The Cat and the King (12 page)

The first time that I saw the prince de Conti after his return from Poland was at a small reception in the apartments of the due and duchesse de Bourbon. Madame la Duchesse was at her most exuberant. She made no secret of her delight at being reunited with her adored one, and she strolled with him among her other guests, arm in arm. Monsieur le Due, who could hardly make open objection to such cordiality to a returning brother-in-law, was nonetheless obviously irritated. When he and I talked, he allowed his tone to be grating.

“A sad day for France, sir,” I observed discreetly.

“For France,” he emphasized. “Not, necessarily, for all Frenchmen. Or all French women.”

“I suppose it is only natural for the royal family to rejoice at the return of so beloved a member.”

“Rather too natural, Monsieur de Saint-Simon.”

“Poland has lost a great sovereign. And we, a great ally. I suppose there can be no doubt about that?”

“Can there not?”

“You doubt the capacity of the prince de Conti?”

“I doubt his enthusiasm.”

“You mean you believe he had no heart for the job?”

“I mean he had not the slightest intention of ever becoming king of Poland. It was the title he wanted, pure and simple. He calculated that if elected and then deposed, he could return to Versailles and take precedence over the rest of the family (including your humble servant), the way the deposed king of England does.”

“But surely it was understood from the beginning that an elective crown would be recognized only if the election held!”

“Was it?” Monsieur le Due's eyebrows soared. “Not by Conti, it wasn't. He believed that my wife would intercede with the king. And it is entirely possible that she may have. But the king was not going to flout the wishes of the first prince of the blood.” Here he made me a jaunty little mocking bow. “Not even at the request of the first princess!”

“It seems difficult to believe,” I continued, placing no credit whatever in what my jealous interlocutor had said, “that we could have all been saying our prayers for the fruition of a project that its principal beneficiary wished to abort.”

“
All
the prayers were not directed to that goal. There may even have been masses offered for the
failure
of the project. Black masses!”

This was going rather far. The duchess's mother, Madame de Montespan, was notoriously supposed to have sought to preserve the king's love by a black mass, in which blood from the slit throat of a newborn infant had been allowed to drip on her stomach as she lay, naked and supine, on an improvised altar.

I decided to leave Monsieur le Due to his morbid reflections, and, bowing, turned to make my way towards his wife. Seeing me, she waved and pulled Conti to the middle of the chamber, where we met.

“Oh, don't make such a face,” she reproached me. “I have to have my little moment. I am quite aware that it infuriates Monsieur le Due. But I'll make it up to him. I always do. If you don't permit yourself some little outlets in court life, you'll find yourself exploding in little pieces all over the great gallery.”

“I am very happy to see you, sir,” I said to Conti.

“Saint-Simon, dear fellow!” He detached himself from Madame la Duchesse to embrace me warmly. She burst out laughing.

“Well! Perhaps I should leave you two boys alone!”

“Perhaps it would be good if you did,” Conti advised her gently. “For a minute, anyway. You've made enough of me. Go and un-ruffle Monsieur le Due. He looks like a startled grouse.” Alone, he turned to me. “I can never thank you enough for your letters. What are people saying? That I made a lovely mess of it?”

“No,” I replied judiciously. “Most consider it simply bad luck. Some blame the king. A few, like Monsieur le Due, think you didn't really try. That you wanted all the time to come home. For what reason, you can imagine.”

“I give you my solemn word, Saint-Simon, that I tried my best!” He was graver than I had ever seen him, very pale but with a flash in his eyes. “I did everything a man could do to win over the nobles to my candidacy. But when I saw that it was all to no avail, that I was to be flung out of that cold, dark northern heaven back to the glittering lights of old Versailles, when I saw that my allies were dissolving... well, despise me if you will... I was actually happy. Oh, happy as I had never been! To come back, a broken Antony, to my serpent of old Nile! For that's what she is, my friend. I'm in her clutches now forever.”

“There are other careers,” I insisted, shocked.

“Not for me. How you stare, Saint-Simon! Do you think I don't know myself? I had a chance, one single glorious chance, a golden opportunity, and it's gone. There are people who never get second chances, and I am one of them. I can even stand back and admire my own futility. My story is short but elegantly written. Charming, if a bit sad. Never tragic. I was wrong, just now, to compare myself to Antony. I am more like a perfect little novel by Madame de La Fayette.”

I could not avoid the feeling that there was a constraint in Conti's manner. It was not only the note of self-dramatization in his voice. I had a distinct impression that he was putting up a wall of words between himself and me, not only that I might be prevented from criticizing him, but that he might be kept from criticizing
me.
Yet, what had I done that was wrong, except perhaps encourage him in the illusion that his love could be maintained by correspondence when a clean break should have been advocated? What lover would have held
that
against a friend?

Others pushed forward now to speak to Conti, and I had to give way. I thought that he would send for me in private, but he did not do so. And something else troubled me at this time. Savonne had not only failed to return to court; he had not even written to me.

One of Conti's staff had told me that Savonne had been gravely depressed by the failure of the enterprise and had spoken of making a religious retreat. This was not unlike him, but his silence was. As none of his family was at court, I was constrained to write a note to one of Madame de Maintenon's secretaries to ask if they had news of him. What was my astonishment to be informed in return that the great marquise would see me herself! I was instructed to present myself at her apartments the very next morning, before she departed on her daily visit to St. Cyr.

A
T THE APPOINTED TIME
I was shown into Madame de Maintenon's receiving room, where she was seated in the famous red chair. I was not invited to be seated.

“I decided that it would be better if I spoke to you directly, Monsieur de Saint-Simon,” she began in a chilling tone. “My cousin Savonne has not been willing to communicate with you. I am afraid he no longer regards you as his friend.”

“May I ask the reason?” I inquired, in great agitation.

“He has been bitterly upset over this Polish business. Almost, I fear, to the risk of his sanity.”

“That is understandable. But why should it make him cease to regard me as his friend?”

The Maintenon honored me with an impassive stare. “You have not been one of
my
friends, sir.”

“What causes Madame to think that?”

“In court these things are known.”

“In court, I suppose, we are at the mercy of every gossip. But I hardly supposed that the lady who has been described by the king himself as a priestess of the life of reason would listen to idle tattle.”

“I listen to everything! I have to. Look at the crowd waiting outside this room, just for a word with me, before I go to Saint-Cyr. Every last one of them has a favor to ask or a tale to tell. Usually both!”

I allowed myself to give her a narrow look. “You may find many who will misquote me. You will not find one who can have misread me.”

“What on earth do you mean by that?”

“Simply that I have never had the presumption to name Madame de Maintenon in a letter.”

“And why should I be concerned with your letters, sir?” She paused here, and then, to my astonishment, smiled. “Oh, of course, you think I read everyone's mail.”

“Letters
have
been read, Madame.”

“I don't know what measures may be taken by the ministers in the interests of security. But contrary to popular opinion I read only letters that are addressed to me.” I bowed in silence. Contradiction was hardly expected. “Of course, people suspect me. My position invites that. But I do the job God gave me as best I can.” She did not raise her eyes to the ceiling as she said this; she was too clever for that. She simply allowed her eyelids to droop for a moment. “A very poor best, I'm sure it is.”

“No one doubts your devotion to duty, Madame.”

“Oh, do they not? Do
you
not, sir? When one is reared as I was, on a lonely island, thousands of leagues away, across the ocean, and then is doomed to live in a crowded court, one has experienced the extremes of isolation and inundation. Thank heaven I learned to depend on myself before I was subjected to the scrutinies of Versailles. But I didn't ask you here to recriminate. Or even to win you to my side. No, I shall be quite candid. I asked you here to tell you something that it is in your best interests for you to know.”

Again I bowed and waited.

“You are aware, sir, of my great interest in the king's children. When I Was honored, many years ago, with the charge of the royal infants, I accepted it as a duty. I did not know then that it would become a joy. I have learned to love them as I might have loved my own. Not least in my affection is Madame la Duchesse.”

“She is indeed a radiant princess.”

“Thank you. I believe she is. But I do not imagine that I am revealing any startling news when I say that she is indiscreet. I believed that it would be a good thing for everybody if the prince de Conti were elected king of Poland. I believed that you, too, saw matters in that light.”

“It is an honor to be of your persuasion, Madame.”

Madame de Maintenon did not concede by so much as a blink that she understood my irony. “The king, sir, is always a monarch first and a father second. He would never consider a possible advantage to a daughter if the smallest French interest were at stake. So the moment he suspected that the prince de Conti might not share his views as to the Spanish succession, the prince's candidacy was dead.”

I waited, but she did not continue. “And
did
the king have such suspicions?” I demanded at last.

“How could he not, when Madame la Duchesse told him so herself? It annoyed him that she should be the one to bring about what she so evidently and inappropriately desired, namely, the recall of the prince, but that could not affect his decision.”

I stared. “And I am to conclude that you believe me somehow to have had a hand in this?”

“Don't play games with
me,
sir. You showed Madame la Duchesse the prince's letter!”

My mind stumbled. All became dark about me. “I did! And why should I have done that?”

“Wasn't it your agreement? You're not the only man who has been a willing tool of Madame la Duchesse. My poor cousin Savonne was heartbroken when he learned of your treachery.” She raised her hand sternly as I stepped forward in shock. “It was
his
term, sir, not mine. And I very much doubt if he will wish to see you again. He may even decide to take holy orders. I shall have to be sure, of course, that he has a proper vocation and is not taking so drastic a step in the heat of temporary emotion.”

“Madame, I beg you to listen to me. I...”

“That will be all, Monsieur de Saint-Simon. You have interfered in a matter that concerned a member of the royal family who is very dear to me. I simply wanted you to know that I
knew.
”

***

Half-distracted, I wandered in a daze through the corridors of the palace, failing to acknowledge nods or bows. Gabrielle was crossing the great gallery with two ladies. The moment she saw me she must have sensed that something was wrong, for she left her friends and hurried across the floor to me.

“What's wrong? You have the most ghastly pallor! Are you ill?”

I looked at her in horror. “You betrayed me! You betrayed me to Madame la Duchesse!”

She glanced quickly to her left and right. “Let us go home,” she whispered.

“No! Here! I must talk to you here!”

Gabrielle was quick to accept situations and make the best of them. She walked at once to the emptiest portion of the gallery and turned to face me, her back against one of those immense silver
guéridons
supporting two tall silver candelabra, which framed her patiently resolute countenance. I remember that the stems of the candelabra were wrought in the forms of naked wrestling men. Gabrielle struck me, even at such a moment, as affecting a pose of female superiority to such idle muscular strife.

“You gave Conti's letter about Spain to Madame la Duchesse!”

Gabrielle's unaltered expression disclosed to me now that she had been prepared for my outburst. Despite her calm, I suspected that her heart must have been beating faster than usual.

“Was that not your agreement with her?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“That you would show her everything the prince had written?”

“Only what he had written about herself. And then only at my discretion. Good God, do you know what you've
done?
”

“Perfectly. I've done exactly what the prince wanted.”

“Woman, you're mad!”

“Be calm, my dear, I beg of you. The prince was desperate to find a way to come home. Why else would he blab his intention to controvert the king in his most cherished scheme? One whiff of that at Versailles, and the Polish venture was done for! Oh, don't you
see
it?” Gabrielle's eyes were desperately earnest now; she had even clasped her hands. “And he
is
home, without disgrace—for there was no treason in a Polish king not wanting a Bourbon on the Spanish throne—and reunited with his adored duchess. If you weren't so blinded by your ideas of Conti's greatness, you'd admit I'd done a good day's work. Anyone can see he'd have made the most ghastly sovereign!”