intendant. Between ourselves, I do not blame you, for I too am a Jesuit. I know all you have tried to do, and you have failed.”

Barbe's face showed disconcerting changes of expression, but she looked respectfully at De Montespan.

“And will the great Madame la Marquise, perhaps, try now?” she said.

Montespan's face smiled inscrutably. “To try with so much against one is not easy. Your own failure and that of Abbé Potin is the best proof. Who am I that I should try? If they would not listen to you, do you guess they would heed me?”

She said this to flatter and also to tempt Barbe, for it would try her skill at reply.

“If they will not listen to madame, then no one need essay. For madame has gifts beyond all others—man or woman—in France.”

She was pleased. “Why not in all the world?”

“I only know France,” was the adroit reply, “and France is all the world.”

“Well said, well said, vain patriot,” declared De Montespan.

“Madame, His Majesty,” said the Abbé Potin, drawing near.

Slowly, yet with portentous dignity and magnificence, Louis came slowly up the room, preceded by his lords-in-waiting and his aides, and all the vast audience bowed low as the little man with his high red-heeled shoes came up the room.

As he advanced he spoke to Louvois, his Minister of War, to Madame de Longueville and the Duchess Chevreuse, the most skillful and persistent intrigantes of the time, and Mazarin had said of the former that she was equal to ten provinces. But she had no weight with Louis. He also gave a word to Madame de Rambouillet, the owner of a great salon where many came, and to La Rochefoucauld, the Duchess de Chantillon; to the poets Racine and Molière; to Lalli, the composer, and Quinault, who wrote with him—and Louis spoke as warmly to them as to the more highly titled. Near his throne he saw mademoiselle the Duchess de Montpensier, who was his cousin and who lived at the Luxembourg, where she received in as picturesque a state as did no one else in Louis' empire. He had banished her more than once, but in the end he always pardoned her, though he never forgave her for having ordered attack upon his own soldiers at the Bastille. With her were Madame de Scudery, who gave famous Saturdays; the Abbé de Choisy, Madame de Lafayette, Madame de Sévigné. Nearer still to the throne stood the Dauphin, fat, over-dressed, handsome, brainless, and a danger to France, so lacking in kingly qualities was he. Not far from him stood Bossuet, his old tutor, whom Louis made Bishop of Metz, and also the Duc d'Enghien, son of the great Condé.

He had pride in picking out the “Untitled nobles”—like Molière and Lalli—as he called them, to receive recognition. It was not all vanity, for he was a man with artistic leanings and vast ambitious purposes, and he had faith that in good time he would, like Alexander, command the world. Littleness was in him, but also greatness, and his littleness was his age, and his greatness was for all time.

As he neared his throne he inclined his head to De Montespan and she came to him. He gave her his hand and she kissed it, and other courtiers drew near, and among them were the Abbé Potin, whom he did not wholly like, though he was De Montespan's confessor.

“Well, eyes of heaven, what have you to say. I see there is something,” he said to De Montespan with a railing kind of tenderness.

“About New France, Sire. I would speak of that. Things go not well there, as you have told me.”

“And so it vexes my sweetheart. And have only I, then, told you?” he asked, his eyes turning to the Abbé Potin and then to Barbe Ranard.

“I am concerned only with what you tell me, Sire.”

“Well, I have decided about New France. M. Colbert,” he said, in a voice raised a little, and the courtiers made way for Colbert. “Colbert, concerning New France, there is only one grave question there, and it is that of the Sieur de la Salle. I have decided, have I not?”

Colbert inclined his head. Montespan turned to Louis, and in a soft voice said:

“To give De la Salle no encouragement?”

King Louis smiled and gently replied: “What is encouragement? Is it the right to build forts and to find the way to the mouth of the Mississippi, to carry on trade with the Indians, and solely at his own cost? If that is encouragement, then I shall encourage La Salle.”

“But, Sire, you have never approved of settlements in the West—it removed your subjects too far from your own control. You refused one, Louis Joliet, an explorer, to found a trading station in the Mississippi Valley.”

“And may not a king change his mind? La Salle has the true thing in him, and I trust him. Frontenac supports him.”

“And Duchesneau, the Intendant, and the Church and the principal people of Quebec distrust him, bear him no good will. Besides—”

King Louis frowned. “Yes, I know that ‘Besides,’ and it is in our presence now. It is not far from me. But no woman save one ever traduced La Salle. Quote not ‘Besides,’ for she does not influence me.”

“Nor do I, Sire, any more.”

The King pretended not to hear. “Colbert,” said he, “is the Sieur de la Salle here to-night?”

“Sire, I think so.”

Louis made a motion of his hand.

Officers of the King went searching, while De Montespan made effort to turn Louis' mind, but he did not listen gravely to her, and gently smiled and said: “If you had the facts as I know them, my dulciana, you would not be so vexed. You are too much of a Jesuit. The Church shall not control my Canada.”

At that moment La Salle, with Tonty behind him, came forward, and all the court observed him. He was a figure men would turn to see, having looked once. It was not alone his handsomeness, for men like Tonty were handsomer. It was the upright precision and physical grace of his person; it was the honesty in his face, his masculinity of form, his indomitable look, his apparent haughtiness, his clear energy, his concentrated look of inspiration, as though he had no thought but one, and that was his mission in life. As he came forward not only Colbert and Louis so appraised him, but he was such a contrast to the Court in the simplicity of his dress and the quiet nobility of his bearing, that all felt him to be a tower of courage and faith against whom danger and hardship would beat in vain.

The apparent haughtiness of his manner was understood by all. It was the self-reliance of a man that lived alone, the spirit overpowering what came before it. Never a wincing courtier, he would have foes always, but at King Louis' court he had made friends of four wise men—King Louis, Colbert, Seignelay, and Conti.

As he bowed to the King with profound respect, for he felt the august majesty of the scene, he won many hearts present, and even De Montespan was moved, for she had never seen him before, and she felt him a man who would do no mean thing—would never have done what Barbe Ranard had said! Women know men well—such women.

“Sieur de la Salle,” said Louis, “we welcome you. It is our first sight of you, but we know your work and what you would do. This France of ours has vast designs—not only European; they include America and beyond—far beyond. We will be all-powerful, all-controlling, and we are giving you large powers of exploration and settlement in the sure hope that we shall not be dismayed. We would have you find the way to Mexico from Fort Frontenac, and you shall build forts as it seems good to you at your own cost, and you shall have sole right to trade in buffalo hides. That is our reply to your appeal, and may God be with you and strengthen you, Robert Cavelier, Sieur de la Salle.” His hand was raised in kindly feeling.

Across La Salle's face there passed a swift emotion and his eyes grew dim. He was receiving far more than he had asked and it was given him in the most public manner and with all display and honor. When Louis ceased speaking, the attendant courtiers said in loud whispers: “How noble! How great! How like Jove! How dear to France!” All present seemed to bend in flattery save the Abbé Potin and a few of his Jesuit brothers, and De Montespan—yet even they put on airs of devotion to the Grand Monarch and hid the bitterness in their souls.

As for De Montespan, she looked at Barbe and was almost startled by the fierce fire of her eyes and the tragedy of her figure. She had failed in what she had come from Quebec to do, and her wild spirit was breaking loose upon this court, yet not to other eyes than those of De Montespan, who had a gift of seeing. She also had failed, and had suffered an affront which would trouble her vain, proud heart. Not far away stood Prince de Conti, and the quiet triumph in his eyes was like a stripe upon the raw flesh. He was a strong, loyal, able man, and, though Louis did not love him, he had pride that Conti was of his, own blood and family.

La Salle replied to King Louis briefly, and all present were impressed by the calm, piercing emotion of his tone. He had a voice with few inflections; it was rather monotonous, but that gave it power, and it moved even the blasé circle of courtiers in the great hall. It was like the man himself, direct, incisive, convincing, enduring, and he stood a reproach to the phantasmagoria of life of which they were. It was all poppyland, and he the wide wastes, the dark forests, the barren plains, the evil citizens of the Indian world, ready to burn and destroy and never rebuild—treacherous, brave yet cowardly, insolent yet amenable. Yet this Court had seen and should see again Jesuits who had been tortured and burned till their hands and limbs were like grotesque imitations of humanity. This King Louis had seen the broken relics of men who had escaped from the farthest regions where the fleur-de-lis waved, and yet returned to face it all again. A Court like this, outwardly insecure, had the elements of right, as was later shown when France, torn by revolution, would send to the guillotine just such people as these, and they would face their tragic end with a smile of disdain.

The flippancy and evil of the court were only the clothes. Beneath it all was the kind of truth that was in Cartier, Champlain, Frontenac, Maissoneuve, Marquette, Brebeuf Jogues and La Salle. Tear away the laces, the velvets, the wigs and the outer fripperies, and, stark, brave, true human life would prove that France at her worst was better than the surface showed. This court was a magnificent contradiction. Evil, yet good.

La Salle said: “Sire, I am honored by your commission. I have one thought, and shall ever have but one—the increase of the greatness of your realm. Naught shall divert me from that purpose. I have seen”—his eyes looked through Louis and far beyond—“the ways open to an overseas empire that shall be a home for millions of my fellow-countrymen, and for France a new garden where all things shall flourish. You give me hope that my life may prove evidence of your noble purposes and, labors, and imperishable patriotism. I shall be ever Your Majesty's most faithful and devoted servant, Sire.”

During these words the little, efficient, skilful, and powerful monarch looked at La Salle and round his Court with the air of the maker of the world. His ears were tuned to flattery, but in the words of La Salle was a new note—it gave his soul a spring of virtue and purpose, it lifted him to the height of his tallest grenadier morally. He smiled and gave him a hand to kiss, and when La Salle rose he met the eyes of Barbe Ranard, who would have killed him now if she could, for he saw the savage hatred in her eyes, though her lips were smiling.

In his heart was triumph but his nature was free from guile or the smaller things. He knew he was now on a new and wider pathway of life and that behind him was—for the moment—the greatest monarch of the world, and a Minister—Colbert—who had even greater things in him than his master. Colbert was then in an age and at a Court where the small and the great were in sharp contrast, in hideous, yet beautiful amalgamation.

King Louis saw Prince Conti near, and inclined his head, and Conti came. Louis said: “My cousin, you have an eye—you see far. Is it done well to-day.”

Conti's face showed no feeling. “Your Majesty is right to-day, as he always is. In the Sieur de la Salle is a subject who will bring honor to France—to you. I have no tongue for flattery, Sire.”

“I know it well,” and Louis lightly dusted some powder from a scarf and gazed round him kindly. He saw La Salle talking to Tonty. “Ah, that Henri de Tonty, the Italian, is he a friend of La Salle, my cousin?”

“I brought them together, and Tonty goes to Canada with La Salle. He is a strong, brave man.”

“I am glad. I have honored La Salle before my court. He knows all it means to him.”

“Did not his speech assure?”

“I have never heard such a speech at Court and I have heard many. There is something in his voice that gets to the core of things.”

Louis turned to De Montespan. “Well, my seraph, what think you of La Salle?”

De Montespan, who had the true sense of things behind her fripperies and sordidness, said: “My sovereign was benign, and La Salle is a man of men. He has not the Church behind him, but he is the soul of, the new life—over there.”

Louis was pleased now. He did not see the falsehood in the woman, for he was fond of her as yet, and he thought that he—not La Salle—had conquered her. He whispered in her ear, and what he said brought a slight flush to her face. Her eyes looked into his and dropped so that their light was for him only.

Barbe Ranard and Abbé Potin watched them. She said:

“La Salle has beaten us Abbé, but he has not yet left Paris for New France. There is still that to do!”

The Abbé touched her arm. “Not that. It must not be. He must return to Quebec, and then! Not here. Louis would search it out after to-night. Let be. It is not the way to fly in the face of Fate.”

She clenched her hands. “The face of Fate shall be with me yet, then.”