The Cat and the King (10 page)

 

 

 

T
HE CELEBRATION
of the marriage between Mademoiselle de Blois and the due de Chartres was to mark the cessation, for almost a decade and a half, of any serious effort on my part to affect the destiny of the Bourbons. I preserved all my notions of what I considered our “divine constitution.” I did not alter, in the least little bit, my conception of the rule of our glorious and favored nation by a lawfully born, agnatic descendant of Hugues Capet, inspired by God and advised by his peers. But I had concluded that my role at court had better be limited to that of observer, recorder or, at the most, adviser. I should be, in other words, a historiographer rather than an actor, an eye more than a fist. It seemed to have been proved that I lacked the “happy hand.”

Gabrielle, who had wanted to see me in a role, was too tactful to say that she had now changed her mind. But I felt it. I had entered the fray, and I had been worsted. Like a little boy at the seashore, I had played in the surf and been rolled by a giant wave. Gabrielle was eminently practical; she did not repine. She concentrated on our careers as courtiers; she kept her ear cocked for the news and gossip that formed the grist of my recording mill. The redeeming fact about life at Versailles was that
nothing
was too trivial to be caught and noted and lovingly preserved. Discrimination was an idle tool when one lived at the source of power. One could not have eyes and ears enough to absorb it all.

It was also true that I tended to blame myself for the emaciated condition of our scrawny second child and first son. I feared that Gabrielle's worry over my disfavor in the final days of her pregnancy might have caused this, although she never suggested such a thing herself. It seemed to me that I would do well, at least until our family was made up and succession assured, to keep myself clear of further entanglements.

There was the additional inducement, in the restoration to the royal graces of myself and my two friends, not to plunge them back in the sea of despond. Savonne had returned to court and was once again a welcome member of the circle of the mighty Maintenon, and Conti, by all reports, had the king's backing to place his bid for election to the vacant throne of Poland. So the three wretches of yesterday were now, respectively, the holder of a coveted apartment at Versailles, the intimate of the royal spouse, and a future monarch! It would be a brave man indeed who would upset
that
applecart.

And finally there was my dear mother, who gave me what my old Normandy nurse used to call the “length and breadth of her tongue.” I spent an uneasy afternoon in her Paris salon, walking up and down as she made her points.

“I gather from first to last that you went against the advice of that clever little wife of yours. Oh, don't think she has betrayed you. I had it all from Savonne's mother, who had it from Madame de Maintenon herself. Things get known, as you, my dear, of all men, should know. But I hope you have learned your lesson and will be guided by Gabrielle in the future. My confidence in that girl is complete.”

“But, Mother, I thought it might be taken for granted that a man should have
some
say in the direction of his life!”

“Only if he knows what he's doing.”

“And who is to be the judge of that?”

“A woman! A woman who's fool enough to care for him. Her caring is what gives her the insight.”

“I would never deny that Gabrielle has been the greatest help to me. Any more than I should deny that you have been. But there still have to be areas of choice reserved to men, and honor is one of these. Your sex, Mother dear, cares very little about honor. Yet you'd be the first to complain if your son let down the family standard!”

“And do you imply that interfering, officiously and unsuccessfully, with the king's plans for his own daughter and nephew is keeping up the standards of the Saint-Simons?”

“I do! Of course, you're trying to make it sound as if the king should be able to do as he wants with his own family. But his family is France, Mother! There have to be times when a man is not afraid to stand up for a principle. Even to die for one. Otherwise, there's no difference between the sexes.”

Mother simply grunted at this. “I may be a foolish old woman, but I thought there were other differences. And I can't for the life of me see what you gained by opposing the king in his pet project. Didn't you know he could break you like a twig, you silly boy?”

“He can't break a principle!”

“Men can never learn to face facts. The king is a fact. Oh, you can get around him, of course. Madame de Maintenon could teach you plenty of valuable lessons in that game. But you cannot blast your way through him, and you're an idiot to try. Your father was the same way.”

“My father?” I asked in amazement. “But he was always in favor. He didn't want to get around Louis XIII!”

“He was out of favor for two whole years. It was long before I knew him, before I was born, actually, but I heard it from your half-sister. It was over the fortified towns. Richelieu was intent on dismantling them. Your father thought he was going too far. He thought some of the towns in the Gironde were among the glories of France. He refused to dismantle the walls of Blaye and depended on the king's supporting him.”

“And he didn't?”

“The king never went against Richelieu when Richelieu really put his foot down. That was what people never could fathom, even your father, who knew him so intimately. Louis XIII believed that Richelieu was the only man in France who could carry on the government. So, no matter how much he criticized him behind his back, when it came to a crisis, and the cardinal threatened to walk out, leaving all those mountains of paper behind, the king would simply collapse.”

“And that's what happened over Blaye?”

“Yes. The towns were a vital part of Richelieu's policy. He wouldn't give in on one of them. So your father was disgraced and sent away from court. Two years later, Richelieu allowed him to come back. Your father had learned his lesson, and he remained on the best terms with the cardinal thereafter. Now our king is much more like Richelieu than like his own father. And you'd better not forget it!”

“You make me wonder if I shouldn't go with Conti to Poland!” I cried bitterly.

“That's just the kind of idiotic idea that would occur to a man. But I guess we needn't worry about it. Conti will never go.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Because, from all I hear, Madame la Duchesse will never let him!”

I had to admit that my mother was up to date. But what else did she have to do all day but give and receive gossip? I sighed and wondered what widows had talked about in the day of the Chevalier Bayard. They probably whispered that he was not really without fear or above reproach. God help us all!

G
ABRIELLE'S
prediction that we should again be in favor after Chartres' marriage came true, and she proposed that I take advantage of it by suggesting our names for a visit at Marly. Marly was the small but exquisite palace that the king had constructed for his weekends, and invitations there, needless to say, were passionately coveted. One proposed oneself by asking, “Sire, Marly?” as the monarch passed from his cabinet to mass. If he nodded an affirmative, one's name was placed on the list. I confess that I was very nervous, anticipating the blank stare that conveyed the royal refusal, but Gabrielle's conjecture again proved correct. Not only did I receive a nod, but it was almost a gracious one!

Marly had charm and intimacy, two qualities rarely associated with the Sun King. Indeed, the court had been generally astonished when his visits there, at first infrequent, had hardened into habit. None of us had believed that a man of his iron constitution and unslakable thirst for splendor could ever need to relax in simple surroundings. But we were wrong. The king loved Marly, which was built like a small town of marble porticos with a garden for its main square, the royal residence flanked by pavilions, one for each guest couple, connected by a colonnade. The atmosphere was informal, at least in contrast to Versailles; the king would sit of an evening with Madame de Maintenon and watch people dancing or chatting or playing cards. He would even sometimes play a hand himself, though he preferred billiards, and it was possible, if one was standing near him, to address him a question, even, on rare occasions, to tell him a joke or an amusing anecdote.

Pleasantest of all was the absence—at least on the surface—of the jealousies and animosities that pervaded the court. There was a sense, among the favored few at Marly, of having reached the social peak, of there being no place higher to climb, so that one could relax and be natural, or at least pretend to be. In heaven, with the cherubim and seraphim, what could one do but join in the celestial chorus? Versailles, like the earth, was subject to the visitation of evil spirits, but at Marly we all were blessed.

Except our new bridegroom. Chartres arrived late on Saturday and sulked in a corner at the evening reception. Even Madame de Maintenon's glare could not induce him to conceal his ill temper. His young duchess, blond and beautiful, seated with her quondam governess, seemed to proclaim, with her silent hauteur, that, sulk as he might,
she
was content with her mate. And, as he had already crudely intimated to me on the first morning after the ceremony, that at least one aspect of his marriage was all right, I deduced now that some worry other than connubial was on his mind. I went over to caution him.

“I just heard the Maintenon grumbling that you look bored. She said that, no doubt, your evenings at the Palais-royal were livelier.”

“You can tell her they are. Much!”

“Please, sir, lower your voice.”

“Well, why the devil should I, Saint-Simon? Who here is ever going to do anything for me? My uncle will make a fourth cousin king of Poland, but can I even hope for a regiment?”

“Is it definite about Conti, then?”

Chartres looked surprised. “I thought you heard these things even before the old trot did. Yes, it's going to be announced tonight. Conti says he has a majority of the electors. It's only been a question of whether the king will let him accept. And now he's decided that he will. Savonne's going to meet me in Paris tomorrow for a real binge. Care to join us?”

“On the Sabbath? Thank you, no.”

“Well, come Monday. Or even Tuesday. This one may last a week.”

“I didn't go in for that sort of thing as a bachelor, and I'm certainly not going to start now. But why is Savonne so disgusted? He wanted Conti to be king.”

“He does. But he wants to go with him, and the old trot won't let him!”

I turned away from him at this, noting that Conti had just risen from his seat at the card table. I came up to him as he leaned down to draw a final card. Glancing at it, he dropped it face upwards on the table. “I am desolated, sir,” he murmured, as his opponent, with a bow, pushed the chips towards him. Nobody could win with more grace. It was difficult to believe that a man of such exquisite courtesy was about to be elected to the crown of a near-barbaric country.

“Is it true?” I asked as he and I turned from the table.

“Quite true.”

“Sire!” I exclaimed, giving him the royal address.

He touched his lips with the tip of his finger. “Give me two more minutes of private life. The king is about to announce it. Do you know who wants to come with me? Savonne!”

I felt my pulse quicken. “Maybe he won't be the only one!”

“You mean
you
want to come? To see that I don't abrogate the rights of the dukes?”

“Do they have dukes there?”

“If they don't, we'll have to make them. Every one a Saint-Simon!”

“Ah, sire, you're laughing at me.”

“Only to keep my spirits up. Poland is a long way off. Seriously, Saint-Simon, isn't it the right thing for me to do?”

“I don't know.”

“What else is there for me? It's my one chance to be somebody. And think what it will mean to my poor little wife, who spends her days dancing attendance on her old mother. After all the humiliations I've caused her, to be a queen! Fit role, at last, for a princess of the House of Condé!” And then he laughed softly at his own exaltation. “Or am I sounding like a drama of Corneille?”

“Don't forget they end as tragedies.”

“And don't you be so grim! Your trouble is that you can't really believe there's a world outside Versailles. Except, perhaps, at Marly.”

“Don't underestimate me, sire. Haven't I said that I might go with you?”

Conti was suddenly serious as he sensed now that I was. He placed a hand on my shoulder. “Dear friend,” he said gently. Then he was silent a moment. “Perhaps I may send for you later. When all is settled there. There may be... yes, there may be a place for you. But I shall need you here. At first, anyway. Someone, as you may conceive, is very unhappy about all this.”

“She doesn't show it.” We both glanced to where Madame la Duchesse was making herself the animated center of the group around Madame de Maintenon.

“Did you think she would?” His hand gripped my shoulder tightly. “Stay, my friend, and keep an eye on her. Poland is not for you.”

“We'll see about that!”

There was a rustle of rising as the king now walked to the center of the room. He waved an arm towards Conti.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the king of Poland!”

A burst of applause followed, and the king, nodding graciously to Conti, immediately left the room, followed by Madame de Maintenon. Conti was at once surrounded by a circle of congratulating friends, and I moved over to observe Madame la Duchesse.

Everybody near her, of course, was discussing Conti, and the remarks, particularly of the ladies, were maliciously designed to try her endurance. It was cruel, but how many chances did courtiers have to “get back” at a king's daughter? She was frequently hard enough on them! Here is a sample of their comments: