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The Count of Provence—Regent of France since the execution of his brother, Louis XVI—sat at a writing-table in the window of a large, low-ceilinged room that was at once study, audience-chamber, and salon d'honneur, in the wooden châlet at Hamm which he was permitted to occupy by the indulgence of the King of Prussia. His Highness was learning in the bitter school of experience that friends are for the fortunate.

Some few there were who clung to him. But these were men, mutatis mutandi, in his own sad case; men who served him, and continued to discern in him princely qualities, because their future was bound up with his.

Nevertheless, his confidence was as unabated as his corpulence. He preserved at once his bulk and his faith in himself and destiny. He maintained upon slenderest means and in almost ignoble surroundings a sort of state. Four ministers were appointed to deal with his affairs, and with two secretaries and four servants made up his establishment and that of his brother the Comte d'Artois, who had joined him here after having been arrested for debt at Maestricht. He had his ambassadors at all the courts of Europe; and to accelerate the inevitable he spent long hours daily writing letters in that fine, precise, upright hand of his to his brother-rulers and to his sister-ruler, Catherine of Russia, in whom he founded considerable hopes. One or two of his correspondents meanwhile lent him a little money.

The only ladies attached to this court of his were Madame de Plougastel and Mademoiselle de Kercadiou, the wife of one and the niece of the other of the two gentlemen who were at present acting as his secretaries. The Countess of Provence and her sister, the Countess of Artois, remained forgotten in Turin at the court of their father. Madame de Balbi, whose joyous nature found no scope at the dour court of his Sardinian majesty and whose sybaritic tastes could not have endured for a day the monastic privations of Hamm, had established herself at Brussels whilst awaiting those better times which now seemed to recede instead of approaching. A genuine affection for her being one of his redeeming characteristics, Monsieur could not bring himself to send for her and doom her to these Westphalian hardships. Besides, it was always possible that she would have refused to come.

From its scant, severe furnishings you might almost judge the room he now occupied to have been a monastery parlour. Gone were the white-and-gold walls, the long mirrors, the crystal chandeliers, the soft carpets, the rich brocades, and the gilt furniture of Schönbornlust. The only armchair present, and this with a simple serge cushion, was that which his Highness occupied at his plain writing-table. For the rest a chestnut press against one wall, some plain chairs of oak or elm set about a table of polished pine made up the room's equipment. There was no carpet on the floor. The window by which his Highness's table was set looked out upon a desolate and untidy garden.

In attendance upon him now were the young and delicate d'Avaray, who was virtually his first minister of State; the tall, dry, capable Baron de Flachslanden, his minister for Foreign Affairs; the dark, restless d'Entragues, most active and zealous of secret agents and most accomplished libertine; the Comte de Jaucourt, who still performed the daily miracle of an irreproachable elegance of apparel and who preserved the nimbus of romance which his gallantries had earned him; the short, stocky self-sufficient Comte de Plougastel; and, lastly, Monsieur de Kercadiou.

It was to Monsieur de Kercadiou that his Highness was now particularly addressing himself, whilst really speaking to them all.

Monsieur de Kercadiou, not without some hesitation, had suggested the possibility of his early retirement from the inconsiderable duties which his Highness graciously permitted him to discharge.

His niece was about to marry Monsieur Moreau, who to support her would open an academy of arms in Dresden. Monsieur de Kercadiou was offered a home with them, and, as his resources were dwindling and the prospects of a return to France were now remote, he did not think that he could in prudence or in justice oppose the plan of the young people.

Dark grew the Prince's fleshly countenance as he listened. The handsome, liquid eyes considered the Breton gentleman in surprise and displeasure.

'Prudence and justice, eh?' He smiled between wistfulness and scorn. 'Frankly, monsieur, I perceive neither the one nor the other.' He paused there a moment, and then abruptly asked: 'What is this man Moreau?'

'He is my godson, Monseigneur.'

Monsieur clucked impatiently. 'Yes, yes. That we know, as also that he was a revolutionary, one of the gentlemen responsible for the present ruin. But what else is he?'

'What else? Why, by profession, originally a lawyer. He was educated at Louis-le-Grand.'

Monsieur nodded. 'I understand. You evade my question. The answer being really that he is nobody's son. Yet you do not hesitate to permit your niece, a person of birth and distinction, to enter into this mésalliance.'

'I do not,' said Monsieur de Kercadiou dryly. In reality, although he concealed it, since it was a sentiment impossible to display to royalty, he was moved to indignation.

'You do not?' The thick black brows were raised. The fine eyes opened a little wider in astonishment. Monsieur looked at his gentlemen: at Monsieur d'Avaray leaning on the window-sill beside him, at the other four who made a group by the table in mid-chamber. His expression clearly invited them to share his amazement.

Monsieur de Plougastel was heard to utter a short, soft laugh.

'Your Highness forgets the debt under which I lie to Monsieur Moreau,' said the Lord of Gavrillac in an attempt to defend at once himself and his godson. He stood immediately before the Regent's writing-table, with a deepened colour in his pink, pock-marked face, a troubled look in his pale eyes.

Monsieur was sententious. 'No debt in the world between yourself and Monsieur Moreau can demand payment in such coin.'

'But the young people love each other,' Monsieur de Kercadiou protested.

Monsieur displayed his irritation in a frown. Again he replied sententiously:

'A young maid's fancy is easily captivated. It is the duty of her natural guardians to shield her from the consequences of a passing exaltation.'

'I cannot so regard her sentiments, Monseigneur.'

His Highness considered, then set himself to reason. As a raisonneur he held himself in high esteem.

'I can understand that you should be deceived by our unhappy circumstances, circumstances which unless we are vigilant may lead to the loss of our sense of values. You are in danger of this, I think, my dear Gavrillac. Common misfortune acting as a leveller makes you lose sight of the difference, the ineffaceable difference, that lies between persons born, like yourself and your niece, and a man such as Monsieur Moreau. You are driven by circumstances to admit inferiors to a sort of equality, you are constrained to accept favours from them which dispose you to forget that their place is still below the salt. I cannot presume to command you in this matter, my dear Gavrillac. But let me exhort you very earnestly, and entirely as a friend, to delay all decision until you are happily restored to Gavrillac, and the things of this world once more assume their proper relative proportions. Then you will no longer be in danger, as now, of having your judgment falsified.'

Overwhelmed by this oration from royal lips, whose utterances generations of loyalty to an idea rendered oracular in the ears of men of his simple, straightforward mind, Monsieur de Kercadiou found himself in an agony of perplexity. The perspiration stood on his brow. But still he braced himself to hold his ground.

'Monseigneur,' he argued desperately, 'it is precisely because the return to Gavrillac seems now so remote, because we are in sight of the end of our resources, that common prudence demands that my niece should avail herself of the protection and provision of this marriage.'

The Regent drummed impatiently upon the table. 'Are you really of so little faith that you speak of your return to Gavrillac, which is to say our return to France, as a thing remote?'

'Alas, Monseigneur! What else can I believe?'

'What else? What else?' Again Monsieur looked at the others as if inviting them to share his impatience at such blindness. 'Surely you fail to read the signs. Yet they are very plain.'

And now at last he launched upon a political discourse, which summed up the European situation as he perceived it. He began by pointing out that, whatever apathy might hitherto have existed among the sovereigns of Europe towards the events in France, this had at last been rudely dispelled by the monstrous crime of the execution of the King. Hitherto those rulers might have thought of advantages to themselves in the paralysis which the revolution had laid upon France. They might have imagined that they would be strengthened by her removal from competition in the world's affairs. But now all this was changed. France as now governed was rightly perceived to be a canker-spot of anarchy, a peril to civilization. Already the revolutionaries were disclosing their aims to reform the whole world in accordance with their own ideas—ideas which must always find response among the worthless of every nation, for they were ideas which gave the worthless the opportunities from which in a well-ordered society their worthlessness must exclude them. In France the lowest scoundrels, the very riff-raff of the Nation, were in the saddle, and their agents abroad were already at work disseminating these pestilent, poisonous, anarchical doctrines: in Switzerland, in Belgium, in Italy, and in England, the first hissings of this foul serpent were already to be heard. Could any man of vision really suppose that the great powers of Europe would remain indifferent in the face of this? Was it not evident that for their own sake, for the sake of their self-preservation, they must rise up without delay and unite in extirpating this canker, in delivering France from her present evil thraldom, and purifying her of her disease before the contagion spread to themselves?

Already from England, from Russia, from Austria, and elsewhere Monsieur's agents wrote to inform him that activity was astir. D'Entragues could tell them of the extent of this, of the imminence of action, decisive action which must bring the revolutionaries to their knees at any moment. That very morning d'Entragues, as he could tell them, had received word that England had now joined the coalition against France. It was great news if they properly considered its significance. Hitherto, Pitt had been profiting by the French Revolution to magnify England, just as Richelieu had profited by the English crisis of 1640 to ensure the ascendancy of France. Yet now they heard that Chauvelin, the Republican minister in London, had been dismissed the Court of Saint James's. There was a state of war between England and revolutionary France.

'Revive your faith, then, my dear Gavrillac,' the Regent concluded. 'Postpone decisions wrung from you by present transient necessities. As for these, had I but known that they are pressing, restricted as are the means at my disposal, I could not have consented to receive without remuneration the valuable secretarial services you have been discharging. D'Avaray here will provide for that in the future. You will see to it at once, d'Avaray; so that from now onwards our good Gavrillac need be under no financial anxiety.'

Confused, confounded, shamed out of all further resistance, Monsieur de Kercadiou began a quavering protest.

'Ah, but, Monseigneur, aware as I am of the slenderness of your own resources, I could not accept ...'

He was interrupted almost sternly. 'Not another word, monsieur. I do no more than my duty by a zealous servant in depriving him of every pretext to run counter to my wishes.'

Bewildered, Monsieur de Kercadiou could only bow submission, and then a knock at the door came to seal a discussion which his Highness had indicated was at an end. Monsieur de Kercadiou moved away, mopping his brow.

Plougastel went to open. A servant in plain livery entered and stood murmuring to the Count. The Count turned to the Regent. His pompous, affected voice made an announcement.

'Monsieur de Batz is here, Monseigneur.'

'Monsieur de Batz!' There was surprise in the tone. The fleshly face grew set, the full, sensual mouth tightened. 'Monsieur de Batz!' he repeated, this time on a note of scorn. 'He has returned, then? For what has he returned?' He looked round as he asked the question.

'Would it not be well to let him tell you, Monseigneur?' ventured d'Entragues.

The liquid eyes stared at him from under knit brows. Then his Highness shrugged his heavy shoulders, and spoke to Plougastel. 'Very well. Let him be admitted since he has the effrontery to present himself.'