Louis had walked on to his devotions in no very charitable frame of mind, as was easily to be seen from his clouded brow and compressed lips. He knew his late favourite well, her impulsiveness, her audacity, her lack of all restraint when thwarted or opposed. She was capable of making a hideous scandal, of turning against him that bitter tongue which had so often made him laugh at the expense of others, perhaps even of making some public exposure which would leave him the butt and gossip of Europe. He shuddered at the thought. At all costs such a catastrophe must be averted. And yet how could he cut the tie which bound them? He had broken other such bonds as these; but the gentle La Valliere had shrunk into a convent at the very first glance which had told her of waning love. That was true affection. But this woman would struggle hard, fight to the bitter end, before she would quit the position which was so dear to her. She spoke of her wrongs. What were her wrongs? In his intense selfishness, nurtured by the eternal flattery which was the very air he breathed, he could not see that the fifteen years of her life which he had absorbed, or the loss of the husband whom he had supplanted, gave her any claim upon him. In his view he had raised her to the highest position which a subject could occupy. Now he was weary of her, and it was her duty to retire with resignation, nay, even with gratitude for past favours. She should have a pension, and the children should be cared for. What could a reasonable woman ask for more?

And then his motives for discarding her were so excellent. He turned them over in his mind as he knelt listening to the Archbishop of Paris reciting the Mass, and the more he thought, the more he approved. His conception of the deity was as a larger Louis, and of heaven as a more gorgeous Versailles. If he exacted obedience from his twenty millions, then he must show it also to this one who had a right to demand it of him. On the whole, his conscience acquitted him. But in this one matter he had been lax. From the first coming of his gentle and forgiving young wife from Spain, he had never once permitted her to be without a rival. Now that she was dead, the matter was no better. One favourite had succeeded another, and if De Montespan had held her own so long, it was rather from her audacity than from his affection. But now Father La Chaise and Bossuet were ever reminding him that he had topped the summit of his life, and was already upon that downward path which leads to the grave. His wild outburst over the unhappy Fontanges had represented the last flicker of his passions. The time had come for gravity and for calm, neither of which was to be expected in the company of Madame de Montespan.

But he had found out where they were to be enjoyed. From the day when De Montespan had introduced the stately and silent widow as a governess for his children, he had found a never-failing and ever-increasing pleasure in her society. In the early days of her coming he had sat for hours in the rooms of his favourite, watching the tact and sweetness of temper with which her dependent controlled the mutinous spirits of the petulant young Duc du Maine and the mischievous little Comte de Toulouse. He had been there nominally for the purpose of superintending the teaching, but he had confined himself to admiring the teacher. And then in time he too had been drawn into the attraction of that strong sweet nature, and had found himself consulting her upon points of conduct, and acting upon her advice with a docility which he had never shown before to minister or mistress. For a time he had thought that her piety and her talk of principle might be a mere mask, for he was accustomed to hypocrisy all round him. It was surely unlikely that a woman who was still beautiful, with as bright an eye and as graceful a figure as any in his court, could, after a life spent in the gayest circles, preserve the spirit of a nun. But on this point he was soon undeceived, for when his own language had become warmer than that of friendship, he had been met by an iciness of manner and a brevity of speech which had shown him that there was one woman at least in his dominions who had a higher respect for herself than for him. And perhaps it was better so. The placid pleasures of friendship were very soothing after the storms of passion. To sit in her room every afternoon, to listen to talk which was not tainted with flattery, and to hear opinions which were not framed to please his ear, were the occupations now of his happiest hours. And then her influence over him was all so good! She spoke of his kingly duties, of his example to his subjects, of his preparation for the World beyond, and of the need for an effort to snap the guilty ties which he had formed. She was as good as a confessor—a confessor with a lovely face and a perfect arm.

And now he knew that the time had come when he must choose between her and De Montespan. Their influences were antagonistic. They could not continue together. He stood between virtue and vice, and he must choose. Vice was very attractive too, very comely, very witty, and holding him by that chain of custom which is so hard to shake off. There were hours when his nature swayed strongly over to that side, and when he was tempted to fall back into his old life. But Bossuet and Pere la Chaise were ever at his elbows to whisper encouragement, and, above all, there was Madame de Maintenon to remind him of what was due to his position and to his six-and-forty years. Now at last he had braced himself for a supreme effort. There was no safety for him while his old favourite was at court. He knew himself too well to have any faith in a lasting change so long as she was there ever waiting for his moment of weakness. She must be persuaded to leave Versailles, if without a scandal it could be done. He would be firm when he met her in the afternoon, and make her understand once for all that her reign was forever over.

Such were the thoughts which ran through the king’s head as he bent over the rich crimson cushion which topped his prie-dieu of carved oak. He knelt in his own enclosure to the right of the altar, with his guards and his immediate household around him, while the court, ladies and cavaliers, filled the chapel. Piety was a fashion now, like dark overcoats and lace cravats, and no courtier was so worldly-minded as not to have had a touch of grace since the king had taken to religion. Yet they looked very bored, these soldiers and seigneurs, yawning and blinking over the missals, while some who seemed more intent upon their devotions were really dipping into the latest romance of Scudery or Calpernedi, cunningly bound up in a sombre cover. The ladies, indeed, were more devout, and were determined that all should see it, for each had lit a tiny taper, which she held in front of her on the plea of lighting up her missal, but really that her face might be visible to the king, and inform him that hers was a kindred spirit. A few there may have been, here and there, whose prayers rose from their hearts, and who were there of their own free will; but the policy of Louis had changed his noblemen into courtiers and his men of the world into hypocrites, until the whole court was like one gigantic mirror which reflected his own likeness a hundredfold.

It was the habit of Louis, as he walked back from the chapel, to receive petitions or to listen to any tales of wrong which his subjects might bring to him. His way, as he returned to his rooms, lay partly across an open space, and here it was that the suppliants were wont to assemble. On this particular morning there were but two or three—a Parisian, who conceived himself injured by the provost of his guild, a peasant whose cow had been torn by a huntsman’s dog, and a farmer who had had hard usage from his feudal lord. A few questions and then a hurried order to his secretary disposed of each case, for if Louis was a tyrant himself, he had at least the merit that he insisted upon being the only one within his kingdom. He was about to resume his way again, when an elderly man, clad in the garb of a respectable citizen, and with a strong deep-lined face which marked him as a man of character, darted forward, and threw himself down upon one knee in front of the monarch.

“Justice, sire, justice!” he cried.

“What is this, then?” asked Louis. “Who are you, and what is it that you want?”

“I am a citizen of Paris, and I have been cruelly wronged.”

“You seem a very worthy person. If you have indeed been wronged you shall have redress. What have you to complain of?”

“Twenty of the Blue Dragoons of Languedoc are quartered in my house, with Captain Dalbert at their head. They have devoured my food, stolen my property, and beaten my servants, yet the magistrates will give me no redress.’

“On my life, justice seems to be administered in a strange fashion in our city of Paris!” exclaimed the king wrathfully.

“It is indeed a shameful case,” said Bossuet.

“And yet there may be a very good reason for it,” suggested Pere la Chaise. “I would suggest that your Majesty should ask this man his name, his business, and why it was that the dragoons were quartered upon him.”

“You hear the reverend father’s question.”

“My name, sire, is Catinat, by trade I am a merchant in cloth, and I am treated in this fashion because I am of the Reformed Church.”

“I thought as much!” cried the confessor.

“That alters matters,” said Bossuet.

The king shook his head and his brow darkened. “You have only yourself to thank, then. The remedy is in your hands.”

“And how, sire?”

“By embracing the only true faith.”

“I am already a member of it, sire.”

The king stamped his foot angrily. “I can see that you are a very insolent heretic,” said he. “There is but one Church in France, and that is my Church. If you are outside that, you cannot look to me for aid.”

“My creed is that of my father, sire, and of my grandfather.”

“If they have sinned it is no reason why you should. My own grandfather erred also before his eyes were opened.”

“But he nobly atoned for his error,” murmured the Jesuit.

“Then you will not help me, sire?”

“You must first help yourself.”

The old Huguenot stood up with a gesture of despair, while the king continued on his way, the two ecclesiastics, on either side of him, murmuring their approval into his ears.

“You have done nobly, sire.”

“You are truly the first son of the Church.”

“You are the worthy successor of St. Louis.”

But the king bore the face of a man who was not absolutely satisfied with his own action.

“You do not think, then, that these people have too hard a measure?” said he.

“Too hard? Nay, your Majesty errs on the side of mercy.”

“I hear that they are leaving my kingdom in great numbers.”

“And surely it is better so, sire; for what blessing can come upon a country which has such stubborn infidels within its boundaries?”

“Those who are traitors to God can scarce be loyal to the king,” remarked Bossuet. “Your Majesty’s power would be greater if there were no temple, as they call their dens of heresy, within your dominions.”

“My grandfather promised them protection. They are shielded, as you well know, by the edict which be gave at Nantes.”

“But it lies with your Majesty to undo the mischief that has been done.”

“And how?”

“By recalling the edict.”

“And driving into the open arms of my enemies two millions of my best artisans and of my bravest servants. No, no, father, I have, I trust, every zeal for Mother–Church, but there is some truth in what De Frontenac said this morning of the evil which comes from mixing the affairs of this world with those of the next. How say you, Louvois?”

“With all respect to the Church, sire, I would say that the devil has given these men such cunning of hand and of brain that they are the best workers and traders in your Majesty’s kingdom. I know not how the state coffers are to be filled if such tax-payers go from among us. Already many have left the country and taken their trades with them. If all were to go, it would be worse for us than a lost campaign.”

“But,” remarked Bossuet, “if it were once known that the king’s will had been expressed, your Majesty may rest assured that even the worst of his subjects bear him such love that they would hasten to come within the pale of Holy Church. As long as the edict stands, it seems to them that the king is lukewarm, and that they may abide in their error.”

The king shook his head. “They have always been stubborn folk,” said he.

“Perhaps,” remarked Louvois, glancing maliciously at Bossuet, “were the bishops of France to make an offering to the state of the treasures of their sees, we might then do without these Huguenot taxes.”

“All that the Church has is at the king’s service,” answered Bossuet curtly.

“The kingdom is mine and all that is in it,” remarked Louis, as they entered the Grand Salon, in which the court assembled after chapel, “yet I trust that it may be long before I have to claim the wealth of the Church.”

“We trust so, sire,” echoed the ecclesiastics.

“But we may reserve such topics for our council-chamber. Where is Mansard? I must see his plans for the new wing at Marly.” He crossed to a side table, and was buried in an instant in his favourite pursuit, inspecting the gigantic plans of the great architect, and inquiring eagerly as to the progress of the work.

“I think,” said Pere la Chaise, drawing Bossuet aside, “that your Grace has made some impression upon the king’s mind.”

“With your powerful assistance, father.”

“Oh, you may rest assured that I shall lose no opportunity of pushing on the good work.”

“If you take it in hand, it is done.”

“But there is another who has more weight than I.”

“The favourite, De Montespan?”

“No, no; her day is gone. It is Madame de Maintenon.”

“I hear that she is very devout.”

“Very. But she has no love for my Order. She is a Sulpitian. Yet we may all work to one end. Now if you were to speak to her, your Grace.”

“With all my heart.”

“Show her how good a service it would be could she bring about the banishment of the Huguenots.”

“I shall do so.”

“And offer her in return that we will promote—” he bent forward and whispered into the prelate’s ear.

“What! He would not do it!”

“And why? The queen is dead.”

“The widow of the poet Scarron!”

“She is of good birth. Her grandfather and his were dear friends.”

“It is impossible.”

“But I know his heart, and I say it is possible.”

“You certainly know his heart, father, if any can. But such a thought had never entered my head.”

“Then let it enter and remain there. If she will serve the Church, the Church will serve her. But the king beckons, and I must go.”

The thin dark figure hastened off through the throng of courtiers, and the great Bishop of Meaux remained standing with his chin upon his breast, sunk in reflection.

By this time all the court was assembled in the Grand Salon, and the huge room was gay from end to end with the silks, the velvets, and the brocades of the ladies, the glitter of jewels, the flirt of painted fans, and the sweep of plume or aigrette. The grays, blacks, and browns of the men’s coats toned down the mass of colour, for all must be dark when the king was dark, and only the blues of the officers’ uniforms, and the pearl and gray of the musketeers of the guard, remained to call back those early days of the reign when the men had vied with the women in the costliness and brilliancy of their wardrobes. And if dresses had changed, manners had done so even more. The old levity and the old passions lay doubtless very near the surface, but grave faces and serious talk were the fashion of the hour. It was no longer the lucky coup at the lansquenet table, the last comedy of Moliere, or the new opera of Lully about which they gossiped, but it was on the evils of Jansenism, on the expulsion of Arnauld from the Sorbonne, on the insolence of Pascal, or on the comparative merits of two such popular preachers as Bourdaloue and Massilon. So, under a radiant ceiling and over a many-coloured floor, surrounded by immortal paintings, set thickly in gold and ornament, there moved these nobles and ladies of France, all moulding themselves upon the one little dark figure in their midst, who was himself so far from being his own master that he hung balanced even now between two rival women, who were playing a game in which the future of France and his own destiny were the stakes.