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Huguenot: A Tale of the French Protestants

<h2>CHAPTER XV.</h2><h3>THE END.</h3> It was in the great reception room at Versailles, an hour after the King had held the council, which failed not to meet every day. His mood was neither more nor less severe than ordinary; for if, on the one hand, events had taken place which had given him pleasure, other events had reached his ears from the south of France, which showed him, notwithstanding all Louvois's efforts to conceal the extent of the evil, that serious disturbances in the Cevennes, and other parts of France, near the mouth of the Rhone, were likely to follow the measures which had been adopted against the Protestants. Louvois himself was present, and in no very placable mood, the King having replied to him more than once during the morning haughtily and angrily, and repressed the insolence by which his demeanour was sometimes characterised, with that severe dignity which the minister was very willing to see exercised towards any one but himself. Louis, who was dressed in the most sumptuous manner, held in his hand a roll of papers, which had been given him just before his entrance into the chamber; but he did not read them, and merely turned them round and round from time to time, as if he were handling a truncheon. Many eyes were fixed upon him, and various were the hopes and fears which the aspect of that one man created in the breasts of those who surrounded him. All, however, were silent at that moment, for an event was about to take place highly flattering to the pride of the ostentatious King of France, and the eyes of all were fixed upon the doors at the end of the hall. At length they opened, and a fine looking middle-aged man, dressed in a robe of red velvet, followed by four others in black velvet, was led into the apartment and approached the King. He bowed low and reverently, and then addressed the French sovereign without embarrassment, and with apparent ease, assuring the monarch in vague, but still flattering terms, that the republic of Genoa, of which he was Doge, had entertained nothing, throughout the course of events lately passed, but profound respect for the crown of France. Somewhat to the left of the King, amongst the multitude of French princes and officers, appeared one or two groups, consisting of the ambassadors from different barbaric nations; and, while the Doge of Genoa spoke, offering excuses for the conduct of the state he ruled, the eye of Louis glanced from time to time to the Indian envoys in their gorgeous apparel, as they eagerly asked questions of their interpreter, and were told that it was the prince of an independent state come to humble himself before the mighty monarch that he had offended. When the audience of the Doge of Genoa was over, and he withdrew, a multitude of the courtiers followed, so that the audience hall was nearly clear, and the King paused for a moment, talking over the Doge's demeanour to those who surrounded him, and apparently about to retire immediately. He had taken a step forward, indeed, to do so, when the Prince de Marsillac, who certainly dared to press the King upon disagreeable subjects, when no one else would run the risk, advanced, and, bowing low, pointed to the papers in the King's hand. "I ventured, Sire," he said, "before your Majesty came here, to present to you those papers which you promised to look at." The King's brow instantly darkened. "I see at once, Prince," he said, "that they refer to the Count of Morseiul, a rebel, as I am informed, taken with arms in his hand, in regard to whom the laws of the land must have their course." The Prince was somewhat abashed, and hesitated; but another gentleman stepped forward with stern and somewhat harsh features, but with a noble air and look that bespoke fearless sincerity. "What is it, Montausier?" said the King, sharply addressing that celebrated nobleman, who is supposed to have been represented by Molière under the character of the misanthrope. "Merely to say, Sire," replied the Duke in a firm, strong tone of voice, "that some one has falsified the truth to your Majesty. My nephew, in command of the troops to whom the Count surrendered, informs me that he was not taken with arms in his hand, as you have said; but, on the contrary, (and here lies a great difference,) surrendered voluntarily, when, according to the truce of five hours granted to the Huguenots by the Chevalier d'Evran, he had every opportunity of escaping to England had he so pleased, as all the rest of the leaders on that occasion did." "How is this, Sir?" demanded the King, turning to Louvois. "I speak from your statements, and I hope you have not made me speak falsely." "Sire," replied Louvois, with a look of effrontery, "I have just heard that what the Duke says is the case; but I judged that all such points could naturally be investigated at the Count's trial." The King seemed struck with this observation; but Montausier instantly replied--"Monsieur de Louvois, if his Majesty will permit me to tell you so, you have been, for the first time in your life, sadly tardy in receiving information; for my nephew informs me that he gave you intelligence of this fact no less than three days ago; and, in the next place, you are very well aware of what you have not thought fit to say, that by investigating such things at a trial, you would directly frustrate the express object for which the Count de Morseiul surrendered himself when he might have escaped, which was to cast himself at the King's feet, and explain to him the strange and extraordinary misconception by which he was cast into rebellion, and to prove that as soon as ever he discovered the mistake which had been committed, he had expressed himself ready to surrender, and trust to the King's clemency, which is as great a quality as his justice." Louvois's face had grown fiery red. "Expressed his readiness to surrender!" cried he with a scoff. "Did he not fight two battles after that?" "How, Sir?" exclaimed the King. "I had understood from you that no battles had been fought at all. Mere skirmishes you said--affairs of posts--that the insurrection was nothing but the revolt of a few peasants." Louvois stammered forth some excuse about the numbers being insignificant, and the whole business crushed within nine days after the Chevalier d'Evran took the command; but the King turned away angrily, saying, "Monsieur de Louvois, no more interruption. I find in my middle age, as I found in my youth, that a king must see with his own eyes. Now, Marsillac, what is it you wish? What is it you desire of me, Montausier?" "For my part, Sire," replied the Prince de Marsillac, "I only desire that your Majesty should run your eyes over those papers. They are very brief, and to the point; and every fact that is therein stated I can assure you can be proved on indisputable authority." "And I," said the Duke of Montausier, "have only to beg that your Majesty would see and hear the Count of Morseiul. From him, as every man here present knows, you will hear the pure and simple truth, which is a thing that happens to your Majesty perhaps once in five or six years, and will do you good." The King smiled, and turned his eyes upon the papers; and when he had read them nearly through, he smiled again, even more gaily than before. "It turns out, gentlemen," he said, "that an affair has happened to me which I fancy happens to us all more than once in our lives. I have been completely cheated by a valet. I remember giving the villain the paper well, out of which it seems he manufactured a free pardon for his master. At all events, this frees the Count from the charge of base ingratitude which has been heavily urged against him. Your statement of his willing surrender, Montausier, greatly diminishes his actual and undoubted crime; and as I have complied with the request of the Prince de Marsillac, and looked at the papers, I must not refuse you yours. Either to-day, if the Count have arrived, or to-morrow, I will hear his story from his own lips." "Sire," replied the Duke of Montausier, "I have been daring enough to receive him in my apartments." The cloud came slightly again over Louis's countenance; but though he replied with dignified gravity, yet it was not with anger. "You have done wrong," he said; "but since it is so, call him to my presence. All you ladies and gentlemen around shall judge if I deal harshly with him." There was a pretty girl standing not far from the King, and close between her own mother and the interpreter of the ambassadors from Siam. We have spoken of her before, under the name of Annette de Marville; and while she had remained in that spot, her eyes had more than once involuntarily filled with tears. She was timid and retiring in her nature; and as the Duke of Montausier turned away to obey the King, every one was surprised to hear her voice raised sufficiently loud to reach even the ear of Louis himself, saying to the interpreter, "Tell them that they are now going to see how magnanimously the King will pardon one who has offended him." The King looked another way; but it was evident to those who were accustomed to watch his countenance, that he connected the words he had just heard with the humiliation he had inflicted on the Doge of Genoa, and that the contrast struck and pleased him not a little. In a very short time, before this impression had at all faded away, the door again opened, and the Duke of Montausier re-entered with the Count of Morseiul. The latter was pale, but perfectly firm and composed. He did not wear his sword, but he carried it sheathed in his hand, and advancing directly towards Louis, he bent one knee before the King, at the same time laying down the weapon at the monarch's feet. "Sire," he said, without rising, "I have brought you a sword, which for more than ten years was drawn in every campaign in your Majesty's service. It has, unfortunately, been drawn against you; and that it has been so, and at the very moment when your Majesty had a right to expect gratitude at my hands, is the bitterest recollection of my life; so bitter indeed, so horrible, so painful, that the moment I discovered the terrible error into which I had been hurried, the moment that I discovered that I owed my liberation to your Majesty, I instantly determined, whatever might be the result of the events that were then taking place, to surrender myself, unconditionally, to your Majesty's pleasure, to embrace no means of escape, to reject every opportunity of flight; and if your indignation so far overcame your mercy as to doom me to death, to submit to it, not alone with courage, which every man in your Majesty's service possesses, but with perfect resignation to your royal will." The words, the manner, the action, all pleased the King, and the countenance with which he looked upon the young nobleman was by no means severe. "You have, I fear, greatly erred, Monsieur de Morseiul," he replied. "But still I believe you have been much misled. Is there any favour that you have to ask me?" The Count gazed up in the King's face, still kneeling; and every head was bent forward, every ear listened eagerly. A momentary pause followed, as if there was a great struggle within him; and then he answered. "Sire, I will not ask my life of your Majesty;--not from any false pride, for I feel and acknowledge that it is yours to give or to take,--but because my conduct, however much it might originate in mistake, must appear so ungrateful to you that you cannot, at this moment, feel I deserve your mercy. The only favour I will ask, then, is this: that should I be brought to a trial, which must end, as I know, inevitably in my fall, you will read every word of my deposition, and I therein promise to give your Majesty a full and true account, without the falsification of a single word, of all that has taken place in this last lamentable business." Louvois took a half step forward as if to speak, and not a little anxiety was upon his countenance. But, contrary to the general impression of those present, all that the Count had said had pleased the King; though his latter words had not a little alarmed the minister, who knew that truths might be displayed which he was most anxious to conceal. "Monsieur de Morseiul," replied the King, "I will promise what you ask, at all events. But what you have said has pleased me, for it shows that you understand my spirit towards my subjects, and that I can grant without being asked. Your life, Sir, is given to you. What punishment we shall inflict may, perhaps, depend upon the sentence of a judicial court or of our council." "May it please your Majesty," said Louvois, stepping forward, "to hear me one moment. You have, perhaps, thought me inimical to Monsieur de Morseiul, but such, indeed, is not the case; and I would propose, that instead of subjecting him to any trial at all, you, at once, pronounce sentence of banishment upon him, which is all the mercy that he can expect. His estates, as ought to be the case, must be forfeited to the crown." "And he driven forth," said the King, "to employ his military talents in the service of our enemies." "Never, never, never, Sire!" exclaimed the Count, clasping his hands eagerly. "Never should my sword be drawn against my native land. I would rather beg my bread in misery, from door to door: I would rather live in want, and die in sorrow, than do so base an act!" There was truth and zeal upon his countenance, and Louvois urged what he had proposed; but while he was addressing the Monarch, in a lower tone, one of the side doors of the hall opened, and a lady came partly in, speaking to some one behind her, as if she knew not that any one was in the hall. The moment that she perceived her mistake, Madame de Maintenon drew back; but the King advanced a step and besought her to come in. "We want your presence much, Madam," he said with a smile, "for we cannot decide upon what is to be done with this young culprit. But you seem in haste, and who is this with you? I have somewhere seen his face before." The King might well fail to recognise the countenance of Jerome Riquet, for it was at that moment actually cadaverous in appearance, from the various emotions that were going on in his heart. "I was at that moment seeking your Majesty," said Madame de Maintenon, advancing with her usual calm grace, "and was passing this way to your cabinet, to crave an audience ere you went out. But I thought the ceremony of the day was over." "What are your commands, Madam?" said the King. "Your wishes are to be attended to at all times." "You know, Sir," she said, "that I am not fond of ever asking one, who is only over generous to his servants, for any thing. But I was eager at that moment to beseech your Majesty to grant at once your pardon to this unfortunate man who some time ago committed a great crime in misapplying your Majesty's handwriting, and who has now just committed another, for which I understand the officers of justice are in pursuit of him, though the swiftness of the horse which brought him here has enabled him to escape for the moment. He found out my apartments, I know not how, and I brought him instantly to your Majesty as soon as I had heard his story, and read this paper." "What is this paper?" demanded the King, taking it; "ticketed I see in the hand of Monsieur de la Reynie, 'Letter from the said Herval to the Sieur de Hatréaumont!' How come you possessed of this, sirrah?" Riquet advanced and knelt before the King, while Louvois suddenly seemed to recollect some business, and retired from the circle. "Sire," said the valet, in the briefest possible terms, "in serving my master I was taken by your Majesty's forces, shut up in a barn with some wounded prisoners, heard the well known leader, Herval, confess to the Chevalier d'Evran, that he had written a letter to the traitor Hatréaumont, regarding his having been prevented from murdering your Majesty by the Count de Morseiul, (in which prevention I had some little share). The man died before his words could be taken down. The Chevalier d'Evran said it did not signify, for you would believe his evidence. But the Chevalier d'Evran was killed. My word I knew would not be believed; but I heard that the papers of Hatréaumont were to be burnt this day by the common hangman, opposite the Bastille.[4] I had a swift horse saddled. I got close to the fire. I fixed my eyes upon the papers one by one as they were thrown in, till seeing the writing of Herval, I seized the letter, and galloped hither as hard as I could. This is my tale, Sire, and on my word it is true." The King hastily opened the paper, and read the contents, the expression of his countenance changing several times as he proceeded. But when he had done, he turned towards the Count, saying, "Monsieur de Morseiul, I require no one now to advise me how to act towards you. You are freely and entirely pardoned. I have given up the hope again of ever seeing you cast away the errors of your faith. But even that must not make me harsh towards the man who has saved my life. I would only fain know how it was that you did not inform me of this at the time?" "Sire," replied the Count, "I came to your Majesty for the purpose. Your Majesty most remember, that I told you that I had matters of deep importance to communicate. You referred me to Monsieur de Louvois, and as I was proceeding to his house, I was arrested. In the Bastille I was allowed to communicate with no one, and the rest you know." "We have been all very unfortunate, Count," replied the King. "However, I trust, that these embarrassments are at an end. You have your free pardon for the past, and now for the future. I cannot violate in your favour the laws that I have laid down for the regulation of the land, and for the establishment of one general religion throughout the country. If you stay in France, you, with others, lose the means of exercising the ceremonies of your sect. But, as I said to the Count de Schomberg, I say to you: in consideration of the great services that you have rendered, I will allow you to sell all your possessions if you choose to retire to another land, and this is, I fear, all I can do." "Your Majesty overwhelms me with bounty," said the Count, "but there are yet two favours that I would ask." "What more?" said the King. "One request is, Sire," said the Count, "to be allowed once in every year to present myself before your Majesty; and the other, that I may retain the château and the immediate grounds around it belonging to my ancestors. Thus every fond recollection that I have attached to France will still be gratified; and though in exile, I shall live a Frenchman to the last." "Your request is granted," replied the King, with a smile. "And now, gentlemen and ladies, as by your faces round I judge you are all well satisfied, we will not detain you longer." Thus saying, Louis turned and withdrew. Ere the Count of Morseiul retired from the room, and before any of his friends therein could speak with him, Madame de Maintenon said a word in his ear in a low voice. "Go to the hotel of the British ambassador," she said. "You will there find those that you do not expect." The heart of the Count of Morseiul beat high. He had words of gratitude to speak to many there present; but as soon as that was done, he hurried to Paris without a moment's pause; and in a few minutes clasped Clémence de Marly to a joyful heart. We need not tell here the brief story she related of her flight from the coast of France to London; and of her having found an affectionate parent in one who, by the wiles of an artful second wife, and an intriguing priest, had been persuaded to leave his children, by a first marriage with a Protestant lady, to the charge of her Catholic relations in France; and to the care of the King of that country. Louis had become the godfather of the eldest (known to us as the Chevalier d'Evran), while the earl himself was in exile during the troubles of the great rebellion. A Catholic himself, the Earl had been easily induced to believe that his children's salvation depended upon their being educated in a Catholic country; even though concealed there from Protestant relations by assumed names. But on the death of his second wife, all his feelings of natural affection returned, and during an illness, which made him believe that he was on his death-bed, he sent his brother to seek and bring back his children. We need not enter into the detail any farther. The reader can and will imagine it all. All that remains to be said is, that Clémence, in her eagerness, had easily persuaded that parent, whose only child she now was--for the three which had sprung from the second marriage had not survived--to hasten over to Paris, invested with every authority from the King, with whom his religion rendered him a favourite, to solicit the pardon of the Count of Morseiul. In consequence of the considerable round the Count was obliged to take in his journey to the capital, and the difficulty of obtaining an audience of the King, she had arrived the day before his fate was finally decided. The only part of that fate which could yet be doubtful, was now in her hands; and, if the King of France had shown himself merciful to the Count de Morseiul, she showed herself devoted to him through life, making him as happy, as the combination of the rarest qualities of mind and person with the noblest, and the deepest, and the dearest qualities of the heart, could make such a man as we have endeavoured <h3>THE END.</h3> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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